Freedom Stone Read Free Page B

soon decided that he wanted to help out with that shooting himself. Just last spring, word was sent out that the Army of the South, desperate for more men, had begun accepting slaves as soldiers, assigning them to battlefield jobs like cooking, nursing, horse-shoeing or digging. All able-bodied male slaves over sixteen would be accepted with the promise that if they survived, they would be freed. When not enough family men volunteered in the coastal counties of South Carolina, the promise of freedom was extended to their wives and children too—even if the men themselves were killed in the fighting. And when a plantation owner complained that he’d paid good coin for his workers and didn’t want them shot up in the war or freed by the Army, the Army just threatened to confiscate his other male slaves too, which quieted the objections fast.
    Going to war in exchange for his family’s freedom was an idea that appealed to a sensible man like Papa, and one evening after work was finished and dinner was done, he announced that that was what he planned to do. The family argued, the children cried and Mama even threatened to stand and block the door. But they knew that Papa had made up his mind, and the next morning he was gone. Before he left, he hugged Lillie tight.
    â€œI’ll come home again, Quashee,” he said.
    But Lillie’s papa never did come home. Just three months after he left, he died, one of the many, many casualties at Vicksburg. The family grieved terribly, but took some comfort from the thought that the freedom Papa had wanted for them would now be theirs. Just two days later, however, they learned that even that wasn’t to be. A telegraph message was delivered to the Big House telling the Master that upon Papa’s death, he had been found in possession of a small purse of coins—gold coins, and Yankee ones at that—that he was assumed to have stolen. Since he couldn’t pay for his crime, the family would have to, and the promise of freedom that had been made to them would be denied. Later, the Army delivered the bag of coins to the Master—a common practice when a slave had stolen something and the rightful owner could not be found. The Master was pleased with this arrangement and, like all Southerners who came across Northern money, vowed not to spend any of it till he had gone through all his Confederate money first and had no other choice. If the South won, he could melt the coins down for their gold; if the North won, Southern currency would be useless and he’d need to hold tight to any Yankee wealth he had. Either way, the arrangement suited him fine, and he liked to boast that he had turned a far tidier profit than he could have from simply selling Papa at auction.
    Lillie knew— knew —her father could not have done any thieving, but only weeks later, a slave who’d served alongside him and lost a leg in the fighting was freed and sent home to South Carolina. He brought word to the plantation that, yes, the coins had been found in Papa’s pocket, and, yes, they were Yankee gold. Lillie cursed the coins and cursed the war and cursed the South and cursed slavery itself, but she had no thought at all of cursing her papa. He was an honest man who’d lived an honest life and, she was certain, had died an honest death.
    None of that, of course, could possibly help her or her family on slave appraiser day, and as the sun rose higher, the appraiser’s visit drew closer by the minute. Lillie finished her tea and sat in silence as Mama quietly prepared the family’s breakfast—mush, a bit more honey and some stunted but sweet melon she’d been able to raise in her garden. Finally, the morning horn sounded—a hoarse blast from an old bugle. All the slaves would be expected to be awake before the last echo of it had died away.
    The noise from the horn made Plato jump, then he murmured and climbed out of bed. As he had every