Lapeer County, June 1864
“But why would he want to leave?” Mary stood at the open barn door silhouetted by bright morning sunlight, her loose skirts casting a shadow that reached almost to George’s dusty boots.
George stopped hammering. “He says he wants to do his part now that the army is accepting Negro soldiers.”
“Mrs. Balsam,” Thomas said, coming up behind her, “if we don’t do somethin’ for ourselves today, why would we think tomorrow will be any different?”
“I wish you’d reconsider and wait to see if you’re drafted,” she said.
“Mr. Balsam done talked me into enlistin’ ’fore his furlough ended. Said they makin’ former slaves into spies,” Thomas said with a gleam in his eye. “That’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna spy out the land for Mr. Lincoln. Tell him what I see. Help him end this war.”
“He needs all the help he can get,” George interjected.
“But what if you should get kidnapped and taken back to the plantation?” Mary asked. “What might your former master do to you then?”
“I ’spect Mr. Charles is too busy tryin’ to keep them Yankees away from his farm to worry ’bout me. Besides, I aim my death won’t come easy.” He walked past her into the barn and leaned his shovel against the wall. “I’m sorry to leave you, Mrs. Balsam. And Bridget too. I know you was countin’ on me at harvest now the crop’s got so much bigger. But the road for me leads to Massachusetts and then on to Virginia.”
Until he said it, Mary hadn’t considered the vastly expanded plots of land they now had under cultivation. What if others enlisted as well and she was left in September with no one to bring in the harvest?
“Jacob isn’t going with you, is he?”
“Nah. I don’t think so. He ain’t convinced my road his road. He been consultin’ the Lord ’bout it. I guess we’ll see what he has to say. But I’m leavin’ tomorrow mornin’, with or without Jacob.”
Thomas walked back out into the sun. Mary sighed.
“You need to sit down?” George asked.
“No, I’m fine. I just . . . I hate this unending struggle. We seem to be no closer to victory than we were in the first month of the war, and yet hundreds of thousands of men are gone, wiped from the face of the earth. For what? What have we accomplished?”
George went back to hammering.
“I don’t mean to say it has all been for nothing, of course,” she hastened to say. “Were it not for the conflict, there would have been no emancipation. But I just don’t see how it will ever end. Is every young man in this land to be offered as a sacrifice? Will we become a nation of women and children and old men?”
“I’ve thought of it,” George said between strikes of the hammer.
“Thought of what?”
“Joining up.”
Mary did need to sit down then. “You wouldn’t,” she said, one hand on her swollen stomach, the other searching for a bale of hay.
George dropped the hammer. He grasped her hand and guided her to the milking stool. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t do that to me,” she said, a little breathless. “And don’t call me ma’am. You know I hate that. And don’t tell me it’s a habit, because you have been here long enough to form a new habit.”
Mary put one hand on her heart and then realized that George still held the other. She did not pull it away, did not dare to even look for fear he too would notice and let go. He had not held her hand since that terrible night nearly three years ago.
“Are you okay?” He searched her face.
“I’m fine. As long as you stay here, I’m fine.”
“I told you before I ain’t never leaving you, Mrs. Balsam.” He looked deep into her eyes. “I mean that.”
“Then why should you talk of enlisting?”
“I only said I thought about it, not that I was thinking about actually doing it. It would be an honor. What kind of man would I be if I was not willing to fight?”
“I’ve heard that before. It seems to be the final line of reasoning for every man who ever wanted to do a reckless thing.”
George said nothing.
“I’m so tired of this war,” Mary went on. “You know that the papers are full of dire news about Lincoln’s chances of getting reelected. Some are calling for him to rescind emancipation to get enough votes. What will happen to all who have escaped north should the worst transpire? What would happen to you?”
“Worrying won’t change things,” he said. “Change happens when the cost of keeping things the way they are is too high. We need to make it so that the South has no choice but to change. That’s what Thomas wants to help do.”
Mary took a calming breath and fixed her eyes upon his. At that moment she could not conjure up a memory of what her own husband’s eyes looked like. “I know you’re right. I should not give in to despair. Only do not leave me. I could not survive without you.”
Then there was nothing else to say. Nothing that could be said aloud. Nothing even that Mary might dare put in a letter. They held each other’s gaze a moment longer, then George looked down to his fingers wrapped around hers and let go.
“I better get back to these beds. Even with Thomas leaving, we still have people sleeping on the floor. You need help getting back to the house?”
Mary struggled to push the words past her throat. “I can manage.”
George pulled her to a standing position. When she wobbled on unsteady legs, he put his arm around where her waist had been six months before and walked her out of the barn.
They were halfway up the slope toward the house when three white men on horseback galloped up in a cloud of dirt. George’s tight hold on Mary did not abate as he met the eyes of the man who seemed to be leading the group.
“Can I help you?” George asked.
“I sincerely doubt it,” the man replied. He turned to Mary. “I would like a word with you, Mrs. Balsam.”
“Mrs. Balsam doesn’t feel well right now, and you can see she is in need of a place to sit,” George said. “I’m afraid you will have to come back another time, gentlemen.”
“You’d do good to hold your tongue, boy,” one of the other men said.
The leader raised his hand to suppress his companion. “Now, now. I think we can allow the lady a seat.” He dismounted and handed the reins to George. “Here, make yourself useful, son.”
The man offered Mary his arm. She sent a nervous glance George’s way, then took the proffered help and walked toward the house. The man’s two companions stayed astride their horses and surveyed the grounds. George stood by, powerless.
The man walked Mary through the kitchen, past Bridget and Loretta, and into the parlor. She sat on the settee and took a long breath. The man before her was tall and humorless, sandy brown hair peeking out from beneath his hat. She couldn’t decide whether or not she recognized him.
“Mrs. Balsam, I am Bartholomew Sharpe, and I am here representing a number of people whose names don’t matter at the moment.”
“Mr. Sharpe, will you please sit down?”
“I shan’t be here long. I’m here only to deliver a message.”
“Then perhaps a letter would have been a more appropriate use of your very valuable time, sir.”
He scowled. “Young woman, I don’t think you grasp how serious this message is. I have a warning for you. If you don’t send these Negroes on their way and get them out of our town and off of this farm, you’re going to be in for a load of trouble.”
“Is that so?” she said, holding his gaze. “And what sort of trouble might that be?”
“The kind you cannot afford to have, I assure you.”
“Well, sir, it just so happens that I have a warning for you as well.” She got to her feet and stood her ground. “If I ever see you on this land again, I will not hesitate to report your trespassing and your threats of violence to the constable. This is my house and my farm, and I will house whomever I wish. I answer to God, and you would do good to remember that you will someday be called upon to answer to him as well. Now leave this house at once and take your friends with you.”
Mr. Sharpe appeared to struggle for the proper retort. When none was forthcoming, he stormed to the front door but turned around before opening it, wagging a long finger at her. “This matter is far from settled, Mrs. Balsam.” Then he walked out.
Mary heard a yell and then horses’ hooves striking the rocks on the long drive. She collapsed into a chair as Bridget and Loretta rushed into the room.
“Mrs. Balsam, are you all right?” Bridget fretted. Loretta fanned her with a tea towel. Seconds later George burst through the door, followed by John Dixon.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Mary waved them away. “Though I do think I shall lie down for a bit.”
George pushed past the women, lifted Mary in his arms before she could protest, and carried her up the stairs to her bedchamber, where he laid her gently on the bed.
“We in for a heap of trouble now,” he said, reverting in his anxiety to his Southern way of speaking.
“No, we’re in for a heap of trouble now,” she corrected in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.
“Trouble either way, ma’am.”
“George,” she admonished.
He sighed but smiled a little. “Mrs. Balsam.”
She shook her head and glanced at the open door. “Mary,” she whispered.
He looked long at her, a sadness clouding his face. “No, Mrs. Balsam. You know you can never be Mary to me.”