Near Saratoga, New York
January 1864
Low clouds made the late afternoon sky seem later than it was on an already gray day. In the early afternoon, Union troops, who had begun the day in darkness, marching from their camp on Viola’s farm north to Saratoga, streamed by her farm again, this time headed south. First the supply wagons, a long lumbering column guarded by anxious cavalrymen, urging them to keep going, step lively. Then ambulance wagons, filled with the wounded, the groans audible as the wagons bounced along the dirt road. Now, as the light began to fade, infantry units, the soldiers dirty and grim-faced with the mark of defeat on them.
Lane stood next to Viola, watching the Army of the Potomac retreat, another stain on their record, perhaps this time a fatal one. Their presence, a White man and a Black woman, drew hardly a glance from the passing soldiers, their eyes downcast at the road or far away.
Lane thought about his own war, and his own foolish anticipation about seeing combat. Then the grim reality of terror and defeat, and in his own case, a permanent reminder of what he’d lost.
Up the road, Lane could see a group of men on horseback, officers obviously, parting the foot soldiers as they rode at a trot. He heard one of them shout, “Make way for General McClellan, make way there.” Exhausted soldiers moved to the side of the road. The general sat tall in his saddle, looking straight ahead, saying nothing. Lane recognized Captain Wilson, the soldier who had come to Viola’s house late one night while Lane watched from the barn. Wilson spotted Viola and reined his horse.
“British dragoons are right behind us ma’am. You might want to come with us. No telling what their plans are for the civilian population.”
“I have my family. I’ll be fine here.”
Wilson touched the brim of his blue felt hat, glanced for a moment at Lane, and was gone, cantering ahead to catch up with McClellan.
Viola turned from the road and began walking back to the house. Lane followed.
“You seem to know him pretty well.”
She stopped. “I suppose I do. I’ve been providing him with information about the British camp, their defenses.”
Lane walked quickly to keep up with her. “You really are a spy.”
She stopped and looked Lane squarely in the eye. “I’m just someone who doesn’t support slavery. Or put her own romantic dreams ahead of doing the right thing. So yes, I risked everything to help the only way I knew how. Can you say the same thing? What was your role in what happened today?”
“You’d have done the same thing. You’re working to free your people. I’m working to free mine.” It sounded hollow, and Lane knew it. What in God’s name have I done?
“John. You told me yourself that in your country children can go to school. You can leave the country if you want to, like you did. You can work for wages. You can own land. It’s not against the law to teach someone to read. Do you really think it’s like for like?”
Lane was silent as they entered the house.
“You can’t stay here any longer. I can’t have you under this roof.”
“Why don’t I help you move Michael and Sarah to the next stop? On your railroad. I’ll attract less attention than you will.”
“You think that will cleanse your soul? Your sins will be forgiven?”
“Tell me where they need to go. We can leave immediately. It will be safer if I move them.”