Escape by Night by Laurie Myers Page B

window above.
    â€œIs he going to be all right?” Tommy asked.
    â€œOnly the good Lord knows for sure.”
    Henry led Tommy to the man’s side. Through the blood and dirt they could see his skin, pale as biscuit dough. He didn’t look too old. His beard was just a light stubble.
    Samson circled a few times, then settled into a ball under the cot. Mrs. Williams came out of nowhere, a basin of water balanced on her hip and a book under her arm. She served as president of the First Presbyterian Ladies Sewing Circle.
    â€œI must have this soldier’s name,” declared Mrs. Williams.
    Tommy thought he saw the man’s eyelid twitch. He clutched the book and watched the man closely. “He’s asleep,” Tommy said.
    Mrs. Williams scanned the room. “Keeping up with all these boys is downright impossible.”
    â€œIf he wakes up, I’ll ask,” Tommy offered. The man’s eyelid twitched again.

    Mrs. Williams handed the basin to Henry. “Here’s water so he can clean himself.”
    After she left, Tommy knelt for a closer look. Suddenly the man’s eyes popped open.
    â€œHa,” Tommy said. “I knew you were awake.”

 

    â€œWhere am I?” the man asked. His soft voice had an accent, but not like the German or Irish people in Augusta.
    â€œYou are in First Presbyterian Church in Augusta, Georgia,” Tommy said. “I’m Thomas McKnight, but they call me Tommy. This is Samson. He’s a greyhound.”
    Samson came out from under the cot at the sound of his name. He looked the man directly in the face, then stepped forward to accept a pat.
    Tommy smiled. “Samson likes you. My father says a dog can tell a man’s character.”
    â€œI think your father’s right.” Turning to Henry, the man asked, “Who are you?”
    â€œHenry.”
    â€œI’m pleased to meet you, Henry.”
    Henry smiled and looked down. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
    Tommy had never heard a white man use a formal greeting with a slave.
    â€œWhat is your name, sir?” Tommy asked.
    â€œRedmon. Redmon Porter. Most people call me Red.”
    Red scanned the room. Samson did the same. Tommy looked too, but all he saw was a hospital full of Confederate soldiers.
    â€œAre you looking for someone?” Tommy asked. “’Cause if you are, I could help.”
    â€œI’m not looking for—hey, where’d you get that book?” He pointed to the book still tucked under Tommy’s arm.
    â€œIt fell off the cart,” Tommy said.
    â€œDid you read it?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Tommy said, pleased he could answer truthfully. He handed the book to Red, who pressed it to his chest. He relaxed, as if the book itself were medicine.
    â€œIt doesn’t have a title,” Tommy said.
    â€œIt’s my commonplace book. You write anything you want in it.”
    â€œRead us something,” Tommy blurted out. He knew it sounded impolite. He should have asked.
    â€œWell…” Red’s hesitation made Tommy even more interested.
    â€œWhy not?” Tommy asked. “You’re not going anywhere.”
    â€œHenry, can I trust this boy?”
    â€œYes, sir, Mr. Red. Tommy McKnight is a fine boy. His father is the pastor of this church.”
    Tommy held his head high, waiting to be taken into confidence.
    â€œOkay, I’ll read you something special. It’s a poem that I wrote just before the Battle of Chickamauga.”
    Using his one hand, Red fumbled to find his place in the book. Henry reached to help him, but Red said, “No, I’m going to learn to manage with one hand.” He balanced the book on his chest and read:
    â€œI only tell the stars above the longing of my soul:
    To fight till death in early morn to make a nation whole.
    God, can this be in your design or in your perfect plan
    To place the price of victory at even one gentleman?
    Fearfully and wonderfully