Mr. Lincoln’s soldiers.
Keeping to the trees and listening hard for sounds of pursuit, Dulcie headed toward the railway tracks.
By her second night on the railroad tracks, Dulcie’s feet were blistered and might have been bleeding—she couldn’t see them in the dark. Her stomach hurt from the unaccustomed diet of parched corn, and she was thirsty. She kept her ears perked for the sound of trickling water.
Hoofbeats! Crunching over the railroad ballast, beating hollowly on the ties.
Dulcie made a dash for the bushes, but the horsemen were around her in an instant. Strong hands gripped her arms, her head was forced back, and a lantern glared in her face. Dulcie could see nothing but the light, which made her squint her eyes shut painfully, but she could smell horses and sweat and unwashed clothes.
“Gotcha,” said a voice. “Who are you, girl? Who do you belong to?”
“Don’t belong to nobody,” said Dulcie. “I’m a Free Person of Color.”
“Right. Tell that to the marines.”
“Where are your free papers, then?”
“Whatcha doing skulking along the railroad at night?”
At least three different voices. Dulcie didn’t dare ask them who they were—even Free Persons of Color were expected to answer questions, not ask them—but she was sure there must be more than three. Whatever they were—slave patrollers, Home Guards, Secesh army, militia—they would be traveling in a pack of at least half a dozen.
Her eyes adjusted to the light. She could see the man holding the lantern now—boy, rather. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. He was dressed in ragged homespun and a slouch hat. Dulcie couldn’t see any of the others. Many hands were holding her, so tightly that she couldn’t move her head. But she knew from their voices that at least some of them were grown men.
“Where’s your free papers?”
Big hands began groping at Dulcie’s apron pockets, and she said hurriedly, “I left them home.”
But nobody ever left their free papers home. She knew the men didn’t believe her and that she would probably be safest if they thought that she belonged to someone who might give them a reward.
“Belong to John Butler,” said Dulcie, picking a name anyone might have. “In Chattanooga. I been visiting my ma and I’m headed home now.”
“Well, we’ll help you out,” one of the men said. “We’ll take you to the calaboose and lock you up safe, and your mas’r can come and get you.”
A shot split the night. Dulcie heard the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. One of the hands that held her tight was gone.
“The Union forever!” yelled a voice. More voices cried, “Georgia and the Union! The Union! The Union!”
The men let go of Dulcie as they scrambled to face the new threat. “Homegrown Yanks!”
Dulcie didn’t stick around. She ran, faster and harder than she had ever run in her life. The railroad ties vanished beneath her swift bare feet. Behind her she heard more cries, shots, and then, as the men had all emptied their guns, the sickening smack of the rifle butts against flesh, groans of pain. Dulcie paid it no mind. She just ran.
Finally she had to stop, out of breath and with a stitch in her side. She could no longer hear the fight behind her. Maybe they’d all killed each other. If not, the survivors would be looking for her soon. She had to get off the railroad.
A half-moon had come out, and she could see a little now. The train tracks ran through a gully. To her right was a sheer rock cliff. To her left the bank was steep and rocky, but not perpendicular. Here and there a sapling stood out black in the moonlight. Slowly Dulcie began to climb up the cliff. Once, she dislodged a rock and heard it tumble down and thump on the ground below, and she froze, listening. But she only heard the night sounds of crickets and frogs.
At last she reached the top of the bank. Her toes were sore, and one of her hands was bleeding from a cut on a jagged rock.
Keeping to the trees and listening hard for sounds of pursuit, Dulcie headed toward the railway tracks.
By her second night on the railroad tracks, Dulcie’s feet were blistered and might have been bleeding—she couldn’t see them in the dark. Her stomach hurt from the unaccustomed diet of parched corn, and she was thirsty. She kept her ears perked for the sound of trickling water.
Hoofbeats! Crunching over the railroad ballast, beating hollowly on the ties.
Dulcie made a dash for the bushes, but the horsemen were around her in an instant. Strong hands gripped her arms, her head was forced back, and a lantern glared in her face. Dulcie could see nothing but the light, which made her squint her eyes shut painfully, but she could smell horses and sweat and unwashed clothes.
“Gotcha,” said a voice. “Who are you, girl? Who do you belong to?”
“Don’t belong to nobody,” said Dulcie. “I’m a Free Person of Color.”
“Right. Tell that to the marines.”
“Where are your free papers, then?”
“Whatcha doing skulking along the railroad at night?”
At least three different voices. Dulcie didn’t dare ask them who they were—even Free Persons of Color were expected to answer questions, not ask them—but she was sure there must be more than three. Whatever they were—slave patrollers, Home Guards, Secesh army, militia—they would be traveling in a pack of at least half a dozen.
Her eyes adjusted to the light. She could see the man holding the lantern now—boy, rather. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. He was dressed in ragged homespun and a slouch hat. Dulcie couldn’t see any of the others. Many hands were holding her, so tightly that she couldn’t move her head. But she knew from their voices that at least some of them were grown men.
“Where’s your free papers?”
Big hands began groping at Dulcie’s apron pockets, and she said hurriedly, “I left them home.”
But nobody ever left their free papers home. She knew the men didn’t believe her and that she would probably be safest if they thought that she belonged to someone who might give them a reward.
“Belong to John Butler,” said Dulcie, picking a name anyone might have. “In Chattanooga. I been visiting my ma and I’m headed home now.”
“Well, we’ll help you out,” one of the men said. “We’ll take you to the calaboose and lock you up safe, and your mas’r can come and get you.”
A shot split the night. Dulcie heard the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground. One of the hands that held her tight was gone.
“The Union forever!” yelled a voice. More voices cried, “Georgia and the Union! The Union! The Union!”
The men let go of Dulcie as they scrambled to face the new threat. “Homegrown Yanks!”
Dulcie didn’t stick around. She ran, faster and harder than she had ever run in her life. The railroad ties vanished beneath her swift bare feet. Behind her she heard more cries, shots, and then, as the men had all emptied their guns, the sickening smack of the rifle butts against flesh, groans of pain. Dulcie paid it no mind. She just ran.
Finally she had to stop, out of breath and with a stitch in her side. She could no longer hear the fight behind her. Maybe they’d all killed each other. If not, the survivors would be looking for her soon. She had to get off the railroad.
A half-moon had come out, and she could see a little now. The train tracks ran through a gully. To her right was a sheer rock cliff. To her left the bank was steep and rocky, but not perpendicular. Here and there a sapling stood out black in the moonlight. Slowly Dulcie began to climb up the cliff. Once, she dislodged a rock and heard it tumble down and thump on the ground below, and she froze, listening. But she only heard the night sounds of crickets and frogs.
At last she reached the top of the bank. Her toes were sore, and one of her hands was bleeding from a cut on a jagged rock.
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