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By Root 937 0

I recognized the road to Hilltop from when I’d visited years ago, but the driveway, now deeply rutted from heavy use, was no longer shaded by an arch of pine trees; it was bordered by a row of stumps. The sultry afternoon seemed much too quiet and still. No slaves labored in the barren fields, no animals grazed its pastures. The split-rail fences that had once bordered Hilltop’s land were gone, torn down to reinforce the Confederate trenchworks. I had seen obstacles made from sharpened stakes protecting those trenches from enemy assaults, but I’d had no idea that Hilltop’s beautiful forest land had been denuded to provide those stakes. I shivered in the eerie silence. I had the feeling we were being watched.

Just as Hilltop’s barn came into sight, a dozen blue-uniformed soldiers sprang out of the bushes on both sides of road. Their guns were aimed at us.

“This plantation is my home,” Aunt Anne explained. “I’ve returned to bury my husband’s mother in the family graveyard.”

The process of being searched seemed much scarier this time, since our Confederate travel permit was now worthless. Afterward, the soldiers confiscated the wagon and drove it up to the house, ordering us to walk in its dusty wake. On the way, we saw row upon row of white tents in the distance, covering Hilltop’s wheat fields as far as we could see. Slave Row looked deserted. The once-bustling yard behind the plantation house was deserted, too. Even the flock of poultry had disappeared.

The Yankees had billeted their officers in the plantation house and wouldn’t allow us inside. A Colonel Drake eventually appeared at the back door to speak with us. He sent one of his men for Uncle William, who emerged under close guard from what had once been the weaving shed. My uncle received the news about his mother’s death as if enduring one more blow to an already bruised body. Aunt Anne clung to him, holding him up as Eli pried open the casket for a final glimpse.

“I’ll dig the grave for you, Massa Fletcher,” Eli said, “if you show me where.”

“Yes . . . thank you . . . of course,” he mumbled. “May I. . . ?” he asked, turning to the colonel.

Drake nodded. “Fetch them a shovel from the tool shed,” he told one of his men.

I stayed behind with the colonel as Aunt Anne and Uncle William trudged into the denuded woods, leading Eli to the graveyard. As soon as they were out of sight, I lifted the coffin lid, which Eli had left loose, and retrieved Robert’s Bible. The task God had given me seemed almost too easy. Still, as I handed the Bible to the colonel, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was handing over Charles’ life.

“This is for you,” I said, placing the book in his hands. “My aunt doesn’t know about it, but it’s my real reason for coming. It’s from one of your captured officers, Lieutenant Robert Hoffman.”

“Who? Where did you get this?”

“I’ve been to see Robert in Libby Prison in Richmond. He and his fellow inmates filled these pages with their observations of the Confederate defenses as they passed through the lines. Please make sure that it gets to the proper Union authorities.”

He opened the Bible and read one of the handwritten pages, then looked up again, to stare at me. I could tell by his expression that he thought me a traitor. I certainly felt like one. I sank down onto the back step, my energy suddenly spent.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

It took me a moment to recall the reason. “Because . . . because I believe that slavery is wrong.”

“But you’re a slave owner.”

“My father is. I’m not.” When I thought of all the things the servants did for me each day, all the things I didn’t know how to do for myself, like plucking a chicken or kindling a fire, the distinction seemed absurd. I quickly changed the subject. “If you could please arrange it, Colonel Drake, I would like to return to Richmond before dark.”

Drake quickly sent three of Hilltop’s remaining slaves into the woods to help Eli dig. They nailed Grandmother’s casket shut and lowered it into the grave. Aunt Anne wept quietly as Uncle William read from the Scriptures in a weary