Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [37]
“Thank you, Colonel. I comes to ask you somethin’ if you have the time.” He spoke slowly, with a deep cavernous voice, did not look Lee in the face. Lee motioned for him to follow, went into the study, saw Rebecca looking at the familiar black face, squinting, trying to see him clearly. Nate leaned over, gave the old woman a gentle hug, said only, “You ol’ woman.”
Lee could see that Rebecca was moved, teary-eyed, and she quickly turned away, moved down the hall, scolded, “Now you don’ take up the colonel’s time, you heah?” and she was gone, back toward the kitchen.
Lee had often wondered how old the woman was. She didn’t know herself. He turned to the big man, said, “It appears she misses you.”
“Sweet ol’ woman, that she is, Colonel. Hope she lives forever. Reckon she will as long as she has Miss Mary to tend to.”
“You may be right. What can I do for you . . . Nate?” Lee realized that was the only name he could recall, did not know his last name, felt foolish.
“Colonel, you did me a great thing, sir, when you gives me my papers. I wanted you to know, I done real good. The man you sent me to, Mr. Van Dyke, they is good Pennsylvania folk, they right happy to have ol’ Nate on their farm. I been blacksmithin’.”
It all came back to Lee now. He had heard there were opportunities in the Pennsylvania Dutch country for freedmen to find work, vast new farms in a rugged land, and he had inquired, learned of several farmers who would hire good help. Nate had been one of the first, one of the most able men the old man had, and Lee had watched him leave with mixed feelings. But Arlington could not afford to hire the freedmen.
“Colonel, the reason I come back here . . . I raised some money. They payin’ me good. Never been . . . not good at spendin’ much money . . . it just gatherin’ up. So’s I come back here to ask you about my brother, Bo. I wonder, sir, if you would allow me to buy him.”
Lee had been listening to the man’s deep voice, and noticing his clothes, a nice homespun suit, well made. Now, he looked up at the dark, rugged face, let the words sink in, began to feel awkward.
“You want to . . . buy your brother?”
“Yes, sir, he’s not fit for much. He been crippled up most of his life, not much good to you here.”
Lee realized now who Bo was, the man with a missing foot, bad farm accident long ago. He hobbled about with a cane, did odd work for the other field hands, work that didn’t require much mobility.
“Nate, the people who are still here are not for sale. I am pleased, greatly pleased, to allow any of them to leave, who want to. The problem has always been that most of them have nowhere to go. It was . . . easier finding work for you, you are . . . well, quite fit. Men like Bo, and the women like Rebecca, they don’t have much hope of finding any work.”
“But sir, Bo don’ have to work. I can take care of him now. I done talked it over with Mr. Van Dyke, he say it all right.”
Lee sat down at the desk, reached for a blank piece of paper, pulled out his pen and began to write, then stopped, stared down for a moment, said, “Nate, forgive me. I don’t recall your last name.”
The man smiled, a wide toothy grin. “They give me a name. Mr. Van Dyke says when he first seen me, he thought I was black as coal, so they calls me Nate Cole. I even hear some people call me Mistuh Cole.”
“Well, Mr. Cole, I suppose your brother should have the same last name, so . . . here.” Lee wrote out the document, signed it with a broad stroke. “Here are his papers. He’s a freedman.”
Nate kept smiling, shook his head, wanted to say something, still felt reserved in front of Lee, took the paper and held it up to his face.
“I reckon I cain’t read this, Colonel, but I knows your name, your signin’. I looked at the papers you give me . . . still looks at ’em, carries ’em here.” He tapped at his wide pants pocket. He folded the new paper carefully, the tender freedom of his brother, put it into the same pocket, started to go, then stopped.