Entertaining Angels

It was Christmas night, 1863.  Mama and Aunt Beverly were finishing up the dinner dishes as my Uncle Cleon dozed in a chair in front of the fire.   They had travelled from their home in Loudon County to spend the holidays with us.  The aroma of roast goose still hung in the house.  An apple pie sat cooling on the counter.  I was reading my Christmas gift, a copy of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin.  The wind outside rattled our shutters, pushing in a cold front with snow squalls, rare weather for northern Virginia.

“Johnnie,” Mama said, drying her hands on her apron, “I need more milk for the rice pudding.  Be a lamb and fetch me another gallon from the milkhouse?”

“Aw, Ma.  It isn’t fit for man nor beast out there!”  I really didn’t mind going, but I didn’t want to put down my book.  When Mama presented me with it earlier that day, she told me that my late father had purchased it for me when he was in Richmond seeing a doctor last spring.  I imagine he knew by then what little time he had left.

“Go on now.  You’ll be back before you know it.  That book will be waiting for you.  And make sure the cows’ watering troughs aren’t froze up.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I reluctantly marked my place in the book, then got up and started pulling on my boots.  As I lit a lantern by the door, I thought I heard a knock.  No one else seemed to notice, so I figured it must have been the wind.  I shrugged into my coat, and the knock came again, this time louder and with deliberate urgency.  Mama leaned in from the kitchen with a curious expression, and Uncle Cleon stirred in the chair.  

Pulling the door open, I was alarmed to find a young black man standing there in the dark.  I lifted my lantern for a better look. He appeared to be about my age – maybe fifteen or sixteen.  Swaying unsteadily, he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word his eyes rolled, and he collapsed into the doorway.

“Who in tarnation is it?” Mama said, running in.

“I don’t know.” I dragged him inside and closed the door, then rolled him onto his back and stretched him out.  He was unconscious, but breathing.  Mama knelt and placed her hands on his cheeks.

“Why, he’s nearly frozen to death!  Cleon!  Get up and help us get this boy into the chair.”

My uncle got up, grumbling under his breath.  When he got a look at our unexpected guest, he frowned and grunted but reluctantly grabbed the boy under his arms while I took him by the feet.  We got him situated in the easy chair by the fire as Mama looked on with concern.

The unfamiliar boy was dressed in tatters.  A light jacket over his thin denim shirt was his only protection against the bitter cold.  He wore no hat or gloves.  His trousers were patched and worn, and his shoes were coming apart.  He moaned quietly, turning his head slowly, but his eyes remained closed.

Uncle Cleon frowned at him in disgust.  “Probably a runaway slave.”

“Ain’t you heard, Uncle?  There are no slaves anymore.  You know President Lincoln freed them almost a year ago now.”

“That Yankee scarecrow is NOT our President, Johnnie!  In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a war on.  Your president is Jefferson Davis.” His face was flushed with anger.  He jabbed a lumpy finger at me. “I swear by the stars and bars, boy, if you were my son I’d take you out behind the barn and beat some sense into you.”

“That’s enough!” Mama said.  “You’re under my roof, Cleon.  You have no call to talk to my son that way.  With his Daddy gone, Johnnie is the man of the house now, whether you like it or not.  I’d ask you to respect that and mind your manners, Cleon.”

“Begging your pardon, Olivia.  But I declare, sometimes I wonder if you and Johnnie remember all the good men who have gone to war and never come back to make sure these slaves stayed where they belong!  Hell, I’d have been the first to sign up and go myself if it weren’t for this damn leg.”

My father’s brother had been born with one leg shorter than the other.  He wore a special shoe with a sole about three inches thick to compensate for the difference.  It did get tiresome sometimes, hearing him go on about how that leg had held him back from all the great things he could have done in life.  Uncle Cleon was cursed with the unfortunate combination of an oversized opinion of his own potential and all the personal dynamism of a door stop.

“I can assure you that both of us remember the fallen.  We may not agree with your position on this war, but we grieve for the victims and the families they leave behind all the same.  Now, as this is our first Christmas without Clement, in respect to his memory and in keeping with the spirit of the day, I’ll ask that you keep your bitter thoughts to yourself.”

Uncle Cleon’s jaw tightened, and he glared at me with a heavy frown.  Shaking his head, he stomped out to the kitchen and took a glass from the drain board.  Pouring himself a shot of bourbon and tossing it back, he looked on disapprovingly from the kitchen counter as we attended to our guest.

We untied and removed what was left of the boy’s shoes and took turns rubbing his hands and feet as he warmed by the fire.  It seemed strange touching a black person skin-to-skin, but Mama said that was what he needed, so I pitched in.  After ten minutes or so he began to move his legs and arms.  Eventually, his eyes fluttered, then opened.  He looked at us anxiously, his face a mask of anxiety and bewilderment.  His lips were cracked.  

“Water.” was the first word he said.  Aunt Beverly went to the kitchen and filled a glass from the pitcher pump. Uncle Cleon glared at her as she brought it back to the boy.  Mama held it up to his lips.  He took a few swallows as she held it, then he raised his hand tenuously and took the glass himself.

“Who are you?  What are you doing here?” Mama asked.

“I – my name is Moses, ma’am.  I got lost in the storm.  I saw the lights from your windows.  I’s afraid I was going to freeze to death, so I knocked on your door.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Georgia.  Left to head north a few weeks ago.”

“So, you’re a runaway.”

“No, ma’am.  I was a slave.  On Mr. Buxton’s farm.  But now I’m free.”

Moses went on to explain how he had ended up in northern Virginia.  One day the previous summer a group of free blacks had passed by a field where he and some other slaves were working.  The passers-by, who were headed north, told them that President Lincoln had set all slaves in the south free months before.  Moses’ master, Mr. Buxton, had never told his slaves the news.  

After the travelers continued on their way, Moses, his father, and a few of the others went to the house to speak with Mr. Buxton about Lincoln’s proclamation.  When they asked the master about the news, he flew into a rage.  His foreman clapped Moses’ father in irons and sent the rest of them back to their cabins. 

“That night we heard some frightful sounds comin’ from the barn.  They was in there beatin’ my Pappy.  It went on for half the night.  Then all to once everything gone quiet.  No one could sleep after that for worryin’.  We just cried and prayed until mornin’.  When the sun come up, my Pappy’s body was laid out in the yard.  I guess they wanted us all to see it.  To see what they done.”  

Moses stopped speaking then.  He could only manage to look down at his feet and shake his head.  A silent tear ran down his cheek.

“My goodness,” Mama said, after a long moment.  She reached out her hand and placed it carefully on Moses’ shoulder.  “We’re dreadful sorry for you, son.”

Moses took some deep breaths and gathered himself, then finished his story.  He had packed what he could carry and left the night after his father was killed to head north.   He had asked his mother to run with him, but she was living in the big house with Mr. Buxton.  She had things pretty good, and besides, she was afraid to leave for what Buxton might do to her if they were ever caught.  

So, Moses said his good-byes and left alone.  He traveled only by night, finding places to hide and rest during the day.  He considered himself free, but he knew most southerners wouldn’t see it that way, so he stayed off the roads and out of sight.  He had a near-miss with some slave snatchers a few days’ before, somewhere south of Fredericksburg.  When the storm hit, he was caught out in the open and was genuinely afraid he would die of exposure to the elements.  Despite a powerful fear of being captured and sent back to Mr. Buxton, his survival instincts had kicked in and brought him to their door.

While Moses was talking, Uncle Cleon had come back into to the living room and was listening in with a scowl.  When Moses finished the account of his flight from Georgia, he took a long drink of water. 

“I’ll take this negro over to the sheriff’s office in the morning,” Uncle Cleon said, looking at Moses with disdain.  “They’ll see to it he gets back where he belongs.  I’m sure Buxton will be glad to have his property returned.” 

At that moment, I saw my uncle for everything he was, or should I say everything he wasn’t.  I thought of my father and tried to imagine what he would do about this if he were there with us.  So, I stood up as tall as my 16-year-old frame would allow and faced my uncle. 

“I can’t allow that.  Moses is a free man. He came to our door for help, and I intend to treat him with the same care that I would hope any stranger would show one of us if we were lost somewhere. Unless Mama objects, I say he can stay with us until the storm passes, then we’ll help him on his way again.”

I looked to Mama, and she offered a nod in agreement.  Her eyes flashed with a steely resolve as she frowned at Uncle Cleon.  Her mouth was drawn into a tight line. 

“How dare you speak to me like that, boy?” he said.

“I’m the man of this house now, whether you like it or not.  When that cancer was taking my father I sat at his side, and he made me promise I’d take care of Mama and this farm as best I could when he was gone.  I promised him I would follow my heart the way he always followed his and do my best to make him proud.  So that’s it.  This is my decision, not yours.”

Clean stood for a long moment, looking from one face to the other around the room, before his shoulders dropped and he spoke in a quieter, defeated tone.

“Well, I can see that my opinion counts for nothing here.  If you want to give aid and comfort to a negro runaway, I’ll be no part of it.  It’s too late to travel tonight, especially with the storm.  But rest assured, Beverly and I will be leaving for home first light tomorrow.  And I’m not sure when we’ll be seeing you again.  With that, we’ll be turning in for the night.  Beverly?”

He turned on his heel and stomped off to the spare bedroom.  Aunt Beverly glanced at me, then at Mama with her eyebrows raised.  She shrugged, stood up, and followed her husband to bed.

“I’m proud of you, son,” Mama said, when they were gone.  

“Yes, ma’am.  I thought I could light the wood stove in the shop and make up a bed for Moses out there.”

“That will be fine.  Take a couple of old blankets from the closet.”

Mama warmed up some food left from our dinner and sat Moses at the table with his plate and a glass of milk.  While he was eating I noticed his bare feet and glanced over at what was left of his shoes by the fire.  His feet appeared to be slightly smaller than mine, so I went to my room and got him a pair of my old boots that I’d outgrown.  They still had some wear left in them.  I found him some warm socks too.  After he finished eating he put them on and seemed quite pleased with how they fit.

Before we left for the barn Moses thanked Mama graciously.  Mama reminded me about the milk as I re-lit the lantern.  Outside Moses and I leaned against the wind and stepped through the snow towards the barn.  Our breath puffed out in frosty clouds.  Snowflakes stuck to our lashes and eyebrows.  I took Moses into the workshop in the barn and started a fire in the stove, then made up a bed of straw and gave him the blankets.  When he was settled in we spoke for a few minutes before I left him.

“I wanted to say I’m terrible sorry for what happened to your Pappy.  That had to have been awful.”

“I hope someday I’ll stop hearin’ the screams I heard comin’ from the barn that night.”  He paused and looked deep in thought, then he said, “And I’m sorry that your Papa is gone, too.  Seems like life just catches up with us whether we’re ready or not, don’t it?”

“It sure does.  Well, good night Moses.”  I turned to leave but he spoke again.

“Johnnie?  I just wanted to thank you for taking me in and standin’ up to your uncle.  I’m obliged to your Mama for sharin’ your fine vittles and to you for givin’ me your very own boots and socks.  This is the best Christmas I ever had.”    

I was genuinely touched by his capacity for gratitude in the face of unspeakable trauma and abuse.  I told him he was quite welcome, then I said good-night again and continued on to the milk house.  There I pulled the dipper down from a hook on the wall, and popped the lid on a 10-gallon can.  I dipped milk out of the larger can and poured it through cheesecloth into one of the smaller house cans until it was full. 

I thought about my father as I put the lids back on.  This was something he would have taken care of if he were here.  He would have handled the milk.  I had watched him do it a thousand times, but now it was up to me.  On this, our first Christmas without him, doing something he would have done, I missed him more at that moment than I had all day.

Before returning to the house, I stepped through the opening between the milk house and the barn to check on the cows.  It was exciting but a bit unsettling being alone in the barn at that hour.  The only sound was the storm outside the walls.  The air inside was dead still.  The cows were laying on their beds of straw.  Small clouds of steam from their breathing hung above their drowsy heads.  I removed a thin layer of ice from the surface of their water trough before I picked up the milk can and headed back to the house.

I retraced my steps back through the footprints we had made on the way out.  It seemed to me that the snow had already started to let up.  I loved the way the kitchen window shone a warm welcome, casting a band of light across the yard.  

I hoped my father would have approved of how we cared for Moses and the way I stood up to Uncle Cleon.  Papa read a Bible verse to me once.  It was something about always showing hospitality to strangers, for we may be “entertaining angels unaware.”  I don’t know about angels, but I know I did what my heart told me was right.  That’s what he always did, and I promised myself I would honor his memory by always striving to do the same.