Rescue on the River Read online

  “And what?” Patrick asked.

  “Mr. Lincoln has not yet freed any of the slaves,” Eugene said. “In his speech he said he’s trying to save the Union first.”

  “But we have to do something!” Beth said.

  Patrick heard a low humming noise. The Imagination Station appeared.

  “I have to finish something here to get back to my proper age,” Eugene said. “But you may go help Sally’s brother. It will have to be after the war has started.”

  Patrick and Beth hurried toward the machine. Beth got in on the passenger side. Patrick sat in the driver’s seat. He grabbed hold of the steering wheel.

  The car seemed to surge forward. But everything Patrick saw through the windshield blurred. He saw only millions of dots of color.

  Then the dots broke apart. They sprayed out of the machine like water droplets.

  I’m driving through time again, Patrick thought.

  And then suddenly, everything went black.

  A Civil War Nurse

  The Imagination Station landed. Patrick got out of the machine and closed the door. Beth stepped out of the passenger side.

  They stood in a grove of trees with thick, gray bark. Patrick pushed a clump of leaves out of his way to see better. The trees around him were as tall as a five-story building. Their spring-green leaves spread across the blue sky.

  The Imagination Station faded away.

  The air was warm, but Patrick’s feet felt cold and wet.

  He looked down. Black water covered his brown shoes and red pants up to his ankles. His navy-blue jacket had gold buttons. He was now wearing a military uniform.

  He had landed in a pond. Mosquitoes hovered over him. He checked his pocket and found a watch. The watch face had a picture of a man sitting on a beautiful horse.

  “Be careful,” Beth said from behind him.

  Patrick dropped the watch back into his pocket. He turned around to look at her.

  Beth was wearing a red dress, boots, and a black coat. She was standing on leaf-covered high ground, a good distance away.

  He swatted at a mosquito. “Be careful of what?” he asked.

  Beth motioned toward one end of the pond.

  Patrick looked where she was pointing. He saw more black water, large trees, and a log. The log moved, and Patrick took a double look. It was dark green and as long as a car.

  An alligator!

  Its mouth was clamped shut. But several of its sharp teeth jutted out. The beast’s beady eyes glared at Patrick.

  The alligator thrashed its tail. The motion propelled it through the water.

  “Get out of there!” Beth shouted.

  The beast moved toward Patrick. Its jaws opened wide enough to swallow Patrick’s leg.

  Patrick sprinted, his shoes sloshing in the shallow, muddy water.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  The alligator neared the end of the pond and lunged. Its body rose out of the water.

  Patrick took a huge step. He landed on the ground next to Beth.

  The cousins scurried away from the water.

  Patrick paused when he felt far enough away. He couldn’t believe how big it was. He could see the alligator’s cream-colored underside. The creature was half out of the water.

  Then it quickly lunged again. Its cave-like jaws opened.

  The cousins jumped backward. But the alligator’s jaws clamped down on the edge of Beth’s coat.

  Beth shrieked.

  The beast’s head jerked to the right. Beth fell. Her arms flailed. The beast’s tail and head thrashed.

  Patrick quickly prayed to God for help. He picked up a thick stick. He smashed it over the alligator’s head.

  Beth rolled out of her coat. She was free!

  Patrick dropped the branch. He grabbed Beth’s arm and pulled her up.

  “Hurry!” he said.

  They ran.

  A cluster of trees was ahead of them.

  “Climb that one,” Patrick said, pointing to a thick tree.

  Beth grabbed its low-hanging branch. She started to climb quickly.

  Patrick grabbed the same branch. It was rough and scratchy. He pulled himself onto it after Beth reached the next tree limb.

  They climbed until the branches were too thin for them go higher. They stopped and sat on a thick limb. They were completely hidden by leaves.

  “Are we safe?” Beth asked, out of breath. “Next time it might get my leg instead of just my coat.”

  Patrick tried to catch his breath. He glanced at the alligator below. He didn’t want any more surprises.

  The reptile’s half-lidded eyes glared at the cousins. The beast walked back toward the pond, dragging Beth’s coat with it. Then the creature slid into the water.

  “My coat is ruined,” Beth said. “And I’m not going near that water to get it. Good thing it’s warm here.”

  “Now if we can just get rid of the mosquitoes,” Patrick said. He swatted one.

  Beth noticed clumps of hairlike strings hanging on the tree. She fingered the gray-green strands. They were soft and feathery.

  “What is that?” Patrick asked.

  “I think it’s moss,” Beth said.

  Beth scanned the area. She saw a woman whose dark skin covered high cheekbones. Her brown hair was tied up in a colorful cloth. She wore a dress with long stripes. A leather bag hung from a strap on her shoulder.

  The woman suddenly stopped and bent down. She dug up a plant with a knife she took from her bag. The roots were thick and brown.

  The woman looked familiar.

  She stepped closer to the pond. Beth’s cloak was in the mud at the water’s edge. The alligator was still there. It seemed to be waiting. It crept toward the woman.

  “Look out!” Beth shouted to the woman.

  The woman didn’t seem to hear. She bent to dig up another root.

  Patrick dropped to the ground. He picked up a branch. The alligator backed into the water.

  “Be careful,” Beth said. “That hungry creature is watching you.”

  The woman looked up. “I can take care of myself. These swamps are filled with healing plants,” the woman said. “That’s why I come.”

  Beth thought for a moment. The woman was a healer or a nurse. She was confident even though she dressed like a slave.

  The woman added, “What business do you two have in a swamp with alligators?”

  Patrick said, “I . . . we . . . I mean . . .”

  Beth jumped down. She landed in the leaves next to Patrick. She finally recognized this woman. She said, “We’ve come to help you, Miss Tubman.”

  Patrick gasped. He said, “You’re Harriet Tubman!”

  Harriet Tubman

  A slow smile spread across Harriet’s lips. She gave a deep laugh. “You know me,” Harriet said. “But I don’t know you.”

  Beth said, “My name is Beth, and this is my cousin Patrick.”

  “You can call me Miss Harriet,” she said. “Most people around here do.”

  “I’ve heard that you were also called Moses,” Beth said.

  “That was a name I used before the war,” Harriet said. “When I was moving slaves along the Underground Railroad.”

  Harriet studied the cousins. “And there’s plenty more slaves that need rescuing,” she said. “Come along if you’re going to help. Let’s not give that alligator a dinner invitation.” Harriet started walking.

  Beth and Patrick had to half-run to keep up with her.

  They reached a small stream and walked beside it. Dried leaves covered the banks. Tall trees gave them shade from the afternoon sun.

  Beth noticed an envelope tucked in the pocket of her skirt. It was different from the letter with Sally’s postscript. The Imagination Station must have given it as a gift. The cousins often received gifts when they went on adventures.

  Beth pulled out the envelope. John Adams, Colonel was written on it. The envelope was sealed.

  Beth showed the letter to Patrick.
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br />   “The Imagination Station gave this to me,” she said. “We may need to find someone named John Adams.”

  “Wasn’t he a president?” Patrick asked.

  Beth nodded. “But that was a long time ago,” she said.

  Beth tucked the note back in her pocket.

  Patrick fished in his pants pocket. He took out the watch. He showed it to Beth.

  “That’s a Confederate officer on a warhorse,” Beth whispered. “Someone wrote on the picture. It says Colonel William C. Heyward.”

  Patrick turned it over. Follow the star was inscribed on the back.

  “Hide that watch,” Beth said, “or Harriet might think we’re Confederates. They’re the enemy.”

  Soon the three of them left the shade of the trees. They came to a clearing filled with canvas tents.

  “It’s a tent city,” Patrick said.

  Some of the canvas tents looked like fabric houses. They had low walls and high, slanted roofs held up by poles and ropes. Other tents were cone-shaped like teepees.

  Beth had never seen a city like this. She felt sweat drip down her forehead. It had been warm in the shade of the trees. It was much hotter among the tents in the late afternoon.

  Harriet stopped in front of a tent. It was wider and longer than the others. The flaps were open. Inside were rows of narrow cots. Each one held a resting man.

  Beth asked, “How did these men get sick?”

  Harriet set her leather bag on the ground near a fire pit. “More soldiers die of diseases than in battle,” she said.

  Harriet started a fire in the pit. Then she picked up two tin coffeepots by their arched handles. She handed one each to Beth and Patrick.

  The coffeepots were large. But they weren’t too heavy.

  “Fill these at the creek,” Harriet said. “I’ll get someone to show you where the cleanest water is.” She moved to a group of black men in uniform. They were sitting in front of a tent. One walked back with her.

  “This is Walter,” Harriet said. She threw a big log on the fire.

  Walter was a young teen in full uniform. He had a newspaper tucked underneath his arm. “What’re you white children doing here?” he asked. He seemed curious, not angry.

  “We came to help free the slaves,” Beth said.

  “Well, I never,” said the lad. “Welcome to the Second South Carolina Volunteers.”

  “Thank you,” Patrick said. “My name is Patrick, and this is my cousin Beth.”

  Beth studied their new friend. He looked handsome in the navy-blue jacket and red pants. His uniform was similar to Patrick’s. But Walter’s had army stripes on it. “You seem young to be a soldier,” she said.

  “I’m a drummer and run errands,” he said. “I also speak Gullah. That’s the language the plantation slaves speak.”

  Walter picked up an empty coffeepot and pointed. “The creek’s this way,” he said. The three of them started walking.

  Beth glanced at the newspaper. The date on it was May 24, 1863. “Is that a current newspaper?” she asked.

  “Current for us,” Walter said. “It’s only a week old. Miss Harriet gets people to teach us our letters. I read whenever I can.”

  “Me too,” Beth said. She figured it had been just over two years since President Lincoln’s inauguration.

  Patrick asked, “How did your unit get so deep in enemy territory?”

  Walter laughed. His smile showed his broad white teeth.

  “We didn’t get here,” he said. “We are from here—escaped slaves mostly. Except for about 130 men who came from Florida.”

  Patrick kicked a rock in his path. “What does your regiment do?” he asked.

  “We raid plantations,” Walter said. “That’s how we get some of our food. We also have orders to free slaves. The colonel wants to weaken the enemy and get their slaves to fight against them.”

  “But right now we need to fill these coffeepots,” Beth said.

  She noticed a few logs floating in the water. They moved with the flow of the creek.

  “Are those alligators?” she asked Walter.

  He shook his head. “They look like regular logs, but be careful,” he said. “The Confederates have hidden torpedoes along the shore.”

  Beth gulped. Torpedoes?

  The Spy

  The three walked back to camp with their coffeepots full of water. Walter set his coffeepot on Harriet’s fire.

  Patrick set his coffeepot on the fire too. Beth set hers next to the fire pit.

  “Thank you,” Harriet said. She gave them a smile. It brightened her weatherworn face.

  Harriet used some water to clean the roots in her bag. Then she pulled out her knife and chopped them. She dropped the roots into both pots on the fire.

  “We’re looking for a slave named Kitch,” Patrick said.

  Walter said, “I haven’t heard that name around these parts.”

  “He’s a slave from Kentucky. He came a couple of years ago,” Beth said. “And we’re also looking for John Adams.” She fingered the letter in her pocket.

  “I don’t know anyone named Kitch,” Harriet said. “But you’ll need to go to the river for John Adams.”

  Steam was soon pouring out of the coffeepot spouts. The concoction smelled like a spiced tea.

  Harriet turned to Walter. “Take that pot to the big hospital tent,” she said. “Tell the nurses it’s for the contraband with stomach problems. The men will be healed in no time.”

  Beth wondered what contraband meant. But she didn’t interrupt.

  “Glad to help,” Walter said. He used the newspaper to pick up the pot by the hot handle. He moved away with the medicine.

  Harriet turned and started walking between tents.

  Beth and Patrick hurried after her.

  “Miss Harriet,” Beth said, “what is contraband?”

  “Freed slaves,” she said. “Slaves escape their plantations. They come to Union camps for protection. Many think of them as spoils of war or property.”

  “But slaves are people, not property,” Patrick said.

  “I wish everyone thought like that,” Harriet said. “Then I wouldn’t have to dress like a slave and sneak around as a spy.”

  “You’re a spy?” Beth said.

  Harriet laughed and winked. She said, “I’m fifty years old. How can I be a spy?”

  “No one would suspect you,” Patrick said.

  Harriet gave him a smile and a wink. “That’s right. People in the Deep South think slaves are stupid. So they talk freely around black people. Sometimes they even reveal their secrets.”

  “People do that to children, too,” Beth said.

  Harriet nodded. “I’m a nurse and a spy and whatever the good Lord wants me to be. It’s all to help free slaves.”

  Harriet stopped where two paths crossed. “I must leave you here,” she said. Then she pointed to her left. “That path takes you to the river. You’ll find what you’re looking for. Wait there for Walter.”

  Harriet took the path to her right and kept walking.

  “Race you to the river,” Beth said. She didn’t wait for Patrick’s reply. She took off running.

  “No fair!” Patrick said.

  They both ran hard.

  The cousins reached the river together. The water was dark and murky, almost black.

  Beth put a hand to her nose. The place had a sour odor. It was as if someone had just lit one hundred matches.

  “What is that sulfur smell?” Beth asked. “Are there rotten eggs around here?”

  Patrick looked at the wide river in front of them. There were three ships on the water. Several rowboats were moving between the ships and the shore.

  “I can’t tell you about the smell,” Patrick said. “But I found John Adams.”

  The John Adams

  Patrick pointed toward a ship with John Adams written on its side. It looked like a ferryboat with two large paddlewheels. The ship’s hull didn’t reach very high above the water. But it had
a large deck.

  Two empty masts stuck up like straws in a milkshake. Two large, black smokestacks rose out of the center of the deck. The stars and stripes of the Union flag flew at the ship’s bow.

  “Maybe I need to give my letter to someone on that ship,” Beth said.

  “I think you’re right,” Patrick said. He studied the second ship, the Harriet A. Weed. It was similar to the John Adams. But the deck was even larger.

  Beth pointed to a ship named the Sentinel. “That one has a taller hull,” she said.

  Walter approached the cousins.

  “Hi, Walter,” Patrick said.

  “Why does it smell like rotten eggs around here?” Beth asked the drummer.

  Walter laughed. “The smell comes from the mud along the river. It’s called pluff mud,” Walter said. “Some love it, and some hate it. To me it just smells like home.”

  Patrick hoped he would soon get used to the odor. But he had his doubts.

  “Those ships are beauties,” Walter said, pointing toward them. “The John Adams has a lot of big guns. The Harriet A. Weed has two cannons. The Sentinel doesn’t have any artillery. But it’s still a good ship.”

  Walter turned toward Patrick. “Would you help me row some boxes out to the Adams?”

  “Not without me,” Beth said. “I’m coming too.”

  Walter laughed. “You’re just like Miss Harriet,” he said. “She doesn’t keep from hard work either.”

  They spent several hours using rowboats to move boxes to each ship. The boxes had food and medical supplies in them.

  Patrick scooted his last box on the deck of the Sentinel. It made a shushing sound like sandpaper on wood.

  He was tired. The evening had slipped into darkness. Hundreds of stars shone in the night sky.

  More soldiers from Walter’s unit climbed aboard the Sentinel. Groups of white soldiers also climbed aboard. They huddled together in small groups on the deck. The embers from pipes and cigars cast a reddish glow on their faces.

  “That’s the last of the supplies,” Walter said. On top of the crate was a drum. It had a black shoulder strap attached to it.