Free The Widow's War by Mary Mackey Page A

composed of escaped slaves, but having met him personally, I believe he would approve. None of us have uniforms, because the federal government has not yet recognized it is involved in a war with the slaveholding South. We wear what we can. I have put on one of my lover’s old flannel shirts and a pair of his trousers, Ni wears buckskin leggings, the others wear the clothes they were wearing when they escaped from their masters or clothes that have been given to them since. One is dressed in an old jacket of John Brown’s, out at the elbows but still serviceable.
    Before we set out, I want to list the men by name because if any fall in the coming battle, I am determined to build a memorial to them in Lawrence, just as we have built memorials to honor the soldiers who fell in the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the Mexican War.
    They are: Abel, Andrew, Bilander, Caesar, Cush, Charles, Ebenezer, Ishmael, Jack, Jordan, Marcellus, Ni, Peet, Samuel, and Spartacus. Only Spartacus has a last name because, unlike the others, he was born free. The rest have no desire to adopt the names of their former masters, although several are considering taking the name “Brown” in honor of the man who trained them in the art of warfare.
    I suspect that we are all afraid of what may happen once we cross into Missouri—I know I am—but we don’t discuss our fears. We have food, shoes, horses, and guns. We have a righteous cause and the will to succeed. We have each other.

Chapter Eight
    Rio de Janeiro, March 1854
     
     
     
    A s The Frances Scott sails out of Guanabara Bay, Carrie stands at the stern and inhales for the last time the familiar, earthy scent of wet jungles, perfumed flowers, and wood smoke. She sees the jagged heights of the coastal mountains, their slopes covered with coffee plantations, and the city, which has taken the drunken heaving of the shoreline and marshaled it into a bank of low white houses, factories, warehouses, and church spires. By the docks, hundreds of tall-masted ships rock in unison as slow swells move under them and speed on to crash against beaches the color of unrefined sugar.
    Carrie watches until she can no longer make out the faces of the friends who came down to the docks to see her off. Then she turns and walks toward the bow of the ship. For the first time in many days she finds herself alone. Deacon is down in their cabin tending to the luggage, her fellow passengers are nowhere in sight, and the crew is too busy to pay attention to her.
    She stands in the bow until the ship has sailed out of the bay into the open sea. When she walks back to the stern for one more look at Rio, all she can see is a low, dark smear on the horizon. She is just preparing to go below and join Deacon when something moves inside her. Clapping her hand over her belly, she feels a light tapping sensation like the soft beating of butterfly wings. For a moment she stands there puzzled. Then, suddenly, she understands.
    “Hello, my darling,” she whispers to her unborn child, and all at once, she feels a rush of joy and grief so tangled together that she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Chapter Nine
    T he sun sinks into a bank of clouds, night descends on the ocean, and everywhere Carrie looks, water and sky meet in seamless blackness. Propping the porthole open so the sea breezes can enter the cabin, she goes back to the table and sits down. To her left, a small glass inkwell dances on brass gimbals. To her right lies a pile of blank paper weighted down by an opalescent, spiraled shell.
    Picking up the shell, she examines it. It’s as intricate as the cross section of seed pod. Where did it come from? Not from Brazil. Perhaps it washed up on a beach on the other side of the world. If she holds it to her ear, will she hear the ocean roar? She puts the shell to her ear and is rewarded with a pulsing sound, but the sound of the real ocean is much louder.
    Putting the shell aside, she picks up the flowered