Free Through the Storm by Beverly Jenkins Page B

brought a lost child.
    Sable spotted him on her way back from the privy. He was seated on the ground looking so sad, she stopped, then looked around to see if his parents were nearby. Seeing no one but the folks coming and going, she stooped and asked, “What’s your name, little fellow?”
    “Patrick.”
    Patrick looked to be no older than six or seven. “Where’s your mama, Patrick?”
    He began to cry silent tears. “Don’t have one.”
    She felt her heart twist. “Do you have a pa?”
    He shook his head.
    She glanced around for someone to help and spied a few people looking on curiously, but no one stepped forward to express concern. Sable had to get back to her vat, but she balked at leaving the child alone. “Would you like to go with me and see if we can find someone to help you?”
    He nodded and stood.
    Sable took his small, dirty hand in hers. On their way back to the laundry, she learned that he’d come to the camp a few days ago with his Uncle Benjamin and a group of older men and boys, but he’d become separated. When Sable asked him if he would recognize his uncle or any of his companions if he saw them again, Patrick assured her he would.

    The laundry ladies were moved by little Patrick’s plight. When they learned he didn’t remember when he’d last eaten, Mrs. Reese fed him, washed him up, and found him some clothes in her stash of left-behind items. By midday, he looked like a new little boy, but seemed no closer to being reunited with his uncle. Sable took it upon herself to locate him.
    Mrs. Reese gave Sable permission to conduct a search, but reminded her she would lose half a day’s pay. Sable agreed without complaint.
    With Patrick in tow, Sable made her way through the camp. Everywhere they went she asked if anyone knew Patrick, or knew of someone who was trying to locate a child matching his description, but no one did. She did get a few promising leads, but none led to the boy’s relative.
    As dusk fell, they were still searching. Sable felt discouraged but didn’t voice her feelings aloud so her young charge wouldn’t lose hope. Someone told her of a place near the center of camp where people who’d become separated could leave word for their kin. The woman giving Sable the information wasn’t sure where the posting place was located, but she had heard of its existence from another woman.
    So Sable and Patrick set out once more. There were over a thousand people in the camp, and trying to reunite one little boy with his companions was proving harder than she’d imagined.
    Conditions in the central camp were far more bleak than in the area surrounding the laundry. Sable had never seen so many people packed into one space. She could barely walk, nor could she turn around without bumping into someone. She must have apologized a score of times as she led Patrick through the thick throng. She saw runaways who had nothing but a thin blanket to protect them from the elements. There were families huddled together on the bare ground; people who looked unwell and destitute. She’d heard about the aid societies and themissionaries who’d come South to offer assistance, but they looked to be facing a monumental task. For every hale and hearty individual she passed, there were two or three who appeared frail and undernourished.
    Finally, after many fits and starts, she found the place she’d been seeking. People in this part of the camp called it the Message Tree. Handwritten notes and letters were tacked onto a large piece of wood nailed between two stout trees. There were so many runaways trying to get a look, folks had formed a line. She and Patrick patiently waited their turn.
    It was full dark by the time they neared the front of the line. Torches had been lit and posted. A tall muscular man ahead of them had tears in his eyes as he turned away from the board, clenching his fists in anger and frustration. As he made to pass Sable and head back toward the lights of the camp, his gaze