Free Silent Thunder by Andrea Pinkney Page A

“oratorical expression.”
    Lowell’s “trumpets of the sky” never sounded sogood. And today, with autumn’s chill starting to nip at the air, I kept those trumpets close while me and Clem worked in the toolshed.
    We were supposed to be outside busting firewood to prepare for what Missy Claire had said was gonna be one of the worst cold-weather seasons Hobbs Hollow had ever seen. But clouds had painted the sky gray as flint, and, oh, were them clouds ever pouring. Outside the shed the rain slashed down in an icy, biting sheet. Missy had told us this was October’s way of announcing a foul winter.
    So Clem and me, we took to sharpening master Gideon’s axes so’s that when the rain cleared and the wood dried, we could bust and cord them logs the way Mama insists Missy Claire likes them—“twig size.”
    I lifted each ax off its hook and set it next to Clem, who was sharpening the blade of Parnell’s biggest ax. Clem worked without speaking, his brows bent, his expression focused. He didn’t even let his eyes wander when the sky threw down a whopping bolt of thunder. When Clem finished one ax blade, he extended his hand to let me know he was ready for the next.
    We worked in silence through three blades. Then Clem said, “You know the hearsay?”
    I shrugged. “’Bout the master holed up in his study?”
    Clem shook his head.
    â€œâ€™Bout the visitors that been swarming round here? That the hearsay you mean, Clem?”
    No again.
    Clem wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. Even in the chilly shed, he had worked up a sweat. “Naw,” he said. “All that’s old hearsay. I mean the hearsay that came to the quarters early this morning.”
    I’d been with Summer that morning. Our lesson had gone overtime because Summer had insisted we keep on. Clem could see by the expression on my face that I didn’t have a clue.
    â€œMissy Claire has sent for her brother, Thomas Farnsworth, who owns a plantation down in Louisiana, to come oversee things here. He’ll be comin’ sometime round Christmas.”
    There was still a question on my face. To me, this wasn’t no juicy hearsay; it was just information. “So” was all I said.
    Clem shook his head. “Louisiana’s cotton country, Ros—the deep Southland, the place they sent my Marietta.” Clem’s words were heavy. This time he flinched when a bang of thunder escaped from the sky. “The meanest slave masters walking this earth come from Louisiana,” he said quietly. “Talk at the quarters says the Missy’s brother makes Lucifer look like a lamb. That he’s Secesh to the core.”
    Another thunderclap. Clem’s face went hard. His eyes darted. “I’ve had enough hell living here under Gideon Parnell’s thumb, and it’s even worse now that your mama’s got me washin’ and shavin’ him.” Clem wastalking like he’d come to a decision. He said, “I didn’t think so at first, but now, far as I can see, Parnell’s falling sick is good luck. I’m going North to enlist in the Union army.”
    I shrugged, letting Clem’s conviction settle for a moment. Clem waited for me to say something. More thunder came. It was a slow, rolling bellow this time.
    Clem extended his hand, ready for the next ax blade. With his waiting palm stretched out full, he asked, “You comin’ with me?”
    If Clem had asked me about enlisting way back, when I’d first read about the Union taking in colored soldiers, I would have jumped fast as a jackrabbit.
    But something in me was holding that jackrabbit back. With all that had come to pass—Parnell’s heart-shock, the promise of Lincoln’s proclamation, Mama taking plantation matters into her own hands— I wasn’t so quick to jump.
    Clem could see I was slow to answer him. He didn’t badger me, but there