Dana Vacca
author of two novels set in the time of the American Civil War; also writes short stories and poetry; has illustrated children's books and taught visual media and design; enjoys researching and restoring antiques
Chapter One
Traveling South through Virginia
“The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.” (Exodus 14:14)
I never considered myself as especially brave or strong of will – or even especially clever, but since I was a child, my mama always told me to be aware of angels around me and to listen to that little voice inside me. She called it the voice of truth, and she claimed it came from Heaven. Some might say it is intuition, or serendipity or the hand of God, but somehow I have survived this much of my journey, and I’d like to think it is because of the latter.
I lay my tired body down on a bed of fallen leaves hidden beneath a copse of oaks. It was grateful for the rest, but it begged for real sleep. I was no longer the one who waits; I was the one who has acted, and I needed to push on.
For days, weeks, I have been walking, moving only by night and keeping far from the noise of Union and Confederate skirmishing. Sometimes, the sound of guns and cannon fire vibrate the very ground beneath my feet, and my nostrils sting from the angry, acrid smell of smoke and spent gunpowder. At other times, I hear faint echoes of the battle far off in the distance. Mostly, though, as now, there is only the music of the woodland playing to a rhythm all its own. As my steps match the tempo of its dance my fatigue vanishes, and I am carried along by the cadence of its song.
The rim of the Virginia meadow abounds with trill melodies of unseen creatures and, on silent wings, the violet mist of evening flows softly from the tangled wood beyond.
Slowly, unhurried, the incoming tide of cool damp reaches forth and caresses me with fingers, feathery and light.
I let its primal earthiness, ancient and timeless, cover and possess me.
This is the magic hour when images become dusky.
Every sense is heightened, as the wildness of the night reveals itself and rises to the throne of its birthright. The power and beauty of its sovereign rule is my bloodline. It arouses the warrior in me. As its daughter, the will to be whole, alive and free burns in my veins.
Each evening before dark, I make an entry in this journal. My one heartfelt hope remains that my mother is still alive and that, by the Grace of God, somehow, I will find her. Mama is the one reason this journal exists, as it was Mama who taught me to read and write. If this diary is found, I have either been captured or am dead. The words written upon these pages are the only marks I will leave upon this world. I hope this journal will find its way into the hands of someone who will forward it on, and I trust the reasons for my journey will be clearly understood.
from Freedom Calling: A Civil War Slave Escapes By Sea by Dana Vacca © 2019 Dana Vacca