27 MAY 1851
WASHINGTON-ON-THE-BRAZOS, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
“Mas’ Thomas? It’s time for risin’.” Reynolds heard not so much the words as an echo of them. I’m having a dream, he thought, and rolled over to escape from it.
“You said to wake you now, sir.” It was Jefferson, Reynolds realized. He wasn’t dreaming. What time is it? he wondered. The bedroom was still dark.
No—he wasn’t in his bedroom. And there was light, the dim yellow light of a candle somewhere behind him. He jerked into alertness, causing the bed’s wooden slats to creak in protest. Rolling onto his back, he saw the slave hovering over him, hands trembling just inches from where his shoulders had been. The boy had been struggling with the conflict between the need to rouse his master and the prohibition against touching him.
Now he could see, by the pale, shivering light of the candle Jefferson had placed on the old dresser, the near-familiar shapes of the spare bedroom Reynolds used whenever Susan was angry enough to deny him their bed. He had voluntarily slept here last night—it was still last night in a fashion, he realized blearily—in order that he not disturb Susan when the moment came for him to begin the momentous work that this day demanded. “It’s four, is it?” he asked.
“A few minutes to, Cook says.” Jefferson stood back now, relieved. “Coffee’s ready for you in the summer kitchen, sir. And your horse and things is ready like you told us.”
“Splendid.” Reynolds now felt as bright and alert as though he’d been up for hours. He rolled out of the bed and stood up, stretching. Then the full import of what he was about to do hit him, and his stomach lurched. I might die today, he thought. I might end up an exile in Mexico. So many things can go wrong—why did I agree to do this?
Jefferson, he realized, was staring at him. It wouldn’t do to let a slave see fear in his master, so Reynolds turned to the washstand and splashed his face, slapping his cheeks briskly a couple of times to sting himself into greater alertness—and to perhaps distract himself from the churning in his stomach and bowels. “Go and see to my boots,” he said to Jefferson. “I’ll finish dressing myself, and join you at the back door in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Jefferson left the candle when he retreated through the door.
Dressing was a simple task, because Reynolds had slept in his shirt and trousers. All he had to do was button his vest and put on his coat. After a moment’s thought, he crept from this room into the main bedroom, taking care to avoid the floorboards most prone to squeaking. He took his father’s watch from its place in the top drawer of his clothes chest, and placed it in his vest pocket. Having the watch with him made him feel a bit better about the risks he was going to take; his father, he knew, would have approved of this bold venture.
Susan stirred and snorted a bit in the bed, but otherwise continued to sleep. Reynolds hoped that she approved as well, of the venture at least if not necessarily of Reynolds’s co-conspirators. It was for her that he was doing this. Well, mostly for her, anyway.
Reynolds returned to the spare room just long enough to retrieve the candle, then ventured out through the winter kitchen and to the back door, where Jefferson waited with his boots.
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