Fairer than Morning (32 page)

“Will, watch them while I go in with the girls.” Mr. Miller's businesslike tone kept up the charade. He had said that, until they reached Lancaster, the safest course was to pretend that he and Will were taking John and Clara to the river to send them back to captivity.

“Mr. Miller.” Will found the folded parchment letter in his pocket and extended it to the saddler. He took it with a nod, then followed his daughters under the porch and through the door of Sumner's.

Will held the mare and wished they would hurry. Once they left Rushville and headed down Zane's Trace, he and Mr. Miller could at least speak to John and Clara in a normal fashion.

Soon Mr. Miller came out of the store with a quiet, burly man whom he introduced as Mr. Sumner. The man took Bayberry's reins from Will; the mare would be staying with the girls, boarded in the Sumners' barn.

Mr. Sumner glanced at the bound wrists of the Simons as he led the mare away. What had Mr. Miller told him? The truth, or the false story?

“Come on, Will.” Mr. Miller climbed up to his seat, and Will hoisted himself into the wagon bed. With a cluck to the mules and a slap of the reins, the saddler drove down Main Street and out of town.

Once they were out on Zane's Trace and away from prying eyes, Will relaxed his guard. He might as well take what pleasure he could in the journey, thanking Providence that he was alive and free in the countryside, for today, at least.

Though it was cloudy, it was not too cold. The mules trotted along, up and down gentle slopes that did not tax them too greatly in their harness. They would make good time, if the road stayed this fair and broad the whole way.

The musty smell of late winter had blown away, and the air quickened with the promise of new life. The bare branches of the trees were no longer gray, but had reddened or greened to prepare the way for what was to come. Little leaf-knobs sprouted on twigs, and yellow catkins hung bright against the creamy bark of the birches. It was that moment of early spring like the pause when a fiddler has lifted his bow and holds it over the strings, ready to call forth the music.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Mr. Miller said over his shoulder.

“None worth mentioning, sir.”

“Would you like to learn to drive the mules?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I'll teach you when we're a little farther along the road.” He twisted a little farther in his seat. “John, how are you faring?”

“Fine, sir.” John seemed to be contemplating the trees as well. His face was peaceful. Will did not know how a man could be hunted like a beast and forced to masquerade as a captive, yet still preserve such calm in his soul. Clara sat with equal composure at his side, looking rested, her eyes alert. Her bound hand was clasped in one of John's bigger hands.

“We will stop in Lancaster tonight,” Mr. Miller said to them. “It's a town on my circuit, and I know the people well. We can depend on one of the brothers there to shelter us and help us with provisions.”

“Is he an abolitionist?” John asked.

“We all are,” Mr. Miller said.

That intrigued Will. He leaned forward. “If you don't mind my asking, sir, who's ‘we'?”

“The United Brethren.”

“A church?”

“Yes. Well—a group of like-minded people. I suppose you could call us a church, though most of us don't meet in church buildings.”

“And they pay you to preach to them?”

“‘Pay' is a strong word.” Mr. Miller smiled. “But I started riding the circuit unpaid, and so anything they choose to give me is a gift beyond my expectations.”

“Is that why you aren't a full-time preacher?” Will's parents had been Methodists; he knew the Methodists had full-time circuit riders. He vaguely recalled a circuit preacher who used to visit his family in Beallsville.

“The United Brethren are an upstart group—we only formed a few decades ago. So all our circuit preachers ride out of sheer love of spreading the gospel. We must support our families with other work. Most are farmers.”

“How do they choose them? The preachers, I mean.”

“We choose ourselves. Thus the quality of preaching varies widely.” Mr. Miller chuckled.

“I never heard of these United Brethren before we ran away,” Clara said. “But now we've met a few, on the road with Mr. Washington. And what foreign talk are they saying to each other, Mr. Samuel? I heard them in the kitchen when we were at one house.”

Mr. Miller swiveled around. “German.” He turned his attention back to the mules. “They started as a German-speaking group, but now they're beginning to prefer English. That's easier for me, as my German is not what it once was.”

“You speak German?” Will said in wonder.

“Ja voll.”
Mr. Miller gave Will a humorous glance with a raised eyebrow. “My family name was not Miller, originally. When my grandfather first came to Pennsylvania, we were the Muellers.”

Will knew a handful of words in German, because Pennsylvania was full of German emigrants who said
wilkommen
and
ja
. But he had never even suspected Mr. Miller might be German. Will's own grandparents had been English, and faced with an English name like Miller, well, he had drawn the wrong conclusion.

“That's how I learned my craft,” Mr. Miller said. “Germans have always made good saddles. My father taught me as his father before him.”

“Was your father one of the United Brethren?” Will asked.

“No, he was Reformed.”

Will did not know what that meant, but he did not want to stop Mr. Miller's story.

“I heard a man named William Otterbein preach when I was a young man. He spoke of a personal faith, an indwelling of the Lord in one's life. I had not known that idea before. That day, it seemed to me that I had found true faith. Faith with the power to transform.” Mr. Miller's eyes clouded as if he saw something Will did not, leaving Will as awed as he had been when he first saw that gaze in Master Good's barn.

Indwelling
. Will thought of the strange presence he had felt in the cabin the night before last as he stared into the fire.
Yes, I believe that
.

A flicker of motion in the distance drew Will's attention to the road ahead. Mr. Miller watched too, falling silent.

“Well,” the saddler said at last, as the moving dots on the road ahead resolved into a couple of mounted men. “It seems our first encounter is imminent. Act as naturally as you can. Let's talk of farming for a space, until they pass.”

“Perhaps you can tell me how you plow and what you will be planting this spring.”

“Excellent. To begin with, we'll allow the farthest field to lie fallow.” Mr. Miller went on in more detail, though Will had difficulty keeping his mind on the conversation. He forced himself to pay attention so he could respond.

The horses drew nearer: forty yards, thirty. The two men wore buckskin and weathered hats, their long beards ropy like the manes of wild horses.

“Hullo!” Mr. Miller called, lifting a hand.

They lifted their hands in return. Friendly enough, thus far.

Will lowered his elbow so it touched the butt of the pistol at his belt. They had four pistols now, including the ones the bounty hunter had left behind. Mr. Miller wore one at his waist and one under his coat. John had the fourth hidden in the hay beneath him.

The men were abreast of them. Will's palms were clammy. He tried to appear casual as Mr. Miller pulled the wagon to a stop. “On your way east, brothers?”

“Yes, indeedy,” the taller of the two said. His voice sounded cheerful, but he did not smile. The shorter man stared at them hard. Will thought his eyes lingered on the visible pistols.

“We're headed to the city to take these slaves down to the river.” Mr. Miller said it jovially. It shocked Will to hear him speak that way.

“Runaways?” The taller one peered at them.

“The worst kind,” Mr. Miller said. “Dumb enough to do it twice.” His bark of laughter was mirthless, its strangeness making Will's skin crawl.

“Ugly as sin too.” The short man guffawed.

Will strove to keep his face blank.

“Well, we'd best be getting on,” the tall man said. He spurred his horse forward; it tossed its head and the whites of its eyes flashed. The short man followed.

“So the corn will go in around mid-May . . .” Mr. Miller continued loudly just where he had left off. He clucked to the mules and the wagon lurched forward again.

“Ever planted corn, son?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you'll learn. It doesn't take a great deal of know-how. The plowing, on the other hand, takes a bit of practice. If you plow too quickly
 
.
 
.
 
.” Mr. Miller went on for a good ten minutes, though Will did not absorb a word of what he was saying. Eventually, the men topped the hill on the horizon behind them and disappeared.

Will exchanged relieved glances with John and Clara. He saw John take Clara's hand again. He must have released it when the men rode by. Probably wise.

Will turned back to Mr. Miller. “They're gone, sir.”

Mr. Miller stopped his monologue. “Then I no longer have to weary your ears.” He smiled. “Farming is best learned on the farm, not on the road. But it provides a great deal of fodder for conversation, when necessary.”

“They didn't question the story.”

“Most men we meet probably won't, if I play the ignorant villain well enough.” A look of disgust passed over the saddler's face. “And they'll leave us alone if we have pistols in plain sight. Robbers prefer to attack unarmed fools, or men riding alone.”

“Do you think those men were robbers, Mr. Samuel?” Clara asked.

“We'll never know. And that's the way we should keep it.”

“Amen,” John said.

The wagon rolled onward.

Birds flitted through the still-transparent treetops. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Will spied numerous squirrels, even some wild turkeys through the tree trunks a few yards from the road. A hedgehog trundled along in the tall grass of the brake; Will remembered the one he had kept as a pet, at the Quaker farmer's house long ago. He had liked its quivering nose and the metallic feel of its thick mat of spines.

More travelers approached and passed by them: a few other wagons, a coach, riders. The worst were the men on horseback who overtook them from behind, usually at a canter. Will kept his fingers poised near the handle of the pistol whenever he heard the tattoo of hoofbeats.

They had to pause every so often to give the mules some water.

“Not too much,” Mr. Miller warned. “Or they'll colic.”

Will took his turn driving and learned “Gee” and “Haw,” though Mr. Miller said those commands were more useful for plowing than for ordinary driving.

By around noon the woods thinned out and fields appeared. Farm houses squatted in the middle of stubbly rectangles of earth.

“Almost there.” Mr. Miller turned around in his seat. “Just keep up our charade until I give the word. We have friends ahead, but there's no telling who else might be watching.”

The wagon rolled up another small hill, the mules blowing harder as they leaned into their yoke, their ears twitching back at the sound of their master's chirrup of encouragement.

As the wagon crested the hill, a red brick building came into view.

In its two-story facade, eight large windows framed a white door recessed in the brick. A large yellow sign hung above the portico, swinging in the spring breeze. It read “Shupp's Tavern” in black thick-painted letters. A double chimney towered at each end of the oak-shingled roof.

Instead of driving up to the front door, Mr. Miller laid the reins across the mules' backs, calling “Gee!” The wagon veered right down the gravel path beside the inn.

Will sat alert, trying to see in every direction at once. But the stable yard they entered was empty, and the inn was quiet.

Mr. Miller pulled up the wagon; the mules snorted and lowered their heads.

The back door of the inn opened and a big man ambled out, one hand raised in greeting. Dark hair sprang over his brow; his face was ruddy and full.

“Mueller! Welcome, brother.” His deep voice carried across to them like a battlefield drum. “I was not expecting you, but my heart is glad to see you!” The man's speech had a foreign rhythm, musical to Will's ears.

“I have some prisoners with me,” Mr. Miller said. “Do you have guests at the tavern?”

The big man stopped in mid-stride and took in the scarred faces of the Simons. “Not yet. They will come at twilight.”

“Good.” Mr. Miller handed the reins of the wagon to Will, who climbed up in the driver's seat as Mr. Miller jumped down and shook the big man's hand.

Will heard them exchanging a few low words in German. Then Mr. Miller walked to the back of the wagon, bringing his friend with him and addressing Will and the Simons together. “This is Mr. Friedrich Shupp. Friedrich, I must introduce you to my friends, John and Clara Simon. You may remove your bonds now.” As John wriggled his hands out of the loose ropes and helped Clara with hers, Mr. Miller raised a hand in Will's direction. “This is my apprentice, Will.”