Promises to the Dead (2 page)

"Why would Mrs. Baxter do such a cruel thing?" I asked. "It don't make sense to send you and the child to Slattery's."

Lydia glanced at Perry and touched her belly. She didn't have to say another word. I'd heard my uncle tell of many a white man who had more than one set of blue-eyed children. Not that he knew me to be listening. It was just that he forgot himself and spoke to his friends while I sat nearby, taking everything in—including a sly puff on his cigar and a quick sip of his whiskey.

Knowing the truth didn't shock me or nothing. But it made me sad for Lydia. Thanks to Mr. Peregrine's fall from a horse, she was in a fix for sure.

Lydia squeezed my hand. "You're a good boy, Jesse. Delia's always spoken well of you. Surely I can trust you to fetch Miss Sally. That's all I'm asking you to do. Tell her and no one else where I am. Then be on your way."

Although Lydia was most likely sweet-talking me, it pleased me to hear her say I was a good boy. No one had told me that since my mama died. Most folks thought me a no-account rascal, unlikely to improve with age.

It also pleased me to know Delia spoke well of me behind my back, for she never had much good to say to my face.

Another pain hit Lydia, and she groaned again. It was clear that baby was truly on its way into the world, whether the world wanted it or not.

"Unless you know how to birth a baby," Lydia whispered, "you'd better fetch Miss Sally fast. I haven't time to argue, Jesse."

"I'll go tell her you need her," I said. "But that's all I'm doing for you. Helping a runaway is against the law. You know it as well as I do."

I spoke bold, but, truth to tell, I was scared silly. When that baby came, there'd be blood and pain and screaming. Maybe even dying. I'd been through that when Mama died. All things considered, I figured I'd rather break the law than help at a birthing.

And, besides, there was Lydia herself, as helpless as she could be, about to have a baby in the rain with no shelter but the bare trees. Sick, too. And saddled with that bratty boy. Lord, she had more than enough woes already without me making things worse for her.

Lydia sank down on the ground, her back against a tree. "Hurry," she begged. "Tell Miss Sally I'm too far gone to risk coming to her."

I took off through the woods, running full tilt, scarcely bothering to duck the branches that whipped my face. Though I'd never been one to put much stock in prayer, I found myself calling on the Lord.

"Please let Miss Sally be home when I get there, and let her be willing to help a poor runaway slave," I prayed, breathing rough and ragged from running so hard. "Please let nobody learn what I done tonight. Don't let me get sent to jail or hanged. If you let me go home safe, I promise to be good the rest of my natural life. I'll give up smoking and drinking and lying and cussing, I promise you."

It was the most praying I'd done in or out of church, and I sincerely hoped the Lord would remember my voice and grant what I was asking.

CHAPTER 2

When I came to the road, I hunkered behind a tree and listened and looked as hard as I could, fearful Colonel Abednego Botfield might be nearby, searching for Lydia and the boy. I wouldn't have wanted to run into him tonight, not knowing what I knew. Praise be, I heard nothing but the drip-drop of rain and the wind sighing in the branches, and I saw nothing but dark fields and woods. Not far away, a light shone in Miss Sally's window. It seemed the Lord had granted at least one of my prayers, for no one goes off and leaves a lamp burning in an empty house.

Taking one long last look and listen, I darted across the road to Miss Sally's place and knocked softly.

The old woman opened the door almost at once and peered out at me. She was close to Uncle Philemon in years, a bony little bird of a thing, all sharp angles and as full of sass as a blue jay. Nobody in these parts dared vex her. Whenever someone was needed to birth a baby or tend the sick and dying, folks sent for Miss Sally Harrison. If she couldn't help, nobody could.

"Why, Jesse," Miss Sally said, "what brings you here? Is Philemon took bad with his belly again?"

"No, ma'am, it ain't my uncle that's ailing. It's something altogether worse." I hesitated and took a deep breath. "It's the Baxters' house slave, Lydia—" I began, but the look on Miss Sally's face stopped me dead.

"She's run away, ain't she? Soon as I heard of Peregrine's death, I feared she'd do something foolish."

I stared at the old woman in wonderment. Lord, she beat all for knowing everything and everybody. "Yes, ma'am," I said, "that's just what Lydia done. But that's not why I've come. She's hiding in the woods, about to birth a baby. I know she's a slave, but she's in a terrible bad way and she asked for you special. She'll die if she don't get help. I swear she will."

Miss Sally heaved a deep sigh. "Don't you fret, Jesse. That poor young woman won't die in the woods if I can help it." Taking time to blow out her lamp, the old woman grabbed a lantern and followed me across the road and into the woods. For an old lady, she kept up with me pretty good, hopping over dead branches like a sparrow in the spring.

"Why didn't you bring Lydia to the house?" Miss Sally asked.

"She's too far gone to walk," I said. "And she's a runaway. What if someone seen her coming to your door?" I stopped and looked at the old woman. "You won't tell the colonel, will you?"

Miss Sally studied my face in the lantern light. "Jesse, I freed my slaves years ago, as all decent folk should. Believe me, the very last thing I'd do is report a runaway."

At that moment, we heard Lydia cry out from the darkness. Miss Sally picked up her feet fast and hastened toward the sound, leaving me to chase after her as best I could.

Lydia sat where I'd left her, leaning against the tree. In the lantern light, she looked even more sick and feverish than before. Perry crouched beside her, his face full of fear and worry.

Miss Sally dropped to her knees beside Lydia. "How close are the pains, my dear?"

"Just a few minutes apart, maybe less." Lydia moaned as another wave took a hold of her body.

The old woman sucked in her breath and thrust the lantern at me. "Hold this, Jesse."

"But, Miss Sally," I said. "I done my part by bringing you here. I got to go home now. My uncle—"

Miss Sally fixed me with her sharp eyes. "You ain't going nowhere, Jesse Sherman. I can't do this all by myself."

I could see the old lady's mind was made up. No amount of arguing would get me free. Though my knees were weak and my belly was queasy, I done as she asked and held the lantern. Its light flickered on the ground and the bushes, giving everything the look of a stage lit by candles. But what was about to happen was no play. And I had no wish to see it.

Perry stood back, too. I reckoned he was scared, and I couldn't blame him. My mama had died birthing a baby. A little sister it would have been, but she'd died, too. Never opened her eyes to this world. From the womb to the tomb, I'd heard someone say, with no earthly life in between.

Then, just a few months later, my dear daddy died of pneumonia, and I found myself an orphan with nowhere to go but Uncle Philemon's tumbledown plantation house. Now it seemed Perry might soon be in the same plight. But it would be worse for him. If something happened to his mama, he wouldn't have no Uncle Philemon to take him, no shelter, no nothing. It didn't bear thinking about.

When Lydia started screaming, Miss Sally done her best to calm her with talk of how it would be better soon, but the old woman kept praying and calling on God. That struck me as a bad sign. It seemed to me the Lord was often listening to someone else's prayers when you needed Him most.

"Hold that lantern steady, Jesse!" Miss Sally shouted. "How do you expect me to see what I'm doing?"

"I didn't mean to swing it," I said. "I just never seen, I mean I, I..."

Miss Sally gave me such a look I hushed and did my best to keep my hands from shaking. But it was true. Before now, I'd only had a dim notion of the pain a woman suffered bringing a baby into the world. When Mama died, I'd been on the back porch with my daddy. I hadn't been right there in the room with her, seeing as well as hearing.

The next time Lydia screamed, Perry commenced to cry. Shoving me out of the way, he ran to his mother's side and flung himself on her. "Mama, Mama," he wept.

Lydia pushed him away and Miss Sally grabbed him. "Set the lantern on the ground, Jesse, and take this child somewhere."

"No, no," Perry wailed. "I want to stay with Mama."

I knew how he felt, but, sorry as I was for him, I dragged him off into the woods. I had to fight him every step of the way. If he'd been any bigger, I doubt I could have kept him from going back to his mother.

At the edge of the marsh, Perry turned to me, sagging like the fight had gone clear out of him. "Mama won't die, will she?"

The tall grass blew in the wind, making the saddest sound I ever heard. "Miss Sally will do her best to save your mama," I said, "but..."

"But what?"

I looked at Perry then. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he was shivering. Never had I seen a child so miserable. Instead of telling him about my own mama, I choked the words off with a shrug. "I don't know," I said, feeling every bit as bad as he did.

Perry picked up a stone and threw it into the marsh. He picked up another and threw it even farther. I joined in. Stone after stone splashed into the water. We didn't say a word—just threw those stones as if somebody was paying us to do it.

At long last Miss Sally called us. Perry hurled one more stone and followed me back to the tree. In the lantern's light, I saw Lydia lying on the cold ground, holding a tiny baby. Miss Sally knelt beside her. All around them were the dark woods. Rain dripped and gurgled and splashed down through the trees. There was no other sound. It reminded me of the Christmas pageant at church, where people pose as the Virgin Mary and the shepherds and angels and never move nor speak. Only there was just Mary and the baby in this scene.

Before I could stop him, Perry ran to Lydia. He didn't so much as look at the baby. "Mama, Mama," he cried, throwing himself down beside her.

I grabbed Miss Sally's hand. "The baby," I whispered. "Is it ... Is it..." Somehow I couldn't bring myself to say what I feared.

The old woman sighed and put her arm around me. "Stillborn," she whispered. "There was nothing I could do, nothing at all. The dear little girl's safe with our Lord now."

Sad as the news was, it didn't surprise me none. In this world, more babies died than lived. "How about Lydia?"

"Worn out," Miss Sally said slowly, "and sick with fever. Worse yet, she's bleeding so bad I'm afraid to move her."

"Don't let her die," I begged. "Oh, please, Miss Sally. I can't bear no more people dying."

"It's up to the good Lord now," Miss Sally said. "I've done all I can, Jesse."

Her words didn't comfort me. As far as I could tell, the sight of people dying didn't bother the Lord nearly as much as it bothered me. Maybe He was used to it. After all, folks had been dying in one way or another since Adam and Eve ate that fool apple and brought sin and death into the world.

Perry huddled beside his mother, talking low and stroking her face, but I squatted under a tree and watched Miss Sally pace back and forth, praying to Jesus to spare Lydia.

Suddenly Lydia reached up and grabbed Miss Sally's skirt, pulled her close, and whispered to her. Miss Sally straightened up and beckoned to me. "Jesse, come here. Lydia wants to ask you something."

I crouched down beside Lydia, keeping my eyes away from that baby but seeing it anyway, pale and waxy and stiller than stone. Its eyes were closed, but I felt it was watching me somehow, waiting to see what I'd do and hear what I'd say.

Lydia grasped my hand. Her skin was so hot it burned my flesh, but I didn't pull away. I let her draw me closer till I was looking straight into her eyes. "I was bound for Baltimore City," she whispered, "to see Peregrine's sister, Miss Polly Baxter." She paused a moment to catch her breath, but her grip on me didn't loosen. "If something happens to me, can I count on you to take Perry to her?"

"You told me to fetch Miss Sally and then I could go my way," I objected. "Surely you can't expect me to take a runaway slave child all the way to Baltimore. Why, that's just crazy. I—"

Perry shoved me aside and crouched close to his mama. "I won't go without you, Mama. Not with that boy, not with anyone! I'm staying right here with you, even if, even if..." His voice trailed away and his eyes filled with tears.

I knew his meaning. If Lydia died, he'd lie down and die, too. I'd tried that myself the night Mama died. But here I was, skinny and small for my age but still alive. And likely to stay that way if I kept close to home. Traipsing off to Baltimore like some cussed abolitionist was bound to shorten my life.

"Please, Perry," Lydia whispered. "Polly is my dear friend, as close to me as a sister. She'll love you just as she loved Peregrine. You're so like your father."

"What if she doesn't want me?" he cried. "She doesn't know about me. You never told her—"

"Hush." Lydia pulled at a chain around her neck till it broke. Pressing a silver locket into Perry's hands, she said, "Give Polly this."

Perry opened the little heart. Inside were two paintings no bigger than my thumbnail. One was of Mr. Peregrine Baxter and the other was of Lydia.

"You see?" Lydia whispered. "When you show Polly that, she'll know her brother loved us."

Lydia turned to me. "Jesse, give me your solemn word you'll take Perry to Miss Polly Baxter, number 115 West Monument Street."

"But Lydia—" I began.

"Please help my son," Lydia said. "If you refuse, what will become of him?"

Well, the answer to that was simple enough. The child would no doubt fall into the colonel's hands and end up at Slattery's, where he'd most likely die of disease. How could I bear such a thing on my conscience? Though it meant breaking the law, I heard myself promise to take Perry to Baltimore City, a place I'd never been and knew nothing about except it was a half day's journey up the Bay and full of corruption of every sort. At least that's what Uncle Philemon said. He went there once, lost a great sum of money in a card game, and came home with bilious complaints.