Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad (21 page)

I told him, watched him write it down, checked his spelling, paid him half the cost of the watch, and left, promising to return at half after five o’clock.

That evening in the hotel, Lettie and I played with Sam until he fell asleep. Then we looked out at the wide lake that represented everything Lettie longed for in life and everything I had to lose.

“Take him back to what? A place where he could be kidnapped into slavery? A lifetime of being the only black child around? What happens when he’s old enough to marry and the white fathers won’t let their daughters near him? What then? Oh, Lettie, he’s a strong, intelligent human being. He should grow up in a family with brothers and sisters. He should belong and not have to doff his hat to anyone.”

Through the long night we sat up, watching the reflection of the moon on the lake, feeling the breeze rustle our hair, listening to Sam’s innocent breathing.

We rose early and dressed mechanically, speaking very little. We breakfasted in the hotel dining room, where, again, I had to speak up in my maid’s behalf, then started the long walk to the dock. I knew how it must feel to be a prisoner on the way to the gallows. I wished for a mourning bonnet to hide my face. I wished for my old, comfortable Quaker clothes and my old, comfortable Quaker home, which I knew would never be the same after this day.

Too soon and with heavy hearts, we came to the dock where the Lake Erie Ferry was taking on passengers. We stopped by the gangplank. I reached into my reticule, found Josiah’s address, and pressed the paper into Lettie’s hand.

“Have Josiah write as soon as you get there. I’ll be sick with worry.”

“I will. I promise.”

“This night, Lettie. This night you will spend in Josiah’s arms.” Unable to help myself, I broke down. Sam put up a wail in sympathy.

I found a handkerchief and wiped my eyes, so wanting his last memory of me to be happy. I reached into the reticule again and gave Lettie enough money to get her to Dresden. Then I brought out the watch and showed it to Sam. His eyes lit up and he reached a chubby hand for it. He grabbed it, inspected it, turned it over, and put it in his mouth. The engraved back shone in the morning sun.

The lake steamer’s whistle blared and the boatman called, “Board!”

Lettie stepped away and walked up the gangplank, carrying Sam, still holding the watch, with the little trunk on her shoulder. She didn’t look back, and that was well. I stood alone, my heart broken, unable to move, unable now even to cry. I watched the boatman lift the gangplank, heard the engines pound as they built up steam. Then, slowly, dreamlike, the boat pulled away from the dock. They were standing at the rail, Lettie waving and Sam looking around at all the people. The boat’s whistle blew three short bursts, picked up steam, and moved quickly northward.

I watched it pull away, rapidly diminishing against the vast lake. I found an unclaimed trunk and sat on it, watching my life slip away. The boat ebbed to a tiny speck on the horizon.

“Over there, my baby. Over there you’ll be safe and loved and free. Oh, God,” I breathed, “Bless him. Keep him. Help him know why I did this.”

T
he journey home alone with my thoughts was as hard as leaving Sam.
Bumping along in a coach or railroad car was numbing to my body but not to my mind. I felt his presence, heard his laugh, saw his face reflected in the train windows and in my dreams. When I reached home after ten straight days of travel I wanted to sleep but feared the inevitable dreams of my baby.

Except for Abby, the reaction at home was quiet acceptance. Amos listened, nodded, and sat down in silence. Nathaniel, likewise, listened wordlessly and went out to the fields on the pretense of checking the corn. Jesse’s eyes revealed unspeakable hurt that kept me from talking to him about Sam for months. But Abby couldn’t control her young emotions. Her hands went to her face, her mouth agape. Heartrending cries escaped her throat. They’d guessed that I was sending Sam on, but Abby had refused to believe it. Now, faced with reality, she collapsed in grief, threatening to pull me down into a darkness I could not let myself enter.

“Abby. Abby, listen. You must face this. You must. Sam is with his father now. He’s part of a family and a community that will love and care for him. Let up, Abby. I need you to help me get through this.”

She raised her haunted, tear stained face. “Oh, Ann. It feels like he’s dead,” she moaned and went back to sobbing.

I resisted the urge to join her. Instead, I tied on my apron and threw a log on the fire. Work would be my salvation.

Abby was more than a week getting over the outward signs of grief. Sometimes I envied her ability to give herself over to it. It might not last so long that way.

A letter came from Josiah a few days after I got home.

I drew comfort from his words, but as I looked up from the letter, I felt Jesse watching me.

“What is it?”

“Heavy rains while you were away. Creek was up for more than a week. Pru Hartley’s little Nancy fell in and was swept away. They found her yesterday, a mile downstream.”

I stared in disbelief. Nancy couldn’t have been more than five. Tragedy piled on top of tragedy.

It may have been my own grief that moved me, but I had to go see Pru. I walked down over the pasture path to the creek, then crossed over the log bridge to her cabin. This time I went right up and knocked at the door. Dogs be damned.

Pru opened it, looking out of haunted eyes. “What
you
want?” she asked.

I reached out and hugged her, struggling to hold myself together. She stood mute, her head down, not returning my hug. We stood so for a long time. Then, slowly, she put her arms up around me. Grief bonded us. Old hurts and slights melted away.

“Do you want to talk?” I asked, leading her to a chair by the table.

“Yes,” she whispered. She sat silent for a while, examining her palms as though they held the answer to her grief. “I done it. Sure as if I held her under. I wasn’t watchin’. She was always playin’ in the water. I forgot the creek was swollen.” She sighed. Her two thin, solemn-faced boys stood behind, one on each side of her chair.

She sat looking at the floor, her hands in her lap. The old chip on her shoulder was gone. She turned and spoke gently to her boys. “You go on now and play. I want to talk to Miss Redfield.” The boys obediently filed out.

I nodded. I looked around the bare cabin, changed in the wake of tragedy. The floor was swept. The furniture was neatly arranged. Dinner bubbled in a kettle over the fire, and the windows were even clean. It was just as threadbare as ever, but the old slovenliness was gone.

“Work helps ease the pain, doesn’t it?” I asked her.

“I can’t think of aught else to do. It don’t make it go away, but it gives me a measure of peace.”

Neighbors had come together to help in the wake of Nancy’s death. They pulled down an old shed and chopped it up for firewood. They patched the roof and chinked the logs. The place looked almost presentable. Jesse and a work crew from Meeting had built a new chicken coop and brought in a rooster and several hens. Someone else had given Pru a goat for milk. Sad that it took such a tragedy to bring folks together.

“Well, put him to it next time he comes. I’ve got more potatoes, carrots, beets and turnips than we can ever use. You’re welcome to all you need.”

Pru forced a sad smile. “We can use ‘em. That’s sure.”

I visited her regularly for a few weeks, letting her talk about whatever she wished. I was surprised at how sensible and mild she was. One day as I was leaving, she stopped me. “Would you go to the burying ground with me on First Day?”

“Sure, Pru. I’d be honored.”

Ï

In the meantime, more fugitives came our way. Without warning, late in September, a party of five turned up at our door around midnight. The responsibility fell to me. I put them up for the night as comfortably as I could in the barn. In the morning Jesse and I discussed the next step.

“We’ll keep them moving,” he said. “We can’t hold them here for even a day. The weather’s changing fast.”

“One of our Johnstown links is shut down now that Prospect has gone west,” I replied.

“I’m thinking we could at least get them to Noah and Mary in Osterburg today, and they could be moved to Hollidaysburg tonight. Noah will know how to arrange that.”

“Send Abby over to Ben’s to borrow his white mare,” Jesse directed. No sooner said than Abby was out the door, throwing a shawl over her shoulders as she went.

“You put together some food while I tell them the plan.”

When Abby rode in a few minutes later, barefoot, on the white mare, Jesse waited for her to dismount, but she sat tall astride the horse, not moving.

“You think you’re the only capable one around here, but Ann and I have had our share of adventures, so just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

Jesse frowned, hesitated, then relented. “Okay, Miss Abby. Here’s what you do. You ride from here to Osterburg, along the ridge road down to Bob’s Creek. The Negroes will be up in the woods, following, just out of sight. On the white horse, you’ll be a beacon for them. If you meet anybody on the road, say you’re on an errand for Rebecca, taking some things to her aunt in Osterburg. Folks won’t bother much with a young girl traveling alone.

Abby saw the beauty of the plan and nodded vigorously. “Okay. Set them into the woods. I’ll be back before dark,” she promised.

I handed up the food basket, and Abby set it in front of her and nudged the mare with her heels. Slowly, the white horse turned and walked out to the road. Jesse called the black men out of the hay mow and took them down through the barn to the cornfield a few feet beyond. They went through the tall corn and up over the hill. From the ridge above the village, they could watch Abby’s progress until she turned right, out of the village on the road to Weyant. Then they trekked through the woods halfway up the ridge, keeping her in sight as they went.

Jesse returned to the house, worn out from even so small an exertion. He sat down in a rocking chair on the porch, his arm still in a sling.

“I hope she doesn’t run into trouble,” he said doubtfully. “She’s only a child, really. Barely thirteen.”