Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad (7 page)

“Your master was your father?”

“Yes, Ma’am. That happen a lot.” He spoke carefully, concentrating on his awkward imitation of my ‘M’s. His face was pleasing, if not outright handsome, though I hadn’t formed the thought until now. Chiseled planes. I wondered if the African people had any gods like the Greeks.

He spoke again, pulling me back to reality. “Sometime they hate they child, but my Massa don’t have no other boys. Just three girls.”

“Massa die. Fall off his horse comin’ home from town. Folks say it apoplexy. Never know’d what hit ’im, I reckon.” He held up the slate for my approval of his ‘M’s. I nodded. “Once that happen, all hell break lose. Massa’s wife hate me. Want me gone. I gotta run or get sold, an’ who know what that mean?”

“So you ran. How did you know where to go?” I leaned forward, savoring this rare chance to get to know one of our charges. Most of the time they came and went like shadows.

“Black folk on the plantations talk among theirselves all the time ’bout gettin’ away. They always say, follow the north star. Even sing songs about it. Follow the rivers ’n creeks. Watch. Wait. Other free Blacks’ll help you if they can. Pass you along the road.” The slate was forgotten now as he spoke of his escape.

“You were a long time getting here from Virginia.”

“Yes ’m, Miss Ann. I ’bout got caught three, four times. Had to lay low in the creek bottom couple days till they call off the dogs. Not many free Blacks in Virginny, and they’s afraid, too, now. Could be kidnapped back in.”

“Oh, Josiah, how sad!” The thought that some people would deliberately kidnap free blacks and sell them back into slavery made my blood run cold. “You did eventually find help, though.”

“Yes’m. I hit out for Washington ’cause I know’d free Blacks be there. I was hidin’ in the bushes by a creek when along come a black man drivin’ a wagon. I was so hungry, I had to stop him. He hide me under some sacks and take me to his brother, Harry Rutherford.” Now Josiah stopped to pour himself a drink of water from a pitcher on the table.

“That man put me on the road. I go from Washington to Leesburg to Winchester, then north to Cumberland and on up here. I travel a little every night. Sometime it get hot and I lay low a few days. Them last folks, they nice, but they sick. I knowed soon as I seen them. Hadn’t been for you, I’d a died.”

Uncomfortable with his intense gratitude, I looked away. “Well, come spring, you’ll be on your way again. To Canada and your own life.”

“Yes’m. I got me a wife back in Culpeper County. Name Lettie. She mistress’s personal maid, so she won’t be sold. I gotta get her out, soon’s I can get us a place in Canada.”

I’d never seen a man cry before. Amos had not, when Mama died. Not where I could see him, anyway. If Jesse ever did, it wasn’t in front of me. I felt a lack of intimacy with men. Touched by his openness, I gave way to impulse and covered his hand with mine. The contrast of our skin color stood out. I went to move my hand, but he held it, shoulders shaking as he gave way to sobs. I lifted my other hand and touched his shoulder.

“Oh, Josiah. You’ll get her back. You’ll build a life. There’ll be freedom and home and babies. Have faith. God has brought you this far. He will not forsake you.”

Ï

Jesse arrived that evening, a mince pie and a bundle of mail in hand, including two letters from Elias. He wrote regularly, at least once a week. These were from last week and the week before. They were brief. He was well and learning a lot. He’d bought two likely looking brood mares. He was anxious to come home. He had something to tell me. He’d see me in about three weeks.

Mid-December. Just before Christmas. I flew into a frenzy of preparation for his homecoming: cooking, cleaning, baking. I should get some cloth and sew a new dress to wear for him. What should I get him for Christmas? We’d never exchanged gifts before, but this year—after he’d told me his “news”—I was sure we would. I wanted to make this Christmas special.

Will McKitrick came often and stayed late, hampering Betsy’s worth as a helper. I went on about my work whether he was there or not. He and Betsy courted in the new parlor while I worked in the kitchen producing Christmas confections or sewing by lamplight.

I made linen shirts for Papa, Jesse and Nathaniel for Christmas, and for Betsy a set of table linen. But I thought more about my gift for Elias than anything else. It should be appropriate. Not too intimate. I settled on a pair of fine-knit wool stockings he could wear to Meeting, and maybe, depending on the season, on our wedding day.

As I cast on stitches for his gift, I hoped next Christmas would find me in my own home with a husband to care for, and, perhaps, knitting booties.

I
worked every spare moment making my Christmas gifts, as everyone did.
Amos and Jesse spent so much time working in the barn, I knew better than to go there unannounced. Betsy made a wedding shirt for Will, another excuse for them to be together, for the fittings—as though they needed another excuse! Betsy knitted, sewed and stitched endlessly when she and I weren’t cooking, washing or cleaning.

The work made the time pass quickly, and I became more breathless with each day that brought Elias closer to home. I could think of little else, even lapsing into daydreams at Meeting.

I helped Josiah learn his lessons with the same distraction I applied to my chores. An apt pupil, he made quick progress from his letters to words to sentences. There was little for him to read, except the Bible, so he began with Genesis and resolved to work his way through to Revelation. It was fine practice, and enlightening, but I wished for a geography so he could learn about Canada, where he was headed, and Africa, whence his people came. Maybe Nathaniel could find one in Bedford. A Christmas gift.

By mid-December I was excited almost to distraction in anticipation of Elias’s return. But mid-month went by and no Elias. Christmas was coming on fast. He wasn’t writing anymore, so I took that to mean he was on his way, or soon would be. By the 20th, unable to stand it any longer, I pulled on my coat and boots and trekked through the snow to Ben’s house. Rebecca welcomed me at the door, her face flushed, very pregnant with their fourth child, two-year-old Alice, clinging to her skirts.

The kitchen was filled with warmth, the smell of spices and currants, and the chatter of children. I longed for such a scene of my own. Curious as I was about Elias, I tried not to be too forward. After all, there was nothing formal or public about our relationship. It was simply a match everybody expected would happen sooner or later. So I worked to conceal my sense of urgency.

“Oh, Ann. How good to see you,” Rebecca greeted me. “I need some adult company. Ben works all the time with Elias gone, and when he’s not with the horses he’s in the barn making Christmas gifts. I barely see a soul except these little ones from dawn to dusk.”

“I thought as much,” I replied. “At least I have
plenty
of adult company. Too much, sometimes. I’m beginning to think Will McKitrick is something to dust.”

“Heavy courting, is it?” Rebecca laughed. “Tell Betsy to be careful or she’ll end up like me: four babes in seven years and no end in sight!”

“I hope. For Ben’s sake. Three daughters in a row is enough for any man. He needs a son.” I rolled the cookie dough as Rebecca took a pan out of the oven.

The two older girls, four-year-old Ruth and six-year-old Jane, sprinkled the cookies with sugar and pressed nuts into the dough. Baby Alice fell asleep on the settle by the fireplace.

The talk eased my anxiety. Rebecca should know if Elias had changed his plans. My purpose accomplished, the afternoon passed slowly. I would rather have returned home to the pile of work waiting for me there, but Rebecca was in need of talk and would think it odd if I left too soon. So I stayed until near dark, when Ben came in from the barn, stomping snow off his boots.

The little girls tumbled over one another, bidding for their father’s attention. “They’ll soon be like us,” he grinned, “overrun with these.”

I pulled on my boots and coat for the long walk through deep snow and purple shadows to the farm. It was so cold the snow squeaked under my boots. As I looked down toward the creek, I saw Sawyer Hartley trudging through the snow like me, only he was dragging a fresh cut pine tree behind him. I wondered what Christmas would be like in that hardscrabble cabin by the creek. The moon was already rising when I stepped up on our back porch and stomped the snow off.

When I opened the door, I found the whole family seated at the table. I took off my coat, hung it on a peg, tied on my apron, and helped Betsy serve the meal.

My brothers smiled mischievously, while Papa ate in silence. He never mentioned Elias to me, preferring, I suppose, to wait for the fact.

Christmas came. No Elias. Still, I struggled to contain my disappointment. There was Meeting and dinner and visits with family and friends. Mary and Noah Poole came from Osterburg on the sledge with their five children, and Ben and Rebecca came with their girls. The new parlor was full to bursting with talk and laughter, and I served our guests, struggling to keep my mind off Elias. It was the first time in years that almost the whole family was together. Only Rachel was missing. Living in Altoona, apparently, but no one had heard from her since she’d become Mrs. Jacob Schilling.

Christmas was hard for Josiah, for though I carried platefuls of food to him, he was confined to the space under the eaves with only a candle and his slate to occupy him. We gave him his new geography book in the morning, and he tried manfully to read and study it all day. But I knew he was lonely, thinking of Lettie.

He couldn’t write to her. Any letter would be intercepted by the mistress. Anyway, Lettie couldn’t read. On one of my trips up to check on him, Josiah asked me to write Lettie’s name on the slate, and he spent the afternoon under the eaves laboriously copying it over and over, along with his own name, Josiah.

New Year’s day came and went. The weather was cold, the snow up three feet on the side of the barn. Folks traveled by sleigh, harness bells jingling merrily in the cold air. Still no sign of Elias. I expected his parents had surely heard from him by now, but Rebecca didn’t speak of it, so I took that to mean they hadn’t. Faced with this, I was careful to keep my feelings to myself, but I was distraught with fear and worry. Was he sick? Had something happened to him? Who could I ask? Where could I turn?

Deep inside came a gnawing fear that he was somehow lost to me. That he wasn’t coming home at all. That he’d had a change of heart. ‘Change of heart?’ I asked myself. Who knew his heart? Surely, not I. There was really nothing between us but speculation. No understanding. No promise. Certainly no betrothal. It was all in my mind, fed by the idle talk of well-meaning outsiders. They’d nourished my hopes, and I’d assumed that something would come of walks in the woods, frequent visits, letters passed back and forth.

Now I divided my anguish between fear for his safety and fear that I really had no claim to him at all. The latter was worse.