The Last Runaway (17 page)

Alone Honor lay and watched the light change on the walls, too weak and dazed to sit up and read or sew. At times the room was so hot she felt she and the air had lost any boundary between them and become one. Even in her delirium she knew this was nonsense, and then she welcomed the intrusion of a Haymaker or, once or twice, Adam, to remind her of who and where she was.

Apart from her seasickness on the
Adventurer
, she had never been so severely ill for so long. She was in bed a week before she could sit up, and another week before she could get out of bed even briefly.

Though the Haymakers were attentive in looking after her, they did not seem alarmed by the length or severity of her illness. “It’s ague,” Judith Haymaker replied when Honor wondered why she was not yet better. “It likes to settle in for a long visit. Everyone gets it.”

Her illness overlapped with the harvesting of the oats, though she was well enough by then that all the Haymakers could leave her to go to the fields, as every hand was needed. Honor regretted not taking part, as she had hoped it would help her to feel more a part of the farming community. She said as much to Jack when he came to see her briefly after the first day of the harvest. “There will be other years,” he said, and then fell asleep in the chair.

The window of the sick room looked out over the yard between the barn, the wagon shed and the henhouse, and Honor watched it for hours. Often it seemed nothing changed, but after a while she noticed small movements, of yellow and black butterflies hovering, of a breeze blowing leaves about, of the slowly shifting shadows across the dusty ground.

One day while the Haymakers were in the fields, Honor lay and watched two chipmunks chase each other around the well in the middle of the yard while the calico cat crept toward them, her belly low to the ground. She was not fast enough, however, and the chipmunks ran off. Later the cat recrossed the yard, three half-grown kittens following and then stopping to fight, the mother watching with indifference. The well cast no shadow now, for it was noon. A tin mug sat on its curved edge. Honor blinked, and then knew she must have slept, for there was a shadow to one side of the well. She blinked again. The mug was gone.

A pullet had managed to escape from the henhouse and pecked at the ground, unprotected from foxes, for Digger had gone to the fields as well. Honor wondered what she would do if a fox stalked the chicken, though she suspected it was unlikely to in daylight. She could now walk across the sick room, but she doubted she could get out into the yard and save the chicken without fainting.

Studying the shadow by the well, Honor thought she must be delirious again, for the darkness there was not a reflection of the shape of the well, but more like a sack of potatoes. As she watched, an arm extended from the dark shape and set the mug back on the well. If she hadn’t been looking, Honor would not have heard the metallic tap as mug met stone.

She sat up carefully so that she would not rustle the sheets. The idea of being alone on this farm, surrounded by woods, with someone crouching by the well, made her stomach twist with fear; she wished she could close her eyes and open them to find the man gone. Taking a deep breath, she sought inside herself to find steadiness. Everyone has a piece of God in them, she reminded herself, even a man hiding in the yard. But she was shaking as she slid out of bed to kneel at the window.

Honor had hoped the sun’s glare would blind the man so that he could not see her, but as she peered at the dark form she sensed a gaze back. He remained very still, so still that the pullet pecked close by. Honor did not move either. Beneath her nightgown she could feel sweat trickle down her back. As she watched, the darkness unfolded itself, stood and took the shape of a young black woman, barefoot, in a yellow dress. Around her hair she wore a strip of cloth torn from the hem of the dress. The chicken ran off, but she did not try to run as well. Instead she held out a hand toward Honor. A small, ambiguous gesture, it still had the power to untwist Honor’s stomach, for it said: I am running away. Help me. She and the woman were now linked by that gesture. She had grown up with the understanding that slavery was wrong and must be opposed, but that had been all thoughts and words. Now she must actually
do
something, though she did not yet know what.

The black woman lowered her hand then and stood by the well. All the movement in the yard seemed to have stopped. The chicken remained out of sight. There was no breeze. Even the crickets and grasshoppers were not chirping and ticking. It was as quiet as Honor imagined Ohio could ever get.

She stood, slowly so that she did not grow dizzy. Then she made her way to the kitchen, touching the doorway and walls to steady herself, and picking up the heel of a loaf of bread as she passed the sideboard. Out on the back porch she hesitated, then stepped down into the yard. There the hot bright sun stopped her. Honor held her hand up to shade her eyes, and squinted, but was still so blinded that her eyes streamed. It had been over two weeks since she was last in the sun.

The woman did not come to her, but remained by the well, her hand resting on its edge. She reminded Honor of a sheep who had to be approached carefully so that she would not bolt; even then, you knew it was almost impossible to get close enough to touch her. Once when she was younger, Honor after much patience had managed to place her hand on the neck of a lamb. It did not spring away as she’d expected, but seemed to submit to the attention. This woman did not look ready to submit; every part of her was poised to run.

Honor tried to think of something to say, but knew that gestures were more effective. Stepping closer, she held out the bread. The woman reached over, took the crust and nodded, but did not eat it, instead tucking it into the pocket of her dress. She was tall, much taller than Honor, with long thin legs and arms like fence posts. The dress had been made for someone shorter, as it only reached her calves, and her bony wrists poked well beyond the cuffs. It was filthy, rumpled and torn, as if she had lived in it day and night for weeks. Her face was shiny with sweat, and on her wide flat nose was a sprinkling of pimples. The whites of her eyes were yellowed, and the corners crusted. Honor wondered if she would agree to come inside for a wash, but doubted it. She needed quick, practical help, not a bath.

Before Honor could open her mouth to speak, the woman jerked her head, as if connected by a string to a sound far away. Honor listened, and heard what she had not for some weeks: the irregular hoofbeats of a horse with a thick shoe.

The woman’s eyes flashed, and Honor read in them the despair of having come so far only to be caught so close to her goal. She took a breath and tried to think, though the sun was confusing her and stars were swimming in her eyes. She could feel herself swaying. Just as her knees buckled she said, “Go inside to the cool room.”

When Donovan rode into the yard, Honor was lying in the dust. Dismounting, he ran to her, knelt and pulled her into his lap. “Honor, what’s happened? Did someone—” Donovan looked around at the empty yard, then peered at her pinched face. “You got the summer fever. What are you doing out here, you silly woman?”

The smell of his sweat was awful and intoxicating. Honor did not try to struggle out of his arms, as she did not want to offend him. “I—the chickens are loose. I must catch them.” This at least was true. As if it had heard her, a chicken appeared now near the barn, jerking its brown head and clucking in indignation at Donovan’s presence.

“I’ll round ’em up. Let me get you inside first. Don’t fight me.” Donovan scooped her up like a sack of flour and carried her inside. “Where is everyone?” he asked as he looked around the empty kitchen.

“Harvesting oats.” Honor indicated the sick room. “In there, please.”

He laid her down gently for such a rough man. “Honor Bright, what in hell’s name are you doin’ here?” he demanded, sinking into the chair next to the bed. “I ain’t seen you in weeks. Thought you was hidin’ from me at that other Quaker house, but turns out you’re here!” Donovan looked put out, as if she had been a poor friend not to tell him.

Honor took a deep breath. “Please could thee fetch my—my husband. Jack Haymaker. In the field south of here, a little west along the road. Please.”

A look crossed Donovan’s face before he covered it with a smirk. “Husband. Huh. Somebody got in there already, did they?”

Honor just looked at him. She should be frightened that they were alone. But she was not. She should despise him for what he did for a living. But she did not. There is a measure of the Light in him, she thought, if only I can find it.

“You want anything?” Donovan glanced in the white pitcher on her bedside table, a lace doily draped over it to keep out flies. “You want some cold water? I can get you some from the well, or the cool room if they got one.”

“No.” Honor tried not to snap.

“It ain’t no trouble.” For once Donovan was being solicitous when she didn’t want him to be.

“There is something I would like,” she began, to distract him from searching for the cool room, where he would find the woman among the shelves of cheese. “Does thee remember the signature quilt that was in my trunk the first time we met?”

“Yep.”

“Could thee get it? It is upstairs in my trunk. This blanket is so scratchy.”

“Sure.” Donovan bounded out, clearly pleased to have something concrete to do. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and then overhead, shaking the hallway and bedroom. Honor prayed the woman in the cool room would keep still and not panic.

Donovan returned with the quilt in his arms. Spreading it over her, he paused, then crouched and smoothed it so that his hand ran slowly down the outline of her body. His eyes glowed bright in his tanned face. Honor thought of how she had lain in the corn with Jack and imagined Donovan, and blood rushed to her face. It must be the fever confusing me, she thought—though she knew it was not.

Donovan watched her deepening red and responded with a flush of his own up his neck and cheeks. “Dammit, Honor. You didn’t give no one else a chance, did you?”

Honor swallowed. She had never imagined she would have such a conversation with him. “Friends marry Friends,” she said, “else we must leave the community. Besides, I could never—associate with a slave hunter.”

“But you’re
associatin’
with me now.”

She shivered, and gazed at him, helpless. “Please get Jack,” she whispered.

The reminder of her husband seemed to rouse him. “I’ll just get the chickens ’fore the foxes do.”

“Don’t worry about the chickens. Jack will see to them.”

“No, I’ll do it. I want to have a little look around while I’m at it. That’s what I come here for, anyway—I’m lookin’ for somethin’. Didn’t know I’d find you.” Donovan paused. “How’d those chickens get out, d’you think?”

Honor shook her head.

Donovan looked at her. “All right then, Honor Bright. I’ll be seein’ you.”

He went back outside. Honor watched him walk through the yard, past the well with its mug gleaming on the wall like a beacon. Now that he had mentioned water, she was desperately thirsty. She closed her eyes. She could hear him whistling; then he pulled the barn door open and the whistling faded. It reappeared a few minutes later, and the chickens began to squawk as Donovan rounded them up.

Soon she heard his horse cantering toward the oats field. She must have slept for a few moments. Then she jerked awake, sure of a presence nearby. The room was empty, but a mug of water sat within reach on the table next to her bed. It was cool as if freshly drawn from the well, and tasted better than any water she had ever drunk.

* * *

Honor had not expected Donovan to accompany Jack back, but her husband must have been worried enough to accept a ride from the slave catcher. She heard the horse return, then Jack rushed into the sick room, knelt and felt her forehead. Donovan hung in the doorway, his hat in his hands. His eyes moved immediately to the mug of water, the only thing in the room that had changed in the last half-hour. Honor stared at him. Instead of the anger she expected, however, a slow smile spread across his face, along with an admiring expression, as if she had played a particularly skillful hand of cards. He wagged his finger at her. “Haymaker, you better tell your wife about the Fugitive Slave Law. I hear the president’s gonna approve it soon enough. Once it comes in, I won’t be so easy on her—or you. Maybe I’ll get you to help me catch a nigger.”

Jack stared up at him. Honor could not bear the tension of having them both in the same room. “Please go now, Donovan.”

Donovan grinned. “You got a feisty little wife there, Haymaker. Better keep your eye on her. I know I will.” He winked at Honor, then replaced his hat and backed from the room.

Honor closed her eyes and prayed that the woman had had enough time to find a better hiding place.

Jack began to question Honor even as Donovan’s horse could still be heard clattering through the yard. “He—that man, Donovan—he said he knew thee. Where did thee meet him?” Jack was trying to keep his face neutral, but it only exaggerated his suspicion.

“Wellington.” Honor reached for the mug by her bed.

Jack stared at it. “He brought thee water?”

Honor did not answer, so that she would not have to lie, but allowed Jack to think what he wanted. She sipped the water, then set the mug back on the table.

“But how—how would thee meet a man like him?” Jack continued. “A slave hunter.”

Honor closed her eyes to avoid his intent gaze. I have nothing to hide, she reminded herself. “He is the brother of the Wellington milliner.”

“What was he doing here? Had he come to visit thee?”

“No.”

“Did he speak to thee about a runaway? Did—” Jack stopped and his eyes narrowed. “Did a colored man come here and ask thee for help? And did thee help him?”

“No,” Honor was able to say. “No man was here apart from Donovan. Why would a runaway come here?”

“There are many runaways in Ohio, and established routes, with safe houses and helpers along the way. I believe they change often, to confound the slave catchers. They call it the Underground Railroad.”