The Last Runaway (32 page)

“When did they get in?” Honor asked.

“Right at the end, just when Donovan was leaving. That’s always the best time, when they’re still here but not suspicious any more. Old Thomas moved ’em. He hid ’em in his wagon, in a compartment under the bottom of the wagon. You lay out flat an’ they put the false bottom over you. It ain’t comfortable, is it, Virginie?”

“Is that how Thomas brought the runaway from Hudson when he drove me here?” Honor thought of Thomas stamping his feet now and then, and his talking while she was in the woods, and the feeling she had had that someone was with them.

“Yep. And Donovan still don’t know about it. He looks under the front seat.”

Now that she knew Honor wouldn’t give away her secrets, Belle became chatty, proud of the ruses she and Thomas and others working on the Underground Railroad had developed to keep runaways hidden. Once they’d dosed the sick child with raspberry jam and whiskey, and spread a mustard paste on her chest, Belle had Honor crawl through the hole into the lean-to, which was deeper along the side of the house than she’d realized from seeing it from the outside. Belle and Thomas had stacked the wood so that it seemed to be up against the back wall, but actually there was a gap between the woodpile and the wall, making a small chamber barely bigger than a cupboard, which you got to by squeezing around the stack. Inside the chamber were three stumps the runaways must use as stools, though turned on their sides they would look innocuous enough. Indeed, if you pushed the back stack of wood into the space it would turn into a messy pile waiting to be burned. As she gazed on it, Honor wondered how many runaways had hidden here. Dozens? Hundreds? Belle had lived in Wellington for fifteen years, and there had been runaways probably for as long as there had been slavery.

Honor heard Comfort crying then, and hurried to get back to her, struggling through the hole so clumsily that Belle chuckled. By the time she was on her feet, Comfort was quiet in the black woman’s arms. Though Honor reached out, the woman did not hand Comfort back. “I looked after a string o’ little white babies for the mistress,” she said, swinging Comfort in the crook of her arm with ease. “Feels good to hold a baby again. Look at her, girls,” she said to her daughters seated at the table. “She ain’t smilin’ yet. She only a month old. Too young to smile at us yet. We got to
earn
her smile.”

Honor struggled not to snatch her daughter back, even though rationally she knew that Comfort could come to no harm.

The woman’s name was Virginie. The whole night Honor had been with her in the woods and fields, she had not thought to ask her name. Indeed, she had never asked any of the runaways their names. Now she wondered why. Perhaps she had not wanted to personalize them in that way. Without names it was easier for them to disappear from her life. And they did—all except the nameless man buried in Wieland Woods.

Look for the measure of Light in her, she counseled herself, for it is there, as it is in every person. Never forget that.

Comfort was too young to make any judgment other than whether she felt secure in the arms that held her. And she did. She looked up at the black woman, who began to sing:

I’m wading deep waters

Trying to get home

Lord, I’m wading deep waters

Trying to get home

Well, I’m wading deep waters

Wading deep waters

Yes, I’m wading deep waters

Trying to get home.

“She is smiling!” Honor cried.

Virginie chuckled. “Jes’ wind. But nice to see anyway. Go on back to your mama, li’l girl, an’ give
her
a smile.”

Belle fed the runaways chipped beef and corn bread, spreading the latter with apple butter Honor had made the day before. One twin gobbled it down, but the other picked at the food, then laid her head on her arms. Belle studied her when she came down from the bedrooms, her arms full of quilts. “Y’all best get back there now.” She stuffed the quilts through the hole, but went outside to look around before entering the lean-to.

Honor and Virginie nodded good night and then the runaways crawled through the hole to their hiding place. After a few minutes Belle returned via the back door. “Hope that little one’s gonna be all right.” She shook her head. “It’s snug enough in there, but we don’t want her gettin’ worse. And they’re so close to Canada. Even at a little girl’s pace they can’t be more’n a week away from Lake Erie. Plus if they get to Oberlin they can hide in the black community a while till she improves.”

“Belle, is thee a—a station master?”

Belle snorted. “You know, I never use those silly phrases:
station master
,
depot
,
conductor
. Even
Underground Railroad
tries my patience. Makes it sound like children playin’ a game, when this surely ain’t no game.”

The girl’s coughing began again. Honor listened as she washed dishes. “The cold air is getting to her chest,” she remarked.

Belle sighed. “Donovan’ll hear her when he comes snoopin’ ’round in the middle of the night. She needs to sleep inside in a bed where it’s warm. That’ll quiet her—that and some paregoric. Can’t bring ’em all in, though—we couldn’t hide ’em all from Donovan.” She drew aside the cloth and whispered into the hole. A few minutes later the sick girl was passed through to Belle. She gave her a spoonful of thick brown liquid from a bottle, then said, “C’mon, honey, I’ll put you in my bed. You be real quiet now.”

Honor went to bed herself soon after, exhausted from nights of broken sleep and from the tension of the day. Leaving the door ajar so that she could hear and see a little from the light downstairs, she lay in bed, baby at her side where she could easily feed her in the night without getting up. Belle was still down in the kitchen, making flowers out of straw for her hats, waiting.

Honor was not yet asleep when she felt a tiny presence next to the bed. In the glow from downstairs she could just make out the girl’s outline. Without saying anything the girl climbed into bed, careful around the baby, and slid under the quilt to press up against Honor’s back, like a little animal looking for warmth. She coughed a bit and then fell asleep.

Honor lay very still, listening to the girl’s snuffling breath and her daughter’s almost imperceptible sigh, marveling that a black girl was snuggling up to her, as Grace had done when they were girls and it was cold. The barrier between them was dissolving in the warm bed; here there was no separate bench. Whatever the uncertainty downstairs, outside, in the world at large, in this bed with the children close by and reliant on her, Honor felt calm, and part of a family. With that clarity she too was able to sleep.

* * *

Donovan was never going to enter quietly. Honor jerked awake with the banging on the front door. Her movement, or the noise, woke the girl, who whimpered.

“Shhh,” Honor whispered. “Be as quiet as thee can, and don’t move.” Luckily she was on her side facing the doorway, and with the girl huddled against her back under the quilt, Donovan might not see her. Honor pulled the quilt over the child’s head, hiding her plaits tied with red ribbons.

She heard voices, steady, not raised, then the methodical searching of first the shop, then the kitchen. Donovan was not deliberately destructive. He did not break glass counterpanes or tear up cloth or stamp on hats. He did not throw down crockery or upend furniture. Honor even heard Belle laugh as if sharing a familial joke. Doubtless he had searched her house many times. Perhaps he was simply going through the motions. Or he suspected she was smarter than him and one day he would work out how she hid her runaways.

Then the girl coughed, juddering against her. It was not loud but it was distinct. Honor felt a spike of ice in her stomach. She heard Donovan’s voice, and Belle answering him. She thought she heard her name.

The girl coughed again, and when she stopped, Honor coughed too, trying to imitate a small girl’s breathy chest. She heard footsteps on the stairs, felt the girl’s quivering fear at her back, joined it with her own.

Then Belle’s voice came, telling her what to do. “Donovan, you gonna interrupt her feeding her baby. You really wanna do that?”

Honor reached for Comfort, shaking her gently as she gathered the warm round body to her. Unbuttoning the neck of her nightgown, she pulled out a full, swollen breast that began to leak milk even before Comfort stirred and, half-asleep, opened her mouth and latched on. Gumming the nipple, she sucked hard, so that Honor took in a deep breath of pain and release.

Donovan searched the small bedroom where Belle slept first; then the lantern light swung into the larger bedroom, arcing over her and Comfort. Honor prayed the girl would not cough or move. He stared down at her, trying not to let his eyes slip to the baby and the breast, but failing. Though he fought it, a kind of longing spread across his face. It had the effect Honor had hoped for: he did not come further into the room to ransack the piles of material Belle stored there, or look under the bed.

“Sorry,” he said. But he did not leave immediately. His eyes wandered over the quilt. “That’s Ma’s quilt,” he said. “What’d you call that design? You told me once, when we first met.”

“Star of Bethlehem.”

“That’s it.” Donovan looked at her for a moment, then nodded and backed out.

Honor and the girl remained still and silent. Only Comfort squirmed and sucked, her tiny hand grasping at Honor’s nightgown. They could hear Donovan go out of the back door. Now he would find the others or not. What would they do with this girl if Donovan took them away? Perhaps that was what she herself was thinking about, for suddenly the girl began to sob.

“Oh no, not that. Thee mustn’t. Not now.” With difficulty, Honor detached Comfort and sat up. Leaning against the headboard, she put the baby back on her breast and her free arm around the girl. “Don’t cry, now. We must pray that God will keep them safe.” She closed her eyes, and listened.

He did not find them. Half an hour later Belle came up and sat on the edge of Honor’s bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby. “He’s gone. You can go to sleep now. You too, little one,” she added for the benefit of the girl pressed against Honor.

“Belle, how will we get them safely away from the house?”

“Honey, don’t you worry ’bout that. I always got tricks up my sleeve.”

* * *

Comfort woke twice more that night to feed, and each time the girl was asleep. When the rising sun at last woke Honor, the girl had gone.

Down in the kitchen, Belle was frying griddle cakes and bacon—far more than the two of them could eat. She nodded toward the hole. “Little girl’s doing better. She almost smiled at me.” She piled the griddle cakes and bacon onto a plate and pushed it through the hole.

After breakfast Belle went out without saying where she was going, leaving Honor to mind the shop. On her return she handed Honor a wine-colored dress. “Customer wants the hem and sleeves let out.”

All day, as Honor sewed—first the dress, then a child’s skirt—she thought about the three runaways crammed into the small space behind the woodpile. It would be dark and uncomfortable, the wood offering little other than splinters and mice. Yet perhaps it was better than hiding in the cold woods.

Belle was in an overbright mood, displaying a nervous energy as she helped customers try on bonnets, removed flowers that were too summery for the growing cold, added tartan ribbons or feathers, measured for winter linings. When it was quiet, she worked at the table in the corner, sewing yellow netting onto the brown felt hat she had been stretching. Now and then she went to the window to glance out.

When Honor handed her the altered clothes, she noticed Belle was holding a familiar gray bonnet: she had replaced the worn yellow ribbons with a much wider gray ribbon that went round the crown and when tied pulled the brim close around the face. She had also added a row of white lace to the brim, hiding the yellow lining. It was now far too fancy for Honor to wear—or indeed Virginie. No black woman wore something so decorative.

Honor widened her eyes. Belle shrugged and hummed under her breath; Honor recognized it as the tune Virginie had sung to Comfort the night before. “Is that a hymn?”

“No, just a song you hear in the fields in the South. Negroes sing it to keep themselves goin’.”

Late in the day, when Belle was lighting lamps, three women came into the shop, accompanied by several young girls. “Look after ’em, Honor,” Belle said, heading to the kitchen. “I’ll be back.”

Honor stared after her, surprised that she would hurry away from such a large group. The women and girls were lively, trying on so many different hats and bonnets that she could not keep up with replacing them. In the middle of it, Comfort began to cry in her cradle. Before Honor could get to her one of the older girls had picked her up and went jigging around the shop. Comfort stopped crying with the novelty of it all, and the other girls gathered around the baby. There seemed to be more of them now, and they clattered and laughed and played around Honor’s daughter.

In the distance the train whistle sounded, cutting through the noise. “C’mon, girls, time to go,” one of the women called. Immediately the girl handed Comfort over and grabbed the hand of one of the younger ones. The others found partners and linked arms. As they passed through the door one of the smaller girls wearing a wide-brimmed bonnet and a shawl around her neck and chin turned to peek at Honor. It was one of Virginie’s twins, though only a strip of her dark skin was showing. In the dusk outside, her arm linked through another’s, she would be indistinguishable. Honor smiled at her, but the girl looked too terrified to speak.

The other twin left as well, bundled along with the rest of the group, and suddenly it was quiet. Only a woman remained behind. Then Belle was back in the room, pulling Virginie behind her. The runaway was transformed by the burgundy dress and a shawl, the gray and yellow bonnet tied tight under her chin so that from the side her face was hidden. You could only see her if you looked head-on.