The Revelation of Louisa May (2 page)

“Louisa will,” Marmee said. “She's a fine housekeeper.”

Louisa scrambled to her feet and burst into the room. “Marmee! You can't leave me here to do everything! Beth's no help—she's still recovering from her winter cold. And baby May won't do anything but draw. You expect me to do all the cooking and the cleaning and the shopping and take care of them, too? I'll never have the chance to write.” She was running out of breath, so she made sure to finish with a flourish. “It's not fair that just because Father won't get a job I have to be a slave!”

“Louisa!” both Marmee and Bronson cried at once.

“A young lady never stoops to eavesdropping,” Marmee said in a forbidding voice.

“Honest labor to care for your family is not slavery!” Bronson scolded as his wife took a breath. “You've met true
slaves. You know the cruelty they suffer. By comparing yourself to a slave, you demean both you and them.”

Louisa closed her eyes and pressed her fists against her eyelids. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Go back to your room,” Marmee said. “And quietly. There's no need to wake your sisters. We'll talk later.”

Her eyes averted from her parents, Louisa slowly crossed the parlor to her room, closing her door behind her. When they had bought Hillside House a few years ago, the house had been too small for Father, Mother, and four Alcott daughters, not to mention all the constant visitors. So her inventive father had cut an old workshop on the property in two and grafted each half onto opposite sides of the house. Louisa's tiny room, the first she had ever had to call her own, was in one half of the repurposed building, with a second door that opened directly into the garden.

Louisa shoved her bare feet into her boots, jerked her shawl from its hook, and slipped into the garden. Her ability to sneak out at night was her private antidote to the press of so many people. The chilled night air stung her skin and a breeze stirred her nightdress about her knees. Perched on a bench her father had fashioned from an old log, she brought her knees up to her chin.

Marmee couldn't leave them. Father could and did, traveling often to talk to other philosophers. But Marmee was their rock. Their shield against poverty and despair. Their financial
situation must be even worse than Louisa knew for Marmee to consider leaving. But Louisa had only been thinking of how it affected her. She was ashamed of her own selfishness.

Money. Money. Money. How she hated being dependent on the kindness of friends and family. Louisa was tired of being grateful. She had looked for a job in Concord but there were none to be had. It was a pretty place, but dull. The townspeople thought the Alcotts were wild and strange. It was only because of Mr. Emerson that they had moved there. If it weren't for him and Mr. Thoreau, Concord would indeed be the “cold, heartless, brainless, soulless Concord” Marmee called it. But even Mr. Emerson couldn't conjure up work so Louisa could contribute to the family's finances.

The house faced busy Lexington Road, although it was mostly quiet at this hour. From the corner of her eye, Louisa caught a glimpse of movement in the shrubs by the front windows. She retreated to her door and reached for the stout walking stick she kept there.

“Who's there?” she called, forcing a quaver down.

A cracking noise of a foot on a twig, then a deliberate silence.

“I said, who is there?” Holding the walking stick up in front of her face, she stepped forward and peered around the corner. Next to the parlor's big bay window there was a dark figure, barely visible against the olive color of the house. Suddenly, the figure blinked, revealing the frightened whites of
his eyes. She realized that his darkness was not the cover of night but the color of his skin.

“What's your business here?” she asked, her voice stern.

“Excuse me, Miss.” The man's voice was deep and hesitant. “Are you the Stationmaster?”

Louisa sighed. Exactly what the Alcott family needed right now. Another fugitive slave.

There were not in all the city four merrier people
than the hungry little girls
who gave away their breakfasts and contented
themselves with bread and milk . . .

L
ouisa put her finger to her lips and motioned for the man to follow her inside through her bedroom to the parlor.

Bronson and Marmee were sitting apart from each other on the sofa. They looked up, startled, when Louisa appeared in the doorway.

“Louy, I told you to wait for me,” Marmee said.

“Until you learn to curb your impatience,” Bronson said, “you will never discipline your mind.”

Louisa sighed and stepped to one side so they could see the fugitive standing behind her.

The man was big, boasting more inches than even Bronson, who had to duck going through the doors of his own home. The original parts of the house dated back over a century, when people built low ceilings to keep in heat. It was a sore trial to the Alcotts, who tended to grow tall.

Standing in the center of the parlor, hunched slightly, the fugitive kept his hands close to his thighs as though he was loath to touch the furniture or the whitewashed walls. A battered canvas knapsack hung over his shoulder.

Irritations and quarrels forgotten, Marmee flew from her seat and closed the curtains. Although most of their friends and neighbors hated slavery as much as the Alcotts did, one never knew who might be tempted by a reward for information about an escaped slave. And it wasn't only the slave who was at risk; the Alcotts could be prosecuted for sheltering him.

Bronson stood and held his hands out wide. “My name is Bronson Alcott. You are welcome and safe in my home.”

The fugitive stared for the briefest moment, then smiled broadly. “God bless you, sir.”

“What is your name?” Bronson asked.

“My name is George Simmons. But Simmons was my owner's name, and my first Conductor warned me that they'll
look for me under that name. So lately I've been thinking my name is George Freedman.”

“A noble name,” Bronson said, approval warming his voice. “Where have you come from?”

“I came from Virginia. I've been running for two weeks.”

“And where is your Conductor?” Marmee asked. “Why are you traveling alone? We had no message that we would be receiving a package tonight.”

“I stayed in Dedham last night. My Conductor had an illness in his house, so he sent me to Concord without him. He said I could count on the folks in the house set up against the hill on the Lexington Road.”

“Dedham is nearly twenty-five miles from here!” Marmee exclaimed. “You must be exhausted.”

“Ma'am, I feel as if I've been running forever.”

Outside a carriage rattled past, its lantern briefly illuminating the road. George froze and his eyes scanned the room as if searching for a hiding place. Louisa took pity and stepped to the window. Staying hidden behind the curtain, she parted the chintz drapes just wide enough to watch the stagecoach disappear down the Lexington Road.

“It's all right. They have passed us by,” she said, filling her voice with reassurance. She had found George; he was her responsibility. Glancing over at the fugitive she recognized the look in his eyes. Hunger. “Marmee, shouldn't we get George something to eat?”

“Of course,” Marmee said firmly. “You must be starving.”

“Yes, ma'am. The last time I ate was yesterday morning.”

“Louisa, warm up the leftover soup and feed George a proper meal.”

Louisa didn't need telling twice. She turned on her heel, knocking a book off the bookcase in her haste. Once in the kitchen, she poked at the kitchen coals to coax a flame. She opened up the icebox and pulled out the pot with the leftover soup from dinner. If George hoped for meat, he would be disappointed. Bronson Alcott permitted no living creatures to be sacrificed for the family's dinner. But they had plenty of vegetables from their own garden and enough potato to thicken the broth and fill an empty stomach.

Bronson led George into the kitchen, where he sluiced water over his face, removing the sweat of fear and the dirt of his time on the road. Not many homes had a water pump inside; it was one of the many improvements Bronson had made to the house.

“I'm obliged, Mr. Alcott,” he said.

“Call me Bronson. Sit down here at the table.”

Marmee brought a plate with bread and placed it in front of George. He hesitated and she put a slice in his hand, ordering him with a gentle smile, “Eat.”

“Are you traveling alone?” Bronson said.

“The others are a few days behind me.”

“Others?” Louisa asked, bringing their guest a mug of cold water. She hoped there weren't too many; the Alcotts couldn't afford to feed them.

“My wife and children are traveling separately,” George said, and his expressive eyes turned mournful.

“How could you divide your family?” Bronson asked with a meaningful glance at his wife.

“I'm sure George was doing what was best for them,” Marmee retorted.

“How tragic to leave your children behind,” Louisa said, for once united with her father against Marmee. “Aren't you worried about them?”

“A parent does whatever is required to keep them from harm,” Marmee answered.

With a puzzled look distributed evenly among all the Alcotts, George explained, “My Conductor said they'd travel safer without me. I'm the one the catcher's looking for. I was useful to my master because I can read, write, and do figures. He posted a large reward.”

“Barbaric,” murmured Bronson.

Louisa shivered despite the heat of the stove. She had seen those “Wanted: Fugitive Slave” posters in Boston. They were put up sometimes in Concord, too, but Louisa and her sisters would pull them down. Even her vivid imagination couldn't envision being hunted like an animal. “The catcher?” she asked.

George hesitated, wringing his hands. “I heard from the last Conductor that a catcher is on my trail. He's a Northerner and a big man. That's all I know.” His eyes darted around the snug kitchen. “I don't want to bring trouble here.”

Louisa glanced at her parents' determined faces. Even the threat of arrest wouldn't keep them from helping George and those like him. George wasn't the first slave they had sheltered on his way to freedom in Canada and she dared say he would not be the last.

Louisa stirred the soup with a wistful air, thinking of tomorrow's lunch. The pickings would be sparse indeed without the soup. Then she glanced toward the enormous man at their table, thinking of everything their guest had suffered.

In a fit of shame, she pulled out a hunk of cheddar cheese wrapped in a moist cloth from the larder. It was her own, a special treat from Mrs. Emerson to thank Louisa for doing some embroidery. She rarely got to eat cheese because Father felt that cheese was immoral. After all, the milk was taken forcibly from the cow. With a decided thump, she put the entire piece of cheese on a plate for George.

She was rewarded when Marmee spied the plate. She smiled at Louisa, approval shining from her eyes.

George cut a chunk and paired it with a slice of bread and bit into it gratefully. He nodded his thanks when Louisa put the soup in front of him. He took the spoon and shoveled the thick soup into his mouth.

Marmee, ever practical, was making plans. “So you need to stay hidden for a few days?”

“Maybe even a week,” George said, his shoulders hunched and his eyes on the bowl of soup. “The Conductor in Dedham
didn't know when he'd be able to send my wife and daughters on. I know it's more danger for you . . .”

“Nonsense,” Marmee and Bronson said in unison.

Bronson placed his large callused hand on George's shoulder. At first George flinched, then he relaxed. “My family and friends are prepared to make any sacrifice to protect our less fortunate brothers.” Bronson looked to Marmee and Louisa for affirmation and they both nodded solemnly. In this, at least, the Alcott family was united. “We have a room for you in the barn,” Bronson continued. “We'd like to have you in the house, but we have too many visitors. Most are sympathetic to our principles, but not everyone. The barn is safer for you.”