Never Too Late (9 page)

No one replied. Gradually they all shook their heads.

“Hit shore ain't me,” said one of the men. “I's jes' a dirt poor slave dat's hoed cotton all my life an' ain't worf much dat I know ob.”

“Well, I don't know, but dere dey is. So we's gwine hab ter be real careful da res' er dis night, an' hide you out fo a few days.”

In another hour they finally crept from their hiding place and continued on. They did not return to the road but zigzagged through the fields and woodland on either side of it. Morning had nearly come when suddenly they heard a voice in front of them.

“Where you been?” said a woman. “I been worried sick when I heard dem horses!”

“Bounty hunters, Mama,” said the man. “We had ter lay low a spell.—Dis here's my wife, folks. She's brung you
some vittles. We'll wait here a spell while you hab somefin' ter eat.”

The news was welcome indeed to all the hungry, weary travelers.

“We bes' keep 'em wiff us a coupla days, Mama. Dem bounty hunters is too close fo comfort. When we git back, we gotta git word ter Isaac ter spread word along da line dat dis train's makin' a little stop fo repairs.”

W
ELCOME
D
ESTINATION

12

P
ROGRESS SLOWED WAY DOWN IN WINTER
. W
HOLE
weeks went by in the same place when rain or cold delayed them. To travel in such conditions only invited sickness or chills or fever, and that did nobody any good. But spring came and gradually warmth returned and the train picked up speed along its invisible tracks.

Day and night again became a continuous blur of movement, change, fear, hope, hunger, and exhaustion.

Finally a night came when, a few hours before dawn, they were led into a cave that appeared to be an abandoned mine of some kind. At the far end shone a faint, flickering glow.

“Keep yo heads low so you don't whack dem on da roof,” said the young man, who did not seem much older than a teenager but who had been leading them for several hours.

Gradually the cave widened until the roof overhead suddenly opened upward and they came to a fire burning brightly in the center of a dirt floor. Its smoke rose into the
top of the cave and somehow found its way up and out through an invisible series of cracks to the outside.

Beside the fire sat a basket of provisions.

“Dere's food an' water,” said the boy. “Ober dere's more wood an' blankets. Git some res' an' hab somefin' ter eat. You's safe here 'cause no white folks come up here ter da mountain. Someone'll come directly, but it may be two or three days. So don't eat dat food all at once. She'll be along when she kin git away wiffout bein' seen. She'll tell you what ter do.”

He left the cave with Seffie wondering who the
she
was he was talking about.

They didn't have to wait three days, only a little more than a day and a half. They were just getting to the bottom of the food basket on the evening of their second day in the cozy little underground train station when they heard movement. Their heads turned to see a large black woman ducking low and approaching from the mouth of the cave.

“Somebody got somefin' fo me?” she said as she stopped and stood.

They all looked around at each other.

“Ef you be da woman I wuz sent ter see,” said the young mother, “den maybe I does.”

“Let me see what you got an' den I'll tell you ef I's da one you wuz sent ter see.”

The young woman took the quilt from her daughter's shoulders and handed it to the black woman. A smile slowly spread over her face.

“I see da quilt er freedom made it back home agin!” she said. “Dat's what I wuz wantin' ter see, all right.”

“Den is you da one dey call Amaritta?” asked the mother.

“Dat's me, all right.” Looking around at the weary group sitting around the fire, she added, “So where's y'all boun'?”

W
AYSTATION

13

T
HE STATION MISTRESS CALLED AMARITTA WAS
housekeeper on the plantation of Master and Mistress Crawford in South Carolina. Neither of the Crawfords had the faintest idea that an increasing number of runaway slaves came and went under their very noses and that their housekeeper helped direct many slaves on their way north. People seemed to be coming and going and traveling in every direction imaginable. They didn't even know that the weathervane made of a horse's head on their barn had been adopted by the railroad as a secret sign, and that houses and barns all the way up to the North with the same design were sought by fugitives as places of refuge.

Within three more days, two of the men of the group were on their way to Ohio, a man and his wife headed for Kentucky, where they would be met by a group traveling to Indiana, and Seffie and the mother and brother and daughter were left alone on the Crawford plantation. By then they had been moved from the cave into the slave village where precautions were taken to keep them out of sight
from any of the white workers or slave children whose tongues might not be reliable.

Amaritta was making arrangements for the mother and her brother and daughter to join a train that would hopefully have their sister from Georgia onboard en route to eastern Ohio. Two days before they were to arrive she went to Seffie in the slave cabin where they were being kept.

“It's 'bout time you wuz decidin' where you's gwine be goin', honey chil',” she said. “You can't stay here much longer afore da master'll gits wind er somefin' he finds himself wonderin' 'bout.”

“I got no place ter go,” said Seffie. “I tol' you, I got no kin in da Norf dat I know 'bout. I jes' wanted to go norf to be free. I don't know what ter do.”

“It ain't jes' gettin' you norf, hit's findin' a place fo you once you git dere. An' so—”

Amaritta was interrupted by two children—a girl of four or five and a boy a few years older—running into the cabin.

“Lucindy . . . Caleb,” she exclaimed, “—what'n tarnashun . . . you skedaddle outta here!”

The little girl stopped at sight of the stranger, her eyes white and wide in the middle of her little black face.

“Who dat?” she asked.

“Hush yo mouf, Lucindy, chil'. It ain't nobody . . . now git!”

The two ran outside.

Amaritta shook her head. “Yep,” she said, “we got's ter git you movin' along real soon. Dat scamp Caleb, he's a talker. Now dat he's seen you . . . yep, we gotta git you on anudder train mighty soon.”

Within a week Seffie was on her way again, this time with two other women and one of their husbands. Their destination was southern New York State, where the man had a brother who had made good his own escape from the South three years earlier and now had a big house and small printing business where Seffie would be welcome. If they could put her to work, they would. If not, they would help her find something else.

By the time Seffie crossed into North Carolina, listening to her new traveling companions tell about what they had heard about life in the North, where everyone was free—whites and blacks alike—for the first time her hopes began to rise that she might really make it after all. The dream of freedom had been so vague and her journey from Louisiana so long. But now she was getting closer to the reality every day.

They moved slowly north for a month, passed from guide to guide in the night, traveling six to eight miles a day, and crossing into North Carolina, though they did not know it.

All seemed to be going well. But then a night came that changed Seffie's future forever.

As they went they had been vaguely aware of dogs barking in the distance for some time. This in itself was not so unusual, but on this night the sound was persistent and, they began to realize, growing gradually louder.

Their guide quickened their pace, pausing every few minutes to listen, muttering words of concern to himself, then urging them to hasten once again. No one else said a word. They sensed their danger.

For several hours they hurried through the night as
quickly and quietly as they were able, though the going was difficult. There were woods, streams, cultivated fields, a town or two to avoid, and uneven terrain most of the way. The strain and fatigue began to show, and gradually Seffie lagged behind.

“Come on . . . come on!” urged their conductor. “Hit ain't dat much further, but dem blamed dogs is still out dere! We gots ter move!”

He paused and listened again.

“My brother's waitin' jes' yonder at da ribber,” he said. “He gots him a little oar boat. Hit's 'bout anudder mile. We git ter him an' we's safe. Da ribber moves along swif' fo a good spell an' dere ain't no bridges fo miles, an' by da time we's on da far bank, we's be miles from whoeber's been doggin' our steps all night.”

“I don't know ef I kin make it anudder mile,” groaned Seffie. “I's so tuckered I's about ter drop.”

“You kin do it. We gots ter do it. Anudder half hour an' we'll be sittin' in dat boat floatin' along all da way ter yo nex' station.”

Twenty minutes later they came to a clearing and had to cross a road. They paused and listened. It seemed safe.

“Dis way,” said their guide, leading onto the road as the others did their best to keep up. Seffie's legs felt made of lead and she could hardly pick up her feet as she shuffled along. The endless journey over the past year had taken off a few excess pounds but had not exactly trimmed her down. She was still a very large young woman, and the effort of this night's flight had nearly taxed her to the limit of her physical endurance.

“Come on . . . dis way!” urged their guide yet again.
But Seffie could tell she was falling further and further behind.

Suddenly the sound of riders could be heard galloping toward them.

“Off da road . . . into da trees!” shouted the guide. “Hit's jes' a short run ter da boat. We kin make it!”

He and the other three were into the woods and sprinting for the river within seconds.

Seffie struggled along the road to keep up. Behind her the pounding of hooves grew louder.

Just as she left the road where she had seen the others disappear, she heard a shout behind her.

“There's one of them!”

A gunshot exploded in the night. In terror Seffie screamed and broke into what for her was an all-out run into the trees. She could only hope she was going the same direction her comrades had taken. But she could hardly lift her feet off the ground as her lungs gasped for air.

Behind her, two or three horses galloped up and stopped. Their riders quickly dismounted. Booted feet ran off the road, spreading out as they listened for movement.

“This way—they're over here!” came a shout.

Another gunshot echoed.

“Stop, all of you!” cried a white man's voice. “You can't get away. We've got you now!”

But Seffie hardly heard the words. Her dress was nearly drenched and sweat was falling from her face in great drops as she struggled on.

She came out of the woods. There was the river. A hundred yards ahead the others were already climbing into the boat.

“Run, Seffie . . . come on—you kin make it!” came a shout, followed by yells of frantic encouragement.

But the terrain was badly uneven and the slope down to the river steep. Rocks and small boulders of varying size were scattered up and down the riverbank and the footing was treacherous.

Cries from the river were now suddenly mingled with shouts and running footsteps from behind. Another shout sounded into the air.

In panic Seffie tried to increase her speed. All at once her foot stumbled on a huge rock nearly knee height. She tumbled over it, twisted her ankle as she hit the ground, and rolled several feet down the embankment.

She cried out in pain and struggled to stand. But she could not.