Authors: Katherine Ayres
I stood at the door and swallowed, amazed by the woman’s anger. She didn’t even know me, yet she hated me. How much worse would it be in my own village, where people knew me and would sharpen their teeth on the gossip? I closed my eyes and imagined Jonathan Clark’s mother, her nose in the air, sniffing as though I smelled of spoiled meat.
Levi Bowen stepped up to guard my door. He pointed to the tray I clutched. “You can thank Mr. Roberts for that tasty dinner. The bread pudding is especially fine. She added a good measure of rum. You won’t eat nearly so well in the magistrate’s jail.”
His words made me want to choke, but I held back my temper and closed the door on his nasty grin. He liked the bread pudding, did he? And it had rum in it. That helped.
I had no appetite, but I made myself eat the roast beef and boiled potatoes. The woman had put coffee as well as milk on my tray, and I blessed her for that, in spite of her rudeness. The coffee would keep me awake. I needed my mind alert if I was to succeed.
I watched at the window for a time, waiting for the sky to darken and wishing for home. But wishing won’t undo this day’s wickedness, so instead I imagine a vision of home, to ease my heart: Miranda is settling down to sleep. I’ve just finished reading her a story. Mama is knitting and rocking. Papa reads the weekly paper. Will mends harness while Tom whittles—perhaps a boat, a whistle, or a small animal for Miranda. If only my vision could come true.
I hold Grandmother’s ring tight in my hand and my eyes fill. No matter what happens, I won’t be able to go home again. Not for a long time. I’ve set loose a deep river of lies and secrets, and I’ve burned all my boats. What will happen beyond this moment, beyond this night and the task I have set for myself?
If I get myself and this sweet bundle named Hope out of Ravenna and into Canada, what will I do with my life
then? I can’t return home and bring shame and hatred to my family. Where will I go instead?
I haven’t the slightest notion.
S
UNDAY
, M
ARCH
2, 1851
It is morning and I am in hiding. Somewhere people celebrate the Sabbath and sing hymns of praise. I simply whisper a prayer of thanks. God has not forgotten us after all, in spite of the dreadful night we passed.
When it finally grew dark enough I woke the baby and let her work up to a good holler. I fed her a jar of milk with a half spoon of paregoric mixed in. That would buy a few hours of silence. I patted her and she drifted back to sleep. “Sorry I have to give you that old medicine,” I said. “But it’s only for a few days. Then you can yell and holler all you want.”
When she was sound asleep again, I opened my door. Sure enough, Levi Bowen sat on a chair right outside. I set my dinner tray on the floor next to him.
“Change your mind yet? Ready to tell the truth?” he asked.
I glared at him. “You wouldn’t know truth if it walked up and shook hands with you,” I said. “Tell Mr. Roberts thank you for the dinner. I ate some, but I wasn’t much hungry.”
“Didn’t eat the bread pudding? You missed a treat.”
“Help yourself. That woman downstairs will eat it if you don’t.”
“Don’t mind if I do. She’s stout enough already.” He picked up my dish and grinned.
“There’s milk too, if you’d like.”
He nodded, and I poured it for him as though I were helping Mama entertain the church ladies. I smiled, a real smile, because the milk, added to the rum, would disguise the taste of the paregoric I’d mixed into the bread pudding. I’d used half the bottle and prayed it was enough.
I returned to my room and made the rest of my preparations. I hoped I’d sound as though I was getting ready for bed. I got out my nightgown and stuffed it full of petticoats and shirtwaists from my trunk, until I thought it looked about my size. Then I arranged it carefully under the covers, with a skirt rolled up in a baby blanket close by. I added a small cap to the baby-sized lump and stuffed it with handkerchiefs.
I pulled on a pair of Will’s trousers, his extra pair of boots, and a heavy knitted vest of mine. I stuffed the trousers and vest with as many of Hope’s clothes as I could fit, then added Will’s old woolen jacket. I tucked all of the money Papa had sent for our journey, the ring, and a pair of mittens into the pockets. I carefully braided my hair and pinned it up, hiding as much as I could under a knitted cap. I examined myself in the looking glass on the chest of drawers. If one didn’t look too closely, I could pass for a boy … a plump boy, for all the baby’s things filled up my clothing.
I added another layer of warmth to the baby and wrapped her securely in two blankets. I kissed her soft little cheek. “This has to work, Hope. It just has to.”
She nuzzled my neck in her sleep, and I was tempted for a moment to live the lie I’d told Clayton Roberts: to go to Cleveland, disappear in a crowded neighborhood,
and raise her myself. But no. I had Emma to think about, and Cass.
My preparations took nearly half an hour. Was that enough? I listened at the door. Nothing. I’d hoped Levi Bowen would snore, so that I’d know if I’d put him to sleep, but he didn’t. I opened the door a crack. Still no sounds. If he was awake, I’d say I needed warm water to wash the baby.
Luck was on my side at last. Levi Bowen sagged back in his chair, his head tipped to one side, breathing slow, even breaths. I eased myself and Hope out the door and pulled it shut. I slipped past him like a cat.
At the end of the hall there were two sets of stairs—the main staircase, a fancy one, and a back stair, which probably led to the kitchen. I took that one, praying none of the steps would creak.
As I descended I heard voices to my left. The brick wall on the right felt cold. Was that the way outdoors? I moved down one careful step at a time. The voices got louder, still from the left. Either they would discover me or their noise would hide me. I clutched Hope closer to my chest and stepped down onto the landing.
I felt the two doors at the bottom. The right was cold. I turned the latch and pushed slightly. It creaked. I held my breath. Nobody came. I pushed again and peered out. Fresh, cold air. Stars. So far I had guessed right. I eased outside and looked around to get my bearings.
I stood at the back of the inn. I listened for the sound of horses. Will was to wait for me at the stable. I couldn’t hear horses, but as I sniffed, I caught the scent of manure
and followed it, slipping from shadow to shadow like a thief.
At last I reached the stable. No lights showed. Had Will been successful with his part of the plan? As I reached to open the door a shape came out of the darkness.
“Lucy?”
“Will. Thank God.”
He hugged me, and I could feel his bony shoulders tremble.
“Did you do it?” I asked. I reached into my jacket. “Here, tie these blankets around me in a sling for the baby.”
He fumbled with the knots. “I did like you said. Let’s get moving. We can talk as we go.”
I nodded and fell into step beside Will. I shifted Hope until she rode easy. Will led us across a pasture, muddy with spring thaw.
“I got a message to the Quaker doctor. He expects you tonight. If anything goes wrong, he’ll examine you tomorrow or the next day. He’ll say you are the baby’s mother, if you still want that.”
“I hope I don’t need to, but yes, that’s the plan.”
Will shook his head. “I wish you wouldn’t, Lucy. People ain’t going to forget this. You’ll never be able to live a regular life again, not in our town.”
“I know. But what choice do I have?”
He shook his head. “Watch out here. There’s a house close. Sneak behind the trees.” He took my hand and I clambered after, across rough roots and branches. I
hugged Hope tight with my other arm, glad she was securely tied.
“Will, tell me about the wagon.”
“I did what you asked. I laid a false trail nearly to Hudson. Wagon’s hidden now, in a barn. The farmer helps with the Railroad. He loaned me a saddle horse. He’ll care for my team.”
“Good. And the Quaker doctor? He’s helped us before, hasn’t he? With other rescues.”
Will nodded. “His house is a mile and a half by the road. But we’re going roundabout, away from town. He’s making plans. I left the horse there so I could go home and warn everybody. But Lucy … I ain’t going home. I’m going with you. If anything happens and I’m not there …” Will’s voice cracked.
My eyes filled. “Please, Will. I’ve thought about this all evening. You must go. You must warn Mama and Papa, Miss Aurelia, and Jeremiah. Those men will hunt for me starting tomorrow. It’s bad enough I got caught. We can’t have more trouble.”
“I still think—”
“Will, do this for me. I’ll travel safer on my own, with just Hope. We’ll be easier to hide.”
“I’ll do it, but I don’t like it,” he grumbled.
After an hour of difficult walking we crossed a muddy lane and Will pointed toward a cluster of buildings. “Doc Harding lives there. So far we’ve had luck tonight. If it keeps up, you’ll have a whale of an adventure. I wish I could go, too.”
An adventure. I used to think like that. But things have changed. I’ve changed.
“No, Will. This isn’t about adventure,” I said, putting both arms around the baby. “This is about saving lives. I’m scared, really scared.”
He threw an arm around me and we walked up the path. Will knocked at the door, two short raps. He waited, knocked twice more.
“Who’s there?” asked a man’s voice from within.
“A Friend with a friend,” Will said.
How many times have I heard just those words when I stand on the other side of the door? Now I’m the friend on the outside. How odd. How very, very odd.
M
ONDAY
, M
ARCH
3, 1851
And so I travel the Railroad.
Dr. Harding said he thought the Cleveland docks would be watched, so he routed us north and east toward Ashtabula and a place they call “Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.” Last night Hope and I lay in a coffin for hours as an undertaker’s wagon bounced along the long road between Ravenna and Chardon.
As I lay there, jostling against the hard, splintery wooden boards, I clasped Hope to my breast and thought about death and dying. About the baby Mama lost last spring. About the mama this baby lost just last week.
Now I’ll lose more. I can’t return home. My heart tears when I count up the people I love. Mama and Papa, Will, Tom, and Miranda—I bring their faces to my mind, gathering them as if they were perishable as summer raspberries. I store them in my memory for the days and weeks to come. Rebecca, Miss Aurelia, Jeremiah Strong.
Jonathan Clark. Even the Cummings family, people I don’t particularly like, grow dear to me at the thought of parting.
Riding in a coffin seems so proper somehow. I mourn all the people I love and cannot return to. More, I mourn my old self. I shall write an obituary—
There once was a girl, a young woman almost, Lucinda Spencer by name. She loved adventures, that girl did, and pranks and mischief. She thought herself a romantic heroine, admired by two young men. She was pleased with herself for having to decide between them. But admiration wasn’t enough; she wanted to stretch her wings and fly out into the world. Now she is a wild goose who wings her way to Canada with no notion of the flyway home
.
T
UESDAY
, M
ARCH
4, 1851
Chardon at last. It took two nights of hard travel, and my back is so sore that even the rough straw in this hayloft feels good.
Chardon. The name reminds me of something. From my studies. If I leave out the
d …
Charon. Is that it? The mythical boatman who ferries dead souls across the river Styx. How very appropriate, for we still ride in a narrow coffin and will soon be carried across the water, never to return home. Oh, Mama! Papa! I miss you so much!
It didn’t have to be this way—I didn’t have to get caught. Why didn’t I travel the Railroad from the start? Perhaps our grief numbed our minds and blurred our caution? Perhaps my white skin gave me the illusion of protection? But there is no protection.
No one is safe from slavery. It destroys people, as it did Cass. It breaks apart families, as it did Emma’s … and now mine. I’m learning terrible lessons, I who like playing teacher.
W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
5, 1851
Through Concord and on to Fairport last night. These names ring with bitter irony. Concord—agreement, peacefulness. I carry no such feelings in my heart. And if the port I rest in this day is fair, I don’t know it, for I hide in a dark, dank cellar. I embarked upon this wretched journey to save Hope, yet it is the child who saves me. For when despair washes over me and my tears flow, she curls closer and warms my frozen spirit. Dear Cass, if only you could have known your daughter. She is sweet and so beautiful, even under these dreadful circumstances.
T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
6, 1851
I am getting better at sleeping in the coffin. I woke only once during the night’s trip from Fairport to Ellensbury, and finally to Ashtabula. We hide this day in Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. I would laugh at the name if I could remember how to laugh. A ship’s captain named Hubbard lives in this house, quite near to the lake. He has dug out a passage from the hidden room where we rest to the shore. When tomorrow night comes we will creep out and wait for a boat to Canada. And then what? Exile?
As I sit here in the gloom, I remember Miss Aurelia’s clean, spacious attic. I think about playing school up there
with Cass. I could do that, at least. Perhaps I could stay awhile in Canada and teach people to read and cipher. It would fill up my days.
I could teach not just one family but many, former slaves who want to learn. At the thought of teaching, I feel something that resembles a smile steal across my face. For the first time since I saw the awful face of Clayton Roberts in Ravenna, life flows in my veins, as if someday I might be whole again.
Miss Aurelia’s face comes to mind. She has a life of her own, a good life. She thinks women are strong. That they can overcome difficulties, make choices. That there is more to life than marrying this boy or that one.