Authors: Katherine Ayres
T
HURSDAY
, J
ANUARY
2, 1851
Gray and cloudy. I don’t care for it one bit. A new year should be bright and shiny, like a new penny.
Thomas found a young injured doe in the woods this morning and brought her home. From the looks of her right hind leg, she got too close to a set of sharp teeth. He and Miranda are tending the frail thing in the barn.
William took one look at the deer, grinned, and said, “Venison.”
Tom and Miranda outvoted him. Mama and Papa agreed.
I suggested we name her Titania, for the queen of the fairies. Tom likes Victoria, for the English queen. Miranda will think about the names and choose one, as she usually does. In either case, she’ll raid Mama’s yarn basket for colorful scraps and beg me to help her braid a queen’s collar and crown for this newest waif.
The queen, whether Titania or Victoria, will join the others in the spare stall. Just now Tom and Miranda have
Hamlet, a duck who thinks he’s a horse, Ophelia, a lopsided chicken, and Brutus, a half-grown runty barn cat with a torn ear.
Will says Mama and Papa are soft with the younger two, but I disagree. I think our parents let them keep these creatures as pets since we can’t have dogs, like most farm families do. Why, we can’t even let any of the barn cats grow tame and come inside. For cats or dogs might make noise and give everything away. All the strays have to stay in the barn, at a safe distance. I help with this by pretending to sneeze whenever I get too close to fur.
But still, someday when we no longer need to keep such a quiet house, wouldn’t it be nice to have a puppy?
F
RIDAY
, J
ANUARY
3, 1851
Gray, gray, and more gray. Sometimes I think winter wears a drab Quaker’s dress. But I am a Presbyterian! I am allowed bright colors. Will the sun ever return?
S
ATURDAY
, J
ANUARY
4, 1851
Tonight is more than half gone, yet I sit here and shiver beside the fire, unable to sleep. Pictures run through my mind; I hear echoes of Friend Whitman’s capture. He will be bound over for a hearing with the harsh man in Canton. Worse luck.
My night’s adventure started as it usually does, with a sound—pebbles at the window brought me awake. My heartbeat quickened and energy surged through me like flames. I reached under the bed for my boots and for
William’s outgrown corduroy trousers and thick woolen jacket.
The bare floor chilled my feet as I crept from the bed, taking care not to awaken Miranda. I stole from our room, my odd clothing bundled under one arm, and made my way to the dark kitchen.
Like an owl in the night, I listened for the smallest rustle while I drew on the trousers, then the boots. As I buttoned the old woolen jacket over my nightgown the knocks came. Two short raps. Silence. Then two more.
I strode to the door. “Who’s there?”
“A Friend with a friend,” came the reply.
I lifted the bar from the door and opened it. A chill wind rushed in. On the other side of the door, in the deepness of the night, stood Jeremiah Strong and two others.
“Sister Spencer,” he said. “Has thee room for wayfarers? They have come a long way.”
“We’ve room and food as well,” I said. “Come in. Welcome.”
Two men entered the kitchen and stood silent, which was the usual way of things. The young Quaker stayed outside.
“Jeremiah, will you come in and take a bite of corn bread?”
He shook his head. “I must ride or the rising sun will catch me. God bless.” He stepped off into the darkness.
I checked each window and drew the curtains tight, for I knew not what eyes watched the night. Then I hurried to feed the visitors.
The men wore ragged clothing. Their grateful smiles
and uninterrupted eating told me they were hungry. I sat beside the hearth and played with the low embers of the fire, so as not to seem to watch them eat. Curious as I was about where they’d come from and how, I asked no questions. This was Papa’s rule, for the less we knew, the less we’d have to hide.
As they filled plates a second time I glanced toward the door and listened hard for sounds of pursuit. My heart thumped, its rhythm out of control. What dangers waited for these men outside our barred door and curtained windows? No. I dared not think such thoughts, for I still had work to do.
When they finished eating, I led them deep into the earth under our house, through the root cellar and into the hidden room. There they would pass the night in safety and comfort, for we always had blankets and straw pallets prepared.
The men would sleep well. They had run for days, perhaps weeks, with pursuers close behind. But I wouldn’t sleep much. I never could. I climbed back into bed, and tossed this way and that. I hid my head under my pillow, but in my mind I heard the baying of hounds, saw their sharp teeth flash, felt myself running, always running, but never fast enough, never far enough.
In truth, excitement beats in my heart as strongly as fear—for I fancy myself a heroine, a woman of courage right out of the pages of one of Mr. Dickens’s novels. So I sit here and write. I let my mind spin fearsome and bold pictures on these cold nights when, under cover of darkness, I fling the cloak of Moses around my shoulders and conduct the business of Egypt—freedom.
S
UNDAY
, J
ANUARY
5, 1851
A
FTERNOON
Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a Presbyterian. Drat the Reverend Cummings, anyway. He gives such spineless sermons, I’d doze even if I’d had a full night’s sleep.
Lucky Mama. She and Tom stayed home today to guard our visitors. We told the church ladies she’d suffered a lowering of spirits, our usual excuse. It could be true, for Mama lost a baby last spring, and some women take a long time to recover. But Mama’s cheeks are rosy and her chestnut hair glows in the firelight. I’m the one who looks pale and tired. I should have been allowed to miss services.
But then I’d have missed all the excitement.
I took the usual teasing on the ride to church. As I climbed up beside him, Papa boomed at me, “A slugabed again, daughter? Eating your breakfast on the wagon?” He winked and laughed, making crinkle lines around his eyes. “Fine wife you’ll make someday.”
“Jonathan Clark’s wife?” Will asked. He sat in the hay behind Papa and me and kept hold of Miranda. “Tom and me have a nickel on when you’ll marry him.”
I turned to glare. He shook his head and grinned. Papa’s grin on Mama’s face: a wicked combination.
“A nickel?” Miranda asked. “Papa, may I have a nickel, too, when Lucy marries Jonathan Clark?”
My cheeks burned. “I haven’t decided
if
I’ll marry Jonathan, let alone
when
.” But I did like him. And I’d see him soon.
The warm church welcomed us, and I loosened my
coat. We followed Papa up the aisle to our regular pew. Will’s elbow poked my ribs when Jonathan stopped to say good morning.
“Look at them calf’s eyes,” Will whispered. “He’s got it bad.”
I smiled back at Jonathan and elbowed my brother. “Just you wait, Will Spencer. When you get sweet on some girl I’ll torment you till kingdom come.”
“Never,” he said.
The organ called us to stand and sing.
A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing
. Miranda’s high voice mingled with Papa’s bass, and I felt surrounded by God’s love and my family’s.
Then another voice joined the singing. A fine, mellow tenor rose from the other side of Miranda.
I turned and saw a man at the end of our pew in Mama’s usual place—a stranger with longish dark hair slicked back, wearing fancy gentleman’s clothing. I listened as he sang and caught words that sounded unusual.
Power
came out “powah,”
hate
sounded like “height.”
The hymn ended. Miranda wriggled, and I reached into my pocket for a peppermint, a bribe to keep her still through the long service. The man caught my eye and smiled. And then he winked at me. In church! His eyes were the brightest blue.
Fire rose in my cheeks. Who was this man? He was way past twenty, too old for me to notice. But hard as I tried to pay attention to the sermon, my eyes returned to the handsome stranger.
As Reverend Cummings pronounced the benediction
the man slipped out the side aisle. When I reached the churchyard he was deep in conversation with several of the men. Papa and Will strode over to join them. Drat! If I were a boy, I could follow.
Miranda ran off to join a clutch of little girls spinning in their Sunday dresses. My dear friend Rebecca Carter took me by the arm and rescued me from the church ladies. She giggled and tossed her head, her bright gold hair afire in the sunlight. “Such a dull service. I’m in the mood for mischief,” she said. “Remember the day we switched the privy signs behind the church?”
“Who could forget old Mrs. Cooper’s face?” I grinned. “And what about the time we hid that bullfrog inside the pulpit?
Cr-roak. Cr-roak
. Let’s plan something.”
Rebecca laughed out loud. Her mother came up and tugged on her arm. “Father has the wagon ready. Have you giggled enough?”
“No!” we said together.
“You can’t take her home.” I pulled on Rebecca’s other arm.
Her mother smiled. “I’d like to visit with your mother. You girls haven’t had much time together since Christmas.”
“We haven’t. Please—come Wednesday for the midday meal.”
Mrs. Carter steered Rebecca toward the waiting wagon. As I waved goodbye I caught the stranger’s profile again. He lifted his blue eyes to me. He was talking to Papa. I itched to know who he was. I did better at pranks than patience.
“Good morning, Lucinda.”
I pulled my attention away from the stranger. Jonathan Clark stood at my side.
“Lucinda?” He took my hand and squeezed it.
“I’m sorry, Jonathan—still humming that last hymn,” I lied.
“Pa smells a January thaw. Ma wants a gathering before the blizzards hit and we get snowed in. The women will have a quilting bee, and the men will clear a piece of woodlot. Friday. Please come.”
Jonathan looked at me with serious blue eyes, paler than the stranger’s, I decided, but ready to smile if I said yes.
“Of course we’ll come.” A party was as good as a prank. Better!
Jonathan smiled, and his eyes lightened as if a cloud had passed by and gone. His plain, square face came alive, just for me.
I wished we weren’t in the churchyard, surrounded by all our neighbors. If only we could ride off in Jonathan’s wagon instead, and he could steal kisses … But Mama needed me at home this afternoon, worse luck.
I glanced again at the stranger. “Who is that man? He sat in Mama’s place for the service.”
“What? Do I have a rival, Lucinda? A tall, dark stranger?”
“Don’t be silly. I can’t be interested in him, he’s too old.” Another fib. And on a Sunday. For shame.
“Sorry, I don’t know much,” Jonathan said. He
shrugged. “I wanted to catch you before your pa got his team hitched.” Jonathan hurried off to catch up with his parents, leaving me to wonder about the stranger.
Later at home, when Miranda was out of hearing, Papa shared what he’d discovered. “He’s a Southern man. Asked for our help, as good Christians,” Papa said. A scowl cut a harsh line across his face. “He’s lost ten slaves and offers a thousand dollars for their recovery.”
“A thousand dollars?” Mama asked. Her lips drew into a tight line. “That’s the same as the penalty that hangs over Friend Whitman.”
“That blasted law,” Will said. “It’s a crime against God and nature, that’s what it is.”
I agreed. “So much money!”
“The price of our whole farm,” Papa said. “Times the twenty-six wild geese we helped last year alone. And two more now.”
I can barely imagine the numbers. I can see the people easily enough. I remember every worried face. But the money. Tens of thousands of dollars. Fines like that would buy up our whole town.
And I had admired this handsome Southern man’s smile! What in the name of Sunday was the matter with me?
S
UNDAY
, J
ANUARY
5, 1851
L
ATE EVENING
Waiting! I hate it. These nights are the worst. I think of runaways who travel across frozen fields, who wade
through icy creeks to escape, and a shiver crawls up my spine.
It’s late. Mama and I sit alone by the fire. Papa’s out, driving our two visitors to the Quaker doctor in Ravenna, the next station. I write, or try to, while Mama rocks in her chair, her knitting needles clicking.
“Go on to bed, Lucinda. One of us should get some sleep.”
“Please, Mama. Not till I know they’re safe. Besides, I’d wake Miranda.”
Mama nodded. “Catch an extra hour of sleep tomorrow, then. The washing won’t take all day.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“It’s a blessing most of the travelers come now, when the rivers freeze over,” Mama continued. “In the summer, with the crops and the garden, we’re so busy.”
“But we’ll get busier still,” I said. “That Fugitive Slave Act. More and more people will be coming north.” I looked toward the window. Where was Papa? He should be home by now.
It wasn’t always this difficult. At least, I don’t remember such worries. Of course, Papa and Mama protected me from their activities at the beginning, when I was too young. They spoke of wild Canada geese. We still use those words as a code, to keep Miranda’s ears from hearing things.
Mama and Papa have run a station from this house for nine years. Papa says God tugged on his conscience and sent him an abolitionist newspaper. It didn’t occur to him to say no to God’s call.
I’ve been helping since I was twelve, four years ago.
Will, thirteen, and now Tom, at nine, both join in, and it’s a good thing, for so many more people are coming north.
I’d like to hide a bullfrog in President Fillmore’s bed. He signed that dratted Fugitive Slave Act. God help us all. Used to be, free states were safe. Used to be, once a person crossed the Ohio River, he could change his name and disappear into a new life. No one could take him back south. Those days are gone now. Only Canada is safe. And for many, Ohio is the shortest route to Canada. We’ll see more slaves, and more catchers too. I know it.