“Gumption has nothing to do with it, Marcus. I am being practical. With two of us chiseling those chains, they will be free in half the time it would take you working alone.” As he considered what I was saying, I stressed my point further. “The sooner they are released, the colder your trail will be by morning.”
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, cocking his head to determine my resolve with his intense eyes. Finally, his resistant posturing relaxed. “Guess there’s no arguin’ with common sense.”
We wasted no more time debating my involvement. With a tight grip on my arm, Marcus kept me running at his side as we followed the line of the field toward the back lot of West Gate. I stumbled when the moon disappeared behind the thickening clouds, erasing all detail around me. We stopped to catch our breath and reorient in the blackness. Marcus pointed toward the lit windows of Uncle Mooney’s manor, which created a beacon across the acreage to our left.
“If we keep the big house down on this side of us and move toward the firelight of them slave quarters up on the hillside, we will run right into the belly of the hound yard. We’ll go up around the back ridge like we done the last time, and come up on the shed from the far side. That will keep us out o’ sight o’ the dogs. With Dead Eye in town, we can dig our way into the shed without bein’ seen from his window.”
I nodded, and we started off again. I was amazed at the ease with which Marcus slipped through the night. The rocks and trees were like trusted accomplices hustling him from one stretch of hidden path to the next. As we pushed our way through a heavy thicket, we emerged into a clearing where the hillside quarters of West Gate rose up over the next knoll. The orange specks of firelit cabins flowed downward like a batch of stars fallen to the earth. The spot marked where we turned south and entered the back lot through a stretch of bare ground between the shed and the carriage house left lifeless in Twitch’s absence.
My heart throbbed under the weight of the perilous vulnerability we carried on our backs. The shed stood dark and silent, the hidden moon beckoning us to hurry. Crouched on our knees, Marcus removed the tools from his satchel and laid them out on the ground. He handed me one of the flat blades and motioned me to mimic his methods. Pushing the sharp end of his hoe between the ground and the baseboard of the shed, he used slow strokes to pull the loosened soil back in a pile between us. I joined in, digging as slowly as he, so our movements could blend amid the unremarkable night sounds around us. We had not gotten far before the subtle shift of chains jangled from inside the shed.
“Lay quiet,” Marcus whispered through the growing hole. “We gonna get you out.” Marcus’s words stirred the chains alive with activity until a husky voice inside shushed them to stillness. The voice whispered from within.
“Who is you?”
“A friend,” Marcus whispered back. The power and importance of what he was doing struck me with awesome clarity. I dug faster, and as we hunched over the ditch, I could feel Marcus’s eyes on me. Without stopping, I let my eyes lift to his and was caressed by the certainty of his belief in me.
When the hole beneath the baseboard was large enough, Marcus flattened on his back and shimmied inside. My awkward attempt to follow him was hindered when the flounce across the waist of my dress caught on the splintered wood. His strong arm appeared through the darkness, hooking around my shoulder and pulling me the rest of the way. Marcus did not realize my dress was snagged, and when the flounce tore loose, the whimper of an awakened hound halted the breath of every soul huddled in the shed. We stood silent as a graveyard. Terror pulsated through my veins and heightened my senses enough to trace the dog’s movement without seeing it. He paced a few steps along the chicken-wire pen. His whimper was not threatening as much as it was confused at being pulled from deep slumber. Heavy panting marked his position as he walked the length of the pen and back. Satisfied the night held nothing worthy of his attention, the hound flopped down, and soon his breathing settled back into the steady rhythm of sleep.
By this time, my eyes had adjusted to the pitch-blackness of the shed. Marcus stood next to me with his hand on my waist, reassuring me with his presence. The six other figures around us were positioned like statues. One stood in the near corner. Three others crouched at intervals along the far wall. The two remaining men were lying on their sides across the dirt floor to my right. The stench of feces, vomit, and rotting flesh made my stomach wrench. Marcus moved from man to man, pulling the rags from their mouths, all the while signaling them not to speak. His movement disrupted a swarm of blowflies, unleashing them in a buzzing swirl against my face. As I brushed the plump insects from my mouth and ears, there was no point in wasting time being appalled by the conditions of the secret prison. Releasing the men from their torture was our only focus.
Marcus gave me a chisel and turned me toward a bearded man standing in the corner to my left. His feet were chained together and his wrists shackled to a heavy chain attached to the wall. Marcus led my hands to the first iron link connecting the man’s wrist shackle to the chain. He guided my hand until the chisel tip was in place against the link. I feared the tapping rock would arouse the dogs, but by using my halved shawl to absorb the sound, we remained undetected. The imprisoned slave wound the slackened length of the chain around his arm, demonstrating his expertise at silencing shackles for the sake of secrecy.
With senses keen like a creature of the night, I worked feverishly to break through the death link poised as my enemy. I had no way to measure the passing time, but the process seemed unending, until I heard the iron snap of chain letting go a few feet away. Marcus had freed the chained wrist of one man, and without celebration began knocking at the shackle on the opposite wrist. The clatter of iron links dropping away brought a flurry of activity from the captives. All but one stood or sat upright, perhaps convinced their chance for escape was now possible. I continued the assault with my chisel until I felt the grip of the link weakening. When the wrist shackle snapped free of the chain, I was so shocked, an exalted yelp sprang from me. I looked up at the once-solemn man who now flexed his unencumbered hand excitedly in front of his face. He no longer had questions in his eyes when he looked at me, but reached out to join me in my effort. I gave him a hoe blade so he could go to work on his other hand. Kneeling at his feet, I tapped at the link closest to the shackle on his ankle. Through the shadows, I felt his eyes on me. I paused long enough to give a soft smile of quiet encouragement. It was hard to be sure, but he appeared to nod in acknowledgment of my heartfelt message.
As more limbs were freed, we gained momentum and rushed toward completion. I crawled toward the man curled on the floor, and when I reached for his wrist, I was chilled by damp, leathery skin, taut and lifeless within my perspiring hand. I drew back with a gasp. Marcus caught and steadied me as I toppled backward. The bearded man I had freed spoke his first words.
“He passed to de other side this mornin’.”
I wiped my hands down the front of my dress, but the cool touch of death remained on my fingertips. Marcus helped me to my feet, pausing briefly over the man. “He is mo’ free of his chains than we is, bless his soul.”
“He is my brother, William,” the man said with tight emotion. He knelt and pulled the corpse into his arms for a farewell embrace. A warm line of tears ran down my cheeks as he rocked and told us William had a wife and three young daughters who would be heartbroken by their father’s disappearance. He vowed he would return to them so they would know William did not desert them. “William, yo’ good heart beats in me now, and I will care fo’ dem likes dey was my own.”
Marcus paused long enough to show respect, then laid a hand on the grieving man’s shoulder. “Loyal brother, William will surely thank you in the by-and-by, but if you want to carry out yo’ promise, we gots’ta get movin’. Sunup is comin’ soon, and we best have a good start befo’ them hounds is sent to hunt us down.”
We all slithered through the hole we had dug earlier and turned to follow Marcus, but within two short steps, a rough, clammy hand latched onto my wrist. Terror burned through me when the ghostly eyes and drooping mouth of Uncle Mooney’s crippled slave woman stared at me through the darkness. Panicked, I tried yanking free of her tight grip, but her lowly moan slowed my struggle. She lifted her bent claw, which was draped in the flounce I had snagged on the shed. She poked it in my direction until I took it from her twisted hand.
Shaken, Marcus stepped beside me. “If we had left proof o’ you behind . . .”
He did not have to finish the thought for horror to fill me. The old woman stepped from the shadows to save my life. “Thank you, kind woman,” I said, welcoming her hand in mine. I tugged her toward me. “Come with us.”
She pulled back and groaned. Holding up her claw, she shook her head as though showing me she was not equipped for the journey. Then poking her hand toward the hillside, she moaned her insistence that we leave. To emphasize the path she had chosen, the crippled woman turned and limped away into the night.
The wheezing breaths of the dogs waned behind us as Marcus pulled us on our way. He picked up the pace so the stiffened joints of the slaves could loosen into a labored trot. Marcus stopped when we reached Castle Rock, marking the path to the peak. The desperate pack of fugitives clung to one another for support. Marcus pointed them forward.
“Follow the path to where it crosses a stream, and wait fo’ me there. I will be right along.”
The men complied and hobbled off. Marcus scanned the shadows around us. “Where’s Livetta? She was s’posed to meet me here. Maybe she got spooked and went on up to the cave.”
“No,” I said, bracing my hand on Marcus’s chest. “Livie’s not coming.”
His chest rose and fell beneath my hand as my words settled in his mind. He grabbed my arms above the elbows and shook me. “She gots’ta come now, Hannah! Comin’ back ain’t gonna be possible once Dead Eye knows he’s been found out. He ain’t gonna know who or how, but he’s gonna realize runaways or sympathizers is underfoot. The path through these hills is gonna disappear when I leave tonight. It’s the only way to keep the movement safe and alive.”
His emotional plea gave me a glimpse at how deeply committed this courageous shepherd was, but I also knew Livie’s commitment to James was as strong and as deep. I removed Livie’s indigo hair ribbon from my pocket and tied it around Marcus’s wrist. “Livie will not leave without James. I cannot convince her otherwise. She asked me to give you this remembrance of her.”
“Then I gots’ta go without her,” he said, gently pressing his warm hand to my cheek. “We will always be bound by our actions. Trust gots’ta begin somewhere, and I’m glad it took hold between us. If our paths ever cross again, you got a friend in me.”
“And you have a friend in me as well,” I said. My eyes closed as he touched his lips to my forehead. “Allow me one last action to seal the bond between us.” I looped my hand under the canary yellow cloth tied around his neck. Rather than let the pain of good-bye peel open my heart, I unraveled his kerchief and tied it around my ankle, so its length dragged on the ground. Honoring the promise that bridged us, I darted through the graying mist to lay a scented path toward the river. When I reached the far edge of the field, I looked back, and Marcus was gone.
Chapter 29
“G
rab him and take him to the whipping post!” Twitch barked as he kicked open Livie’s cabin door. Willy Jack scrambled in and wrestled James to the floor, toppling chairs and an unlit lamp across the room. James used his powerful arms to toss them off, but Willy Jack grabbed the iron poker from the hearth and countered with a blow to the side of James’s head. As he crumpled, Livie cried out at the sight of blood flowing from the gash in James’ scalp. Twitch pulled Livie away from James and shoved her toward me where I stood, shocked and defenseless in the corner of the room.
“Have you gone mad, Twitch?” I said, shielding Livie from his fury. “You have no authority to strike out within our quarters. Leave at once.”
“Not until you tell me what you are doin’ here among the chattel.”
I delivered the most believable lie I could think of. “Livie is nearing her time for birth, so Aunt Augusta sent me to check on her. I was unaware James had returned home.”
Twitch scrutinized my words and expression. I had no doubt why he was here. His bounty was gone, and someone would be held accountable. We barely had time to tell James what had transpired in his absence when they burst into the cabin. Willy Jack’s swollen and bloodied face told me he had been the first to pay for Twitch’s secret loss. Apparently, James would be the second. Left dazed and unable to resist, James was quickly shackled, despite our protest.
“There was an accident with some . . . livestock while I was away, and Willy Jack pointed out James’s shoddy work was likely responsible. Fact is, I think it was purposeful. I may not have the right to lay a whip to any of your Runians without Augusta’s permission, but James is still the property of Mooney Reynolds, which means his hide belongs to me!”
I could do little but hold on to Livie as they dragged James away. I had to intervene in some way, but knew there would be no support from Aunt Augusta or Uncle Mooney. If I could get word to Colt, perhaps he could return home and mediate on James’s behalf. After all, he still had some influence on West Gate’s activities. I assured Livie I would find a way to help James. Aunt Augusta was puzzled by my request to have Winston drive me to town. She initially balked at my request, but I was not deterred so easily.
“I am not a child begging for a pony ride,” I stated with my arms folded and poised for an argument. “You keep saying I should mingle more often with the girls of our social circle, but how can it be so if I spend all my time up here on the mountain?”
“Very well, Hannalore,” she said without resistance. “I will instruct Winston to be at your disposal for the day.”
By midmorning, we were on our way. Winston drove the carriage with more snap of the rein than was his custom. Rather than ask him to slow the horses, I clutched the bench seat to keep from bouncing from my cushion. Unfortunately, the wooden seat top was hinged to allow for storage beneath it, so it slammed open and shut, tossing me like a bronco buster in a rodeo.
“ ’Scuse the rough ride, Miz Hannah,” Winston called as the carriage slowed. “But I figured you is in a hurry.”
We reached the bend where the county road continued south and the town road forked to the left. My plan was to nonchalantly direct Winston toward a brief interlude in Lows Hollow under the guise of surprising Colt with an unexpected visit. Colt had yet to return to West Gate since learning Twitch was his half brother. He had buried himself in medicine while taking residence with Dr. Waverly in Lows Hollow. Uncle Mooney made one trip to try to cajole Colt to return, but offered no explanation or apology for the deception. Father and son had not spoken since. In all the commotion, I had not made clear my destination to Winston. So I was aghast when the carriage squealed to a halt and Winston came down to speak with me through the window.
“I’ll continue on down de county road toward Lows Hollow if dat is what pleases you, miz.”
“Winston, how did you know my plan was to get to Colt?” He smiled his
we’ve got a secret
smile, which I reflected back in appreciation.
“Jes’ keepin’ my ear to de ground, miz.” Without further explanation, he climbed back into the driver’s seat and coaxed the horses back to a full gallop. I was deeply relieved at not having to weave untruths to explain my unexplainable actions. Now I could concentrate on the greater challenge of convincing Colt to involve himself in matters he had repeatedly warned me to stay clear of.
Dr. Waverly maintained a small office from within his home near the town center of Lows Hollow. A shingle bearing his name hung from the pillar of an abundant porch shading three freshly whitewashed rocking chairs. Colt bounded out of the door toward us, the sound of our carriage announcing our arrival.
“Hannah!” He grinned. “What a pleasant surprise. I was just sealing a letter to you.”
I desperately tried to greet Colt with the same enthusiasm, but he instantly recognized the distress on my face. His smile turned to concern once he sensed it was not a social visit bringing me to him. Winston did not dismount, as was his practice when Colt addressed him with a warm hello.
“You sho’ is a welcome sight, Mista Colt,” Winston said, lifting his hat. “But if we is gonna get back befo’ nightfall, I best water de hosses, and turn de wheels back de way we came.”
“I shall explain on the way,” I said to Colt as he looked at me to answer the questions dancing in his eyes. “James’s life is in danger, and I fear Twitch will kill him if you do not intervene. He is being severely punished because of activity for which I bear responsibility. I pray it’s not too late.”
At the mention of Twitch’s name, Colt darted up the cobblestones to the house. He was gone but a minute, then returned with his medical bag and a hastily stuffed satchel of clothing clutched beneath his arm. As we set off on the road home, I spoke openly and honestly about what had transpired. I did not want to gain Colt’s assistance under false pretences or half-truths. I told him of Marcus’s return and of our discovery of abducted slaves imprisoned in the back lot of West Gate. I revealed the plan Marcus confided in me and how I assisted him in their escape.
“Thieving bastard,” Colt muttered, his eyes ablaze with outrage. “Twitch is a snake among snakes. It sheds light on how his slave catching is so profitable within the small timeframe he devotes to it. He steals the slaves of others and holds them in the shed until they are posted with fat rewards.”
“And if there is no reward,” I said, completing the picture, “they die or are sold. Either outcome means they are never heard from again.”
Colt raked his fingers through his hair to straighten the thoughts jumbled in his mind. “I have no doubt my father knows of Twitch’s sordid little side business. In fact, he most likely is profiting from it, even if he’s receiving only a small percentage based on supporting Twitch in silence.”
I wished I could have objected, if for no other reason than to comfort Colt. However, I too believed Uncle Mooney’s involvement was absolute. My wondering went a step further.
“Do you think Aunt Augusta is involved as well?”
“My concern is, why are
you
involved?” Colt’s question was delivered through rock-hard eyes. “You have crossed a dangerous line. One I repeatedly cautioned you not to breach. You must detach yourself now, and without delay.”
I reached for his hand. “Please don’t be angry with me. I heeded your warning—honestly, I did. However, a call to action came from within me. I am not acting on foolish impulse. I have grown in confidence and conviction, trusting what my heart tells me even when the stakes are high and at odds with standard tradition.”
“You are a bright and sensible woman,” Colt said, turning away as if he were more comfortable speaking to the passing countryside. “So I shall not scold you like a child. Besides, there is no admonishment I can give you that has not crossed your mind at some point. It makes me wonder, though.” Colt paused uncomfortably. “Why are you risking your life and reputation? Who has awakened this fire of enlightenment in you?”
“Livie’s friendship has changed me. It has given me a glimpse into the life of our Runians and others like them. I am ashamed of what I see. Men and women treated as less than human. I have spent time among them, am acquainted with them now as people, and I cannot stand by, indifferent to their abuse.”
Colt’s silence chilled me. My nonconforming beliefs fully exposed and held in judgment, I chose not to reveal myself any further. Was Colt a friend or an adversary? Perhaps I had crossed the line in his eyes too?
“Livetta has been with you for more than a year,” he said slowly, “without incident or threat of running off.” He finally turned to face me, his glistening eyes taking me by surprise. “You are doing it for
him
, aren’t you?”
I hesitated, not wanting to cause him any unnecessary pain. My actions may have concerned Colt, but it was my motivation that had shaken him. I rejoiced within, relieved I had not lost my trusted ally. Years of closeness made me easy to read, so I could not deny the undercurrent he sensed swirling in me.
“Him?” My attempt at innocence was unconvincing.
“When we first helped Marcus, I saw a glint of tender admiration in your gaze as he spoke of his quest for freedom,” Colt said with a wounded smile. “Even I was impressed with his raw devotion to Livetta and his commitment to see the others onward. I was relieved when he left, and convinced myself afterward it was the dance of firelight against the cave walls that filled your eyes with enthrallment.”
“I apologize for being distracted lately,” I said with honest assertion. “But it is not what you think.”
“Now he has returned, and there are no cave walls to explain the twinkle in your eyes. Oh, how I envy him having that power over you.”
With greater issues at hand, I prickled with frustration at his boyish jealousy. “I will not deny taking a great risk for Marcus, but I am also doing it for Livetta and James. And for some others passing near enough for me to offer merciful assistance. I will not harbor guilt for doing what my heart tells me, because there is no shame in finding a worthwhile purpose.”
Colt gripped my shoulders with passionate exasperation. “Do you think I don’t understand matters of the heart?”
“ ’Scuse me, Miz Hannah,” Winston called down from his perch. “We is comin’ up on de plantation road. Should I leave you off at de big house befo’ takin’ Mista Colt over yonder to Massa Reynolds place?”
“No, Winston,” I stammered as Colt released me and turned away. “We must press on to West Gate. Please, hurry!”
The two plantations loomed at opposite ends of the ridge above us. Swallowed in the shadows cast by a disappearing sun, the properties stood like fortresses braced for an expected assault. As dusk surrendered to night, Winston bypassed the entrance to Hillcrest and turned the horses toward the west. I saw no sign of Aunt Augusta in the yard or watching from any window of the house. I released an anxious breath. If she was unaware of our return, there would be one less obstacle keeping us from James.
Under Colt’s instruction, Winston halted the horses at the front entrance of West Gate’s carriage house, its frame masking the secrets hidden behind in the back lot. There was no activity other than the movement of lanterns along the foothills, where a handful of slaves moved among the pigsties, wearily slopping the hogs. Colt helped me from the carriage, and I quickly led him around the building to the back lot. Across the dirt yard, the shed door stood open and illuminated by a lantern hanging from a bent nail plunged in its center. We hurried toward the shed; the low gurgle and moans from within quickened our pace.
The hounds went berserk at the sight of us. I broke into a sprint toward the light. Colt’s long stride kept him two paces in front of me. The halo of lantern light enveloped us as we rushed toward the shed. I screamed when our steps were cut short by Twitch as he burst through the open door to confront us. He clenched the barrel of a rifle in one hand and a bullwhip in the other.
“Well, looky here,” he said, snarling through his twisted whiskers. “The prodigal son has returned. Did your little tart lead you back by the nose?”
“Let me in there,” Colt growled as he pushed to get by him. Twitch was not giving any ground, so when they erupted into a tussle, the penned dogs ignited into a frenzy that could barely be contained by the gnarled wire of the pen. Twitch used the length of his shotgun to shove Colt back against me. Holding the weapon squarely against Colt’s chest, Twitch spat a vicious warning.
“What goes on back here is my business. Now get on outta here before one o’ them dogs gets out and rips you apart.”
Twitch shifted just enough for me to see James hanging limply from a beam in the back corner of the shed, strung up by his arms. The skin on his back was sliced open with rows of fresh wounds, each oozing blood down the length of him. Thick, red blood puddled in the dirt beneath his dangling feet. Willy Jack rubbed salt brine into the sores, raising agonizing cries from James’s tortured body. The beating must have been inflicted on and off all day, because Willy Jack did not look much better than James, and appeared near collapse.
“Cut him down at once and let me tend to his wounds,” Colt demanded.
“I could blow a hole through you, front to back, Purebred, and not lose one wink of sleep. So you better turn tail and get on back to your own business.”
“Stop, Twitch, I beg you.” I had little hope of reasoning with him, but I refused to remain silent. “Nothing will be gained if you beat him to death.”
“I told you this mornin’ to say out of it, girl. Anyways, it’s your fault, the way I see it. Never had no trouble with James till he married up with your uppity wench. Can’t trust none of ’em.”
I grabbed a shovel and lifted it over my shoulder. “Unless you plan to shoot both of us, I demand you lower your gun and release James.”
“What’s going on here!” a voice bellowed from behind me. Twitch’s dead eye flinched and he immediately lowered his gun. Uncle Mooney stormed up and yanked the rifle from his bastard son’s hand. “Have you lost your mind, boy? Raising arms against your own blood?”