Chapter 3
“W
e should spark a fire befo’ it gets too dark,” Marcus said as he unbuttoned his shirt and laid it across his dozing sister. My eyes were drawn to the darkened scars crossing his back like latticework. When he turned toward me, the beam of light from above cascaded across his bare chest, highlighting its smooth, deep color. He caught me in my curiosity, and I flushed when he shifted his stance slightly so the light could illuminate two long scars halving his body from right shoulder to left hip. There in the heavenly glow, Marcus wore the markings on his chest with pride and fierceness, unlike the lines on his back. He allowed me my peeking glances until my bold regard caused my cheeks to tingle with embarrassment. His blank stare dared me to ask about his scars, but instead I ran my hand along the gun barrel propped against my hip. I truly did not know what to make of this creature. Yet try as I might to disengage, I could not take my eyes off of him.
“I don’t know how to make a fire,” I finally mustered.
A bemused grumble rose in his throat. “Ain’t surprised. You look like a fine missus, which means you prob’ly don’t know nothin’ about nothin’.”
I would have been offended by his remark if what he said had not been true. But I had a prideful streak too, so I threw back my shoulders and huffed. “Well, I may not know how to do much, but I am doing
this
,” I said, motioning toward the girl. “Perhaps you should be a bit grateful.”
He tipped his head slightly and puzzled over me a moment. “Fair enough,” he finally said as he brushed by me with an impatient smirk. “But
grateful
ain’t a word I rightly use.” Marcus turned and paused in the cave entrance. His eyes surveyed the forest beyond. Satisfied there were no slave catchers lying in wait for him, he crawled out, then popped his head back inside. “I’m fetchin’ some wood for a fire. You sit with Livetta till I get back. And unless you is fixin’ to blow a second hole in her, I would set yo’ gun aside. I think it’s done enough harm for one day.”
Once Marcus had gone, I nudged sheepishly in Livetta’s direction to get a closer look. I sat alongside her on the pine needles and watched her short, troubled breaths. I put Colt’s rifle aside, although well within reach should I need it. The cloth Colt had pressed into her wound was partially blood soaked. However, the stains were not bright red, but rather a brownish shade of crimson, indicating the blood was stagnant and drying. Livetta’s teardrop face was dark and waxy, with barely a mark or blemish except for a small, round birthmark below her left eye. Its blackness punctuated her cherrywood complexion, and her hair was pulled in tight braids behind each ear. Tiny curls spiraled free along her forehead, and a smattering of twigs and grass poked throughout the coarse strands matted to her head. I reached to pull a hemlock leaf from one of her braids when her eyes popped open with a gasp. She lifted the back of her hand across her face as if bracing to be struck.
“I don’t wish to hurt you, Livetta,” I said, as she peered between her fingers. I tugged the leaf free and held it up to her as proof. “You see?”
Blinking at my words, she lowered her hand and the air of fear dissipated between us. Her expression changed to one of confusion. She did not speak, though a hundred thoughts could be seen dancing in her eyes. She lay still, watching me until her lids squeezed shut and her mouth opened in a silent wail. Livetta pressed the palm of her hand over her wound and sobbed softly.
“Don’t cry, girl,” Marcus hushed as he twisted through the entrance with one arm clutching a pile of brown, deadened pine branches, and the other dragging a decaying tree stump the size of a steer’s head, horn to horn. He dropped them in the center of the cave, then moved to Livetta’s side. Marcus rested his hand on her head and brushed his thumb from the bridge of her nose upward over her forehead.
“You feel cold and damp, sister,” he said with a frown. “Marcus is gonna warm you up like biscuits risin’ in the hot sunshine.” Marcus paced the center of cave, stopping every other stride to knock the heel of his torn brogans against the crusty dirt floor. Directly under the rock flue, his foot thudded into soft soil. He dropped to his hands and knees, then burrowed his fingers into the ground, pushing a mound of soil to one side to reveal a blackened bed of dead ash beneath the overturned dirt.
“Well, looky here,” Marcus said to nobody in particular. “Somebody already done dug us a fire pit.” He then reached for the pile of harvested pines and began patiently pulling each branch through his fist. As he pulled, a shower of dry needles toppled into the hole until each branch was stripped bare and a hefty blanket of needles filled the ditch. Paying no mind to me, Marcus continued on, snapping the branches to a uniform size and standing them up against each other over the bed of needles like a miniature Indian tepee. Digging deep in his pocket, he pulled out two flint rocks no bigger than a pig’s eye. Holding them down at the edge of the ditch, Marcus skillfully struck one to the other without pause until a wisp of smoke began rising from the sparked, dry needles. Soon a small fire was crackling within the tented branches, and once the flames took hold, Marcus broke off a section of the stump and positioned it until the wood ignited with a hiss, creating a comforting glow within the dimming cave.
“Why doesn’t Livetta speak?” I asked as I moved opposite Marcus and sat next to the fire.
Not feeling the need to look up at me, Marcus coaxed the fire to life with a long stick. With each poke, bursts of sparks swarmed above our heads like angry bees tormented from their hive. “What’chu want her to say? ‘Thanks for shootin’ me; I am much obliged’?”
“I didn’t shoot her,” I stated firmly. “Anyway, it was an accident.”
“Don’t matter.” He shrugged to distance himself from me. “Ain’t breakin’ no laws spillin’ the blood of a colored.”
I paused for a moment before answering. “It matters to me. Why, I wouldn’t swat a fly even if it landed in the middle of my breakfast marmalade.”
“Well, Livetta ain’t no fly!” he said with a fierce jab, sending a cloud of smoke and sparks to the ceiling. “Point is, she don’t have to talk to the likes of you if she don’t wanna.”
We sat in silence with nothing but the crackling fire to ease the tension between us. From the angle of the late-day sun bending through the smoky opening above, I surmised I should begin my trek back down the mountain. Aunt Augusta would surely question me if I returned after sundown. I thought about Winston and the whipping he had taken because of me. So much had happened since I ran off from town. I never could have imagined my footsteps were leading me here, to a secret cavern with two runaways. Was I trying to ease my guilt? If so, it wasn’t working. I could make no sense of my actions, and like Winston had earlier, I knew who would pay for my mistakes if we were found out.
The pounding of boots through the brush outside froze Marcus’s eyes to mine. He leapt up and broke off a leg of the stump and wielded it in his hands as he backed into the shadows. I rushed to Livetta’s bed and grabbed the gun. I turned and pointed it at the entrance just as Colt squeezed through with a large cotton satchel slung across his shoulder.
“It was only Mac Prentiss hunting rabbit.”
“Mac?” I said as I let the rifle relax in my grip.
“The hounds,” he answered as he dropped the sack at his feet. “Mac Prentiss was hunting rabbit in the hollows between the meadow and the river. But just to be safe, I ran down along the riverbank with the neckerchief and rubbed scent on some rocks and trees. I tossed it in the current so it couldn’t be tracked back up here.”
My jaw dropped in amazement, because I feared when Colt returned it would be on the shoulder of Uncle Mooney and Twitch, armed with leg irons and bullwhips. But to my relief, Colt’s loyalty to me had spared Livetta and Marcus, at least for the moment. What would happen beyond today was a thought I chased from my mind. Yet part of me could not help wondering why I cared so much.
“I doubled back to West Gate for some supplies,” he said, as Marcus reappeared from the shadows. Colt emptied the sack, which contained two wool blankets, a generous slice of cheese, and several pieces of corn bread wrapped in linen cloth. “It isn’t much, but I did not want to arouse suspicion.”
He arranged the offerings together and handed them to Marcus, who accepted the food without hesitation. Colt stood and warmed his hands by the fire. “I see you found my burning pit.”
“These yo’ chicken bones too?” Marcus said, pointing to a collection of bones scattered in the shadows nearby.
“I sometimes come here at night when I’m hunting raccoon,” Colt said with an anxious tug of his ear. “There’s a bucket behind the rock over there. You can use it to fetch water from the stream up over the next hill.”
Marcus offered nothing more than a grudging nod of his head. He studied Colt with confused disdain. “Why you helpin’ us?”
“You best move on by tomorrow,” Colt said, with stern warning. “It’s not safe for you in these parts, do you understand?”
Colt turned and looked at me with a flat expression that was out of character for him, and therefore I did not know how to interpret its meaning. He took the rifle from me and grabbed me roughly by the elbow. Before I had a chance to speak, he had me at the cave’s entrance. With one last hard glare, he turned to Marcus. “You are on your own now.”
As we parted, I somehow knew the four of us were not likely to untangle so easily.
Chapter 4
B
eaming warm against my right cheek, the western sun settled low in the sky as Colt and I retraced our steps down from the peak. We spoke not one word, though the message I received was clear: I was shamed for putting him in such a precarious position. What I chose for myself was one thing. . . . However, what I brought on someone else was another matter entirely.
When we reached the upper fields of Hillcrest, Colt and I stood silent along the tree line, taking in the view. The greening tobacco acreage lay before us, sloping down to the main house. It sat majestic and picturesque on a knoll to our left where the rear of the house overlooked a wooded ridge that receded to the Red Hawk River. The river’s flow bent southward around the town of Echo Ridge, which nestled out of sight in a vale beyond the plantation limits. Whitewashed fence posts framed a red dirt road stretching across the front yard to the carriage house sitting below us on the right. The lane turned southward, and divided the lower fields like a rusty plow cutting its way through the acreage below. The road sliced through the distant hickory timberline before disappearing in the direction of town. West of the carriage house and farther to our right, the property dropped into a stretch of sunken flatland known as Mud Run, where the slave quarters huddled among the hickory trees. I watched Elijah carry a bucket of water to his mother, Esther Mae, who stood, hands on hips, in the doorway of their cabin.
“Aunt Augusta has returned from town,” I said, motioning toward Mud Run. “I see Elijah tending his chores. He was at the mercantile with us and witnessed his father’s run-in with Twitch.”
“I see no sign of Winston,” Colt said.
The peacefulness of the view was whisked away by the thought of Winston. His routine usually brought him to the open doors of the carriage house at this time of day. Without fail, he could be found brushing down the horses in the glow of the setting sun. His absence weighted my heart and forced my eyes across the tobacco fields toward West Gate.
Because of the sharp drop of the fields in the distance, only the upper half of West Gate peered over the hill. The wood-shingled rooftops of the barn and sties dropped out of sight beyond the house, and though the pigs and hogs could rarely be heard from where we stood, an indignant turn of the wind reminded us of their presence. In the crook of the mountainside edging its way northward from Uncle Mooney’s homestead was a two-story carriage house where Twitch lived above the wagons and horses. Behind the carriage house and hidden in the pines were two makeshift outbuildings and a wire dog pen, where Twitch kept his bloodthirsty hounds. The back lot was draped in eeriness. Everyone, including Uncle Mooney, kept their distance from it. West Gate’s slave quarters dotted the hillside of Uncle Mooney’s upper fields and were the only part of his estate that rose high enough for us to see completely from our front porch. There were twice as many cabins on the far hill than at Hillcrest, although half of West Gate’s slave force worked Aunt Augusta’s tobacco fields, an arrangement that profited Uncle Mooney nearly as much as his Virginia hams.
“You must not speak of this to anyone, Hannah.”
I looked over at Colt; he stood stiff and gazing straight ahead. He was an honest and forthright man, and the strain of our actions was evident in the furrow of his brow.
“Do you think they will be all right?”
“It’s done, Hannah,” he said, turning to me with tired eyes. “Whatever their fate . . .” He paused to find the right words. “It is out of our hands. Do you understand?”
I suppose he wanted some gesture of agreement from me, but mostly I felt turned upside down. A sigh was all I could muster. “I better return to Hillcrest and face the punishment Aunt Augusta has in wait for me. She was enraged by my indiscretion in town.”
Colt took my elbow and turned me to face him. “Forget what happened in town. It is the indiscretion that followed that should frighten you. This is not a little girl’s game, Hannah. If anyone ever finds out what we did, we’ll have hell brought down upon us. You must purge them from your mind, or Augusta’s wrath will be the least of your worries.”
A chill ran down my spine upon hearing Colt’s warning. I hiked my skirt off my ankles and took off down through the fields toward Hillcrest. I heard Colt calling after me, “Remember what I said.”
I continued running until I reached the yard. There I slowed and caught my breath before going inside. I brushed my soiled skirt as best I could, then stepped softly up the porch steps and through the front door. Inside, the house was blanketed in stillness except for the sound of Winston’s mother, Granny Morgan, who was busy bringing in supper from the cookhouse out back. Most of the food was prepared there and then brought into the kitchen, where she arranged it for Esther Mae to serve. Her lowly voice sang a sorrowful tune that stirred a guilt-ridden ache inside me, so I rushed up the stairs to the second floor and retreated down the hallway to my bedchamber.
The pale rose of my window dressings and bedcovers welcomed me from the strange events of the day. I closed the door and drew in a long, calming breath. My room cornered the front of the house nearest the peak. It was the smallest room on the second floor, but had two windows that kept it airy and bright. The view from the front window peered across the front yard to where our land dipped into the southern tip of Mud Run. Looming from the adjoining valley were the head and shoulders of West Gate, poised in the shadows, watching and judging me.
The second window overlooked the side yard in the direction of the upper fields. Pulling the silk window dressings aside, I saw Colt making his way across the upper tree line before disappearing over the hill toward West Gate’s main house. My heart tightened as the door behind me creaked open.
“Where have you been, Hannalore?” I turned into the assault of Aunt Augusta’s icy glare.
“I went for a walk in the meadow,” I said, careful not to say too much.
“You were in the meadow the entire time?” She stepped nearer, with a suspicious cock of her head. I held my breath as her eyes shifted over me, taking stock of the tattered condition of my dress.
I weighed my answer, knowing my words would be evaluated and judged for honesty. “Colt came upon me while he was hunting. I was in tears, so we strolled amid the flowers until I regained my composure. I turned my ankle and tumbled into a ditch. We rested for a while until my ankle stopped throbbing. I am fine now, but it took a good deal of time to hobble home on my tender foot.”
The ticking of the shelf clock on my nightstand slowed in my ears as Aunt Augusta held my eyes with hers, waiting for me to look away and reveal my deceit. But in sheer terror of the consequences, I faced her, still and silent like a fawn awaiting the move of a targeted hunter. Would she pull the trigger or let the shot pass? My heart hung in the air between us until finally she twisted her face in disgust.
“A suitable result after your disgraceful outburst in town,” she said evenly. “It was an inexcusable and embarrassing display that will never be repeated. You are too naive to understand the far-reaching effects of such unrestrained sentimentality. However, since your mother and father often indulged in histrionics such as this, I believe you are a victim of your breeding. Therefore, I will spare you the harshness your behavior deserves.” Aunt Augusta paused momentarily, as if overcome by her words. “This reprieve will be afforded to you only once. Do not ever challenge me in this arena in the future, or you will desperately regret it. For now you will remain in your room without supper.”
She turned and went to the door. “Heed my warning, Hannalore; I will not tolerate another outburst like the one I witnessed today. You are no longer a child, and therefore will be held accountable for your actions. When you are judged, so too is this household. And you will not cast a shadow on the name of Augusta Reynolds.”
With that, Aunt Augusta was gone, and I collapsed on the bed in tears.
My empty belly awakened me during the pause between midnight and dawn. I had tossed beneath quilted covers most of the evening with thoughts of Livetta and Marcus colliding with those of Colt and Aunt Augusta. My conscience finally gave way to exhaustion after the clock struck eleven, but now the tugging of unmitigated hunger coaxed me from my bed.
The smooth hardwood floor of the upstairs hallway creaked under my bare feet as I stepped carefully past the muted flow of light from underneath Aunt Augusta’s bedroom door. It was a common sight as the oil lamp in her room often burned throughout the night, one of the hidden chinks in the armor of a woman known for her unwavering fortitude. I long thought she was afraid of the dark, until one stormy night I was awakened by loud thunder and found her doorframe darkened and undisturbed. When I posed the question to Esther Mae, she said, “Chile, Miz ’Gusta gots’ta run de land and de house like a massa man. It be hard on de mind of a missus who is all by herself, alone. It steals her soul of peace and her mind of restful sleep. ’Tain’t fo’ us to question her ways. Where would any of us be if she didn’t have de wherewithal to keep de plantation goin’?”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Esther Mae’s eyes widened in panic and she rambled nonstop to cover her unguarded comments. “You best not ask so many questions, Miz Hannah. Speakin’ words about Miz ’Gusta will bring me a whippin’ fo’ sure. Now, you go on and pay no mind to yo’ aunt and her peculiar ways.”
I thought it well deserved for Aunt Augusta to wrestle demons in the night. To spare Esther Mae further distress, I kept the thought unspoken and never questioned her again. However, I learned an important lesson. Each of us, including Aunt Augusta, is not always what we appear. To all of Echo Ridge, she was a respected pillar of strength, but out of sight in the secluded rear of the house was an overused lamp she relied on to keep her demons at bay. It gave me satisfaction those windows glowed almost as frequently as her blood ran cold. I remembered words once spoken by my mother:
“Wretchedness should pay a price in the scheme of things
.
”
I now shared a secret with the river that flowed beneath the cliffs outside Aunt Augusta’s golden windows. Her cruel ways were not without cost.
Leaving the haunted glimmer behind me, I ran my hand along the darkened wall until it found the banister leading me down the stairs. Though the moon was low in the night sky, it shimmered brightly through the downstairs windows, offering me a path across the parlor and into the kitchen. The predawn chill of the hardwood floor bit into my soles until my feet wriggled into warmness. Striking a phosphorous match, I lit the crooked tallow candle at the center of the bucksaw table in the middle of the kitchen. The comforting light of the candle flowed over the table, revealing a small bowl of collard greens and fried bacon left by Granny Morgan, along with a mug of sassafras tea and a healthy slice of cracklin’ bread. No doubt she had fretted about my absence from the dinner table and had hoped I would find her offering, should I seek to fill my emptiness. I was surprised Aunt Augusta had allowed me this reprieve, but I suppose it was just another one of the peculiarities that contradicted her stern demeanor. Hunger had me devouring every last morsel of what Granny had prepared for me. It mattered not that passing hours dulled the texture and taste. To my ravenous soul, it was a feast.
After running my last wedge of bread around the inside of the empty bowl, I savored my finishing bite, then stood and stretched with satisfaction. A movement in the moonlight outside the kitchen door caught my eye. I moved closer to the window and searched the shadows, wondering if Granny had risen early or if it was simply the shuffle of a night critter making its way home before dawn. The woodshed and cookhouse of the side yard were bathed in stillness, when suddenly a face appeared in the window, jolting my heart up through my throat with a gasp. My hands flew to my face, muffling a frightened cry before it left my lips. It was Marcus staring down at me through the window. Within two pounding beats of my heart, I could see that there was desperation in his eyes.
I cracked the door of impropriety again, just wide enough to whisper into the night, “Gracious be, Marcus. An eternity of curse and fury will be cast upon us if anyone sees you here.” I motioned him toward the woodshed across the yard, then slipped out the door and followed him into the night. Stepping behind the blind side of the shed, we talked freely.
“I been waitin’ half the night fo’ a sign o’ life here,” he whispered heatedly. “I didn’t want to stir up the quarters ’cuz some colored been known to offer up their own fo’ Massa’s good favor. I figured sooner or later yo’ black mammy would show up to warm the mornin’ cook fires. Only a mammy’s soft heart could be trusted to fetch you without trouble.”
“Are you completely crazy?” I gasped at his miscalculation. “You would have a better chance slicing your own throat than being seen here!”
“But I spied the welcome lamp burnin’ in the window upstairs. Folks on the run is always told that a lamp in the window means a safe house.”
“A safe house?”
“Safe fo’ a runaway.” He nodded. “A friend of flight where a morsel o’ food or a place to hide can be found fo’ the night. I figured there weren’t no harm in comin’ fo’ help as long as I stayed out o’ sight.”
I trembled at how close we had come to disaster. “Marcus, sometimes a lamp is just a lamp, and I warn you, with the exception of me, you will find no friend here. What possessed you to take such a risk?”
“It’s Livetta. . . . She’s powerful sick. She’s moanin’ with fever,” he said with hushed excitement. “Her hip is nasty swollen and runnin’ yellow. She ain’t talkin’ neither, just lookin’ at me with glass eyes.”
“The germ must have settled in it. We better draw it out as quickly as possible. I once saw Esther Mae lay boiled rags on Elijah’s cut foot when it caught the germ. Come sunup, I will see what medicinal remedies can be garnered from the house without notice. Keep her cool with springwater until then. Go on now, before Twitch’s hounds catch wind of you.”