by Naomi Finley
“Have you read this journal?”
“An excerpt or two, but that isn’t the only thing I’ve wanted to tell you. In Charles’s will, he mentioned a girl.”
“A girl?” My pulse throbbed in my ears.
“A girl he says…is his daughter.”
My throat tightened. “What?”
“He’d never mentioned the girl to me. But why would he? I had one purpose, and that was to watch you. Our bond as brothers was broken long ago.” Bitterness lined his words.
Quiet settled over the room.
Father had a daughter. Tears welled in my eyes. But how? Why had he never mentioned her?
I shifted my eyes to Ben. The pain of the past was all too evident in his face. His jaw quivered with wavering emotions and became rigid as a memory or thought surfaced.
“Will it ever end?” I said, dropping my gaze to my cup.
“The secrets?”
“The secrets, the pain and the longing for…them. Will the day come when I find out that I’m not even a Hendricks? That, in fact, my parents aren’t Olivia Shaw and Benjamin Hendricks at all.” My voice fractured. Heavy droplets cascaded down my cheeks and plopped into my cup.
“Willow…” His hand clasped mine. Gently, his thumb stroked the fold between my thumb and index finger.
“I’m so tired of being tired. Tired of being sad and broken.”
I heard him swallow hard. “We are in control of our own happiness.”
“Are we?” I lifted tear-filled eyes to him, and his face contorted in the outpouring of my tears. “What about you? You emerged from the darkness to walk in the sunlight, but where’s your happiness? You grieve for a woman who can never give us the comfort we seek. We love and detest a man that can never sit and tell us why he did the things he did. He can never set things right.”
“We must put the past to rest. Only then will we find what we are looking for.”
“How does one do this?”
“I don’t rightfully know,” he said in all honesty.
“This girl you speak of; where is she? How old is she? What does that make her to me? A sister? A cousin?” My laugh sounded harsh in my own ears. “How much did you all think I was capable of handling?”
“I wish the facts weren’t the facts. I wish I didn’t have to add to the pain you’ve already endured, but I couldn’t keep this from you any longer.”
“Why did you?”
“I—I was afraid you couldn’t handle any more disappointment.”
“But look at me. Here I stand, Willow Hendricks, heiress of the empire built on lies and deceit.” Bitterness soured my mouth. “Carrier of secrets and burdens so grand I may as well be the wearer of the iron collar and bit. I didn’t ask for this life. You all laid it at my feet.” I turned my blame and pain on the one person I needed more than I needed to breathe.
“A thousand apologies wouldn’t right the wrongs we’ve done to you.” He hung his head. A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye.
Shame and remorse yanked me from my wallowing. Was he not as broken as me? Had he not suffered? He’d survived a life sentence, and for what? For loving a woman who was rightfully his from the start. “I’m—I’m sorry.”
“No need to be.” Sorrow hollowed his eyes.
“Together, we’ll find a way to move past all this,” I said firmly. It starts here…and now.
He lifted his head and held my eyes with his. A pleasant smile softened the ache in his face. “We can’t rob ourselves of a future. The past has stolen enough from us.”
I stood and went to him. Leaning forward, I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I love you…Father.” I placed a light kiss on his cheek, then stepped back.
Tears dampened his eyes as he reached for my hand. “You’re the one good thing in my life.” Emotion clotted his voice.
“And you mine.” I wiped my tears with my free hand.
“It’s been a long day.” He stood. “Tomorrow will be upon us before we know it.” He pulled me into his embrace.
For a moment we found comfort from the past and the present, escaping into the hope for a future that was within our grasp to change.
I WOKE BEFORE DAWN TO the distant barking of hounds.
They were coming!
Fear exploded in my chest. I kicked back my blankets, and my feet hit the floor with a thud.
“Tillie, wake up!” I said, throwing the door to my closet open. “They’re coming. Go wake Whitney and Ben. We need to get the man and the child down to the dock.”
Tillie’s nightcap peeked over the bottom of my four-poster bed from her pallet on the floor. My panic sent the child from the Carter plantation, who’d slept beside Tillie, into whimpers. Tillie stumbled to her feet and ran from the room.
I slipped on a pair of Father’s trousers and a shirt. “Shhh, don’t cry. It’ll be all right.” I tried to soothe the child as I tucked my braid under a dark hat and pulled it low on my head.
Moving to the girl, who sat clutching the blanket to her neck, I bent and lifted her into my arms. Placing my lips on her temple, I said, “Hush now. You mustn’t cry.”
I ran into the corridor and met a wide-eyed Whitney, also clothed in men’s apparel. I blew past her and thundered down the stairs with her on my heels. Downstairs, I raced out the back door with the child bouncing in my arms. She buried her head in my throat, and her fingers dug into the back of my neck.
The howling of the dogs grew closer.
God in heaven, help us.
We raced past the quarters as folks stepped out on their stoops. Panic and worry spread across their faces. Not a soul would sleep with the danger of the dogs and slave catchers near. Murmurs rose. A threat to Livingston meant we were all at risk. Women and men raced to pick up appointed tasks they’d practiced for unexpected visits from outsiders. Children who were old enough and capable of understanding what was going on grabbed smaller children and hustled them inside, away from suspicious eyes.
Jones wiggled into a coat as he bolted for the dock with Jimmy and another black man right behind him.
“Where’s Ben? Someone get to the house to help him,” I screamed.
The black man charged for the house.
My legs felt weighted, and the dock seemed like it was miles away.
Reaching the end of the dock, Whitney jumped into the boat, her eyes bulging with fear as she extended her arms. I handed her the child as Jimmy untied the rope securing the boat.
I whipped my head around at the footsteps thundering along the dock. Ben and the black man I’d sent to the house half carried and half dragged the injured man. They stumbled across the dock to the edge of the water. The wounded man was alert and clenching his side as if in pain, his eyes wild with fear and determination.
Jones dropped into the boat and reached up to help the man. Once he was in, I climbed in after him. Jones threw back the tarp covering the crates of staged goods in the center of the boat.
“Lie down and take the child,” Jones said. After they were lying on the floor, Jones wrapped the tarp around the supplies and secured it with ropes.
Jimmy and Ben pushed us out into the river. “Follow the plan. No veering off track,” Ben said, his eyes dark with worry.
I nodded and waved.
Ben swept his hands through his hair. “Be safe. I can’t have anything—”
“Go!” I yelled.
He turned, and he and Jimmy bounded back down the dock. They split up as Ben raced to the house and Jimmy to his assigned position.
THE THUNDERCLAP OF THE OARS slapping the water blended with the baying of the dogs. I scanned the riverbanks. My gaze came to rest on Jones, who regarded me with inquisitive eyes.
“If you’ve something to say, say it.” I held his hard stare.
His eyes turned to something over my shoulder, and his expression grew bland.
My body was strung tight with foreboding as we drifted down the river in the darkness. Fingers of panic circled my throat with each
strike of the oars on the water. The chatter of the crickets and bullfrogs cut through the quiet entombing us, loud to our ears, sharpened to every minuscule sound.
We rowed until the landmark alerted us that we’d arrived at the next station. Branches and roots from trees above jutted out from the riverbank and formed what resembled a woman with long, flowing hair. As if guarding the river, a raised hand shielded her eyes. Hidden within the knotted twigs of her body was a rope ladder.
We pulled the skiff tight to the riverbank.
“I’ll see if it’s safe,” I said.
Jones untangled the ladder and held it out for me. Grasping its sides, I swung my leg up with his help. My limbs burned with the struggle to advance up the ladder. Dirt speckled my face as the ladder slapped me against the riverbank. I used my forearm to wipe the dirt from my eyelids and spat out a mouthful of grit.
“Hurry. We’re sitting targets out here,” Whitney whispered from below.
I heaved a foot over the bank, dug my heel into the ground, and pulled myself up.
The sun slunk on the horizon like a globe of fire searing across the earth. I threaded through the trees toward the small farmhouse, pausing at the edge to scour the property for prying eyes. On the clothesline at the corner of the house, flapping gently in the early morning breeze, hung a quilt: the signal that all was safe.
Perched on a fence post, a rooster cocked back his head and crowed. Hens scurried around the yard, clucking. The clang of an object hitting metal drew my eyes to a nearby pasture.
“Blasted cow, stand still,” Mr. Sully said. He’d been the first of my father’s sources I’d met after discovering his involvement in the Underground Railroad.
Mr. Sully took off his hat and smacked the hindquarter of the cow before bending over to pick up the milk pail that lay on the ground in a puddle of fresh milk.
I cupped my hands and hooted like an owl. Mr. Sully froze and his eyes scanned the property. I pulled my hat low to shadow my face and stepped into view. Catching sight of me, he offered a low wave. He bent and climbed through the rungs of the fence and strolled toward me.
“It’s you.” Relief washed over his face.
“I have baggage,” I whispered.
He cast a cautious look around and said through closed lips, “Carter and Thames have already been here this morning. But that isn’t to say they aren’t scouting the place out.” He cleared his throat and said in a normal tone, “How many bundles of wood?”
“One small and one big.”
We backtracked to the riverbank. I peered down to find Whitney and Jones keeping watch on the river. I picked up a pebble and threw it down. It cuffed the corner of the boat before hitting the water with a light splash. They looked up.
I gestured with a hand that it was clear.
Jones threw back the canvas and motioned to the man and child to come out. They stood on wobbly legs, the child clinging to the man’s legs.
“The man’s weak. He won’t be able to climb the ladder.” I bent by the pile of dead brush. Moving it aside, I withdrew the rope underneath.
Mr. Sully tied the rope to a tree. He made a loop at the other end and threw it down. Below, Jones circled the man’s waist with the rope. A few words were shared between them, and the man nodded. Whitney lifted the child and placed her on the man’s back. Pain rippled over the man’s face. Jones pumped a fist in the air, signaling us to pull them up.
Mr. Sully and I dug our heels into the moss-covered earth and pulled. The rope chafed the flesh of my hands. Heat inflamed my muscles with each haul on the rope. Finally we heaved them over the bank, and they landed in a heap on the ground. Mr. Sully held out his hand and hauled the man to his feet. The child never released her hold around his neck.
“We believe this is the man I asked you to keep an eye out for,” I said.
“Are you, in fact, the man?” Mr. Sully asked him.
For the first time, I heard him speak. In a deep voice, he said, “I’m Toby Adams of Maryland.” His shoulders arched back, and his chin jutted out. “Born free. No nation or man or woman will take that from me.”
He set the child on the ground, and a wince snatched at his breath. The child clasped his hand as she gawked up at him with trusting eyes. He smiled down at her. An angelic smile lifted the apples of her cheeks. Toby stroked her hair. “My protector.”
“The next railroad line will assure your passage to heaven,” I said, holding out a hand.
“Bless you.” Toby shook my hand.
“I’ll inform the preachers,” I said.
He blinked his understanding.
The slave child stood huddled next to Toby. One small hand still tucked into his while the other formed into a fist at her side. I bent and took her free hand in mine. She tugged to reclaim her hand while adjusting what she clasped inside. Her dark eyes questioned me as I pried open her fingers one at a time to reveal my pearl earrings. They glistened with sweat from her palm. I smiled, closed her hand, and placed her hand on her chest. “Yours.”
I rose. “The riverbank makes a mighty good road,” I said to Toby.
“Godspeed,” he said.
I nodded and turned and climbed down the ladder.
At the bottom, Jones caught me by the waist.
“Did you have tea and biscuits while you were up there?” Tension pulled at Whitney’s temples. She didn’t wait for us to be seated before she started rowing the skiff toward home.
Jones and I lurched forward. He steadied me before seating himself. Picking up his oar, he plunged it into the river. Together Whitney and Jones rowed with steady, even strokes.
Whitney’s eyes skittered around, while Jones’s, once again, fixed on me.
RUMORS OF THE GUARDIAN SWOOPING down while the Carters slept and stealing Toby had swept through the countryside. Yet no mention was made of the orphan girl. It was as if she hadn’t existed. Or maybe the Carters believed an animal had carried her off.
Planters had taken to chaining and locking the shacks in the quarters at night in hopes of protecting their investments. Guards were doubled. Paranoia spread as far as the Georgia and North Carolina borders.
Ben thought it was best for us to lie low with hopes the panic would blow over. We decided against writing Julia to let her know we’d located Toby. Fear of Toby and the child not making it to safety plagued us all.
Newspapers across South Carolina had dedicated their front pages to the Guardian. With each article I read, my worry intensified.
One evening, Whitney, Ben, and I sat in the library after the twins had gone to bed and the house slaves had gone to visit friends and family in the quarters. I read a recent edition of the Charleston Courier.
My heart raced as realization dawned on me. How could I have been so stupid?
I lowered the paper to my lap.
The Guardian surfaced each time we helped a slave escape. Why hadn’t I made the connection before?
“Of course. How could I be so oblivious?” I said aloud. It made perfect sense now.
“What?” Ben and Whitney said in unison.
“The Guardian.”
“What about him?” Whitney said.
“It’s us.”
“Us?” She glanced at Ben as if he held the answers to my sudden madness.
His face didn’t hold the same shock as hers.
“Each time we’ve transported slaves, folks mention this Guardian fellow.”
She turned her eyes back to me as her mouth unhinged.
“You don’t appear to be as surprised,” I said to Ben.
He closed the medical book he’d been studying and leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees as he clasped the book in his hands. “I had my suspicions.” He rotated the book in a spinning motion between his knees.
“Yet you failed to mention it?” I frowned.
“My hands have been rather full since my return.” His brow lifted. “But I’d wondered if the rumors had to do with the increase of escaped slaves over the last
year in these parts.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I stood and began pacing the floor. “We’re amateurs at this. Trying to take on my parents’ work as if we’ve any clue what we’re doing.”
Jaw clenched, Whitney eyed the doorway and whispered, “It’s not like they left instructions on how to smuggle slaves in and out of plantations and around the country. We’re doing the best we can.”
“The best we can isn’t good enough,” I insisted, my hands on my waist.
“Until this dies down, we can’t afford to stick our necks out. Too many lives are in danger right here at Livingston.” Ben stood.
“All illegal actions are banned until further notice. We can’t take any chances.” I wrung my hands.
“Maybe it’s time to consider disposing of all documents that could cripple Livingston if they were to fall into the wrong hands,” Ben said.
“No!” I shrieked. Lowering my voice, I hissed through clamped teeth, “I’ve not had time to read through the ledger and journal you gave me.”
What he was asking was out of the question. My parents’ ledgers and journals were my connection to them. Reading their words gave me a sense of closeness…yet at times it made me feel so far removed.
“Charles kept them hidden for a reason. Ledgers with recorded slaves’ names instead of their tag numbers is a clue to anyone who comes looking. We must take every precaution. I urge you to read quickly and burn the rest.”
Cold sweat prickled down my back as his words sank in. “But the ledgers could help reunite families when this is all over.”
“An absurd dream that dwindles with the tightening of the South’s grip on their wallets.” Whitney sighed despondently.
“We need to be concerned with the present and surviving another day. If Livingston’s cover is blown, the hopes of many will be lost.” Ben’s warning rang clear.
Later I tossed in bed, restless, finally flopping onto my back to gaze numbly at the ceiling. Ben’s concerns over the ledgers and journals robbed me of sleep. As much as it would pain me to do away with the books, if keeping them meant risking lives and all we’d achieved so far, I’d do what had to be done.
