Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  There was no such luxury for Lettie. Her legs had been bent in a grasshopper position for hours, and even knowing there would eventually be an end to her torturous hiding under the floorboards, she feared there might also be some permanent damage. Still, she dared not make a sound; the overseer, Mr. Witherspoon was too close. Taking a deep breath, she settled down for the long journey to a distant neighbor’s farm, listed as number one on the Brimford map, but with each new bump in the road, she bit her lip in pain.

  Margaret, on the other hand, enjoyed grandstanding. “Mr. Brimford, I declare, I feel as if you haven’t seen enough of my beautiful plantation. Why, our darkies are some of the best workers in the South. You wouldn’t believe the amount of cotton they’ve picked this past year, I swear you wouldn’t!” Unexpectedly, her face shifted. “Except of course, that Lettie! She’s the one thorn in my side, I declare! She was a vexation when my poor husband was alive, and she’s even more of one now. Well, nothing for you to worry about! She’ll be gone soon, anyhow!”

  Just beyond the road’s bend, Lettie’s journey was interrupted by a local farmer. “Which way you headin’ with your darkie, Mr. Witherspoon? Up to Macomb County? Which way? Looks like you got a fine load o’ cotton there. Should fetch quite a sum, I’d say.”

  Tom was becoming concerned. If he didn’t open up one of the floorboards pretty soon, Lettie might suffocate. If only he could create a diversion to get the overseer and the farmer away from the wagon.

  Fifty yards further up the road, the farmer’s dog began whimpering as it limped back over to its owner. The two men stopped their conversation, staring at the animal for several seconds before meeting it halfway. This was the opportunity Tom needed. He scrambled down from the driver’s seat, and shoving his arm deep into the cotton, opened up one of the floorboards, inches above Lettie. She instantly let out an involuntary gasp, filling her lungs.

  Both men swung around to glower at Tom. “Hey, boy, what’s goin’ on?” Mr. Witherspoon demanded.

  “Nothin’, suh. I’s just checkin’ the cotton, makin’ sure it’s tied tight.”

  The two men laughed, shook hands, and returning to the wagon, Mr. Witherspoon hopped up onto the wood-plank seat above the loosened floorboards. As they rounded another bend a half mile up the road, Tom slowed down.

  “Now what you doin’ boy?”

  “Oh, I’s just givin’ the horse a rest,” Tom explained, stamping his foot on the driver’s floorboard one time.

  This was Lettie’s signal. Obviously, they had stopped near the first coded house where she was scheduled to stay. Approaching a stone wall near the homestead, Tom turned to the overseer. “I’s got t’ go, boss, somethin’ terrible. Kin I go over dere behin’ dat fence and do my bizness?”

  With a chuckle and charitable nod from the overseer, Tom stepped down from the wagon and gently knocked once on its side, alerting Lettie to get ready. He disappeared behind the rock, but after a minute or two started screaming, “Boss! Boss! Com’ here’s quick! Com’ here’s quick!”

  “Oh, hell! Now what’s the matter?” Witherspoon grunted, climbing down from the wagon seat and trudging over to the rock.

  Lettie wasted no time. Pushing her way up through the cotton blanket, she struggled out of the wagon and took off for the woods on the opposite side of the road, while Tom continued hollering, “I’s cut! I’s cut! How’d dat git dere?”

  Five feet short of the forest, she could hear Witherspoon reacting. “Why, that’s nothin’ boy! That’s just a little cut from a rock. What a coward you are!” Then came more unintelligible words, a loud slap, and the wagon and horse team starting up again.

  She hid in the woods for what seemed like an eternity, the cotton wisps coating her clothes and wafting up around her eyes and into her nostrils. All of a sudden, she flashed back to when she was a child, when Beulah had talked about the miracle of snowflakes. It was in their cabin, with the rain outside like opened faucets, that her mother had reminisced about North Carolina and the snow she had seen one particularly harsh winter. No two flakes were the same, she claimed, each one had its own intricate design as it floated silently down from the sky.

  Just thinking of her mother steadied her, and rubbing off the white flecks as best she could, she tiptoed carefully towards the house. In the distance, hanging over a fence rail, she could see a blue Log Cabin quilt, dotted with bright yellow centers. Years ago, Lettie had learned from her cousin, Mattie, how the color yellow, unused in America, meant ‘life’ to many tribes in Africa. Could this mean the house was a safe life force for runaway slaves? It was time to place her trust in Mr. Brimford and find out.

  Twenty yards in front of her stood an unpainted house with oiled paper for windows and badly hung doors without hardware. Two seconds later, she could feel the vibration of footsteps crunching on the first fallen leaves of the season. “Hey, I’s here! Don’ worry—no one else know—don’ worry,” an elderly black slave whispered loudly.

  She didn’t move. Unable to hear or read his lips, she didn’t dare venture from her old oak tree with the spreading limbs hiding place. But when a wrinkled hand grabbed her from behind and spun her around, she faced someone with such kind, sympathetic eyes, she instantly relaxed, assured she was in good company.

  Later, over food and an ample supply of encouraging gestures, clothing, and a map leading towards Ohio, she spent her first night away from the plantation more hopeful than she had thought possible. Perhaps her journey to freedom wouldn’t be so terrifying after all.

  Even so, before the Snowy Egrets, Green Herons and Merlins had a chance to warble their first morning song, Lettie was already moving along in the dark, brushing the Weeping Willows, Poplars, and Witch Alders with her fingertips.

  “Mr. Brimford,” Margaret gushed, sipping her Elderberry wine and flashing her most winning smile. “I declare, that was such a delightful day in town! Now, how about I show you my fields tomorrow?”

  Jonathan nodded and displayed a slight bow, praying Lettie would be as far away from the plantation as possible by then.

  The next morning, he procrastinated as long as he could before appearing at breakfast, stalling the inevitable. But as they wandered over to the fields, Margaret blurted out, “You know, Mr. Brimford, there is something I have to attend to. Would you mind?”

  Barely acknowledging him, she continued, half out loud to herself. “She must be in the fields,” she muttered as she craned her neck, obviously searching for someone.

  Lettie moved tirelessly without even stopping to drink—any hesitation could easily translate into danger for her. She stumbled over moss-covered rocks and fallen tree branches, but each time, she would grab a hold of a bush or nearby trunk, say a fervent prayer, and press on.

  “Where is that Lettie? Where is that blasted girl?” Margaret demanded of Tom.

  “She somewhere’s here, Miz Margaret, somewhere’s. You look in da odder fiel’?” Tom’s head didn’t even turn in Jonathan’s direction.

  Margaret couldn’t control her first unladylike snort, but managed to stop another one in front of Jonathan. “Let’s go to the other field, shall we, Mr. Brimford?”

  As the late afternoon shafts of light slipped in between the wooded trees, it became increasingly apparent that Lettie was nowhere to be seen. Margaret’s flushed face reddened with each step until finally, she had to settle down on a rock to compose herself.

  “Something is wrong! I can feel it! Where is that girl?” Then her face hardened. “My God, she’s gone!”

  Jonathan tried to pacify her. “Now, now, dear lady, don’t trouble yourself. She probably just went to a well for water somewhere, or is in a place where you least expect her. Madam, she’s only a slave. Don’t even bother your pretty little head about it!”

  “No, no, NO! You don’t understand. This one is different! I threatened to sell her the other day, and now she’s gone. Escaped! I’ll have to send out the hounds! I swear I will do it!” Pushing past Jonathan, she stormed over to her
barking hounds, penned in a fenced-in area beyond the barn. Within minutes, Mr. Witherspoon had hitched up the cotton wagon, bridled the horses, and gathered the hounds to track the runaway slave.

  At her second safe house, Lettie breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. Soon she would undoubtedly reach Ohio. Beyond that, freedom. She smiled and wondered why in the world she hadn’t attempted this years ago, maybe with her mama and papa, or at the very least, Tom and Mattie.

  By the next day, she felt relaxed enough to stop by a stream to splash her sweaty face with cool, refreshing water. Bending over, she didn’t hear the first few yellow leaves crackling, nor the second or third batch. But by the fourth set of crunches, she could feel the ground vibrating, as the barking hounds pawed closer, their tongues flapping sideways out of their foamy mouths.

  Frantically, she clawed her way up jagged rocks, scraping her knees and ripping the skin off her palms. At the top of a ridge, she paused for a moment to catch her breath and look back down towards the stream. She only had to see Miss Margaret’s two bloodhounds, opening and closing their jaws while working themselves up into a frenzy to start up again, recharged by a jolt of adrenaline.

  On the other side of the ridge, she found a stable path and trotted down it towards a house marked on her map. But as she neared a cemetery adjacent to the marked home, she panicked. She wasn’t supposed to rendezvous with a freed slave until later that night, and here she was, already there, far too early, with no one in sight.

  As she stood in front of the wrought iron gates, she couldn’t decide what to do next until she caught sight of another stream about two hundred yards beyond the tombstones. Dogs cannot track in water, she remembered, and darted towards the brook. At first, dipping into the frigid water, she couldn’t stop her instinctive shivers or violent splashes, but with a watchful eye towards the distant dogs, she slowly controlled her movements and managed to glide across the water without the dogs noticing.

  She scrambled up an embankment on the other side, pulling herself along by gripping large tree roots. Then, sensing movement on the ground, she broke into a sprint, but didn’t get far; a tree root caught her foot and she fell hard, sprawling over leaves, dirt, and stones. She lay still, the wind almost knocked out of her, picturing dogs tearing at her body and without warning, she started to cry.

  “Aw Hell! The dogs can’t track across the stream! Aw Hell! Now what are we goin’ to do?” Witherspoon kicked a tree in frustration as visions of his employer slapping him across the face brought a sharp chill over him. Damn! Maybe he’d find the little troublemaker if he went further upstream.

  Her body throbbing, raw hands stinging, Lettie wouldn’t stop, not even if it killed her. Yet one step more and she instantly winced, as her right knee twisted out from under her. Steadying herself against a tree, she grabbed the bandana from her head to bind the wounded area, turning it into a brace. Crumbled leaves had clothed her body, making her sneeze from their fine dust and as she wiped her nose with her hand, she saw a little blood was smeared on one of her fingers.

  Have to move on, she ruminated. Have to move on—have to move on—move on—move on…

  The compass that Master John had given her so long ago, when things had seemed so simple, so secure, was now clutched against her like a precious Bible as she headed in a northwesterly direction. Heart-thumping fear was causing her to run with awkward, jerky movements. Hadn’t she come this way before? Didn’t that tree look familiar? Everything in the forest appeared identical and with each passing tree, bush, or stone, she could feel her confidence eroding until finally, she had to face facts. She was totally lost.

  Mr. Witherspoon stayed determined. He understood his somewhat precarious job was on the line with this particular runaway, so he didn’t dare give up. Still, he stopped briefly to let the dogs lap up some of the stream water before forcing them to surge ahead. They dutifully followed along the stream’s edge, sniffing and barking until the water forked off to the north. Witherspoon knew from there, it would soon spill out into the Ohio River and his instincts told him this was where the girl might be heading.

  At night, the overseer carefully weighed his options: keeping warm for a little longer versus possibly warning Lettie of his presence. He opted for warmth and as he sat there watching the iridescent flames crackle and twist up and down, he thought of Miss Margaret and shuddered.

  A half-mile upstream from the glowing fire, Lettie couldn’t stop shaking. Drifting around for hours in large circles in the dark, she finally gnawed on some soggy cornbread she had left over in her dress pocket, her mind clouded with panic and despair. But once she settled on a different direction, she began to smell a dank odor, accompanied by tiny gnats flying up her nose and into her eyes. She felt her pulse jump. Could I be getting near the Ohio River? She quickened her pace, the running chant in her head pounding, ‘This is it, I’m here, this is it, I’m here,’ spurring her on.

  “Are you lookin’ for the Ramblin House?” someone asked behind her. Getting no response, he tapped her shoulder, said it again, then watched her nearly jump out of her skin. The third time he repeated his question, the light from his small lantern enabled her to read his lips. She breathed a sigh of relief and nodded vehemently, yes.

  They quickly climbed into an old, mildewed boat and the man began to row, smoothly, purposely, cutting through the water in silence. But her circles in the dark had cost her, and it wasn’t long before Margaret’s dogs were yapping furiously as they, too, neared the river. Lettie watched the man rowing, then wondered why he had suddenly picked up speed, his oars cupping the water into two giant arcs. Then, turning her head in his point of view, she gasped. There, on the other side, she could see Witherspoon’s lantern swinging back and forth as the two dogs, lit by its glow, jumped up and down, snarling, anxious to capture their prey.

  Instinctively, Lettie ducked down in the boat just as the overseer bellowed, “Who goes there? Who’s there? Is that you, girl? I’m gonna git you, I’m gonna git you!”

  Her accomplice finally reached the other side, and grabbing Lettie, hoisted her halfway up a steep embankment. As they both scrambled to the top, something whizzed by them, grazing the man’s right ear. They looked at each other and bolted towards the house.

  Margaret was almost hysterical. So many days gone by with no word from Witherspoon was certainly not a good sign, and all of Jonathan’s obsequious goodbyes were of little consequence to her; she was too upset to speak. Her visitor was worried as well, and over the next few weeks, tried to find out through the Underground Railroad, if Lettie had ever gotten out.

  In his thank you letter to Margaret, he even inquired if her slave situation had ever been resolved, but her reply came in the form of a polite, graciously polished letter, with no mention of the incident at all. So, as he continued making his trips down to the southern part of the United States, meeting with slaves and giving his codes away to those he could trust, he never stopped wondering about Lettie, his first runaway.

  When Lincoln got elected to the Presidency, Jonathan, being an ambitious man, wrote him several letters, infused with flowery words and a hope that the road to permanent abolition would be the course this new administration would adopt. Lincoln finally wrote him back, kindly inviting him to the White House to visit, and adding as a postscript, how enthralled Mrs. Lincoln was with birds, and the edification of such species.

  “Mr. Brimford, I realize that your interest is in studying birds primarily, but I do confess to having a couple of intense interests of my own,” Mrs. Lincoln informed him at a banquet celebration three months later, as they sat shoulder to shoulder enjoying a delicious White House dinner.

  Jonathan took a sip of claret. “And what, exactly, is that, Mrs. Lincoln?”

  “Why, quilts. Beautiful quilts are my passion. I do not possess the ability to make them myself, of course, but I do appreciate a well-executed one. Would you care to see my collection after dinner tonight?” Her conspiratorial tone reminded him of a schoo
lgirl wanting to show off something private, something treasured.

  Nodding politely, he realized he could easily feign interest in a subject for which he cared very little. Anything to ingratiate himself to these people and further his career.

  But after dinner, when the two of them stepped into the Lincolns’ personal quarters, Jonathan was duly impressed. There, locked in three majestic mahogany curio display cabinets, were at least twenty or thirty quilts, several of which Mrs. Lincoln lovingly took out and spread before him on two velvet parlor sofas. Each one was exquisitely executed, the tiny stitches perfectly spaced, the intricate patterns well thought out.

  “This one here is my favorite, I have to admit,” a flushed Mrs. Lincoln proclaimed. She held up a unique coverlet for him to inspect. It was made up of many silks and satins, obviously quite different from the others in design and texture.

  “Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking,” Mrs. Lincoln bubbled. “This one is different. It was made from my own ball gowns, and is quite unusual, don’t you think?”

  Fascinated in spite of himself, he asked, “Wherever did you get the idea to do something like this?”

  “A servant woman did it for me. It was her idea, and I think it is charming, no? Mr. Brimford? Mr. Brimford?”

  There was no reply. He was too intent on looking at a hand-embroidered name in one of the top corners of the quilt. Drawing the lettering closer, he whispered, “Who sewed this quilt?”

  “Why, her name is Lettie. I don’t know much about her. She was hired by my spiritual guide, Mrs. Keckley, over a year ago who later informed me of the extraordinary workmanship of this particular ex-slave. Indeed, I know nothing of her background, but it doesn’t really matter, because her work is so exceptional. Why do you want to know?” Mrs. Lincoln leaned in, her hair ringlets swinging forward, her mouth curved in an invitational smile. Jonathan grinned back. “Oh, no reason. No reason at all…” He wasn’t about to offer anything further.

  After all, it was Lettie’s tale to tell.