Redfield Farm

by Judith Redline Coopey

  “Thought I’d go visiting. Go see Ike Miller—find out what they’ve heard from Simon. Maybe stop by Mrs. Downing’s and praise her pies,” he said with a wink.

  “You, Jesse! Left up to you, I‘d never have to bake another pie!”

  He plopped his hat on his head. “I do what I can!”

  I shook my head, recognizing the truth in what he said. Jesse was a favorite in the Quaker settlement. A gadabout in winter, hardly a day went by that he didn’t saddle up a horse or hitch up the sleigh to go visiting. First Day after Meeting, people were drawn to him. Those who weren’t talking to him talked to me or Amos about him.

  “He’s a handsome one! Be bedding someone soon, I’ll warrant!” one old lady whispered to me, as though I were a fellow conspirator.

  “A man of principle, not a reed swaying in the wind,” was John Barrister’s assessment of him.

  When Jesse rose to speak at Meeting, the congregation fell silent. He spoke his mind with urgency and a sense of duty that inspired. He could harangue the lot of them and make them like it, because he matched his conviction with action.

  After Meeting he was just Jesse, smiling and teasing the girls, bouncing a baby on his knee, wide and generous with his compliments. At least a half dozen young hearts fluttered when he entered a room, and he took care to provide each with a bit of conversation to be taken home, savored and remembered. That Jesse!

  Ever the serious Redfield, I envied the ease and lightness with which he moved among the Friends. Strange it wasn’t a sister I was closest to, but this brother. While I envied his charm, I knew it hid conviction as hard as Pennsylvania limestone. I wondered if his desire to go west would win out, or would his dedication to the work keep him until it was too late?

  He placed a hand on my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. “Where is everybody?”

  “Nate’s in the parlor working the accounts again.”

  Jesse grinned. “I wonder at our little brother.”

  I knew what he meant. Nathaniel was meticulous by nature, given to keeping records and trying new ways to make the farm profitable.

  “I guess if anyone can make this rocky little farm prosper, it’ll be Nathaniel.” Solitary. Taciturn. Methodical. Like Amos.

  “Should I go steal his inkwell?” Jesse was forever trying to put some spunk into Nate. “Where’s Pa?”

  “Out tearing down the old corncrib. Sawyer Hartley’s helping him.”

  “Sawyer shows some inclination to work now and then. Wonder where that came from,” Jesse grinned.

  He cut a generous piece of pie and sat down with his hat on to watch me work. Seeing he was in no hurry, I stopped sweeping to bring up what was on my mind. “What about Josiah?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s about as happy as a crated rooster. I wish we could move him on. Somebody’s bound to find out. Loose tongues, you know.” I watched Jesse’s face. “And with the Hartleys always snooping around. Fine end to things if they catch wind of it.”

  “I think he may be almost whole, but we can’t chance sending him on with this weather and the possibility of getting caught,” he replied between bites of pie. “The roads are full of slave catchers who’d sell their firstborn for a few dollars. We’re breaking the law, Ann, and there are many, including some of our neighbors, who’d be glad of a chance to enforce it.”

  I shuddered, remembering Charlie Marsh and Rad Hartley promising to help those two poor slaves and then turning them over to the slave catcher for a paltry twenty dollars. The act had brought scorn upon them, and nobody mourned when Charlie was shot a few years later in a fight over a woman. Rad was still around, drunk most of the time and disrespected to the point of poverty. Much good his twenty dollars had done him.

  “But Jesse, we can’t keep him here all winter!”

  “We can if we have to. To send him out now would be murder. We’ll hide him as long as we must.”

  I fretted over keeping Josiah a secret. He hid under the eaves when anyone came, but had the freedom of the house the rest of the time, as long as he stayed away from the windows. Still, it was uncomfortable for me.

  “What if someone comes along suddenly? Someone on foot?”

  “He can stay close to the stairs and a make quick getaway. It isn’t fun, but it’s safe enough. Just watch what you say. Don’t let anything slip.” Jesse took it all in stride. Nothing bothered him.

  The Quaker settlement was close-knit, especially in winter. People visited almost daily, often staying the night if the weather got bad. On those nights, Josiah was confined to his tiny hideout. We kept to our routines, so not even best friends knew the workings of the Railroad, but it troubled me. I ducked inside when I saw anyone coming and longed for a return to normal when I could visit with a neighbor without a care.

  In spite of this tension, Josiah proved amiable company. He took his meals with us, sitting at the end of the table nearest the stairs, always ready for a quick escape. I even mentally practiced removing the extra plate before opening the door when someone knocked. Josiah tried to help with whatever work there was, inside or out. Of course, he couldn’t help outside during the day, but after dark he often went to the barn to help Jesse and Nathaniel milk, feed and bed down the animals. He was generally cheerful, though not much given to idle talk.

  His curiosity about Pennsylvania and Quaker beliefs led to a lot of questions. I think he found us a little strange but was too polite to say so.

  “Ma’am?” he asked one morning as he dried the breakfast dishes. “Could you teach me to read?”

  “Why, yes. I’m sure I could, and it’ll help you pass the time. We can start right away.” I paused. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am’. My name is Ann, and I’m younger than you.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Miss Ann.”

  “No. Just Ann.”

  We started daily lessons on a roof slate with a slate shard for a pen. Josiah carefully formed his letters, biting his tongue as he painstakingly followed my models. Busy though I was, I was glad to encourage his desire to learn.

  “Nobody I knew could read and write, ’cept white folks,” he observed, his brow furrowing as he put a flourish on the last of a line of ‘L’s.

  “No. They wouldn’t want to know that their slaves might be more capable even than they,” I said, with an edge to my voice. “That would make it hard to perpetuate the myth of the Negro as a simple child in need of a white man’s care.”

  Josiah nodded. “You the only white woman I ever met who talk so plain. You different from other white women,” he remarked.

  “Not so different from other Quaker women, Josiah. We believe in educating everybody. It makes us better people.” I handed him a cloth to erase his ‘L’s.

  “You strong an’ tough. You knows more’n some white men, sure’ nough.” He wiped the slate and handed it to me for a new model. “Where you keep your fine clothes, ma’am?”

  “It’s Ann, not ma’am,” I reminded him.

  “Ann.”

  “I don’t have any, if by fine you mean fancy and colorful.”

  “Why not? You be poor?”

  “No, Josiah, I’m not poor. Friends don’t believe in fancy clothes. We’re plain people. No frills or laces or bright colors.” I handed the slate back to him with a line of ‘M’s for him to copy.

  “Why, ma’am? . . . I mean Ann.”

  “We think it’s a way people try to put themselves above others. We really do believe all people are equal. Quakers aren’t opposed to wealth, but we think it should be used to do good, not feed vanity.”

  “Who vanity?”

  I smiled. “Vanity’s not a person. It’s an attitude. A pre-occupation with self and appearances. Quakers think being vain about who you are, what you have or how you look is wrong. It leads to all sorts of bad things.”

  Josiah studied my face, trying to grasp all this, so foreign to him.

  “You don’t be like no other white woman I ever met,” he repeated, shaking h
is head. “All I knew was Massa’s wife and daughters. Massa’s wife, she mean to me ’cause I’m Massa’s son, my momma said.” He paused to watch my reaction. “She made Massa sell my momma away, but he refuse to sell me. Don’t say I’se his son. Don’t say nothin’. But he treat me well. Give me a job workin’ horses. Say I the best horse trainer he ever seen.

  “Your master was your father?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. That happen a lot.” He spoke carefully, concentrating on his awkward imitation of my ‘M’s. His face was pleasing, if not outright handsome, though I hadn’t formed the thought until now. Chiseled planes. I wondered if the African people had any gods like the Greeks.

  He spoke again, pulling me back to reality. “Sometime they hate they child, but my Massa don’t have no other boys. Just three girls.”

  “Those girls were your sisters! Did they know that?”

  “No’m, Miss Ann. Nobody done told ’em. I sure didn’t. Afraid I be sold if I done that.”

  “When did your master’s wife have your mother sold?”

  His face clouded. “When I’se six. I cried for her every night for a month. Cook raise me. She kind, but she not my momma.”

  “Why did you run, Josiah?”

  “Massa die. Fall off his horse comin’ home from town. Folks say it apoplexy. Never know’d what hit ’im, I reckon.” He held up the slate for my approval of his ‘M’s. I nodded. “Once that happen, all hell break lose. Massa’s wife hate me. Want me gone. I gotta run or get sold, an’ who know what that mean?”

  “So you ran. How did you know where to go?” I leaned forward, savoring this rare chance to get to know one of our charges. Most of the time they came and went like shadows.

  “Black folk on the plantations talk among theirselves all the time ’bout gettin’ away. They always say, follow the north star. Even sing songs about it. Follow the rivers ’n creeks. Watch. Wait. Other free Blacks’ll help you if they can. Pass you along the road.” The slate was forgotten now as he spoke of his escape.

  “You were a long time getting here from Virginia.”

  “Yes ’m, Miss Ann. I ’bout got caught three, four times. Had to lay low in the creek bottom couple days till they call off the dogs. Not many free Blacks in Virginny, and they’s afraid, too, now. Could be kidnapped back in.”

  “Oh, Josiah, how sad!” The thought that some people would deliberately kidnap free blacks and sell them back into slavery made my blood run cold. “You did eventually find help, though.”

  “Yes’m. I hit out for Washington ’cause I know’d free Blacks be there. I was hidin’ in the bushes by a creek when along come a black man drivin’ a wagon. I was so hungry, I had to stop him. He hide me under some sacks and take me to his brother, Harry Rutherford.” Now Josiah stopped to pour himself a drink of water from a pitcher on the table.

  “That man put me on the road. I go from Washington to Leesburg to Winchester, then north to Cumberland and on up here. I travel a little every night. Sometime it get hot and I lay low a few days. Them last folks, they nice, but they sick. I knowed soon as I seen them. Hadn’t been for you, I’d a died.”

  Uncomfortable with his intense gratitude, I looked away. “Well, come spring, you’ll be on your way again. To Canada and your own life.”

  “Yes’m. I got me a wife back in Culpeper County. Name Lettie. She mistress’s personal maid, so she won’t be sold. I gotta get her out, soon’s I can get us a place in Canada.”

  “A wife? Oh, Josiah! Any children?”

  “Not yet. We didn’t want to born no more slaves. But Lettie anxious. Cry like a baby when I run. Cry ’n cry, like she gonna die.”

  I touched his hand. “I know, Josiah.” I looked up as he brushed away a tear.

  I’d never seen a man cry before. Amos had not, when Mama died. Not where I could see him, anyway. If Jesse ever did, it wasn’t in front of me. I felt a lack of intimacy with men. Touched by his openness, I gave way to impulse and covered his hand with mine. The contrast of our skin color stood out. I went to move my hand, but he held it, shoulders shaking as he gave way to sobs. I lifted my other hand and touched his shoulder.

  “Oh, Josiah. You’ll get her back. You’ll build a life. There’ll be freedom and home and babies. Have faith. God has brought you this far. He will not forsake you.”

  Ï

  Jesse arrived that evening, a mince pie and a bundle of mail in hand, including two letters from Elias. He wrote regularly, at least once a week. These were from last week and the week before. They were brief. He was well and learning a lot. He’d bought two likely looking brood mares. He was anxious to come home. He had something to tell me. He’d see me in about three weeks.

  Mid-December. Just before Christmas. I flew into a frenzy of preparation for his homecoming: cooking, cleaning, baking. I should get some cloth and sew a new dress to wear for him. What should I get him for Christmas? We’d never exchanged gifts before, but this year—after he’d told me his “news”—I was sure we would. I wanted to make this Christmas special.

  Will McKitrick came often and stayed late, hampering Betsy’s worth as a helper. I went on about my work whether he was there or not. He and Betsy courted in the new parlor while I worked in the kitchen producing Christmas confections or sewing by lamplight.

  I made linen shirts for Papa, Jesse and Nathaniel for Christmas, and for Betsy a set of table linen. But I thought more about my gift for Elias than anything else. It should be appropriate. Not too intimate. I settled on a pair of fine-knit wool stockings he could wear to Meeting, and maybe, depending on the season, on our wedding day.

  As I cast on stitches for his gift, I hoped next Christmas would find me in my own home with a husband to care for, and, perhaps, knitting booties.

  Chapter 6

  1854 –Christmastime

  I worked every spare moment making my Christmas gifts, as everyone did. Amos and Jesse spent so much time working in the barn, I knew better than to go there unannounced. Betsy made a wedding shirt for Will, another excuse for them to be together, for the fittings—as though they needed another excuse! Betsy knitted, sewed and stitched endlessly when she and I weren’t cooking, washing or cleaning.

  The work made the time pass quickly, and I became more breathless with each day that brought Elias closer to home. I could think of little else, even lapsing into daydreams at Meeting.

  I helped Josiah learn his lessons with the same distraction I applied to my chores. An apt pupil, he made quick progress from his letters to words to sentences. There was little for him to read, except the Bible, so he began with Genesis and resolved to work his way through to Revelation. It was fine practice, and enlightening, but I wished for a geography so he could learn about Canada, where he was headed, and Africa, whence his people came. Maybe Nathaniel could find one in Bedford. A Christmas gift.

  By mid-December I was excited almost to distraction in anticipation of Elias’s return. But mid-month went by and no Elias. Christmas was coming on fast. He wasn’t writing anymore, so I took that to mean he was on his way, or soon would be. By the 20th, unable to stand it any longer, I pulled on my coat and boots and trekked through the snow to Ben’s house. Rebecca welcomed me at the door, her face flushed, very pregnant with their fourth child, two-year-old Alice, clinging to her skirts.

  The kitchen was filled with warmth, the smell of spices and currants, and the chatter of children. I longed for such a scene of my own. Curious as I was about Elias, I tried not to be too forward. After all, there was nothing formal or public about our relationship. It was simply a match everybody expected would happen sooner or later. So I worked to conceal my sense of urgency.

  “Oh, Ann. How good to see you,” Rebecca greeted me. “I need some adult company. Ben works all the time with Elias gone, and when he’s not with the horses he’s in the barn making Christmas gifts. I barely see a soul except these little ones from dawn to dusk.”

  “I thought as much,” I replied. “At least I have plenty of adult company. Too m
uch, sometimes. I’m beginning to think Will McKitrick is something to dust.”

  “Heavy courting, is it?” Rebecca laughed. “Tell Betsy to be careful or she’ll end up like me: four babes in seven years and no end in sight!”

  I tied on an apron to help with the baking. “You’re well suited for it, Becky. You thrive on motherhood.”

  “That I do, but it doesn’t mean I couldn’t use some relief.” Little Alice peered at me from behind her mother’s skirts.

  “You’ll be a rich dowager soon enough. Are you thinking this one will be a boy?”

  “I hope. For Ben’s sake. Three daughters in a row is enough for any man. He needs a son.” I rolled the cookie dough as Rebecca took a pan out of the oven.

  “I guess he misses Elias much, then. Only women to talk to and no one to share the load.”

  “He does,” Rebecca continued. “But Elias should be along any day now. I thought to see him before this. Have you heard from him?”

  “Not for a couple of weeks.”

  “See? He’s on his way, of course. We’ll see him shortly. He’ll probably surprise us on Christmas Eve or Christmas day.”

  The two older girls, four-year-old Ruth and six-year-old Jane, sprinkled the cookies with sugar and pressed nuts into the dough. Baby Alice fell asleep on the settle by the fireplace.

  The talk eased my anxiety. Rebecca should know if Elias had changed his plans. My purpose accomplished, the afternoon passed slowly. I would rather have returned home to the pile of work waiting for me there, but Rebecca was in need of talk and would think it odd if I left too soon. So I stayed until near dark, when Ben came in from the barn, stomping snow off his boots.