Mary Elizabeth Davies Phelps (1901–1980),
an enthusiastic volunteer at the Levi Coffin House historic site.
Chapter 1
Slave hunters on horseback milled around the Coffin family’s rambling brick house, forming moving shadows in the gloom of a stormy winter evening.
Deborah Wall shivered as she stood next to her older cousin Katy Coffin and peered through one of the parlor windows. Katy’s husband, Levi, kept some of the soul drivers talking at the front door.
Deborah’s pa had left with the runaways only moments ago.
Deborah strode through the candlelit dining room and looked out the window. A narrow break in the storm clouds gave just enough light in the sunset to show that members of the posse watched every door. Her heart thudded, and her mouth went dry. She forgot all about being cold and wet from the ride from home to Newport.
One of them, a tall and lean man, his shoulders broadened by a caped riding coat, turned his horse and studied the side door.
The horse, with its solid build and stylish head and neck, caught Deborah’s eye. A Morgan, a mighty fine animal for someone like that.
What if that wicked man noticed Pa’s wagon tracks? Her father had figured the trees along the creek bank would hide them. They’d rushed into the night for fear the rising creek would wash out the bridge and get too deep to cross.
As if from some invisible cue, the Morgan sidestepped closer to the door. Its rider folded his arms across the saddlebow and leaned down to study the tracks.
Did he see? Did he guess who left the trail?
She heard Levi at the front door, telling the other slave hunters why—under every point of Indiana legal codes and English common law—they couldn’t come in and search his house.
Cousin Katy’s three daughters clustered around their mother and Deborah.
“How long does thee think they will stand and listen to Friend Coffin’s message?” Deborah asked.
“I hope long enough that thy father can take those fellows clean away,” Cousin Katy said. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her normally cheerful face tightened with worry.
Outside, the man on the Morgan put his hand to his mouth and shouted, “Over here!”
Deborah felt blood drain from her face, leaving her dizzy. He must have seen Pa’s wagon.
Time. They needed more time to get away.
The horse pivoted and took a few strides, following the wagon tracks down to the creek.
Deborah prayed for boldness then grabbed her black cloak and bonnet. “I’ll try to delay them.” Her mouth felt dry as sawdust and her voice cracked.
“How?” Cousin Katy gasped.
Deborah glanced over her shoulder and grinned, which lightened her fear. “As I feel led.” She took a breath to steady her nerves.
Cousin Katy stepped toward her. “Truly?”
Deborah paused, her hand on the latch. What if she was wrong? No time to waste. She opened the door.
The cold wind took her breath away and sleet stung her cheeks.
The Morgan tossed its head as its rider turned toward the house and gazed up at Deborah standing in the doorway. Light from the house spilled over him. He’d be a handsome man but for his harsh countenance.
“I caution thee,” Deborah said, “to beware of the water.”
He stared at her. A Southern drawl slowed his voice. “Now, why would a pretty little Quaker gal be talkin’ to someone like me?”
Her heart and mind raced. Were her actions so unusual that she made him suspicious? But if she kept him talking, Pa would have that much more time to get the runaways home to the farm, safely under Ma’s wing.
A tart answer came to mind, and she gave him a crooked smile. “I’d given little thought to thee, neighbor. But I would hate to see any harm come to such a likely looking horse.”
His quick grin showed a mouthful of white teeth, like a wolf’s. “Why thank you, miss.” He dropped one hand to the horse’s neck and straightened its windswept mane. Then he looked into Deborah’s eyes. “I know a fine filly when I see one.”
Deborah ignored that. Would she be able to keep him talking about the horse? “It’s a mare, then?”
“Yes, miss. In foal to—well you wouldn’t—”
The storm’s wind cut through her cloak, making her shiver. What else could she say? “I might, if it’s from around here.”
“No, miss, to a racehorse from down by Richmond.”
She thought of the most notable one. “Messenger?”
“That’s the one. She sure is.” He studied Deborah for a long moment.
Deborah stared in awe at the mare. What a valuable foal that would be. “When does thee expect her to foal?”
“Later this spring.”
Deborah edged a little farther out the door, onto the top step. She prayed for the right words. “For that reason, neighbor, thee must be careful with her. I wouldn’t go any farther that direction. We just came that way, and the creek is rising fast.”
“Whose tracks are these, then?”
She must keep him talking. She’d never spoken as much to a strange man, especially one of the world. “Ours. My father brought me here for another week of work. He wanted to hurry home before the creek got too high.”
The stranger leaned forward and studied the mud and snow again. He raised his head and gazed into her eyes. “Lot of footprints there for just you and your dad.”
Deborah inhaled sharply. “We made several trips in and out with firewood. This house uses a prodigious amount.”
He glanced down at the tracks then back into her eyes. “With respect, miss, that’s not what those tracks look like to me. All shapes and sizes of prints.”
The front door slammed, and the mare flung up her head. The other horses and riders sloshed through the mud, joining him. The sharp smell of horse sweat made Deborah’s nose wrinkle. The animals shivered and snorted.
Deborah took a shaky breath. She felt like she was on display.
The man with the Morgan smiled and took off his hat. The wind tangled his long wavy hair. “You must excuse me, miss. Business.”
Before he could say more, another man, lean and predatory like a weasel, urged his horse forward. Octavian Wagner, the notorious slave hunter. He looked down at the hoofprints, tracks, and wagon ruts then turned to the group. “Well looky here. All kinds of sign.”
Deborah clutched the doorframe, reminding herself to breathe. What had she done? What would they do to Pa and the runaways? Why had she said anything?
The man on the Morgan nodded at Deborah. “Little Quaker gal there made a point of sayin’ not to go that way.”
Another man edged his horse forward. “Wonder if we hurried, if we’d catch ‘em.”
Wagner grinned. “I got a better idea. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Deborah fumbled with the door latch behind her. It swung open, and warm air from the house breezed out. Cousin Katy put her hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “Come inside, dear heart.”
Wagner leered at Deborah. “I know you now. You’re that Wall gal. Dad’s the furniture maker.”
“Josiah Wall,” another man said.
Fear crackled through Deborah. These men recognized her? And knew of her family?
The man on the Morgan swung the horse between her and the others, almost protectively. “Go inside, miss.”
Wagner got an evil grin on his face. “I believe I can make them come right to us. Thank you so much for your help, darlin’.”
Such arrogance. Deborah clenched her fists.
The posse rode down the street. A few hundred feet from the house, behind the Coffins’ barn, the horses splashed into the rising creek. “Josiah Wall!” Wagner called. “Friend Wall! I have a message for thee from thy daughter!”
Chapter 2
The slam of a door scared Nathaniel Fox’s horse, and she leaped sideways. His body swung with the horse’s motion as he tightened the reins and patted her neck to calm her. He shivere
d, waiting for the Quaker girl’s father to answer. The wind might have carried his voice to the runaways or carried it away. While the others bet on what they’d find ahead of them, he looked back. The Quaker women and some children milled about inside the big red-brick house, and candlelight glowed warmly in the many windows.
The sound of their plain speech made his heart ache with grief and loneliness. All he’d lost—home and family among the Friends—might as well be a thousand miles away even though it was right before his eyes. One choice had led to another, and now, here he stood, in outer darkness.
“Well? Seen anything, Fox?” Wagner asked, gruff as ever. “They ain’t at the house.”
“Tracks are headin’ out of town.”
“Good enough.”
The horses’ hooves punched through thinly iced mud puddles, crunching and cracking. Some of the men swore as cold muddy water spurted up.
The rushing wind overhead rattled the limbs of cottonwoods and sycamores along the creek banks, and snow and sleet pelted down. Nathaniel’s feet had gone numb.
They rode farther, toward the creek itself. The sound of roaring wind and water gave Nathaniel chills. The surrounding houses and barns were dark, though a few dogs barked and hens cackled. The group halted their horses. The storm and darkness upset the animals, which tried to turn back from the flood. The sudden thaw over the past couple of days, plus several inches of rain, had melted most of the snow.
Wagner leaned back in his saddle and sighed. He pointed to the dark water foaming through willow thickets. “If they drove into that, prob’ly all drowned by now.”
The men murmured in agreement. Wagner motioned for them to turn around.
Nathaniel faced the water. That girl’s father was out there, in danger. Nathaniel’s world had ended when his pa was killed. He hated to imagine another family suffering like that. “We don’t know that. We ought to try and find them.”
“Bah! If slaves get clear up here to Newport, they up and disappear.” Wagner sounded cross. “No sense goin’ any farther. Old Man Wall took his chance.”
The group turned to go, starting a long, miserable two-hour ride down to Richmond, the county seat.
Nathaniel made the restless mare stand. How could they turn their backs on someone in danger? That must be the way of the world, as he, and the Prodigal Son in the scriptures, had discovered through sad experience. “I don’t know about you all, but I want to know what happened to them.”
Wagner shook his head. He was just another dark blob in the whiteness of the falling snow. “Ain’t ridin’ into that mess in the dark,” he said, nodding toward the water.
“Listen boys, I’ve a mind to go and see where those tracks lead,” Nathaniel said. “You all going with me?”
The others shook their heads.
“You’ll learn better, once you been at this trade as long as I have,” Wagner said. “No night for man nor beast. You won’t find nothin’ tonight. Catch up with us when you can. We’re headin’ down the Richmond Pike.”
Deborah wiped up the snow she’d tracked in, wondering if that liar had tricked Pa into turning back.
When he came into the dining room, Friend Coffin folded his arms and gave her a stern look. The tall thin man in a gray suit reminded her of a great blue heron, especially when he trained his keen eyes on someone. “Thee should have left me to speak, Deborah Wall. This misadventure frightened poor Katy.”
Cousin Katy put her hand over her heart and added, “That man could have grabbed thee and taken off with thee.”
They were right. Deborah looked down at the floor. Mama’s cousin might be upset enough to send her back home. With younger children still at home, Friend Levi’s elderly mother, and so many fugitives in and out, Cousin Katy had welcomed Deborah’s help. A young able-bodied woman was such a blessing, she’d often told Deborah, who began working for them after one of the Coffin girls died of a fever.
Friend Coffin sighed. “Thee has heard the saying that ‘zeal without wisdom is folly.’”
Deborah nodded and glanced quickly at him.
His gray eyes twinkled. “I grant thee does have zeal. Why did thee feel led to speak out like that?”
“I thought to delay them, although I haven’t had near as much practice as thee and Cousin Katy at confounding the slave hunters.” She paused thoughtfully and then added, “I might have relied too much on my own understanding.”
Cousin Katy breathed deeply. “Let us pray for thy father and those with him.”
Deborah leaned against the fireplace mantel, closed her eyes, and prayed silently for safety for Pa and the runaways.
Sleet rattled against the windowpanes. Where were they? Crossing the flooded creek could have been a trial. Surely the bridge withstood it, but the rising water on either side might have gotten even wilder.
Did she hear voices from outside? Was that possible over the stormy winds?
Chapter 3
Nathaniel fought with the mare as she snorted and backed away from the churning water. The falling snow lightened the darkness enough to see the flooded creek rushing over its banks, already rising to the mare’s knees. The bridge ahead looked to be solid, had they reached it. Sleet and snow stung his face. The wind roared through the sycamores, and water thundered at the bridge.
Mr. Wall and the wagon must be just ahead of him. If they’d wrecked, perhaps he could help them out and soothe his own soul, troubled as it was over this brutal trade. Wagner had made it sound like easy money, and Nathaniel had wanted to save for a farm of his own, make a fresh start in Indiana, somewhere other than the Friends’ settlement. His relatives who’d moved up here would no doubt disown him, once they realized all the bad things he’d done since losing Pa and Ma.
He tightened his legs around the horse, urged her toward the bridge. She took a few reluctant steps. The icy water had risen to her belly and soaked through Nathaniel’s boots. She reached the end of the bridge, stopped again, pawed at the swirling water. The current shoved her sideways; she lurched and stumbled to regain her footing. She put her head down for a moment then flung it up.
Nathaniel took a deep breath. “Come on, Brandy!”
A voice swirled on the wind, shouting, “Bridge out!”
Nathaniel looked over his shoulder but saw no one. “Mr. Wall?”
No answer. Must have been the wind in the trees or his imagination.
The mare tried to turn back, but Nathaniel made her face the bridge. He wouldn’t rest until he knew what had happened to the other travelers. He hated to resort to spurs but touched her with them.
Brandy flung up her head, almost rearing, and then leaped forward into the surging water. She landed with a huge splash but lost her footing. Nathaniel gave her her head and knotted his hands in her mane as she struggled to stay on her feet. The horse fell. The icy water took his breath away. They slammed into the railing of the bridge. The mare crushed Nathaniel’s knee into the side. With a crack, the post, rails, and floor gave way.
Nathaniel and his mare fell over the side into the flood.
Brandy would break his back or both legs, pin him under the water—not even a chance to pray. The horse’s body slammed him deeper into the rushing water, which filled his nose and mouth, tore at his clothes. Trapped. The struggling horse’s weight crushed him. Debris battered him. He had to breathe, had to get clear of the horse, anything to get his head above water and get some air. The flooded steam carried him away into darkness.
Pounding at the door surprised Deborah. She set down her candle and turned around.
Friend Coffin strode to the door. “Yes? Who’s there?”
“A Friend…with friends.”
At the password, Friend Coffin flung open the door. “Come in, neighbors. Come to the fire.”
Pa lurched in, carrying a soaked and unconscious young man in his arms.
Deborah stared at them. “Pa, what happened?”
“I had doubts about the bridge and pulled off. This man rode right pas
t us and tried to cross, but didn’t make it.” The runaways behind him slammed the door, latched it, and then stood shivering.
“He might have passed away,” Pa said. In a heavy voice he added, “I tried to warn him, but it was too late.”
Friend Coffin picked up the slave hunter’s wrist and felt it. “Still alive.”
“Bring him to the fire,” Cousin Katy said. “Deborah, he needs dry clothes and blankets.”
Deborah hurried through the house and trotted up the curving front staircase. On the landing at the top of the stairs, she found the door that led to the attic. She opened it with a quiet click so as to not wake the girls or Grandmother Coffin. Working by feel, she located folded clothes on the attic steps. They were ice cold. Poor man. He would freeze for sure unless they let these warm up. She couldn’t believe she had a shred of sympathy for that evildoer.
The commotion must have awakened the children, who rustled around in their bedroom. “Deborah? Who is here?” Little Catherine, the youngest, murmured.
“One of the slave hunters.”
The girl gasped.
“He might not live the night,” Deborah said. He was so alive, proud, and boastful just an hour or so ago. Where was his soul now? She shivered.
As she returned to the dining room, her father paused at the side door. “I’m going to fetch the doctor,” he said.
Friend Coffin and two young black men worked over the drowned man. They’d pulled off his wet coat and waterlogged boots. Deborah handed them blankets.
One man shook his head. “I still think we should’ve just left him. Won’t lie to you.”
The other one paused for a moment. “I know, Chance, but I think the Lord would have wanted us to try.”
The slave hunter coughed, making an awful noise. Was he dying, right there in front of them? What if he faced God with the blood of runaway slaves on his hands? Could the Lord save even one such as him?
She put more wood on the fire; it flared and illuminated the stranger’s condition.
His paper-white face was smeared with mud, his halfopened eyes glassy, and his lips blue. He might be near her age or a few years older. Wet hair was thick and dark as an otter pelt. A full beard hid the angles of his jaw and cheekbones. Asleep or unconscious, he appeared harmless. Only the Lord knew the extent of his evil deeds.
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