My Heart Belongs in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

by Murray Pura

  “Why?”

  “You are flushed.”

  “Oh.” She looked away from Amos to where two of the women passengers were making a seat for themselves on a stack of hay. “It’s nothing.”

  “All right.” Amos gestured to Liberty. “A word with the two of you, bitte.”

  Liberty came over. “What is it?”

  Clarissa stepped away from him.

  “News came today,” announced Amos.

  “What news?” responded Liberty.

  “You know the president was sending ships to resupply Fort Sumter, ja? Off the Carolina coast?”

  “Yes.” Clarissa spoke up. “I knew that.”

  “On Friday and Saturday, the Confederacy fired their cannons at Sumter from the shore.”

  “I am not surprised.” Liberty barely reacted. “It is unfortunate, but you could see that firing upon Sumter was a possibility.”

  “That was days ago.” Clarissa’s mind was turning over quickly. “We’ve been sleeping in the woods for most of the week, heading this way after dark. There was no opportunity to get any information like that.”

  “We only found out this morning.” Amos ran his hand through his beard several times as if deciding whether he should say more. “The fort surrendered.”

  “No.” Clarissa felt a coldness through her entire body, and all her anger at Liberty dissipated instantly. “No.”

  “The president has called for seventy-five thousand troops to quell what he calls the Rebellion. Well, and many people are calling it that. Lancaster is full of such talk among the Englisch. It is war, my friends. So sad. So very sad, ja? The country torn apart.”

  “And the nation is responding to the president’s request?” asked Liberty.

  Clarissa thought Liberty looked far too calm. Not that she cared. Or perhaps she did care—she wanted him to look as agitated as she felt.

  “It is early yet,” replied Amos. “But, judging from the mood in town, and what others have told me is in the newspapers from Philadelphia and New York and Boston … ja, he will get his seventy-five thousand and more.”

  “And the President of the Confederacy is already raising an army of one hundred thousand,” added Liberty.

  Amos nodded. “It is upsetting. We must pray. Perhaps even now this madness can be halted before it goes too far.”

  “Have any other states seceded?”

  “Nein. But …”

  Clarissa had no patience left, not for Liberty, not for Amos, not for her country hurtling toward a brutal conflict. “For heaven’s sake, Amos, what is it?”

  “Virginia has been grumbling about the seventy-five thousand troops the president wants. They have threatened not to help furnish them. So … who knows what they will do next?”

  A woman taller than Amos slipped into the open barn carrying a tray of bread and sliced ham, while a round and heavyset man behind her held pewter pitchers of what looked like milk. “No more politics, Amos,” she warned. “Food and drink and prayer are more important for these people than rumors of war and ill feeling.” She smiled at Clarissa and Liberty. “Welkommen. It is so good to see you both again. I’m glad you are working together.”

  Clarissa managed a crooked smile.

  “And you must be starved.” The woman knelt by the runaway slaves and set down the tray of food. “We are so blessed to have you here. Thank God you are safe. And on this farm, we shall keep you safe. Ja, the Lord and our people shall keep you safe. My name is Rebecca, and this is my husband, Ezekiel, with the fresh milk, and our politician is Brother Amos.” She chuckled. “Such a good president he would be.”

  Amos grinned through his thick black beard. “Ja, and so if I were president, there would be no war, Rebecca.”

  “Indeed not, and thank you for that.” Rebecca turned back to the cluster of runaways. “I know you wish to eat.”

  “If we could, ma’am.” A young woman spoke up. “All we had the last two days was wild apples and creek water.”

  Liberty coughed.

  “Oh, and Mr. Liberty, he had his t’ick black coffee and his t’ick brown sugah for us.” She and several of the other runaways laughed. “It was like to drinkin’ boiled tar. Only Mizz Clarry cottoned to it.”

  Clarissa snorted. “I did not, Sara. I tolerated it. Mornings and evenings are cold, and I was willing to put up with boiled tar.”

  “Well, I’m afraid we don’t do boiled tar in Lancaster.” Rebecca smiled and folded her hands in prayer. “But let me give thanks and you can see how you like our bread and milk and ham, ja?”

  Everyone in the barn bowed their heads, including Liberty, and all the runaways folded their hands like Rebecca, even the men. She prayed in German, but everyone understood the amen. After the prayer, Rebecca handed out tin plates and then dished up food for all the runaways. They went at it as if they hadn’t eaten in days or weeks. Which wasn’t far from the truth, Clarissa thought as she watched them, unless apples and stale bread and creek water and boiled tar counted as real food.

  She always marveled at how quickly the runaways could adapt. At first, there was the understandable fear and silence that smothered them because they were afraid of being captured and unsure of who conductors like Clarissa and Liberty were—especially Liberty in his ridiculous hood. And telling them his face was badly deformed hardly helped matters. After a day or a night of them all being thrown together, however, the runaways would speak more often, even smile. If they had to spend several days with their conductors, as they did on this passage through Pennsylvania, their words came more freely and so did their laughter. Teasing Liberty about his coffee would have been unthinkable for them only three days before. But now they were trusting Clarissa and Liberty far more and loosening up considerably. Clarissa loved the unity and was glad they still had several days together until they reached Lebanon.

  She watched them eat without a thought of food for herself. Rebecca brought her a tin plate with ham and bread and offered her a tin cup of milk as well. They sat and chatted with her while Clarissa devoured every crumb. Did she want more? Well … yes. They both laughed.

  “Racing through the woods and fields,” Rebecca remarked as she came back with another plateful for Clarissa, “climbing all those hills, constantly looking over your shoulder, no wonder you are famished. You spend so much time on the Freedom Train it’s a wonder you aren’t skin and bones.”

  “Ha.” Clarissa was shoveling ham into her mouth. “I’ll never get that thin. I like food too much. This ham is smoked perfectly, Rebecca.”

  “Danke. Ezekiel prides himself on his work with the hogs and the smokehouse—not a pride in himself and his abilities, no, but in what God can accomplish through his willingness to work hard and do everything as perfectly as he can.”

  “Well, it’s much appreciated. I like running the Train through Lancaster because I love bringing my passengers to your station. It’s so safe and comfortable here.”

  Rebecca smiled. “Ah, then praise God. It is little enough what we do, but I’m grateful it makes a small difference in the face of such wickedness.”

  “Those who work on the Train think highly of the Amish and Quakers. Very highly. One of our chief conductors says she can trust the Quakers’ promises, and that they are right to call themselves a Society of Friends.”

  “Amen. The Quakers are good neighbors to us.”

  “We feel the same way about the Amish and Mennonites. You have earned our trust. We do not fear anyone or anything once we are under one of your roofs.”

  Rebecca placed her hand firmly on Clarissa’s shoulder. “Your words make my heart glad.”

  “Gut.” Clarissa put her hand on Rebecca’s. “Gut.”

  “Let me add my thanks.” Liberty stood in front of them. “Our passengers are exhausted. They have come all the way from Alabama over the past month. A night and a day here to rest will give them fresh strength.”

  Clarissa looked down.

  “It is an honor to serve God and the me
n and women you bring to us.” Rebecca got to her feet. “Now I know you two will have much to discuss before you sleep. We shall be watching the barn all night. First Ezekiel and then Amos, and after him, another man, Eli. So, you will be safe. Should a problem arise, someone will come to you and inform you. The sheriff here always assists the slave catchers, but I think he is caught up with the news about Fort Sumter this week, and about Lancaster helping the state meet the quota of troops President Lincoln has asked for. Even if a group of slavers approach him, I doubt he will have the time for them. I have heard he has been offered a commission in the army as a captain. No, he will not have time to help slave catchers beat the bushes for runaways. Yet it is so sad that it must be war that stays his hand and not his Christian conscience.”

  Liberty did not sit beside Clarissa. “I will stay up a few more hours. Just in case there is trouble,” he told her.

  She nodded, not looking up. “All right.”

  “Once the men are ready, I’ll get them up to the loft.”

  She nodded again.

  “Is there anything you need?”

  She kicked at the straw with the toe of her boot. “Yes. But nothing that is in you to give.”

  “You mean an apology? No, I won’t be offering you an apology.”

  “I suppose I didn’t think you would.”

  “All our conductors are examined from time to time.”

  “You mean spied on.”

  “I know of three who turned their passengers in to the local authorities and collected the reward money.”

  She snapped her head up and glared at him. “And you honestly think I am capable of that?”

  “I don’t, no. I was more concerned with what you might inadvertently divulge to young Mr. Forrester.”

  “Divulge? How would you know what I said or didn’t say to him in private conversation, sir? Do you reside in one of his coat pockets?”

  “I know his professors. I know his classmates. I would have heard something eventually.”

  “What?” Clarissa’s eyes narrowed to slits of fire. “Who are you? Where do you live in Gettysburg? Are you working at the seminary? You have to tell me something.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yes you do, sir. I have placed my life in your hands. And the lives of countless others many times over. How do I know I can trust you? You obviously don’t trust me. So tell me why I should trust black-hooded Liberty the conductor? Give me something to erase the doubt and disappointment that is rising in my heart against you. Please. You must. Or we won’t work together again after Lebanon.”

  “Miss Ross …”

  “We won’t. I swear to God, we won’t.” She felt like getting to her feet and pacing, the way her father paced when he was upset, but she decided to stay seated. “Moses knows all about you. The people that run the Railroad know all about you.”

  “They don’t know all.”

  “I don’t care. They know more than I do. Which isn’t hard, because I know absolutely nothing. Nothing, sir. Yet I am the one who risks her life with yours every time we ride the rails and ferry new runaways to a safe station.”

  “We keep our secrets for a reason.”

  “Apparently I don’t have any secrets where you are concerned. Even when it comes to my romance with Kyle Forrester.”

  “I told you. I’ve done what I’ve done simply to be sure you can be trusted.”

  “And can I be trusted?” demanded Clarissa.

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “Thank you. So now prove it.”

  “Prove?” echoed Liberty.

  “Tell me something about yourself. I don’t care what.”

  “Miss Ross …”

  “Quit answering my queries with Miss Ross, Miss Ross. I find it irritating. Besides, it is against the code of the Railroad.”

  “Joshua …”

  “Using that name is equally annoying. I don’t want you to use any of my names. I want you to give me some information about yourself.”

  “I don’t know what I can say.”

  “Tell me about your hood.”

  “My hood?” Liberty responded.

  “Does my question require further elaboration? You only have the one hood, am I right? No one else I’ve met on the Railroad wears one. You’d think Moses would if it was so all-fired important. Yet there you are with that absurd bag over your head. What purpose does it serve except to hide your identity from the people you work with and who you entrust your life to? Surely it does not matter if they see your face, since they would have turned you over to the slave catchers or one of the sheriffs by now, hood or no hood, if they were falsehearted. Moses knows such a device isn’t necessary. Why do you? Unless you wear it to spite me?”

  “I can assure you … Joshua … that I was wearing this hood long before you arrived on the scene.”

  “Were you? Because your features strike fear and loathing into the hearts of the runaways?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t try and convince me you have some sort of wound or suppuration. I wasn’t born yesterday. Nor did my mother pluck me from the turnip patch the day before yesterday. There is no scent of blood or infection on you. No hint of rotting flesh. You are as clean of offensive odors as my parents or my beau. So, now tell me. Trust me. Why the hood, Mr. Liberty? Why the black executioner’s hood, sir?”

  Liberty did not move or speak for at least a minute. Clarissa refused to be intimidated and would not break the long silence with her own voice, and she had no intention of looking away either. She forced herself to be patient, no mean feat, she soon realized. But finally, Liberty spoke, in a masculine voice muffled by the thick fabric of the hood, the only voice she had ever heard come from his hidden mouth.

  “It is not to spite you, Miss Ross. Still less to hide myself away from you or any of the conductors or operators. Or any of the slaves, for that matter. And, no, there is no wound to speak of.”

  He paused.

  This time she did speak up. “So then, why, sir?”

  His hands became fists. Then opened again. Then became fists. “There are … there are slave hunters who might come up from Mississippi one day. They would never come into Gettysburg. Or, if they did, never cross any of the paths I take on a daily basis. But on the Railroad, out in the fields or streams or hillsides, we might well meet face-to-face. And I would be recognized.” Through the slits in the hood, she felt his eyes fix like daggers on hers. “I am of the South, Miss Ross. My family is a well-known plantation family, and I, being one of its sons, am well-known too. Many folks from Jackson would know my face, for my family has done business there since I was a child. In Vicksburg they would know me. In Biloxi, for we have another home there since my father loves the sea. In Natchez they would know me, and know me well, for our plantation is there. It is a vast estate with a vast mansion. We grow cotton and sugarcane. Natchez is the chief port on the Mississippi for shipping our crops north to the rest of America or shipping them south to New Orleans and thence overseas to Europe. Slaves work our plantation, Miss Ross, and they have for more than a hundred years.”

  Clarissa felt as rigid as ice.

  Rebecca and Ezekiel and Amos were talking with the runaways. Sometimes there were bursts of laughter or bursts of thanks to God. But she did not move a muscle, not so much as a finger, and she doubted she blinked or batted an eye.

  “Mississippi is a close-knit state. Natchez is an even closer-knit community of wealthy plantation owners. Their fathers and sons will fight for what they see as their right to work their plantations as they see fit. Their fathers and sons will die for the Mississippi way of life. I, having opposed that way of life since I was a boy, though I kept it locked up in my heart, would be seen as a traitor if it was discovered I was a conductor in the Underground Railroad.”

  “They would flay you alive,” whispered Clarissa, half to herself and half to him.

  “What they might do to me is of no concern. I have seen them lynch Mississippians
who were caught aiding the Underground Railroad. And seen their family and their relatives, who knew nothing of what had been going on, hounded from Mississippi and disgraced. Some were tarred and feathered. All had their property seized and their assets confiscated by the government. Many never lived down the shame. A number took their own lives. Others starved, for they had no income and no savings and no hope for any sort of employment worthy of a gentleman. Even if they grew desperate enough to stoop to a job common to the average man, no one in the South would hire them. The lady folk were denied the role of nanny or forbidden to bring in money as seamstresses. So they moved to the North or they found some way to scratch out a living with a shack and a vegetable garden and a goat that gave them milk and cheese. Yet often enough those gardens were trampled, and the goats slaughtered or stolen, and the shacks burned to the ground.”

  He paused again.

  Clarissa could feel her eyes tearing. Now she did blink. Again and again. “You would not wish any of that on your kith and kin. You would not.”

  “No man would. No son. Neither would you, Miss Ross.”

  “No, sir. No I would not.”

  “Understand the Mississippians are not monsters. Not devils. It is the way of life they know and believe in. It has been that way from the beginning. They see it as God blessed. My parents are good people.”

  “All right.”

  “I traveled to England with one large shipment of cotton bales and sugarcane. It was a coming-of-age trip. Twenty-one and all on my own. I handled the financial end of everything. Upon our return, the captain had cause to put into Boston. Fortunately—or providentially—a squall came up while we were still several miles offshore. Waves raked the deck fore and aft. I let myself be washed overboard. And I made sure I was seen being washed overboard. The sea was a foaming madness, but I have been a strong swimmer since I was twelve. I propelled myself away from our ship, under the water, while the sailors were shouting and throwing lines into the waves. The squall was over in a few minutes, but by then the vessel had been blown at least a half mile from where I was swimming. They could not see me in the chop, and I watched them prepare to put a boat over the side and stroked even harder. The ship’s crew did not spot me, and I eventually came ashore near Winthrop and made my way to Chelsea. I never went into Boston, of course, for the ship made harbor there. I had enough gold for new clothes and the train to New York City. There I saw my sad story in the papers. Drowned off Boston Harbor. Of course, it was not sad for me. Now I could reinvent my life and live it the way I wished. But it was horribly sad for my poor mother and father. They loved me and had given me the best sort of life they knew how, the same sort of life that had been passed down to them by their parents and grandparents, and back many generations to my ancestors who made the voyage from England in 1676. Believe me, before God Almighty, Miss Ross, when I say I did not wish for my mother and father the hellish pain of losing a beloved young son, as they thought they had. But I needed to be free of the scourge of slavery, and free of inflicting it on the men and women whose only crimes were to be forced to Mississippi from another continent and to wear a darker skin, both of which were no crimes at all. Yes, I had to be free of that. And the price I paid was the loss of my name and my lineage and my inheritance and livelihood. And the price my family paid was to mourn the loss of a son and brother and heir.”