by BJ Hoff
So intent was he on the path his thoughts had taken that he almost tripped over the broken board in front of the mercantile. He caught himself just in time and went on, more slowly now, feeling the first few splatters of rain on his shoulders but only in the vaguest way and not really caring that the sky looked about to open and unleash a downpour at any moment.
Something pressed in on him, some urgency began to drive him. He had felt this kind of relentless pressure only a few times in recent years, but often enough to know what it meant. So he slowed his pace even more and silently breathed the words battering at his heart and in his mind, words that eventually took the form of an impassioned, albeit a reluctant, prayer.
“You know I don’t want to give her up, that everything in me wants her as my wife, my friend, my lover for a lifetime. But it seems that, even more than I want her for myself, I want her to be happy. She’s not meant to be alone—what a waste that would be, Lord. What a waste. She’s meant for love and goodness and motherhood and joy. She’s meant for all the finest things, the very best You can give her.
“So if she can’t have all that with me—if it’s truly Your will that we remain separate—then give me the strength to step aside and not in any way interfere with what You do want for her. Give me the strength to walk away if that’s what You want, not just for a little while, but for good. For Rachel’s good.”
Only now did he become aware of the cold, wind-driven rain pelting his skin and drenching him through. Hunching his shoulders against its sting, he picked up his pace and hurried on.
26
CONTINUING GOD’S WORK
No matter what may be the test,
God will take care of you.
CIVILLA D. MARTIN
The week passed steadily in the brisk cadence of fall. With much help from good neighbors, the hay had been baled, the apple harvest brought in, cider and apple butter made.
Susan couldn’t be more thankful for the way her friends—both Amish and Englisch—had pitched in to make up for Gideon’s absence. Most of the heavy work of this time of year was now behind, and she could content herself with the last of her canning and other seasonal chores.
By midmorning she had set several loaves of bread to rise, thoroughly cleaned the wood stove, swept the kitchen floor, and baked what looked to be a mighty fine apple pie, if she did say so herself. She would spend the rest of the morning baking an assortment of cookies and other sugary treats for the common meal after tomorrow’s preaching service at Abe Gingerich’s farm.
Susan always looked forward to their every-other-week preaching services, conducted in private homes and barns rather than in a formal church building. Tradition had it that this practice began with the persecution of their ancestors in the old country. Supposedly, moving their preaching services from place to place had made them harder for the authorities to locate. That was no longer the case, of course, but the reason didn’t really matter. The Plain People believed a home was also their church.
These days the Amish had other problems, some more fraught with danger than being apprehended during their church services.
A knock sounded at the front door, and Susan glanced down at her dress before going to answer. She was still in her choring dress, spotted with flour and pastry stains, when she started down the hallway.
Before she reached the door, however, Malachi Esch stepped inside and called out to her. Only then did she remember that she hadn’t locked the door after sweeping the porch early this morning. There had been a time when she felt no need to bar entrance to anyone, but more often than not, these days the People took advantage of their locks.
“Oh, I’m glad it’s you, Malachi,” she said, wiping her hands down her apron as she went. “I’m so fuzzy brained I can’t seem to remember to lock my doors.”
“Best be minding the caution to do so,” he said, his features still heavy with the burden of his loss.
“Come in, Malachi. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, ja,” he said, removing his hat but still clutching the bag he’d brought inside with him. “You have a minute for a visit, do you, Susan?” As was usually his way, he spoke in the language of the People.
“I have plenty of time for a visit. It’s ever so good to see you,” she said, taking his hat from him and hooking it on the wall peg beside the door. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I have coffee on the stove.”
“Never knew a time when you didn’t, Susan. So where is young Fannie this morning?”
“Oh, she and her puppy are already over at Rachel’s. They’re making sweet potato pies for the preaching service tomorrow.”
“That sounds right good,” he said. “I’ll have to look for those pies.”
In the kitchen, he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself until Susan told him to sit. Only when she put a fresh cup of coffee in front of him and pulled up a chair to sit down did he release the bag he’d brought inside.
With any other minister, Susan might have felt a measure of awkwardness at an unexpected visit like this, but not so with Malachi Esch. She and Amos had enjoyed years of good friendship with him and Phoebe before the lot ever fell on Malachi.
Susan had never seen any sign that serving the community as one of their preaching ministers had changed him in any way. Malachi was just—Malachi. Yet she knew that if word ever got out that he and Phoebe had been studying all the Scriptures for years now, not only the ones approved by the bishop, it might bring trouble down on him.
Not to mention the other business about helping the runaway slaves. Susan still hadn’t quite recovered from her surprise upon learning about that.
“Wanted to bring you this before any more time passed by,” Malachi said now, pushing the bag he’d carried inside toward Susan.
Malachi had never been the talkative sort, except when he was preaching, and now he seemed to grope for words. “Phoebe said once that if something should ever happen to her, I was to give you this. There’s something in there for Rachel as well. You know, Phoebe thought the world of both of you. I thought you might want something to remember her by. His voice caught on the last few words, and he glanced down at the table.
Susan looked from Malachi to the bag.
As if I would ever need anything to help me remember my dearest friend…
She peeked inside, then pulled out a Bible. Carefully, she opened it, realizing after a moment that it was Phoebe’s Bible.
“Oh, Malachi—I can’t possibly take this! Surely you want to keep it yourself.”
He shook his head. “No, we each had our own Biewel. A long time ago, Phoebe said I must give it to you.” He paused. “More than likely you’ll find lots of marks in it. She liked to mark the passages that meant the most to her.”
Susan hardly knew what to say. “What a precious gift this is, Malachi. I promise you, I’ll cherish it always. Really I will.”
Malachi, never a sentimental man, cleared his throat. “Well, that’s good, then. There’s a little book of poetry in there for Rachel. Phoebe liked to read it sometimes. Can’t say that I remember her ever reading anything else besides her Bible and those poems. You give it to Rachel, then, will you?”
“Of course I will.” Susan hesitated but finally asked, “How are you doing, Malachi? I know it’s hard.”
He nodded, passing one hand down the side of his beard. “Can’t deny that I struggle sometimes. But you know how she was. She wouldn’t want me sitting around looking all schlimm—all sad and long-faced. God is good—I know where mei fraa is—my wife is safe in the arms of the Lord Jesus. In only a little while, I’ll be with her. She’d tell me to be patient, don’t you know?”
There had been a time when Malachi’s confidence of salvation would have made Susan uncomfortable, would have even shocked her. This belief wasn’t a part of the Old Ways. But lately she had begun to wonder. According to Rachel—and Phoebe and Malachi and David too—the belief of a heaven for Christians didn’t depend on doing all the right works th
roughout one’s life. Phoebe herself had insisted more than once that if Susan would just study God’s Word in its entirety, she would discover the assurance of salvation for herself.
Her hands smoothed the well-worn cover of her dear friend’s Bible, and in that instant she decided that maybe now she would follow Phoebe’s advice. Could be those marked passages Malachi had spoken of would lead her to the truth Phoebe had been so anxious for her to discover.
She looked up to find Malachi watching her. “I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed that she had let her mind go roaming during his visit. “I was just thinking of Phoebe.”
He nodded. “What better thoughts to have?” He stood then. “I’ve taken enough time from your morning. And I have work to do. Best get to it.”
Susan also got up from her chair. “Thank you again for coming by, Malachi, and for bringing me Phoebe’s Bible.”
For a moment he looked everywhere but at Susan. “You’ve been a good friend to us—to Phoebe and me—and our sons,” he said lowering his voice. “I expect if she could, she would tell you to be careful, to look after yourself and those two girls of yours.”
Puzzled Susan said, “Why yes. I’ll do that.”
He stood there another moment, a deep frown creasing his forehead. “I know she told you about what we do.”
“What you do?”
“Helping the runaways. Phoebe said she told you.” He actually glanced around, as if to make certain no one else was nearby.
“Ja,” Susan said, wary of what he was getting at. “She told me.”
“That’s why they went after her as they did, seems like.” He hesitated, then went on. “It’s no secret that our families have been friends for a long time. Could be some might think you’re also involved with what we do, Susan. Maybe Rachel too. So you be careful, now. You keep your doors locked and take caution.”
“Oh, Malachi, do you really think that’s why they hurt Phoebe?”
“Don’t think there’s any doubt about it, given what they wrote on that paper,” he said, his features going hard.
“Well—don’t you worry about us,” Susan said, hoping she sounded braver than she felt. She hesitated before asking. “I’ve wondered, though—do you plan to continue? After what happened—”
He shook his head slowly, not quite looking at her. “Best you not know too much about things,” he said. “Let me ask you, though, if I had been the one taken instead of our Phoebe, do you think she would have stopped doing God’s work?”
Susan studied him closely. “You still believe that, then—that what you do is God’s work? In spite of what happened to Phoebe?”
“I can’t think otherwise. I believe like Phoebe did. She used to say we might be a touch of God’s grace to those poor enslaved souls, that it would be a terrible sin not to help them if we could.”
He paused, his gaze mournful but convicted. “Phoebe always said there should be no fear for us if we’re doing God’s will, that one way or another, He will defend us and rescue us. It wasn’t that she didn’t get nervous at times about what we were doing—but she believed we mustn’t let evil get in the way of good.”
Susan almost pointed out that God hadn’t rescued Phoebe, but as if Malachi knew her thoughts, he said, “Our Phoebe would surely tell us that the Lord did indeed rescue her in the best way of all, by taking her to be with Him.” He stopped, then added, “I’ll pray that the Lord God will keep you and yours safe.”
“Thank you, Malachi. And da Herr sei mit du,” Susan said quietly. The Lord be with you.
She stood on the porch watching him as he trudged down the path toward his buggy, his shoulders slightly hunched, his steps obviously heavy.
His caution to stay safe filled Susan’s mind. She shivered—not from the cool of the day, but more because she couldn’t help but wonder if staying safe was any longer a possibility for the Riverhaven Amish.
27
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
I hear that Queen Victoria says
If we will all forsake our land of chains and slavery
And come across the lake,
She will be standing on the shore
With arms extended wide.
FROM AN ABOLITIONIST BALLAD
Gideon was becoming so accustomed to this night travel by now that he scarcely felt the need of sleep before dawn. He half suspected that Asa sometimes wished he would grow drowsy so he wouldn’t ply him with so many questions.
Still, the older man was usually nice as could be, replying as he chose, fixing a level look on Gideon if he deemed a particular question either not worth an answer or outside of some sort of boundary set by Asa himself.
For his part Gideon was learning where to venture and where not to go. He had discovered, for example, that Asa wasn’t keen on providing information of a personal nature. Even though they’d been on the road together for more than three weeks now, he knew no more about Asa’s life as a slave than he had when they left Riverhaven. That was all right, though. Gideon thought it likely that if he had lived the life of a slave, he wouldn’t relish talking about it either.
He found it frustrating, though, that it was almost as difficult to pry information out of the other regarding the Underground Railroad as anything personal. Earlier tonight, for example, Asa had started to shut him down pretty hard when Gideon asked about the “stations” in and around southern Ohio.
“There’s more than a few, not as many as needed,” had been Asa’s vague reply.
Gideon had been a little piqued with the man’s shortness, especially considering that here he was taking a few risks of his own—according to Asa and Gant, anyhow—to help with the mysterious goings-on of the Railroad.
When a second attempt to extract information also failed, Gideon withdrew into a silence of his own making. After an hour or so of this, however, he was beginning to feel like an ill-tempered schoolboy and decided to apologize.
“Sorry for being so nosy, Asa,” he said. “Seems I don’t always know when to quit with the questions.”
He saw a small twitch at the corner of Asa’s mouth and recognized it as a sign that the other wasn’t really all that annoyed with him.
“What’s all this interest in runaway slaves, young Gideon? I do believe you’re the most curious boy I’ve ever met. Seems you have a question for just about everything.”
Gideon grinned. “Not everything. But since I’m involved now in this Underground Railroad doings, I would like to know as much as I can about it.”
Asa turned and regarded him with a curious look of his own, as if considering Gideon’s words. “I suppose I can understand that,” he finally said. “But here’s the thing—the more you know about how things work, the more danger you’re in. Not telling you anything other than what you absolutely need to know is a way of protecting you.”
Gideon chafed at the inference that he needed protection. “I’m not a boy to be coddled, Asa. I’m no longer a child, though you and the captain seem to think I need to be treated like one. And I’m not asking you to fill me in on all the secrets you and Captain Gant are privy to. But when I told you I wanted to help, I didn’t mean just this one trip, don’t you see? I meant doing something over the long haul.” He paused. “I just want to know how things work, is all. Nothing you don’t feel comfortable telling me.”
Again Asa turned to study him. After a long moment, he drew a breath and nodded. “All right. I suppose if you’re going to take such risks, then you have a right to know something more of what you’re getting into. But you need to understand, the Railroad isn’t some kind of organized, fixed system. It’s always changing, sometimes so often that even some of us who have worked in it for years can’t keep up with the changes.
“Basically it’s just an operation spread over many states to help runaway slaves get to freedom, preferably to Canada—but at least as far north as possible.”
“Why Canada?”
“It’s safer. A black man can live free in one of the no
rthern states for years, but if a slave hunter comes upon him and captures him, he can still be sent back to his owner. Canada’s laws are different from ours. I believe we will see the day when all the states are truly ‘free states,’ but for now freedom isn’t really guaranteed in most places, not even in the North. In Canada the law protects a freed slave. But even here in Ohio, the law works against him.”
Eager to learn and fascinated by the tale Asa told in his deep, resonant voice, Gideon listened, seldom interrupting unless it was to clarify something too difficult to grasp at first hearing.
“You have to understand that a slave is not generally viewed by his owner as a person,” Asa said. “A slave is property. Bought and paid for, owned and managed by the one who bought him. In the owner’s way of thinking, he can treat that slave well or mistreat him, work him to death or sell him. He owns him completely, body and soul—if he happens to believe a slave actually has a soul. He can kill him at will, though that’s an expense and not a good investment of his money, so he’s usually reluctant to do away with a ‘good’ slave.
“A slave has no education—it’s against the law to teach a slave to read. He has no money, no law but white man’s law, and no rights whatsoever, even where his own family is concerned.
“Time after time a slave’s family members are sold without warning, and if he protests, he can be beaten for raising his voice to his ‘master.’ He can own nothing, go nowhere, can’t even acquire a skill unless his master approves it. To his owner he’s a beast of burden and little more.”
Asa glanced quickly left and right, scanning their surroundings long enough to interrupt the flow of his account. When he again set his gaze straight ahead on the road, Gideon could almost feel the heaviness in the man’s heart. He realized in that moment that Asa was giving him, indirectly, a painfully clear picture of what his own life as a slave must have been like.
“You can see, then, how difficult—how impossible—it is for a slave to escape to freedom without help,” Asa went on. “Much of this help comes from the white man: abolitionists, preachers, farmers, merchants, doctors, teachers, housewives. But other blacks are also deeply involved in the work. All kinds of folks in all different places risk jail and even their own lives to help runaways succeed in their escape.
