“What about Ben—Mr. Hanby?”
“I will try to send a message after Ben, if I can determine which club the Joneses may attend. I pray Ben will be in time to join us on the boat to Ripley.”
Ripley? Kate closed her mouth on the questions that swarmed her mind. Mrs. Hanby clearly did not want to be quizzed. But they were going to a different town—what would this do to her perfect plan to disappear in Cincinnati?
They had to cross the courtyard again to return to the inn building. It was even more crowded than before, filled with travelers coming off the steamboat that had brought Mr. Parker. Every hitching post was occupied by a horse, some thoroughbreds finely bred with thin skin and long legs, others cart horses built for strength. A messenger boy in a red cap crossed the yard with a rapid stride for his short legs, his satchel advertising his profession.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Hanby called to him and stepped into the yard to get his attention.
“Ma’am?” He stopped and turned his face to her.
A carriage careened around the corner from the street, loose cloth flapping from its top. The black horse hitched at the corner took fright, leapt on its hind legs, and reared back against its tie-line, head straining up, eyes rolling in fear. It plunged down and up again, and the tie-line snapped, sending it reeling left—directly toward Mrs. Hanby and the boy. She looked up and froze, her hat tilted back, only a few feet from the flailing legs and their heavy hooves.
Kate ran toward the horse, making the loud hissing sound of an experienced groom, waving her arms like a windmill. The horse dropped back to earth and scuttled back on all fours, more startled by this apparition in its swinging dress than by the flapping cloth.
A man behind it seized the snapped end of the reins and soothed the animal until it stood quivering by the curb.
Mrs. Hanby’s brown eyes were large in her white face. “Thank you. I lost my presence of mind for a moment.”
“That was uncommonly brave, miss,” the boy said. “And you can run faster than any woman I ever saw.”
“I’m sure I looked very foolish,” Kate said in a low voice. “But I am not afraid of horses. They are all the same when frightened.”
The offending coach had pulled up to the other side of the yard. “Sorry, folks,” the driver yelled out of the side of his mouth. “Don’t know what got into the creature.” It was another hired driver and hackney cab, judging from the luggage on top.
Mrs. Hanby began a hurried conversation with the messenger boy about the local clubs where gentlemen met and where her son might have gone with the Joneses.
Back by the stable, the tall black man was standing by the open double doors. He was watching Kate with a look of mild surprise. She hadn’t meant to draw attention to herself—especially not by capering like a scarecrow in front of the yard. He would think her a total fool. At least Mrs. Hanby had not noticed that Mr. Parker was a witness. The less said, the better.
Mrs. Hanby gave the messenger boy a few coins and turned to Kate. “I must go retrieve something from Ben’s room. If you will ask a porter to get our bags from the room, I will rejoin you down here.” She headed up the staircase.
Kate looked around the yard, still filled with pedestrians, and at Mr. Parker, watching her from the stable doors. This would be her last chance for several days—Kate could try to slip away now, or she could go along with Mrs. Hanby. If she ran or even walked away, Mr. Parker would see her go.
Besides that, if Kate did not go along as a companion, Mrs. Hanby would not be able to travel with Mr. Parker. And it must be very urgent, if Mrs. Hanby would leave without her son.
Kate owed Ben’s mother too much to refuse to help her now. They would come back to Cincinnati after this mysterious errand, and then Kate could continue as she had planned.
Now she must get her bag and go to Ripley. By steamboat, into the night.
Fifteen
CIGAR SMOKE DRIFTED THROUGH THE AIR, AN AROMATIC relic of the conversations that snaked through every aisle and chamber of the Metropolitan Club.
“Ben, come and meet my friend,” Mr. Jones called from where he stood with a dark-haired man with a serious, distinguished look.
When Ben joined them, Mr. Jones put a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Hayes, this is my friend’s son, Ben Hanby. Ben, Mr.
Rutherford Hayes.”
“Very pleased to meet you, sir.” Ben shook the man’s hand.
“Mr. Hayes is a solicitor in town and does much work for the benefit of the public,” Mr. Jones said.
“I’m usually at the Literary Club, but business called me here instead,” the man said. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Jones?” He looked around the room before finding his target and heading off, elegant in his black coattails.
There were more faces and names, more handshakes and introductions. Many of them appeared to be lawyers. Frederick’s easy conversation and interest in the law gained the approval of all the older men. This club would be where Frederick found a mentor in his chosen profession, no doubt. Politicians were often lawyers first, and Frederick aspired to be both. But the lawyers were also congenial to Ben, asking him about his studies and his interests. Several appeared to enjoy his wit, and shared a few quips of their own.
Mr. Jones moved through the club like a bulbous pond insect, skating here and there around the clusters of gentlemen in chairs, but always returning to his son. His face glowed with paternal pride. Several times Ben heard him mention his son’s merits to the other gentlemen—not so as to alienate, but with tact, so the lawyers asked more about Frederick’s abilities and his education.
It must be pleasant for Frederick to have a father so invested in his life and future—a father who went everywhere with his son and offered companionship and friendly guidance.
But Ben wouldn’t think less of his own father, who worked without rest to help those who needed it. Between seven other siblings and his father’s commitment to the oppressed, however, Ben had to treasure their saddle and harness work together as the only man-to-man conversation they might find in a whole week.
Mr. Jones clapped Frederick on the back and laughed at some witticism.
Ben would like to see his own father so amused and lighthearted too—but the nature of his work often gave him the same preoccupations as Ben. They did not live in such a merry world as the Joneses, who had chosen not to see many things. He imagined what it would be like not to see, not to remember Joseph’s death, not to think of the fugitives he’d seen, and not to feel the constant urge to help. It would be an easy existence, to live within the boundaries of one’s own life. Many of the men here had the same bonhomie as the Joneses: the broad smiles, the expensive clothing, the air of untrammeled luxury.
But Mr. Rutherford Hayes had not possessed that look. He had the preoccupied expression of Ben’s father.
“Mr. Jones,” Ben said, at a pause in the stream of introductions. “What kind of law does Mr. Hayes practice?”
“He takes the cases that fall under the Fugitive Slave Law,” Mr. Jones said. “Argues mostly for slaves trying to hoodwink the courts by running from Kentucky. He loves a challenge, but it’s pointless work, for the most part. Legal papers are legal papers.”
“I see.” Ben discovered a new liking for Mr. Hayes.
“But he’s a brilliant man, and mark my words, he’ll go far someday, if he can turn his talent to more significant matters. He might even be mayor of Cincinnati.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now let’s go take some refreshment, shall we? Everything we could wish is here at the club—meat, drink, debate, or cards, newspapers for the reading, magazines. We have hours of diversion ahead of us.”
Hours? Ben wouldn’t like to be gone for too long. His mother and Kate were not frail or dull. They’d amuse themselves or perhaps go shopping as they’d said. Still, he wouldn’t want to leave them for more than two hours. He would go back then, even if Mr. Jones wished to stay all evening.
He took some interest in
the cards, but only from a statistical standpoint. Watching the men lose money and laugh amazed him—he did not understand the appeal of gambling, throwing away one’s hard-earned living as entertainment. The debates tempted him to join in, but he suppressed the responses that rose to his lips and instead listened to the often witty rejoinders from club members. He was a guest here and should not draw attention to himself.
He looked at his pocket watch. Only an hour and a half had passed. He would go observe the new card game Mr. Jones was playing at the corner table, then make his farewell.
The cards flashed white on the green baize, and trails of smoke quivered up from cigar ends and disappeared.
“Mr. Hanby?” A club valet in black tie spoke deferentially behind him.
“Yes?”
“A message.” He held a small envelope on a silver tray. When Ben took it, he bowed and retreated out the door toward the front receiving hall.
Dear Ben,
John was early. We have gone to catch the last boat to Ripley—he says tonight is the safest opportunity to perform your errand.
If you do not make it in time, I will help John. I have taken the little basket with me.
Do not worry. God will watch over us.
Your loving mother
He shoved the note in his pocket and rushed out the door, almost colliding with Frederick. “I must go—the women need my help and have gone on a brief visit to the countryside nearby.”
“That was sudden,” Frederick said. “Everything all right?”
“Fine.” Ben relaxed his face with an effort. “They had a womanly burst of impulse, and I will ensure they are escorted. Good night.” He hurried out past the front desk.
He had to make it to the steamboat packet office before the last boat departed.
Sixteen
RIPLEY SAT ON THE HIGH BANKS OF THE OHIO RIVER, and twilight revealed points of light flickering in the windows of many homes.
“Why are there so many candles?” Kate asked Mrs. Hanby.
The older woman hesitated before picking up her cup of tea from the side table. “They are a guide to fugitives from across the river.” She took a sip, watching Kate.
Mrs. Hanby had told her about the mission to rescue the slave woman. It did not seem quite real, watching these lights appear that would show John and Ben—or Mrs. Hanby—the way back to Ripley from a dangerous errand. And it was illegal. The thought made Kate twitch, even though she agreed in principle with the abolition of slavery. Aiding fugitives was one thing as a topic for Otterbein oratory, but quite another matter when John Parker was cleaning his pistols on the kitchen table of his home while his wife wiped off the dinner plates.
John came back into the parlor, where Kate stood looking out over the water.
“I’m afraid we can wait no longer for Ben,” John said.
“It may be for the best. His ankle has not completely healed.” Mrs. Hanby set her tea aside and stood up. “I am quite willing to go in his place. I have done such things before, to a lesser degree, perhaps, but still hazardous.”
John’s wife, Miranda, came in, her arms full of cloth. “You may need these, Mrs. Hanby,” Miranda said, and held up a pair of men’s breeches.
Kate stared at them in shock.
“Wait a moment,” John Parker said. The new note in his voice turned their heads toward him.
“I think,” he said to Mrs. Hanby, “that in order to have the highest chance of success, I will have to take her.” He pointed to Kate.
Air huffed out of her lungs and Kate sat down abruptly in the parlor chair.
“No insult intended to you, Mrs. Hanby,” he said. “We will need you to stand guard on the Ripley side. But Miss Winter can run like few other women. I saw her back in Cincinnati. And we may need to run very fast back from the plantation buildings to the river.”
John Parker wished her to go instead of Ben’s mother? This required a moment of reflection, to say the least. She could be captured. Her temples throbbed.
“I see your point, John,” Mrs. Hanby said. “But I can’t allow it. This is not my child.”
“She is not a child,” John said. “She is a young woman who must make her own choice about whether to save another from captivity.”
Make her own choice. How odd to hear those words from a male stranger who had no way of knowing the turmoil in her home or her plans for this journey. She pressed her damp palms against her skirt.
“Mrs. Hanby, I would like to make my own decision.” Kate stood and went to the window again, where the guide lights had brightened in the gloom. She must be honest—she could not risk lives. “I don’t know if I am capable. I fear my courage might fail at the sticking point.”
“Then do not go,” Mrs. Hanby said.
John Parker gave Kate a level stare. “Do you think of yourself as a coward, Miss Winter?”
From anyone else, the rudeness would have shocked her, but there was no malice in him. “I suppose not,” she said.
“And have you ever taken a great risk?”
She paused. “Yes.” If she had not taken it yet, she would have in a week.
“And your courage did not wither.”
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Because the alternative was unacceptable.” She paused. “I see your meaning.”
He contemplated her. “When you see this woman, I do not think your courage will fail.”
“Miss Winter, if you are caught, you will most certainly be arrested,” Mrs. Hanby said.
Kate stared at the carpet, then looked up at the two of them. “I think I must go.” A little chill rippled across her shoulders.
“Very good,” John said.
Mrs. Hanby looked between them and then sighed. “John, you don’t think you can go alone?”
“If I’m alone, the woman will think it is a trick, a ruse of her master’s. But if there is a white woman with me, and she carries that lock of hair you mentioned, Nelly will know our help is genuine. No white woman would go with a black man at night as a decoy for the master. Do you have the lock?”
Mrs. Hanby opened her little handbag and brought out a tiny basket. “Here.”
“Give it to Miss Winter, and she will come with me to the plantation’s outbuildings. You will wait on this side of the river to be sure there are no marshal’s men or bounty hunters waiting for us.”
“Will we encounter any?” Kate asked.
“The marshal’s men usually patrol the banks, but as I told Mrs. Hanby, they’ve been called away to keep order at an abolition meeting this evening. It’s very rare, and we must make the most of this one night.”
“It’s better that Ben isn’t here,” Mrs. Hanby said. “He would have insisted on going himself. Though he would be horrified to know you’re taking Miss Winter.”
Miranda held up a pair of trousers again. “Young lady, it sounds like you’ll be needing a pair of these too.” Miranda handed them over, rough against Kate’s hands. She would not show any hesitation to don them—she must prove she was strong enough.
A woman who broke the law could not be afraid to wear trousers.
All was quiet and dark. The boat bobbed like a cradle soothing a baby to sleep.
It didn’t calm Kate, who sat immobile in the prow. She laced her hands together in her lap where John Parker could not see them and dug her fingers into the back of her knuckles. She couldn’t stop the faint tremble that had started inside her and traveled to her hands. He mustn’t see her shaking or he would think her unfit for the errand.
The chirp of crickets set a rhythm for little splashes from the oars as John rowed them toward the Kentucky side. They were quite close now.
She must shake off this dreamlike state. She peered at the riverbank as far as she could see to the left and right. At least there was no sign of a lantern.
They bumped up against the reeds. John jumped out, heedless of the mud and several inches of water. He lashed the tow rope of the fishing boat to a
birch tree.
She must move now. She clambered over the side and into the dark water.
The unfamiliar feeling of the breeches increased her sense of having traveled to some different life, some strange body. It could not be she, traipsing around the wild in men’s trousers. Someone else entirely had come on this errand—someone braver and stronger who just happened to resemble her on the outside.
A few waterlogged steps brought her to where John stood on the riverbank, like the shadow of a tree in the moonlight.
“This way.” He walked ahead of her, straight toward the thickest tangle of thorny bush, slipping sideways into an almost-imperceptible space. Kate followed, though the twigs scratched like cat claws through her cotton shirt. They crossed a small rivulet of water on their way through the woods and pushed through the undergrowth for about ten minutes before the land began to clear out. Kate smelled the dampness of freshly turned earth and made out the furrows of a plowed field in the faint moonlight. Eerie quiet reigned—even the crickets had halted their song. John walked into the field, making a clear track across its neat earthen lines. They didn’t have to hide their footprints. Any fugitive who lived next to the Ohio River would go across it—it wouldn’t be a mystery to any pursuer.
Kate followed John across several fields. He finally slowed as they approached a tiny shotgun cabin, whitewashed and raised off the ground.
John beckoned Kate to crouch with him under the window frame. The shutter was open. He peered over the sill, then ducked down again and motioned for Kate to go inside.
Too late to change her mind now. She rose to spy over the window ledge. Inside, two people slept on straw mattresses. John clasped his hands into a foothold for her, waiting. She stepped into his grasp and he lifted her up and over the sill.
She crept between the man and woman and knelt to touch the shoulder of the sleeping woman. “Nelly,” she whispered, as John had told her.
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