“I’m on business from Westerville,” his father replied, and then moved into the light. “There’s not a match to be had in the warehouse here, and I’m in need of a bowl of tobacco myself. I see you might have a light?”
“I sure do.” The sentry turned toward Ben’s father and rummaged in his coat with one hand.
“Let me hold that for you,” his father said, and took the man’s pipe.
Now.
Ben stole toward the door behind the sentry’s back. He heard his father comment on the fineness of the man’s pipe, and then Ben was inside the building, in a long, narrow hallway. A candle lantern glowed ten feet ahead in a niche in the wall.
Two corridors crossed the hall up ahead. Every sense heightened, Ben inched up to the first crossing. No sign of anyone yet. Should he turn here or continue on? A few barred cells lined the side passage, and another candle lantern glowed down at the end of the hall, but still no sign of life. Behind the bars of the cells lay dim piles of objects—guns, perhaps.
Lord, guide my steps. He crossed the corridor and moved down the main hall to the next intersection.
Another lantern glimmered in a wall niche down the left-hand corridor. A rustle and a groan rose from the cells there. Stealing past several empty, barred rooms, Ben found the source of the noise. A brown-skinned man sprawled on a straw pallet in the far corner of a cell. His arm covered his face, and black bruises circled his forearm.
He had no doubt of the captive’s identity. “Frank,” he whispered.
Frank lowered his arm and looked at Ben. His eyes widened. Ben held his finger to his lips. Frank nodded, then got to his feet slowly, as if he had the weight and pain of the world on his shoulders. He made a motion as if turning a key with his hand, looking at Ben with a question in his raised eyebrows. Ben shook his head.
Frank approached the bars and motioned for Ben to come close until he was only an inch away through the iron bars. “There’s a man here,” he said, barely audible. “Not the guard, another. Look out for him. They keep the keys down there.” He pointed to the opposite end of the corridor.
Ben nodded and set off in that direction. At the juncture with the main hall, he paused, ensured there was no one in sight, then crossed. The barred cells on this side were full of weapons— muskets, kegs of black powder, even a cannon carriage and barrel lying disassembled on the floor. At the far end of the hall was a table and, atop it, a plate with a few crusts. That must be the guard post. He walked to it without sound. A rack of hooks, with a key suspended on it. Excellent.
Frank’s battered face lit when Ben returned and held up the key. It scraped in the lock and the hinges of the door grated. Ben looked down the hall but no one appeared. Frank limped out of the cell.
Now, the real challenge—how to get out. He must try the back.
He led Frank down the main hallway until it jagged sharply right and ended at the back door. But the back door was chained shut and padlocked with a huge rusted lock. Ben had not seen any other keys on the rack. There was no way out but the front door.
He headed back that way, Frank following him. As they neared the front entrance, a voice rose from outside.
“Well, I’ll be getting back inside,” the guard said. “Business to do there.”
“Where did you get the tobacco? It’s rich.” His father’s voice rose with good cheer.
“Tobacconist on High, at Town. Good night.” The sentry’s voice grew louder and closer.
A small recess beside the door would make a good hiding place—but only one man would fit there. He gestured for Frank to go into it. The fugitive ran over and flattened his body into the niche.
Ben ran down to the first intersection of the corridor and hid himself behind the corner. The sentry came in the front door, kicking snow from his boots. As soon as the guard cleared the sill, Frank slipped out behind him and into the night. Ben’s father would find him. Ben would meet them closer to the bridge—if he could elude the sentry.
“Hey there, mister!” the sentry said.
“What?” a harsh voice said from the other end of the hall Ben occupied.
Ben moved to the nearest set of bars and melted himself against them, hoping the jut of the wall would protect him from discovery.
A tall figure walked down the shadowy hallway, then turned toward the main entrance.
“Have you questioned the slave any further? Maybe he’s ready to talk.” The Southern drawl sounded familiar.
“I tried,” the sentry said. “No answers yet.”
“Well, try again. And don’t be so friendly this time. I’m finishing my correspondence, but I’m running out of time.”
The sentry sighed. “Sir, why don’t you just take him to his massa tomorrow? They’re more convincing in Kentucky.”
“That may be.” The voice belonged to Daniel Jones, he was sure of it. Ben’s hands went cold. Bad enough if the sentry caught him, but disastrous if Mr. Jones did.
Now the sentry walked toward the cell where Frank had been, but Jones paused in the intersection of the two corridors, cutting off Ben’s avenue of escape.
“He’s gone!” the sentry yelled.
“Search the whole building!” Mr. Jones said. He rushed back toward the empty cell and turned the corner, leaving an open path for Ben to the front door.
Ben sprinted for freedom. As he turned into the main hall, Mr. Jones looked toward him down the dim hall. “Stop!” the big man shouted, and ran after Ben.
Ben made it to the front door, but the sentry had closed it and barred it with a heavy beam. Ben strained to budge it. It came loose, but Jones was only steps away from him. “Ben!” the gray-haired man said, his face blank with surprise. Ben wrenched the door open and threw himself out into the night.
Mr. Jones followed. “Bar the door after me and guard it!” he shouted over his shoulder to the sentry. “The slave may still be inside!”
Deep snowdrifts had piled on this side of the building. Ben stumbled through them. This was no good—he could not run any faster than Mr. Jones through the snow, though he would have easily outdistanced him on flat ground. His breath came fast, the cold aching in his chest. He pushed his legs harder, faster, pulling one foot after another from the white trap and shoving it forward. The dim shape of the bridge loomed about half a mile away, dark at the end of the snow-covered plain. A broken line across the whiteness made a path to the bridge—those must be the marks left by his father and Frank. The snow seemed to be growing even deeper. He could not slow down, though his shoes were catching on the tumbling clumps of snow. His breath heaved in gasps, his legs grew numb. He pulled his right foot out of the snow hole, but it stuck and he tumbled on his side. His feet found no purchase and he floundered for a moment.
A hand seized his coat and held firm. He heaved himself away, but Mr. Jones flung his entire weight on Ben’s back, knocking the wind out of him, grabbing one of his arms and twisting it painfully behind his back. Ben could not move—he was no match for the sheer size of Mr. Jones.
They both lay there, struggling for breath, for a long, tense moment.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Jones gasped out. “What do you think you’re doing, Ben?” His tone was angry, but also aggrieved. “Where is the slave?”
There could be no answer. Ben stared at the snow, inches from his face.
“Why?” Mr. Jones pushed on his arm, overcome by passion.
Ben winced as pain stabbed through his shoulder. “Because it’s not right.”
“I’ll take you back inside there and lock you up to wait for the marshal. This is illegal. You’re acting like a criminal.” The freezing air gave Mr. Jones’s words a cloud of vapor that drifted past Ben’s face.
“It’s slavery that’s criminal.” The weight of Mr. Jones crushed the air from his lungs so it was hard to speak.
“You cannot determine that yourself. You are bound by the law.”
“I answer to God’s law first.” Ben ignored the wrench in his shoulder and
gritted it out. “Go ahead, lock me up. I’m not afraid.”
“Why, Ben? You have so much to offer! You’re my son’s friend. Why do you make me do this?” The older man sounded truly pained and his grip on Ben’s arm eased a fraction. “You’re taking the side of those who will ruin this country.”
Ben twisted over his shoulder to meet Mr. Jones’s eyes. “You’re wrong. This country won’t survive unless ordinary people stand up for what is right.”
The gray-haired man was red in the face, his eyes moist. “How can someone so intelligent be so misled?” He squeezed Ben’s arm tight for a moment, then pulled his hands away as if he had touched a hot stove. “I can’t do it. It will break Frederick’s heart.” The weight lifted off Ben’s back and Mr. Jones sat back on his heels in the snow. “Get out of my sight.”
Ben sat up, stunned.
“And know this. If I ever hear word of this again—or catch your father or mother breaking the law—there will be no more reprieves.” Mr. Jones launched himself to his feet, shaking his head. “Go!” he snapped without looking at Ben. “Before the guard comes out here.” The big man turned and began to plow his way back to the armory.
Ben jumped up and stumbled onward, following the tracks his father had left. He had to get to the bridge. The other two were waiting.
In the small attic, the roof beams were so low they had to crawl across the boards that had been nailed to the rafters. Ben held up the lantern so Frank could see his way over to the small pile of blankets and provisions.
“Thank you, Mr. Kinser,” Ben’s father said through the trapdoor to the man below them, who stood waiting to close it after them. This balding, wealthy banker had sheltered more fugitives than his respectable neighbors would ever imagine.
“I’ll be up to get Frank in the morning,” Mr. Kinser replied. “We must simply be sure that you two”—he nodded at the Hanbys—“are not seen leaving my house.”
“We will wait until you and Frank are gone,” Ben’s father said.
“Very good.” The banker closed the door, leaving only the lamplight glowing off the wood of the attic. Ben prepared a makeshift bed from two blankets. Frank did not move, just sat on the rough boards with a faraway look on his face, the sunken parts in shadow from the partial light of the lantern.
Ben touched the man’s arm. “Frank, we must sleep. All of us will travel tomorrow, but you will travel farthest.”
“I’m not going back to Canada.” Frank seemed thinner than before, the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced.
“Where else would you go?” Ben’s father asked as he crawled up next to them and grabbed his own blankets. “You have seen already—it is too dangerous for a man without papers to stay here. You know they claimed you had broken into a home.”
“A lie. Someone asked me for papers and I ran into the first place I could. I didn’t break nothing.”
“But you see,” Ben said, “they will invent reasons to capture you, even if you are doing nothing wrong. They all want the bounties for fugitives. No black man escapes without someone demanding his papers on the street.”
“I won’t go without Nelly.” Frank’s voice was hollow and weary. “Or without our little girl. It’s been too long. Who will ever find them unless I go looking?”
“If anyone will find them, it will be John Parker and his friends,” Ben’s father said.
“They had seven months! The Lord knows they had enough time, and they ain’t gonna do it.”
“Don’t lose heart,” Ben said. “John is the most determined man I know. He has been methodically checking every slave market in the region—even having men go through courthouse records.”
Frank pulled his knees to his chest and rested his arms on them. He dropped his head onto his arms, facedown, only the close-cut top of his head showing. “I just can’t go back without them.” His voice was muffled in his sleeve. “That ain’t no life.”
“If you don’t go back to Canada to wait, you’ll risk recapture every day,” Ben’s father said.
“I don’t care.” He still would not look up.
“If you stay in Ohio,” Ben said, “you must at least go northward. Father, could he go wait in Cleveland, do you think, and work toward her freedom money there?”
“I’m not sanguine about it, son. Even northern Ohio has its watching eyes.”
“I won’t go back to Canada without her. I want to be close if Mr. Parker finds them.”
Ben’s father sighed. “Then I suppose Cleveland is our answer. Mr. Kinser can help you on your way, regardless.”
“And, Frank,” Ben said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We will be able to reach you there, if you send us word of where you are staying. They will show you to a safe house first. Ask your host there to send us a letter. Then we will know how to find you as soon as there is word.”
Frank did not answer. After a long moment, Ben felt the shoulder under his hand quaking and heard a single ragged sob. “What’s happened to them?” Frank forced out on shuddering breaths, then wept as Ben had never heard a man weep, as if every cry were torn out of his flesh.
The sound pierced him through, and his own eyes grew damp. He put his arm around Frank’s shoulders and prayed with all his heart for the Comforter to meet them there.
Thirty-Three
THE SILVER TEAPOT STOOD NEXT TO A TRAY WHERE ladyfingers lay in a perfect circle. Her mother and sister perched in their usual spots, backs straight and skirts pillowed around the legs of the parlor chairs. Kate took her own seat. Silence reigned, with the subtle clink of a cup here, a spoon there.
Their father had gone to Columbus again. He could drink all he wished there, away from prying eyes. And any small worry she had about him was eclipsed by her anxious thoughts for Ben and his father. She had not seen them in the two days since the hunt. Cornelia had heard nothing of their whereabouts either, though, of course, Kate did not tell her why she had gone tearing away from the hunt or where the Hanbys had gone.
Her mother watched as Leah poured the tea. Leah’s hands were placed just so on the teapot, the way Ruth had taught her, but the tight lines around her mother’s mouth did not ease.
“I stopped at the postal office as I was passing by,” her mother said. Two letters lay next to her on the Oriental side table. “There is a letter from Philadelphia.”
Kate set her teacup back in the saucer, trying to conceal her surprise. Her mother never spoke about her family in Philadelphia. The city itself she had mentioned, and the cultured life she had led there as a girl. But never her family. The one time Kate had asked, her mother had snapped that there was nothing to be said on that subject.
Kate could not remember any other time when a letter had come from the city.
From her chair, she could see that the letter was addressed in a crabbed hand in black ink. It was sealed with wax. Her mother looked at the dark seal for a long moment, then broke it with a careless air.
She read whatever was written inside, her face showing only a phantom of indecipherable emotion that was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “It’s from my sister,” she said in a level tone.
“What does she say?” Leah asked, sitting on the edge of her chair. Her big eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of her face.
“My mother is ill.” She spoke again as if she were stating the price of eggs.
Kate did not dare ask any questions. Her conversations of late with her mother had been strained enough.
Leah did not contain herself. “Our grandmother?” She reached up to twist a dark curl with a hesitant finger.
“Who else?” their mother asked curtly.
She stood, the letter in her hand. As she turned to leave, the silver tray carrying the teapot and sugar caught on the edge of her skirt and tumbled to the floor, spilling hot liquid and white powder across the dark floor. Kate regarded Leah with total shock, and saw the same expression staring back at her from her sister’s face. Ruth Winter had never spilled anything in her da
ughters’ presence. Never. And certainly not at tea.
But their mother was already halfway up the stairs, her neck as stiff as a soldier’s, not a hair out of place in her elaborate upswept coiffure. Her purple skirt trailed behind her. “Have Tessie clean that up,” she said to the girls without looking back, and then she was off down the hall and out of sight.
Leah sat silent, her eyes wide. “Will you pass me a ladyfinger?” she finally said, pointing to the plateful on Kate’s side of the table.
Disregarding manners, Kate picked one directly off the tray and handed it over. Leah gave her a tiny smirk, then shoved it in her mouth. For five minutes, they ate with an occasional furtively whispered question or speculation. Kate kept glancing at the stairs, afraid her mother would return and hear them. But she did not reappear.
The letter from Philadelphia did not leave her thoughts for the rest of the day. By late afternoon, it had given her an idea. If she could do nothing else in her silent uproar over the lack of word from Ben, she might at least write to him. She sat at her desk, pen in hand. Cornelia was gone to Worthington for another concert and would not return until tomorrow. Kate’s only choice was to take a letter for Ben to Cornelia’s house and leave it there for her friend’s return.
She wrote a few short lines, asking Ben to assure her that all was well and give any tidings of “the man of our acquaintance.” She folded up the note into a small rectangle, wrote “Benjamin Hanby” on the outside, and sealed it. While waiting for the wax to cool, she wrote another brief note to Cornelia. She folded the letter to Ben inside the other letter, wrote “Cornelia Lawrence” on the outside of the thick little packet, and held it in her hand for a moment.
She was being too impetuous. She did not need to take it this evening, for it could wait for Cornelia’s return. She would put it with the rest of her letters from Ben.
She pushed back her chair and stood, chilled by the draft through her day gown and shawl. A fire smoldered in the bedroom hearth, but it needed more wood. She would get some in a moment. She didn’t like to call Tessie for every little thing.
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