by Jane Smiley
In the morning, Helen came in before Lorna did. Still dressed in her wrapper, she looked fresh and pretty. I noticed that she had a way of arching her neck and turning the curve of her jaw that was utterly charming, a way of always smiling before she spoke, as if she could say only delightful things. She sat on my bed and took my hand in hers. She said, "Now, Louisa. You must know how I feel about you. I won’t say a word about anything else, but you must know that."
"I know we’ve become friends and that I am very fond of you, Helen."
"Now, sometimes, Louisa, I just am dying of curiosity about who you are and where you came here from, but you’ve noticed that except for that one question, I never asked you about it?"
"I noticed that, my dear."
"There, you see. Mama always used to say that I worried things like a little terrier dog but that it was much more respectful to be patient and allow those you love—you see, there I’ve said it—to open themselves by themselves, so I’ve been very patient; and you know, that’s been hard for me, but I’ve made myself do it, because I see you are of a delicate sensibility and clearly some tragedy weighs upon your spirits that you don’t wish to talk about—"
"I told you that my husband was killed—"
"But I know there’s something more! Oh, my dear Louisa, you sang that song the other day about hard times, and I saw right into your immortal soul, and I said to Papa that you had been sent to us for a reason, and he took my meaning instantly!" She grasped my hands in hers. "However, I will say no more! Papa says I must be patient one more day, and so I will be. Oh, my dear!" And she threw her arms around me and embraced me ardently, and I thought how I had never heard such a group for declaring that Providence was sending them this person and that person for this reason and that reason. But I returned her embrace, for indeed, how could I not? I had never met anyone as artless and pretty and well disposed as Helen. She was, as my sisters would have said at once, spoiled to death, and yet kindness ruled her nature.
I said, "We’ll see what happens," which was a kind of promise, and she went away happy and confident, saying, "Now, you stay up here; no need to see us off. You just dress at your leisure, and when we come in tonight, I’ll tell you all about it. I am sure it will be such an amusing day, and my goodness, do we need something, with all this fighting!"
And so that was our farewell. An hour later, I waved Helen and Papa off as they got into the carriage and Malachi got up on the box. Papa’s favorite "charger" was tethered to the back of the carriage, so I saw that there was going to be drilling that afternoon. Moments later, the whole equipage trotted off, and moments after that, I heard Lorna’s foot on the stairs, and then my door opened and she slid into the room. She said, "I done tol’ Delia dat you is keepin’ to you room today because you got you a bad head. She down in de cellar fo’ de hundred millionth time. She jes’ went down deah. So you tek you bag and you go out de front doah and run down to de stable deah and go round to de side away from de house, and I will come."
Her manner, calm enough on the surface, all at once communicated to me the enormity of what we were doing, so that I took fright and stared at her. She stared back at me, but only for a moment. Then she went over and got my bag from under my bed and thrust it into my hands, saying, "Ain’ got time to git sceahed. You git!" She held the door for me, and I tiptoed out and looked down into the hallway. No one. She whispered, "Git!" and I ran down the stairs and out the door. Then there was the cushiony lawn under my feet, then the brick wall of the stable, then I was around on the other side, where Ike was standing, not looking at me. Ike wasn’t very old, maybe sixteen, and he worked away from the house. I knew that he was trusted, along with Malachi, to ride off from the farm carrying messages and doing errands. I thought maybe he was Malachi’s son, in fact, but I didn’t know; there was no apparent resemblance between them. I didn’t have any idea what he was doing here, or if he knew of our plan. I put down my bag and said nothing, only waited. Moments later, Lorna appeared, carrying some small things wrapped in a cloth over her arm. She was hugely calm. She smiled at Ike, and he pushed back a large door, revealing the gray pony, hitched to Helen’s pony cart. Helen and I had taken it out twice in the last two weeks. Ike led the pony and the cart into the yard, and Lorna, with dignity, got up behind. Then they looked at me. I put my bag on the seat, got up myself, with a hand from Ike, and picked up the reins and the whip. No one said anything, and Ike stood there as I called "Get up!" to the pony and raised the whip. We trotted off. It was a very mysterious proceeding. At the road, I hesitated, and Lorna said, "You go lef’. We is takin’ de pony to Independence to pick up a present fo’ Massa Richard dat Missy Helen lef’ deah."
"What’s the present?"
"Mah goodness, I don’ know. Deah ain’ no present!"
The pony went along at a crisp trot, sometimes tossing his little head, but tireless and quick in his bright pony way. I glanced back at Lorna. She said, "Don’ look at me! Now, I kin tell you ain’ had no slaves befoah, so you got to be ceahful, ’cause you don’ know how to be wid a slave! You cain’ be lookin’ at me all de time! You be lookin’ wheah you wants to go, and I be lookin’ at you."
"You don’t treat Helen that way."
"Dat’s in de house. Out amongst folks, I is respectful, ’cause I’m tellin’ you, de way things are around heah dese days, you nevah know when someone is gone to tek it on hisself to teach some gal a lesson, and dey got all de weapons in de worl’ to teach it wid."
"Lorna, I’m sc—"
"Now, I ain’ gone let you go on about dat, ’cause I is sceahed myself, an’ I ain’ gone let you get me worked up, and me get you worked up an’ all. We is jus’ gone go ’long one bit at a time."
"All right," I said. A man passed us on a horse and tipped his hat. I was too scared to do anything, and as soon as he passed, Lorna took me up short. "Now," she said, "you got to show good mannahs to dese mens and ladies dat we pass, ’cause Lawd, do dey notice dat. You got to gi’ dem a big smile and nod you haid. You is havin’ a good time, heah! You is dressed up fine and got you bonnet on and gone out for a ride wid you gal, and you is proud to be seen! Dis is a fine pony cart indeed!" I had to laugh, and when the next man passed, I gave him such a look and flourished the whip in such a way that the pony tossed his head and began to canter, until I brought him back to a trot. I said to Lorna, "Tell me more of the plan."
But she shook her head.
I guess we must have left Day’s End Plantation about seven-thirty or eight, and we bowled along at a good pace. I can’t say that I recognized the way we went—that’s how far gone I had been on my walk. I had to take Lorna’s word for it that this was indeed the road to Independence. I said, "Lorna, I only have seven dollars!"
"I got me a bit o’ change."
"I thought slaves weren’t allowed to have money."
"What you is allowed to do and what you do ain’ always de same thang. I got me a husband, don’ I, an’ he goes out ta work at his trade of hoss breakin’, don’ he? An’ his massa done told him he could buy hisself free, so he been savin’ all he could, but he ain’ been keepin’ it all for hisself."
This seemed very simple. I said, "How does he get it to you?"
"Massa Richard don’ open any lettahs I gits—Missy Helen don’ let ’im—so deah I is. She give me de money and reads me ifn he write anything, but mostly he jes’ sends money. He ain’ good at writin’ nohow. Jes’ his mark, and a heart shape fo’ me. He a good worker, and he’ll git on any hoss deah is. He knows how ta gentle ’em right down. I been savin’ fo’ some five yeahs. Why you askin’ all dese questions?"
"Because I could be hanged for aiding in your escape, and I would like to know what the likelihood of that is."
That put an end to our conversation for the time. I wondered how much money she had, and let myself imagine a hundred dollars. The sun got high, and I estimated we were heading on to about noon. I had let the pony alternate walking and trotting, trying to conserve him as much
as possible, but now he was drooping, and I started looking around for a place for him to drink. There was nothing but a stream that ran through a little field some distance from the road. I said, "I’ve got to water the pony. It’s hot." I halted him, got down from the seat, and began to unhitch him. Lorna said, "You cain’ do dat."
"Why not?"
"’Cause I’s sittin’ heah."
"Well, get down, then."
"I don’ know ’bout ponies and hosses. I’s afraid of ’em."
"I’m not. I’ll do it."
"I cain’ watch you work. Someone maht come ’long an’ see you workin’ and me sittin’."
"The pony’s got to drink. What would Helen do?"
"Helen wouldn’ think of de pony."
"Well, the pony’s lathered up, and there isn’t a breeze, so whatever happens, the pony’s got to drink."
Lorna looked all around and, seeing no one, lay down in the grass beside the road, half under a bush. We exchanged a glance, then she said, "You tek de pony down to de stream. Ifn any mans comes ’long, I’ll be groanin’ and moanin’, and den you bring me back some watah, too. I’ll pull my legs up like I done been took bad wid de cramp."
And sure enough, when I was down at the stream, letting the pony drink his fill, a cart went along, and Lorna moaned and groaned, and the man got out of the cart and tried to stir her up, and so she moaned and groaned all the louder, until I led the pony up from the stream and he saw me, waved, and got back into his cart and drove away. When he was gone and I had hitched the pony back up, she said, "I didn’ know him. I never seen him. I reckon he’s new in dese parts. But dat war a close call. Everbody ’round heah knows I is Massa Richard’s gal." Her confidence seemed total. I thought she must have learned from her previous attempt, and I imagined her working things out very carefully in her mind and just waiting for someone like me, an opportunity, to happen along.
As we got back into the pony cart, I was a little chastened by all the things I didn’t know.
Now I allowed the pony to walk for the rest of the afternoon, and pretty soon the traffic thickened and I began to see houses closer together. We had gotten to the outskirts of Independence. I tried not to glance at Lorna but to look straight ahead as if I knew my destination. I smiled and waved to anyone who seemed interested in me, and Lorna kept her head down, afraid of meeting anyone who had seen her at Day’s End Plantation. All the same, I saw her glancing covertly here and there, perhaps at the seething business that was Independence, Missouri, in those days, even on Sunday. For one thing, there was the old business of outfitting settlers for the west. But now, in addition, there was the new business of war. The business of war was, first and foremost, a business of men gathering in doorways and on street corners. Every space seemed to be filled with men, who were either talking among themselves or listening to others talk. I say talk, but I mean shout and yell and argue. Not every man was gathered like this; plenty were riding through, driving through, pushing themselves through, getting wagons loaded or unloaded, but these men were on the alert for what the other men were doing. The gatherings drew men into them. Most of these men drifted off, but they couldn’t stay away for long— there was too much to be said, shouted, yelled. And there were no women anywhere. I figured they were staying indoors unless the war forced them out. That was the way it had been in Lawrence in the winter. There was also that customary Missouri sound, the regular bang and pop, always startling, of guns being shot off as an expression of feeling or opinion. I was careful to refrain from looking at Lorna so that we were well into town before I noticed the expression on her face. She looked terrified. I was so amazed that I stared at her and, finally, whispered, "What’s the matter?"
She said, "I ain’ nevah seen it lak dis."
"How often have you been here?"
"Three times in all."
My heart sank.
I halted the pony in front of a hotel.
Lorna muttered, "What you doin’?"
"We need to get inside somewhere."
She looked up at the building and said, "What do dat word say?"
"It says ’hotel.’ "
"We got to pay out some money?"
"Maybe a little."
"Ain’ got much."
I tried to speak brightly in spite of my growing dread. "You can sell things in Independence. I’ve got some things to sell." Did this include the pony and the cart? I wasn’t sure my thieving could go quite that far. Mindful of Lorna’s instructions, I got myself out of the cart and went into the hotel as if I were alone, trying with all my might not to look as panicky as I felt. I hadn’t actually gotten Lorna to reveal her plan, had I? She followed me closely and kept her head down. On the scale of luxury, this establish- ment fell somewhere closer to the Humphry House, where Thomas and I had spent the night in Kansas City the year before, than to the Free State Hotel, in Lawrence, which was burned up during the sacking, but the staircase was complete, no looking through the risers to the cellar three or four floors below, and it did look as though it had private rooms. There was a man standing in a doorway across the room, and as we entered, he came forward. Lorna was close behind me, my bag in one of her hands and her bundle in the other. I saw that things were up to me, at least for now. I threw back my shoulders and looked around critically. I said, "What would I pay for a room for the night? A private room, one night?"
The man pulled off his hat. "Four dollars, ma’am."
"Oh, my goodness, that’s much—"
"And the gal is four bits. We got quarters out back."
I could hear Lorna counting in her head as well as if she were doing it out loud. I drew myself up and looked around. She hadn’t made a sound, had she? I thought, Here’s one for you, Frank, and said, "I will give you three dollars, sir, and my gal has to stay with me. She’s deaf, you know, deaf as the doorpost, and she can’t be with others because she can’t make out what folks are telling her to do. I got to have her with me."
Lorna neither moved nor made a sound, but only stood with her head lowered.
I went on. "She’s a good gal, but I just don’t know what to do with her. Can’t sell her, because she’s useless to anyone else. But I swear!"
The man looked at me.
I went on, leaning toward him, but speaking loudly enough for Lorna to hear. "My paw shot her. You can’t see the scars because she’s got her kerchief on. He didn’t mean to, he was drunk, and he wasn’t even a mean drunk in those days, but it was late at night, and she was just a girl, and she was getting up to get him a candle, and he had his rifle with him, and he was coming in, and he just shot her!" I put my hand on Lorna’s arm and brought her forward, as if there were something to see, and the man looked at her with eager curiosity, as if he were seeing it, and then he nodded. He said, "Well, ma’am, we are busy with this war—"
"My goodness me! I am so frightened, I feel that I must throw myself on your mercy for this one night!" I opened my reticule and pulled out three dollars. "We are trying to get out of this country and back to Saint Louis." I leaned forward again and lowered my voice. "I have been disappointed in love, sir!"
The man stepped back. I stepped forward.
"A certain captain of the militia, whose name I shall not reveal, brought us out here by steamboat and then, when we got here, produced a wife and four children! I fled, but my hopes were far different than this, and I am low on funds." I let him look into my reticule just for a second. "Sir! I needn’t tell you about the state of my feelings! I can see by the look on your face that you are in sympathy with me—" I turned away as if to hide my face, and caught a glimpse of Lorna. Her face was as sober and impenetrable as wood. I turned to the man again. "My gal doesn’t understand. I’ve had a hard time communicating these betrayals to her—"
At last, he was overwhelmed. He said, "You ken have the room, ma’am."
"The Lord himself looks down upon you with approval, and you shall be rewarded, I am sure."
"I hope so, ma’am."
I handed him the three dollars, and we went up the stairs. Three or four doors were open, and I peeked into the rooms. They were dirty, but they had beds and floors and solid walls. I chose the corner one, so that if we talked, it was less likely that anyone would hear us. We went in; I closed the door; Lorna set down our things. There was nothing for it now, and we both knew it. I felt so disheartened that I couldn’t even speak. We looked hard at each other, and I saw that I had done it again, that is, taken a stranger for a companion and set out on a journey whose destination I had no notion of. I hadn’t any idea what Lorna was thinking. I sat on the bed and Lorna sat on the chair, and we were quiet for a long time.
CHAPTER 26
I Sully My Character
Reverses of fortune, in this land, are so frequent and unexpected, and the habits of the people are so migratory, that there are very many in every part of the Country, who, having seen all their temporal plans and hopes crushed, are now pining among strangers, bereft of wonted comforts, without friends, and without the sympathy and society, so needful to wounded spirits. —p. 257
I COULD NOT OVERCOME the conviction that Lorna would be recognized in Independence by someone who had seen her at the plantation, and so I left her in the room, sitting in the chair, wedged against the door, while I went out to dispose of the pony and sell my belongings. The hotel was around the corner from a livery stable, so I put the pony and the cart there for a while—fifty cents. Not far from there was an outfitter’s store; they were everywhere about and selling every item, new and old, from wheels and wagons down to fine linen handkerchiefs and lengths of French lace. There were even picture frames that still contained painted miniatures and daguerreotypes of their owners, a gallery of portraits of those who themselves had gone on to unknown fates but here awaited some sort of final disposition of their images. There was far more than I had ever seen in Horace’s store in Quincy, and that was a measure, perhaps, of all the things that men and women thought they couldn’t do without when they left their homes in the east and then decided that they must do without before they headed onto the prairie, then the desert and the mountains beyond. I wondered if the backtrackers heading east against the flow ever came through again, looking for their old things, trying to remake, if only in part, the life they’d thought to leave behind but now hoped to take up afresh.
