by Jane Smiley
"Does my question insult you?"
"You is ignorant and you ain’ got good mannahs, but I don’ caeh. I is ignorant myself. I cain’ read and I cain’ write nothin’ but ’Lorna.’ An’ I ain’ got good mannahs, neider, ’cause I ain’ got de patience for ’em. Delia, she got good mannahs, an’ look wheah she got."
"Where did she get?"
"She got her baby took from ’er an’ sold. Dat’s one thing."
I didn’t know what to say, even though I’d read Mrs. Stowe’s book. Lorna was in the mood for talking, though. She seemed a much less crusty person than she’d been at the plantation. She said, "I reckon Massa Richard don’ talk about dat much, and maybe he nevah tol’ Missy Helen dat at all. You know, dey make ol’ missy out to be a saint in heaven, but when it come right down to it, she waren’t dat at all. She nevah barked, but she didn’ mine bitin’. An’ she could sell a niggah quick as you please. Missy Bella is a lot like ’er, but dey nevah says dat, ’cause Missy Bella, she jes’ cain’ control herself. She git mad and she hit out. But ol’ missy, she git jes’ as mad, but den she lay in wait for ya, when you thought she ware ovah it. Dat’s what happen wid Delia. She had a year-old boy wid her man, who daid now, boy name Mosie. Well, one day she done somethin’ dat missy didn’ like—I nevah hear what it was. Missy say, ’Delia, you have seriously displeased me today!’ an’ den Delia thought she forgot about it. ’Bout two months latah, missy had her a baby dat war Helen, an’ she say she ain’ got no milk for de new baby, cain’ get none, none would come. So she tol’ Massa Richard he got to sell Mosie so Delia would nuss baby Helen, and Massa Richard, he go ’bout wid a long face for a day or so, but in de end, ol’ missy got her way, like she always did, from smilin’ and makin’ up to ’im, and dey done sold dat chile, dey say he war weaned, it wouldn’ hurt him to go off, jes’ like he war a horse or suchlike, and right den I tol’ myself I ain’ havin’ no babies on dat place, no mattah what my man say. Well, Delia, she cry and moan about dat boy for yeahs, but when ol’ missy died, she wep’ for her, too, and she love Missy Helen and all, but I didn’ shed no tears for ol’ missy, and I always held it against Missy Helen, wheder it her fault or no. I do hold a grudge, dat’s for sure."
I don’t know why I found this story so shocking, as I had heard stories like this many times, but to hear it in Lorna’s own voice, and to know Helen and Papa and Delia and to imagine the scenes in the very rooms of Day’s End Plantation that I knew so well made it hard for me to take in. I exclaimed, "I believe you!" and Lorna looked at me and said, "Well, why shouldn’ you? I is tellin’ de truth. I war ten or eleven den, I guess, still a girl, but I knowed by dat time what it would be to be a woman on dat place, an’ when my man come ’round, I tol’ ’im dat we ain’ makin’ no babies for ol’ missy to sell away, and anyway, he done went off to buy hisself real quick after we done got married."
"I know such things happen."
"We don’ know all dat happen in slavery, an’ I always thought we don’ want to know. Ifn my days is good enough, an’ I hate ’em, den I cain’ think about de days of de others, dat is terrible bad, down Louisiana way an’ dem other places."
"You are quite a philosopher, Lorna."
"Is dat so?" She sounded both skeptical and resentful, and I saw that talking about these things had made her angry. I said, "I’m sorry to be so inquisitive."
She harrumphed, and we walked on in silence.
Twice more, horses came by, once a group of three, once a group of four, and both times we found places to hide while they passed. The men were all drunk, and not especially observant, or they might have seen our light-colored dresses or heard us rustle the leaves. It is impossible for a woman in a long skirt and a petticoat to be absolutely, or even relatively, silent. I knew we would be better off the road. But this was the only way I knew to Kansas City, and I was afraid of getting lost in the darkness. Nor did we want to appear furtive. Not escapees, but a woman and her girl, a little bit short of funds owing to high prices and romantic betrayal. That’s who we were, if only we could remember to be that. We made good progress, though I had pains up my legs from the lightness of my shoes, which seemed to give way to every little stone or pebble.
After a while, I said, "Tell me more. Tell me about the last time you ran away."
"Missy Bella sent me off wid some money for de shoppin’. I war sposed to pick up some gown she done ordered. I didn’ have my own money wid me deah. So she give me about fifty dollar, and she say, ’Now, don’ you run off, gal,’ and so I did. A nigger I knew who worked on a steamboat, he got me upriver pretty far, almost neah to your place, but den I had to git out in de night when de boat went close to the bank, and den I stuck by de river for some three, four days, till I got to dat cave deah. You cain’ trust anybody in Illinois. Dat’s what all de niggers along deah say. You got to git to Wesconsin. But dat man you knew, he knew some niggers ’long deah. Dey done said he was big in de Underground Railroad. I thought I war gone make it, but some catchers spied me when I was sleepin’ and come back later wid de dogs, and dat war dat. But I don’ want to talk about slavery no more. I is done wid it."
"I need to talk about something, or I’ll fall asleep."
"Den you tell me."
"What?"
"Tell me about Wesconsin."
"That’s north of Illinois. It’s along way."
"Is dey all ablishinists up deah?"
"They voted not to carry out the Fugitive Slave Act."
"When I tol’ Massa Richard I war headed dat way, after dey caught me, he say it too d— cold for a niggah up deah, and all dey got is Indians, who don’ caeh about de cold."
"It is wild country."
"I don’ mine de cold. I done fine las’ winter. Delia and Ike say dey was dying, and Massa Richard, he done lay in ’is bed for four days wid three quilts ovah ’im, but I didn’ mine. Delia had de stove goin’ in de kitchen all day and all night, and she made us eat like hogs."
"But not many white people even want to go to Wisconsin. I hear it’s good in Ohio. That’s where my sister had a school before she died. A school for Negro children."
"I’ll go deah, den."
"But she died. The school is disbanded for now."
"But dey let her have it. I ain’ nevah heard of a place wheah dey let some lady have a school for niggah children before."
"You can get there by steamboat, if I take you."
"Oh, I ’spect you is takin’ me, den."
I said, ’’All right."
"Ifn you took me to Kansas, maybe you could get rid of me sooner."
"Yes, by us being shot. I could get rid of both of us pretty quick, I’ll bet. I won’t go back there."
"Kin I learn to read deah?"
"You can learn to read anywhere there’s something to read."
"Well, den, as Massa Richard would say, ’may I learn to read deah?’ Because I may not learn to read heah."
"Yes, you may learn to read there." Then I thought of something. "How does your husband know you’re escaping?"
"He don’! My Lawd, Missy Louisa, sometime you sound so smart, and den you say somethin’ so thick, like you haid’s made o’ wood!"
That put me in my place.
Though surely it was now the middle of the night, but I felt less exhausted than I had earlier and ready to eat, but Lorna had the provisions, and I was hesitant to say anything, until at last she sighed and remarked, "I spose we oughta eat somethin’, but I hates to stop."
"We can walk and eat."
"Cain’ do dat. Dat’s bad for you insides. Give you de cramp. Dey’s some hackberry bushes ovah dean. We kin set undah ’em."
I was grateful for that.
Now Lorna opened her bundle and laid out our apples and pears. What had looked appetizing when I purchased it looked paltry and cold in the darkness, and I sighed. Then Lorna unwrapped a cloth of her own, and I saw that she had a stack of corncakes. I said, "Where did you get those?"
"Delia made ’em for Ma
lachi, she thought." She laughed. "She always tol’ me, ’Lorna, ifn I see you rummagin’ ’round de kitchen or de cellar, I kin read you mine!’ But she didn’."
The corncakes were light, delicious, and sweet, perfect with the apples, which were not quite ripe and very tart. I saw what else was in her bundle, too—the cup I’d bought, some squares of cloth, an apron, a pair of stockings, and a pair of shoes with wooden soles. That was all. She saw me looking but said nothing, and I turned away. After all, there was no telling how many times she had looked into my bag. After a bit, she said, "You man war a ablishinist."
"Yes, he was. He was from Massachusetts."
"Is dey all ablishinists deah, too?"
"Seems like it."
"You evah bin deah?"
"No. I’ve only ever been here, in Kansas, and in Illinois."
"My man war reared up in Georgia, den his massa bring ’im to Kentuck, wheah he larn to ride a hoss, den dey come heah, den he gone to Arkinsaw, and de las’ time I heah from him, he war in Tennessee. An’ in between deah, he done gone to Texas for some little time! An’ all I done is sit deah on Massa Richard’s place, goin’ from de quartahs to de house and back to de quartahs! I done wasted my time!"
"You went to Saint Louis."
"Well , now, dat was a sight! Missy Bella send me out every day to do de shoppin’, and de stores deah is something’. And ain’ jes’ niggahs doin’ de shoppin’ nohow! Deah war plenty to see, I tell ya, but dat war a pestilential place, too! When de summer come on, it git so hot, like deah was fiahs burnin’, and den folks start comin’ down wid de fevah and all kind o’ sickness! You couldn’ git a breeze nohow, sometime fo’ days! Ain’ no place to live, even wid all dem stores!"
"My husband was a sailor for a long time, on the ocean. He went to the Indies. His father has a sailmaking factory."
"How long war you married?"
"About ten months."
"Dey comes and dey goes, don’t dey?"
"I didn’t get to know him very well." I longed to tell her all about him, or maybe just to talk about him freely, but I didn’t know how to start, so I held my tongue.
She spoke ruefully. "I knows Ike and Malachi bettah dan I knows my man. An’ I knows Massa Richard bettah dan I knows any of ’em, since I been watchin’ him ever since I war a chile. Too bad fo’ dat!"
We threw our apple cores under the bush, then Lorna wrapped the remainder of the food in her bundle again. She said, "Why you askin’ all dese questions? I ain’ nevah knowed a white woman who asked me so many questions." But she didn’t sound resentful this time, so I said, "My husband was an abolitionist, and I knew a lot of abolitionists in Kansas, but in spite of their sentiments against slavery, most of them hadn’t met too many slaves. I suppose I just want to learn something."
"Well, you know what? I ain’ a talker. Massa Richard always complainin’ dat you cain’ get a word out of me, and Delia thinks I is hard as a nut, and she say to me, ’Lorna, you ain’ got no heart dat I kin see.’ She say dat to me time and time again, ’cause whatever happen, I don’ say nothin’ ’bout it. But tonight my mouth is jes’ runnin’!" She smiled one of her rare smiles, and we got up and went out to the road.
Just after that, we had our biggest scare of the night, when we heard some dogs in the distance, both barking and howling. At this, Lorna stood stock-still and grabbed my arm. She whispered, "Missy! Farm dogs bark, but catchers’ dogs, dey howl! He done foun’ us!" I didn’t think he had—the dogs were far away and didn’t sound like they were getting any closer; but my thoughts didn’t matter. A cold, painful fright seized my flesh right then, so that I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe and I started to shiver. I felt that Lorna was shivering, too, right beside me. The only thing that kept me from moaning aloud was the fear of making a sound, as if the dogs in the distance were evidence of enemies all around us, close enough to touch us. I grabbed Lorna around the shoulders and pulled her to me, and then, after half a second, she grabbed me around the waist, and we stood like that, holding each other up, waiting for the inevitable, it seemed, shock of capture.
But it didn’t come. The barking and howling dogs faded away, the night sounds of rustling leaves and owls reasserted themselves, and Lorna and I stepped apart and marched on, still shaken, and also, I think, a little embarrassed that we had been so suddenly and utterly turned into cowards. After that, we didn’t talk for some time, maybe an hour or two. In fact, I rather forgot about her, as I grew dizzier and dizzier with fatigue, and more and more intent upon simply putting one foot in front of the other. Just before dawn, when we could see the beginning of a heavy, overcast day, I must have been staggering around, because Lorna pointed out a haystack and said we could sleep on the protected side, but only for a little while. It was the most dangerous thing we did, but we had good luck and slept undisturbed until well after sunup, perhaps even until eight o’clock or so. When we woke, we were much disheveled, and one thing I will always remember about that fateful day was that Lorna stood me up and brushed me down, picked the hay out of my hair and straightened my bonnet, and then carefully did the same to herself. She said, "Now, you cain’ be lookin’ like a runaway. You got to be lookin’ like a walker from dis place to dat place." She gave me a pear, and we walked on.
Well, I liked it. I liked the deception of it. When the day was well begun, there were folks all over the place, on horseback, in wagons, even in buggies. As we got farther from Independence, we got braver about who might or might not know Lorna, and certainly no one would know me. I walked with my head high, a woman with her gal. That militia fellow shouldn’t have betrayed my virtue like that! He had certainly done me a great wrong! I had believed him implicitly, because he was of good family, well spoken, and educated at, let’s say, Princeton, just like Papa. A girl such as myself, who had lost her parents, was surely unprotected in this world from the designs of scheming cads such as my erstwhile lover, and didn’t his wife and children look a sight! She was careworn, and they were bedraggled, two boys and two girls, all little ones, the children of a natural betrayer, who would betray them in the end, as well....
I smiled at my own story and raised my chin just a degree, for I had almost but not quite fallen. I had preserved myself in the end, had I not, for something better, and should I die before getting back to my relations in the east, well, I would know that I had lost nothing of real value—
"Whisht!" said Lorna, just behind my ear. I looked around, but only for a second, because Lorna said, "Don’ look!" I did glimpse a man and a woman approaching, coming down from their house on foot, and two slaves, a man and a half-grown girl, weren’t far behind them. Lorna whispered, "Turn ’round and slap me good, and do it now!"
I raised my hand and whipped around, and made such contact that Lorna’s head snapped back and her hand went straight to her cheek. Her eyes closed, but she said, "Dat war good."
I screamed, "You lost my shoes? You stupid girl! You left my shoes behind! That’s the last straw; I’m going to beat you for that! Ah!" I pretended to be surprised by the interruption, as the man and woman came up to us. I turned on them. "Can you believe this? Here we are in the middle of this godforsaken war, betrayed and abandoned, and she’s lost my other pair of shoes! How stupid can one gal be!" I took a deep breath and said, "You must tell me, are we in Kansas or in Missouri? I do believe I am lost, and I’m dreadfully afraid that if I get into Kansas by mistake, they’ll steal my girl and kill me!" I turned on Lorna. "Though don’t think that would be a loss! You are worse than useless!"
"Now, ma’am," said the man. "I kin see that your patience has been much tried here, but an’t no call for—"
"Yes," said the woman. They looked at me approvingly in spite of their remonstrations, and then the woman put her arm through mine. She said, "I saw you and your gal walking down the road here, and I said, ’I do wonder about them,’ because you know, we see just about everything around here, including niggah-stealing—"
I exclaimed, "Lord have merc
y, we are in Kansas!"
"No, no, no," said the woman. "Kansas is five mile or more. You’re safe in Missouri now." And she turned me and walked me toward the house, which was no Day’s End Plantation but more of a western farmhouse. She said, "We’ve only got Delilah and Job here. He’s so old, we just take care of him, and she’s training. But back in Mississippi, before we came out here, we had ten in the field and five in the house! Our neighbor, Mr. Lazarus Jennison, he had five hundred! He was a very fine man, from an old, old family with roots in Virginia. We were close friends before we came out here. Ah, well, I miss those days. May I offer you some refreshment?"
"Thank you very much. My name is Miss Jane Horn, and this is my girl, Ila, and I really don’t want to let her out of my sight, I must say, because there’s no telling what mess she’ll get into!"
"Delilah can take her into the kitchen and find her a bite—"
"Please, ma’am! I’ve lost everything now, and I do fear—" I summoned a tear or two.
"My dear! Very well, we can sit in the kitchen with them! But how can we help you? What in the world has happened?"
And so we sat together in the kitchen, myself, Lorna, Delilah, and Mrs. May Thornton, drinking milk and eating biscuits from their breakfast, and I spun out my abandonment story, then nobly refused all aid but said we only wanted to be on our way to Kansas City, so that we could make our boat, the Kansas Star, which we knew was leaving at evening. From time to time, Lorna put her hand to her cheek and rubbed it and gave me a petulant glance, but she kept quiet. Mr. Thornton came in and went out, only saying, "Now, May, the horses are working on the farm today; don’t ask me!"
Profuse thanks managed to get us away just after noon. When we were well out into the road, I apologized to Lorna for hitting her so hard. She said, "Missies always hit hard. Massas don’ hit so hard." I took that as approval.
We were more careful now and didn’t chat at all. Lorna stayed two or three paces behind me and, as always, kept her head down. But she was tremendously strong, and the sound of her steps on the road behind me were firm and even, always pushing me onward, always reminding me that it was a long way between here and Ohio, and it wouldn’t be easy to get there. It was tempting for me to think of this escape as an adventure—no one had truly been hanged in Kansas or Missouri for slave stealing that I knew of, though getting shot was certainly a possibility, but as a woman, and an unarmed one at that, I might not get shot in the end. But we had been gone more than twenty-four hours from Day’s End Plantation, and so far, our escape seemed more like a success than a failure.
