I lifted the rifle and nested the butt against my shoulder. Though my whipped arm pained me, I held steady and sighted on the woman-man. Grandpa had taught me how to shoot sure without missin or wastin a bullet, but I’d never shot at anythin livin. It were like I were outside of my own self. Tellin myself that for us to be free I’d have to kill that woman-man and scare away my brothers. But the other part of me was sayin over and over that I’d be just like the woman-man, just like Pa, just like Shag. Killin. Spillin blood. Goin against what Auntie had tried to teach me.
I slipped the bonnet off so’s I could see clear and cocked the hammer. I heard Clem ask Samuel, “Is that Girl?”
“Lark,” I shouted. “My name is Lark.”
The woman-man looked at me, takin in the rifle, takin in that her time were about spent.
“No, Lark, thee mustn’t use violence against evil,” Auntie said quietly.
I aimed.
Grandpa’s voice come to me. “Lift your arm and keep it steady … butt plate tight against your shoulder … hit what you aim for.”
“You got to my countin to three to put down your gun and get out of here,” I yelled. “I never misses what I aim for.”
The woman-man took my measure, then slow-like laid her rifle acrost the saddle.
“Does thee want to be like thine enemies?” Auntie asked.
The dogs looked up when they heard my voice. They sniffed at the air and began howlin and barkin. They ran around the wagon, jumped up, again and again, till old Bathsheba made it into the bed.
I kept my rifle level and didn’t take my eyes off the woman-man.
“Don’t worry none,” I said to Zenobia. “Them dogs are my friends.”
Bathsheba snuffled against me, whined, and sank down with a long groan.
“I’m tellin you. I’m right happy to shoot you and string you up for jerky,” I said without blinkin or strayin from my target.
Delia yelped, scratched at the back of the wagon, jumped, fell back, and jumped again. This time she made it, run up to me, and yodeled like she always done when she saw me.
I looked down at Delia.
Next I seen were the woman-man liftin her rifle and sightin it on me. Everythin moved slow and blurred, hazy, like I were seein it through a mica window.
“Hit what you aim for,” Grandpa’s voice ordered.
I squeezed the trigger.
The force of the shot bucked me backward into Auntie.
The white horse screamed and reared. The woman-man held on tight. Her rifle fell to the ground. Small, bright spots of blood on her arm, hand, and neck made her look near as pocked as Shag. She’d be pickin them splinters of gunstock out of herself for days.
“Sorry, Auntie,” I said. “Didn’t mean to hurt her. Just wanted to knock the gun out of her hands.”
The woman-man’s mouth dropped open, and she screamed, “Yer dead! You, girl, yer dead! I’ll catch up to you and get you someday. You better be watchin for me.”
She dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and took off at a gallop. Headin south.
I couldn’t stop a-shakin. Couldn’t let go of the rifle till Auntie pried my fingers, one by one, from the smooth wooden stock.
A bad beginning will often lead to a good ending.
My pa died out there on the road.
Auntie tried to help him, staunch the bleedin, clean the wound, but it weren’t no use.
I watched all that were happenin, but I couldn’t make no sense of it.
When Pa died, I cried. Cried and cried, and I didn’t even know why. He never hugged me. Never talked nice at me, never thanked me for nothin, never give me a name. He never let any soft come out of his hard, cold heart. But, still, I cried. Cried not for what I lost, but maybe for what I never had. Cried for what my mama had hoped for. Cried for all the sorrow my pa always made for hisself and everyone.
Auntie and Zenobia held me, their arms around my shoulders—like together they could help keep all the bad away from me. But a piece of the bad were there—lyin on the road.
My brothers didn’t do nothin but look on, mumblin to each other, never cryin a tear, never sayin a word to me. He were their pa too. I were their sister, but they never said a word of comfort.
Weren’t nothin for us to do but load my pa into the wagon and head north. In plain sight. With my pa’s body laid out for everyone passin by to see.
My brothers picked up the shotgun from the road, climbed into the wagon, and set beside Pa. The dogs moved away and curled up next by me.
When we passed other riders on the road, they looked at us and our cargo of death and kept on goin.
We didn’t speak no words to each other, but when the wagon rolled into Waterford that night, Auntie and Zenobia, Better and Enoch, Armour, Brightwell, and me all stepped down and turned our backs on that wagon and the load of sorrow it carried.
Clem climbed onto the seat and grabbed the reins. Samuel set beside him, and they headed up the road. Toward what I used to think of as home.
Delia and Bathsheba stood up in the wagon and shook themselfs. They walked unsteady, looked over the backboard at me, and barked. I let out a low whistle. They jumped down and come to my side.
Asa and his father, Yardley, run toward us yellin our names. Asa throwed his arms round us, hugged at Brightwell, Zenobia, and me, and greeted the others.
Yardley stood beside Auntie, pattin at her back like she were a baby.
I looked around. Folks was comin out of their homes and a small group of men stepped out of the blacksmith shop and store. They was all welcomin Auntie and us back.
“Never thought to see thee again,” Asa said. “The news from the railroad was all bad—kidnappings, beatings. We tried to track thee.”
“Yardley, thee must lead our friends north before news of all this trouble spreads,” Auntie said without lettin Asa finish talkin. Yardley nodded and called out to Asa to fetch the wagon.
Auntie turned to the people who gathered round us. “Friends,” she said, “we could surely use thy help sheltering these lambs and moving them along the railroad.”
I wondered if anyone besides Asa and Yardley would be brave enough to help us now.
Zenobia held on to my arm; Brightwell stood beside us.
Murmurin among the folks. The crowd broke apart. Some men shook their heads, turned, and went back with their wives to their houses. Others kept talkin, heads noddin, hemmin into a tight circle, heads noddin some more. Was they just goin to leave us here for the takin?
We watched as a young couple left the circle, walked over to Better and Enoch, and spoke quietly with them. Then the four of them turned and walked down the street to a small brick house. Better and Enoch looked back at us, raised their hands in a farewell, and disappeared through a doorway.
Armour left with an old man who rode in with a straw-mounded wagon. As they made the turn from the main street of town onto the road, Armour tipped his fancy white hat to us in a good-bye and burrowed into the straw.
I couldn’t hardly stand the way my heart were hurtin at the leavins.
“Brightwell. Zenobia,” Auntie said. “Brother Yardley will give thee new clothes and drive thee north. Then thee will be met by another conductor who will take thee as close to the safe house as he can. When thee finds the safe house, ask for William Still. Thee must commit that name to thy memory. Friend Still will help move thee on to Canada—to the Promised Land. By Ninth Month thee will have new lives.”
I were played out. Empty. Pa dead. Enoch, Better, and Armour gone. Now Auntie were plannin to send my friends—my family—away tonight. I reached down and petted at Delia’s soft, old head. Bathsheba leant against my knee. Them dogs were all I’d have of family now.
“Thee will see thy friends again, Lark. I promise. But soon thy friends must be on the road with Brother Yardley. Thee will always have them as friends.”
Zenobia, Brightwell, and me hugged each other. Hugged, and though I thought I couldn’t cry another tear, I cried a
plenty.
Asa drove his father’s wagon down the road toward us. It were empty as a tater barrel at the end of winter. Now, how would Zenobia and Brightwell hide in that? Asa pulled back on the reins, and the horses slowed and stopped. Yardley walked over to the wagon bed and pried up six long floorboards. Beneath the boards were a long, low box just big enough for holdin two.
Asa called out to some men standin nearby. “Friend Mount, Friend Hough, Father is ready to deliver thy chairs and cabinets.”
The men stepped into a nearby shop and began to cart out chairs. Two, four, six, eight splat-back hickory chairs and an acorn-tipped rocker, all piled high on the ground next to the empty wagon.
“Take thy time,” Yardley said. “Say thy fare-thee-wells. It is not safe for night travel. Too many marshals and hunters out on the road. Thee will be traveling by the light of day, but thee must be hidden in the wagon before sunrise.”
We was all quiet. Even Asa. We felt sad for the leavin, sad to not know how long afore we would meet again, and scairt for what tomorrow might bring.
Meow, meeeow, meeeeeow. Moses cat, limpin from her wounds, headed toward us, complainin with every step she took. I were some glad to see her alive. I guess that were one good thing I done for Auntie.
“Moses,” Auntie said, stoopin to lift her.
The dogs’ ears twitched when they heard Moses callin to us. Bathsheba yipped and lifted her nose high.
Delia growled as Asa knelt, draped his arms around the necks of both dogs, and talked calmin to them, but Bathsheba wouldn’t have no calmin. She howled and both she and Delia broke free from him, runnin right past us all.
Moses cat yowled, jumped out of Auntie’s arms, and run up a tree. She crouched on a branch, hissin and starin down at Delia and Bathsheba, her ears laid flat against her head. The dogs follered behind her, raisin Cain, jumpin up and down against the trunk.
All that dog ruckus took us away from the tears and sorrow. Asa run back to his house for some food, then teased Delia and Bathsheba away from the tree and took them over to his family’s barn.
Moses, poor thing, she come down slow as Auntie coaxed her gentle-like into her arms again.
Me and Zenobia, Brightwell, and Auntie walked toward the little gray cabin behind the fence lined with hollyhocks. I never thought to see it again—this place, the first place I’d ever knowed how a home and family must feel.
I wanted to walk through the gate, down the soft pathway smellin of herbs, and through the door to the kitchen. I wanted for us all to sit at the table, light a fire in the big old fireplace, and share a blessin and a meal like we did before. But Brightwell and Zenobia would be leavin me soon. They’d be nailed under the floorboards of a wagon and carted north. And then where would I go?
“How will we find each other? When will we ever see each other again?” I asked, the tears fillin my eyes and spillin down my cheeks.
“Thee will see thy friends again, Lark. And thy friends will always know that they have a home here,” Auntie said.
“And thee, Lark. This is thy home now. We are thy family.”
We are thy family. Sweet, sweet words. We are thy family.
I wiped at my cheeks and asked, “What about Bathsheba and Delia, Auntie? I promise I’ll teach them some good cat manners.”
“Thee is welcome here, Lark—forever. And Delia and Bathsheba too.”
Zenobia caught onto my hand; Brightwell hugged on Auntie and me. “We’ll always be your family,” Zenobia said. “And don’t never forget that I’m the one what named you.”
How could I ever forget Zenobia, my trouble girl sister? She changed my life and my luck for better—and forever. I dipped my hand into my pocket and curled it around the smooth of my good-luck buckeye. “Here, Zenobia,” I said as I pulled it out and passed it to her. “You’ll be needin this to help you find some free soil.”
“Lark, I cain’t hardly think on it that you’d give your luck up to me. You told me you’d never let go of it,” she said.
“No,” I answered. “I’m not lettin go of my good luck; I’m helpin my good luck to find her free life.”
I guess my grandpa were right when he told me that bad beginnins are a sign of a good endin. Zenobia and Brightwell was goin to be free, and now I were goin to be livin with Auntie. For a little while, I wouldn’t think on tomorrow, wouldn’t worry or be scairt. For now I’d just be thankful, thankful to think on the words We are thy family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my dear and invaluable friends/cohorts in Kiddie Writers, who have helped me immeasurably. Sherry Shahan, where would I be without your unflagging encouragement and your introduction to Michelle Poploff and Delacorte Press? Elizabeth Spurr, Elizabeth Van Steenwyk, Veronica DeCoster, Karen Grencik, Stephanie Roth Sisson, Lori Peelen, Helen K. Davie, Cindy Rankin, and Cynthia Bates: This book wouldn’t exist without you. You took it to heart and breathed in life. You’re the best.
A shower of thanks to the many members of the Cambria Writers’ Workshop, who nursed this story (and its changes) along for years. I’m amazed by your talent, professionalism, dedication, and tenacity.
To Marilyn Brewer, Virginia Holihan, Lynn Karlin, and Naomi Hoffman for being first readers of the manuscript. Your criticisms helped more than you’ll ever know (as did your constant mental support).
To Kristen Barnhart, children’s librarian extraordinaire, for keeping me on the tracks of the Underground Railroad and for your suggestions of great reads. What would we do without our librarians?
Thanks to mapmaker Eugene Scheel for your fabulous and historically accurate maps of Waterford, Virginia, and the Potomac Region.
A huge thank-you to senior designer Trish Parcell for her sensitive and artistic book design.
Finally, the stars in my firmament. Sara May Arnold, first child to read my book, sweet and creative granddaughter: your insight and child’s-eye view are valued beyond measure.
Michelle Poploff, my sensitive and astute editor, how did I get so lucky? Your questions and notes guided me to new pathways and shed a luminous light on the story. I’ll be forever grateful to you.
My Jeffrey, my husband, Jeff Prostovich: no words can fully express my thanks. Your hundreds of hours of work on this story helped craft it into this final form. I couldn’t have done this without you. You’re my true north.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My book began the day I found a suitcase filled with magic. When I heard the snap, snap of two rusty metal latches and the yawning of the hinges on the cracked leather lid, I never dreamed that these were the sounds of my life changing and growing toward a new light.
I opened the suitcase and pulled out a thick handful of letters, some dating as far back as the Revolutionary War. When I unfolded them, I saw the spidery handwriting of great-great-great-aunts, -uncles, -grandparents, and cousins long dead. They all jostled me and whispered to me, not just in the words tracking across the fragile pieces of paper, but also in the unwritten words waiting to gather and tell their own stories.
The letters haunted me. I worried that if they were damaged or destroyed, a portion of history would be lost. For countless hours, I sat in my cousin’s old log cabin on the banks of the Catoctin Creek and copied the letters into my journal. I learned of abolitionist meetings, school days, hard times, births, deaths, and the changes that flowed toward an inevitable and bloody civil war that split families apart as surely as lightning splits a tree.
I didn’t want to leave Virginia and the familiar murmuring of the Catoctin, but I had to return to California to finish college. A few years later, my son, Noah, and I journeyed back to visit my elderly cousin Margaret Macdonald. Late at night, while Noah slept, I sat in the hot and humid attic (like the hidden one in Auntie’s house) and copied more letters. Rain drummed on the tin roof, lightning flashed, and thunder boomed and shook the little cabin to its foundation. I wrote for hours, until my hand couldn’t hold a pen and my heart couldn’t hold another sorrowful word.
M
any years later, when I began to research and write this book, the voices and memories of Virginia poured from me like a sweet mountain spring. They were the words spoken by the children in the schools where I substitute-taught, the clerks in the old-fashioned hardware store in Purcellville, the postmaster, and the elders at the Goose Creek Friends meeting. Because of my passion for dialect, I chose to write this book in the voice of the Virginia I knew and loved.
Each chapter of the book begins with a superstition or proverb commonly known by the people then—and in many places, even now. Some of the sayings came from my grandma Clarke, others from Cousin Margaret, still others from old writings and collections of folklore. These sayings are woven into the fabric of country life; without them, the story would be as plain as a bolt of bleached muslin.
Besides visiting Virginia several times, I read innumerable books, newspaper stories from the mid-1800s, firsthand slave narratives, and Wanted posters. To read of someone described like a horse or cow—branded on cheek, scarred on back from whippings when trying to escape—broke my heart, but the most unimaginable pain came from reading about the division of families: children torn from their parents’ arms, husbands and wives split apart. How did people endure such tragedy? Yet for every cruel, heartless person, there was someone, somewhere, who cared enough to work toward change—and all it takes is one determined person to turn a breeze into a transformational tornado.
Because of the lack of written records and the necessary secrecy of the Underground Railroad, I’ll never know for sure whether my family played a part in it, although they did attend abolitionist meetings. Despite their religion and their pacifist beliefs, my great-grandfather Edwin Baker and my great-uncle Aaron Baker both enlisted in the Union Army and fought in the Civil War. I believe that they, like many Quakers who joined the cause, were fighting for their country and the abolition of slavery.
The Baker brothers served in the famed Pennsylvania Bucktails regiment, named for the buck’s tail worn like a badge on every hat. They engaged in many of the major battles of the war, including bloody Gettysburg. Just days before being mustered out of the army, Aaron was killed at the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House and buried by his brother in a nearby field.
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