Honor

by Lyn Cote

  Samuel noticed that as usual Honor had not chosen anything for herself. He didn’t like that. From the sale of his parents’ house and his inheritance, he had more than enough to care for her. “Don’t you want something for yourself?”

  She looked surprised. “I don’t need anything, Samuel.”

  “I didn’t ask that. I asked, do you want anything?”

  She gazed at him for a moment, her expression lifting and a blush tinging her cheeks. “Nothing here, but I’d love to visit a bookstore and buy some books for the winter. Poetry—perhaps Robert Burns. Maybe a few children’s Bible storybooks for the boys. I could read to us in the evenings.”

  Samuel took pleasure in the way she smiled at him. He turned to the others. “The three of you, choose something today, here or at another store. You’ve all worked hard and deserve a gift. And, boys, how about some sweets?”

  After a moment’s pause, Perlie hurried over to the fabric section and selected two new colorful kerchiefs for her hair. Royale immediately chose a packet of pretty buttons and then joined Perlie by the fabric. She waved Judah over, a bolt of cloth in her hand. Samuel imagined it would make a good shirt for the younger man.

  Samuel suddenly recalled that Judah lacked something every man needed. “Judah, choose a pocketknife for yourself.”

  Judah beamed, and the two of them surveyed the display of knives. Judah tried to pick a less expensive one, but Samuel insisted he choose the one Samuel thought was the best in quality. When the men turned, everyone was smiling. The joy of giving warmed Samuel in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. With distinct pleasure, he drew out his purse and paid the proprietor.

  Another thought came to Samuel. “Ask the storekeeper if he’d be interested in stocking some of my bottles and jugs for sale.”

  Honor did so.

  The man looked startled but interested.

  “He read Sinclair Hewitt’s article about us too,” Honor said. “And he says if the quality is good, he will stock your bottles. He could use some gallon jugs himself for molasses and such.”

  Samuel offered the man his hand to seal the bargain.

  The storekeeper shook it, smiling suddenly.

  “Tell him I’ll be back sometime soon with bottles for him to inspect.”

  Honor and the storekeeper spoke briefly before the man bowed them out of his store. They all boarded the wagon, and Samuel directed Judah to the establishment where he could order supplies for the forge. After this had been accomplished, Judah drove to his family’s home in Little Africa, where he, Royale, and Perlie would visit for the weekend. Caleb refused to be parted from Judah, who carried the boy inside his father’s house. Eli, gripping his bag of candy from the store, insisted on staying with Caleb. Samuel promised Judah he’d come back and take Eli with them to the inn for the night. Whether Caleb would insist upon staying with Judah for the duration of their trip, remained to be seen.

  With the boys safe in Judah’s care, Honor took over the reins since she had yet to come up with a way for Samuel to drive a team, something he really didn’t want to do anyway. He directed Honor to head for the Centinel office. Honor looked surprised but drove there. It was small, most of the space taken up by a large printing press in the middle of the room.

  A man was working at the press, setting lead type. The scent of some oil, probably a lubricant for the press, hung in the air. An older man sat at a cluttered desk in front of the press while Sinclair Hewitt, whom Samuel still thought of as a dandy, sat at a desk behind it. Samuel’s jaw tightened reflexively at the sight of the handsome young man, though he chided himself for the reaction.

  Upon seeing the Cathwells, Hewitt sprang up. Samuel saw his mouth open in exclamation. Hewitt hurried forward, his hand outstretched. He bowed over Honor’s gloved hand, then reached for Samuel’s.

  Samuel forced himself to clasp the man’s hand and smile. Though he knew Honor had no interest in this man, irrational jealousy stirred like sluggish bubbles in a pot of oatmeal.

  Honor translated Hewitt’s question: “What brings you here to see me?”

  Yet again Samuel wished he could hear the man’s tone of voice, but he had to content himself with reading his face. Hewitt’s countenance was friendly and open, and he had proven his loyalty and generosity. If he glanced repeatedly at Honor, Samuel could not blame him. His wife merited a second look, even a third.

  “Tell Hewitt that I need to take out an ad for my glassworks,” Samuel signed to Honor.

  As soon as Honor had spoken, Hewitt’s expression registered approval. He clasped Samuel’s hand again and motioned for them to come to his desk. He seated Honor there but looked to Samuel, who stood beside her.

  Samuel read the unspoken question and withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He’d worked over what he wanted to say and had it memorized:

  Cathwell’s Glassworks

  Sharpesburg, Ohio

  Glass Bottles, Jugs & Sills available for pickup or delivery

  Custom Orders for Size & Lettering Available

  Contact Samuel Cathwell, Owner

  Hewitt read it and looked up. “Excellent,” he mouthed. Then he turned to Honor and asked, “When does your husband want this to appear, and how often?”

  Samuel read Honor’s fingers and replied, “The first business day of every month for the year.”

  “Excellent,” Hewitt said again. He gestured and spoke to the older man at the front, who came over and shook Samuel’s hand. Honor conveyed the man’s thanks on behalf of the Centinel.

  Samuel nodded, holding in the pride of this moment. Now his business would officially start. He paid for the year’s worth of advertising and received a receipt. Samuel and Honor were escorted outside, where Hewitt bent over Honor’s hand in farewell before letting Samuel help her onto the seat. Samuel climbed up after her and, in Hewitt’s presence, felt his disadvantage at not being able to drive the team.

  Honor drove them toward the familiar inn for luncheon. She planned to visit Deborah Coxswain’s house for the afternoon meeting of the Female AntiSlavery Society. She thought that meeting with other women over tea would end slavery. Foolish idea.

  But if it made her feel better, why not? He agreed slavery was wrong, but he’d long ago become resigned to it as an ancient practice. Nothing would ever change how society viewed people with dark skin. And slaves were too valuable to merely let go. The world was the way it was, and a small group of women in a frontier town could do nothing to change it.

  Honor perched on the edge of a rocker across from Deborah in the Coxswains’ snug parlor, a fire in the hearth warming the room. She had read something in one local paper recently that had buoyed her hopes about abolition, and she looked forward to sharing it when the meeting began. Clouds now hung in layers outside the window. Samuel had settled himself comfortably at the table in Deborah’s cozy kitchen with several newspapers to read.

  But Honor’s luncheon sat on an uneasy stomach. How could she gauge this group’s disposition toward aiding runaways without giving herself away?

  During a brief time of silent prayer, Honor considered each woman present. White-haired Deborah presided by the fireplace in a winged chair. The other ladies ranged in a semicircle facing the fire, each with some handiwork in her lap. Cordelia, a dark-haired young wife and mother of two, generally looked peeved. Anna, a fair-haired new bride, sat beside her. And May, an unmarried, bookish girl who wore spectacles, rounded out the group. That was all she’d learned about them over the past few weeks—in addition to the fact that they were interested in pursuing abolition.

  “We have formed our society,” Deborah began when they were finished with prayer. “Now we need to begin to formulate ways to further our cause. Does anyone have any suggestions?”

  Yes. We should help runaways who come to our doors. Instead Honor cleared her throat and said, “Our geographic location provides us a special opportunity as a path to freedom.”

  The other women looked to her, Anna and Ma
y encouraging, Cordelia frowning.

  “Freedom? Just coming into Ohio doesn’t grant a slave freedom,” Cordelia snapped.

  Honor continued. “I have read in a recent issue of the Philanthropist that Canadian Attorney General Robinson has openly declared this year that residence in Canada makes American slaves free. And according to the article, Canadian courts will protect those who flee there for freedom.”

  “But slavery still exists in England and all English territories,” Anna blurted and blushed rosy pink.

  “If thee recalls,” Honor said with outward calm, “during the recent war, the British offered transportation for anyone wanting to leave the United States, including slaves. Many slaves fled and were transported by ship to British Canada.” Honor experienced a jolt of memory. Her father’s death had come during that violent time. She blocked out the emotions evoked. She must concentrate on persuading these women to take action.

  “So might Canada be doing this to make America seem unfeeling by comparison?” Cordelia suggested in a sly tone.

  “I think that’s safe to say,” Deborah said wryly. “We’ll free thy slaves, but not our own.”

  “My point is,” Honor said, “that Ohio lies between Kentucky and Canada. We are a natural conduit for those seeking freedom.”

  The other women stared at her.

  Honor gathered her courage. “Steamboats dock here every day. Isn’t it possible that runaway slaves might use them?”

  “How could they do that?” Anna asked, pausing with her needle in the air. “Wouldn’t they be apprehended, traveling on public conveyances?”

  “Not if they had forged manumission papers,” Honor said, setting down her needle. “Aside from their papers, who can tell if a black person is slave or free? And how many people would ask to see their papers anyway—except for slave catchers?”

  Deborah gazed at Honor intently. “What is thee suggesting?” she asked. The other three women bent their heads as if avoiding the issue about to be broached.

  Honor had prepared for this question. “If thee was a runaway slave arriving in Cincinnati, where would thee turn for help?” Honor asked.

  “I’d find other people of my color and ask them to help me,” Deborah said without hesitation. “I would not easily trust a white person.”

  “These slaves are fugitives from their rightful owners. We’re bound by law to turn them in. Should we countenance those breaking the law?” Anna asked earnestly, her cheeks turning pinker.

  Anna was right, Honor knew. Scripture said Christians were to obey the laws. But Honor had come up with her own defense, a defense she felt was equally in line with the teachings of the Bible. “In Christ, we know there is no distinction between slave and free. Did the patriots who dumped tea in Boston Harbor rather than pay an unjust tax break the law? Are we to obey God or man?” Honor let the silence following her question grow. In the days since helping and hiding the runaway, she’d decided to do whatever she could, short of shedding blood, to continue this work. These women must decide for themselves.

  “I believe I am constrained to help the oppressed,” Deborah stated with quiet authority. “If any one of thee disagrees, then I think thee should reconsider whether thee wants to be a part of this group. Slavery is the law of the land, but we oppose that law. I believe God opposes that law. Breaking the law peacefully may be a way to serve him.”

  A second silence vibrated in the neat parlor. Flames crackled in the hearth. Honor realized she was holding her breath and released it as quietly as she could.

  Bespectacled May spoke for what seemed like the first time ever. “I’m staying.”

  Though her face glowed red, Anna nodded once in a show of decisive agreement.

  “Exactly what is thee proposing?” Cordelia demanded.

  Honor braced herself. She’d come up with a way to help without directly exposing her aid of a runaway slave. “What I’m proposing is that we offer help to the African church in assisting runaways.”

  “What kind of help?” Cordelia looked guarded.

  “Funds for the runaways for their long trip north?” Honor ventured.

  Cordelia’s mouth thinned to a line. “But we are not in control of our husbands’ money. Is thee?” she asked with an edge to her voice.

  The woman’s reply revealed much about Cordelia’s life to Honor. “Perhaps we could sell something to earn money?”

  “All our income belongs to our husbands or fathers,” Cordelia snapped, her thread breaking with the force of her emotion.

  Honor lowered her eyes. Samuel always gives me anything I ask. And today he’d insisted on giving her gifts. On the way back to the inn, they were going to stop at a bookstore. She hadn’t considered before how unusual that trait might be among husbands.

  Yet Cordelia spoke the sad truth. Every law seemed to be against women taking any real action, just as every law seemed to oppose Royale and every other free black, not to mention slaves who wished to be free. The laws were unjust. But … laws could be changed.

  Electrified with a new idea, Honor lifted her head. “We need to draft a letter to our state legislature.”

  Every chin snapped up. The three younger women gawked at her while Deborah tried to hide a grin. “What does thee want to say to our state legislature?”

  Honor’s mind raced. What would be a good first step? “Royale, my maid, was kidnapped here in a free state. Wouldn’t a law penalizing other nefarious men who try this be appropriate? Royale’s incident was broadcast widely, and people were upset that Eli was put at risk by those kidnappers—”

  “Who went free after all,” Cordelia said bitterly.

  “That does not matter,” Honor said, facing her. “Did thee come here just to sew?” And argue? “Yes, we have few rights, but we can still speak. The US Constitution gives us that right in the First Amendment. We can also approach the government for redress. Slave catchers ought to be forced to at least consider the consequences if they kidnap free blacks to sell them back into slavery. And the furor over Royale’s kidnapping is fresh in everyone’s mind.”

  “Yes, popular opinion is important to politicians,” Deborah said. “We must not let this opportunity pass by. I think that thee should write the letter here today, Honor, and we will all sign it. This no man can stop us from doing, and it costs us only postage.”

  When none of the other three women responded to Honor’s suggestion, Deborah continued more boldly.

  “If we do nothing, we should just change our name to the Society for Females Vaguely Concerned about Slavery. Will we just sit and sew and bemoan the terrible fate of our darker brethren and sisters? Or will we act?” Deborah’s passionate speech galvanized the meeting.

  “Cordelia,” Anna said, “thee has not even given thy answer. Is thee staying part of this group or leaving?”

  “I apologize,” Cordelia said. “I had a … difficult week, and I was taking it out on all of thee.” The woman composed herself visibly and glanced from one to another around the half circle. “I hate oppression. I will do whatever the longing for freedom calls me to do.”

  Honor leaned forward and touched Cordelia’s hand. “Deborah is right. We can’t do much, but what we can do—”

  “We will do,” Anna finished and grinned.

  May, again quiet, nodded vigorously, the brown curls over her ears bouncing.

  Honor smiled back, and a sigh of relief winnowed through them all. One action had been agreed upon. Honor felt her inadequacy to affect the lives of thousands enslaved, but she had won support for runaways and free blacks with this small group.

  “One step at a time,” Deborah murmured, evidently gauging Honor’s mood. “Every journey is just a series of steps forward.”

  DECEMBER 5, 1819

  The last of the First Day sun glimmered low on the horizon before quiet little Sharpesburg came into view around the bend of forest. Honor’s fatigue lifted. This place had become home. The only thorn this day was the way Caleb had misbehaved while v
isiting Judah’s family.

  According to Royale, the child had thrown a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old. Caleb had tried to run away. Judah had prevented him, thereby triggering the tantrum. The boy didn’t know his mother had left Cincinnati. He must have thought he could find her. The cruelty of this world pressed in on Honor.

  Royale must have been thinking the same thing. “We got quite a job with this boy. How we ever gon’ get him signing?”

  Shivering from the cold, Honor turned to her. “I’ve been praying for inspiration. But he must want to learn.”

  “He is so sad and so … closed off, someway. And I don’t mean because he can’t hear,” Royale said.

  Judah tied the reins to the set brake handle, and Samuel climbed off the bench and reached up to help Honor down. Then she realized he didn’t meet her eyes.

  She thought over what Royale had just said about Caleb. It could be said of her husband, too. Honor felt a wave of despair. She mentally shook herself—after all, Samuel was much more approachable now than when she’d first met him. Grasping her husband’s chin, she forced him to look at her, then released him to sign. “Somehow we have to think of a way to get Caleb to want to communicate with us.”

  Samuel looked grim. “That stepfather ought to be horsewhipped.”

  Honor nodded in agreement. She’d like to add to that list all the people whose ignorance and lack of compassion had wounded her husband. Should she tell him about the letter to the legislature she had drafted and signed? Would he object to her doing that?

  Honor helped Perlie and Royale carry the smaller parcels inside. Samuel and Judah unloaded the larger ones for the house and kitchen, and Judah led the team to carry others into the barn. Soon Royale helped Eli and Caleb wash their hands and directed them to the table. Perlie delivered a cold supper of biscuits, bacon, and fresh hot tea. Honor thanked both of them, so glad they were here.

  The kitten played on the floor with a bit of string. The pup sat beside Caleb on the bench. Honor saw the little dog begin to squat. Crying out in dismay, she jumped up, grabbed the pup, and set him outside in the grass. Caleb ran after her, wailing for the pup and ratcheting up Honor’s exhausted nerves another notch.