Honor

by Lyn Cote

Royale frowned.

  “What?”

  “I know how much you give up and went through to get us here—to set me free, keep me safe. I just wish I could do something for you.”

  Honor realized that Royale was obliquely pointing out that while she was able to marry a man of her choice, Honor had been forced into a marriage of circumstance to save both of them. Tears threatened, and she tugged Royale close, pressing their cheeks together. She didn’t trust her voice to tell Royale all of what it meant to have blood kin still a part of her life. “Just having thee near is payment enough,” she managed. “I lost everyone and everything but thee.”

  As if also unable to voice her feelings, Royale embraced her, a rare moment revealing and reaffirming the bonds that made them important to each other. Royale broke away first, hurried to the door. Drawing on her shawl, she became practical. “We both got work to do today. No time for tears. God will bless you, Honor. He blesses the faithful.”

  “Then he will bless thee, too.” Honor swallowed down emotion. “I’ll bring my sewing into the kitchen. I don’t want to be alone today. And it’s time we called the boys indoors to warm up. They’ve played in the cold long enough.” She gathered her sewing box and a half-finished shirt for Eli. As she wrapped up against the cold, another bleak realization dawned on her. After their moment of sharing joy over his first order, Darah’s letter had heightened her feeling of separation from Samuel. She’d been reminded of the life that had been hers and the one she’d foolishly thought might be hers. Alec and Darah, husband and wife so soon …

  JANUARY 24, 1820

  Three weeks later, Honor was preparing to drive Samuel to deliver the bottles he’d crafted for the beekeeping farmer. Alone in the cabin, she added layers of clothing before putting on her dress: a pair of long wool socks over her cotton stockings, a second pair of pantaloons, and another two petticoats. Then she wrapped her thickest wool shawl around her, found her fur-lined driving gloves, and donned a wool scarf and her bonnet over it. On top of everything else, she wrapped a muffler around her neck.

  Last week a southern wind had brought the first breath of spring, but earlier today as she’d walked to the kitchen to discuss the day with Royale and Perlie, she’d seen her own breath. Though the snow had melted, remaining puddles now had a skin of ice over them. A vicious wind whipped the treetops.

  Royale knocked and entered Honor’s bedroom. “I wish the weather was better. You’ll be frozen within miles.”

  Honor ignored this. What could she do about the weather? About her husband’s continued reluctance to discuss her desire to help future runaways? “The wagon is already loaded,” she said. “Judah is hitching the team, and we’ll be off straightaway.”

  Royale pushed a sack of lunch and two leather-covered canteens wrapped in layers of wool cloth—one of water and one of coffee—into Honor’s hands.

  Samuel rapped the outer door as he opened it, motioning for her to come outside.

  Snagging the thick lap rug hanging on a peg, she and Royale hurried into the front room and bent to wrap heated bricks to put at their feet. Honor turned to the boys, playing with their pets near the hearth. “Eli! Obey thy elders. Tell Caleb to do the same. We’ll be back before dark.” The strong, bitter wind buffeting her, she strode outdoors and toward the team waiting in front of the cabin.

  Samuel was checking one last time on the boxes of bottles, cushioned with straw and already strapped into the wagon. Judah had secured a rug over the seat back to shield the Cathwells somewhat from the wind. With Samuel’s help, Honor mounted the wagon. Settling beside her, Samuel covered their legs with the thick rug. Royale slipped the bricks under their feet.

  Clucking her tongue, Honor slapped the reins, and the restless team started off at a quick pace. They too appeared to want to be away, to get this trip done quickly.

  Wind stung her face like needles as she passed the Smiths’ cabin and the Hastings’, smoke billowing from their chimneys. Then they were free, heading down Lebanon Road with the letter in her pocket providing directions to Weymouth, where the beekeeper lived.

  With a commanding “Gee!” she turned the team around a curve, the sharp wind battering them from the west, the sky gray and foreboding. Thad Hastings had assured her they should make the round-trip journey before dark without any problem.

  Glancing sideways at her husband, Honor wished she didn’t have to wear thick gloves and keep her hands on the reins. There was so much she wanted to discuss with him now that they were alone for a day. The weeks since the baby was born and the mother had died had passed as normal on the surface. But the inner turmoil she felt at pursuing her mission against her husband’s wishes had taken its toll. She wasn’t sleeping well and had a hard time concentrating.

  Honor slowed to navigate an especially rutted part of the road amid the forest. This stretch must have been exceptionally muddy last summer, and the ruts had frozen once winter set in. She could hear the bottles rattling behind her. After she negotiated the rough patch, Samuel patted her back.

  A simple show of concern from him, a boon. As much as his formidable physical presence, Samuel’s honest goodness powerfully attracted her. And he always protected her, backed her—except where runaway slaves were concerned.

  She turned her head and smiled tremulously. If she and Samuel had enjoyed a normal courtship, they would have spent time together with both of their families, sharing meals and parties and carriage rides—time to talk, to become familiar with each other’s likes and dislikes, each other’s beliefs.

  But circumstances had brought them together in a hasty marriage, and before they had met, their lives were totally different. Slavery had never been an issue in Samuel’s life—he’d rarely had to think about it. This realization suddenly struck her. If she shared what she knew of this awful institution, would that make a difference?

  How could she portray slavery as she’d experienced it to someone who had never seen it or known it? Honor closed her eyes for a moment. She had never revealed her grandfather’s betrayal to Samuel. The deep wound still ached within. Even now, she felt the shock of it as if someone had yanked a dressing from a half-healed scab.

  Honor braced herself to bring the matter out into the open. Her husband had a right to know how she’d ended up nearly penniless in Pittsburgh. She’d revealed the bare facts to Miriam but had not spoken of it to Samuel. It must have taken great forbearance for him never to inquire, she knew. She had to explain why she could not turn a blind eye to slavery.

  The road evened out and the team had calmed down, so she could safely hold the reins in one hand. The deer were all hunkered down in the forest out of the wind, and she doubted any would be leaping into their path. Now was the time. She couldn’t put this off any longer. She tugged off the glove of her right hand.

  “What are you doing?” Samuel signed.

  Ignoring his question, she began signing. “Thee knows that before this century began, the Society of Friends Convention decided all Friends must free their slaves.”

  He stared at her, looking puzzled, wary.

  “But my grandfather refused to free his slaves. He parted from the Quakers instead.” Her fingers stiffened with the cold, the hurtful memories, but she went on. “My father intended to free our people, but he died before my grandfather, before he could inherit our plantation, High Oaks. Grandfather knew I intended to free our people and sell High Oaks, so the week before he died, he disinherited me. He left everything to my first cousin Darah.” Who promptly became engaged to the man who had courted me. And who has now married him. This bitter thought she would not share with a husband prone to jealousy.

  “He disinherited you?”

  Honor read sympathy in his eyes and saw that he grasped how this had cut her to the marrow. She tried to take a deep breath of the freezing air but could not. “Yes. He extended his hold over his slaves—held on to them beyond the grave.” Her heart clenched afresh as she recalled how he had treated Royale. “I wish I could say s
omething good about him, my grandfather. But owning people changes a person, hardens their conscience.” She glanced at Samuel and was heartened to see that he was really considering her words.

  “Thee did not grow up with slavery. Thee doesn’t know how it tears at the souls of not only the slaves but their masters.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Slave owners know it’s wrong to own human beings, so they hide behind Bible verses about slaves obeying their masters and ignore the ones that condemn those who deal in human flesh.”

  She forced her fingers, aching with the cold, to go on signing. “Because I disagreed with him—” her fingers paused, then went on—“he only left me Royale and one hundred dollars. He’d always claimed he loved me, and perhaps he did in some way. But he was corrupted by three generations of slaveholding.”

  Samuel reached for her hand but did not grasp it, seeming to ask if she wished for his condolence.

  She closed the distance and took his hand. For a moment she rested a cheek on his mittened palm, then released it to go on with her story.

  “Yet that is not the worst I can say about him.” She stared straight ahead, gathering her courage. “I have never told thee, but Royale is my blood kin. My grandfather fathered her.”

  She could not make herself glance toward Samuel. “Royale’s sweet mother was the nurse who raised not only her own child but me and my cousin. My grandfather forced Royale’s mother into being his mistress—the same woman who nursed me and raised me and who died still his ‘property.’ My grandfather, who I thought would never sin so blatantly, did.” Sorrow over her grandfather’s hypocrisy welled up inside her, and she gripped the reins with both hands, holding on.

  Samuel moved closer to her and slipped his arm around her waist.

  Nearly tearing up at his gesture, she raised her right hand again. “He made no effort to liberate his own child except to leave her to me, knowing I would free her. He left Royale—his own blood—nothing, not a word or a penny. And he had treated the woman I loved as a mother like a concubine or worse. What choice did Royale’s mother have in anything?”

  Samuel might still not understand why this alone was enough to make it impossible for her to ignore slavery and its cruelty. But perhaps he could comprehend that a man she’d loved all her life had broken faith with his granddaughter and his own daughter.

  Now Honor must make certain her husband clearly grasped her intentions, though she did not know what she would do if he forbade her from acting. She turned her face to him. “I do not wish to go against thee, my husband, but I cannot bring myself to turn a blind eye to those fleeing such evil. I must continue to work toward ending slavery. And I cannot refuse any runaway who comes to me for help. I just can’t.”

  She had stated her case. Now she must make clear all the stakes. “I think thee needs to know that Royale and Judah are planning to marry in the spring, and she told me they will leave us and go live in Bucktown if we don’t let them help runaways at our home.” Maybe if her own suffering were not sufficient, the potential loss of his apprentice would sway her husband. She waited.

  Samuel tugged her closer beside him and kissed the bit of her face visible. He signed, “Very well. I still doubt your measures will bring about the end of slavery. I saw how hard things were for that woman and her child, however, and I’m glad you saved the baby’s life. I will not try to stop you or Judah or Royale. I will aid you when I can. But we must be very cautious. I don’t want anybody to know what we are doing. I don’t want to call any attention to us.”

  With one brief nod, Honor donned her glove again and stared at the steady movement of the rumps of the team and the billowing vapor from their breathing. She rested her head against her husband’s arm. He pulled her closer to him, reinforcing their bond.

  She couldn’t ignore how her husband’s words poured over her; most lifted her, but some cast her down. He would not stop her—he would help her, even—but he, a good and kind man, still didn’t fully understand. She could say no more. For now.

  FEBRUARY 7, 1820

  Spring was whispering its promise in little bursts. Today the cabin door stood open while Honor tried to keep Eli and Caleb sitting at the table with her, continuing to print the alphabet on their slates. Eli had already learned the finger alphabet and signs, and Caleb had been taught his alphabet and how to spell words before he came to them, but both needed practice writing. Perlie also sat at the table with a slate, practicing the letter G.

  The sound of hoofbeats brought Honor to her feet. Dear heaven, not the catchers again. She hurried to the door while Perlie put down her slate and rose from the table, distancing herself from evidence that she was learning the alphabet so she could read and write like Judah and Royale.

  Honor hated Perlie’s fear, which sprang from past abuse. But she understood it. She stepped to the door, cracked it open, and a smile burst inside her. “Deborah! George!” Her spirit soared but soon sank. “Is anything amiss?” She could think of no other reason George would leave his shop midday.

  “Nothing! Something wonderful has happened, and we couldn’t wait to share it with you,” Deborah said, nearly dancing as she spoke.

  “Here,” George said, handing Honor a newspaper rolled in his hand.

  It unrolled as she accepted it, and she saw that it was a copy of the Philanthropist, folded open to the second page. And on that page her poem had been printed. Honor sat down on the bench at the table with a plump. “Oh, my. I …” She stared at the words she’d penned and read the byline: By Honor Cathwell.

  A shadow fell across the threshold. Honor looked up to see her husband quizzing her with a glance. She rose, suddenly cautious. What would he think of her writing antislavery poetry? But it was already done and in print.

  “Samuel, our friends George and Deborah have brought me good news.” Honor handed him the paper, her index finger directing his gaze to her poem.

  Samuel bent his head to read it.

  Honor waited on tenterhooks for his response. But of course he kept his reaction hidden. He nodded and smiled at George and Deborah, greeting them with a lifted hand.

  Perlie curtsied, said she would make tea, and hurried out.

  Honor motioned for Deborah to sit in the rocker by the hearth. Samuel didn’t want anybody to know of her passion for abolition—didn’t want her calling attention to them. Would he be angry with her?

  “No, Honor, please. Both George and I would like to see thy home and Samuel’s glassworks.”

  Honor signed this and began the tour. She showed Deborah the bedroom off the large main room. Then Samuel led them to his barn, where Judah was waiting to blow glass into molds.

  Honor translated for Samuel. “My husband has carved a mold for a man who makes maple syrup. See, it has a maple leaf on it along with the man’s name. This customer saw the bottles Samuel had designed for a beekeeper in Weymouth.”

  George drew nearer to where the molds lay ready for glass. He stepped back when Samuel and Judah tested the molten glass. Both men, standing at opposite ends of the workbench, started it into molds, blowing, forcing the glass to fit the mold’s shape. George and Deborah watched with interest. And when the mold was full, they applauded.

  “Amazing!” Deborah said. “I’ve never seen glass being made.”

  Perlie appeared at the door of the barn with Royale behind her. “The tea and refreshments are on the dinin’ table, ma’am.”

  “Royale,” Deborah said, “how good to see thee looking so well. What does thee think of Honor having a poem published?”

  Royale bowed her head politely. “I’m not surprised, ma’am. When we was girls in Maryland, she sometimes wrote poetry.”

  “Please come to the table,” Perlie said. “The tea will get cold.”

  George and Deborah followed Honor to the cabin, where she entertained them. Samuel came in a few minutes later and apologized for his delay, saying he’d had to finish the glass bottle he’d begun in the demonstration.
Out of the blue, he asked their guests, “Why do you think slavery can end?”

  Both George and Deborah stared at the bald question. George cleared his throat. “Ending slavery will not be easy, but establishing a democratic republic has not been easy either. Sometimes one must work for what is right, even when the odds of victory appear small.”

  “What do you think of people who hide or aid runaways?” Samuel asked.

  Honor translated but felt her pulse speed up. She had not revealed her involvement with runaways to anyone outside the household, not even to Deborah. Was her husband trying to show her she was wrong? Or expose her wrongdoing?

  Deborah spoke before her son. “I would not turn an escaped slave over to a catcher. I’ve seen the kind of men who do this nasty job. They are the sort of people who kidnapped Royale and your nephew.”

  Samuel looked startled at her response.

  “My mother is bold in her cause,” George said. “We have never had a runaway come to our door, but I too would help him. My mother and I were forced to leave North Carolina when we freed our slaves. The anger our former neighbors and friends turned on us told us much. When a person does what is right, it stirs the rage of those who will not turn from doing the same evil.”

  Samuel nodded slowly but did not give away what he was thinking. Once again he had shut them all out, including Honor, his wife. She absorbed his withdrawal, praying that someday her husband would cease hedging out the world, walling himself away.

  Soon after the tea had been finished, George and Deborah left the Cathwells’ for the drive home. Honor stood at the door, waving them off in the bright sunshine. When they disappeared around the bend, she turned to face her husband, finally able to ask him, “So is thee angry about my poem appearing in the press?”

  “You might as well have put a sign on our door for all the slave catchers around to see.”

  The truth of what he said settled within her like a cold rock. “I should have asked to remain anonymous.”

  “Our only hope will be that slave catchers only read the classifieds, not poetry. But this kind of paper—” he pointed to the newspaper lying on the table—“is just the kind of thing they would read for leads.”