Her father stumbled over words of apology and embraced her. She heard him sniff. He turned away to wipe his face with a handkerchief. When he faced them again, he was more composed. “We should get you back to the doctor’s house, Ann. You must rest.”
She felt dislocated, as if she were watching herself from some other place. She grasped for anything that would root her back in the present, back in her body. She seized her anger and held on to it for her very life. “I want to know why,” she said bitterly.
He looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve done something. You’ve taken something you shouldn’t have.” Her voice rose and her eyes grew wet. “You’re responsible for what happened, and I deserve an explanation.” Tears ran down her face. Allan tendered her his handkerchief and put his other arm around her shoulders as if to hold her shaking body together. The thought flitted through her mind that on any other day she would be humiliated to behave in such a way.
“He said you had taken something, and that they were going to pretend to ransom me to get their property back. But they were going to kill me anyway. And Mr. Holmes was with him.”
The mention of Mr. Holmes froze both her father and Allan in shocked silence. Then Allan murmured, “We will find these men and call them to account. I give you my word.”
“I am more sorry than I can say,” her father said, bowing his head, “for having brought this on you.”
She remained in stony silence, except for her jerky breathing. Allan did not seem at all put out or surprised by her loss of temper. But then, he had seen what had happened.
“I will show you why this has occurred,” her father said. “And, Mr. Burbridge, as you are now inextricably concerned in the matter, you may see as well.” He turned to the street and hailed a passing hackney cart. It pulled up, and he pressed a coin in the gnarled hand of the driver. “Arthursville, please,” he said.
Allan helped her up into the cart, and the two men seated themselves.
“It will all be clear in a few minutes,” her father said, pulling his muffler closer and adjusting his hat in the cold breeze of their passage. “I don’t excuse myself for placing you in harm’s way, but perhaps it will help you to know why.”
The hackney cart moved at a brisk trot through the streets, turning several corners until they were in a quieter area of genteel homes. Ann’s father instructed the driver to pull up at a two-story red-brick home, in the Georgian style. When they all dismounted from the cart and stood on the doorstep, he rapped with the large iron knocker.
A distinguished black man opened the door. He was dressed too well to be a servant, and his whiskers were close-trimmed like a gentleman’s. “Samuel,” he said, smiling. “An unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon! Did you forget something?”
“No,” her father said. “This is my eldest daughter. She has suffered a terrible fright and abuse on my account. I feel it is time to share the truth with her.” He addressed Ann. “This is Mr. Enoch Washington.” Then her father acknowledged Allan with a nod in his direction. “And, Mr. Washington, this is Mr. Allan Burbridge. I owe him a great deal for his intercession today on my daughter’s behalf.”
Mr. Washington’s face grew grave. He opened the door for them. “Come in.”
He led them through the house, which was nicely furnished and still smelled faintly of fresh plaster. It must be quite new, this house. Ann did not know what to think. This had not been what she expected to see or hear from her father, and her anger and hurt still bubbled below the surface like a pot waiting to boil over. Yet the little part of her mind that remained capable of rational thought registered the enterprise of this free black man, who had built such a life for himself in a world where his people were often despised.
They followed him up the stairs to the second floor, where he pulled a little cord that hung from the ceiling. A trap door opened down from a hinge.
“It’s me, Enoch,” he said. “Come down.”
A ladder appeared over the edge of the attic, and Mr. Washington grabbed its lower rungs to set it into place. A man’s shoes stepped out above their heads, moving slowly backward down the top rungs. His trousers were plain, with worn patches, and as he descended, Ann saw from the back that his shirt was homespun and rolled at the sleeves. He wore a woolen vest and cap. Above him, a woman moved onto the ladder, the thin drape of her skirt covering her limbs, though the men averted their eyes nonetheless.
When the man stepped off the ladder to the floor and turned to face them, Ann had to stifle a gasp. His coffee-colored forehead bore a cruel, puckered scar in the shape of a circle bisected by a cross. One ear was nothing but a ragged hole in his head, the tissue missing. The woman who moved to his side behind him had the same disfiguring scar and had also lost an ear, though her black hair was braided loosely over it in the attempt to hide it. They regarded their visitors with calm dignity and an edge of wariness.
Ann’s father turned to her and said, “I would like you to meet John and Clara, lately of Tennessee, who have now chosen the surname Simon. Mr. Washington and I are assisting them as they go to their freedom. They are the so-called ‘stolen property.’”
Sixteen
THE O’HAR A SADDLE WAS COMPLETE. IT SAT ON THE rack in the workshop, pommel gleaming. Embossed on the saddle flaps were scores of roses, each perfect, each carved by the master’s own hand. Will was sure that even someone who knew nothing of saddlery would gaze in awe at Mr. Miller’s work. The O’Hara saddle was no longer a product of craft but instead a work of art, lovely beyond price.
The door of the shop opened; Tom peeped around the door, then entered with an empty slop pail in hand. “Have you seen the master?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not since last evening,” Will said.
Tom’s tense face relaxed. He brushed his dark hair back out of his eyes and set down his pail. “What a beauty!” he said, stepping to the saddle rack and tracing the roses with the tip of his finger. “No wonder the master’s beside himself.”
Will winced. After his final, shaky attempts to copy the leather tooling, Master Good had ranted for half an hour. Spittle flew from his mouth as he told Will to sabotage the saddle by this evening, or live to regret it. The thought made Will sick.
“Are you going to do it?” Tom asked, lifting the flap to look at the billet straps.
“I don’t know.” Will turned to the work table and fiddled with the arrangement of the awls and scrapers.
“You must.” Tom’s eyes were worried under his tangle of dark hair. “You can’t help who the master is. It’s not your fault.”
Will finished lining up the tools and stared at them in mute misery. “It’s wrong.”
“The master will have your hide if you don’t. He may even kill you. Then what would I do? And what would happen to that girl you’re helping?”
An added wave of guilt swept over Will. He thought of Emmie’s soft warmth, the forbidden sweetness of her skin, his inability to control his desire to touch her. He knew what was virtue and what was sin. For hours after he left her, he had searched in vain for excuses for dishonoring her, fulfilling his own burning need in defiance of heavenly law. The thought of it stirred his desire again, sickening him even further. He must be truly a creature of the devil, to use her so. She had been willing, but the bed sheets had given undeniable evidence that she had been pure before he touched her.
His sin turned his insides to hot pitch. It spread through his body just like his desire, searing everything it touched. This must be how it felt to lose one’s soul. Perhaps his soul was gone already. What point was there in taking a stand about the O’Hara saddle? Compared to what he had already done, sabotage was almost trivial.
He turned to look at Tom over his shoulder. “Leave me alone.”
Tom’s shoulders hunched. He snatched up his pail and slammed the barn door on his way out.
After a moment, Will reached for the round-bladed knife. He wiped it on his pants a
nd held it up to the light. It was very sharp—keen enough to cut invisibly.
He walked over to the saddle and laid his hand in the seat, admiring again the smooth richness of the leather. He could not believe that he was about to ruin this beautiful work. He would have to slice halfway through the underside of one of the billet straps—just enough so that the girth would hold when it was tightened, but give way under the stress of a ride. He tried not to think of what would happen to the lady when the girth gave way. It was not his choice. He was his master’s servant, and halfway to the devil.
He lifted the heavy saddle flap and knelt down next to it. Holding the flap open with his shoulder, he pulled the billet out in his left hand. He hesitated, the blade bright, poised against the leather. He repositioned it to just the right angle . . .
The door swung open. He jumped up and back from the saddle. Mr. Miller, of all people. Will went cold, then hot. He had not moved fast enough. Mr. Miller would have seen him kneeling by the saddle. And the round knife was in full view, clutched in his right hand. He lowered it to his side.
Mr. Miller’s forehead wrinkled. For a moment, they both stood in silence.
“What are you doing, Will?” he asked.
At that moment, Will would rather have slit his own throat than stand before Mr. Miller. But the saddler must have sensed something of the sort, because he walked to Will and gently removed the knife from his nerveless fingers. Will gave it up without a struggle, his face averted. He did not want to see the hurt and rage in Mr. Miller’s eyes.
“You were going to damage the saddle.” It was not a question. Will braced himself for the blow he knew must follow. But Mr. Miller stayed motionless at Will’s side.
“I didn’t cut it yet,” Will whispered.
“Your master ordered it?” the saddler asked.
Will did not know what to say. Master Good would deny it. There were laws about criminal apprentices. Will had heard of indentures extended. When Mr. Miller told the judge what Will had done, would they bind him to Master Good for another five years? He would rather die.
“He ordered it. I did not have a choice,” he said at last.
Mr. Miller turned away. Now Will was sure that he would go first to Dr. Loftin, and then to the law.
The master saddler removed his hat and laid it on the worktable, his shoulders very straight in his gray coat. He paused, looking out the tiny box window above the table. “What course of action would you recommend I take, son?” His voice was tight, his words clipped.
“I—I don’t know, sir.”
“Your master will no doubt use you terribly if he finds you have not carried out his orders.”
Unable to admit to his plight aloud, Will nodded.
“Should I turn to the law?”
His heart pounding, Will looked away, steeling himself for the inevitable.
“I think not. No crime has been committed here,” Mr. Miller said.
Will’s knees went weak with relief. He braced himself with one hand on the stitching horse so it would not show.
“I will not punish you for your master’s sins, though I’d dearly love to make your master answer for them. Instead, I’ll immediately take the saddle with me to the doctor’s house. You may tell your master you fulfilled his order. He will have no way of knowing whether the saddle is intact or not.”
“Thank you, sir.” His voice came out hoarse. He did not deserve this generosity.
“But I must tell you something, son.” Mr. Miller walked back to stand right in front of Will. Something about his scrutiny made Will feel exposed in all his weakness. He hung his head and looked at the straw-littered floor.
“I’ve seen something of bondage and cruel masters,” the master saddler said. He spoke quietly. “And I’ve seen enough of you to know you have a good heart.”
At this, Will’s heart stung him, as if in reproach. The sting moved to his throat and his eyes. “My heart’s not as good as you think, sir.”
There was silence for a moment. “We’ve all done things we regret, son.”
Will felt his lips tremble and he bit them hard.
“I can’t say I’ve walked in your shoes, Will. But I know men older and stronger than you who have crumbled in evil hands.”
Will felt a light touch on his shoulder. His breath caught and he struggled against the upwelling of pain.
The saddler’s words were slow, as if he wrestled to shape his thought. “What hurt those men most was when they saw the evil in themselves. They went into the darkness and couldn’t find their way out. They thought they had no choice.”
Mr. Miller squeezed Will’s shoulder. “Look at me, son.”
Will looked up, embarrassed at the tears that filled his eyes and spilled over.
The saddler’s face was full of compassion. “You have a choice, no matter how it seems. There is a light that shines for those sitting in darkness and those in the shadow of death.”
The words sank like fresh rain into his parched heart. For those sitting in darkness. He felt as if a tiny pinpoint of light appeared then, at his very center, where nothing had glimmered for so long. The relief was so great that he had to close his eyes, the tears still trickling down.
Mr. Miller sighed. “I would to heaven there was some way I could stay and help you with your present troubles. But I must go back.”
Will opened his eyes again. He wiped his face on his sleeve and struggled against the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Miller stayed put for a moment as if lost in thought, then his eyes focused on Will again. “I would like you to do something for me.”
Will would refuse him nothing at this moment.
“I need a message taken across the river, and I would like you to carry it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe the errand may do you some good. You may take the doctor’s coach, and I will secure Master Good’s permission.”
Mr. Miller lifted the saddle and slid one arm through the gullet. “I’ll go put this away safely, then I’ll speak to your master. Meet the coachman in front of the doctor’s house in half an hour.”
“I’ll be there, sir.”
Mr. Miller picked up his hat in his free hand, then headed for the door. But he paused as he passed Will, his eyes once again full of perception so deep it was not quite earthly.
“No one can take your soul, son,” he said. “Souls can be given, but they can never be taken.”
Will held the letter in his pocket as the coach wound its way through the streets of Pittsburgh. He did not know what Mr. Miller had told his master. He did not much care. He was too grateful for the reprieve from punishment, for the luxury of a long coach ride, a respite from his labor. He had not dared wear his gloves for fear the master would see them, but the coach was a sight more comfortable than the outside, thanks to the foot warmer.
I should be clapped in irons, but instead Mr. Miller helps me. His throat clenched and he swallowed.
The coach pulled up in front of a two-story brick home. Will climbed out and walked to the door, which was white save for an iron knocker. He rapped three times, and after a minute a well-dressed, dark-skinned man came to the door. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
“I have a message for you, Mr. Washington.” Will assumed this man must be the one Mr. Miller had described as a “black gentleman.”
“Thank you,” the man said. He took the paper from Will’s outstretched hand, pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket, and read it silently. Will wondered what it said.
Mr. Washington looked up from the note and eyed Will. “Come in, young man.”
“I can’t stay long,” Will said. Too long an absence and Master Good might guess something was amiss.
“Mr. Miller has written to me here. He has arranged with your master for you to stay for a half hour or so without trouble.”
Mr. Miller had mentioned Will in his note? Perplexed, Will followed Mr. Washington, who was already several steps down
the hall. They reached the end of the hallway and emerged into a kitchen.
“Wait here, please,” Mr. Washington said. A slender brown-skinned woman in an apron straightened up in front of the hearth. “Who is this, Enoch?” She had an open, pleasant face. The dress under her apron was fine, with a velvet collar. The lady of the house.
“A friend, my dear,” Mr. Washington said. “Young man, this is Mrs. Washington, my wife. Have a seat.”
Will obeyed, taking the indicated place on the kitchen bench.
“Grace, if you wouldn’t mind scraping up something for him to eat, I’m sure he would not refuse.” He exited into the hall again.
“Looks like you haven’t seen a good meal in a while.” Mrs. Washington opened the pantry and produced a plate with dried beef and two biscuits. The biscuits were soft and fresh. Will ate the first one in two or three gulps, but slowed down to savor every mouthful of the second. He had not tasted anything this good since his days at the Quaker farmhouse. He drank deeply from the glass of water she set beside him. The beef took some chewing but tasted delicious.
While he ate, Mrs. Washington put a kettle on the hook and stoked the fire. When his hostess wasn’t looking, Will hid the last piece of biscuit and some jerky in his pocket for Tom. He wished he could also take him a cup of hot tea like the one Mrs. Washington set at his left hand.
Mr. Washington came back. He nodded approvingly at his wife when he saw Will with the tea and an empty plate. But Will was distracted by the others who walked into the kitchen after him.
The man and woman were dressed in farm clothes, though theirs were much cleaner than Will’s. They each had a ragged hole where an ear should have been, a scar of a brand seared into their brown foreheads. Will tried not to show his shock.
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