Mr. Miller did not turn all the way around, but Will saw his shoulders stiffen in surprise. “You’re certain?”
“He did say that, Mr. Samuel,” Clara said from the back, where she had dared sit up again.
“Well, highwaymen are highwaymen, whether their prize is gold or flesh.” Mr. Miller sounded dismissive, but Will thought he detected concern beneath his nonchalance.
None of them could sleep after that. The Lancaster Road met the National Road, and they turned west as the morning extended fingers of pink light behind them over the trees. John and Will both sat upright, each watching one side of the road with unfailing vigilance.
Even with his eyes glued to the tree line, Will’s mind would not remain still.
You said you would show me, Lord. Make it clear to me. I am risking them by my presence here. And if bounty hunters follow me, I will bring danger to the Millers, even if we deliver the Simons to safety. So where must I go?
Ann’s face and figure drifted through his thoughts, her softness, the depth of intelligence in her eyes that Emmie’s flat prettiness could never match. But he had a duty to fulfill. And he could never place Ann in jeopardy.
Then, reluctantly, he began to understand.
Thirty-Two
PULL UP HERE, WILL.” MR. MILLER INDICATED A place in the road indistinguishable from any other spot in the miles of tree-lined road they had traveled that day. Then he pointed to a tree a few feet back in the woods. “See that arrow?” Now that he pointed it out, the whitewashed triangle high on the trunk of the maple jumped out at Will like a beacon.
“Whoa!” Will called to the mules, drawing back the harness reins between his fingers until he could feel the bits in their mouths on the end of the line. At his gentle pressure, they plodded to a halt. They needed no encouragement to rest; four days of travel had taken their toll.
Mr. Miller turned his head toward John and Clara, who sat in their usual position, backs to the side of the wagon, close enough to touch one another. “We have almost arrived.” Mr. Miller clambered over the side of the wagon and dropped to the ground as he spoke. “We will walk through the woods the back way to let Old Lawrence know we’re here. His house is that way.” He pointed off past the trees in the direction of the arrow.
“Why the back way?” Will asked.
“Well, we could get there by following this road. But Blendon Tavern is just past the next curve. It’s a rough place, and too likely to be busy.”
“And full of bounty hunters?” John asked.
“Precisely. Will, you must stay here with the wagon. John and Clara, come sit off here in the trees a way, in case anyone passes.”
The spring sunlight was bright this afternoon, lighting every hillock of the road, but the shadow of the trees was more forgiving. John helped Clara out of the wagon, and they hurried into the woods. They seated themselves at the foot of a great black oak, where the massive ripples of its trunk enfolded them like wings. When they were still, Will could hardly tell they were there. So much the better.
Mr. Miller had followed them into the sheltering trees. He turned back to Will, raised one hand, and slipped farther into the woods and out of sight.
It was hard to believe the journey was almost over, at least for the Simons. Freeing the reins, Will climbed out of his seat and walked around to the mules’ heads. If anyone should pass, he must pretend to be occupied. He could not just sit in the road like a halfwit. He would act as if he were checking the harness.
Minutes passed. When he glanced into the woods, he could see the outline of their heads against the base of the oak. He peered down the road. Empty. He breathed a prayer of gratitude. They were so close. He felt cold perspiration under his arms and swabbed at it with his shirt, annoyed, trying to keep his eyes on the road.
A rustle in the trees startled him. To his relief, Mr. Miller came into view, picking his way through the undergrowth. Behind him walked two young men about Will’s age. One was fair, the other dark. As they neared, Will saw that the first one had the high color of the Dutch: red in his fair hair, a rosy tint over his pronounced cheekbones. The dark youth was shorter, his square face open and honest, his shoulders powerful.
“Will.” Mr. Miller indicated the fairer young man. “This is Peter Westerfield. And his friend is Teddy Lawrence.”
The brown-haired one nodded at Will. “Our thanks to you for bringing them so far.” He crossed to where Will stood holding one of the mules by the bridle and held out his hand.
Will took it with pleasure. He liked the glint in this young man’s eyes; it spoke of a youth familiar with hardship but unbowed by it. There was something about this Teddy Lawrence that made Will want to sit down and talk.
But there was no time. Peter Westerfield came over and shook hands as well, his demeanor more guarded and evaluating than Teddy’s.
Mr. Miller spoke up from the shelter of the trees. “Gentlemen, here are our guests, John and Clara Simon.”
During the business of greetings, the Simons had walked up behind Mr. Miller. Teddy and Peter introduced themselves and shook hands with the same courtesy they had given Will. He liked them for it.
“Well then,” Mr. Miller said, “it appears we have reached our parting.” He took off his hat and took John’s hand himself. Will noticed that the saddler’s chin was suspiciously firm, in the way of men who hide deep feeling. After a few murmured words that Will could not make out, he clapped John on the shoulder and took Clara’s hand. Then he turned on his heel and walked back to Will, taking the reins from him to hold the mules.
“Go and wish them Godspeed,” he said. Will thought Mr. Miller’s eyes glistened, but the saddler turned away to rebuckle the mule’s cheek strap.
Will walked over to where the Simons stood.
“Thank you, young man.” John extended his hand, but then pulled Will into a clumsy half embrace. His voice thickened with emotion. “Thank you for doing the Lord’s work.”
“Yes, indeed,” Clara said. She patted Will’s arm as her husband loosed his grip and stepped back. “Will Hanby, I think you’re gonna be a powerful warrior for the Lord someday.” She gave him that smile of pure loveliness once more, her weathered face alight. He ducked his head.
When he looked up, they had turned away. Teddy Lawrence had taken Clara’s arm, and Peter Westerfield led them back the way they had come through the woods. Their backs receded, Clara’s plain skirt bunching as she gathered it to clear the twigs and budding bushes. John helped her from the other side. They were a brave little band of four.
And a cloud went with them by day, and a pillar of fire by night. The voice of Will’s father murmured in his memory once more, and he had to rub his eyes hard. He thought his father would be gladdened by the sight of this man and woman walking away to their freedom. Evil men had intended to break their spirits with the seared circle-and-cross in their flesh, but John and Clara wore it as a sign of salvation. Their journey to freedom was the Lord’s work. In their upright backs, Will read his future. He would see as many fugitives as he could walk away from him, just like this.
The saddler had already resumed the driving seat. “No time to waste, Will. Let’s be getting back.”
Will hoisted himself over the wagon side, and Mr. Miller slapped the reins on the mules’ backs. “Gee!”
They whirled around and took up a brisk trot, back through the endless lines of trees, over one gentle slope and another.
It was some time before Mr. Miller or Will spoke. The wagon rattled and bumped; the mules sighed. Their silence was almost reverent. Mr. Miller must be as deep in thought about the Simons as Will was himself.
After a while, though, it became a companionable quiet. Since Mr. Miller had asked him about his conversation with heaven, or whatever one might call that singular experience, Will had felt complete ease in his presence. Once a man had seen you weeping before God, there was little left to hide. Mr. Miller seemed to understand and accept whatever had happened to Will as a matter of c
ourse. Will could only conclude the saddler had undergone something of the same nature. Perhaps more than once.
As the distance opened between their wagon and Blendon Corners, Will’s thoughts returned to their constant fixation. The weight of it was too much for him. He had to tell Mr. Miller.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking . . .” He stopped, unsure of how to tell him. “Since the bounty hunters came after me . . .”
“What is it, son?” Mr. Miller seemed alert now, even though Will could only see him in profile.
“I don’t think I can stay with you.”
Mr. Miller kept his eyes on the mules, transferring the reins to one hand. “And why is that?”
“I will always be a danger to you and your family, sir. As long as Master Good has a legal claim on me, you will be subject to the law. Not to mention any bounty hunters who might come to the farm. I can’t allow that to happen.”
Mr. Miller leaned back and rubbed his temples with his free hand. “Where will you go?”
“Back to Pittsburgh, sir. I can’t run from my old master any longer. If I do not serve out my term, I will never be free of him. After I finish my apprenticeship, I hope you will accept me back in your employ.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Mr. Miller’s tone was sharp. “Jacob Good almost killed you even before you ran away. You would not last a week in that household.”
“I will have to take my chances.”
A deep frown folded lines around Mr. Miller’s mouth. “I will not accept this. It would be throwing your life away. Would you have counseled John and Clara to return to their masters?”
“But they had no end to their slavery, sir. If I can just survive until my indenture runs its course—”
“You will not survive!” Mr. Miller’s vehemence surprised Will. The saddler was usually so controlled. Now the older man sighed and moderated his tone. “I am sure of it, son.”
“But what choice do I have?”
Mr. Miller rubbed the reins between his thumbs and fingers, as if the motion would spur his thought.
“I have a proposition.” Mr. Miller looked straight ahead at the mules. “Your labor will be of great value to me over the next three or four years, Will. If you work the farm with me, I will not have to hire any field hands from among my neighbors’ sons. You could easily earn out the cost of your apprenticeship to Master Good.”
Mr. Miller glanced at him and must have detected his lack of comprehension.
“So I suggest we return to Pittsburgh and offer to compensate your master for the value of your lost labor. I will pay him for you, and you will repay me by your help on the farm.”
“You would come with me to Pittsburgh, sir?” Will could not believe the saddler would undertake the journey again.
“I believe it will be necessary. Jacob Good would need to have the money in hand to agree to sign a paper releasing you. And he cannot be trusted if I am not there to watch the proceedings.”
“Sir, I am very grateful for your offer. But I can’t accept such generosity. You have already—”
“Accept it. I insist. You are correct, I believe, in thinking that you will be a fugitive as long as Jacob Good lives. And that could be two decades. My solution is the only answer.”
“I can’t let you go to such pain and expense on my behalf.” A twinge went through Will at his next thought, and he spoke it without thinking. “You must rue the day you met me.”
Mr. Miller turned all the way around, letting the mules pick their way by themselves. His eyebrows lifted as he looked at Will for a long moment. “Not at all, son. Not at all.”
Will shifted sideways to look at the trees, unsettled by a churning mass of feeling he could not sort out. For years, no one had cared for him as Mr. Miller seemed to. He did not deserve it; it humbled him.
“Consider this, son. I am your new master, by your choice and by mine. You no longer have sovereignty over yourself. I do. And my decision is that, if you must do this, we will go together to Pittsburgh and I will settle your accounts. Jacob Good is a lover of money. He will be satisfied with the full payoff of your indenture, with perhaps a slight interest payment for his wounded ego.” Mr. Miller’s tone turned dry with his last words, and his mouth quirked up at one side.
There was nothing to say. Mr. Miller was right. Will owed him everything, and the saddler’s decision must be honored.
“Yes, sir.” Will sat back against the side of the wagon. It was back to Pittsburgh, and back to Emmie. Mingled with his sense of peace at the idea of facing Master Good and buying his freedom was a twist of rue. He wondered what Mr. Miller would say when he found out that Will must bring a wife back with him to the farm. He might be relieved at having even more help. Emmie would be delighted to assist Ann with farm chores in the clean country air, after her imprisonment in the city’s filth and smoke.
Will dreaded even more what Ann would think of Emmie. But he had made his bed, as the old wives said, and now he would have to lie in it.
Thirty-Three
ANN COULD NOT BELIEVE SHE HAD PROMISED TO GIVE Eli an answer today. Would he seek her here at the Sumners even though her father had not yet returned?
Her chair scraped as she moved it a few inches closer to the window. Even the sunlight pouring into the parlor did not suffice for the needlework on her lap. The hem of Susan’s dress had to be let out, but her mind drifted too often back to Eli while the needle slipped in and out of the fabric. She was no closer to a decision on marrying him than she had been a week ago.
The Sumners’ parlor sat behind their storefront, separated from it by a thin wall and a curtain over the doorway. Ann could hear the friendly voices of customers as they came and went. Their conversation reassured her that no bounty hunters could approach, not with all these people here. For the first time since her mother’s death, Ann felt comfortable in her father’s absence.
Of course, if she married Eli, she would leave the farm and embark upon a whole new life in which she had no one to look after but herself and her husband. The freedom of that vision was heady; after he started a medical practice, she would keep a small house with no animals—except horses, for pleasure. Compared to the farm’s endless chores, it would be like entering the aristocracy. She would be able to read for two hours a night, if she wished. And yet she could not stop the nagging voice of love and conscience that told her not to leave her sisters.
“Ann.” Mrs. Sumner’s voice preceded her, but then she pulled aside the curtain, her freckled face beaming. “Your father is here.”
Ann’s spirits soared. They could go home to the farm with her father and Will. Despite the past week’s respite from her arduous chores, she loved being home best.
When she followed Mrs. Sumner through the curtained doorway, her father was standing on the other side of the counter, his shirt rumpled, his collar open.
“My girl.” He opened his arms and she ran around the end of the counter and into his embrace. He had not called her his girl in a long while. It warmed her all through.
When she let go, he held her at arm’s length and smiled. “You look well.”
“Did you deliver the Simons?”
“We have sent them on their way.” The peace with which he said it assured her that the journey had been a success. “Pack your things, and let’s be off. I could do with a good scrub and my own bed.”
It took only a few minutes to gather their bags and make their goodbyes to Mrs. Sumner, with many a word of thanks.
“Ann helped me immensely, Mr. Miller. It was no trouble at all.” Mrs. Sumner smiled at Ann as she and her father exited to the street with a ping of the store bell. Susan and Mabel tripped after them, asking her father three or four questions at once. He laughed and told them to bide their time.
A brisk breeze stirred the curls on Ann’s neck. The wagon stood outside in the mellow afternoon light, Will the apprentice in the driver’s seat. He looked at her as she came out fro
m the shelter of the porch. He seemed different to her, older. His face had a golden tint under his dark hair; his unfastened collar revealed a neck tanned by days of driving. That must be it. It was the sunlight on his skin that had transformed him so. The beaten apprentice had vanished, his starved frame replaced by broadening shoulders and the musculature of a young man in good health.
He turned away, fiddling with the reins. Was he not glad to see her?
Mr. Sumner shambled bear-like out of the barn, leading Bayberry. “Don’t forget your horse, Miller.”
Her father chuckled and shook his friend’s hand, then took the mare’s reins. Never one to waste words, Mr. Sumner nodded farewell and walked back into his store.
“Would you like to ride in the wagon with the girls, Ann?” Her father did not move from the mare’s side. “I can take Bayberry, if you wish.”
She nodded, sensing that perhaps it was her father who wished to ride, after so many days on the road with the mules. He lifted himself into the saddle and turned Bayberry’s head toward home.
Will clucked to the mules and they lurched to the yoke, the wagon creeping forward until they picked up their pace to a brisk walk. They knew that home was near.
Her father rode yards ahead of the wagon on Bayberry. She sat next to Will, who drove with what seemed the ease of long practice. Behind them the girls looked over the back of the wagon and commented on whatever it was they could see in their wake.
“So the Simons are safe.” She kept her voice soft when she spoke to Will to avoid attracting the attention of the girls.
“Yes.” A look of satisfaction lit the side of his face she could see.
“And was the journey hard?”
“It had moments of . . .” He searched for words. “Trial.”
“And Mr. Lawrence took the Simons?”
“I only saw his son and a friend. But they seemed to know what they were about.” Now his mouth curved into a faint smile, though he did not look at her.
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