by Deborah Heal
Joshua would have gladly taken them on, but her father and husband had made him swear an oath on the Bible that he would never leave Charlotte alone. They hadn’t thought to tell her not to take in runaway slaves and would be upset to know the risks she took. But knowing what Proverbs said, how could she look the other way? She had memorized the passage and recited it softly to herself:
If thou forbear to deliver them that are drawn unto death, and those that are ready to be slain; if thou sayest, Behold, we knew it not; doth not He that pondereth the heart consider it? and He that keepeth thy soul, doth not He know it? and shall not He render to every man according to his works?
When she and Joshua brought the evening meal, the attic was completely dark. But her guests didn’t complain. They knew it was too dangerous to have a lantern.
“It won’t be long now,” Charlotte said into the darkness. She wished she could see their faces one more time. “Solomon, do you still remember John 3:16 like I taught you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Say it for us then, please. One more time.”
“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlastin’ life.”
“And you and Little Frank will remember that verse means everyone, won’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they whispered together.
“And, Sally, do you remember where you’re to go? If you can?”
“Chicago. Mr. Moody’s there at the White Swan.”
“That’s right. He’ll help you.”
There was a noise outside, and Charlotte hurried to the stairs. “It’s surely Mr. Bartlett,” she told them, “but everyone keep quiet while I find out.”
When she got to the parlor, she saw that Joshua had cracked the front door and was looking out. He moved aside so she could see. A pony cart was coming down the lane.
“I don’t recognize him, do you?”
Joshua picked up the shotgun he had leaned against the wall. “Not the pony, the cart, nor the man driving it.”
But as he got closer, Charlotte realized the driver was whistling Amazing Grace, one of the code songs she and the other conductors in the area had decided upon.
“Indeed,” she said, “how sweet the sound.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, Joshua beside her, his gun cradled in his arms.
“Hello,” she called cautiously.
“You must be Miss Miles?” the man said.
“I’m Charlotte Miles McGuire.”
“I’m Joseph. Mr. Bartlett sent me.”
Charlotte let out a deep breath. “Then welcome, sir.”
The man got down from the cart and tied the pony’s reins to the hitching post. When he lifted his hat, the moonlight revealed that he was not a full-grown man after all, but a young lad about Joshua’s age.
“Mr. Bartlett said to tell you he was sorry he couldn’t come,” he said, wringing his hat. “I’m to take the passengers on.”
“You’re doing a brave thing, Joseph.”
“Mr. Bartlett said to tell you they’re usin’ his wagon for the harvest, but he found this old pony cart.”
“I don’t think all my passengers will fit.”
Lucinda came out onto the porch. “It’ll work, Lottie. The big man isn’t ready to travel yet anyway. Those feet of his…”
Joshua led Sally, Solomon, and Little Frank down from the attic and Charlotte hugged each one as they got in the pony cart. “Don’t forget what I told you.”
“We won’t never forget, ma’am,” Sally said.
Joshua secured the canvas over them, and then Joseph clucked, and the pony cart started down the lane. Charlotte stood on the porch between Joshua and Lucinda praying them on their way.
“Obviously, we have to get back into the attic,” Ryan said. “if we’re ever going to find Ned Greenfield.”
“Obviously, Ryan. That’s what I’m trying to do,” Merri said. She fast-forwarded a bit more and they watched as Charlotte went back up into the attic.
“Stop there, Merri,” Abby said. “This is where three new men arrived. Merri and I saw them and heard their stories earlier this summer. One man named Lucky,” she said, using air quotes, “struck his master with a hoe when he found him whipping his six-year-old daughter. She hadn’t washed his shirts to suit him. Lucky had to leave her behind and flee to save his own life.”
“Some of the stories they told weren’t as bad as that one,” Merri said. “The second man Wilson said he’d never been whipped his whole life. And the master’s wife taught him how to read and made her husband let him go.”
“It’s the third man I’m interested in,” Abby said. “He might be our Ned.”
“He’s large enough,” John said, studying the monitor. “But he doesn’t look much like him. Besides he’s not wearing a slave collar.
“They were trying to get it off him,” Abby said. “Maybe they finally did.”
“Write in the book that the Lord done delivered me from bondage in plain daylight, Ms. Charlotte. I walked out of Kentucky and no one told me no. Just like when the chains fell off Saint Peter and he walked out of jail. Write that in the book.”
“How did you manage that?” Charlotte asked.
“Well, see, when the gentlemens go about in they carriages, they always make a nigger run along behind so he can help him with the carriage steps. Brush the road dust off his coat and such like.”
Samuel and Lucky sat there calmly listening to the story as if this were an occurrence they were familiar with as well. Charlotte frowned but continued to write in her journal. “Go on.”
“So one day, I got it in my head to trot on down the road just like I’s followin’ Master Lewis’ carriage. I got a long way down the road before anyone thought to ask me my business. When the man say, ‘Where you goin,’ boy?’ I say, ‘Have you seen Master Lewis’ carriage go by?’ He say ‘no’ and I say ‘I gots to hurry on.’”
Charlotte chuckled. “That was quite clever of you.”
He hung his head. “But I done tole a lie, Miz Charlotte.”
She thought about it. Sin was sin, even if the slave owners’ sin far outweighed this man’s lie to survive. “The Lord will forgive you if you ask.”
“Oh, I did. I did.”
“So what happened after that?”
“Well, I just kept on a-goin’. I had to ask the Lord’s pardon four more times afore I got to the Ohio River and the ferryman rowed me over to Illinois.”
“How did it feel to know you were in a free state at last?”
“I fall down on my knees and thank the Lord right on that muddy bank just like it be the River Jordan. Then I go on a little ways. I slept in an old horse trough that night. I didn’t care. No ma’am. But the next mornin’…that be when things got troublesome.
“I start on down the road, and before long an old man, standing in his cabin door, tole me to stop. And then he started in throwing rocks at me. I seen from the look on his face that he weren’t much interested in my story, so I just lit out runnin’. He call out, and then other fellas come and chase me fierce.”
“What did you do next?” Wilson asked.
“Yeah, how you get away?” Lucky asked.
“Well, the Lord done hid me in the cleft of the rock. Write that in the book, Miz Charlotte. See, there be this holler with a crick runnin’ through it. I clumb down and hid under a big rock that stuck outta the bank. Them fellas kept on a-looking for me. And I kept on a-hiding under that rock.”
“It must have been terribly frightening,” Charlotte said.
“Well, Miz Charlotte, while I waited for them to go on, I had time to ponder things under that ole rock. I tole myself the Lord done led me that far, and he was sure to keep at it until he led me out of the wilderness into the Promised Land. And another thing come to me under that rock: Illinois sure ain’t no Promised Land. No offense, ma’am.”
“None taken,” Charlotte said, grinning.
>
“After they gone, I got back on that road. I heard it be called the Goshen Road, and I knew I be a-goin’ the right way. Then Mr. Jemmy found me and took me along—”
“Okay, okay,” Ryan said impatiently. “He’s obviously not Ned Greenfield. And we can’t sit here listening to every story she writes in her book.”
“Well, maybe we should,” John said. “They went through so much. Isn’t listening the least we can do?”
“So read about it in a book or something. On your dime.”
“The book!” Merri said. “We could look in the book.”
“What book?” John asked.
“Charlotte’s book,” Merri said. “She had the stories published.”
“I thought about it, Merri,” Abby said. “But there’s no index, and it takes forever to turn the pages.”
“Maybe for you,” Ryan said. “Where is it?”
“We don’t have an actual copy, Ryan. But I downloaded it from the State Archive website.”
“So do we wait for more slaves passing through?” Kate asked.
“He’s there already,” Merri said, taking the mouse. “We just need to fast forward a bit more to see him.”
“Are you talking about the man in the corner who never talks?” Abby said. “Because, kiddo, he’s too old to be Ned Greenfield.”
“I never got a clear look at him,” John said.
“I did,” Merri said, taking the mouse. “He’s wearing a slave collar. And I’m sure Charlotte called him Ned.”
“Then why did you just waste our time on all that other stuff?” Ryan asked angrily.
Merri continued fast forwarding, unfazed by his attitude. At last she paused the action. “Sorry I wasted five minutes of your life, Ryan. Anyway, here he is.”
Chapter 25
“Thank you for telling me your stories.”
“Thank you, ma’am, for writing the book,” Samuel said. Andrew and Lucky mumbled shy thank-yous as well and then settled onto their pallets to wait.
The silent man in the corner blended into the darkness, but Charlotte saw that he was watching her. “How about you?” she said. “Can you tell me your story? I’d love to include it in the book.”
Charlotte didn’t hear what he mumbled but got the answer to her question when he lay back down facing the wall. She put her things away and went to the stairway. “Then I’ll see you all later.”
After the woman left, he lay there thinking for a while about the stories the other men had told. On the other side of the room they already snored, resting easy with their pasts. He thought of his and tried to remember how to pray.
“Well, is that Ned Greenfield, or not?” Ryan asked, looking at his watch.
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “I couldn’t see him well enough.”
John let out a huge yawn and stood to stretch. “Maybe we should pause it here and wait until morning. I can hardly see the screen anymore.”
His yawn was contagious. When Kate finished hers she said, “Let’s watch him a little longer. See him in daylight.”
“Yes, why stop now?” Ryan said. “We’re finally making progress.”
Merri smothered a yawn. “Because it’s two-thirty in the morning?”
“Okay,” John said. “A little longer. But don’t go too fast, Merri. He surely didn’t stay in Charlotte’s attic too long. If we miss his departure, it will just take more time to go back and find the right spot.”
“Well, then stop talking so she can do it,” Ryan said.
Stifling another yawn, Merri began fast-forwarding again.
“Stop,” John said. “Go back. Just a little.”
“You’re right. He’s on the move,” Kate said.
“Finally,” Ryan muttered.
The huge man had gone to the trunk where Charlotte kept her writing things. He took out the journal and walked soundlessly past the sleeping men to the stairs.
“See, Ryno, this is why we have to wade through all this. He’s leaving and we would have missed it if we hadn’t been watching so closely.”
“Okay,” Abby said. “I’m going to lock onto him and go virtual again. Everyone ready?”
“Keep your fingers crossed that it’s Ned,” Kate said.
“And that he’s on his way to Chicago,” Abby said.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he tapped on the door and whispered, “Miz McGuire?” He tapped again, a little louder. Then someone grabbed him from behind and he fell onto the steps with a loud grunt, taking his attacker with him.
“We got him, Miz McGuire. Don’t worry.”
Pulling on her dressing gown, Charlotte unlatched the door and opened it. In the scant moonlight from her window, the tangle of arms and legs on the steps looked like a nest of corn snakes.
“Samuel? Is that you?”
“Yes, Miz McGuire.
“And Lucky,” another voice mumbled.
“And me, Andrew. Don’t be afraid. We got him.”
“What on earth? Let him up this instant.” Charlotte went to her bedside table and lit the lantern there. Her four guests sorted themselves out and stood at the attic doorway looking anywhere but at her.
“He was stealing your book, ma’am,” Samuel whispered angrily.
“I seen him get it out of your trunk, Miz McGuire,” Andrew said.
Lucky glared at the man, who remained silent, his head hanging low. “Weren’t right for him to steal the stories. Here, Miz McGuire,” he said, handing her the journal with a sideways glance.
Charlotte craned her neck to look up into the face of the man who towered over her. As always, his eyes never met hers, but seemed focused on something just over her left shoulder.
“I weren’t stealing it, ma’am,” he said at last. “I be bringing it to you so’s you could…”
“You want me to write your story after all,” Charlotte said. “That’s good. In the morning—”
“I’ll be gone in the morning, Miz McGuire. I can’t stay in that attic no more.”
“But your feet.”
He didn’t answer, but his face said he was determined to leave.
“All right,” she said turning toward her bedroom. “Let me get a pen.”
“I brung it,” he said, taking her pen and ink bottle from his pants pocket.
She took them from him and turned to the others. “The rest of you go on back upstairs and get some sleep.”
“You sure?” Samuel said. “We can stay right here in case he gives you any trouble.”
“I’ll be fine, Samuel. Go on.”
After several dubious backward glances they clomped back up the stairs. Charlotte prayed Joshua wouldn’t hear them and come running. His presence would probably send the man running before he told his story.
Charlotte led him to the kitchen and set the journal on the table. She indicated for him to sit there. But he ignored that and went to the back door. Opening it part way, he stuck his head out and looked into the night. Satisfied no one was out there, he stepped out onto the porch and sat on the step. It was a clear night and moonlight silvered his head and broad shoulders. He turned his gaze to the sky and breathed in great gulps of the brisk air as if he were savoring his release from the attic.
“You should wait for Mr. Bartlett, you know. He’ll have something to get that collar off.”
He didn’t comment.
“You remember what I told the others. If you get to Chicago, look for Mr. Moody. At the White Swan.”
He mumbled something that led her to believe he understood.
Charlotte wrapped her dressing gown closer against the cold draft coming in the open door and busied herself finding food to send with him. There was a chunk of cheese and half a loaf of bread, which she wrapped in brown paper and set on the table. She went and sat down and opened her journal.
“Will you come in now and tell me your story?”
He didn’t answer, just sat looking out into the blackness of her back yard. After a long moment, he said in a
low and rusty voice, “My name is Ned Greenfield.”
Kate squealed. “It’s him!”
Merri smiled smugly. “I told you so.”
“He sure looks older,” John said.
“Oh, I’m so glad he escaped,” Kate said.
“At least he made it this far,” Abby said. “The question is, Kate, did he make it to Chicago and tie in with your relatives?”
“Let’s get this over with and go to bed. I’m tired.”
“You don’t have to watch, Ryno,” John said.
Ryan sighed deeply. “Just run the program.”
Charlotte dipped the pen in the ink and wrote his name on a fresh page in the journal. “Good. Go on, please.”
“I was born in Equality, Illinois. At Hickory Hill. My mama and pap was owned by John Granger, and so he owned me too.”
“In Illinois?” Charlotte looked up. “But, that’s not possible. Slavery’s illegal in Illinois. The state Constitution clearly says so.”
“That piece of paper don’t mean much down in Equality, ma’am. Least ways, not at Half Moon.”
“What’s Half Moon?”
“That the salt mine, ma’am. Master Granger owns it.”
Charlotte huffed. “I wonder if my father and husband know about this. Go on, Mr. Greenfield. Tell me.”
He seemed taken aback by her use of his rightful title. After a pause, he said, “My pap was a blacksmith—a good one he was too—for Master Granger. Mama was his cook. I don’t mean for Half Moon. I mean she his cook at Hickory Hill. Master Granger—”
“You don’t have to call him master, Ned. Never again.”
He took in another deep breath. “No, ma’am. I don’t. Anyway, Granger told my mama he goin’ to free her alongside my pap when his indenture up in 1850. They was real happy about that.”
“What are their names?”
“My mama was Mariah. My pap was Charles. They didn’t have no last name. When I was born my mama gave me the name of Greenfield on account of Granger promised her that her children wouldn’t never have to work at Half Moon like the other slaves. Didn’t neither. Worked in his fields.”
