Now he was gone. She would never love again. It hurt too much to love.
When and how the thought first entered her mind, Seffie could not have said. Perhaps it was that she felt no attachment to any person or place that she could truly call home. But along with the determination not to marry, Seffie began to hunger for freedom. She didn’t know how slaves got to be free. But she knew some did. She knew blacks in the North weren’t slaves. So why shouldn’t she be free too?
If she had to, Seffie could speak her mind. But she didn’t very often. She knew that most of the other slaves about the place, and all the whites, thought she wasn’t quite all there. But as long as she was in the kitchen doing what she liked to do, she didn’t much mind what people thought. As she got older she came to realize that it was a blessing in its own way to be taken for granted. She heard things she knew weren’t meant for her ears, because people paid no attention to her and didn’t stop talking when she was around.
That’s how she first heard about the strange railroad.
At first she didn’t know what they were talking about because there was no railroad anywhere around there. Gradually she realized they were talking about another kind of railroad, an invisible railroad, a railroad for people—colored people.
It was a railroad that took slaves to freedom!
She didn’t know how it did it, but she knew that’s what they were talking about. She overheard two of the men talking in quiet tones when she’d been sent by Mammy to dig some turnips from Mabel’s garden. They were whispering and talking together about hitching a ride on the railroad.
“. . . risky bizness . . . whites out lookin’ fo you . . .”
“. . . safe hidin’ places . . .”
“. . . effen a body kin fin’ ’em . . . dem conducters ain’t always dere . . .”
“. . . chance you gotter take . . . freedom ain’t cheap . . .”
Two weeks later, Rufus was gone. Everybody said he’d just disappeared. But among a few of the slaves there was a rumor that he’d bought himself a ticket on “dat ol’ freedom railroad” and was on his way north.
Seffie didn’t know how much the tickets cost. But she made up her mind to keep her ears open!
FLIGHT
10
PATIENCE IS NOT ONLY A CHRISTIAN VIRTUE, IT IS also an important part of courage. Being brave sometimes means waiting for the right time to act.
Eighteen-year-old cook and house slave Seffie Black would never have considered herself brave. She thought herself the worst coward that ever lived. Not a day, not a night, went by that she was not haunted by her inaction the night of the fire. She lived with the constant torment that Mose might still be alive had she run for help, or done something to try to save him.
But she had been terrified of fire since that night so long ago that had gotten her and Mose sold away from their families, never to see them again. The very sight of flames paralyzed her with images too terrible to think on.
So she had done nothing when he had run into the burning building after the horses, and would forever have to live with the memory.
Yet now as the thought of freedom stirred her heart, a new and strange kind of bravery awoke within her. She did not know it was bravery. But the seed, once planted, took root and grew. And she began to think what she would do when that railroad came again. Until then, she would wait.
In some strange and deep way, the thought of escaping to freedom became her dream to atone for her cowardice. In the only tests life had thrown at her, she had failed. Now maybe she could succeed in something important. It was something she had to do . . . for Mose. He had been a friend to her. She would one day be free as a way to honor that friendship, and his memory. She could never make up for what she had done or not done, but maybe some good might come out of it yet. The memory of Mose would give her strength to be brave.
In truth, Seffie had it better than many slaves because of her gift, her ability to make food taste good. The master and his wife treated her with respect. As Mammy began to slow down, more and more of the management of the kitchen fell to Seffie, though she was not yet even twenty. There was no more talk of marriage. The master knew he was lucky to have such a young woman as cook, and had no idea that he would not have her for much longer.
Seffie bided her time, listened, and waited. Patience and bravery grew side by side within her. Still she said little. A year went by, then two, then three. No one knew what Seffie was thinking or what opportunity she was patiently waiting for. She went about her duties, and, as much as a slave could be said to enjoy what she did, Seffie found satisfaction in making people happy by cooking delicious food for them to enjoy.
Occasionally strangers came and were hidden in the slave quarters, and then in a day or two were gone again. They had no idea how closely Seffie was paying attention. But she missed nothing. She knew that such nighttime appearances by slaves on the run had to do with the railroad, and that all the strangers who appeared were moving in the same direction—north.
Another four or five years went by before her own chance arrived. By then she was a young woman in her midtwenties, large but strong, keen-eyed, intelligent, and more determined than ever to make good on her promise to herself and the memory of Mose.
Then came a night when there was a stirring in the slave village. Her years of patience were at last rewarded. She got wind of the news by overhearing whispers in the dark from across the room. Two sisters who also worked in the kitchen shared her sleeping quarters in the big house. One was the wife of a field worker. She had been out late with her husband, and now crept into bed in the darkness beside her sister. Both women assumed Seffie to be asleep.
“. . . two men, a mother, an’ a chil’ dis time . . .” the one whispered.
“Laws almighty, where dey put ’em?”
“In da cabins . . . overseer, he ain’t been down dere in days.”
“. . . how long?”
“Dey got here yesterday . . . wuz plumb starvin’, dey wuz. Dey’s okay ter move on now.”
“Where dey boun’?”
“Don’ know . . . Alabama, Carolinas maybe . . . jes’ norf, dat’s all I know.”
“. . . gone already?”
“. . . waitin’ till da dark er da moon, till massa’s ol’ houn’ dogs is asleep. Den Uncle Fred’ll take ’em ober da hill where dey’ll meet somebody called a conducter, whatever dat is, who’ll take ’em ter da nex’ station.”
“Soun’s fearsome ter me.”
“Hit don’ go too good fo runaways dat git derselfs caught, dat’s a fac’.”
Wide awake on her pad on the floor, Seffie strained to hear every word. Ten minutes later, when snoring from the bed told her that the two sisters were sound asleep, she rose quietly from the floor, hastily grabbed the few things she thought she would need, the few extra clothes she could carry. Then noiselessly she slipped from the room, passing through the kitchen for a few necessary foodstuffs, and then out of the house into the damp air. The night was black and cold. As predicted, the hounds were asleep, but one could never trust that, for a hound’s nose never slept.
She glanced about to make sure of her bearings, then crept across the lawn and made for the slave village. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she would wait near Uncle Fred’s little shanty to see what might happen.
She sat down on the cold ground—patience and bravery now both rewarding themselves—and waited.
She had just begun to doze an hour and a half later when she heard movement. On the quietest of feet, Uncle Fred emerged into the night. Two men and a woman carrying a child followed. Not a single word was spoken. They made not a sound. A hound dog could have been asleep at their feet and remained still unless their scent betrayed them.
Seffie watched from her vantage point behind a tree twenty feet away. Within seconds they had disappeared behind the cabin and were making their way with careful steps toward the woods opposite the cotton field.
She rose . .
. and followed.
She kept far enough back that, in the moonless sky, even with the few backward glances Uncle Fred and his small troop took, they were unaware they were being pursued by the most unlikely of fugitives. They reached the woods, crossed through it with Uncle Fred leading the way in near total blackness, and came to a fork in the road. He took it to the right where it led steeply upward for a mile or two east, then down for another mile, until they came to a wooden platform at the river’s edge.
Uncle Fred gathered his small band together, pulled out flints, and lit his lantern.
“Here’s where I leab you,” he said. “You’ll meet yo conducter yonder on da udder side. Hit’s mighty wide across dere. But dat cable’ll git you ’cross effen you jes’ keep haulin’.—Now, stan’ away . . . I’s gwine gib a signal ’cross dere. We don’t want no bounty hunters waitin’ fo you ober yonder.”
He held up his lantern, then hid the light with his coat, and repeated the signal three times. Far across the way, a tiny light could be seen, then disappeared, then reappeared four times in succession.
“Dat’s him, all right,” said Uncle Fred. “Dat’s yo conducter. He’ll take you ter da nex’ station, where you’s be safe fo a coupla days. So git on dat dere skiff an’ start pullin’ yo’selves across. You ain’t free yet, but you’s one step closer, I reckon.”
The two men and the woman with the child followed the light of Uncle Fred’s lantern toward the rickety makeshift barge. It did not look or feel safe, but this railroad was built on trust, and at this stage of their journey they did not ask questions.
Suddenly a fifth passenger stepped out of the night and stepped aboard, tilting the barge precariously downward on one end for a moment or two.
“Seffie!” exclaimed Uncle Fred. “What’n tarnashun!”
“I follered you, Uncle Fred,” said Seffie. “I’m goin’ too.”
“You can’t go. I sent word ahead fo three passengers an’ a chil’.”
“Dey ain’t gwine mind one more.”
“You’s mo like two mo, Seffie!”
“Dat may be. But I’s goin’, or else I’s blabbin’, an’ none er you wants dat.”
“It’s too far. You cud neber keep up.”
“Effen I don’t keep up, den dey kin leab me behind. But I ain’t goin’ back. An’ I reckon I kin keep up wiff dis chil’. An’ I’m thinkin’, missy,” she added to the other young woman, “dat maybe I could be some help ter you wiff da young’un.”
The nod and smile on the young mother’s face said that she was only too glad to have another woman along.
“Laws almighty, Seffie,” persisted Uncle Fred. “What’s I gwine say?”
“You ain’t gwine say nuthin’, dat’s what, ’cause as I understan’ dis here railroad, no one knows nuthin’ ’bout it anyway. So you jes’ git back ter da plantashun an’ me an’ dese folks’ll be jes’ fine.”
Still muttering to himself in disbelief, Uncle Fred released the latch on the barge as the two men began to pull on the cable. The two women and child sat down in the middle as the barge began to ease out from the shore across the slow black current.
Within minutes Uncle Fred was on his way back to his bed with more secrets than he had expected to have to keep, while five runaway black slaves drifted in the night across the Pearl River into Mississippi.
“My name’s Seffie,” said Seffie when they were settled and on their way. “Dat ain’t my whole name but dat what folk’s been callin’ me longer’n I kin remember. I ain’t got much wiff me ’cause I couldn’t carry but what my pockets would hold. But I got me a half dozen apples, some white biscuits, some dried oat crackers, a few hunks er cheese, an’ a slab er smoked bacon, dat is ef anyone er y’all’s hungry.”
FUGITIVES
11
BY THE TIME THEY REACHED THE OTHER SIDE OF the river, the five runaways—or four, for the five-year-old girl mostly slept in her mother’s arms wrapped in a small quilt—might have been friends for years. Nothing can win a man’s good graces faster than food, and cold though they were, Seffie’s provisions hit the spot.
The mother and one of the men were brother and sister. The other man had joined them alone several days into their journey. All were from New Orleans. The two siblings had another sister in Georgia who had connections to someone in South Carolina, they said, who had connections to anywhere a runaway slave might want to go. If they could make it to that station, they would be halfway to the North!
But however high their hopes, the life of a runaway was a treacherous one, filled with risks and danger on every side, sometimes betrayal, and constant fear of nigger dogs who could smell for miles and were known to have jaws strong enough to tear a man’s leg right off. At least so the stories said. Slaves had been told such tales all their lives to keep them from running away. For those who ran anyway, the days and nights were therefore filled with more imagined terrors than were really there. Yet if they were caught, they might wind up dead or whipped until they wished to be dead, so the fear was real enough.
They all knew they were hunted, would not be difficult to spot, and with two women and a child would not be able to move as quickly as the two men might have liked.
Seffie’s strange absence at the plantation was initially a mere curiosity. Nobody suspected the truth about their soft-spoken cook, nor would have guessed that she had been planning her escape for years.
Mr. Meisner was at first merely perturbed. By the second day, when his eggs were runny, his bacon limp, and his coffee bitter, he began to get worried, thinking that something had happened to her. By the third day, certain rumors of runaway activity in and around the area filtered vaguely into his mind, and he began to harbor suspicions. And on the fourth he issued a warrant for the arrest of one Seffie Black—even he did not know her real name, for he had not bought her until she was seven: —house slave, midtwenties, fat, soft-spoken. He listed a two-hundred-dollar reward for her return, alive. It was a large bounty to offer for a single woman. He thought it best not to mention the fact that she was the best cook ever to serve himself or his family. Kitchen slaves of her caliber were very difficult to find. To broadcast the fact would insure that he never saw her again. The huge reward, however, to a perceptive bounty hunter, would tell the same story, and that in all likelihood she was worth even more.
Seffie never knew any of this. By the time she was officially listed as a runaway with a price on her head that in her mind would have been a fortune, she was three counties away.
She and her companions, led by their nightly conductors, crossed Stone County, then George County, and were soon moving steadily across Alabama on that mysterious mode of transit known to slaves seeking freedom as the Underground Railroad.
Two major river crossings stood ahead of them—the Tombigbee and the Alabama. After that their way would be mostly clear to Georgia.
Their path ahead into the unknown was marked with uncertainty and fear. Every day brought a new floor or stable or bed of straw or open field or woodsy hollow to sleep in. They usually didn’t know the names of the dozens of people who led them from station to station. Mostly their guides were black, but a surprising number were white. They even slept in a few white houses along the way. Slavery was an institution with more enemies than the plantation owners of the South wanted black folks to know about.
Before many weeks were out, the five were all thinner and had blistered feet. Others joined them along the way, then left, the band of fugitives constantly changing. Seffie and the men helped the young mother carry her little girl when her small legs would no longer support her from exhaustion.
By day they slept, by night they walked . . . on and on in an endless and confused blur of fields and barns and lofts and cellars and streams and rivers, avoiding towns, listening for dogs barking in the distance, trusting strangers to keep them from danger. Cold and hunger and fatigue were with them all the way.
Many times Seffie wondered if she had made a mistake with her rash f
light. But she could not have found her way back even if she’d wanted to. She had no choice but to continue on, though she had no idea where she was bound or what her future might hold. Yet occasionally she began to feel a tingle of satisfaction, even excitement. No matter what happened, she knew deep inside that she had done something, she had not just stayed in the same place for the rest of her life.
A great storm held them up between the two rivers. Waiting for the Alabama River to recede enough after the rains to make it safe to cross, they had to spend a month in the barn of a free black farmer. When time came for the crossing, the one man had left them to strike out straight north on his own, but they had been joined by three others—a father and his teenage son, and a woman in her thirties whose story, judging from her countenance, must have been a tragic one, though she never spoke a word about it.
They got across the Alabama safely in the farmer’s boat—though it took two crossings to transport them all—and continued on. He led them himself for two hours more, then met another man several hours before daybreak who took them on while their host for a month returned to his farm.
An uneventful week went by.
They had lain dozing on and off most of the day under a bridge on the slope of the bank of the small river it crossed. Several wagons and riders on horseback had crossed above them throughout the day, but none had stopped. Any dog would have detected their presence in an instant. But they were by all appearances in the middle of nowhere and miles from any house or plantation.
“Dat’s a mighty fine quilt you got fo yo young’un,” said Seffie to her companion. “I been admirin’ it da whole time an’ I can’t figger out what dat pattern is.”
“Hab a closer look,” said the young woman, taking the blanket from around her daughter’s shoulders and handing it to Seffie. “Look at it real close an’ see effen you don’t see somethin’.”
Seffie took it and held it up and looked it up and down, then shook her head.
Never Too Late Page 5
