Love Finds You in Liberty, Indiana

by Melanie Dobson

  Disapproval weighed down his voice. “But how do you know where she went?”

  “She often goes to town for supplies.”

  “But what if she—”

  She handed him the mug of coffee. “I’m not worried about her running away.”

  Noah didn’t ask for cream or sugar, and she didn’t offer. Without Charlotte to entertain him, he was ready to move on with his search. He gulped down the black coffee, and the cup clinked when he set it on the table.

  “You’ve been a gracious hostess, Miss Anna.”

  She bowed her head like a shy schoolgirl, and then he hustled up the kitchen steps and out of the house.

  Seconds later, she walked upstairs to the parlor and watched him from the window seat. He shouted something to the other men, and they all mounted their horses. Dust clouded her front yard as they rode away, the bloodhounds barking behind them.

  Anna collapsed on the seat and clutched her hands to her chest. She hadn’t even realized that her heart was hammering against her ribs. The strength that had energized her when Noah stepped into her house vanished when he shut the door. Power drained out of her, and she couldn’t move.

  Maybe she should have kept him here longer, all day even, to give Marie and the others extra time to travel north. If only she knew where Marie was, she could send a message and tell her that Noah was coming.

  She tried to stand up, but her legs wobbled under her and she fell back onto the window seat. She would sit here all afternoon if she needed to. Sit and pray for Marie and the others.

  “Charlotte!” she called out. Her friend wouldn’t have left the house. It was too risky, having a man like Noah find her alone, outside these walls. “He’s gone.”

  The door to the front closet opened, and Charlotte stepped out. She ran her fingers over the loose knot on the back of her head and straightened her skirt. Anna didn’t say anything about her choice to hide. Noah Owens probably reminded Charlotte of her own master from North Carolina. Anna would have hid as well.

  “Poor Marie,” Charlotte whispered. “He’ll kill her if he finds her.”

  “Noah’s wife might kill her, but he wants her for himself.”

  “Lust and anger stem from the same place.” Charlotte glanced at the door as if fearing Noah might march back inside and steal her away. “Marie has humiliated him, and a man like him would rather kill than forgive.”

  “But he’s offered money for her—”

  “He doesn’t need the money.” She twisted her hands in her lap, and Anna listened in sadness, wondering how many of Charlotte’s words were from personal experience. “He’s paying money so he can punish her and make an example of her for the others in his house.”

  It was stunning, really. Ironic. A powerful plantation owner, a master of many slaves, being ruled by his own anger. Noah Owens had left his family and his profitable work to hunt down one young runaway girl even though it could take weeks or even months to find her. Without knowing it, Noah had lost control of himself. And he’d given it to his slave.

  “How did he find out she was here?” Charlotte asked quietly.

  “That first night she came, Marie knocked on another door first. A family down the creek.”

  Charlotte sat on the cane seat across from her, her eyes focused above Anna’s head. “But someone had to have tipped him off about our house,” she said. “He wouldn’t have wasted time in searching so thoroughly unless he believed she might be here.”

  “But who would have told him?”

  They both sat in silence, listening to the clock chime. She thought about the man’s face, polite but intense. He would use honey to catch his prey until he met resistance. Then, she was certain, the men who accompanied him would force cooperation.

  Perhaps Roger or another one of the fugitives in that party had gotten caught and tried to bargain their freedom by talking. Yet in the five years that the Brents had had a house on the railroad, she didn’t know of a single fugitive who had exposed their location. Ben was a meticulous agent. He directed only runaway slaves to their home, not colored men or women who purported to be slaves but were paid to expose stations on the route.

  Her father and Charlotte both trusted Ben. Even though she had never met him, she trusted him as well.

  Someone besides Will Denton could have suspected her wagon delivery, but even so, how could they have known she carried the girl and her child?

  Then she remembered the cries. Peter had been crying when Matthew was here, but she had shrugged it off, saying it was a wolf. Could he have suspected the child was Marie’s? And even if he did suspect it, why would he report the incident to someone like Noah?

  The Nelsons might not condemn the legality of slavery, but surely they wouldn’t report an escaped slave. Perhaps one of the men had talked about it at the pub or in a shop and someone else had guessed at the origin of the cries.

  No matter who talked, or if anyone actually did send Noah their way, his search had come up dry. He hadn’t found the room or any evidence of fugitives hiding in their home. Any rumor had been stopped.

  At that moment, a new energy seemed to balloon within her. They had triumphed over their opposition. They had won! They’d beaten Noah and his little posse.

  As she reveled in their victory, she realized suddenly that this new energy wasn’t strength at all. It was pride. Pride led to carelessness, and ultimately it could lead to a fall.

  Noah Owens was a proud man, and pride had overtaken his life until he had become obsessed with finding the one person who threatened it. He’d become blinded to the goodness in his life, seeking instead to pursue the darkness in his heart.

  By God’s grace, she would battle against a proud heart. It was only by His grace that Noah hadn’t exposed their station. Only by His grace that Anna and her father hadn’t yet been carted off to jail.

  There was too much at risk, too many people whose secrets she needed to guard, for her to let the pride of a victory overtake her life.

  Charlotte interrupted her thoughts, her voice urgent. “We need to pray for Marie.”

  “Yes, we do.” Anna’s thoughts moved from the condition of her heart to the fear she had seen in Marie’s eyes when she sat in the rocking chair, clutching her baby to her bosom like someone might pry him away from her.

  “And we need to pray for her baby.”

  Charlotte’s head was in her hands. “Of course.”

  She didn’t just want to pray for Peter’s protection. They needed to pray that God would fill his heart with love instead of lust. Compassion instead of anger.

  They needed to pray that Peter didn’t turn out like his father.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The wild duck tasted even better than the duck their mother had made for Christmas dinner. It was perfectly crisp on the outside, and when Daniel slid his knife into the meat, it cut like butter.

  It wasn’t a holiday, though. Wasn’t even December. It was Seventh Day morning, mid-September, and once again Esther and Greta had outdone themselves with this meal.

  Daniel ate a bite of stuffing seasoned with pepper, sage, and onions. He often found himself complaining about his sister’s obsession with being the perfect housewife, but he wouldn’t complain about her skills today. Toast and coffee were usually all he had for breakfast. Never duck and stuffing, though he’d heard that some of the farmer’s wives in the county created entire meals for breakfast. He didn’t need wild game and potatoes every morning to operate a printing press, but he could sure enjoy it when he had it.

  Joseph had left for a house call long before Daniel arrived. Esther and Greta were already preparing for a dinner party in the next room. He would appreciate the duck and stuffing and the biscuits smothered with currant jelly in solitude.

  He unfolded a copy of the national anti-slavery paper called the Independent Weekly, marveling at the perfectness of the morning. He was alone with this wonderful meal and his favorite newspaper.

  Sunshine streamed through t
he window, and there wasn’t one person in sight who was trying to contradict him. Not that he didn’t thrive on a good debate—he liked to argue a point if it meant that someone might be swayed toward the truth—but sometimes he needed to escape to a quiet place. Just to think for a bit. Even if Esther and Joseph didn’t support his work or his views, their home was the perfect place for him to rest.

  He glanced at the corner of the room and saw the waiting cradle. Once the baby girl, or boy, was born he imagined the house would become louder. More chaotic. Though with his sister at the helm, she would require order from even the smallest parties.

  The house would still be a haven for him, though he planned to spend more time playing with his niece or nephew than reading his paper. And though he would never admit it, he was actually looking forward to becoming an uncle. With his parents living down in Cincinnati, he was thankful to be close to Esther even when they disagreed.

  He never planned to marry, himself. It was a rare woman who would sacrifice everything to stand up and support an outspoken abolitionist. He’d yet to meet one who wasn’t already married, and even if he did, he didn’t want to spend his time entertaining the whims of a wife.

  No, it was much better for him to be single, like Paul had said to the Corinthians. Children weren’t in his future, but he would enjoy his time with the many nieces and nephews that his sister would surely produce.

  He took another bite of the moist meat. At the top left of the newspaper was “Liberty Line,” a monthly column from his favorite writer. Adam Frye was a poetic writer, weaving together stories about fugitives who traveled the Underground Railroad. They were personal experiences, heartfelt yet not so coated with drivel that they lost the meaning. The men and women he featured were real people trying to escape the cruelty of their master’s hand and the loss of their family.

  Although he’d interviewed many people at the Anti-Slavery Meeting, Daniel still didn’t know anyone who ran a station. He’d heard rumors about secret meetings, but he’d never been invited to one. He’d also heard rumors about the secret railway passing through their town.

  As outspoken as he was, he figured that no one would ever give him the specifics about these stations, and that was fine with him. They could do their job of subversion. His job was to be as bold as possible, directing people toward the truth through the written and spoken word.

  And he would live vicariously through people like Adam Frye.

  He put down his fork and savored the “Liberty Line.”

  In the book of Philippians, Paul said he had learned to be content in every circumstance, but many slave owners use this passage to justify the enslavement of people and then demand that their property be content in chains.

  Does Paul’s teaching apply to slavery? I believe each of us, myself included, are called upon to listen and decipher God’s scripture with the guidance of the Spirit.

  As I wrestle in my own heart with this area of contentment, I am convinced that, yes, God wants even those who are living in slavery to be content, but this does not mean that the runaway slaves who pass through my home are not supposed to seek freedom. Just because we are content with a broken arm or leg, does this mean we shouldn’t seek a physician to mend this limb? Or if we are content with a leaking roof or a smoking stove, does this mean we should not have these repaired? Of course not.

  Should the young mother whose child is about to be sold away from her not seek freedom for her son? Should the son, years later in life, not protect his elderly mother from the beatings of her master?

  I believe that God does want us to be content in every area of our lives, but we are responsible for fixing those things that are broken. Some people refer to slavery as a “peculiar institution,” but I believe it is a “broken institution” that must be fixed.

  How can we listen to the cries of these slaves without acting? How can we ignore their pleas? The only way for each of us to find contentment is to set those prisoners free.

  The last lines resonated with him. Men like Adam Frye didn’t just report the stories. They were part poet and part preacher, taking their stories beyond the hard facts and inspiring their readers. Adam painted faces on the people who were running toward freedom and made you laugh and cry with them. Then he made you want to stand up and cheer when the runaway slaves finally stepped onto Canada’s fine soil, fugitives no more.

  That’s why people like Adam Frye wrote for a national anti-slavery newspaper while Daniel wrote, edited, and printed a county one.

  He wasn’t a good writer, he knew that, but he was trying to master the basics of reporting so he could at least communicate clearly and accurately even if his words didn’t tug on his readers’ emotions. He would never have as much talent as the writers at the Independent, but he was passionate. As long as Isaac wanted to print the paper—and as long as Isaac wanted to employ him—Daniel would keep writing.

  Esther hobbled into the dining room, one hand on her belly and the other carrying a basket that billowed with steam. He jumped up from his chair and took the biscuits from her mere seconds before she seemed to melt into the seat across from him.

  Her hair and skin looked greasy. Her face was red, plastered in sweat from the hot fire. Here he was sitting leisurely at the table, reading a newspaper, while Esther had already baked biscuits and stuffing this morning. And roasted a duck.

  “You need to get out of that kitchen.” He fanned her face with the newspaper, and she closed her eyes. “Go rest upstairs.”

  “I’ll go crazy upstairs.”

  “Don’t you have one of those women’s magazines to read?”

  “I’ve read every one of them at least three times each.”

  He handed her the Independent Weekly. “You can borrow this if you’d like.”

  She saw the masthead and waved it away. “I don’t need to read anything depressing. It’s not good for the baby.”

  “It’s not depressing.”

  Greta stepped around the corner. “You okay, Mrs. Cooley?”

  “I’m fine, fine.” She waved her hand again. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Daniel looked at Greta’s face, and she seemed concerned about Esther, as well.

  “I’ll wash the pans,” Greta said. “You just sit here with your brother and rest awhile.”

  Esther pushed herself up in the seat. “But I want to start the ice custard.”

  “Now, we don’t need to start that for two more hours, and I’ve got kind of an affinity for ice custard anyway. I’d like to make it all by myself.”

  Daniel handed Esther his handkerchief, and she wiped her forehead. “I suppose you can start it if you’d really like.”

  Daniel stood up. “Can I fetch the ice blocks for you?”

  “They delivered them an hour ago.” Greta shooed him back into his seat as she stepped toward the kitchen. “You just set and talk with your sister.”

  Daniel reached for a biscuit and smothered the hot bread with jelly. When he handed it to Esther, he prepared himself for a fight, but she didn’t refuse the food or the glass of water he poured for her. “You’re working yourself too hard.”

  “I try to rest.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, but she persisted. “Really, I do try, Daniel. It’s just that I keep thinking of all these things I need to do before Lilith is born.”

  “Lilith?”

  “After our great-grandmother.”

  He wanted to tell her that she didn’t know it was a girl, but he also didn’t want to argue with her this morning, especially about her child. If Esther had decided it was a girl then he’d say it was a girl as well. Lilith was as fine a name as any unless the baby surprised them by being a boy.

  “You do what you need to for your child, but don’t make breakfast for me anymore.”

  His sister grinned. “But I like to take care of you.”

  Esther was four years younger than him, but she had doted on him almost from the time she could walk, making him and her friends te
acakes and lemonade and cookies. Once, when she was five, she threw a grand party with sugar water and stale bread because she wanted so badly to entertain.

  “I can eat breakfast at the boardinghouse and then come visit on Seventh Day.”

  She grimaced like he’d said he was eating at the poorhouse. “The food there isn’t fit for consumption.”

  “No one can compete with your duck and stuffing, but I can survive on toast in the morning.”

  “Burnt toast.” She leaned forward and tweaked the edge of his paper. “Why can’t you come here and relax on Saturdays?”

  He didn’t even crack a smile. “I’ll try to follow your example.”

  “Very funny.” She took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “I saw Mrs. Gunther at the millinery yesterday.”

  “I hope she acquired the perfect hat.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “She said she saw you helping a Negro woman a few days ago.”

  Daniel lifted the paper from the table and folded it. He didn’t want to have this conversation. “It would have been nice for the Gunthers to stop and help, too.”

  “She said the woman was being apprehended by the law.”

  “It wasn’t the law stopping her. It was a slave hunter.”

  Esther sighed, and he knew how much she hated talking about anything that tainted the pearly whiteness of her mind and her home. Slavery was a messy issue, blood and grime everywhere. She could tolerate blood, but she didn’t like the grime.

  “You’ve got to leave these people alone,” she begged. “You’re going to get yourself into trouble, Daniel, and no one will be able to bail you out this time.”

  He was going to get himself into trouble? Women like Greta were in trouble for simply walking down a public street, in daylight, and Esther wanted him to ignore it. If he hadn’t helped Greta, the hunter probably would have taken her and sold her even though she wasn’t Marie. Her life would have been on his head.

  Daniel stood up and pushed his chair under the table. “Do you know who was being accosted on Main Street?”