by B. J. Hoff
“Did what?” he said easily, continuing to dry his face and hair.
“You—made them think you’re in worse condition than you are.”
“Well, now, it seems to me I’m not in such great shape as all that.”
“No, of course not,” Rachel stammered. “I didn’t mean to imply
that you are. But you made yourself out to be…at death’s door!”
“Did it work?”
“Did it—what do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. It seemed to me it might go a bit easier for you if they thought I was next to useless.”
“Yes, it probably did help. All the same, you shouldn’t have done it. It was the same as lying.”
He lowered his arm. “I didn’t open my mouth, Rachel, so that’s hardly lying. Now tell me the truth—was what I did such a terrible sin in your eyes?”
“Only God’s eyes matter, Mr. Gant, not mine.”
“Gant.”
“What?”
“Stop calling me Mister. It’s Gant. Or even Jeremiah, if you must. But drop the Mister.”
She stared at him. This man confused her, made her mind uncertain of itself. “Ja, vell. I suppose you meant to help me, and so you did.”
He regarded her with a curious look. “How do you put up with all this, Rachel? Why do you put up with it?”
“Put up with what?” she asked, genuinely confused.
He gestured toward the door. “You might have been speaking in German or whatever your language is, but I know the tone of a scolding when I hear it. You’re a grown woman. Why would you allow yourself to be talked to that way?”
She frowned. “The bishop wasn’t scolding me.”
He lifted his eyebrows in a skeptical look.
“Well, maybe Samuel was, in his way. Samuel is just…Samuel. You’d have to know him. But the bishop is simply protecting me. That’s a part of his responsibility as bishop. I’m a widow, and he wants to make certain I’m safe, physically and spiritually.” She paused. “A woman alone can be…vulnerable.”
He was studying her intently. “I have a hard time imagining a woman as strong as yourself being vulnerable, Rachel Brenneman.”
The look in his eyes startled her. She wanted to look away, but this time there was something more than the usual bold glint of amusement in his look, something that seemed to hint of approval and… admiration as well. For one long breathless moment she felt caught in his gaze.
And then Fannie stuck her head through the doorway and said, “Rachel?”
Rachel whipped around as if she’d been struck.
“I’m hungry,” her sister said, grinning at Gant. “Can we make lunch yet?”
The lock on Rachel’s mind snapped open, and she virtually swept across the room. “A fine idea,” she said to Fannie. “Ja, we’ll make lunch right now!”
15
ASA
And before I’d be a slave
I’d be buried in my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free.
FROM “OH, FREEDOM,” A SONG OF THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD
About two miles out of Stafford, Asa heard the distant sound of a gunshot, followed by the baying of hounds. One of the women in the back of the wagon let out a yelp, while next to him Mac gave a low growl. Asa hushed the dog, then turned and warned the women to be still.
“What you’re hearing is over east—nowhere close to us. But everybody hush now, in case they’re headed this way.”
A child wailed, but her mamma’s harsh whisper quieted her. Asa slapped the reins and urged the big draft horse on.
They should be nearly to the Patterson farm by now. He prayed he was right about the distance of the gunshot and the hounds.
It seemed they’d encountered one hindrance after another ever since leaving Riverhaven. During their second night on the road, they met up with three runaway slaves trying to make their way to the North on their own. The older of the group explained that there had been five of them originally, but they’d encountered a bounty hunter who managed to capture two of them. The three who escaped were convinced that the same bounty hunter was still hot on their trail.
With the sound of gunfire and dogs barking in the distance and a blanket of fog making it nearly impossible to see anything more than a few feet away, Asa felt desperate to get to a safe place as quickly as possible.
A gun meant that bounty hunters might be in the area. These were ruthless men who would do most anything to claim the reward on a runaway. A professional slave hunter could turn a highly lucrative profit capturing or recapturing fugitive slaves—from several hundred dollars up to a thousand for a prime male. A bounty hunter was willing to go anywhere, no matter how far, to make that kind of money. There were tales of slave hunters who had tracked runaways as far north as New England for years, hauling them away from as much as a decade of living in freedom and returning them to their former captivity.
Asa knew only too well that no escaped slave was ever truly free, ever entirely safe, no matter how long he might have lived in freedom, unless he disappeared into Canada. There was even a law now that made it illegal for anyone to hinder a slave catcher or assist or harbor a fugitive slave. Fines and jail sentences were being handed down that made it more dangerous—and costly—for folks to help runaway slaves in their efforts to make their way to freedom.
But there were still some good people who believed strongly enough in liberty for all, no matter their skin color, and were willing to risk their own freedom to help the runaway slave find his. Captain Gant was such a man.
Apparently the folks at the next station were among these people. He knew nothing about Arthur Patterson and his wife, other than what he and the captain had been told—that the Pattersons were a kindhearted couple who always stood ready to help a fugitive slave gain safe passage to freedom.
Safe passage was what Asa prayed for this night. And the faint light glowing in the window of a farmhouse in the distance gave him hope that his prayers had been answered.
But the sound of dogs was closing in on them, and the horse that had been loaned to them was a stodgy one with no apparent inclination to increase his gait.
Even so, Asa jiggled the reins again and gave “Calvin” a shout of encouragement.
From the back of the wagon came a moan, most likely from the younger woman who was with child. Asa hated to cause her even more discomfort, but for her and her baby’s sake—for the sake of them all—they needed to stay well ahead of those dogs.
By the time they drove up the lane to the farmhouse, the hair on the back of Asa’s neck was standing up. His mind told him it wasn’t so, but the fear pushing at him made him feel as though a pack of demon dogs was slavering and snapping at the wheels of the wagon.
From the sound of it, they were still a good length away, but as he jumped down from the bench and hauled up to the side door, he was praying with every heartbeat that he’d reached the right place, the Patterson farm. When a fair-haired man—a younger man than Asa had expected—appeared in the doorway holding a lantern, he pulled in a ragged breath and blurted out the greeting before the man even asked.
“I’m a friend of friends, sir. Would you be Mr. Patterson?”
The man held the lantern a little higher, studying Asa and then looking out across the yard to the wagon. Now he trained the lantern directly on Asa’s face and regarded him for another moment before replying.
“I’m Arthur Patterson. How many are you?”
“Two women, three children, and myself, sir.” He paused. “And a dog.”
Patterson looked down the yard and toward the road, plainly listening to the barking dogs.
“My wife will take your people to the root cellar for now. Pull the wagon in the barn. Quickly!”
Patterson’s wife, a slender young woman with a blue shawl around her shoulders, took charge of the women and children, while Patterson met Asa in the barn to close and bar the door after the wagon was pulled out of sight. Then Asa
gladly followed him to the root cellar, which was cold but still warmer than the raw night air.
“Once we make sure those dogs and whoever is with them aren’t headed this way, we’ll see that you folks are fed,” Patterson told them. “We’ll have to get you hid well before daylight. For now, you stay here until I come to get you.”
After Patterson left, Asa motioned the women to a bench at the far end of the cellar. With a bench and the couple of blankets stacked on top of it, he figured this storage room must be used as a hiding place sometimes.
He hadn’t taken the time before now to study his “passengers.” They’d exchanged a few words whenever necessary, but most of Asa’s time was spent on the driver’s bench. When they stopped to rest, he had to care for the horse, study the map, and make sure everyone got fed from the box of food they carried with them—which by now was almost gone.
He watched as the two women, the young one cumbersome with child, sat down wearily on the bench. The woman in the family way— Mattie was her name—looked to be little more than a child herself. Her mother, Dinah, also appeared to be fairly young to have a daughter grown. He wasn’t sure who the three little girls belonged to, but they were scarcely more than babies. The smallest one might have been three years old, but not much more, while the other two were probably both under six.
Not for the first time, Asa wished at least one other man had accompanied them on this journey.
The mother held the youngest child, who soon fell asleep, in her arms, while the other two little ones sat close together on the bench, holding hands.
Asa walked over to them. “Would the two of you be sisters?” he asked the two with their hands linked together.
The one who appeared to be the oldest looked at him from eyes that seemed too sad to belong to a child. “Yessuh,” she said. “I be Sissy, and my sister be Charlotte.”
“Well, those are pretty names,” said Asa. “We will all have to be real quiet, until Mr. Patterson comes to get us, and then we’ll have something to eat.”
The child nodded solemnly, and her sister followed suit.
Asa glanced over to find the older woman watching him as if she were taking his measure. “They seem to be good children,” he said. “Are all three yours?”
Her eyes warmed a little. “Those two are,” she said, nodding toward Sissy and Charlotte. She glanced down at the sleeping child in her arms. “This one here is my grandchild. She belongs to Mattie.”
“Where are your men?”
Her gaze clouded. “My man was killed early in the fall takin’ a tree down for Mr. Jackson. Mattie—she ain’t got no man. Lucy here belongs to Mr. Jackson, and so does the one she’s carryin’.” She paused. “Mr. Jackson, he gonna kill us both if he catches us.”
The bitter taste of anger burned Asa’s mouth. “Then we have to make sure he doesn’t catch you.”
“He’ll have the bounty hunter after us.”
“He won’t catch us,” Asa said, meaning it as a promise he hoped he could keep.
“When Luther and his family run, they caught ’em all and brought ’em back. They were beat almost to death.”
“That’s not going to happen to you.”
Lord, help me keep my word.
He knew the Lord was with him. But he surely did wish Captain Gant was here as well.
Asa froze and shot a warning glance at the women. He put a finger to his lips when the sound of voices came filtering in from outside.
One of the sleeping little girls stirred, but Mattie stroked her hair and soothed her back to sleep.
Asa pressed his ear against the wall of the cellar and listened.
“I was with Wyman when his dogs tracked a runway from over in Wood County tonight. Henry’s holding him until he can get him to the judge at the courthouse. But the way those hounds were carrying on even after they caught the one, I’m not so sure that boy was the only runaway in the area. You hear anything about any others, Arthur?”
“Just your pounding on the door, Thomas. You can see I’m in my night clothes. You know how late it is?”
“Well, I’m sorry to waken you, Arthur, but I’d just as soon beat the bounty hunters to the draw and claim some reward money for myself. A good strong boy’ll bring a goodly amount. I could use the extra cash, you know.”
“I do know,” replied Patterson. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you with any information. The wife says I sleep like the dead once I’m out.”
For a moment their voices dropped too low for Asa to tell what they were saying. Then he heard a horse whinny, and someone tell Patterson goodnight.
“You send word, hear, if you catch sight of any runaways. If you help me, we’ll split the money.”
“Sure thing, Thomas. You be careful going home, now.”
Finally Asa drew a long breath but kept his ear to the wall until he heard the sound of the horse clopping away. Only then did he relax—and only a little.
Nearly half an hour later, Arthur Patterson came to take them inside the house. “I took my horse out and around for quite a ways, and I didn’t hear anything more from those dogs. Henry Wyman has probably taken them home by now along with his runaway.” His tone was harsh, his eyes hard. “You folks have some food, and then I’ll show you where you can stay. We want to get you hid before daylight.”
Usually when there was at least one man along on a trip, they separated and hid in different places. That way there was a chance that not everyone would be found if one was discovered. Asa didn’t see how they could do that this time, though. He should stay with the women and children for fear something went wrong.
After they wolfed down big plates of sausage and eggs and potatoes, Patterson agreed with Asa about keeping the women and children together. “We have a good place for you here. Another cellar right under the house. Nobody even knows it’s there except us. There’s a couple of mattresses and some blankets. You’ll be safe there for the day. I’ll be working around the place, so everything will look normal to anyone nosing around.”
“We can’t thank you enough, sir.” On impulse Asa extended his hand and then dropped it. White men didn’t take to shaking hands with blacks.
But Arthur Patterson reached out his hand and waited until Asa took it. “My wife and I will be praying for you throughout the day. You get some rest.”
Asa knew only too well what kind of rest he would get. On one of these trips, a man needed to sleep with his eyes open and his ears alert. The danger of discovery was everywhere, and the danger was not only for the runaways he was guiding to freedom.
If Ainsley Cottrill ever caught up to him, he would be a slave again for the rest of his life.
No. He needn’t fear being enslaved again. If Cottrill ever found him, he’d simply be dead.
16
LIVING BY THE RULES
Saviour, teach me, day by day,
Love’s sweet lesson, to obey…
JANE ELIZA LEESON
“Hear my warning, those who are in danger of being corrupted by the world and its allurements.”
Bishop Graber looked toward the women’s side of the congregation and, finding Rachel, captured her gaze as he neared the end of his Sunday sermon, the final sermon of the day.
She had to steel herself not to squirm under his piercing gaze and the harsh words of his admonition, spoken in German as were all the preaching service messages. The singsong rhythm of the bishop’s words had lulled her into a kind of peaceful haze up until this point. She had listened, but in a vague and contented way, as if she were wrapped in a cocoon and slightly removed from her surroundings.
But now she felt herself singled out, appointed for rebuke, and she struggled to keep her expression passive.
“…know ye not that the friendship of the world is enmity with God? Whosoever therefore will be a friend of the world is the enemy of God.”
Resentment stirred in her. Why should she be reproached for administering aid to an injured man? A man who had taken a bulle
t for a friend and possibly saved his life by doing so. A man who had made a mission of helping the enslaved escape their chains and make their way to freedom.
And yet the bishop was only pointing out a rule by which Rachel had lived her entire life, a rule that was a fundamental part of the Amish faith and the Ordnung. They lived separately from the world. Not because they saw the world or the Englisch as evil, but because to involve themselves in the things of the world would more than likely draw them away from their own community and their faith.
Community and faith meant everything to the Plain People. In the way they dressed and earned their livelihood, in their manner of worship and recreation—in all of life itself—they followed the Plain way first established by their ancestors.
There was no denying that by allowing an outsider to stay in her house, Rachel was flirting with disobedience to the rules by which she and her people lived. According to the church, then, the bishop had every right to admonish her, to remind her of the treacherous path she was following. She was in very real danger of facing the consequences that could come from breaking her vows to God and the church— vows that were meant to be valid for a lifetime.
Resentment suddenly gave way to a chilling sense of dread. She knew herself to be Amish in every way. She was thoroughly and uncompromisingly Plain. To go against the Ordnung would mean not only to go against everything she believed, but it could even put her at risk of the terrible Meidung—the shunning.
The very word stirred fear in her. She would rather die than be cut off, expelled from her family, her friends, from the only way of life she had ever known.
As she walked out of the spacious home of Eben Mast, where the worshippers had met for today’s preaching service, Rachel had to stop and shield her eyes from the bright sun and chill of the day. Three hours of sitting on a wooden bench and listening to three different sermons would have normally left her contemplative and comforted, if somewhat stiff from the inactivity.
