“Better put on your thinking cap,” Paul told Libby as they continued toward the driveway. “If Caleb and Jordan don’t get here soon, we need lots of reasons for staying around.”
But Libby was still studying the lay of the land. On the south side of the long driveway was a tinroofed barn and smaller outbuildings. Between those buildings and the field behind the house were what Paul said were slave cabins. Built of logs, they looked as though they had one tiny room. Seeing the cabins, Libby started to wonder about the dogs owned by the Weaver family.
It didn’t take long to find them. The moment Paul turned into the driveway, the dogs began barking. Yipping and jumping up, they raced out to meet the peddler’s wagon. With their long droopy ears and wrinkled faces, they reminded Libby of worried old men.
Then she remembered. They’re not like Samson. They’re not just family pets. Those dogs are bloodhounds trained to track down runaway slaves.
Paying no attention to the dogs, Paul wrapped the reins around a post on the wagon. Taking out a flute, he played a cheerful song meant to draw everyone who heard.
In the field behind the house, two Negro men lifted their heads. Resting their hands on their hoes, they listened. On the shaded front porch, a blond girl about Libby’s age jumped up.
Paul called to her. “Tell your mother!”
At the side door of the house, Jonathan stood waiting. To Libby’s surprise one of the bloodhounds ran up to him. When Jonathan reached down to pet him, the dog waited for a scratch behind his ears.
The minute Jonathan saw Libby, he waved as if the two were old friends. But Jordan’s brother, Zack, was not with him.
Where is he? Libby wondered, wanting to make sure Zack truly was still around. She saw no one who looked like an eight-year-old Jordan. Then Libby remembered. Zack would be working in the fields all day.
Outside the white picket fence that surrounded the house, Paul called, “Whoa!” From every direction people gathered around. Young and old, black and white, they all seemed curious about the peddler’s wagon.
Soon a Negro woman came through the opening in the picket fence. Tall and slender, she wore a white apron as if she worked in the house. Could that be Jordan’s mother, Hattie? Close behind was a girl who looked just a bit younger than Libby. Eleven-year-old Serena, Libby decided.
From the direction of the slave cabins ran a string of children, followed by the old woman who cared for them. Serena stopped and waited, then picked up one of the children. The little girl had pigtails sticking out all over her head and seemed about fifteen months old. Libby felt sure she was Jordan’s youngest sister, Rose.
As Libby watched, Rose threw her arms around Serena’s neck. Serena hugged the little girl to herself. More than once Serena whispered something in her ear. When Rose giggled, Serena giggled too.
Is that what it means to have a sister? Libby wondered. No wonder Jordan wants to rescue his family!
To Libby’s surprise Paul climbed down from the wagon slowly, as if his aging bones hurt. Even in the way Paul opened his wagon, he took his time.
Then Libby remembered. He’s giving Caleb and Jordan every minute he can. In her thoughts she wished she could hurry them on. Where are you? she wanted to cry out.
On one side of the wagon, Paul folded down a shelf. On that he put his most valuable items—glassware, china dishes, and patent medicines in their thick glass bottles. Next to that he set a jar of hard candy.
From the back of the wagon, he took out long pieces of cloth, pots and pans, everything that would appeal to a woman. When he set those on another shelf where they could be easily viewed, the eager children and grown-ups gathered close.
Soon a woman who appeared to be Jonathan’s mother came through the opening in the picket fence. A boy about two years old was with her, along with a blond girl who seemed to be Jonathan’s sister.
“Hello, Mrs. Weaver,” Paul said warmly. “And how may I help you today?”
A smile lit her face. “I know it’s spring when you come back to us again,” she said. “I need cloth, as usual, for the dresses we need to sew. Thread and buttons. And if you’ll sharpen my scissors and knives—”
Paul nodded. “And what about some china?” He pointed to the dishes on the shelf he had opened. “Bone china of the best quality. Imported all the way from England. Sure to please your most particular guests.”
Drawing close to the wagon, Mrs. Weaver picked up a cup and read the name on the bottom. As she held the cup to the light, Libby remembered that Paul wanted excuses for them to stay longer. While Paul and Mrs. Weaver bargained about the price of the china, Libby took out her drawings of wild flowers and set them on the seat. Then she began sketching the young boy who clung to Mrs. Weaver’s skirt.
As Libby drew the boy’s round cheek, she watched the others gather around. The girl Libby thought to be Serena stood near the back. Her curly black hair tucked under a scarf, she wore a white apron as though she too worked in the house.
I wish I could talk to her, Libby thought. I wish I could ask her name. Instead she kept drawing the young boy. By the time Paul and Mrs. Weaver agreed on the price of the china, Libby had finished sketching the boy’s eyes and nose.
Mrs. Weaver turned. “Serena!” Instantly the girl with the white apron put down the younger child.
She is Jordan’s sister! Libby thought.
As Serena walked forward, her bare feet picked up the dust. Coming to stand next to Mrs. Weaver, she waited with her gaze on the ground.
When Mrs. Weaver asked Serena to carry the china to the house, she and the tall black woman made several trips. After Mrs. Weaver purchased a great amount of cloth, the girl Libby had seen on the porch stepped forward.
“Melanie would like some necklaces,” Mrs. Weaver said.
Her daughter’s long hair was gathered back and held up with a ribbon, much the way Libby’s was. But Melanie’s eyes looked unhappy, as if she were bored with life. Instead of choosing between necklaces, she wanted nearly all of them.
As the waiting children grew restless, Paul spoke to them. “When we’re all done, I’ll have a piece of candy for each of you.”
When the younger children drew closer, Serena held back, as if not sure she was included. But Paul saw her.
“I have enough for all of you,” he said.
When at last Melanie made up her mind, she turned. “Serena!”
Her gaze still on the ground, Serena stepped forward. When she held out both hands, Melanie hung the necklaces over Serena’s wrists. Keeping her arms out, away from her apron, Serena held the long chains carefully.
“Take the necklaces to my room,” Melanie said.
For one instant Serena’s glance flicked toward Paul, as though thinking about his promise of candy. Then she started away.
“Serena, is it?” Paul called after her. “I’ll still be here when you come back.”
With careful steps Serena started toward the house. I wonder what would happen if she dropped one of the necklaces, Libby thought.
Afraid that she would show her feelings to Melanie and Mrs. Weaver, Libby looked down. Her sketch was coming nicely now, and Libby filled in the boy’s eyelashes. Glancing back and forth between him and the paper, Libby drew his lips.
Just then Mrs. Weaver noticed Libby’s wildflower sketches. “These are good!” she exclaimed. “May apples and violets. Just the way they look in our spring woods!”
“Thank you,” Libby said quietly. Always she had felt grateful for the art lessons she’d had. But she also felt surprised whenever someone liked her drawings.
“Are these for sale?” Mrs. Weaver asked.
Startled, Libby glanced toward Paul.
“Indeed they are,” he said quickly. “It’s a talented artist I have with me, don’t you think?”
Not sure whether Paul was teasing or not, Libby looked down. Her drawing of the boy was nearly finished.
“Ohhh!” Mrs. Weaver’s exclamation broke into Libby’s thoughts. “
My son, Randolph! You did this just now?”
When Libby nodded, Mrs. Weaver turned to Paul. “Let’s decide on a price for the wildflower sketches.”
As soon as they settled on an amount, Mrs. Weaver turned back to Libby. “I used to do quite a bit of oil painting. Will you do two more sketches—one of Jonathan and one of Melanie?”
By now Melanie had left, but Libby smiled at the boy she had already met. Jonathan would be fun to draw, but Melanie? Libby dreaded it. More than once she had been too honest about the way someone looked.
I’ll have to change the unhappiness in Melanie’s eyes, Libby decided.
“When you finish your sketch of Jonathan, will you bring it to the house?” Mrs. Weaver asked. “I’ll talk to my husband about having you draw all of us—the entire family together.”
Inwardly Libby gulped. I can’t do that, she thought. But when she looked toward Paul, he blinked his eyes as though saying yes.
“Now I must go,” Mrs. Weaver said. “When you’re finished with the drawings, I’ll pay you for your work. My husband likes to have his dinner on time.”
As Mrs. Weaver started toward the house, Libby saw a man at the side door. With his hair combed back and every strand in place, he wore a threepiece suit. When he lifted his hand toward Paul, the peddler nodded. Then Mr. Weaver disappeared into the house.
Paul waited until Serena returned before offering the rest of the children their candy. When Serena again held back, he said, “Come, come. Enough for all of you.”
Taking the jar from where the children had watched it all this time, Paul lifted the cover. As each child held up a hand, Paul put one piece of candy in an open palm.
Serena was the last to come forward. When Paul tipped the jar, his hand moved quickly, closing around two pieces of candy. When Serena stretched out her hands, he dropped both pieces into her open palms. Instantly Serena’s fist closed around them.
No one else saw, Libby thought.
For a moment Serena’s eyes flicked upward. “Thank you, Mr. Martin,” she said softly. Not even her eyes gave away the knowledge that she had been given two pieces of candy instead of one. Then Serena turned toward the house.
Later when Paul was sharpening knives, Serena slipped back to the wagon. Quietly she stood watching his nimble fingers and the sparks flying off the grindstone. With no one else around, she waited for Paul’s wheel to slow down enough for her to speak softly.
“What’s you want me to know, Mr. Martin?” she asked.
Instantly alert, Libby listened. Had the two pieces of candy been some kind of code between them? Pa had said that Paul worked with the Underground Railroad.
When he spoke, Paul did not look toward Serena. With his gaze still on the knife he was sharpening, he said, “Tell your momma to listen for a signal.”
As if the morning sun had risen within her, a glow spread across Serena’s face. Then, just as quickly as it came, the glow disappeared. Serena’s face went blank.
Turning, she raced through the gate and up the path to the house.
The minute the evening meal was over, Jonathan came back to the wagon. Eager to have his picture drawn, he sat down on the stool Libby gave him.
From one direction, then another, Libby studied him. Finally, after moving him around a bit, she started drawing. She had only a few lines on paper when Mr. Weaver came out to the wagon.
Paul greeted the man politely, but Libby heard the stiffness in the peddler’s voice. When Mr. Weaver started haggling about the price of farm tools, Libby again sensed the difference in the way Paul felt.
Finally Mr. Weaver went back to the house, and Libby continued sketching. Soon she realized there was something wrong with the drawing. Jonathan did not look the way he should. At last Libby had to give up.
“What’s wrong?” the boy asked when Libby tore up the paper.
“You just don’t look right,” Libby said.
Jonathan giggled. “There’s lots of people who say that.”
“That’s not what I mean.” A flush of embarrassment warmed Libby’s cheeks. “You look right. I just can’t make you look the way you do.”
Again Jonathan thought she was being funny. When he laughed, Libby decided what was wrong. She wanted to show the happy way he looked at the creek. “Jonathan, can you get your fishing pole and hold it over your shoulder?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think Pa will like that picture,” he said.
“Let’s try it anyway,” Libby said.
When Jonathan returned, he carried the pole over his shoulder with the dead fish still hanging from its line. Libby wondered how soon the fish would start to smell.
This time the drawing went well. Partway through, Libby began asking questions.
“Jonathan, you know that boy who’s an honorary member of your club? I don’t think I’ve seen him. Where is he?”
“Working.” Jonathan’s expression told Libby what he thought of that. “Working till the sun goes down.”
“In the field?” Libby asked. The field in front of the house had no workers. Would Zack be in the field on the back side?
Jonathan pointed that way.
“And that’s where your secret meeting place is too?” Libby asked.
“Shucks, no. Me and Zack hides under the bridge.” Jonathan glanced toward the creek and the road leading to the place where Paul and Libby stopped. “There’s a wide spot under the bridge—a dirt bank where we sit without getting wet. Zack tells me stories there.”
By the time Jonathan started getting wiggly, Libby was far enough to let him go. When at last she finished the drawing, she felt pleased with it. Jonathan looked like he was ready for fun.
When Libby started toward the big house, she wasn’t sure whether to go to the side, back, or front door. Stopping, she felt afraid to go on. Then she thought about it. If I were a professional artist, I wouldn’t sneak around feeling scared. I would march right up to the front door.
As Libby reached the porch with tall pillars, Melanie came out the door. Her eyes still looked unhappy, even resentful.
“Go on in,” she said when Libby asked for Melanie’s parents. “They’re in the living room.”
Inside the front door Libby found a hallway with stairs leading upward. Straight ahead, another door led to the back porch. On Libby’s left she saw the living room through a partly opened door.
On the far wall was a fireplace with a fire crackling against the dampness of the evening. Beyond that a tall window stretched from a few feet above the floor to the twelve-foot ceiling. Long drapes hung on either side of the window, and nearby was a door. In front of the fire, Mr. and Mrs. Weaver sat with their backs toward Libby.
She was about to knock on the doorpost when Mr. Weaver spoke. “I have a buyer for Zack,” he said.
Instead of knocking, Libby lowered her hand and listened.
“You’re selling Zack?” Mrs. Weaver sounded upset. “You didn’t tell me about that.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“But Hattie’s husband and one son have already been sold away from her.”
So, Libby thought, remembering the poster nailed to the tree. Mr. Weaver hasn’t told his wife that he plans to sell all of Jordan’s family. He must still be looking for buyers for Hattie and the girls.
Across the room, a mirror hung at just the right angle for Libby to see the pain in Mrs. Weaver’s face. “You’ll break Hattie’s heart if you tear another son from her arms,” she said. “You can’t do that to her.”
“I didn’t sell her husband.” Mr. Weaver sounded resentful. “I didn’t sell her older boy.”
“Of course you didn’t. But someone did.”
“We’ve never had a slave who cared so much about our children,” Mrs. Weaver went on. “When I was sick, she took care of little Randolph day and night. He would have died if she hadn’t watched and fed him.”
But Mr. Weaver shook his head. “It’s no use, Dorothy. I bought more land. I have t
o pay for it.”
Tears stood in Mrs. Weaver’s eyes. “You used to love our people. What has happened to change you so?”
Mr. Weaver sighed. “I never seem to be able to give you enough.”
“Enough of what?”
“Money. Fine things.”
Mrs. Weaver’s eyes looked startled. “But you never asked me. Is that what you think I want? Did I tell you that’s what I wanted?”
Then a pinched look came into her face. “I did, didn’t I? The day before Melanie was born, I compared our home with what my father had after thirty years of hard work. But when I changed, I never told you.”
Before Libby’s eyes, Mrs. Weaver’s face seemed to grow old. “I’m as guilty as you,” she told her husband. “And now, all I really want is you and our children. I want a home and the food and clothes they need. But all this—”
Mrs. Weaver stretched out her hand, taking in the furniture and paintings. “We could sell this instead of Zack. We don’t need it.”
Mr. Weaver looked around the living room. “You would sell something you painted yourself? And the furniture you brought from the South? Who would pay us what they’re really worth? The man coming tomorrow wants Zack as a companion for his son.”
With angry eyes Mrs. Weaver stared at her husband. “Zack is best friends with our son.”
Mr. Weaver’s voice was hard. “The boy has to go,” he said.
As if she couldn’t bear to look at her husband, Mrs. Weaver bowed her head and covered her eyes. When the sound of weeping filled the room, Libby inched forward. Again she noticed the long full drapes at the far window. In that moment one of the drapes moved.
CHAPTER 12
Nighttime Visit
When Mrs. Weaver continued crying, Mr. Weaver leaned toward his wife. “There, there, Dorothy,” he muttered as if embarrassed by her tears.
For the first time Libby saw the man’s face in the mirror. Cold and angry he seemed, in spite of his words.
When Mrs. Weaver looked up, her eyes were red from crying. “We’ve taken so many wrong turns. To rob Hattie of her son would be the greatest wrong of all.”
“We don’t have any choice, Dorothy. The land I bought has to be paid for, or we’ll lose what we already have.”
Midnight Rescue Page 10
