“There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”
“Nothing, Dorothy. Absolutely nothing. The boy goes in the morning.”
As the sound of weeping once more filled the room, Libby started to edge backward. She needed to get away before someone discovered her. But just then the long drape moved again. As Libby watched, a boy’s hand pushed aside the cloth. Then a face appeared. Jonathan!
For a moment he waited, as though making sure that his parents looked the other way. Then he slipped out the nearby door.
Again Libby edged back. As she crept toward the front door, her feelings tumbled every which way. Without making a sound, she opened the door and stepped outside.
By the time Libby reached Paul, she was shaking with anger one minute and trembling with fear the next. Stumbling over her words, she struggled to make sense of what she was trying to say to Paul. “Jonathan knows what is going to happen to his best friend.”
In the silence that followed, Paul offered Libby a bench. As though needing time to think, he lit a lantern and set it down on another bench.
“What should we do?” Libby asked finally.
“You need to go back,” he said. “See if they want you to draw a family picture in the morning.”
“I’m supposed to draw another picture at a time like this?”
“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t,” Paul answered. “Just show them your sketch of Jonathan and see what Mr. Weaver says.”
“But, Paul—” Libby couldn’t get the terrible scene in the living room out of her mind. “I can’t go back to that room.”
“If Jordan asked you to walk into that room, would you do it?”
Libby stared at Paul. “I guess I would,” she said slowly.
“Why?”
Libby thought about it. “Because it’s Jordan’s family that’s being torn apart. But it’s more. Jordan has always known he would lead his people to freedom. From the time he was a little boy, his momma told him so. And God told Jordan too.”
“Then let’s try to get more time for Jordan,” Paul said. “We don’t know why he’s not here. Whatever is wrong, it has to be a good reason.”
“But what about Jordan’s mother?” Libby said. “She needs to get Zack and run away tonight. We could take her.”
“Maybe,” Paul said. “But for now go and talk to the Weavers before they go to bed. Maybe Jordan will come while you’re gone.”
Libby was still filled with dread. There was something she needed to know. “When Jordan prayed with Caleb and me, he asked God for favor. What does that mean?”
“A couple of things,” Paul answered. “If you do something well, someone might like what you did. That’s human favor.”
“The way Mrs. Weaver liked my drawings.”
Paul nodded. “But when God gives favor, it’s much more than that. He blesses you, not because you earn or deserve it, but because of the way He is. God just likes to bless people. He wants to help us.”
Reaching down, Paul picked up the lantern. “Whether this flame is lit depends on something you do. You light it or don’t light it. If you do something people like, they might choose to give you favor. But God’s favor is like the sun. God does not turn off the sun. Sometimes clouds block our view of it, but the sun is still there.”
“Then we better pray for favor,” Libby said. “Both kinds of favor.”
Once more she picked up her sketch of Jonathan. In the light of the lantern, the dead fish almost looked alive. Seeing it, Libby felt better. Then she noticed the twinkle in Paul’s eyes.
“Remember, Libby. You’re a professional artist now. You’ve already sold two drawings of wild flowers and one of Randolph.”
As Libby walked toward the house, she made all the noise she could. When she reached the front door, she did not go in. Instead she knocked loudly. When Serena answered, she led Libby into the living room.
Mr. and Mrs. Weaver still sat in front of a fire that had now burned low. The redness in Mrs. Weaver’s eyes had not gone away. Yet if Libby had not heard them talking, she might not have sensed their disagreement.
“I finished the drawing of Jonathan,” Libby said, hoping she could soon be out of there.
When Mrs. Weaver took it, she held it out at arm’s length. Without speaking, she studied the sketch.
“What is it?” her husband asked.
Mrs. Weaver looked up to meet Libby’s gaze. “It’s our son Jonathan at his best—when he is happy.”
Standing up, Mr. Weaver looked over his wife’s shoulder. “At his best with a fish over his shoulder?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Weaver’s smile was soft, as if knowing that Libby understood. “You have given us more than you know,” Mrs. Weaver told her. “We want to buy this drawing from you.”
Then, as if remembering the conversation Libby had heard, Mrs. Weaver paused. “But I want to give you something better than money—something my father gave me long ago on the day I sold my first painting.”
Carefully Mrs. Weaver unclasped a bracelet from around her wrist. She handed it to Libby.
“But you can’t—” her husband began.
“Yes, I can. It is mine. Now it is Libby’s. She has reminded me of something important.”
Mrs. Weaver glanced at her husband. “We haven’t talked about it yet,” she told Libby. “But in the morning, right after breakfast, we want you to make a drawing of our entire family. We will sit for you in front of our house. You may arrange us as you like.”
As Libby left the room, she did not dare to look at Mr. Weaver.
When Libby reached Paul again, she found that he had moved as many boxes as possible so that Libby could make a bed inside the wagon. His bedroll lay on the ground a short distance away.
When Libby showed him the bracelet, Paul looked surprised. “It’s very valuable. Take good care of it. Mrs. Weaver comes from a wealthy Southern family.”
Much as Mrs. Weaver’s kindness meant to her, Libby was more concerned about Caleb and Jordan. “Did they come while I was gone?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t want to worry, but I feel concerned.”
“Paul—” Libby had already thought through her plan. “I think I know where Jordan’s mother sleeps. When I waited in the front hall, I looked through a door into the porch off the kitchen. I saw slaves going up a stairway there. The women looked like they work in the house.”
“It would make sense,” Paul said. “Slaves who work in the house usually do live there. But their part of the house would be separate from where the family lives.”
“And Serena and Rose?”
“Probably with Hattie. But Zack would be in a cabin out back.”
“You think I should talk to Jordan’s mother?”
“If you do, there are probably two rooms for slaves. You can’t make a mistake about which one she’s in.”
Suddenly the whole prospect of what lay ahead frightened Libby. When she crept into her bed in the wagon, she wanted to do nothing. If she waited long enough, maybe Jordan and Caleb would come.
One by one the lamps in the big house went out. Through an opening between boards in the wagon, Libby watched the house grow dark.
With it came the growing sense that she had no choice but to do something. She remembered Jordan’s words. “If Caleb and I can’t get there, Momma will have another chance to escape.” It would be the worst unkindness of all to not tell Hattie what was happening.
Finally Libby could lie still no longer. Leaving her shoes in the wagon, she climbed down. “I’m going,” she told Paul. “If the dogs start barking—”
“They’re in the barn,” Paul said. “All except one. I’ve come so often that he knows me. He’s Jonathan’s pet.”
Staying within the shadows, Libby crept around the back side of the house. There she waited until her eyes grew used to the darkness. Then, rounding the corner, she moved silently to the open porch and the stairway to the second floor.
On the steps Libby clung to th
e handrail, keeping to one side in the hope that the steps would not creak. At the top, the upper porch lay in shadows. Unable to see where she was, Libby felt her way around.
Paul was right. Two doors led into the house. Which door was the right one?
If I knock on the wrong door, I’ll give everything away. I’ll wreck all that Jordan wants to do. I’ll spoil the way Paul covers up that he’s working for the Underground Railroad.
Standing there, Libby felt cold with fright. Even if I get the right door, there might be other women in Hattie’s room. What if I do everything wrong? What if I fail?
Unable to make up her mind, Libby moved into the deep shadows in a corner of the porch. As she started to pray, she remembered Jordan’s words. “Just because you done one thing wrong don’t mean you is goin’ to do everything wrong.”
His words gave Libby courage. Still praying, she decided to wait. Minutes later, one of the doors opened. In the darkness Libby could barely make out who it was. Serena carrying little Rose.
Without stirring, Libby waited until Serena reached the bottom of the steps. Then she rapped softly on the door.
When Jordan’s mother opened it, Libby whispered, “I’m Jordan’s friend.” Slipping through the opening, Libby closed the door behind her.
From a table Hattie picked up the stub of a candle. Holding it up, she studied Libby’s face. “You is Jordan’s friend?”
In the light Libby saw the wonder in Hattie’s deep brown eyes. But Libby also saw the questions. Quickly she told Hattie what had happened, then said, “Your son Zack is to be sold in the morning.”
A soft moan escaped the woman’s lips. A moan quickly silenced.
“If you want to take your family away tonight, the peddler will help you,” Libby said.
“Jordan will be there?” Hattie asked.
Libby had to be honest. “Jordan was supposed to be here many hours ago. We don’t know what’s happened to him.”
“All day long I been prayin’ for him,” Hattie said. “All day long I been feelin’ uneasy.”
“If you want to go now,” Libby said, “Zack could be far away by morning.”
As the candle sputtered, she again saw the fear in Hattie’s face. But then Hattie straightened. Closing her eyes, she stood without moving in a way that reminded Libby of Jordan. Hattie’s stillness grew long, and Libby knew she was praying.
When Jordan’s mother opened her eyes, she spoke softly, but there was no doubt that she had made up her mind. “I ain’t supposed to go,” she said.
“Why?” Libby whispered.
“It ain’t just leavin’ here that counts,” Hattie told her. “We needs to go miles and miles crost land, and swamps, and rivers. It ain’t just anybody who can lead our people to freedom.” Hattie’s brown eyes showed her anguish. “Long time ago the good Lord called my Jordan to lead our people out. If I goes now, he won’t know where I is. If he ain’t able to find me and Serena and Zack and little Rose—if he worry about where we is, my Jordan will search till he gits caught.” Hattie drew a long trembling breath. “I is stayin’ here till Jordan comes.”
“You’re sure?” Libby asked.
“I be sure.”
Deep inside Libby felt even more afraid for Hattie. If Jordan doesn’t come—if Zack is sold in the morning—
As though understanding Libby’s thoughts, Jordan’s mother spoke again. “I ain’t goin’ to tell Serena what you said. If Massa Weaver question her, she be unable to tell him anything.”
“I’ll leave before she comes back,” Libby said quickly.
“I thanks you, Libby,” Hattie said softly. “I be prayin’ all night for my family.”
When Libby slipped out on the porch, she heard soft steps on the stairway below. Quickly she stepped into the shadows. Still holding little Rose, Serena passed Libby, not two feet away.
In the wagon again, Libby could not sleep. Dread of what the morning might bring lay heavy upon her.
CHAPTER 13
Jordan’s Signal
I can’t possibly make a drawing of the family, Libby told herself. Until now she had only tried sketches of individuals. She couldn’t think of anything more difficult than doing a whole family and their house besides. As frightening as that was, it seemed easy when compared to helping Jordan’s family escape. During his years of slavery, Jordan had thought about countless ways to rescue his family. Since becoming a fugitive, Jordan had often talked with Caleb about what to do.
Now it seemed as if nothing was going to work. Frightening questions kept popping into Libby’s mind. What if Zack’s new owner comes before Jordan gets here? And what if Jordan gets here and can’t do anything?
For the first time in her life, Libby hated the gray light before dawn. Jordan’s mother must dread the rising of the sun!
Before daybreak Libby crawled down from the wagon. She and Paul walked to the big house together. When Libby went into the kitchen to get breakfast, she found Mrs. Weaver and Hattie already there.
Mrs. Weaver’s eyes were red and puffy from crying. Yet her “Good morning, Libby,” sounded cheerful, as if nothing had happened.
Nearby, Hattie stood tall and straight with her hair short and curled close to her head. With sure hands she spooned up two bowls full of grits. Giving no hint that she had seen Libby during the night, Hattie acted as if it were an ordinary day.
Then Libby looked closer. Hattie’s face was not peaceful, as Libby first thought. Instead, she wore the same blank look Libby had seen in her son Jordan. That look hid every thought, whether joy or pain. It hid every attitude, even anger and fear. By now Libby knew that slaves used that look for protection—to hide feelings it would hurt them to show.
As Libby picked up the two bowls, Mrs. Weaver spoke to Hattie. “When we finish eating breakfast, I want you to pack a big basket of food. Take it down the road to Mrs. Lawrence. I hear she’s doing poorly.”
Halfway to the door Libby stopped and glanced back at Mrs. Weaver. She doesn’t want Hattie around when her son is sold, Libby thought.
As though someone had kicked her in the stomach, Libby felt the pain. But Hattie’s eyes held that same blank look. Not even a slumped shoulder gave away the pain she felt about the thought of losing another son.
When Libby brought the two bowls of grits outside, she and Paul sat down on the kitchen steps. From there they could see what was happening behind the house.
Near one of the slave cabins, a skinny eight-year-old boy sat on the ground. Alone and shivering with the coolness of the morning, he ate his grits slowly, as if wanting to make them last.
Libby glanced toward Paul. “Zack?” Libby whispered.
“I think so,” Paul answered softly.
Then Zack stood up. As if hating each step, he walked toward a shed for storing tools. With a hoe over his shoulder, Zack followed the older slaves to the cornfield behind the house.
Moments later the sun edged above the horizon, but darkness filled Libby’s heart. With every passing moment her dread of what the day would bring grew stronger. As though matching her mood, clouds began building up beyond the woods on the far side of the field.
Standing up, Libby looked through the kitchen door. When she found no one inside, she told Paul that Mrs. Weaver had asked Hattie to take a basket of food to a neighbor.
“What if Jordan comes, and he can’t even find his family?” Libby asked.
Paul shushed her, and Libby lowered her voice still more. But she still felt upset. “Zack one direction, Jordan’s mother another, little Rose—” Libby broke off. “Where’s little Rose?”
“In one of the slave cabins. The old woman you saw yesterday takes care of her during the day.”
“What do we do?” Libby whispered.
“Pray.”
Pray. As doubt crept into Libby’s mind, she remembered Gran and Pa saying, “God go with you, Libby.” She remembered Jordan’s mother praying all night. And she thought about Jordan praying, “We thanks You, Jesus, that when
we is weak, You makes us strong.”
When I am weak, then am I strong? The words echoed in Libby’s thoughts. Maybe it’s good to feel weak, so I let God help me.
Unable to sit still any longer, Libby stood up. “Do you have a board I can use?” she asked Paul. “Something I can set up for an easel so I look like a real artist?”
As soon as Paul put together an easel, Libby carried it to the front of the house. Then she set her drawing paper in place.
Looking up at the house, Libby drew light, quick lines. After deciding where she wanted each person to be, she returned to the peddler’s wagon. Paul was packing everything away, preparing to leave.
Just then Libby saw a farm wagon far down the road. “Maybe it’s Caleb and Jordan!” Libby whispered.
A minute later she decided she was mistaken. The person who held the reins wore a straw hat pulled low over his eyes. The young man beside him wore a suit, white shirt, and a hat.
Still closing up shelves, Paul moved around to the other side of his wagon. When Libby followed him, the tall sides of the peddler’s wagon stood between her and the house.
As Libby watched, the farm wagon drew closer. It had lower sides than the Stillwater wagon. In the back end Libby saw a large trunk and the cloth bags with handles that people called carpetbags.
Then Libby realized there was something familiar about the people after all. While Jordan held the reins, Caleb leaned back as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “It is Caleb and Jordan!” she whispered to Paul.
Libby wanted to shout, “They’re really here!” Instead she quietly asked, “What if Zack’s new owner comes right now? What do we do?”
Within a few minutes the horses reached the driveway. As they started the turn, a corner of the wagon tipped, leaned at a crazy angle, and dropped down. One of the wagon wheels rolled off into the field.
“Oh no!” Libby groaned. “What else can go wrong?”
As she and Paul watched, Caleb and Jordan climbed down to inspect the wheel. While Jordan rolled it toward the wagon, Caleb stalked up the driveway. In a suit and hat he looked at least three years older than he was.
Midnight Rescue Page 11
