by Tara Johnson
The breath froze in her lungs. What if she had an attack while transporting slaves to their next stop? A brick settled in her stomach. No, that couldn’t happen. Please, God. Protect us from such a disaster.
But Elizabeth was watching her carefully, so Keziah forced a brightness she didn’t feel despite the sudden worry. Even though her body was tired, she’d never felt more vibrant or alive. God would protect her if she was doing his work, wouldn’t he?
Waving a hand in dismissal, she chuckled. “Too many late nights reading, I suppose.” Guilt pricked her for the ease with which the lie slid from her lips.
The housekeeper clucked her tongue, but her smile was all affection. “Well, you best be sleeping tonight.”
Keziah smiled. “I’ll do that.”
As the servant swept out the door, Keziah studied the letters in her fingers. The bold, masculine script slapped her awake. Nathaniel. She would know his penmanship anywhere.
A pang of longing pinched, and she glanced at the other letter, her hopes crashing into disappointment when she saw the loopy handwriting: her cousin’s in Port Royal. Not Micah’s. Again.
She wanted to kick herself for being so ridiculous. He’d never promised to write, nor had she imposed such a demand. He owed her nothing. They were childhood companions. That was it. Nothing more.
Yet why did her heart crave even one word from his hand?
Angry at herself for the desire, she shook her head. She was only concerned for his safety, after all. It would have been nice to know that he hadn’t been blown into tinder while treating the wounded. Was the decency of a line or two to let her know he lived too preposterous a thing to ask?
Forcing herself to breathe calmly, she uncurled her clenched fingers and opened the letter from her cousin, saving her brother’s message for last. Like savory roast and creamed potatoes after a sip of too-sweet lemonade.
As she unfolded the stiff paper, Cousin Jennie’s flamboyant scrawl greeted her. Memories of her larger-than-life cousin danced across her mind, eliciting a smile at her silly antics and wild personality.
My dearest Keziah,
I am certain by now you’ve heard of our terrible ordeal, and as one well aware of her own propensity for exaggeration, I say this with level certainty: I never dreamed I would behold the hideous sight of the Stars and Stripes flying over our own forts. The Yankees have taken our beautiful town, as I am sure the papers have reported.
I praise Providence that the battle was largely naval, most of the fighting retained to our port ships, but my heart nearly fainted for fear when the reports came—the Yanks took both Fort Walker and Fort Beauregard. Father is livid, as you can well imagine. There are some reports of Yankee misdeeds throughout Port Royal, primarily theft and destruction of property, but for the most part they are keeping to themselves. Still, I shall never become accustomed to the sight of those lecherous villains strolling through my lovely town wearing their mocking blue and snide superiority. Save me, dear Cousin!
Could you take me into your home for a chummy visit? Father staunchly refuses to leave the house, fearing it will fall into Union hands, but does not like me surrounded by our dreadful enemies. I feel stifled here. There are no parties, no silks or laces, no fun to be had. Rescue me, dearest. I long for your beautiful smile and the dazzling charm and innocence of Savannah.
Please write posthaste. I shall wait, be it ever so impatiently, for word.
Your cousin,
Jennie
Keziah felt an odd mix of emotions as she lowered the letter. She yearned to see her unpredictable, jovial cousin, whose ability to brighten any occasion would be a boon during the drudgery and anxiety of war, albeit sometimes a tad obnoxious. But one more person in the house meant one more person she would have to hide her clandestine activities from, provided she continued to be trusted to transport passengers to Mr. Brothers.
She laid Jennie’s message aside and unfolded Nathaniel’s missive. His clean, blunt letters were a sharp contrast to her cousin’s.
Dear Keziah,
I pray you, Mother, and Father are all faring well. I am as well as can be expected. Daily food rations are monotonous, sometimes inedible. We feast mainly on hardtack, beans, coffee, and occasionally a bit of meat that looks too blue to eat. Imagine our delight to see a delivery of vegetables last week, only to have our hopes plummet when they were, as my friend declared them, desecrated. It could be worse. At least we have something to fill our bellies.
We drill and march, drill and march again. I shall not tell you more of war itself. Such things no lady should ever hear. Do not despair, for we have fun sometimes too. A favorite among the fellows is a game I had heard of, yet never played, called baseball. We divide up into two teams and fashion a small ball as best we can out of items in our knapsacks: rolled-up socks, strips of leather, and the like. We lay three sacks out in a diamond pattern. They are called the bases. The hurler throws the ball toward a man on the opposing team who tries to hit the ball with a long stick. If the striker whacks it far enough, sometimes he can manage to run around all three bases and still make it back home, ensuring a point for his team. We have great fun with this when moments allow, though the competition is fierce. I hear the Yankees are great hands at this particular game and were the ones who introduced it. Perhaps they do have one merit after all.
Give Mother a kiss, and on Father bestow a hearty handshake that will suffice until I am able to do so. It needs be a manly one, Keziah. I must strive to let him think the best of me.
Sincerely,
Nathaniel
She folded the letter, wishing it were Nathaniel who would be coming home, not Jennie. She pushed away the uncharitable thought. Nathaniel was doing what he thought he must. Jennie couldn’t help that she had been pampered her entire life. When the spoiled met with discomfort, everyone suffered.
She rose with a sigh, stretching her stiff limbs, and walked resolutely toward her father’s study. She would inform him of Jennie’s request and the decision would be in his hands, just as it always was. And she would have to deal with the repercussions, just as she always did.
Late that evening, Keziah clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering as she huddled deeper into the recesses of the wool shawl covering her head and torso. Tonight’s cold snap was an unwelcome change. Behind the cover of thick-waisted tree trunks and brittle bushes, she left the quaking Negro couple to hunker for warmth while she traversed the small distance between the line of trees and the secret door of Brothers’s shop. She exhaled a puff of frosty air and pushed against the concealed latch, expecting it to give way to the dark warmth waiting inside. It didn’t budge.
Odd. She frowned and pushed again, giving the stubborn door a more forceful shove, but it stayed firm. Immovable. Glancing around, she saw no lights, the lantern Mr. Brothers usually kept lit in his southern window black as pitch. Something was wrong. Was he ill? Or perhaps he was being watched.
The thought pricked her heart with alarm and she hurried back to the cover of trees, feeling the meager heat of the couple in the bushes. The moon was bright. Far too bright for her to attempt entering the front, exposed as it was to curious eyes. But where could she take the shivering couple?
The church. First African Baptist. That’s where Brothers took them, after all. But how would she get in? There must be some kind of hidden entrance. Perhaps a trapdoor? Or a secret tunnel?
She felt a tug on her sleeve, and the slave woman’s bony, frigid fingers brushed her skin. Keziah wrapped the woman’s hands within her own, trying to impart whatever heat she could. Keeping her voice barely audible, she murmured, “Something is wrong. I’ll have to take you to the church myself.”
The husband’s low voice whispered, “We trust you.”
Keziah swallowed hard. What if she failed? What if something happened? What if bounty hunters and retrievers were watching them even now?
I will not live in the land of what-ifs. God’s not there. He is I am.
/> The thought bolstered her waning confidence. She plucked up her courage, patted the woman’s hand, and took the first step toward the church. Another precarious footfall to their freedom.
She prayed with all her heart it truly was the pathway to freedom and not a trap.
When they were finally just a stone’s throw from the church, Keziah surveyed the building from the thick bushes, sucking in a bitter pull of air. The side entrance was not an option, bathed as it was in the moon’s silver luminescence. She squinted, trying to see if there were any doors near the back of the church. Not from what she could tell.
Motioning the couple to follow, she wordlessly crept around to the rear of the large building. There! In the darkness she could barely distinguish the outline of a small window near the bottom. To the basement, perhaps? It had to be. If there was another entrance, she wasn’t aware of it. This would have to do. At least it would get the weary slaves ushered into warmth.
Breaking away from the seclusion of the comforting shadows, she crossed to the basement window and felt its cold edges as best she could with her stiff fingers. Surely there must be a latch of some sort. . . .
She hissed in pain as something sharp sliced through her index finger. She put the burning finger in her mouth and tasted blood.
There was nothing to be done for it. The slaves were all that mattered now.
She eased her throbbing finger from her lips with a grimace and kept searching for a way to open the window. Four corners and two diagonal nails. Suppressing a growl of frustration, she yanked at the first nail and her heart froze when it wiggled. It was loose! She jerked it back and forth, nearly squealing with relief when it pulled free.
Now if only the other nail would slide out as easily. Tugging, she exhaled a whoosh of air when the nail gave way. Her fingers were sticky with smears of warm blood from her cut, but she didn’t care. She rose on shaking legs and darted back into the bushes, grasping the woman’s hand and guiding her along, the man on their heels. As they approached the church, she pointed to the open window, and in the darkness she felt rather than saw the man nod.
He knelt, helping his petite wife through the window. She slid through the small space easily, but Keziah still held her breath, fearing the muscular slave would have a more difficult time. He offered to help Keziah through first, but she shook her head and murmured, “Go with your wife. I will follow.”
With another curt nod, he lowered himself through the window without so much as a grunt, though squeezing through took considerably more effort than it did for his wife. Once he was safe, Keziah lifted the hem of her skirt, thankful it was devoid of hoops for this midnight excursion. She could see nothing but inky blackness but prepared to dangle her foot inside when a hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream of terror. A strong arm snaked around her waist, pulling her backward.
Clawing at the iron arms encircling her, she tried to scream but a low, masculine voice hissed near her ear.
“Not a sound or I’ll knock you out cold.”
Micah tightened his grip around the soft slimness of the woman in his arms, though her body had grown still at his harsh whisper. Guilt stabbed him. He had no intention of hurting her, whoever she was, but lives were counting on him. If she was an informant, this entire line of the Railroad would be compromised.
It wasn’t until he began dragging her into the cover of the trees that she stiffened once more. She arched her back, fighting with a strength that surprised him. He drew her farther, clenching his jaw when her boot landed a well-placed blow to his shin.
Sucking in a breath, he lost his hold for a moment. The woman whirled around, pummeled his chest with her fists. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her against the trunk of a wide tree, his breath erratic. The woman he held fared no better, panting and squirming against his hold.
“Please, please let me go.”
The frantic whisper pierced him and he froze. It couldn’t be.
But he’d know her voice anywhere. He swallowed hard. Please, Lord, no.
“Kizzie?”
CHAPTER 8
KEZIAH’S HEART HAMMERED, pounding like the soldiering drummers’ relentless strikes as they paraded through the streets each week. Her breath stuck in her throat. Surely not . . .
The anguished whisper from the man’s lips shredded her as he spoke her name once more. “Kizzie, please tell me—”
“Micah?”
The stranger gentled his hold, though it never had been cruel, only firm. “What in blue blazes are you doing here?”
She didn’t know whether to hug him or strangle him, cling to him or scream at him. So she scalded him with a hot whisper. “I could ask the same of you. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you to watch your language!”
Not knowing any way out of her predicament, she turned in an attempt to flee, but his hand clamped down on her wrist. She attempted to break free, but he held fast.
“Let me go!”
He pulled her roughly to him, and she collided with the solid muscle of his chest. His warm breath tickled her ear. “You’re in danger here. Follow me and stop fussing. Paddy rollers are nearby even as we speak.”
Paddy rollers? Terror snaked through her. Horrible men. Nothing more than bounty hunters with a fondness for violence and an insatiable thirst for money. What would they do with her, an unmarried, unarmed woman alone? She licked her lips as blood pulsed in her temples. What about the frightened couple she’d just sent into the church? If they were to be captured . . .
Her stomach constricted. They would be whipped, probably to the point of death. The responsibility she’d so easily embraced suddenly pressed into her chest like a hot iron. She’d presumed too much. How could someone like her possibly help? Now her foolishness might cost those poor souls their hope, their freedom. Maybe even their lives.
Sliding his fingers down to grasp hers, Micah tugged her forward with an urgent whisper. “Come.”
Cold nipped at her nose and fingers, but she nodded silently as they hurried across the street and crept their way through the brittle leaves littering the the square. Micah’s hand swallowed hers and his warmth took away the tightness in her jaw.
Moments later, he froze and squeezed her hand tightly, issuing a silent command for quiet. Her breath hitched as they listened. Waiting.
Muttered curses. The nicker of a horse. Someone was out there, looking. For her? For the slaves?
Micah ushered her into a grove of trees, easing her to the ground as he sat down beside her, his body rigid. She nearly gasped when his finger brushed across her lips. She knew. No talking. If it were possible, no breathing.
The sound of crunching leaves grew louder, closer.
The hiss of a sneering masculine voice caused her pulse to hitch.
“Come out, come out wherever you are . . .”
A soft chuckle sounded farther away but no less menacing. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to calm her racing heart. At least she heard no baying dogs in pursuit, a mercy for which she was most thankful.
Agonizing minutes ticked by, thick moments when she dared not draw a deep breath for fear of being discovered. Micah’s solid, warm presence beside her kept her grounded. Her fingers and toes grew numb, and a nagging sleepiness crept over her as the voices moved away and the air became silent.
She startled when Micah shifted beside her, his soft voice propelling her stiff muscles into submission. “They’re gone. For now.” Wrapping his fingers around hers, he led her forward. “Follow me.”
“Where?” The frigid air burning her lungs nearly caused her to choke on the strangled whisper.
“To safety.”
Micah bit back a growl at the smirk Ma Linnie gave him when he ushered a shuddering Kizzie into the older matron’s dingy pub in the dead of night. No one else seemed to notice their entrance. A boisterous group of bearded men occupied the center table, engaged in their pasteboards and cider. Groans rose up as four queens were laid down on the worn table, ending t
he game with growls of frustration. Another man lay facedown on a lone table in the corner, his grizzled beard bunched up under him as his loud snores punctuated the dank air. No other patrons could be seen.
Moving to grasp Kizzie’s elbow, Micah steered her gently to the scarred oak bar, noting how her eyes seemed too large, her face too pale. What on earth was she doing outside the church in the middle of the night? There were only two reasons he could fathom, and neither was good.
And now she’d seen him. It was far too risky for her to be anywhere near him, let alone clinging to his arm in the Cold Oyster Pub. He pushed down the panic clawing up his middle. His concern was to ensure her safe return home. She had no business associating with him. None. But how could he now protect her and keep his distance at the same time?
Ma Linnie’s round face creased into a wide smile, her gray eyes twinkling. “The Lord be praised. Doc Greyson went and claimed himself a wife!”
Micah glared at the meddlesome, albeit kindhearted, older woman as she snickered under her tight mobcap. Kizzie stiffened at his side.
Ma Linnie gave him a teasing wink and patted Kizzie’s hands. “And what a beauty she is too! Mercy, her hands are cold as Lincoln’s heart.” Motioning around the bar, the plump woman tittered and ushered them to the back. “Come with me, dearie, and I’ll get you all warmed up by the kitchen fire. You’ll at least gain a reprieve from these coarse menfolk.”
Micah followed behind and through the swinging door to the warm comfort of the dim kitchen. A lone tallow candle danced and flickered on the worktable. Ma Linnie ushered Kizzie into a rickety spindle chair and whirled, dropping the pretense she’d maintained in the front room.
“Land o’ Goshen, this poor thing is half-frozen. What happened out there, Micah?”
He rubbed his palm against the back of his neck, trying to knead the tight muscles. “I was near the church when I heard a couple of paddy rollers. I was sneaking around, trying to lose them, when I ran into Miss Montgomery here.”
