Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad

by Judith Redline Coopey

  I hesitated, but a look at my drooping passengers made me accept. “Thank you. Yes.”

  We sat in the buggy under a huge Chestnut tree, grateful for the shade. In a few minutes our hostess was back with four glasses of root beer on a tray. As I loosened my bonnet, I realized my passengers couldn’t do the same. I hesitated, but Abby jumped down and took the tray from the woman’s hands. She ran around to the other side and handed a glass to me and a second to one of the ladies in back. Returning, she handed the third glass to the other passenger and took the fourth herself.

  She turned to our hostess. “Is that a rose garden I see out back?” she asked. “Would you show it to me? I just love roses.” She neatly lured the woman way from the buggy, giving the rest of us a chance to drink. In a short while they were back, Abby having been given the full tour.

  “They don’t mind waiting,” Abby was telling the woman. “Their sister, my Aunt Hattie, died, and they’ve come for the funeral, but they don’t care much for her husband, so the later they get there, the better.”

  “Oh? Where did their sister live?”

  “Out by Duncansville,” Abby replied, remembering another sign post she’d seen.

  “Four women traveling alone,” the woman remarked with a worried frown.

  “Oh, don’t worry ’bout us. Ma’s sisters are widows. Pa couldn’t get away from the farm, but we get on fine without any men,” Abby assured her. “Well, thanks for the refreshments and the tour. We’ll be goin’ now.” She climbed back up in the buggy, waved to the woman, and I turned the team toward the road. As we moved slowly back up the road to town, we looked at each other and sighed with relief

  Back in Hollidaysburg, close to four o’clock, we turned in again at the Thaddeus Burns house. This time a young man opened the door.

  “Are you Thaddeus Burns?” I asked, relieved not to have to deal with the maid again but still wary of dealing with someone I didn’t know.

  “No, I’m his son, Daniel. How can I help you?”

  I looked at his open, young face and decided to trust him enough to begin the conversation.

  “I’ve a delivery for Mr. Burns from Jesse Redfield.”

  “Of Alum Bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come in! You’ve come a long way today,” he smiled.

  In the parlor, I explained my errand as Daniel listened, nodding. His kind response reassured me, and my apprehensions melted away. When we emerged from the house, he drove the buggy into his father’s stable. Inside, he helped our passengers down and ushered them into the tack room. They took off their bonnets, their faces glistening with sweat.

  “As soon as it’s safe, I’ll take you down to the cellar,” he told them. “This is a pretty quiet town. No one will even notice you’re here. We’ll move you on tomorrow without any problem.”

  I sighed with relief, and Abby giggled nervously.

  “You say you’re going on to Altoona?” Daniel asked.

  I nodded.

  “Well, you’d better go, then. It’s only about a half hour, but you look like that’s about all that’s left in you.”

  “Do you think you can find them some other clothes for tomorrow? I want to keep those in case we need them again. I can stop for them on my way home.”

  “I’m sure we can. I’ll leave them with the maid so you can pick them up.”

  I must have grimaced at the mention of the maid, because Daniel laughed. “Once she knows the nature of your business, she’ll be your friend for life.”

  We thanked him, said goodbye to our charges, and followed his directions to Altoona, which proved to be the boom town Rachel had described, full of building and bustle. The railroad was changing life as we knew it, and Altoona was a hub of activity, building locomotives and railroad cars as fast as its workers could turn them out.

  We had no trouble finding Rachel and Jacob’s house, and Rachel, radiant with the joy of marriage, was delighted to see us. Of course she was taken back by our costumes and my condition, but I parried her questions until she gave up asking. Then we talked and giggled like school girls. There was so much to catch up on.

  Jacob arrived soon after we did and, with a long and meaningful glance at my belly, said, “Looks like some of us have been busy.”

  I blushed, wondering whether this visit was a good idea. But I longed be with my sister, so I bore his leering and unkind remarks without comment. Fortunately, he went out for a drink with his friends soon after supper and left us alone.

  We spent the evening in quiet talk, Rachel anxious to show off her home and Jacob’s prosperity. Giving only the essential details about the real reason for our trip, I caught Rachel up on the Quaker settlement since her departure. Abby mostly listened, speaking only when spoken to, leading me to marvel at the change in her. The talk went on until quite late, about everything except the most obvious: my impending motherhood.

  Chapter 13

  1855 – Fall

  A beautiful autumn came to Bedford County. The flow of fugitives dropped off somewhat, but still they came, singly or in pairs. Because of my condition, Jesse took care of most of it by himself, with occasional help from Abby, who had brought her meager belongings and taken up residence at Redfield Farm after the July trip to Hollidaysburg.

  “Ann needs me,” she said.

  I took to staying inside as my time neared, but still attended Weekly Meeting. My condition was obvious, and it was only a matter of time before a committee would be assigned to look into my case. I accepted this as a matter of fact. Friends were not vindictive, but transgressions must be dealt with.

  I loved being a Quaker. Our plain ways suited me. I was comfortable in myself, going about life in concert with my inner light. I loved the silence of Meeting, and I loved it when someone, moved by strong conviction, held forth about some issue. This sharing of sense and sentiment bonded us in ways that other religions couldn’t. I loved the doctrine of equality: Man was not above woman, nor was any man above another. I loved the Quaker tradition of educating girls as well as boys, an uncommon practice in those days.

  So I accepted that the Meeting would have to take action. I expected them to be fair and was resigned to abide by the result. If I was read out of meeting, I could apply for reinstatement. It was simply a matter of time . . . time, I knew, during which I would be expected to ponder the gravity of my actions and resolve not to repeat them. Little enough recompense since I had done aught else but ponder the gravity of my actions since January.

  One afternoon as I was going over this in my mind I looked out the window and saw Pru Hartley standing in the yard, hands on her hips, staring at the house. What could she want? I opened the door, and stood in the doorway, shading my eyes. “Hello, Pru.”

  She stood in that challenging posture, daring me to step outside. I wasn’t sure what to expect, given that almost every interaction we’d ever had had been mean spirited. I stayed in the doorway.

  “Well, they’s right about you. You are standin’ behind a baby, sure ’nough. Big as a house, I’d say.”

  I colored. Pru certainly had a way of saying what was on her mind. I stood dumbfounded, not sure how to respond.

  “Whatcha got to say fer yerself now, Missus Prim and Proper? Didn’t git that by follerin’ the Quaker teachin’s now, did ya?”

  I had a notion to go inside and slam the door, but I couldn’t seem to make myself move. It was as if I felt her abuse was somehow my due. I stood in dumb silence for long seconds before I found my voice. Actually it was William Penn’s voice I found. “See what love can do.”

  “Sounds like you’re weary, Pru. Why don’t you come inside and have a piece of bread? I baked this morning.” It was a spineless response in the face of her tirade, but I didn’t feel like a fight. I hoped kindness would turn away wrath.

  To my surprise, she moved toward the porch, looking almost shame-faced. “Don’t mind if I do. Ain’t et yet today.”

  She stepped into the kitchen, accompanied by a str
ong body odor, and sat down at the table, casting a scrutinizing gaze about the room. It was the first time she’d been in our house since Mother died. Mother felt sorry for the poor, neglected Hartley children, and had done her best to ease their way. She’d invited them to her Quaker school, and, even though their attendance was sporadic and their attention short, she’d made over them every time one of them showed up. I hadn’t been as charitable, given that Pru antagonized me at every turn, and I usually did my best to avoid her.

  “Where are your children today, Pru?”

  “To home! Where else would they be?”

  “Can you leave them alone? Aren’t they young for that?”

  “Don’t you go tellin’ me how to raise my own young ’uns!” She scowled with indignation. “We’ll see how you do. You an’ yer high and mighty ways!”

  Ignoring the insult, I cut off a big slice of bread and buttered it. Pru was looking for a fight, and I was resolved not to give her one. I put the bread in front of her and poured hot water for tea. Obviously ravenous, she looked around the room as she stuffed big chunks of bread into her mouth. I wondered if she was looking for something to steal, then admonished myself for my lack of charity.

  Watching her eat, I felt a slight compassion—very slight. She was ragged, dirty, and half starved. Her dress was torn, and her only wrap against the cold was an old shawl that had to have been her mother’s. She wore shoes barely worthy of the name, so run down and cracked her bare feet showed. She saw me watching her and drew herself up.

  “I’ll have another slice,” she announced “and honey on it, too.”

  I rose to get it for her, wondering where this visit was taking us. “Could you use some potatoes and carrots? We’ve got more than we need. Our garden was huge this year.”

  “I’ll take ‘em if ya got’em,” she replied between bites of bread. I gave her a feed sack and told her to help herself in the root cellar on her way home. Then I wrapped up the rest of the bread in a cloth and handed it to her. “Here. Your children will likely want some of this.”

  Pru didn’t know how to show gratitude. There was always a threatening edge to her thanks. Like you owed it to her, and if you didn’t give it there’d be hell to pay.

  She guzzled down her tea and picked up the bag. “I’ll be goin’ now. You take care, honey.” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and was gone. I watched her after she came out of the root cellar, making her way down the hill with the sack on her back. She really was a sad soul, in spite of her meanness. Ever since her drunken father died and her brothers had wandered off, she was alone, at the mercy of whoever or whatever happened along.

  Ï

  I kept up my correspondence with Rachel, Mary, other Friends and relatives, and, of course, Josiah. He wrote about once a month, his writing improving with each letter. He was now teaching other ex-slaves and their children to read. He asked me to recommend books for him, and I did so gladly, even sending him a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, a book passed from hand to hand among the Quakers and often discussed after Meeting. The fact that it was written by a woman made it more meaningful for me.

  Josiah’s letters were full of the joy of freedom and the loneliness of his solitary life. Once or twice he mentioned meeting someone who had passed through our hands, for ex-slaves loved to share the stories of their escapes. The connection gave us both joy. He asked after my health, and Jesse’s, ever mindful of his debt to us, ever grateful for the gifts of life, freedom, and literacy.

  I walked the half mile to Ben’s house at least twice a week to visit Rebecca. Ben had built on last summer; they needed more space to house five children. The house was now simply two log cabins joined by a large kitchen. There was much finishing to do, and Ben worked on it as he had time. Rebecca was delighted with it and proud of the five sturdy children who filled it.

  Visiting Rebecca was awkward because she, like everybody else, wondered when and by whom I’d gotten pregnant. But, true to her nature, she waited for me to open up. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about Josiah, even to her.

  Elias built a house about a half mile on the other side of Ben’s, and Melissa, being a stranger to the area, also relied on Rebecca for friendship and advice. At first it was awkward when the three of us chanced to come together—mostly for me—but after two or three meetings, we settled into a comfortable, if not intimate, friendship.

  Melissa was only twenty, far from all that was familiar, and much in love with Elias. A naïve girl, she didn’t suspect my earlier devotion to her husband. I liked her more than I thought I could, given the circumstances.

  One day in mid-October, while Rebecca and I had our heads together over a quilt, the door opened and Melissa entered, unannounced. “Brrrrr! I think Bedford County is colder than Franklin County.” She unwrapped a scarf from around her bonnet, smiling at us. “I’ve wonderful news,” she revealed. “I’m going to have a baby!”

  Rebecca made a great fuss, congratulating her and promising to pass along baby clothes and a cradle, while I forced a smile and a hug. Melissa, full of chatter, sat down to quilt. She talked almost without ceasing, mostly about Elias, giving personal and intimate details that made me squirm. Yet she was so innocent and trusting that even I had to like her in spite of everything.

  “Oh, Annie, our babies will be friends! They’ll play together, grow up together. And who knows? Maybe even marry!”

  I cringed at being called Annie, but I smiled and nodded at Melissa’s innocent speculation. She was so child-like, I understood how Elias fell in love with her, even though the wound still hurt.

  After a short time, I rose and called to Abby, visiting in the kitchen with Deborah, and we started back through Ben’s newly planted orchard for home. All the way, I was quiet, thinking about Elias and what might have been. I knew I didn’t love him anymore. Knew the infatuation had died abruptly in January, but I still longed for the fullness of life that included a husband, a father for my child, more children, and a home of my own. None of that was possible now. No man would want me.

  We arrived home to find Papa and the boys in a political discussion with Will McKitrick, who’d stopped for a visit on his way home from Alum Bank.

  “I tell you, war is coming,” Will was saying. “The South isn’t going to give up their slaves, and the North won’t stand by and let them spread slavery to the new territories. Sooner or later we’ll fight.”

  “The South will see the light before that,” Amos assured him. “They’re losing property daily. They can’t continue with a system so flawed.”

  “It depends on what the western states do,” Jesse added, “if they come into the Union for slavery or free.”

  “I think Will’s right,” Nathaniel asserted. “All three of us could end up fighting.”

  “Quakers are pacifists!” Amos thundered. “No son of mine will take up arms! Mark my words. If war comes, thee will not go!”

  I moved to turn the conversation in a different direction. “Will, has Betsy made apple butter this fall?”

  Amos looked at me, offended at my interruption, then back to Nathaniel. “Hear me, now, Nathaniel. Thee will not go!”

  Will turned to me. “Yes, she and my sister Virginia made a huge batch last Tuesday. Do you need any?”

  “No. I was going to send her some, but it sounds like she has plenty. Tell her Pru Hartley’s in a bad way. She could probably use some if you have extra.”

  Will scowled, but promised to tell Betsy. “She told me to invite you for a visit. Will you?”

  I hesitated. I missed my sister, but my time was near. “Maybe another time, Will. I’ve too much to do this week.”

  “All right. I’ll bring her along next week.” Picking up his hat, he nodded to Papa and the boys and left.

  Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I was suddenly doubled over by a long, contracting pain. I reached for the table to steady myself, trying to look normal. I fooled no one. Jesse jumped up.

  “Is this it? Are you la
boring?”

  “I might be,” I nodded. “It’s time and the pain is great.”

  “Should we send for help?”

  “Just send Abby for Rebecca. She’ll know when it’s time to send for Hannah.”

  Abby was out the door before I finished. I clung to Jesse’s arm, and when the pain subsided, I climbed the stairs alone. Jesse followed, just in case. He helped me sit down on my bed, watching intently for signs of more pain.

  “Ann,” he whispered desperately, “Please tell me who the father is. I’ll go get him, whoever or wherever he is. He should be here.”

  “Never mind, Jesse. There’s nothing you can do. Just leave me now. I’ll get myself into bed.”

  Reluctantly he went back downstairs. I changed into my nightgown and crawled heavily into bed. I had no idea how long this would take. I only knew that I needed help and wanted it to be over. They would know soon enough who the father was.

  Then Abby was back with Rebecca, who pulled up a chair by my bed, held my hand, and spoke softly to me.

  “You’ll be fine, Sister. I’m here to repay your services, hoping this delivery will be free of constables and slave catchers!”

  I laughed. Rebecca had no idea of the irony of it. I labored through the afternoon, Abby and Rebecca hovering close. At about five o’clock, Rebecca called down to Jesse to go for the midwife. By the time he returned more than an hour later, things were progressing rapidly.

  Hannah took charge, and with the help of Abby and Rebecca, delivered me of a strong, healthy son with lots of black hair and broad features. His skin, light at birth, darkened somewhat, but, being three quarters white, remained a soft creamy beige.