Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad

by Judith Redline Coopey

  I sought out Preston one evening, longing to touch him and re-establish our bond. It was not threatened—no, it was strengthened by exposure to the broad texture of my family and my life before him. I simply needed to touch him—physically and spiritually—before going out among them again.

  “There is very little peace to be found here tonight,” I told him as we walked among the trees of Ben’s orchard.

  “Very little,” he agreed. “Praise be to God.”

  Peter McKitrick jumped out of an apple tree a few feet in front of us with a shout. He was met by a barrage of crab apples flipped from sticks in the hands of Ben’s twins, Jeremiah and Jonas. Somewhere a few rows over, Sam came pounding down between the trees, pelting Paul McKitrick with apples as he ran.

  “I was looking for some quiet, just for a few moments,” I said doubtfully.

  “Yes, well, you might have to go a ways for that,” Preston smiled.

  “Will you take a little walk with me?”

  “Of course. Are you disturbed about something?”

  “No. Just needing you. That’s all.”

  He took my hand and held it to his face. “Let’s go down by the creek.”

  Passing through Ben’s orchard gate, we followed the well worn path down over the hill. This was a favorite place for us for over a year now. We sat down on the same log we had sat on that July eve more than a year ago, quietly watching the moon reflected on the rippling water.

  “It’s beautiful, you know,” I told him.

  “What is?”

  “Life. Beautiful in its beginning. Beautiful in its ending. Beautiful because it goes on. Because when you think it’s over, it has just begun. One life ends and another begins, and we are all a part of it. None immune to its sufferings; none excluded from its joys. It’s all there for the taking.”

  “I love your perspective on things.” He smiled, holding my hand against his thigh.

  A twig snapped off to the left, and we peered out of the woodlot to see Sam walking purposefully along the creek path. He approached us, stopping at a respectful distance.

  “Ann Redfield?” he asked. “May I talk with you?”

  Preston rose, with a questioning look at me. I nodded as he stepped away, passing the boy on the path. Sam moved silently to my side, and positioned himself on the log.

  “Miss Ann Redfield?”

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Yes, Sam. What is it?”

  He sat beside me in silence, looking down at the ground. It seemed he was gathering his courage. Then . . . “Are you my mother?”

  Taken aback by the directness of his question, I hesitated. “Yes, Sam, I am. But how do you know that?”

  “I just know it. You had to be somebody special. All those letters and packages. Papa all the time talking to me about you.” He turned away and looked down the path, very quiet. I watched him, concerned that this knowledge not hurt him. “I’m lighter than Papa and Lettie. That always made me wonder, especially since the “Three As” are darker, too.” He reached in his pocket and brought out the watch I’d given him at the boat dock in Erie. “Then there’s this.”

  I smiled. “When did they give it to you?”

  “They didn’t. I found it in a trunk when I was ten, wrapped in some baby clothes. I knew it wasn’t from Lettie. That got me wondering. All the wondering pointed to you, but I didn’t know why.”

  “Do you want to know why?”

  The boy nodded, seriously. “Yes, Ma’am. I do.”

  So we sat alone on the log, watching the waters of Dunning’s Creek while I related the story of Josiah and me and the baby, Sam.

  “Your name is Samuel Redfield Colton. Did you know that?”

  “Yes. I knew it, but I thought it was because you saved my daddy.”

  “It’s a custom to give a boy his mother’s maiden name as a middle name.”

  “So Jesse is my uncle?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. And Polly, your baby, is my half sister?”

  “Yes. She’s related to you like Ann, Athena and Amanda.”

  He smiled. “I’d like a half-brother, please!”

  I laughed. “We’ll see what we can do.” I watched his young face, his quick mind taking it all in. “I would have told you sometime, Sam. I was waiting until you were older. Josiah or I would have told you.”

  He was silent for a long time. “I’m sorry you had to give me up.”

  “I’m sorrier for that than anything else I can think of. It was the hardest thing I ever did. But, look at you! Look how you turned out—how good your life has been with your father and Lettie.”

  “Lettie’s good to me.”

  “I knew she was a fine person from the start, or I couldn’t have given you to her.”

  Again a long silence. I moved closer to my son and put my arm around him. “You’re so precious to me, Sam. I don’t expect you to understand all this as deeply as you will later. But I hope you’ll think I did the right thing. There is ugliness in the world, and the best thing is to fight the ugliness any way we can. Sometimes that means putting what is most precious out of its reach.”

  Sam nodded. “I’m not mad at you.”

  “Thank you, Sam. I love you.”

  “Uh huh. I know. I love you, too.”

  We walked back along the path to Redfield Farm, mother and son, together.

  Afterword

  No one ever came back to the Hartley place. I often wondered about Sawyer, Cooper, and Pru’s boys. The house fell apart. The roof caved in and the porch rotted away. The last time I saw it, someone had torn it down to salvage a few logs for a pig sty and left the rest lay. I don’t get down over the hill much anymore.

  Attendance at Meeting fell off after the war. So many people moved west, and cities beckoned with the promise of good jobs and an easier life. The Quaker community shrank over the years. There are only a few of us left now, but I still find comfort there. Everyone needs a place to belong, and that is mine.

  My time with Preston was short. In June of ’75 he was up on the hay wagon, forking hay into the barn, when he fell to the ground and never got up. They said it was apoplexy. I didn’t know. All I knew was, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

  Polly was the only child Preston and I had. She lives in Bedford now, married to a doctor. Has four little ones of her own to tend to, a houseful of energy and noise. She’ll fret about me all alone out here on the farm now that Jesse’s gone, but I’ve given her to understand that this is the only place for me.

  Ben’s youngsters are scattered all around the country. The girls all married. Jonas took over the farm, raising and breeding horses. He stops by every day to keep an eye on me. I’m thankful for that. And their baby Micah’s a senator in the state legislature. Course he always did have a way about him. Friendly, likable. Kind of like his Uncle Jesse. Ben died in his early sixties, some said from overwork, but Rebecca lived on into her seventies. Died just a year ago. I sorely miss her.

  James Buchanan Schilling got himself sent to West Point and became a soldier. Always was fascinated with soldiers. Last I heard, he was stationed over in the Philippines. I keep a globe on the shelf in the kitchen so I can keep track of where he goes. Fancy that. He’s a captain now, and who knows how far he’ll go?

  Our little Ellen is back in Altoona where she started life, with two young boys to raise alone. Her husband up and died around Christmas two years ago. Hard life for a woman raising children alone. She runs a boarding house to make ends meet.

  Baby John was a doctor, but he caught some kind of flu and died when he was only forty. They buried him up on that hill in Altoona, by his mother. He’d like that. Never did get enough mothering, it seemed.

  Josiah’s gone, too. Stopped to help a black man whose wagon was stuck in the mud and got kicked in the head by a scared horse. So sad. I grieved for him as much as any of them. But I saw to it that Sam got to go to college
up there in Ontario, and he became a real lawyer and was elected to the Provincial Parliament. I hear from him regularly. He’s married and has two lovely children. Lettie still lives with them. They visit now and again.

  Jesse lost Abby to childbirth in 1870—brought her back and buried her at Spring Meadow. Now, there was a good woman. If I hadn’t had my hands full here I’d probably have gone out to Indiana and helped him raise his children. As it was, he did it himself for five more years. Then he decided to come back and live here with me after Preston died. That was fine. No explanation needed between Jesse and me.

  Jesse never did sell his land out there in Indiana. His boys went back and took over the orchard. Now he’s gone to join Abby.

  It feels good to know they’re both here—not far away. I’ll be joining them in a couple of years. That’s where I’ve spent my life: two years behind Jesse.

  About the Author

  Judith Redline Coopey is a native of Pennsylvania and a student of Pennsylvania history. Her studies of family history created the background, characters and setting for Redfield Farm. A log cabin built around 1799 near Pleasantville by her great great great grandfather, Thomas Blackburn, is rumored to have been a station on the Underground Railroad, though no documentation exists. A summer spent working to prepare the cabin for restoration provided the inspiration for Redfield Farm. A graduate of The Pennsylvania State University and Arizona State University, she lives in Mesa, Arizona, with her husband and a beautiful German Shepherd named Mollie.