“There, now.” Belle slid her arm around Honor’s shoulders and held her tight until she had stopped. She did not ask what the tears were for.
“Guess what’s come to Wellington,” she said when Honor was quiet. “The train! Had her maiden run from Cleveland a couple weeks ago. Whole town was out to see it come in, and of course most of the ladies had to have new hats. Told you the train would bring business.”
“I would like to see it.”
“It’s like the biggest blackest snorting horse you ever saw. Did you know it goes fifteen miles an hour? Fifteen! Only two and a half hours to Cleveland. I’m gonna ride on it soon. You should come with me.”
Honor smiled.
“Oh, I brung your wedding present,” Belle said. “You didn’t think I’d come empty-handed, did you?”
“We—thee didn’t have to—I thank thee—Jack and I thank thee.” Honor went through a series of corrections to find the right words. In general, Quakers did not give gifts, as material possessions should not be given heightened status. But she did not want to criticize Belle’s generous gesture. And so she took the flat, paper-wrapped parcel tied with a blue ribbon.
“Go on, open it. You don’t have to wait for your husband. I didn’t come all this way not to see if you like ’em.”
Honor pulled off the ribbon and unwrapped the paper to find two linen pillowcases edged in fine lace. She was not meant to care, but she loved them.
“Here’s what I think,” Belle said. “Whatever’s happened to you during the day, as long as you got a nice pillowcase for your head at night, you’ll be all right. You got yourself a place to lay your head, Honor Haymaker. Things are lookin’ up.”
Faithwell, Ohio
8th Month 27th 1850
Dear Belle,
I am writing to thank thee for visiting me when I was ill. I am feeling better now, though still weak.
I thank thee too for the beautiful pillowcases thee has given Jack and me. No one has ever given me such a gift. I will treasure them, as I treasure the hand of friendship thee extends.
Thy faithful friend,
Honor Haymaker
Blackberries
A FEW DAYS later, when her head was clearer and she had regained her strength enough to be up and about, Honor found a response to Jack’s argument about slavery and cotton. It came so plainly to her mind that she wanted to pass it on before it lost its shine. And so at supper, to the astonishment of all three Haymakers, Honor spoke out without having been asked a question first. She was so eager to say what she was thinking, and so unused to leading a conversation, that she did not preface her words with any explanation. Into the silence—the Haymakers did not talk much when they ate—she stated, “Perhaps we should all pay a bit more for our cloth, so that cotton growers may use that extra money to pay the slaves, making them workers rather than slaves.”
The Haymakers stared at her. “I would pay a penny more a yard if I knew it was paying to dismantle slavery,” she added.
“I did not know thee had the pennies to be generous with,” Dorcas remarked.
Judith Haymaker passed her son a platter of ham. “Adam Cox would have to shut down his business if he raised the prices on the cloth he sold,” she said. “There are few pennies to spare these days. Besides, southerners would rather stop farming than pay their slaves a wage. It is not in their nature to make such a change.”
“‘The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself.’” Though she had heard the words many times, Honor spoke them without as much force as she would have liked.
Judith frowned. “Thee does not need to quote Leviticus at me, Honor. I know my Bible.”
Honor dropped her gaze, ashamed of her attempt to engage in a true discussion of the issue.
“We come from a slave state,” Judith continued. “We moved to Ohio from North Carolina ten years ago, as many Friends did at the time, for we could no longer live in the midst of slavery. So we understand the cast of the southern mind.”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to judge.”
“There are a few farmers in the South who have given their slaves freedom, or allowed them to buy it,” Jack conceded, “but they are rare. And it is difficult for free Negroes to find a living. Many come north, leaving families behind, to settle in places like Oberlin, which is more tolerant than most. But even in Oberlin they are a separate community, and those who have run away are not entirely safe. That is why we support colonization. It seems a better option.”
“What is colonization?”
“Negroes come originally from Africa, and they would be happier living back there, in a new country of their own.”
Honor was silent, thinking about this. She wondered how Jack knew what would make Negroes happy. Had he asked them?
* * *
She had an opportunity to do so herself the following week. Jack was driving the wagon to Oberlin to have a corn husker repaired, and Honor accompanied him. Ten days before she could not imagine having the strength to cross a room, much less go to town, but when the fever abated, her recovery was quick, as others told her it would be, and she was eager to go to Oberlin again. Adam had promised that once the harvest season was over, he would ask Jack if she might occasionally help him at the store on Sixth Days. She did not know what her husband would say: probably that she should learn about cows instead of fabric. Judith had said she would soon have her milking, which Honor dreaded, for the cows seemed big and alien. Because of her illness, so far she had remained in the house and garden, and managed to avoid the animals, with their insistent hunger and muck. She could not escape the smell, however.
Each time Honor’s life changed, she found she missed what she’d had before: first Bridport, then Belle Mills’s Millinery, now Cox’s Dry Goods. But there was no use in dwelling on what her life might have been: such thinking did not help. She had noticed that Americans did not speculate about past or alternative lives. They were used to moving and change: most had emigrated from England or Ireland or Germany. Ohioans had moved from the south or from New England or Pennsylvania; many would go farther west. Already since she had arrived in Faithwell three months before, two families had decided that after the harvest they would go west. Others would come from the east or south to take their place. Houses did not remain empty for long. Ohio was a restless state, full of movement north and west. Faithwell and Oberlin too had that restless feel. Honor had not noticed it when she first arrived, but now she was discovering that all was in flux, and it seemed to disturb only her.
In the center of town she and Jack parted, he to the blacksmith, Honor to Cox’s Dry Goods to say hello and search for fabric for a new quilt she was making for Dorcas. The boy was sitting out front, sharpening a pair of scissors; he barely looked up as she stepped inside. The shop had just one customer: Adam Cox was helping Mrs. Reed. Today she was wearing black-eyed Susans on her hat. Honor nodded to them both, and out of habit went over to one of the tables to fold and restack bolts of cloth. Gazing across the sea of colors, she was reminded of the discussion at supper several days earlier. She had always loved fabric, admiring the weaves and patterns and textures, imagining what she could make. A length of new cloth always held possibilities. Now, though, she understood that much of it was not innocent, unsullied material, but the result of a compromised world. To find fabric without the taint of slavery in it was difficult, as Jack had said; yet if she refused all cotton, she would have to wear only wool in the intense Ohio heat, or go naked.
“I will just step next door to get change,” Adam was saying to Mrs. Reed. “Honor, will thee look after the shop for a moment?”
“Of course.”
As they waited for Adam to return, Honor continued to fold, while Mrs. Reed walked around the tables, patting the odd bolt, letting her hand linger on the material.
“May I ask thee a question?” Honor ventured.
Mrs. Reed frowned. “What . . . ma’am?” Honor d
id not wear a wedding band, as Friends did not need such a reminder of their commitment; yet somehow Mrs. Reed knew she was married.
“Please call me Honor. We do not use ‘ma’am’—or ‘miss.’”
“All right. Honor. What you want to know?”
“What does thee think of colonization?”
Mrs. Reed let her mouth hang open for a moment. “What does I think of colonization?” she repeated.
Honor said nothing. Already she regretted asking the question.
Mrs. Reed snorted. “You an abolitionist? Lots of Quakers is.” She glanced around the empty shop, and seemed to reach a decision. “Abolitionists got lots o’ theories, but I’m livin’ with realities. Why would I want to go to Africa? I was born in Virginia. So was my parents and my grandparents and their parents. I’m American. I don’t hold with sending us all off to a place most of us never seen. If white folks jes’ want to get rid of us, pack us off on ships so they don’t have to deal with us, well, I’m here. This is my home, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Suddenly Adam was at Honor’s side. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Reed?”
“No, sir, no problem.” Mrs. Reed held out her hand to take the change, then nodded at him. “Good day to you.” She left without looking at Honor.
“Honor, thee must never discuss politics with customers,” Adam said in a low voice. “They will bring them up—Americans often do—but thee must remain neutral.”
Honor nodded, holding back tears. She felt as if she had been slapped twice.
* * *
A few days later Honor and Dorcas went to pick the last of the season’s blackberries at the brambles on the edge of Wieland Woods. Though it was still hot when the sun was overhead, the heat had had its back broken, and evenings were becoming cooler.
Honor’s sister-in-law was almost as tricky to get along with as Abigail had been. She mimicked Honor’s accent, took offense at offers of help, and did not attempt to include Honor in conversation. Honor tried to feel sorry for her. It must be hard to have a stranger in her home who brought disruption and difference, particularly since she had been expecting her own friend to take that place. As Honor expected, Caroline had recently announced she was going west. And a week before, Honor had moved from the sick room back to the bedroom she shared with Jack. It was next to Dorcas’s room, and she must be aware of what went on there. Although they were quiet, the rhythmic movements of their coupling shook the bed and wall, and Jack sometimes groaned softly. Honor was getting over the shock of the demands made on her body, and beginning to enjoy what they did together.
On her own, however, without anyone else to make a point to or her mother to perform for, Dorcas was friendlier. As they bent over the brambles, she chattered on about picking enough blackberries to make pies for an upcoming frolic, the last they would have before the push to harvest the corn and put up produce from the kitchen garden and the orchard. Blackberry-picking for a frolic was a frivolity they would soon have no time for.
Ohio blackberries were subtly different from what Honor knew: larger than English berries, and sweeter, but not as tasty, the sweetness masking their unique fruitiness. Honor was hoping to surprise the Haymakers with blackberry junket, a sieving of the berries to turn them into a thick paste that concentrated the nutty flavor. She began to suspect, however, that these berries would be better for jelly or cordial.
As she worked, Honor had been only half listening to Dorcas, but a pause made her look up. Her sister-in-law was standing motionless, arms held out stiff from her sides, her fingers splayed. A swarm of yellow jackets hovered around her. As Honor watched, frozen, the wasps seemed to reach a collective decision, and swooped. “Ow!” Dorcas yelped, then began to scream, her face swelling. “Get them off me! Honor, help!” she cried, swatting at her skirt.
In Dorset, tamed by centuries of settlement, the worst that had happened to Honor when she went for a walk was a nettle sting. The American landscape was much wilder, with more dangers and sudden crises. People responded to them methodically, digging storm cellars for tornadoes, shooting bears, lighting fires to smoke out caterpillars. Belle had shot the copperhead in her yard as if it were an everyday event, like swatting a fly or chasing rabbits from a vegetable patch. Honor knew she should do something equally competent. But, while she had been stung once or twice as a child, she had never had to cope with so many wasps, and had no idea what to do. When there was a pause in the yellow jackets’ attack, she had the presence of mind to take Dorcas’s arm and lead her away from the nest she had stepped on. A few of the yellow jackets briefly followed, one of them stinging Honor’s arm.
As she hesitated, a low voice spoke behind her. “Take her to the crick, strip her an’ roll her in the water. Then put mud on them stings.”
Honor turned around. A young black man was crouching by the brambles, his eyes flicking between Honor and Dorcas, whose face was now so swollen she could not see. He was sweating with nerves as much as heat, it seemed, and looked poised to run.
“Crick?” Honor whispered.
“The crick, yonder.” The man waved a hand deeper into Wieland Woods. “Cold water and mud’ll bring them stings down.” His eyes held Honor’s for a moment, his look bright and serious and fearful all in one. “Can you tell me which way to go? I get lost during the day without the northern star to follow.”
Honor hesitated, thinking of what Jack counseled her to do, and then pointed. “Oberlin, three miles that way. Ask any Negro for Mrs. Reed. She will help thee.” She was making this up, but she had to assume that Mrs. Reed would not turn the young man away.
He nodded. Then he smiled, a sudden flash of teeth that made their being out in the woods seem as if it were a game of Hide and Seek. It surprised Honor so much that she smiled back. She watched the man run off through the trees north toward Oberlin and freedom, and wished she had been able to give him some food for his journey.
She took a deep breath, then plunged into the forest, pulling Dorcas along in the direction the man had indicated. She had not gone into any woods since the trip between Hudson and Wellington with Thomas. She strode through the undergrowth, stepping on soft wet ground, nettles and brambles scratching at her. The woods turned out to be less frightening—and less thick—once you were in them, and had a destination.
They passed through a clump of beeches, with their smooth bark and the clear forest floor beneath them, and reached a stream. “Thee must take thy clothes off. Here, I will help thee.” Honor began unbuttoning Dorcas’s dress, and helped her out of her petticoat, yellow jackets falling out from the layers of clothes, some crushed, others attacking again as Honor swatted them away. Without her clothes Dorcas looked skinny and vulnerable, her hip bones knobby, her shoulder blades like chicken wings, her head incongruously large. She reminded Honor of a cow standing in a field, bereft of its herd and scrawny after a winter in a barn without fresh grass. Over her arms and legs and torso red welts from the stings were scattered.
“Come, thee must get in the water,” Honor instructed.
“It’s cold!” Dorcas shrieked as she rolled in the shallow pool. Honor knelt, scooped up some mud and plastered it on Dorcas’s back and arms. Dorcas began to cry again, this time from shame rather than pain. “I want to go home,” she moaned.
“Soon. Hold still.” Honor smeared mud on Dorcas’s face, and had to hide a smile. She resembled etchings Honor had seen of native tribesmen in Australia.
The water and mud helped to bring down the swelling, as the man had said. After a few minutes Dorcas climbed out of the water, and Honor helped her to dress, though they both hesitated about putting clothes on over mud. It couldn’t be helped, though—Dorcas could not walk back with flesh bared.
They did not speak as they trudged through the woods. Honor collected the pails of blackberries they had abandoned on the edge of the trees, yellow jackets still circling above. There was no sign of the man. Dorcas had said nothing about him, and Honor hoped she had been too distraught to notic
e him.
Upon reaching the farm, Dorcas began to cry again as her mother caught sight of them and hurried over. Judith had her daughter sit in a cold bath, then applied a paste of baking soda and water to the stings—nineteen of them, Dorcas announced to Jack when he returned that evening, and to anyone who came for milk over the next few days. Forgotten were the tears and pain and embarrassment as she recounted her battle with the yellow jackets. Honor too was cut from the story, and Dorcas seemed to have retreated from her friendliness. Honor did not mind, as long as Dorcas did not mention the black man.
* * *
When Honor next met Mrs. Reed, it seemed the older woman had been waiting for her. Honor had come to town with the Haymakers, who were buying more jars for putting up the last vegetables from their kitchen garden. Honor went first to visit Cox’s Dry Goods, then for a walk through the college square before rejoining her in-laws. Under the shade of the elms planted in the park, their leaves now edged with yellow, she heard a low voice beside her. “That was just foolishness, sending him to me like that. And usin’ my name! You one foolish child. I see I got my work cut out for me.”
Honor turned. The first thing she noticed was bright yellow buttons and fern-like leaves wrapped around the brim of a straw hat. She recognized the flowers: tansy, which her mother used to gather for a tea to brew when any of them had a sore throat. The distinctive spicy odor surrounded her; Mrs. Reed must have picked them just a few minutes before.
She was pursing her wrinkled mouth. “Keep walkin’,” she commanded. “Don’t want no one to wonder why you actin’ like a dumb mule. Come on.” Mrs. Reed stepped rapidly along the wooden walkway, nodding to black passersby and the odd white one. Honor followed, holding up her skirt so that it would not get snagged on the loose nails. She hoped the Haymakers were still busy with their jars, for she was not sure what they would think if they saw her with Mrs. Reed.
The Last Runaway Page 14
