The Last Runaway

by Tracy Chevalier

Suddenly there came a shriek that made Honor’s stomach lurch. She froze as a black woman burst from the stack, shielding her eyes from the sun. Before anyone could respond, she ran. Bounding like a deer startled into panicked flight, she headed straight toward Honor, veering away at the last moment. Honor glimpsed wild eyes and lips clamped tight. Then she was gone, crashing into Wieland Woods.

  Honor stared after her, catching flashes of arms, a billowing brown skirt, a red kerchief on her head. Eventually she disappeared, though her crackling and crunching in the thicket went on for some time. Finally even that stopped. When Honor turned back, all the Quakers in the field were looking at her.

  No, Honor thought. This is not to do with me.

  But, apart from Caleb Wilson, who gazed at her with sympathy, she could see in their faces that they were already linking the appearance of the runaway with Honor’s arrival. Even if she broke her silence to protest that it was a coincidence, they would not believe her. Judith had already set her mouth in the familiar cold half-smile. She said nothing, but walked over and took the basket of food from Honor.

  I cannot bear this any longer, Honor thought. Nothing I say will make any difference to what people think. My words mean nothing to them. It was as if something broke in her head. She could not wait, even for Judith to unpack the food, but turned and walked back along the track toward the farm, ignoring Jack’s calls. On one side of her was Wieland Woods: all was still now. Wherever the runaway woman was, she was keeping quiet.

  Back at the farm, Honor cleared away the hexagons she had left out on the kitchen table and put them in her work basket. Then she climbed the stairs, pulling herself and the weight of the baby up with the handrail. She stood in the bedroom doorway and looked at the quilt she had smoothed out on their bed earlier. It was the Star of Bethlehem quilt from home—Biddy’s quilt, as she always thought of it now. She still felt guilty about having to ask for it back. The signature quilt from Bridport was folded at the bottom of the bed. She could take neither with her.

  Honor picked up a shawl, a penknife and a little money she had left from her passage to Ohio, which Jack had never asked for. Then she changed her daily bonnet for the gray and yellow one; if she left it, Judith was likely to give it away out of spite. Back in the kitchen she took a round of hard cheese, a loaf of bread, some beef tack and a sack of plums. She had never packed for such a journey, and had no idea if she was taking the right things. She tried to think what the runaways she had met had with them. Nothing, usually. Often even their feet were bare. Honor changed the light summer slippers she wore for sturdier boots, and added two candles and some matches to the small store, which she tied up in a dishcloth.

  She could not take the rosettes, or her grandmother’s sewing box, and that almost stopped her. Then she opened the box and took out the porcelain thimble, the needle case and the enameled scissors, as well as the pieces of special cloth she had been saving—the memories in them were irreplaceable.

  Digger was lying across the open doorway, catching what little breeze he could. As Honor stepped over him, he did not growl as he would normally have done with her. He knows, she thought. He knows, and is glad.

  Crossing the orchard—the apples on the trees reddening, the plums past their best and covered with yellow jackets—Honor entered Wieland Woods and picked her way steadily through maples and beeches, through brambles loaded with blackberries she could not stop for. The trees were thick with leaves in suspension between the ripeness of summer and the decline of autumn. While the oak leaves were still green, the maples’ were veined with red, ready to flush.

  There was no sign or sound of the Negro. At one point Honor strayed close to the edge bordering the field where the Haymakers were working, and heard their voices, though not what they said. After that she went deep into the middle of the woods, where the woman must be hiding. As she walked she was followed by the song of the bobwhite, named for its distinctive call. Jack had teased her once when she asked what it was, refusing to believe such a common bird did not exist in England. On the road with Thomas over a year ago, she had not even recognized the cardinals and blue jays. There was so much to learn about America, not all of it good.

  Eventually, beyond the bobwhite, Honor picked up the chattering of a squirrel, clucking and scolding as if annoyed at a child, or an intruder. Following the sound, she did not try to hide her own presence, but allowed her skirt to brush against the undergrowth and her boots to snap dead branches in the hope that the woman would look out and see who it was, and trust her.

  The runaway was perched on the branch of a beech tree six feet above the ground, the squirrel protesting high above her. Honor stepped onto one of the tree’s roots, looked up and held out a plum. The woman looked at her. She did not take the plum, but after a moment she climbed down. Taller than Honor, she had long limbs and a yellowish cast to her skin. Indeed, the woman’s face was familiar, though it took a moment for Honor to place her. She was the first runaway, who had hidden by the well and left a tin mug of water by her bed—the mug that was now buried with the dead man nearby. Honor remembered that Donovan had caught her; she must have been taken back and was running away again. She looked healthier now: she had filled out somewhat, her skin was clear of pimples, her eyes whiter, and her dress looked newer, if dirty. She was wearing a pair of men’s shoes, and carried a bundle similar to Honor’s own.

  The first time Honor had met the woman she’d held out bread to her. Now she pocketed the plum and untied her bundle to offer some bread and cheese. The runaway shook her head. “She done fed me up at the last place. Don’t need nothin’ for now. She said to say hello if I saw you—though she told me to go on through to the next stop if I could, an’ not to be botherin’ you, what with that an’ all.” She gestured at Honor’s belly. “I wouldn’t of been in that hay at all but for that slave catcher drivin’ me off course. Same one as last time. Caught me in these woods. He persistent, ain’t he? Don’t think he even knows who I am, but chase me anyway.”

  The woman stopped. The squirrel had doubled its voice with two women to complain about, but now it went silent, and they could hear a horse in the distance, coming along the track to the south of them, with its uneven hoofbeats. It was the first time Donovan had come out this way since the runaway’s death. He did not know about Honor’s silence.

  And now she was breaking her silence—a sensible, undramatic end to it. “I will go with thee.” Honor’s first words in over three months came out as a cracked whisper.

  “Thankee, but I know where I’m goin’.”

  Honor cleared her throat to ease the words from it. “We must leave these woods. He will come looking here.” As would Jack: in a few hours Dorcas and Judith would go back to the farm for the evening milking, find that Honor was not there, and raise the alarm.

  They listened. They could not go north into the hayfield, where even now Honor could hear the distant voices of her family, the jingles of the horses’ bridles, the creak of the wagon. Donovan was blocking their escape east along the track past the farm and Faithwell. Honor did not want to go west: the track through Wieland Woods petered out halfway through, and besides would lead them into unknown territory, away from the main road and Oberlin. If they could get close to the main road between Oberlin and Wellington, they could then follow it, keeping in the fields on either side.

  “If we cross the track that way”—Honor pointed south—“there is a cornfield that has not yet been cut. We can hide there till dark, then make our way east to the main road.”

  The other woman nodded. “First I got to drink.” She led the way to the creek that bisected the woods, where Honor had rolled Dorcas in the mud to soothe her bee stings. There was little water in it other than a couple of standing puddles scummed over, insects hovering above. The women picked their way along it till they found a small trickle over a rock. The runaway placed her mouth there to suck up the water. After drinking, she stood up and gestured to Honor, who tried to crouch, then went on h
er hands and knees in an awkward position to accommodate the baby. She hesitated for a moment when she realized she would be putting her mouth where the Negro’s had been. But that thought was a mere flicker, and she lowered her mouth to the rock. The water tasted wonderful.

  Afterward the woman helped her to her feet, then led the way south toward the track, clearly in charge. Honor did not mind. It was enough for her to be out walking in the woods on a late summer afternoon with a Negro, going . . . she did not know where she was going. She was running away.

  The black woman moved through the woods silently, her feet sure, aware of her body in a way that kept her from brushing against branches or crackling leaves. Honor could not imitate her silence: she rustled through the undergrowth and got herself caught in brambles. She was also slowed by the weight she carried, and the pains along her groin and inner thighs. The woman did not slow down, though, and was soon little more than a movement among the trees. At one point Honor stopped and wiped her brow, and listened. She could not hear Donovan’s horse. He was probably searching the barn and other farm buildings. Behind her she could hear the wagon with its load of hay bumping down the track that led from the hayfield along the edge of Wieland Woods to the pasture and barn. If Jack came upon Donovan at the barn, what would they say to each other? Would Donovan ask if he’d seen the runaway? Would Jack tell him, or lie? Honor shivered, and hurried to catch up with her companion.

  She was leaning against a maple at the wood’s edge, the track before them little more than a trickle of crusted mud spreading east and west. Diagonally across it, next to the woods, was the bright green shimmer of the Haymakers’ extensive cornfield. Tall and healthy and ripe, it would be left to stand until autumn when the ears had dried in their husks. Seeing it reminded Honor of first lying with Jack Haymaker in a cornfield. She flushed at the memory; only a little over a year ago, yet it felt as far away as England.

  “You can go back now,” the runaway said. “I be all right from here. I jes’ wait in the corn till dark, then go on when no one can see me.”

  Honor shook her head. “I will go with thee.”

  The woman glanced at Honor’s belly. “You sure you want to go like that?”

  “The baby’s not due until next month. I’ll be fine.”

  The runaway shrugged and turned to look up and down the track, listening. “Come on, then.” She stepped out of the woods. Honor followed, the sunlight blinding her so that she ran without seeing where she was going. In a moment she was crashing into the corn.

  “Shh!”

  Honor stopped, the stalks banging together around her.

  “Go slow or it makes noise,” the woman whispered. “And we got to go through without breaking the stalks, so no one know we been here. Get to the middle and wait. Follow me, now.”

  They stepped carefully along a row, trying not to rattle or break the stalks. Honor kept her eyes on the woman’s back, where a patch of sweat was blooming through her brown dress. Several feet in, the woman turned and cut across rows, zigzagging and pushing carefully through the thick corn. Eventually she turned into a row and walked along it, on and on, for far longer than Honor would ever have gone on her own. “Please,” she almost said. “Please stop.”

  She was about to reach out and touch the woman when the runaway did stop, and Honor almost stumbled into her. She was dizzy and the baby was pressing on her bladder.

  The woman sat. “Let’s wait here.”

  Honor went a little farther along to squat. It was so hot that the urine dried up just moments after she finished. She came back to sit near the runaway and opened her bundle. This time the woman took one of the plums. Honor savored the fleshy pulp, and sucked for a long time on the stone.

  The woman was looking at her sideways. “I like that bonnet,” she said. “You think it’s jes’ gray, then there’s that little flash of yellow to give it spice.”

  “A friend made it for me.” Honor felt a pang, thinking of Belle Mills. She had never replied to her letter, and now she would not see her again.

  It was uncomfortable sitting in the cornfield. The sun beat down on them, for the stalks did not provide much shade. The leaves caught at her, their surfaces a rough softness. The ears bulged from their husks, but this was feed corn, its kernels too tough for human teeth, and the taste less delicate than the sweet corn Honor had come to love and crave. There was nothing substantial like a tree to lean against, and the corn grew close enough together that it was difficult to find space to lie out. She was exhausted from the sun and the physical exertion, however, and managed to nod off, jerking herself awake.

  “You sleep a bit,” the runaway said. “I’ll keep watch. We’ll take turns.”

  Honor did not argue. She laid her head on her bundle, curled around the baby and, despite the hot sun, the flies and the dull ache in her belly, soon slept.

  * * *

  She woke with a dry mouth, the plum stone tucked in her cheek. The sun was arcing down toward the horizon. Honor had slept a long time. She could hear a horse in the distance, clopping steadily along the track, and sat up, startled. The black woman was sitting on her heels.

  “Thee should have woken me,” Honor said.

  The woman shrugged. “You needed the sleep.” Her eyes grazed over Honor’s belly. “I remember wantin’ to sleep all the time toward the end.”

  “Thee has children?” Honor glanced around, as if somehow she could conjure up children in the cornfield.

  “Course. That’s why I’m here.”

  Honor shook her head to clear her thoughts. Then she froze: it was Donovan’s horse. He rode fast, then slowed, then stopped, then rode slowly again, then turned around and galloped away.

  Honor gulped, but the woman seemed unconcerned. She even chuckled. “He been doin’ that a while now,” she said. “Knows we here somewhere but don’t know where.”

  “Will he come into the corn?”

  “I reckon not. They’s lots of woods an’ fields to search. He gon’ wait till we make a move.”

  Honor did not ask when that would be.

  “Remember, he don’t know where we are, but we know where he is. We got the advantage.”

  Honor wished she shared the woman’s optimism. Unfortunately, Donovan had the advantage of the law on his side, and a horse, and a gun.

  At dusk they heard another horse along the track. As he called her name, Honor recognized Jack’s voice. He must have cut short the harvest to look for her: it was good weather and she knew the Haymakers had been planning to work as late as they could to get the hay in before rain came. She could hear anger and impatience in his voice, and winced.

  The black woman stared at her. “That your husband?” she whispered when Jack had turned back. “What he callin’ you for? Don’t he know you out here with me?”

  Honor didn’t answer.

  Then the woman understood. “You runnin’ away?” she cried, her voice for the first time that day rising above a muffled tone. “What in hell you doin’ that for? With a baby comin’ an’ all? What you got to run away from?”

  With each question, Honor shrank further into herself, taking refuge in silence.

  When it was clear she would not—or could not—respond, the woman clicked her tongue. “Fool,” she muttered.

  As it was growing dark, they heard horses again, and Jack and Adam Cox calling this time. The woman reached for her bundle and scrambled to her feet.

  Honor grabbed her sleeve. “What is thee doing?”

  “I gon’ tell them you here.”

  “Please don’t!”

  But it was Donovan’s voice joining the others’—sarcastic, amused—that stopped the runaway. “Honor Bright, I’m a little surprised you’re hidin’ out there, after all your promises not to help niggers. Guess I can’t trust even a Quaker these days. Time to come out now, darlin’—you’re scarin’ your husband.”

  The women remained still, listening to the men shifting about on their horses and talking in low voices. H
onor shuddered and took a deep breath.

  Then she heard the barking.

  “Oh Lord, they got a dog,” the black woman whispered. “Oh Lord.”

  “That’s Digger.”

  “He know you? Well, when he find us least he won’t tear you apart. Get ready to run.”

  “He hates me.”

  “Your own dog hate you? Oh Lord.”

  Honor could hear stirring among the corn, and then made out Digger’s shadowy form trotting up the row. He did not bark, though, but came to stand at Honor’s feet. He gazed up at her, ignoring the runaway, and growled low. Then he turned and ran back down the way he had come. The women stared after him.

  “That’s him lettin’ you go,” the black woman murmured. “Good thing he hate you. Thankee, Digger.”

  “There he is,” they heard Jack say. “What has thee found, Digger? Nothing?”

  “Thought he was after somethin’ there,” Donovan said. “Damn dog. That’s why I don’t like to use ’em—noisy and unreliable. I trust my own senses more than a dog’s.”

  Eventually the men rode away again, and the women began threading their way east across the rows of corn. Honor’s legs ached from inactivity, and she shook and stretched them. She could see two stars in the sky. More would soon appear.

  At the end of the cornfield they passed through a wood, taking them south of Faithwell. As it grew black Honor kept her eyes on the woman’s back again, finally reaching out to touch her so that she could be guided through the dark.

  Eventually they reached the familiar main road between Oberlin and Wellington. It was quiet, but Honor suspected Donovan and possibly Jack were somewhere along it, waiting for them.

  “We’ll go into that corn,” the woman said, gesturing across the road. “Stay off the road, but near it so we know where we at, and where the hunter at too. Always better to know that, so you don’t get surprised.” She spoke with the confidence of someone who had done this often. She hurried across the road, which was a pale river even without a moon. As Honor followed she thought of being in this very spot a few months back, looking for Donovan in the night. Now she was hiding from him. The darkness brought with it the same metallic taste of fear. Honor swallowed but the taste remained, though muted, for this time she was not alone.