Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad (23 page)

A
few days later, my brothers greeted me at breakfast, dumb grins on their faces,
making me wonder what they were up to. Even Amos seemed amused. Around eleven o’clock, the source of their mischief was revealed when a dray wagon drove into the yard, carrying a cast iron kitchen stove. I stared as Nathaniel helped the drayman unload it.

They placed it in front of the fireplace that had served the family under this roof for more than fifty years, then removed enough chimney stones to install the stovepipe. I looked at the stove and my brothers in disbelief.

He nodded. “Went to Bedford and bought it yesterday. It’s got a boiler built right in so you don’t have to heat bath water in the kettle, and you don’t have to wait for it, either.”

She nodded. “Ain’t that a new stove?” She stood by it, looking at it from every angle. She opened the oven and peered inside. She opened the warming cupboards. She lifted the lids and watched the fire. “Fine one, too,” she said.

“Nate, Jesse, and Papa bought it. It pleases me.”

“I’d guess.” She seemed on the verge of one of her tirades, but resisted the urge and turned her attention back to her dress.

“Got this from the poor committee. Shoes, too.” She stuck out a foot, shod in a fairly new looking black leather shoe. “Store bought. All of it. Who’d give away such as this?” she asked.

We both knew. Some woman had died and the family gave away her clothes to ease their grief. I smiled as Pru twirled before me, showing off her fine attire.

“Now all I need is a coat. Ain’t had one in years. Shawls don’t work good outside.”

“We’ll see. Maybe we can get you one. I’ll ask around.” Ever since the death of her daughter, Pru’s edge was mostly gone, although I still wasn’t sure it had gone far. She kept herself and her boys cleaner and neater now. She was, for the most part, polite and courteous, even though I could tell sometimes it galled her. She was sending her boys to Aaron Groves’ Quaker school, as charity cases. She assured me that didn’t mean she was joining the Society again, just that she wanted them to be able to read, write, and cipher.

“How’s Jesse?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Well enough, but his arm’s never going to be the same. He can barely lift it from the shoulder.”

“He
looks
real good.”

“Yes, but he won’t be much help on the farm anymore.”

“He still messin’ with that Underground Railroad?”

I stopped and looked at her. Why was she so interested in Jesse’s Railroad work? She sensed my suspicion and hurried to reassure me.

“I thought you hated black people.” My spine was alert for her next move. Where was she going with this? I could tolerate her, even like her a little when she behaved, but I didn’t know what to think now.

“I jest hated bein’ poor. Still do. An’ hated seein’ folk like you make all over those niggers when my need was at least as great.” She sounded spiteful, and a little sad.

I knew Jesse would never hold still for letting a Hartley in on anything we did, but I thought I’d question her to see where she was going with this. “What do you mean, help?”

“Well, to begin with, I wouldn’t tell my brother Cooper anything I knew about you Redfields. He’s helpin’ a slave catcher from Maryland ever’ chance he gits. Makes him a little money at it. I could close my eyes, is what I mean.”

“You must think we’re into this pretty deep.”

“I reckon.”

I eyed her warily. I couldn’t tell how much of what she said came from knowledge and how much was speculation. Given the Hartley family history, I couldn’t help but note that none of them ever got out of bed early enough to keep track of much of anything. Still, suspicious as they were, Jesse and I needed to be more than careful.

“What would it take to keep you from talking to Cooper?”

“A new coat would help for this winter. Like that green one I seen you wearin’ a week or so ago. That’d do.”

My coat wasn’t new. It was a hand-me-down from Aunt Alice Grainger. Uncle Sammy had given it to me after she died. I liked that it had been hers. Liked the way it fit. Liked how warm it was. Suddenly I realized where this would lead. “No. I’m not giving you my coat. You’re reading far more into this idea of the Underground Railroad than is real. I’ll see if I can get you a coat from the poor committee.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Well, I can’t help it if Cooper and his friends come callin’.”

“Let them come,” I said wearily. “They’ve been here before.”

Ï

I told Jesse about Pru’s thinly veiled threats when he came in from the barn. “Nothing new there,” he replied. “Cooper Hartley’s just like his old man. Take a nickel any way he can get one.”

“Yes, but it seems to me this business is getting meaner every day,” I complained.

“Traffic increases, and so does the anger in the South. They mean to make the North enforce the law. Gives people like Cooper reason to hope they can get rich.”

“I’d hate to be a constable. Even if they’re sympathetic to the runaways, they have to help the slave catchers.”

“Yeah. I’ve often wondered about old Ackroyd. Whether he’s really as hateful as he acts. For all we know, he might be helping fugitives, too.” Jesse grinned at the thought of the constable running his own delivery system.

“You know, though, Jesse, I’m always surprised at the number of Bedford County folk who side with us. They aren’t all dough-faces like the Hartleys.”

Jesse picked up his hat and set it on his head. “We can be glad of that!” he said. “Now I’ve gotta go talk to Ben. Come along?”

I looked around at the mound of washing I had to do and declined. “Tell Rebecca I’ll try to visit toward the end of the week.”

Abby and Elias returned on Second Day of the first week in November. According to Abby, Elias seemed completely befuddled by Melissa’s condition, left all interaction with her to her family, and made his own exit as quickly as possible. Abby voiced her anger.

“He doesn’t care a whit for her
or
the baby in hard times,” she grumbled. “All he wanted was a pretty wife, but he doesn’t want
any
of it if there’s trouble attached.” She clucked her tongue in disgust.

I must admit, at first I felt a certain ‘serves you right’ satisfaction in Elias’ troubles, though I felt more compassion for Melissa than I expected. Elias deserved some comeuppance for the way he’d treated me. He’d turned to me in his time of trouble. That gave me satisfaction, but I kept it to myself. Chastised myself for my pride.

Melissa was gone the whole winter. Elias went to Chambersburg for short visits, but time wasn’t kind to the couple. Melissa, though seemingly well enough when with her family, showed no inclination to return to Bedford County as Elias’ wife. Her fears of pregnancy, childbirth, being saddled with many children, submitting to her husband’s needs—in short, the common lot of women everywhere, made her hide when Elias came to see her. So she stayed in Franklin County, and Elias didn’t push for her return. He wasn’t happy, but he was learning that there are some things a man can’t control.

Watching the sad relationship play out, I thought myself lucky to have lost Elias Finley. He seemed less and less like husband material. I laughed at such thoughts. What did I know of husbands?

Elias lived alone, worked steadily with Ben and kept to himself except to attend Meeting. Rebecca did his laundry and sent Deborah over once a week to keep the house in order. Elias took his meals at Ben’s, slowly slipping into a solitary life. By spring, it was apparent to all, except perhaps Elias, that Melissa would never return. His life was suspended—a married man without a wife. He didn’t speak of her unless someone asked, in which case he turned away questions with as little explanation as possible. Embarrassed by his situation, he tried to avoid it by ignoring it.

As I watched the unraveling of my former suitor’s life, a surprising sympathy began to form. My anger faded, and I was left with only sadness for both Elias and Melissa and their little daughter, Lucy. I could blame neither for their failure, for I understood such tragedy played out in peoples’ lives more often than anyone could guess.

Though distracted by Elias’ troubles, I was still in the depths over Sam’s loss. I thought about him constantly—how old he would be, what he would be doing. Walking. Talking. Josiah wrote about once a month, letters full of Sam’s accomplishments. I was grateful to be included, even remotely, in his life. I knit him mittens, a cap, and a tiny muffler to keep him warm in cold Ontario. For Christmas, I made him a warm coat out of a length of blue wool I’d been saving. Little by little, I pulled out of my grief. The knowledge that he was well, happy, cared for, and loved took some—but not all—of the sting out of losing him.

It was mid-winter before I could talk to Jesse about sending Sam away. I knew he understood why I’d done it. Still I needed to talk to him. One January night as we walked home from Ben’s, I broached the subject.

Jesse stopped, looking at me in the snowy moonlight. “You’ve no need to explain to me, Ann. I knew when you took him that you’d come home alone. I knew why. I wanted to help you get through it if I could. Now I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough for you to lean on. It took a while to control my own grief. But I knew we’d talk when the time was right.”

“I don’t know. Maybe someday someone’ll come along for you. Time changes people’s perceptions. But I know this. You’re the one we all rely on in times of trouble. No matter who’s in need. No matter what the need. Look how Elias turned to you when his life came apart. And me. What would I do without you now that my arm’s crippled? Somehow that’s got to come back to you.”

We walked along the snow covered path in silence. Then, without warning, Jesse broke into a run, slowing a second to scoop up a handful of snow. He turned and pelted me with a snowball, then another. Protecting my face with my arms, I scooped up my own snowball, heaving it directly at his face. Now he was running at me, throwing an armload of snowballs one after the other. I ducked behind a tree quick, to make him miss. Then I let loose a torrent from the shelter of the tree, pelting him with a series of well-placed globs of mushy snow. Jesse came through the onslaught, head down, determined to roust me from my fortress. He grabbed me from the side, wrestled me down one handed and washed my face in the snow.

I screamed, then laughed as the cold, wet snow went down my neck. “You, Jesse. Drat you, Brother. That’s not fair!” I complained. “You’re stronger than I.”

“Sure it’s fair, Annie. We all have our weaknesses.”

O
ne evening as I sat alone in the kitchen, reading,
I heard a quiet tap at the window, almost like a scratch. Someone was outside. I rose, turned out the lamp, and walked out on the back porch. Fugitives often came under cover of darkness, so, though cautious, I thought I knew what to expect. I stepped off the porch and around the side of the house. There was no moon, another reason to expect fugitives. All was dark and strangely silent. I felt a presence. Peering into the darkness, I asked, “Who’s there?”

“A friend.” There was no mistaking that voice. Josiah! In a moment I was in his arms, enfolded like a baby, rocked slowly back and forth.

“Josiah! What are
you
doing here?” I asked, through sudden tears. “What about Sam? And Lettie?”