The Mapmaker's Children (6 page)

“Preacher Hill and his son,” announced the guard. He'd forgotten the water.

Mary rose at the company, as did Annie. The three women turned to
greet the visitors, and Sarah gasped with recognition. She had met the preacher before—the night she'd first discovered her artistic aptitudes and joined the Underground Railroad's mission.

“George, Freddy,” her father welcomed them.

“Hello, John,” said Mr. Hill. “May I presume you are Mrs. Brown?” He clicked his heels ever so slightly to Mary.

She extended a hand. “Preacher Hill.”

“Call me George. This is my son Frederick. Our pleasure to make your acquaintances.” He bowed to Mary, then to Annie and Sarah but made no indication of recognizing her. How could he, though, she thought, without giving away their vowed secrets. She nodded courteously and feigned demure interest in the floor.

“George and his family have been blessings to me in this place,” John explained. “He pastors New Charlestown Church—a brother in Christ and a
friend
.”

They knew he meant more than a casual ally. Their father had no friends that did not share his beliefs absolutely. He didn't see the point of befriending those who thought slavery right or, even worse, tolerable.
Because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth
. That was one of his favorites, and when he quoted it, he always spat for emphasis.

“These officiated ministers of the court have shifty vision. I have no need of exoneration from the likes of them. But George is virtuous. A more trustworthy man, I know not in the entire state of Virginia.”

Sarah knew that to be true.

The guard tapered his eyes and adjusted the rifle at his side.

Sarah took a reflexive step back. Yet unaccustomed to wearing the skirt cage in small spaces, she banged against the table and knocked a pencil to the floor. She attempted to retrieve it, but between the corset and the crinoline, that was a doomed endeavor. Frederick—Freddy, as her father had called him—saved her the strain.

“They roll faster than a waterwheel,” he said setting the pencil firmly back on the table. “Wiser to make them square so they don't run away without meaning to.” He winked.

Something in Sarah cinched tight as plaited hair. Did he know her secret—her work in drawing maps for the Underground?

“My two middle daughters,” John said, introducing them. “Annie and Sarah. My eldest, Ruth, remains with her family, and my youngest, Ellen, is in the care of friends. Too young for this wretched affair.”

Both of the Hills dropped their heads to their chests in similar fashion.

“Indeed,” said George. “Wretched.”

Sarah looked up to fully appraise the men while their attention was diverted. Like her father, George wore a beard that concealed a majority of his face, but Freddy was clean-shaven. His cheeks were pale as churned buttermilk and round about the edges; his black hair was clipped short, with a hint of curl at the widow's peak. Had they lived together in North Elba, she was sure he'd sit in a grade somewhere between herself and Annie.

Her gaze moved up from his collar and met his squarely. Unlike her father's steel-blue eyes, Freddy's were intensely warm: hazel or brown—green, perhaps. She couldn't tell. They changed with the flux of the candle's light.

“Best be on with the ladies, Preacher,” announced the guard. “Getting late.”

Heat rose quickly to Sarah's cheeks. She couldn't leave yet. She hadn't given her father the map. Her heart thudded too fast, but the air remained at her throat, obstructed from reaching her lungs by the blasted corset! She had to do something before it was too late. So she did the only thing she could: she let herself go…straight down to the floor.

“Sarah!” screamed Annie. She bent to her sister's aid and fussed with the upturned skirt ruffles. “The stays are too tight. She's not used to it.”

That was somewhat true. An excellent smokescreen, in any case. The delicacy of a woman's underthings flustered the guards and kept them from noticing while she slipped the muslin map to her father's hand beneath the blanket.

Her mother stammered, “She's not been well. Dysentery this spring.”

Sarah thought she might
truly
be ill then. Talk of corsets and petticoats
was one thing, but her damaged health was quite another—no business of these Virginia men.

“My poor Sarah,” said Mary.

The pity made her queasy.

Freddy gave her cheek a light smack with his open palm. He lifted his hand to do it again, but she grabbed it with ungloved hand.

“Mr. Hill,” she said firmly. “Would you kindly not do that.”

She had completed her mission and so was finished with the charade. She would not stand to have this young man thwacking her as if burping a nursing baby!

Freddy sat her upright while Annie moved the rungs of her skirt so that her legs were not exposed. The guard finally brought a cup of water and hardtack. Her mother fed her the cracker. The dryness choked her, and she reached for the water.

“Drink slowly,” Freddy instructed, his words blowing strands of hair loose over her ears.

“We had a lighter lunch than usual,” Annie told them.

Another lie. They'd eaten nothing. Sarah swallowed hard. The pulpy lump worked its way down sluggishly. Worried it'd hit her stomach like a rock in a cotton gin, she followed Freddy's instruction, then handed him the empty cup.

“Thank you, I'm fine now,” she insisted and pulled herself up out of Freddy's embrace. The back of her neck was hot and pinpricked where his breath had been.

“She needs sustenance,” said her father. “All of you do. Go with George now.”

“Priscilla, my wife, has a hearty cawl waiting over the fire,” said George. “Corn pones, freshly made. We're honored to host you in New Charlestown.”

“Very kind of you,” said Mary. “But I can't say good-bye just yet. I
can't
.”

“Dear,” John said to calm her. “God has counted the minutes of my life, so you are free of that duty. Besides, I'd like some time alone to prepare.
Jesus Christ's hours in the Garden of Gethsemane were vital to his forbearance.”

No one dared argue with that, though Mary did tremble so fiercely that George took her by the arm to keep her from falling.

Still Mary did not move from John's bedside, until he commanded, “Go, Mary. Don't make me worry after you in my final hours. I will see you in the morning. God bless you and the children.”

At that, Mary collected herself. “God have mercy on you.” She let go of George's steady arm and kissed John's forehead. Then, calling meekly for both daughters, she proceeded out of the jail cell without turning back.

Sarah and Annie kissed their father good night as they would have at home. It was easier that way—to adhere to routine and do what they'd always done, convince themselves that by virtue of action, the world might set itself right. That in the morning, birds and sunlight would be welcoming visions and not harbingers. That tomorrow was simply tomorrow.

“Good night, Father,” said Sarah. His rough beard scratched her cheek. She'd never embraced him without that sting.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he replied, and in his words she heard the chimes of Resurrection Day. He would use her map to escape in the night. She would've bet her soul on it.

T
HE MILITARY
stagecoach drove Sarah, Annie, and Mary away from Harpers Ferry, over a creek branching off the Shenandoah River, through a forest sounding of bullfrogs, to a community of modest brick buildings tucked between the Blue Ridge cliffs.

A gabled white church stood in the center, its steeple rising like an icicle grown backward. Sarah envisioned the prayers of the townsfolk dripping to heaven. It seemed entirely possible by the way the starlight glinted off the needle point, twinkling bright and causing her gaze to shift heavenward. Maybe all those constellations were towns like this one, with prayers melting into some unseen pool. The universe turned upside down. Maybe some soul stood out there, looking up at them, whispering
dreams and making legend of earth's face as hopefully as they did the man in the moon. Her head ached at the thought—the known suddenly unknown, reality gone hazy as the Milky Way.

No one had spoken during the entire carriage ride. If fatigue, hunger, and the cold of the open coach hadn't been enough to mute them, despair would have finished the job. What was left to say? They rode huddled together under a wool military blanket, Sarah and Annie on either side of their mother. The girls' breaths plumed long and gray in the darkness, while their mother's came in dandelion tufts. It reminded Sarah of a Hans Christian Andersen story her father had brought back from Europe when she was a child.

Little Gerda arriving at the Snow Queen's palace. So Sarah did as Gerda had and whispered the Lord's Prayer, wishing her breath, too, would take the shape of angels and battle the guarding snowflakes.

“Thank you, Sarah.” Her mother squeezed her hand tight after she finished.

Sarah hoped God wouldn't punish her for having used the prayer indecorously. She hadn't heard a word of what she'd said, preoccupied with make-believe tales and the comforting cadence of recitation.

The carriage passed through the town's main thoroughfare before coming to a halt on a side street. The team of horses nickered violently against their bits and clomped their hooves on the compacted dirt. The soldier driving rapped on the rooftop, then threw down their luggage. It landed with a soft thud in a row of boxwoods cut to either side of a short picketed gate.

“This here's New Charlestown,” he called out, then jumped down to open their door. “The Hills' house.” He pointed to a brick home up the lane with a pinhole of lantern light winking from the shaded window.

George and Freddy had been following and now circled their quarter horses around to a barn equal in size to the house.

The soldier helped Annie and her mother out of the carriage, but Sarah refused his hand, gathering her skirts in her fists and stepping out with as much fortitude as she could muster.

George and Freddy emerged from the darkness, a lean setter the color of red tea trotting alongside them. It gave a low growl at the soldier, who quickly climbed back up onto the carriage.

“On your word, Preacher.”

“On my word.” George tipped his hat.

The soldier nodded, turned the team, and headed back to the jailhouse at a faster trot than that which had brought them. The three-beat rhythm soon faded into the sound of the wind stirring fallen poplar leaves to a flurry.

“Welcome,” said George when the gust died down.

The dog nuzzled its snout into Freddy's leg until he reached down to run his fingers under its chin.

“This is Gypsy.” George nodded toward the dog. “Found her digging through a pile of rations on the ship we came over on. Freddy was but a lad of seven—snatched her up before the cook used her in the haggis. Hasn't left Freddy's side since. Come, let's get out of this gloomy cold. Priscilla and my daughter, Alice, are anxious to greet you.”

Though his words welcomed them forward, his body walled their path. The women trembled against the wet chill of snow trapped too high in the atmosphere to fall as it threatened.

“I must warn you, however, our Alice is more…
simple
than other girls of her age. What she lacks in mind, she makes up for in heart. She may welcome you with fervor. I pray you take no offense.”

“A loving spirit is more admired than wit,” said Mary.

George led her and Annie up the walkway.

Gypsy sniffed at Sarah's skirt. She'd placed the leftover hardtack in her coat pocket and had forgotten about it. She patted Gypsy's muzzle, and the dog nestled her skull into the greeting.

“She likes you,” said Freddy, their luggage weighing his arms down. “Gypsy doesn't give the time of day to most, unless she doesn't like them—in which case, she lets you know mighty quick.”

“I'd welcome any newcomer who carried biscuits in her pocket, too.”

“Ay, the key to her allegiance,” said Freddy. “Pocket crumbs. As soon as you run out, she'll snub you proper.” He winked again, and Sarah
wondered if it was habitual or another cue that he knew more about her than she of him. In any case, she found it boldly unsettling.

She turned her attention back to Gypsy, running her hand over the dog's head.
I really do like you
, she thought, and she could've sworn Gypsy's gaze glimmered understanding.

Ahead, the door opened. Light splashed into the darkness, revealing an evergreen wreath with bright holly berries above the door lintel. It was Christmas season. Sarah had forgotten.

“Tidings, new friends!” called a girl's voice, but Sarah saw no child in the threshold, only two silhouetted women of equal height.

George kissed the one to the left. Mrs. Priscilla Hill.

“Welcome to our home.” Mrs. Hill cupped both of Mary's hands.

Without any regard to etiquette, the other woman wrapped her arms around Annie's neck.

“Priscilla, Alice, I'm happy to introduce Mrs. Captain Mary Brown,” George began, making formal introductions, “Miss Annie Brown, and…” He paused for Sarah to take her stand with the trio. “…Miss Sarah Brown.”

Alice released Annie and threw her arms about Sarah. They were doughy soft but strong and smelled like a peach left too long on the windowsill, cloyingly pungent. It reminded Sarah of Ellen after a day of play in the summer garden. Sarah wondered if Alice had been born this way or had come to it: through disease, like her own affliction, or by experience, like her mother's. In either case, she liked the Hills even more for being forthright. It was a dangerous position for them. Harboring the family members of a convicted criminal and exposing their daughter to the scrutiny of strangers. Others might argue that Alice ought to be institutionalized. Sarah knew of such places.