Redfield Farm Read online

  I did what I could to lose myself in the preparations for Betsy’s wedding. I cleaned, sewed, baked and cooked until I was numb. Will McKitrick had bought a little house in New Paris to accommodate his family and his shoemaking business, so that had to be cleaned and painted, curtains made, furniture moved. Betsy and I worked hard at both houses, and I was grateful, for the work kept my mind off my situation.

  Friends arrived from miles around at the Dunning Creek Meeting house, for both the Redfields and the McKittricks were well known and respected. The weather, unseasonably warm for mid-April, delivered a lovely day for the wedding dinner at Redfield Farm. I got up at dawn, worked before the service, worked after the service, welcomed guests, served food, refilled plates, cleaned up after, and fell into bed exhausted at about eleven o’clock, satisfied that I’d given my sister a fine wedding.

  I felt let down afterwards, with nothing to distract me. I could no longer ignore my pregnancy, even if it wasn’t yet apparent to others. I didn’t regret loving Josiah, of that I was certain, but how I could do right by this child was a fearful concern. Waves of panic overwhelmed me, and I struggled with an urgency to act. Such an urge is common in times of crisis, but sometimes there’s nothing to be done but accept what is.

  Things were quiet along the Railroad for a while after Josiah’s departure, but activity picked up as the weather warmed. Jesse was more open with me about his activities, knowing he would likely need my help again. I welcomed the openness and yearned for a chance to do more.

  Ideas for moving fugitives swirled around in my brain, along with fear for Josiah and worry about my own future and that of the tiny life inside me. My resolve strengthened. I could no longer stay on the sidelines. I would do all I could for as long as I could to end this horror. I didn’t fear for my own safety, and my status as a woman could be turned to advantage.

  Just a week after Betsy’s wedding I told him, “Jesse, I want to do more than just occasional help with the railroad. I mean not just sometimes; all the time.”

  Jesse looked at me in silence. “I’ll call on you when I must, but I can’t put you in harm’s way.”

  “No, Jesse. Not just in emergencies. I want to be your full and trusted partner.”

  “Ann, this is man’s work.”

  “It is a work of deception and craftiness, and I can deceive as well as the next.”

  Jesse sat on the back step, petting our old dog, his legs stretched long in front of him. I already knew more than he wanted me to know—more than was good for either of us. He watched me, deep in thought, struggling with his sense of right. Then he relented. “All right. We’ll work together.”

  “I’m not the only one around here involved in this,” he told me. “There’s a little network of Friends and Free Negroes. Our passengers mostly come up through Cumberland, Maryland, but some come from the east, too.”

  I listened carefully, intent upon remembering all he said.

  “I have several routes I can send people on. I try to vary them, just in case. My biggest problem around here is the Hartleys. They’re onto me, but fortunately, they’re not that hard to deceive.”

  “I know. Pru always seems like she’s spying on us. She shows up at odd times, sneaks around when she thinks I don’t see her.”

  Jesse nodded. “I’ve seen her, too. The boys worry me more, out to make a nickel they don’t care how.”

  “Everyone detests them, not just the strong abolitionists. Most people’s sympathies are with the runaways.” My own contempt for the Hartleys knew no bounds.

  “Even Old Ackroyd might be more sympathetic than he looks, but he’s bound to enforce the Fugitive Slave Law. The Friends try not to hold it against him.”

  Amos and Nathaniel were coming in from the barn, so I moved to change the subject. They were with us, but only on the edge of things. They didn’t want or need to know the details.

  The runaways came alone, in pairs, or in small groups, sometimes guided by one who had made it successfully to Canada and returned South to rescue others. Most of the time they were able young people, with the strength to run and hide, sometimes for weeks without relief. But occasionally they were children, even babies, exposed to grave danger by those who loved them and were willing to risk all for freedom. Conductors gave babies paregoric to render them unconscious and, therefore, silent. A few old folks made it, too. Helped along by their children or friends, they gave their last effort for the opportunity to die in freedom. It touched my heart to see them, so afraid, so dependent on the charity of others.

  April gave way to May, and the planting began. With it came a long-awaited letter from Rachel. She was married to Jacob Schilling and living in Altoona. Work was plentiful, and they had bought a house not far from the booming railroad shops. Most of the men in town worked on the railroad, but Rachel was glad Jacob didn’t, because the shop workers got so dirty. Jacob came home covered with plaster dust, which he called ‘clean dirt’, and that, to Rachel’s mind, was better than the sooty grit from the trains. She described their brand new house with three bedrooms upstairs and three rooms downstairs (parlor, dining room, kitchen), a big attic, cellar, and porches front and back.

  “Sounds like a big house,” Jesse observed. “S’pose they’ll be filling it up with children pretty soon.”

  “Mayhap,” Amos replied with no expression. He hadn’t spoken of Rachel since she’d left us. Not a word.

  The news from Rachel was welcome, but I still watched anxiously for a letter from Josiah. I’d often told him the name of our post office: Alum Bank. His reading and writing had progressed to a passable state, so I waited and expected to hear from him. Not to would indicate trouble.

  Weeks passed with no word. I worried that he hadn’t made it. Distress bought all kinds of evil to mind; I shook myself to dispel the fears.

  Then in early June, Jesse announced that he was going to Alum Bank, if anyone had any letters to post. The mail hadn’t been picked up that week. Mary wrote often from Osterburg, and now that the lines of communication had been reopened, letters flew back and forth from Altoona. I gave him letters to both of our sisters as well as to friends in Menallen and Redstone Meetings.

  He returned late in the afternoon with a smile. “Here’s one you’ll welcome,” he said. “From Josiah.”

  My heart leaped at his name. He was all right! He’d made it to Canada. The letter was short, but neatly and carefully printed on white paper, purchased at a stationer’s.

  DRESDEN ONTARIO

  DEAR JESSE,

  I AM WELL HOPPING THIS FINDS YOU THE SAME. I REECHED CANADA IN FEBURY. SOME UTHER SCAPED SLAVES TUK ME IN. I WORK FOR A BLACKSMIT. TELL ANN I AM LERNING MY LETTERS BETTER. THANK YOU FOR MY LIFE.

  YOUR FREND, JOSIAH COLTON

  I committed Dresden, Ontario, to memory and answered his letter that evening. I told Josiah about Betsy’s wedding and the farm and the planting. I told him how Ben’s twin boys thrived. I told him Ben’s mares had foaled five times that spring. I did not tell him about his child who grew inside me and whose presence was getting difficult to conceal. I did not tell him about my loneliness now that Betsy was gone or my bleak prospects for anything but more of the same. I did not tell him about my fears for him and for our child.

  Jesse posted the letter the next day. It was time to get in the first crop of hay, and that meant we’d all be busy again. Rebecca was the closest woman to me now. We helped each other as much as we could, but with five little ones to care for, Rebecca’s resources were strained. Haying meant feeding the men, so we pushed ourselves to the task, but there wasn’t enough energy between the two of us to do it all. Rebecca broke first.

  “I’m going to ask Ben to get us some help. I know of two girls, twelve and fourteen, whose family started west and their mother died. You know them: Robert Hill’s girls.”

  I nodded.

  “Robert sent the girls back to his sister, Ethan Rouzer’s wife, but they don’t have much and seven children of their own. I’m
going to ask Ben to offer to take them.”

  “Your house will be full to the rafters!” I laughed.

  “It’ll be a crowd, but help is needed.”

  Ben agreed and, by the following First Day Meeting, made arrangements to take in Deborah and Abigail Hill, two pale, thin-faced girls with sad eyes—but obedient and willing workers. Rebecca sent them over the next week to help me cook for the men in the fields.

  Deborah was quick to see what had to be done, and worked without much talk. Abigail, the younger one, needed more direction and was not at all given to silence. She spoke often and without benefit of forethought, and yet she was the more likable of the two and rapidly became my favorite.

  The three of us managed to feed the men with ease, and I was sorry when it was time to send the girls back to Rebecca. I’d miss their company.

  “Don’t worry, Ann,” Abby assured me. “I’ll come over for visits when I can.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  They’d been gone for about a week when Abby returned one day with a pail of wild strawberries she’d picked for me.

  “You can make preserves like my Mama used to,” she offered. “I can help, if you want.”

  “Thank you, Abby.”

  “Rebecca wants to know if you want to go over to Oak Shade for cherries next week. She says we can help each other pick and put them by for both families.”

  “Yes. Tell her I would. Maybe Jesse can take us now that the haying’s done.”

  I washed and capped the strawberries while Abby went to the spring house for a pitcher of cream. We sat down across from each other and ate bowls of strawberries and cream.

  “Ann?”

  “Yes, Abby.”

  “When’s your baby comin’?”

  I was caught short. I thought to deny it, but that was only to put off the inevitable. “In October—Tenth Month, I think.”

  “Oh.”

  I wondered how many people had already surmised the truth. Did everyone know? Or was Abby just perceptive? I glanced down at the pronounced thickening about my middle. Try as I might to conceal it, there it was. If Abby noticed, everyone else probably did, too.

  “You ain’t married, are you?” With childlike innocence, Abby prodded.

  “No.”

  “Who’s the Pa?”

  “Nobody. Nobody you’d know.”

  “He gonna marry you?”

  “No.” I cast about for a way to change the subject, but Abby was persistent.

  “Hmmm. What’s your Pa say about that?”

  “Abby, please. It feels like you’re a committee.”

  “Guess you’ll be facing one soon enough. I feel sorry for you. That won’t be much fun.”

  “Which? Facing a committee or having a child out of wedlock?”

  “Neither,” the girl asserted. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll still be your friend and come help you with your baby.”

  “Thank you, Abby. Now, could we talk about something else?”

  “Yes’m. We can. Do you want me to keep it a secret? About him not marrying you?”’ She looked me squarely in the eye, her pale face serious.

  “Yes, Abby. If you will. For now.”

  “Okay, but there’s bound to be talk. You’ll be read out of meeting, you know.”

  “I know, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Chapter 11

  1855 – Spring/Summer

  Neither Amos nor Nathaniel commented on my increasing girth. If they noticed, and I couldn’t conceive of their not noticing, they went about their business as though they hadn’t. Only Jesse talked to me about it, one warm evening as we sat alone on the back porch.

  “Ann, are you with child?”

  “Yes.”

  A long pause. Jesse sat silent, obviously taken aback, even though he had to have known the answer. I waited for him to speak again.

  “How did it happen?”

  “A moment of foolishness, Jesse. I can’t explain it any other way.”

  “But who? When?” Jesse could think of no prospective lover or opportunity that fit the puzzle. He looked blank.

  “I’d rather not say, for now. Please be patient. I have a lot to think about.”

  “All right. But I expect the man to step up and marry you. If not, you’ll be disowned and publicly humiliated. He could prevent that.”

  “I know I’ll be read out of Meeting. I can’t help that. But he can’t step up. He doesn’t know.”

  “Doesn’t know you’re pregnant? Well, if he has eyes, he can see.”

  “This will take care of itself in its own good time.”

  He sat quiet for a while, studying his hands. “When will the baby get here?”

  “As near as I can tell, sometime in Tenth Month .”

  “Are you well? Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’ll call on you if I need to, but up to now, I’ve had no problems.” I rose to go inside.

  “Does Papa know?” he asked, looking doubtful.

  “I think he chooses not to.”

  “He’ll be put out if you don’t marry. Put out if you do marry, too.”

  “I know. I think that’s why he chooses not to speak of it.”

  “Ann, you must tell me who the father is.” Jesse pleaded. “Someone needs to make him see what he’s done.”

  I patted his hand. “Thank you, Jesse, but no.”

  “It wasn’t Elias, was it? If it was Elias, I’ll wear him out.”

  “No. It wasn’t Elias. It pains me to talk about this. Please, let’s drop the subject.”

  He left me standing on the porch and walked out through the yard into the twilight, his hands in his pockets, until I couldn’t see him any more in the evening shadows. I watched him go, sad to be the cause of his pain.

  The work of the railroad went on in spite of my problems. Jesse was called out of bed at least once a week to take care of business. We never knew how many would come—or when. Because safety was more important than speed, we had to be ready to keep them for a day or two when times were tense.

  These poor people, speechless with fear, touched my heart. They did what they could to thank us. Once I found a pearl-handled knife stuck in one of the barn beams, left there as a token of gratitude. There was seldom a chance even to learn names. I treated wounds, blisters, dog bites, bee stings, and poison ivy. I gave what I had of stockings, shoes, or clothing and provided as much food as my larder could spare.

  Handbills circulated bearing descriptions of escaped slaves, and advertisements were scattered through the Bedford Gazette, promising handsome rewards for the recapture of ‘property’.

  The Quaker settlement was well known for its strong antislavery stance, so we were the recipients of more than our share of attention from doughfaced trash. But we were good at what we did. No charade or subterfuge was beyond us. We did what was needed to pass our charges along safely.

  Once in a great while we heard from passengers who’d made it to Canada. The letters were few, for most slaves were illiterate. I also acted as a go-between, posting letters from Canada back south. I sent them on to a Friend in Virginia who did what she could to see that they were delivered. Free blacks in the South, many of whom could read and write, passed information from escapees to others still in servitude. Some of those who had made it to Canada made a trade out of writing letters to be passed along.

  One of these was Josiah. He posted his letters to me, counting on me to send them on. He always enclosed a note, giving news of his situation and asking after us. I responded in kind, but kept my condition to myself.

  Ï

  One hot evening in late summer, there came a quiet, tentative knock on one of the kitchen windows. The door was open, but runaways wouldn’t show themselves. Jesse rose and stepped outside. Around the side of the cabin, three young black men and two women cowered in the darkness.

  “How did you get here?” he ask
ed.

  “Man drop us off this mornin’ down by the creek. Show us your house. Say this be safe. We lay low ’til dark. You a Friend?”

  “Yes, I’m a Friend,” Jesse replied. “Come with me.”

  He led the troop to the barn and ushered them into a makeshift room under the hay. About four feet square and about as high, it was big enough for five people, tight, used only in times of real peril. Most of the time it was safe to sleep in the hay.

  “You hungry?” Jesse asked.

  “Nothin’ to eat today except berries,” he was told.

  “I’ll get you something.”

  He returned to the house, where I was already warming leftovers from supper. I’d long since fallen into the habit of cooking extra in case we had guests. I put pieces of cornbread in a bucket, my system for carrying food to the barn without raising suspicion. If anyone were really watching, they might wonder at the number of buckets I carried to the barn, but I hoped no one was watching that closely.

  As Jesse stepped out the back door with two buckets of food, he almost ran into Abby, coming across the porch.