Secret Way to the Heart
Page 1
Table of Contents
SECRET WAY TO THE HEART
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
SECRET WAY TO THE HEART
Looking at the Heart Series
CAMILLE REGHOLEC
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
SECRET WAY TO THE HEART
Copyright©2020
CAMILLE REGHOLEC
Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-64716-085-2
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
To
Laura Zakotiria-Smith
For infecting me with your love of U.S. Civil War history
And
Sallie (Sissie)Soltysiak
For your enthusiastic belief that I could write this.
Acknowledgments
Wow, there are so many people who, through the years, encouraged me on this book. First, I thank God for giving me this desire to be a teller of stories. I also couldn’t have done this work without my husband, Jerry, with his continual loving support in all my endeavors (though for many years he did suggest I take up truck driving, saying it would be easier). My children, Theresa, Connie, Roger and John for believing in me. The wonderful people of the Malden Charge (Palenville, Quarryville & Malden UM Churches)and the Mamakating UMC (Phillipsport & Summitville), who were the first to read my first book and kept asking and praying for the sequel. For the beautiful people of the Nations of the World Church and the Ellenville Assembly of God, who also encouraged and prayed for God’s wisdom on this manuscript.
For my co-workers and friends at the Ellenville Public Library & Museum and at the Mamakating Historical Society, who not only cheered me on, but opened up the files of historical data that was needed to make the story come to life. I would be amiss if I forgot the former EPL&M director, Pam Stocking, who regularly asked how the book was coming along - even when she was no longer my boss.
For my friends, Sallie Soltysiak and Marcie Schwab, for reading the initial draft of the first chapters and telling me to keep going. For my friends at the 1st Way Life Center and especially Annette Rein, who not only opened her doors and invited me in, but also made sure I was well fed in the last year of this book.
For the amazing staff of Soul Mate Publishing who took a chance on an unknown author. For Debby Gilbert and Tami Hughes who kindly directed me and who did such great editing and pushed me (persistently but gently, of course) to rewrite and make the words sing. For all these and anyone I forgot to name (forgive me), my heart thanks you.
“Shall not God search this out?
For He knoweth the secrets of the heart.”
(Psalm 44:21 KJV)
Chapter 1
Thank You, Lord, for letting me see a purpose for my life. Jayne van Hoyton silently prayed as she shivered with suppressed excitement. As directed, the van Hoyton family and fellow conspirators were gathered in the lower winter kitchen of their home on the tenth of November. The tension in the air was almost palpable, and Jayne tried not to be a distraction. She never imagined her staid family as being part of the dangerous and illegal undertaking of smuggling. Ever since she discovered the bedrolls in the root cellar, she’d demanded to be involved in what everyone else was participating in.
“Finding out my family and friends are aiding runaway slaves was more than a little surprising, Father,” Jayne mumbled to the elderly man next to her. “I know you have always prayed our Southern relatives would stop their slaveholding, but the shocking part is that this activity had been going on for years!”
“You were too young,” her father replied. His tone showed his reluctance to include her even now.
“I am seventeen years old.” Jayne felt her face flush with frustration. She knew her delicate features and short stature made her appear younger than she wished. Tossing her thick braid to hang down her back, Jayne drew her petite form as tall as she could. “I refuse to be coddled.”
“As you have informed us all for the last week,” Jayne's mother softly replied. “But now there are more important things to concentrate on.”
“That is correct.” her father nodded. His once-black hair was now only a memory found in paintings; the faint halo of fluffy white strands around his bald head gave him a fragile look, until one saw the intensity of his blue eyes. He grudgingly explained. “This is only one stop along the Underground Railroad, as the escape route is secretly called. The ‘baggage,’ as runaway slaves are referred to, arrive only to be sent farther north through a different mode of transportation. No one is told where they come from or where they will end up other than ‘north of the border.’ We do not expect or accept any money for doing this. There will be no reward this side of heaven, my dear.”
“I am capable of helping, Father.” Jayne kept her eyes focused on her father’s. “I will prove to you—to everyone here—that I am not a spoiled child. I can handle whatever responsibilities you give me. I understand that the lives of many are in jeopardy if found out. Trust me, Father, you will not regret including me.”
“I believe you.” Her father patted her shoulder with his scarred and partly fingerless right hand before turning his attention to the others in the room.
“Would you like some tea?” Jayne asked, hoping her question would distract her parents as she looked over at the elderly black couple sitting in their favorite places in front of the roaring fire. “Would anyone like a bite to eat?”
Jayne smiled at Hannah and George Freeman, both well into their nineties, the wrinkled skin of their faces as familiar as that of her own parents. Her heart swelled with love. The Freemans had shared the tears of joy and sorrow at the births and deaths of her brothers and sisters, and h
er own survival was celebrated by them almost as strongly as the white couple who had birthed her. Her love for this couple ran just as deep. She’d never worried about the color of the arms that had held and comforted her during her childhood nor the ears that had listened to her dreams and fears. Oh Lord, thank You for such a blessing!
“We do not have time for tea right now,” her father murmured, a slight frown creasing his brow as he glanced at Jayne. “We have more important things to think about. We will all eat the meal that was prepared for us . . . but only after we know we have accomplished what we need to do.”
Jayne nodded silently, knowing her distraction had worked but afraid it might have caused her father to change his mind about her participation.
“Listen, I believe the wagon has arrived.” Her father raised his hand, still looking at her. “But remember, my dear, no matter what the future holds, we are doing what we can to help others achieve their freedom.”
Jayne obeyed her father’s instructions without question. It was only her father’s failing health which permitted her to be included. He and the Freemans were too old to travel without a driver, and someone was needed to accept and carry the boxes from the canal barges. The Freeman’s twin “grandsons,” Jacob and Caleb, were sent this time to pick up the cartons.
“The next part of the fugitives’ journey will be your responsibility, Jayne. You and the other women here will help to reassure and calm them as you feed them and clothe them with fresh garments.”
“Yes, Father.” Jayne squared her shoulders, determination in her eyes.
Jayne stood next to her father as he leaned on his cane and hoisted himself to his feet. She knew better than to try and assist him, but she walked beside him as he hobbled over to the window to observe the activity in the yard. Jayne craned her neck to see past his broad shoulders and watched as four black youths jumped off the wagon. Two small crates were lowered, and Jayne hurried to swing open the kitchen door so they could place the containers off to one side before returning for two more.
To Jayne, the second set of crates seemed huge, but the twins, no older than sixteen, were tall and muscularly built, and with the two other young men, they handled the large wooden boxes easily. These were also carried inside but taken all the way to the back of the kitchen near the enormous fireplace and into a small alcove which contained no windows.
Following them into to the dimly lit area, Jayne glanced around, still amazed at the secrets going on within her home. To her, this was the pantry; shelves lined the inside walls, and hidden under a throw rug, a large door in the floor led to the root cellar. Now it was a sanctuary, a place to give the fugitives rest, or to hide if unexpected people should arrive. To visitors of the van Hoyton family, this part of the house was never seen, for guests were entertained in the upstairs parlor. But workers and deliveries came into this area, so secrecy was paramount.
How many other things have I missed? Jayne cringed. She rarely spent any time in the work area of the winter kitchen. She lived in a house of fantastic cooks and bakers but had never mastered the art herself. Even knowing that this talent was part of the source of their living, Jayne had not been interested. She had been content to simply enjoy the end results that were served at the dining table upstairs.
The Freeman’s daughter, Mary, along with her daughter, Jesse, entered the room, carrying in buckets of steaming hot water, and set them to the side. It was washday. How many times had extra water been heated and carried inside and she’d never questioned it? Now, with clearer eyes, she watched the routine actions that were no longer mundane.
The young men carefully lowered the boxes to the floor as gently as egg baskets as Mary’s husband, Pete, walked in and helped George up to escort him to the barn’s blacksmithing area. As the teenagers began removing the nails from the larger containers, they worked in perfect harmony, with the smaller crates being opened by Mary and Jayne's mother in the main section of the kitchen.
While the older adults were busy at work, Jesse returned outside to supervise the younger children. Laughter floated into the room, and Jayne glanced out the window to watch them play by the garden. For a moment, she was envious of the children's lack of responsibilities as seen in their exuberant freedom. It was when she look closer at them did she notice all of the youngsters faced the road and she realized their playing was a ploy. They too were involved in this endeavor and were keeping watch for any unexpected people. The house’s distance from the nearest neighbor’s was quite far, so the likelihood of any noise being heard was slim, but visitors were known to show up unannounced, and with so many lives hanging in the balance, precautions were always taken.
Jayne left her father’s side to join Mary when Jessie reentered the kitchen with a bucket of cold water and a cup. A woman of few words but expressive eyes, Mary silently instructed the younger women to grab the quilts lying on the bench as the crate lids came off. As the occupants of the crates slowly stood up, their heavily soiled shifts clung to their bodies as Jayne and Jessie quickly came forward with blankets spread open before them. The young men, seeing the women's disheveled appearance and scarcity of clothing, turned away in respectful silence turned to stare at the wall until the women were covered with the warm quilts. Four runaway women had crawled out, their eyes wide with fear as they looked at the people before them. As Jayne wrapped a blanket around one young woman, she watched as they covered their mouths to muffle deep groans. Their movements were stiff and jerky as if their muscles were cramped and Jayne sympathetically rubbed the arms of the woman beside her.
When realization sank in that they were safe, the hands were lowered and these women hugged the “station masters” who covered them with quilts.
“Praise the Lawd, we be free!” Tears flowing down their grimy cheeks, they uncovered their mouths, exposing wide smiles. As they softly croaked out praises to God, each was given a small sip of cold water for their parched tongues.
The women were then led to the buckets of warmed water as the younger menfolk left to put the wagon and horses in the barn and Jayne’s father headed for the stairs to the main floor of the house. The freed women were now given the privacy to wash and relieve themselves in buckets before receiving the clean clothes folded on a nearby shelf.
“There be a someone a comin’!” the youngsters in the front yard sang out in unison as they ran toward the approaching stranger.
“Jayne, go see who is coming up the road,” her father commanded, his voice shaking as he leaned on the banister, his face weary and full of pain. “Tell them I am unable to have visitors.”
“You want me to tell them you are unwell?” Jayne asked as she grabbed her shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“No, that would be a lie,” he replied sternly. “Just tell them exactly what I said.”
“But—”
“Just go!” Her father’s voice was sharp with nervous frustration. “Don’t you realize that if I have to send your mother out, she will have to offer refreshments, and they might overhear the activities below the parlor?”
“Yes, sir, I’m going.” Jayne ran for the door before her father changed his mind.
Once outside, Jayne deliberately slowed down to cross the porch and descend the back steps. As she walked toward the approaching stranger, several things caught her attention. He was a sturdy-looking man dressed in a long, black frock coat and a black, broad-brimmed hat which plainly showed the man’s occupation as a preacher. He also was mounted on what was clearly one of Mr. Parkerson’s rented horses that the local stable owner reserved for “them city people.” The animal’s swayback was almost comical to see, but Jayne was too nervous to laugh.
The preacher stopped the horse as she drew near, and Jayne remembered her father’s warning that there could be no weak links in the chain of events of these runaways’ lives. No one was to be told anything, even c
lose friends and neighbors. The fact Cindy and Mike, her parents’ friends for almost forty years, were never given any hint of what was occurring at the farm next door, showed the seriousness of secrecy. Preacher or not, Jayne wouldn’t tell him anything.
What do I say, Lord? Jayne prayed as she looked up, way up, into the most interesting face she had ever seen. His thick, brown beard accented his high cheekbones and firm lips, but his eyes drew her gaze like a magnet. They were slightly tilted, like cat’s eyes, with a similar shade of greenish brown. Mesmerized by the flecks of gold that flashed within them, Jayne wondered if those eyes changed color with the shade of his attire. As she watched the man’s expression alter, heat rose up on her cheeks. He undoubtedly was watching her watch him.
“Ma’m?”
His voice was attractively deep and smooth and definitely Southern. Jayne honestly could not tell if it was his proximity or her nervousness at what she was trying to protect that caused goose bumps to form on her skin as he dismounted and stood before her. He swept his hat from a head covered with unruly light-brown curls. “I’m looking for the McTierney homestead. Have I come to the right place?”
“McTierney?” Jayne asked sharply. Who was this Southerner asking for her half-brother, the son from her mother’s first marriage? Clearly he had to have come on the same barge as Jim’s “baggage” and had followed the wagon here. Jayne quickly decided not to tell the complete truth. Forgive me Lord. “This is the van Hoyton residence. May I ask who named McTierney you are looking for?”
“My friend Jim—James McTierney—told me that if I should ever return to these parts, I should pay my respects to his family. Since I have never visited his residence before, I had to ask for directions from the owner of this fine animal.” He patted the tired nag gently and reached into his pocket for a small apple, which he gave to the horse before turning his attention back to Jayne. A small smile crossed his lips as he looked into her eyes as if asking her to enjoy the joke. But Jayne was not going to be sidetracked by this good-looking stranger.