“They pass through far too frequently these days.” The woman sighed and settled into a chair opposite Dorothea’s. “We never used to see more than one group every two or three months around here.”
“Where, precisely, is here?”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t know? You’re in Woodfall, dear. You’ve walked eleven miles, nearly halfway to Clearfield.”
Dorothea gave a shaky laugh. “That explains why I’m so weary.”
“Indeed,” the woman said dryly. “You look hearty enough, but one wonders why your father did not come instead.”
“He wanted to, but I thought I would be less likely to raise suspicions.”
“Oh, certainly. A young woman wandering about alone on a cold winter’s eve. No one would think twice about that.” She regarded Dorothea with amusement. “So the children make the rules around your house now that your uncle’s gone, do they?”
Before Dorothea could reply, a door on the far wall opened. Dorothea glimpsed the machinery of the mill in the room beyond as a barrel-chested man with sandy hair and whiskers entered. He shut the door and halted at the sight of Dorothea shivering beside the fire. “Well, who’s this now?” he asked, his voice deep but friendly.
“This is—” The woman gave a small laugh. “My goodness, I don’t know her name.”
“I’m Dorothea Granger.”
“She’s Jacob Kuehner’s niece.”
The miller’s eyes filled with sympathy. He shook her hand and offered his condolences. “Your uncle was a good man,” said the miller, whose name was Aaron Braun. “His death is a great loss to the abolitionist cause.”
“My parents and I intend to continue to run his station.”
The husband and wife exchanged a look. “I see,” said the miller slowly.
“This is not a task entered into lightly,” said his wife. “To the young it may seem a romantic adventure, but it is a dangerous business.”
“The fugitives depend upon us not only for their freedom, but often for their very lives,” said Aaron Braun. “And we depend upon each other’s secrecy for our own survival.”
At once, Dorothea understood the reason for their concern, the dread that lingered not far below their calm exteriors. “My parents and I realize we must scrupulously conceal our activities. We will, of course, rely on your advice.”
“What if our advice is to abandon your plans?”
Dorothea straightened in the chair and met his gaze levelly. “Then I would tell you that would be unwise. You have already lost the Carters, and as I have myself discovered, the journey from Creek’s Crossing to Woodfall is too far to venture without a safe haven along the way.”
A smile flickered in the corners of Mrs. Braun’s mouth. “Most slaves are wise enough not to attempt an escape in the dead of winter.”
“Some have no choice. Sam, for example.”
The Brauns exchanged a look. Dorothea had no idea why Sam had fled to the north in January rather than waiting for spring, but she could imagine various reasons. She felt a flush of shame at allowing the Brauns to believe she knew more than she did, but securing their confidence was too important.
“They already know enough to betray us,” Mrs. Braun told her husband after the doubtful silence dragged on unbearably long. “We might as well let them help.”
“Our uncle’s activities have already exposed us to the dangers we would face as stationmasters,” said Dorothea. “We are prepared to face them knowingly, now.”
“So it is to be ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’?” said the miller, but his voice was kindly.
His wife’s expression was graver. “If we allow you to do this, we will be putting our lives into your hands.”
“We would die before we would betray you.”
“Would you, indeed.” Mrs. Braun smiled, but deep grooves of worry appeared around her mouth. “My dear, you cannot make that promise on anyone’s behalf but your own. Especially when you will be expected to keep it.”
MRS. BRAUN BECKONED HER husband and Dorothea to the table and served them steaming plates of fragrant beef stew with thick slices of fresh bread. Ravenous, Dorothea thought she had never eaten anything more delicious. While they ate, she expected to query the Brauns about the operation of the Underground Railroad, but they put two questions to her for every one she asked them. They asked how she had found the route to the mill and why her uncle had not confided in her family. She told them about the quilt and answered their other questions as honestly as she knew how. By the time the meal was over, Dorothea felt as if her memory had been put through a mangle and squeezed dry. She had learned almost nothing about the Brauns’ station. They did not reveal by so much as a word or a glance whether they hid their passengers in the mill itself or their adjacent residence.
It was late in the evening when Mrs. Braun ordered Dorothea to bed, in a motherly way, affectionate but unyielding. When Dorothea protested, Mr. Braun promised her they would continue their discussion in the morning. Dorothea nodded and resolved that it would not, however, proceed in the same fashion. She had only a few hours to learn all she could from her hosts, and she could not do that if they subjected her to more questioning.
Mrs. Braun led her to a small bedroom on the second story. Dorothea undressed to her shift and climbed beneath the layers of quilts, shivering until she grew warm. She fell asleep almost immediately and woke, hours later, to the sound of the low, steady grinding of the mill. The whole house seemed to tremble.
She dressed swiftly, judging from the sunlight outside it was past eight o’clock. Mrs. Braun was already working in the large room downstairs, which seemed to be kitchen, front room, and parlor all at once. The Brauns had eaten their breakfast earlier since Mr. Braun had to run the mill, but Mrs. Braun invited Dorothea to the table and soon placed a hot plate of potato pancakes and sausages before her.
Mrs. Braun poured them each a steaming cup of tea, and as she seated herself, Dorothea said, “There is much my parents and I need to know about running a station.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Braun sipped her tea. “So a good night’s sleep did not clear your thoughts of such foolish notions.”
“They are not foolish notions, and like it or not, you need our help. The situation is so desperate I must wonder why you would turn us away.”
“Forgive me, but your uncle did not think your parents capable.”
Dorothea felt a surge of loyal anger. “He did not know them as well as I. We found you, did we not?”
Mrs. Braun nodded in acquiescence. “You did. Very well, then.” She set down her teacup and folded her arms on the wooden table. “I will tell you what you need to know.”
Dorothea drank in every word as Mrs. Braun explained the coded language preferred by the stationmasters and conductors, how to conceal one’s tracks in the forest, various means to convey a fugitive north, and so much else that Dorothea felt she could not absorb it all. There was too much to remember, and as Mrs. Braun gravely recounted stories of friends and acquaintances whose stations had been discovered and what they had suffered, Dorothea felt her confidence wavering. A fine her family could bear, but imprisonment? The seizure of the farm? The responsibility was so great, as were the consequences. If they failed, they could be worse off than when Elm Creek claimed Thrift Farm. They could be rendered destitute. They could fail those who depended upon them.
Then she thought of what Constance Wright had endured until her husband bought her freedom, and what so many others like her endured every day while Dorothea lived in safety and comfort with her loving family.
She inhaled deeply and sighed. Mrs. Braun studied her. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“Of course,” said Dorothea. “But how can I refuse to help? Whatever I might face is nothing compared to what the runaways have suffered. I cannot turn my back.”
At last, Mrs. Braun smiled with a warmth that lit up her eyes, and Dorothea knew instinctively that she was speaking with a kindred spirit, the sort of woman she woul
d like to become.
“That is precisely how I felt when Aaron and I embarked on this journey together,” said Mrs. Braun. “I have never regretted my decision. May you never have reason to regret yours.”
They talked at length, until Dorothea felt she was as prepared as she could be for the task her family had undertaken. Mrs. Braun sent her husband’s apprentice to saddle Uncle Jacob’s horse while Dorothea put on her wraps, bracing for the cold ride home.
“Do not tarry,” advised Mrs. Braun. “The air smells like snow coming.”
Mr. Braun instructed her to follow a different route home rather than backtracking along the Sugar Camp Quilt trail. The journey home was much swifter on horseback along the main roads, but Dorothea still did not reach home until after noon. Her parents must have been watching the road, for they ran to meet her before she reached the barn. Their relief was so obvious that Dorothea almost wished she had left the Brauns’ at daybreak and spared her parents a few hours of waiting, but she had needed that time with Mrs. Braun.
She recounted for them every detail of her journey from the moment she left the sugar camp until she departed the stable behind the mill. Lorena seemed most interested in Mrs. Braun’s guidance for running their station; Robert, on the fate of Sam. He seemed to accept that the runaway had had no part in Uncle Jacob’s death. Dorothea accepted Mrs. Braun’s word. Robert took as evidence the safe return of the horse.
Dorothea’s parents had news of their own to report. Cyrus Pearson had called for her earlier that day, and he had seemed most disgruntled to discover her absent. He asked to wait for her, but Lorena invented an ill friend and said Dorothea would be tending her for at least the rest of the day. He left, reluctantly, with a message: His mother was eager to complete the quilt and wanted to know when Dorothea would be willing to bring her blocks so they could finish piecing the top.
For a moment, Dorothea thought he meant the Sugar Camp Quilt, and then she remembered the Authors’ Album. She had not thought of the opportunity quilt or the library board since the night Uncle Jacob went missing. For that matter, she had not given a single thought to Cyrus, who had once occupied so many of her idle musings. She might have missed two board meetings, or perhaps three. Cyrus had not come by the farm to fetch her for them or she would have been reminded. He had probably assumed that the family was in mourning and that she would not have gone. Still, it would have been thoughtful of him to pay his respects to Uncle Jacob out of consideration for Dorothea. Perhaps he knew the older man had not liked him and did not want to appear a hypocrite.
“I have only one block left,” said Dorothea. “I will finish it tonight and take the blocks to Mrs. Engle’s house tomorrow rather than wait until next Thursday.” Her mother had not mentioned that Cyrus planned to come for her then, and she was reluctant to ask.
“There is more news,” said Lorena, withdrawing a folded paper from her pocket. “Jonathan has sent a letter. He is coming home.”
Dorothea scanned the letter eagerly. Jonathan apologized for his absence and declared that he planned to come as soon as he was able. The needs of his patients and the difficulty of winter travel rendered him unable to provide his family with the specific date of his arrival. If he would be delayed more than two weeks, he would send them another letter to tell them so, but otherwise they should expect him before the end of January. Dorothea’s happiness at this news dimmed as she read the letter over more thoroughly. He did not say so, but he implied that after the visit, he intended to return to his studies in Baltimore.
“The post must have been delayed,” remarked Lorena, indicating the date written at the top of the page. The letter was almost two weeks old. “Jonathan is probably even now on his way.”
“Or a second letter apologizing for his delay is,” said Dorothea, but she was so pleased by the prospect of his imminent arrival that she could forgive him all the earlier, canceled visits.
The snowstorm the miller’s wife had predicted reached the farm while Dorothea and her mother prepared supper. The flakes flew thick and fast, but after the evening chores were done, Dorothea lit a lantern and made her way to the sugar camp. Inside the sugarhouse, snow had blown in through the weathered boards and had collected in drifts in the corners. Uncle Jacob would have immediately set to work finding and sealing the spaces, but Dorothea could not tarry. The cold nipped at her cheeks as she covered a basket of her mother’s dried apples with the Sugar Camp Quilt, apparently undisturbed since her last visit. She glanced up at the loft and envisioned a runaway hiding above in fearful silence while she and her mother stirred boiling kettles of maple sap below. She hesitated before climbing the ladder to check, but no one now hid among the stored tools.
As she completed the Album block bearing William Lloyd Garrison’s signature that evening, Dorothea pondered the sugar camp and its fitness as a station. Uncle Jacob had chosen it because it provided concealment from other farms and from his own family, not because it was comfortable and safe. Weary fugitives would be far better off in the house, or even in the barn, especially in winter.
She shared her thoughts with her parents, who agreed they must make more suitable arrangements. They needed a place where one or more runaways could rest comfortably, and yet remain entirely hidden from both friendly visitors and slavecatchers.
Lorena shuddered as they all imagined slavecatchers forcing their way into the house. “Perhaps the sugar camp is safest after all,” she said, “for both the runaways and ourselves. If they are discovered, we could pretend we did not know they were hiding there.”
Robert said nothing, and even Dorothea was at a loss for words. She could not imagine Mrs. Braun disavowing the fugitives in her care.
The next morning, Dorothea hitched up Uncle Jacob’s mare and drove the wagon into Creek’s Crossing. Elm Creek had frozen over, the ferry stowed ashore in the boathouse until the spring thaw. Only the tracks of horse’s hooves and wagon wheels marked the crossing over the ice.
At the Engles’ home, the housekeeper took Dorothea’s wraps and led her to the parlor. Mrs. Engle bustled in a few moments later. “I do not usually expect callers so early,” she said, taking her customary place in the armchair near the front window. “It is not time for tea. Will you take coffee instead?”
“No, thank you. I won’t keep you long. I only stopped by to give you my finished blocks for the Authors’ Album.”
Dorothea opened her satchel and steeled herself for the inevitable shriek of horror when Mrs. Engle discovered the signatures of several authors she had expressly banned from the quilt.
“Give your blocks to me?” Mrs. Engle asked, bemused, giving the satchel the barest of glances. “It would seem you’ve misunderstood my son’s message.” She rose and retrieved a muslin-wrapped bundle from behind the divan. “I was not expecting you to come for these until Thursday, but I suppose this is better. Perhaps you will finish the top before our next board meeting.”
Mrs. Engle handed Dorothea the bundle before she was ready for it, and it fell into her lap. “Finish the top?” she echoed.
“Most of the blocks are already stitched, but you will need to assemble the top. Including your own blocks, of course, which I assume will bring the total to eighty.” Mrs. Engle folded her hands and smiled. “We did not think you would mind, since you missed our last three meetings and the rest of us have done so much more work than you have. This quilt was, after all, your idea. We assumed you would want to have at least some hand in the making of it.”
Indignant, Dorothea nonetheless managed a pleasant smile. “You assumed correctly, although I cannot promise I will complete the top by our next meeting.”
“Just so long as you attend.” Mrs. Engle took her chair again, sitting with a grace that belied her stout form. “We have much to do and the quilting bee is only weeks away. You’ll probably want to get started right now.”
Dorothea recognized the dismissal and rose. “Of course. Good day, Mrs. Engle.”
“Good day,” said
Mrs. Engle cheerily. “Oh, Dorothea?”
Dorothea paused in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Please accept my condolences on the loss of your uncle.”
“You are very kind.”
“I understand his will has not yet been read?”
“No.” Dorothea tucked the bundle of quilt blocks into her satchel. “My uncle’s lawyer prefers to wait until my brother returns from Baltimore.”
“I suppose that would be necessary. Well—” Mrs. Engle smiled and nodded. “Good luck, dear.”
Dorothea gave her a wordless nod in return and left the room.
TWO DAYS LATER, JONATHAN came home, tall and solemn in his black suit, which Dorothea later learned he had borrowed from his mentor’s nephew since he had no suitable mourning clothes of his own. Lorena was so happy to see her son that she flung her arms around him, laughing and crying and clinging to him, impeding his progress through the doorway. He felt so good in Dorothea’s eyes that she almost ached from it.
Her baby brother had grown taller, his face more thin, but the thick shock of brown curls was the same, forever tousled no matter how much he tried to slick down the locks, giving him the perpetually windblown look of someone always rushing off on horseback.
He wanted to visit Uncle Jacob’s grave, but Lorena insisted he eat and warm himself first. “It will be a pleasure to eat good home cooking again,” he said, taking off his coat and sitting down at the table in the chair the family still referred to as his although he had not used it in more than a year.
“Doesn’t Mrs. Bronson feed you?” teased Lorena, setting a plate before him.
“Yes, and she’s a fair enough cook, but I’m usually so busy I take my dinner at the tavern.”
Dorothea saw her parents exchange a look. Jonathan quickly added, “I haven’t taken to drink if that’s what worries you. Taverns are different in the city. The one I frequent is more like an inn.”
“You forget I used to live in a city and I know very well what a tavern is like,” said Lorena dryly.
Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt Page 17