Robert shook his head, feigning puzzlement. “There aren’t any runaways here.”
“I saw him. I tracked him here.”
“You heard my father,” said Jonathan. “You’re obviously mistaken.”
“Or drunk,” said Lorena disdainfully. “Again.”
Mr. Liggett shifted his weight and cinched the dog’s chain. “I know what I saw. I saw tracks in the snow, and blood besides. There’s blood on the floor of that shack at the sugar camp. Then the tracks go here, and my dog led me right to your door.”
“Or perhaps you led the dog,” said Dorothea. “You were so certain of your destination.”
Robert held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We aren’t denying that there might be a runaway out there somewhere, but he isn’t hiding here. You’re welcome to search the farm if you like, but it’s a cold night. Why don’t you have a drink first?”
Mr. Liggett hesitated. “I saw tracks in the snow. Someone broke a trail.”
“I did,” said Jonathan. “My uncle was put to rest in the maple grove. I was out that way paying my respects right before you arrived. Perhaps my presence threw your dog off his original quarry.”
“He’s a better dog than that.” Mr. Liggett eyed him, then turned to Robert. “A drink, you say? What’re you pouring?”
“Whiskey.”
Dorothea almost started. Uncle Jacob forbade liquor. There had never been a drop of it on the farm except for that which was already in Mr. Liggett.
“Maybe I can stay for a minute,” Mr. Liggett said, jerking his head in a nod. He wrapped the dog’s chain around a tree branch and ordered the animal to sit. “I could use a drop for warmth.”
Jonathan lingered in the doorway, frowning, but after a warning look from his father, he stepped aside and allowed Mr. Liggett to enter. Lorena led their unwelcome guest to the front room, and to Dorothea’s astonishment, her father reached into Uncle Jacob’s desk and pulled out a bottle of amber liquid. She wondered if her parents had purchased it with Mr. Liggett in mind.
Dorothea knew she must endeavor to maintain appearances, so she resumed her seat and took up her sewing. In a moment her mother’s knitting needles were clicking away again, and though Jonathan sat scowling at the fire, Robert engaged Mr. Liggett in conversation. Mr. Liggett had little to say about crops or cattle, but he was eager to boast about a new horse he had procured and his plans to breed champions. He stayed much longer than a minute and took far more than a drop. The bottle was little more than a quarter full by the time Mr. Liggett hauled himself to his feet and declared that he needed to resume the hunt before the runaway fled too far. “I would be much obliged if your pretty daughter would see me to the door,” he slurred, his eyes red and bleary.
Lorena’s mouth tightened, but Robert gave a slow nod, so Dorothea folded the rows of quilt blocks and placed them on her chair. She escorted Mr. Liggett to the back door, opened it, and said, “Good evening.”
He smirked. “Good evening,” he echoed in a mincing tone. “Miss Granger, may I ask you a question?”
She nodded.
“Do you folks often leave a burning lantern in the sugarhouse?”
“Only on those evenings when we feel most melancholy for the loss of my uncle. You will recall, of course, that the sugar camp was his favorite place on the farm.”
He nodded, disappointed, his eyes searching her face, hungry for more. She kept her features smooth and impassive until he frowned, tugged on the brim of his hat, and left the house.
She shut the door behind him too quickly and stood with her hands pressed against it as if to block his return. She looked for him through the kitchen window, but it was too light inside for her to see more than her own panicked reflection in the glass. Surely Mr. Liggett knew they were hiding something.
Back in the front room, her parents and Jonathan were speaking in hushed voices. “He is a greedy fool,” Lorena was saying. “He will likely wake in the morning with a dreadful headache and no recollection of what passed this evening.”
Robert looked hopeful, but Dorothea shook her head. “He is a drunkard, but he is no fool.” She repeated his remark about the lantern.
Her mother blanched. Jonathan said, “He may have believed Dorothea’s excuse, but either way, we will have to be extremely cautious as long as that runaway remains beneath our roof.”
“Son,” said Robert, “we will have to be cautious longer than that.”
Jonathan searched his family’s faces until his expression began to shift into comprehension.
Lorena said, “We have much to tell you.”
“It will have to wait.” Jonathan glanced up. “Dorothea, I will need your assistance.”
She nodded and followed him upstairs. Inside the attic bedroom, he knelt beside Dorothea’s bed and said, “It’s all right. You can come out now.”
The runaway emerged from beneath the bed, his face wrenched in pain. Dorothea and Jonathan helped him onto the bed. Dorothea went to remove his shoes and saw that he had only wads of burlap wrapped around his feet and tied with twine. She left them as they were and waited while Jonathan dug into his black leather bag.
“That dog—” The runaway’s teeth were clenched in a grimace of pain. “He caught me in the woods, but ran off when I got to the creek—”
“He returned with his owner in tow,” said Jonathan, grim. “But now they’ve left.”
“They won’t be back.” Dorothea patted the man’s shoulder and tried to smile reassuringly. “You’re safe here.”
With a groan, the man fell back upon the pillow and let Jonathan tend to his wounds. The worst injuries were the deep gashes in his left calf where Mr. Liggett’s dog had sunk his teeth. As Jonathan washed the wounds, applied a salve, and bound them, Dorothea gently removed the burlap wrappings from the man’s feet. She washed and rubbed them to get the blood flowing, but the two smallest toes on his right foot looked shriveled and burned. Silently, Dorothea directed Jonathan’s attention to them. Her brother took one look and nodded in assent.
Shortly thereafter, Lorena brought a tray of food upstairs. They helped the man sit up and left him alone to eat and rest, retreating to the front room to discuss his condition. Jonathan asserted what Dorothea had feared: The frostbitten toes would have to come off.
“Perhaps when he reaches safety in Canada—” Lorena began.
“He cannot wait that long,” said Jonathan. “The putrefaction will spread. He will sicken and die if his injuries are allowed to fester.”
“Can you do it?” Robert asked his son.
“I assisted Dr. Bronson in an amputation once.” Jonathan hesitated. “I did none of the cutting myself, but—” He nodded.
At Jonathan’s request, Dorothea accompanied him upstairs to deliver the news. As the words sank in, the man began to tremble, but his eyes were angry rather than fearful as he said, “Ain’t nobody cutting off my toes. I need my feet if I’m going to run.”
“You cannot run in this condition,” said Dorothea gently.
“I made it this far.”
“It is a long way to Canada,” said Jonathan. “Perhaps you will not need to run. Perhaps we can contrive some other means to transport you. We have a wagon.”
The man shook his head. “No, sir. You’re not taking my toes.” Gingerly, wincing with pain, he began to rise from the bed. “Thank you for the food and the tending, but I think I best be going.”
“There’s a man out there hunting you,” said Dorothea, incredulous. “You’ll never make it to the next station.”
“I made it all this way from Alabama on my own two feet, and it’s the same way I’m crossing into freedom.”
“This is madness,” said Jonathan.
“No, you thinking I’m gonna let you take my toes is madness.”
Frustrated, Jonathan ran a hand through his unruly locks. “Very well. Stay. Rest here in safety until tomorrow night. I will not treat you if the alternative is to send you out to a certain death.”
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br /> The fugitive eyed him. “You swear?”
“You have my word.”
Satisfied, the fugitive climbed back into bed and drew the quilt over himself. Dorothea and Jonathan returned downstairs.
“You said ‘station,’” said Jonathan as they entered the front room. Their parents looked up expectantly. “Can I assume that you are not unaccustomed to events of this sort?”
They told him everything. Lorena even seemed apologetic about their clandestine activities, deferring to her son as the presumtive future master of the farm. He listened, shock and disbelief on his face, as they explained how they had discovered Uncle Jacob’s secret, how Dorothea had followed the clues in the quilt to the next station. How they had resolved to continue Uncle Jacob’s work.
When the tale had been told, Jonathan looked drained. “We have not satisfied Liggett’s suspicions. He will plague you continuously.”
“We will be vigilant,” said Dorothea. Her brother abhorred slavery. Why did he look so wary? Had so much time in Baltimore rendered him accustomed to slavery? Resigned to it?
“A man like Liggett would do anything for money,” said Jonathan. “Vigilance might not be enough.”
IT WAS STILL DARK when a hand on Dorothea’s shoulder woke her with a jolt. “Dorothea,” said her mother, shaking her gently. “It’s time to get up.”
Dorothea sat bolt upright. Mr. Liggett has returned, she thought. The slavecatchers are here. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing. All is well,” Lorena quickly assured her. “We need to make ready. The will. Remember?”
In the excitement of the previous night, Dorothea had forgotten. The will would be read that morning. They were due at the lawyer’s office at eight o’clock sharp.
Dorothea told her mother she would come downstairs presently, and as Lorena left, Dorothea rose and washed herself in the basin of water on the nightstand. Her teeth chattered as she bared her skin to the cold air and the even colder water, then swiftly pulled on her red flannels and second-best wool dress. She unbraided her hair, brushed it out, and braided it up again, coiling the long brown braids at the nape of her neck. She had done her hair by herself in the attic before dawn so often she needed neither mirror nor light to complete the task.
The previous evening, they had moved the runaway—whose name was Zachariah—to the larger and more comfortable bed in Uncle Jacob’s old room. Jonathan had slept in the front room at his own insistence, to keep watch. Dorothea paused to check on Zachariah on her way to the kitchen and found him still sleeping. Jonathan and Robert were just returning from the barn. Lorena had already finished cooking breakfast, so all that was left for Dorothea to do was set the table.
They ate in near silence. Dorothea could hardly force herself to swallow a bite. The fate of Uncle Jacob’s farm would be decided that day, and yet she could hardly think of the will for the images of Zachariah and Mr. Liggett crowding her mind.
Zachariah emerged just as the family was about to depart. He hobbled into the kitchen, bracing himself with one arm against the wall. “You should be in bed,” said Jonathan, going to his side.
Zachariah waved him off. “I’ll be fine.” He winced as he lowered himself into the chair Lorena held out for him at the kitchen table. Dorothea brought him a cup of fresh milk, cooled now, and a plate of food, which he began to eat hungrily, eyeing the Grangers as they put on their wraps.
“We have some business in town,” said Robert. “We will be home before noon.”
“When we return, I’ll have another look at those toes,” said Jonathan. “When you’re finished eating, you should get back into bed.”
“Into bed or under it?” Zachariah grimaced and looked away to Lorena. “Thank you for the food, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome.” Lorena hesitated. “The man who pursued you here yesterday might not have been put off for good. He may return.”
“It would be wise for you to remain hidden,” said Robert. “He is not above entering our home in our absence.”
Zachariah made a humorless chuckle. “I might be safer at the next station.”
“You won’t be safer traveling in daylight,” said Dorothea. “Lock the doors and stay away from the windows. Take my bed in the attic just to be sure. You will be fine.”
She forced certainty into the words as she imagined Mrs. Braun would have done, but Zachariah looked dubious even as he agreed to do as they suggested. After they closed the door behind them, she heard the solid thunk of the bolt sliding into place.
Robert had hitched up the sleigh, and as the horses pulled them smoothly over the snow-covered road, Dorothea glanced back at the house. There was no sign anyone remained inside. “Do you think Zachariah will be there when we return?”
Her father shrugged, and the gesture seemed to mirror Jonathan’s thoughts. Lorena said, “Of course he will. Surely he knows to wait until nightfall to depart. Besides, I threw out those old burlap rags of his and he hasn’t any shoes.”
Dorothea recalled the look in the man’s eye when he had rejected Jonathan’s medical treatment and thought that Zachariah might very well decide to limp off in the snow barefoot, if it came to that. She feared that it might. All the way into town, from the farm that might no longer be theirs, across the frozen creek, her thoughts dwelt on what might be happening behind her. Even at that moment Mr. Liggett might be lurking about their farm, following the trail through the snow, examining the bloodstains on the floor of the sugarhouse, letting his dog lead him again and again to the Granger’s back door. She thought of what might befall Zachariah should he not wait for Dorothea to return and explain to him the secret route stitched into the Sugar Camp Quilt, and how he would fare if he did not consent to Jonathan’s treatment.
The meeting with the lawyer, which had loomed large and foreboding in their imaginations for years—the day they would either secure their futures or be forced to leave Uncle Jacob’s farm forever—had been diminished by the previous night’s events. Even Jonathan’s admission that he had not done all he could to secure his uncle’s affection did not fill them with dread as it might once have done. Dorothea knew from her parents’ distracted expressions that they, too, were preoccupied with thoughts of their hunted guest. Lorena confirmed Dorothea’s suspicions when, upon entering the lawyer’s office, instead of encouraging her family regarding the possible outcomes of the meeting, she said, “Likely Mr. Liggett will be sleeping off his inebriation well into the afternoon. We will be home before he even rolls out of bed.”
Later, Dorothea wondered if they had surprised the lawyer with their lack of elation when he declared that Jonathan Augustus Granger was the sole heir to his uncle’s estate, with the exception of a few smaller gifts to his family and his church. The Grangers were so eager to return home that they barely stayed long enough to sign the papers. Only Dorothea managed a laugh when she learned of Uncle Jacob’s bequest to herself: his best steamer trunk, three hundred dollars, and a book about the western territories. His plan for her was clear. She mused that if he had wanted to guarantee she follow it, he should not have left the farm to her brother.
The Grangers hurried home. As many times as Dorothea had thought of this day, she had never envisioned her parents quiet and pensive as they returned to what could at last be called their house, their land. Only once did a sense of triumph overcome Lorena’s uneasiness. As the farm came into view, she declared, “From now on we shall call this place Thrift Farm the Second.”
Jonathan shifted uncomfortably.
“No,” said Robert. “We will call it the Granger farm.”
Lorena shot him a look of surprise, but something in his expression silenced her intended protest.
While Jonathan and Robert remained behind in the barn to unhitch the horses, Dorothea and her mother hastened to the house. Dorothea’s heart leaped into her throat when her mother tested the kitchen door. It swung open easily. The bolt had been drawn back.
Lorena hurried to check Uncle Jacob’s ol
d room while Dorothea raced upstairs. She found Zachariah resting in her bed, the Sugar Camp Quilt spread over him.
“Where else did you reckon I’d be?” asked Zachariah, bemused. “Did you think I was fool enough to go my own way in daylight?”
“The bolt was drawn back. We thought you had left us, or—that you had been taken.”
“That bolt locks from the inside,” he told her. “If that man did come back and found the door bolted, he’d know someone was in here. I thought it best to leave it as you folks would have.”
“What if Mr. Liggett had returned and come inside?”
“What if he’d been watching the house when you came home and saw you folks knocking on the door and calling out for someone to let you in? He’d know for sure you had someone in here.”
Dorothea was stumped for a moment, but she said, “At least the bolt would have kept him out until our return.”
Zachariah shrugged. “Maybe, unless he thought to kick in a window. This is a nice place, but it ain’t a stockade. You can’t keep out someone who’s bent on coming in, not unless you got a rifle.”
“We do not believe in violence.”
He snorted. “Just because you don’t believe in it don’t make it any less real.”
Dorothea had no reply to that. She changed the dressing on his leg as Jonathan had taught her and brought him a cup of water, then returned downstairs to help her mother prepare dinner. When her father came in from the barn to inquire after Zachariah, Dorothea told him of their scare. Robert shook his head and said, “We must contrive a better hiding place.”
Jonathan went upstairs to check on his reluctant patient, and when he returned he wore a disgruntled expression. He drew on his coat and announced he was going back into town for something for Zachariah’s foot.
Not long afterward, when Dorothea carried a tray upstairs to Zachariah, she drew a chair closer and explained the route to the next station, using the quilt draped over him as a guide. “Remember these patterns and you’ll remember the way,” she told him.
“What about that doctor brother of yours?” he asked. “Think he’ll let me go?”
Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt Page 19