“I don’t know,” replied Dorothea. She slowed the team as they drew closer. Just then, a carriage turned on to the street two blocks ahead of them and slowed as it approached the ferry. The men carrying torches leaped forward and blocked its way. A third man opened the carriage door and leaned inside, then withdrew and shouted something to his companions.
Dorothea did not wait to see if the four men allowed the carriage to board the ferry. She pulled hard on the reins and swung the wagon west on to Second Street.
“They’re searching that carriage,” murmured Constance, turning in her seat to look back upon the scene. “They ain’t the constable’s men.”
“Indeed they are not.” Dorothea urged the team into a trot. “They are slavecatchers.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. But even if they were not, they would search the wagon before permitting us aboard the ferry. That is reason enough for us to turn around.”
Constance studied her as the horses pulled them briskly away from the ferry dock. “Are you taking us back to the farm?”
“No.” Dorothea fought the instinct to make the horses run. “I know another crossing.”
“Not on Liggett’s land, like your uncle tried?”
“The creek does narrow there. My uncle would have made it if not for his stroke.”
“But Liggett—if he sees us—”
“He won’t see us,” said Dorothea grimly. “He is engaged at the moment.”
For Dorothea had recognized the slight, hunched form of the man who had peered within the carriage, and the golden curls and arrogant stance of one of the torchbearers.
Cyrus and Mr. Liggett, working openly with slavecatchers.
THE FOUR RUNAWAYS MUST have felt the wagon turn completely around. They must have sensed their increased speed. Dorothea braced herself for a nervous question from Old Dan or the piping voices of the children, but the fugitives remained hidden.
“What if they saw us?” Constance said in a low voice.
“Let us hope they did not.” But Dorothea knew it was possible. They had been only two blocks from the ferry dock when they turned west. Surely Cyrus would wonder about a wagon suddenly veering off as soon as their blockade came into view. Dorothea prayed he had not recognized her or Uncle Jacob’s mare.
They passed through Creek’s Crossing without incident. As the lights of the town faded behind them, Dorothea strained her ears for any sound of pursuit. All she heard was the steady clopping of the horses’ hooves on the road headed south and the gurgling of Elm Creek, unseen in the darkness that fell sharply outside the pool of light their lanterns provided. In the distance Dorothea spied lights from farms, small and fragile in the dark.
They passed Two Bears Farm, the house silent on the top of the hill with only the two lighted windows hinting at warmth within. Dorothea and Constance did not speak. Soon even the sound of the creek died away as it curved around the oxbow to the west. The forest grew deeper; if Dorothea had not known the valley so well, she would have missed the turn onto the road to Elm Creek Farm.
The wagon creaked and jolted over the narrow trail, jarring on rocks and tree roots. Tree branches clawed at Dorothea’s face; a lantern pole caught on a limb and snapped. Dorothea pulled the horses to a stop so Constance could get out and retrieve the lantern. The tin was dented, but miraculously, the light had not gone out.
“Seems to me this might be a very bad idea,” said Constance as Dorothea started the horse again. Constance held out the lantern at arm’s length, but it was a futile gesture.
“If you have a better alternative, I’m listening.”
Dorothea’s voice was strained from the effort of driving the team. The horses pulled at the bit and tossed their heads, annoyed at Dorothea for steering them into the tangled wood. Dorothea urged them forward, and the wagon jerked and bounded deeper into the woods. Constance nervously clutched at the wagon seat with her free hand, but she did not voice her doubts again. Just when Dorothea thought her aching arms could wrestle the team no further, she glimpsed moonlight on water.
“The creek,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “We can cross up ahead.”
Constance held out the lantern and shook her head. “It’s too far off the road. The wagon will never make it.”
“We have to try.”
Dorothea pulled the team to a halt, jumped down from the wagon seat, and led the resistant horses off the trail into the woods. The horses strained and pulled the wagon into the underbrush, over a rotten log that crumbled onto a carpet of fallen leaves. “Good girl,” Dorothea praised her uncle’s mare quietly, urging her onward and hoping Abel Wright’s horse would follow. They reached the top of a small incline that sloped down a steep hill to the creek bed. The crossing was narrower here, as Dorothea had remembered, but she and Jonathan had been on foot in daylight.
“We can’t turn the wagon around here anyway,” said Constance. “We might as well go forward.” She secured the lantern and climbed down from the wagon seat.
Dorothea nodded and took a deep breath, blood pounding in her ears. She grasped the reins and bridles of Uncle Jacob’s mare while Constance took hold of her own horse, and together they pulled the team forward. The horses whinnied in complaint but stepped forward once, then twice, and then quicker steps as the wagon began to roll down the slope of its own accord. Muscles straining, Dorothea held the mare in check as the wagon picked up speed. Suddenly Constance cried out as a wheel jolted against a tree root and sent her sprawling to the ground. The leather reins burned Dorothea’s palms as they tore free from her grasp. She fell to her knees and scrambled out of the way as the horses and wagon sped past her down the steep slope to the creek. There was a rumble and a crash of breaking branches, and then the wagon fell from sight.
A scream strangled in her throat. She crawled forward and spotted the wagon below, upright and stuck in the creek. One lantern lay on the pebbled creek side, the other extinguished, lost in the darkness. Abel Wright’s horse whinnied and bucked, then tossed her head and snorted, pacing, still bound to the wagon and Uncle Jacob’s mare. After a moment of horrifying stillness, a child’s wail broke the night air.
Dorothea forced herself to her feet, choking back a sob. She made her way to Constance, who groaned as she sat up and clasped a hand to her head. Dorothea helped her stand, and together they picked their way down to the wagon, where the runaways were cautiously emerging from the bed of hay. The youngest girl stretched out her arms for Liza, sobbing. As Liza snatched her up, the eldest girl stood and looked around, dazed and silent, picking hay from her hair.
“Where’s Old Dan?” said Constance in her ear. They quickly climbed into the wagon bed, and while Liza comforted the girls, Dorothea and Constance dug through the hay, searching frantically for the old man. Then, a flickering of lantern light drew Dorothea’s attention to a limp form half in the creek, half on the shore. Her gasp alerted Constance, and together they jumped from the wagon and raced to his side. Dorothea was afraid to move him, but Constance ran her hands over him as if feeling for broken bones. He groaned as she rolled him over. Blood trickled from his brow.
Sitting on the damp shore, Constance drew him onto her lap and shook her head. Her wordless gaze confirmed what Dorothea already knew: Old Dan could not walk.
She left Constance with the injured man and returned to the wagon, thoughts churning. Liza had calmed the youngest girl, who had quieted her sobs and merely sniffed back tears, thumb in her mouth. “She’s more scared than hurt,” Liza said quietly. “Please, see to Hannah.” She nodded to the eldest child, who stood wide-eyed and wordless in the same spot as when she had first emerged from the hay.
Dorothea approached her gently. “Are you hurt?” No response. Dorothea placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
The girl looked up at her, wordless, but did not even shake her head. Dorothea knelt beside her. “Since you seem to be just fine, I wonder if you could help me. I need someone to hold the lantern while I unh
itch the horses. Do you think you could do that?”
Hannah hesitated, then nodded. Relieved, Dorothea helped her down from the wagon and fetched the lantern. Quickly she surveyed the wagon: It had thrown an axle and the right side was smashed in. It was not beyond repair, but they had neither the tools nor the time to attend to it. Dorothea unhitched the mare, who tossed her head and snorted as if to declare that she had warned Dorothea not to try to cross there. Dorothea wished she had taken heed.
She thanked Hannah for helping her. The little girl nodded, lowered the lantern, and ran to her mother. While Liza comforted her daughters, Dorothea and Constance gathered the runaways’ bundles, then struggled to lift Old Dan onto the mare. He groaned, semiconscious, but did not struggle.
“We will have to proceed on foot,” said Dorothea to Constance as they loaded the bundles on the Wrights’ horse.
“At least we’re across the creek.”
“No thanks to me.”
“Hey, now. We both thought this would work.”
“We should have gone back to your farm and tried again another night. Those men would have eventually tired of their blockade—”
“Only if they’d moved on to searching houses. And where do you think they’d start? Liggett’s already got his eye on you folks, and Abel and I are suspicious just because we’re colored.”
Dorothea nodded, but silently she berated herself and her poor judgment. She tugged on the mare’s reins and ordered her forward, steadying Old Dan with her other hand. Constance walked behind her leading her own horse. Liza followed with the children.
With only the moon and a single lantern to light their way, they made slow progress through the forest. Dorothea led them in a wide arc to avoid the cleared acres and Mr. Liggett’s cabin. Old Dan drifted in and out of awareness. Hannah struggled bravely to keep up with the adults, but Liza, Dorothea, and Constance took turns carrying her younger sister.
Suddenly, Hannah piped, “Are we lost?”
“No,” said Dorothea emphatically. “Not in the least. This is not the way we intended to travel, but we will reach our destination nevertheless.”
She gave the child a reassuring grin and was rewarded with a flicker of a worried smile.
But the journey was long. Dorothea estimated that they would need the better part of two hours to cross Mr. Liggett’s land, and her heart sank with dismay, though she kept her true feelings hidden from those who followed her.
At long last, they left Liggett’s woods and emerged into a clearing, the border of Two Bears Farm. They climbed a fence and stepped out onto cultivated fields, wide and gently rolling terrain, but clear of underbrush. Their passage would be swifter, but their footprints would be easy to follow in the freshly plowed earth. The open field offered them no protection, no place to hide.
In the moonlight Dorothea studied the white house, alone on the hill. The two lights in the windows had been extinguished, and yet the house seemed a haven.
In a low voice meant for Constance’s ears alone, she said, “At this pace, we will not reach the station before daybreak.”
Constance indicated the forest with a jerk of her head. “Maybe we can build a fire, make a shelter with branches. Hide out ’til tomorrow night.”
“On Mr. Liggett’s land? What will we do if he comes home and finds the wagon tonight?”
Constance shuddered, and Dorothea knew she had thought of that. For all they knew Mr. Liggett had already discovered the scene of the accident. He might at that moment be in pursuit.
Dorothea nodded to the house. “We can seek shelter here.”
Constance shook her head. “This ain’t a station no more. The Carters are long gone.”
“Mr. Nelson will aid us.”
“I thought you hated that man!”
“I don’t. He—he’s not a friend, but he is an abolitionist. I do not believe he will turn us away.”
Constance halted, bringing the mare to a stop. She glanced back over her shoulder at Liza and the children, struggling several paces behind, exhausted. On the back of the mare, Old Dan slumped lifelessly. They would never make it to the Granger farm without rest.
“I reckon we don’t have much choice,” said Constance. “I guess … I guess we might as well pay a call on the schoolmaster.”
They waited for Liza and the girls to catch up, then informed them of the latest change in plans. Liza’s expression was haggard, but she nodded and passed her youngest daughter off to Constance. New hope quickened their pace, but Dorothea felt exposed and vulnerable in the open field. When they reached the road, she handed the reins to Liza, ran the last few yards to the porch stairs, and rapped upon the front door. She waited, listening, and knocked a second time, louder. She heard movement within, and after what seemed to be an interminable wait, the door swung open.
“Miss Granger?” Mr. Nelson, clad in trousers and an open shirt, fumbled to put on his glasses. “What on earth brings you here at this hour?”
“A desperate need for your help.” She stepped aside and allowed him to observe the party now gathered at the foot of the porch stairs. Constance had helped Old Dan down from the mare, and he mustered his strength to stand, grasping the porch railing for support.
Dorothea heard Mr. Nelson’s slow intake of breath. “Runaways, I presume.”
She nodded. “We lost our wagon, and as you can see, we have an injured man and children. We cannot go on.” Her voice faltered. “I would not ask it of you—of anyone—except I know what you have done elsewhere. I know what you suffered for your compassion.”
His expression was unreadable. “Then you know what I will suffer if I am caught helping you.”
She hesitated before nodding.
He opened the door and stepped out. Uncomprehending, she moved aside and watched as he descended the stairs. “Take them inside,” he told her. “I will return shortly.”
He took the horses’ reins and led them toward the barn.
Dorothea tore her gaze away from him and beckoned the others. “Inside. Quickly.”
DOROTHEA SWIFTLY MADE A fire in the front room fireplace while Constance helped Old Dan, groaning, to the sofa. Liza helped her daughters from their wraps and drew them closer to warm themselves by the fire. Constance dug into one of the bundles and passed around jerky and johnnycake while Dorothea went to the kitchen in search of water. She found a pan of milk and snatched it up as well. The kitchen window looked out upon the southwestern fields they had crossed; Dorothea spared one anxious glance outside before returning to the front room.
The children drank deeply of the milk and ate even the last crumbs Constance rationed out to them. Dorothea tended to Old Dan’s injuries as best she knew how. He did not appear to have any broken bones, his cuts and bruises appeared minor, but he had taken a hard fall, and she knew he might suffer from internal wounds. He refused to eat, but gulped the water only to cough most of it back up. She was encouraged by his responses to her questions about the whereabouts of his pain, not only so that she could tend to him but also because they proved the blow to his skull had not addled his mind.
Even so, Old Dan would need time to recover and more medical attention than she could provide. Jonathan would have known what to do for him, but Jonathan was hundreds of miles away.
Dorothea covered the injured man with a quilt folded over the back of the sofa and held his hand until he drifted off to sleep. By the time Mr. Nelson returned from the barn, the children, too, had fallen asleep, curled up under quilts on the floor near their mother. Without a word Mr. Nelson beckoned her from the doorway. She rose and followed him into the kitchen.
“I hardly know where to begin,” he said. He kept his voice low enough so that the others would not hear.
“If you mean to scold me, it is a little late for that.”
“It would not do any good, anyway.” He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, sighing. “You had best tell me everything.”
She could not tell him everything, but she t
old him as much as she dared, including the events of that night. His eyebrows shot up when she described the blockade at the ferry, and she waited for a caustic remark about Cyrus Pearson, but none came. When she told him of the accident with the wagon, his expression darkened.
“How far off the main road is the wagon?” he asked.
“Ten yards, if that. But the gully provides some concealment, especially in the dark.”
“If a trail of broken branches does not lead Mr. Liggett right to it.”
She had thought of that, too, but it could not be helped. “We must put our trust in Providence—and our faith in Mr. Liggett’s foolishness.”
“Quite right. I would not peg him as a crack scout.” Mr. Nelson almost smiled. “Let us arrange it so that your friends are well out of harm’s way before he stumbles upon the latest wagon to overturn on his property.”
“Mr. Nelson—” She hardly knew what to say. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”
“That is true, so you need not bother trying.” He nodded toward the front room. “We should not disturb the old man now that he is asleep, but I will show the rest of you to more comfortable rooms upstairs.”
“I will remain below to stand watch.”
“Indeed you shall not. You need your rest if you are to lead your party onward tomorrow night.”
“But what if—”
“I will stand watch, Miss Granger.” He replaced his glasses, folded his arms, and regarded her with what she took to be weary tolerance. “I could not sleep a wink in any event. Not all of us are as accustomed to such excitement as you are.”
“No, I suppose not,” she murmured uncertainly. He sounded almost as if he were teasing her. “But there is another problem. My parents will worry if we do not arrive by daybreak.”
“Will they worry enough to come searching for you?”
“I told them not to.”
“But they may not obey their daughter. Very well. I will take word to them myself in the morning, but now I must insist that you rest.”
Perhaps it was her fatigue, but his didactic manner did not bother her as much as it once had. She made sure Old Dan was comfortable before gently picking up Hannah. Constance gathered the younger sister in her arms, and together they and Liza followed Mr. Nelson upstairs to simply furnished but comfortable rooms.
Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt Page 27