Indigo

by Beverly Jenkins

  Galen looked up as his hostess came into the room carrying the tray which held his breakfast.

  "Good morning, Galen," she said cheerily.

  He nodded, not sure if he were up to such animation so early in the day. "Good morning," he murmured.

  Breakfast this morning consisted of piping hot hominy, a mound of eggs, cooked maple sugar apples spiced with cinnamon, and three fat biscuits running with melted butter. He surveyed it all and knew that when he did leave he'd sorely miss her cooking.

  Hester saw him eyeing the mound of food and said, "I hope I didn't give you too much." She had awakened this morning determined not to let his dark moods sully her day. She would be pleasant no matter what.

  "No, the portion is fine."

  "Good, then I will return later."

  "What about the shears?" he asked, looking up at her.

  Hester did not want to begin the day with an argument. She said calmly, "We've already discussed that. The stitching stays until Bea says differently. If it's uncomfortable, it means you're healing."

  "I know that," he replied testily, "but the damn itching is driving me mad."

  Hester fished around in the pocket of her black skirt. "Bea sent this unguent. She says it will help."

  He took the small silver tin from her hand, pried off the top, then sniffed at the stuff inside. "Smells female."

  "Cures all," Hester replied, thinking of how he would try a saint. "Bea said to rub the salve into the skin by the stitches. Can you do it alone or do you need assistance?"

  He handed her the tin without a word.

  "Are you always so rude?" Hester asked.

  His one good eye bore into her, but she didn't flinch. He said, "Normally, no."

  "That's something," she stated, though she tended to believe he was lying.

  After he unbuttoned his shirt, she put a bit of Bea's unguent on her fingertips, then sat beside him on the small cot. Forcing herself to concentrate on the wound and not on the nearness of their bodies, Hester very gently rubbed the ointment into the long line of stitches that ran below his ribs. His skin was warm, and as she added more ointment to her fingertips and continued, it became next to impossible to ignore the soft heat rising from his golden chest. That heat, in tandem with the feel of her hands gliding slowly over his firm flesh, made her acutely aware that she'd never touched a man's body with such intimacy before. She hazarded a glance up to his face and found herself being watched. She quickly lowered her eyes back to the job at hand.

  Galen thought her hands held magic; her every touch brought soothing relief. He closed his eyes at one point, unable to do anything other than savor the balm flowing from her indigo hands. He knew most of the relief could be attributed to Bea's unguent, but Hester's touch seemed to have a healing effect all its own. "You're very good at this, Hester Wyatt..."

  Hester continued to gently work the unguent into his skin, telling herself she was not affected by his soft pronouncement.

  "I'm done now, Galen."

  He'd been lying back with his eyes closed. In response to her words, the one good eye opened and held her. Her heart began to beat so fast, she felt compelled to say something, anything. "Bea says the ointment should be put on three times a day."

  "Good, because I was wondering how I might bribe you into agreeing to do it again...later..." His voice was thick; the air filled with tension. Hester could feel herself becoming warm also. "I have apples to pick in the yard—"

  He nodded.

  She pocketed the tin of ointment and fled.

  Outside, Hester ventured into the wild apple orchard behind the house.

  At one time, the orchard had been her father's pride and joy and encompassed nearly two hundred well-manicured trees. When he sold himself, Katherine had no choice but to let the orchard go wild because she was unable to afford the expense of hiring a caretaker. Over the years, the branches had been pruned and nurtured only by nature. In the late fall, like now, the one hundred or so trees which remained continued to bear tart, red fruit.

  Hester had picked nearly a basketful of the apples downed by the last rain, but she halted upon seeing Galen, aided by Bea's cane, come slowly hobbling in her direction. Her first instinct was to quickly scan the countryside for possible witnesses. It was not uncommon for slave catchers to be lurking amongst the trees outside houses on the Road. However, she saw nothing but the open fields of her land and the brilliant leaves of the autumn-kissed trees off in the distance. She wondered what Galen found so pressing he could not wait for her to return to the house. At least he'd had sense enough to put on the old fisherman's sweater from the chest, she noted approvingly. The air of the sunny mid-October day held the chilly warning of the winter soon to come.

  He was breathing harshly when he came abreast of where she stood amongst the trees. The short walk from the house had cost him much in the way of strength.

  Wondering if he had any sense at all, she told him, "I'm going to assume there's a sound reason for you to be out?"

  He found a cleared stump and eased himself down. "Yes. If I stay locked in that room for one more minute, I'll go insane."

  Their eyes held and Hester found herself remembering how warm his skin had felt under her fingertips. She looked away.

  "Is it time for a second helping of that ointment?"

  She chuckled inwardly and wondered if he possessed mind-reading capabilities. "No," she answered. "After luncheon. Then again after supper."

  "Pity," he stated, looking up at her.

  When he spoke again his voice was serious. "Hester, I'd like to apologize for my behavior since my arrival. You've been patient and gracious. I was raised better, even if I haven't shown it."

  Hester studied his bruised face, sensing his sincerity. "Apology accepted," she replied more softly than she'd intended. Pulling herself away from the dangerous undertow she sensed in him, she busied herself with looking for more of the downed apples littering the ground. She was only interested in the ones still in relatively good shape. Most of the best fruit had been shaken down by hired hands less than two weeks ago, then taken to market to be sold, or, sold by the barrel to her neighbors who put them up for winter, turned them into pies or cooked them down to apple sauce. Hester had her own supply stashed away in barrels in her cellar, but she checked every day anyway in hopes of rescuing any fruit which might be salvageable.

  As she walked around, stooping here and there to add an apple to her basket, she was very conscious of Galen. She knew he was watching her, and because he did she felt the return of that heart-racing nervousness. She told herself she was being silly, why in the world should she be as skittish as a young girl with her first beau? At twenty-four years of age, she was past the days of being rendered breathless by a man, even one as intriguing and mercurial as Galen. Yes, he was the Black Daniel, the most famous conductor on the Road, but he could also be rude, foul-tempered, and arrogant to a fault, not to mention his face, which still looked as if it had been run over by a wagon wheel. She couldn't possibly be affected by such a man.

  Galen's voice interrupted her thoughts when he asked, "Who's the biggest land owner around here?"

  "Jacob Aray. He settled here in '28 and has about one hundred and eighty acres." She came back and took a seat on a nearby stump then looked out over the land. "In my great-grandparents' day, the biggest land owners in the area were the Montgomery families. According to my aunt Katherine, they owned over a thousand acres on this end of the county."

  "Do they still have descendants in the area?"

  "No, the Montgomerys were Tories. When the Crown lost the war, the Montgomerys lost everything. They eventually emigrated to Canada with the other fleeing Tory supporters and my great-grandfather purchased some of the land."

  Galen looked out over the unplowed fields and asked, "How many acres do you own?"

  "About one hundred and ten."

  "You don't farm?"

  "No, but Mr. Hubble does on the land I lease him. At harvest tim
e he gives me a portion of the profit. He lives about five miles east."

  "Anyone nearby selling land?"

  "Why? Are you looking to live amongst us traitors?"

  "Maybe."

  "You're jesting, surely?"

  "Maybe."

  He struggled up off the stump. Aided by the cane, he stood, then said, "I think I've had enough outdoors for one day."

  Hester was still stunned by the possibility of him buying land somewhere nearby. She wanted to badger him with questions.

  Galen sensed this, and unable to resist teasing her, asked, "Have I piqued your curiosity, Miss Wyatt?"

  Hester was surprised by the smile on his battered face. "Yes, Galen, you have."

  "Good," he said, chuckling softly. "Good."

  Hester watched him hobble away back to the house, her questions unanswered.

  Later in the day, Hester pondered his startling revelation. Did he really intend to purchase land in the area, and if so to what purpose? She'd never heard any stories about where the Black Daniel resided when he was not on the Road, nor had she heard anything about his having a family. All she knew was that the Black Daniel helped slaves escape and guided them north, and that he, like the Wesleyites, had never lost a passenger. Did he have a wife somewhere who was right now worried sick over his absence? Having a spouse on the Road had to be harrowing. With all the dangers to be faced—the catchers and dogs to be avoided—the very real threat of betrayal looming everywhere, it made Hester a bit thankful her fiance, Foster Quint, had no official ties to the Road. Her own involvement was dangerous enough. Foster, a Canadian by birth, was presently in England finishing up his studies at Oxford. He would be returning to America's shores in the spring. Foster's dark face formed in her mind, and she realized she'd written him only once since Galen's arrival. She added one more disparaging mark to the Black Daniel's slate, then stopped herself—Galen had apologized this morning for being such a thorn in her side. He'd even smiled. She'd no idea how long this behavior would last but she hoped it continued for the remainder of his stay.

  Hester entered the cellar room and found him feeding wood to the belly of the old stove. The chill in the air down there was perfect for wintering vegetables and other staples, but being below ground with the damp and the cold was not an ideal location for humans. She might have to consider moving him up into the house if he stayed much longer.

  "Here's your luncheon," she called.

  He turned from the stove, acknowledged her with a nod, and made his way back to the cot. He sat, propped the cane against the thin mattress, and took the tray.

  "Is there draught in here?"

  Hester shook her head. "No. When Bea stopped by this morning, I told her how you were progressing and she said you can probably do without it."

  Once again he surprised her with his smile.

  Hester smiled shyly in reply. "I told her you would be pleased. She'd like to come by and see about removing some of the stitching in the next few days."

  "Good. The sooner these threads come out of my side the better."

  Luncheon consisted of stewed tomatoes, succotash, and the sweetest fish he'd ever tasted. "You're a damned fine cook, Hester Wyatt."

  "Thank you."

  He held her eyes and she felt the pull of him, tugging at her again. In an attempt to ignore those sensations, she asked, "After your meal, will you tell me about the ambush? We have a Vigilance Committee meeting this evening, and the members will want to know about the traitor."

  "So you believe me?"

  "Your injuries speak for themselves, but whether the Judas is from Whittaker has not been proven."

  "I was bringing some passengers in by wagon—a man named Ephraim, his wife, Liza, and their six-year-old son, Jake. I had rigged myself up earlier to look like an elderly white widow, complete with hat and veil because we'd ridden part of the way to Michigan by train. Ephraim and his small family were posing as my servants."

  Using the trains to come north was a bit more common than slave owners and catchers realized, Hester knew. Light-skinned Blacks in particular often utilized their skin color to pose as white and then ride the rails to freedom. One of the most celebrated escapes of the era had been undertaken in 1846 by the very fair skinned Ellen Craft and her husband, William, both slaves from Georgia. Ellen, after transforming herself into a young male planter, had, with her darker-skinned husband posing as her manservant, ridden trains and steamers on the journey from Georgia to the free soil of Philadelphia.

  Galen's voice recaptured Hester's attention. "We entered the state over by Cass County. I knew a family in Ann Arbor who would shelter us so we journeyed there. It took us three days, but when we approached the house I saw no light in the windows and no light in the jockey's hand."

  Many of the houses on the Road had on their porches or in their front yards a small statue of a black-skinned, red-coated jockey holding a lantern from its extended arm. If the lantern was lit, runaways knew it was safe to approach the house and ask for refuge. If the lantern was dark, travelers knew to move on because the area was not safe. Hester's home had sported such a jockey for many decades. It stood out by the road, ostensibly to light the way to the back of the house. Due to the lurking presence of Shoe and his men, it hadn't been lit for days.

  Galen continued. "One of the reasons we needed to find a hidey-hole was due to the full moon that night. If we could see for miles under the light of that moon, so could any slave catchers."

  "So where'd you head?"

  "To another safe house I knew outside town. Only we never made it. We crossed a small stream and had driven about a mile when six mounted men showed themselves on the banks above."

  Galen's voice softened. "They rode slowly down the bank like apparitions from a nightmare. Their presence took us so much by surprise, we could do nothing but hold our ground and wait."

  "What happened next?"

  "They wanted to know who we were and why we were out so late. I still had on the garb, but I was seated in the bed of the wagon swathed in blankets supposedly to keep away the chill. I immediately closed my eyes and pretended to be just a doddering, but sleeping old woman. We'd rehearsed a story for just such an occasion, so Ephraim pointed me out as his sleeping mistress. He further explained that I was mute and that we were on our way home from a burial in Cassopolis."

  "Did they believe him?"

  "They asked to see the family's papers."

  Hester stilled. "Did you have papers prepared?"

  "I'd prepared them before coming north."

  Fraudulent papers of freedom were common on the road. Hester's own free papers had been copied many times for others to use. Her neighbor, Branton Hubble, did most of the document forging in her area.

  "The man who acted as the leader took the papers from Ephraim and looked at them under the light of the moon. I was afraid he'd keep them or burn them, but after a moment he seemed satisfied and gave the papers back. He then asked if we'd seen any runaways. Ephraim told him no. The man slowly leaned down into Ephraim's face and said he and his men were slave catchers and he hoped Ephraim wasn't lying because he hated liars. Ephraim repeated, he'd seen no one."

  "Did that satisfy him?"

  "It appeared so, however, they weren't content to simply let us pass. The leader said he and his men had been on the road for a long time. He thought it would be real neighborly if Ephraim would let him take Liza back in the woods."

  "Whatever for?"

  Galen looked over at her and said softly, "Surely petite, you are not that innocent?"

  Suddenly getting his meaning, Hester stared aghast.

  He continued, "Before any of us could react, one of the riders snatched up the child, Jake, and took him up on his mount. He put a gun to his head and offered Ephraim a choice."

  "They didn't harm them did they?"

  "In the end, no, because I offered up myself instead."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I stood up in the wagon, threw off the
shawl and wig and identified myself. I told them the bounty they'd receive in exchange for turning me in would buy all the whores they'd ever need. I took the chance their greed would override their lust."

  "You also took the chance they'd capture you and harm the woman anyway."

  "I know. However I had no other option. There were six of them, they could have just as easily taken what they'd wanted and killed us where we stood. At least this way, Ephraim's family might be allowed to leave with their lives. They were my main concern."

  "But your life?"

  "Meant less than theirs. They hadn't come all the way from Georgia just to be terrorized by a gang of illiterate kidnappers. Their son was only six. He'd been stoic and helpful the entire trip. He deserved to have a life. I was not going to allow him to watch his mama brutalized and see his father killed trying to defend her—not while I drew breath."

  "So what happened?" she whispered.

  "The leader seemed a bit stunned by the good fortune that had just fallen into his lap because it took him a moment to figure out what to do. In the end, greed won out. He had me get down from the wagon then told the family to go on. Ephraim didn't want to leave me, but I assured them this was for the best."

  "When did the Wesleyites make their appearance?"

  "Not soon enough, believe me. After the family departed, the catchers decided to have a little fun with me. Teach me never to steal anyone's property again, they said."