Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Two of the last guests were, in my view, the two least welcome. A fortnight after my nephew was born, Mr. Pearson and Mrs. Engle paid their respects to the new mother. They arrived at dinnertime, just as Hans returned hungry from the fields, so I was obliged to entertain them better than I otherwise would have done. While Anneke and Mrs. Engle sat in the front room, with Mrs. Engle holding the baby and cooing to him while Anneke looked on, radiant, I set out some of the dishes the neighbors had brought and hoped Mr. Pearson would not feel the need to assist me. He did not, apparently, for when he entered the dining room, he merely stood there smirking, as if I should be grateful he chose to keep me company.

  “Anneke looks well,” he remarked, leaning against the door frame and watching me set the table.

  I made a noise of agreement but otherwise ignored him.

  He followed me in a leisurely fashion as I went back and forth, carrying dishes from the kitchen to the table. “How fortunate is she to know the bliss of motherhood,” said he. “It is truly the highest state to which women can aspire, don’t you agree?”

  All manner of retorts rose to my sharp tongue, but I withheld them. If he hoped to provoke within me even a spark of jealousy toward my sister-in-law, he was wasting his own time as well as mine. “Anneke has been richly blessed, and I am truly overjoyed for her,” said I, and I meant it with all my heart.

  He seemed disappointed by the lack of venom in my response, and his gaze turned away from me—and alighted on the Underground Railroad quilt, folded and forgotten on the sideboard. “What’s this?” asked he, unfolding it.

  “A quilt.”

  “Yes, of course, I see that,” he snapped, but then he frowned. “I do believe I’ve seen this pattern elsewhere.”

  “Perhaps your mother has made a similar quilt.”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  He studied the quilt with such intensity that I grew agitated. “Oh, indeed, Mr. Pearson, are you such a connoisseur of patchwork that you know every quilt block your mother has made?”

  He looked up from the quilt, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “She would like it better if I did, but I confess I only pretend to listen when she chatters about her needlework.” He folded the quilt and returned it to the sideboard. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Bergstrom.” With his usual smirk in place, he returned to the front room.

  I chided myself for my shaky nerves and resolved to conceal my emotions so well that I would be thought as serene as Dorothea. Knowing that Mr. Pearson could not possibly understand the quilt’s significance steeled my confidence, and since he dared not bait me too much in front of the others, dinner passed without a mishap.

  With so many other distractions to occupy my thoughts, I put the incident out of my mind. When another week passed, and it seemed safe again, I draped the Underground Railroad quilt over the clothesline and made ready for new arrivals.

  There was, indeed, much to prepare, so much we did not know about when Joanna first knocked upon our door. Food and rest were the most pressing needs, but after that, the fugitives often needed new clothing, especially shoes, for the men, and gloves and bonnets for the women, the better to pass themselves off as free if they were seen. They also needed papers declaring them free citizens, although I sometimes wondered what good these would do if they were apprehended by slave catchers. Still, if the documents spared only one runaway from the clutches of slavery, they were worth far more than the paper and ink and the work I put into them. I must say I became quite an accomplished forger. Once Hans said, in jest, that he knew people from his vagabond days who could help me turn a nice profit with my skills, but Anneke was decidedly not amused by the suggestion. She said we broke enough laws on Elm Creek Farm not to joke about violating more for mere lucrative gain. For someone who went about day and night beaming over her beautiful son, motherhood had rendered Anneke rather humorless.

  In addition to clothing and forged papers, the fugitives needed food for their journey. I learned to bake hardtack and sent them off with that as well as dried apples and hard cheese that would not spoil quickly. They needed directions to stations farther north; Hans determined the most prudent courses based upon rumored slave-catcher activities. Most of all, our guests needed hope, and so we provided encouragement in abundance.

  Sometimes our visitors shared news from the places they had abandoned, and their accounts confirmed what we had begun to read in the papers: that Southern animosity for the North was increasing as Northern condemnation of Southern slaveholding became louder and more insistent. Even Southerners who did not own slaves resented Northerners for their self-righteous attempts to interfere in Southern matters, which, they feared, could destroy the economy of the entire South. “Abolitionist” was a word spoken with venom by Southern whites, and slaves knew better than to utter it, even to ask in all innocence what it meant.

  But most runaways who passed through our station were too exhausted and wary to converse much about the institution of slavery. Their strength they reserved for the difficult flight to Canada; their thoughts they saved for the family and friends they had left behind, and would almost certainly never see again.

  Four weeks passed between the birth of Anneke’s son and the restoration of the signal quilt to the clothesline; another five days passed with no knock on the door in the night. Then one morning shortly after dawn, when Hans was already in the fields and I was tending to my household chores, two quick raps sounded.

  I opened the door and discovered a colored man dressed in farmer’s clothes, the brim of his hat pulled down low over his eyes—and our Underground Railroad quilt folded over his arm. A flash of panic shot through me—did he not realize how he endangered himself and us, approaching the house so boldly in daylight, the signal quilt in hand?—so that I did not at first recognize him as Mr. Abel Wright, the owner of a farm lying roughly fifteen miles south and west of ours outside the boundaries of Creek’s Crossing, whose wife I had met at Charlotte Claverton’s quilting bee.

  I stammered out a greeting and invited him inside, but he refused, saying that he had to return to his fields. Then he held out the quilt to me and said, “I just wanted to tell you not to use this quilt no more.” When I told him I did not understand, he looked away, paused, and added, “Too many people know about it. Someone talked. Someone down the line, or someone captured—I can’t rightly say who. But you ought not to use this anymore.” Then he looked directly into my eyes and said, “Do you get my meaning?”

  I did indeed, but I also found myself wondering why it had not occurred to me before that free Negroes in the North might also be stationmasters. Even now it shames me to admit this, but until that moment, I had assumed the Underground Railroad was operated solely by benevolent whites. Though I had prided myself on being an enlightened sort, I had never suspected that Negroes might be perfectly able and willing to help one another, without the benefit of some white person’s direction. What this said about me, with all my high ideals and rhetoric, it troubled me to ponder.

  I thanked Mr. Wright and hurried off to find Anneke. She was in the baby’s room, rocking and nursing contentedly, but when I repeated the warning to her, her eyes grew large with fright, as if she could already hear the pounding hooves of slave catchers’ horses storming up the road toward us. Indeed, I had to struggle to maintain my own composure, for although I could not discern the connection, I knew our neighbor’s warning was somehow linked to Mr. Pearson’s odd musings about the Underground Railroad pattern. That despicable man would bring us trouble. He had not done so yet, and so I had no explanation for the intensity of my feelings, but I was certain he meant us harm.

  “We shall have to contrive another signal,” said I.

  Anneke declared she knew exactly the thing: a quilt pattern common enough that it would not attract unwanted attention, and yet simple enough that even I could fashion it well. It was called Birds in the Air, and as it was fashioned of many triangles, we could, by the placement of the quilt upon the
line, indicate in which direction the fugitives could find a safe haven.

  At first I was dubious; I suggested a pattern of logs in the woodpile or an arrangement of buckets by the well, anything as long as it bore no resemblance whatsoever to the signal that had become a danger. But Anneke noted that slave catchers, being men, were likely to ignore clotheslines, and even if a slave catcher did take note of it, he would ignore other quilts in his search for the one pattern he knew Abolitionists favored. “They would not suspect we would substitute one quilt pattern as a signal for another,” said Anneke. “That is why it is the perfect choice.”

  Thus she persuaded me, and thus we began our second signal quilt.

  Since nearly every moment of Anneke’s days and nights was given over to the care of her son, the task of completing the quilt fell to me, the least able quilter in the county. Anneke suggested that I make a crib-size quilt, both to hasten its completion and to contribute to our ruse: No one would think it odd to spot the same baby’s blanket so frequently upon the clothesline, for as I had recently learned, infants rarely kept garments or bedding clean for long. Moreover, I finally consented to learn to use Anneke’s sewing machine, something she had been pestering me to do since our arrival at Elm Creek Farm. Pumping the treadle and guiding the fabric through the machine was hardly work at all in comparison to the tedious drudgery of hand sewing. I worked swiftly, feverishly, whenever my other chores would permit, and as the days passed, one Birds in the Air block after another joined the rising pile beside the sewing machine. Now that Joanna did not need to hide continuously in the secret alcove, she, too, learned to use the sewing machine, and she completed as many blocks as I.

  Working side by side, Joanna and I joined the blocks into rows, sewed the rows together, then layered the pieced top, cotton batting, and a muslin lining in Anneke’s frame. We devoted one long stretch from dusk until dawn quilting, and in the morning when Anneke came downstairs with the baby in her arms, she found us putting the last stitches into the binding.

  The three of us inspected the quilt. “It’ll do,” said Joanna matter-of-factly.

  I nodded, too tired to do anything more, but Anneke took the quilt and wrapped it around her son. “It’s beautiful.” She cradled her son in her arms and kissed his brow.

  My heart swelled with pride. Anyone else would have laughed in surprise to hear this quilt, sturdily though hastily made, pieced of scraps and quilted in simple lines, given such praise. But I understood my sister-in-law’s meaning. The quilt was beautiful not for itself but for what it represented, and what it would accomplish.

  It was the finest thing my hands ever made, then or since.

  We sent word to stations south of us—as before, I shall not explain the particulars of how—so that fugitives would know to look for our new signal. Within days of the completion of the quilt, it had beckoned a runaway from Virginia into our home. The Elm Creek Farm station of the Underground Railroad was open once again.

  11

  The second time the librarian passed by to remind Summer that the Waterford Historical Society’s archives closed early on Fridays, Summer nodded absently and glanced at her watch. She had five more minutes to search the database before the librarian would kick her out and lock the door, but with the pitiful luck she’d had so far that day, five minutes more or less probably wouldn’t make much difference.

  She sighed and shut down the computer, admitting to herself that she might be wasting her time. Lately she had turned up nothing related to the Bergstroms or Elm Creek Farm, so she had not even told Sylvia about her searches. She would rather have Sylvia believe she was too busy to investigate rather than dash her hopes that something remained out there, waiting to be found.

  “That was one heavy sigh. You’re supposed to be quiet in the library.”

  Summer looked over her shoulder to find the same dark-haired man who had tried to help her in the stacks smiling at her from his usual carrel. “Sorry,” said Summer. “Does this mean you have to confiscate my library card?”

  “I don’t think that happens on the first offense.” He rose and crossed the aisle, and nodded to the computer. “Are you having trouble finding something?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been here for two hours and all I’ve found is frustration.” Summer laughed ruefully. “I wouldn’t mind if at least one of my possibilities would have led somewhere.”

  “Maybe I can help. What are you looking for?”

  “Birth records, death records, documents relating to a family that immigrated here before the Civil War. I looked through the hard copies of the city government files already, but when I couldn’t find what I wanted, I tried the database. Unfortunately, it’s even less complete than the books.”

  “Did you look in the old local newspapers? The historical society has microfiche of issues going as far back as the 1800s.”

  “I looked, but the years I wanted are missing.”

  “Did you ask at the newspaper office?”

  Summer nodded. “They said they might have the issues but they couldn’t be sure, and they couldn’t spare the personnel to help me look.”

  “That’s rude of them. I think I’ll cancel my subscription in protest.”

  “Don’t do it on my account. It’s not their fault.” Summer checked her watch and, seeing that the archives were about to close, began gathering her notebooks and photocopies. “All I can give them is a last name and a time period. If I could be more specific about what I was looking for, they could probably be more helpful.”

  The man picked up his stack of books and followed her to the door, where the librarian waited, key in hand. “Have you checked the phone book?”

  Summer raised her eyebrows at him. “They didn’t have phones back then, so they didn’t have much need for phone books.”

  “No, I mean our phone book. The family you’re researching lived in this area, right? Maybe there are some living descendants who would be willing to talk to you. Even if they don’t have the specific details you need, they might be able to point you in the right direction. They could give you additional names to research, like other branches of the family.”

  “Oh, I know there are living descendants,” said Summer. One living descendant, anyway, but if Sylvia had that information, Summer wouldn’t be searching for it. And as far as additional names were concerned—

  “That’s it,” exclaimed Summer. She had to get home and get her hands on a phone book. “Thank you so much, um—”

  “Jeremy. And you’re?”

  “Summer. Thanks, Jeremy. You’ve given me a great idea.” She left the archive room and headed briskly for the stairs, Jeremy close behind. “I should have asked you for help before. I’m so glad I happened to be here during your shift.”

  “My shift?”

  She glanced at him. “You don’t work for the library?”

  “Nope. And not for the historical society, either.”

  Summer stopped short and regarded him with a skeptical grin. “But you offered to help me search the archives.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just a good citizen.” When Summer laughed, he added sheepishly, “I’m a grad student in history. I study in the Waterford Historical Society’s room because it’s quiet. Usually no one comes in there except for you. Not that I’m keeping track or anything.”

  He looked so embarrassed Summer couldn’t resist teasing him. “Well, if I need any more research assistance, I’ll be sure to ask.”

  He grinned, pleased. “You know where to find me.”

  May 1859—

  in which we enter our darkest hours

  Our new signal quilt proved so successful that I allowed myself to believe we had eluded the dangers Mr. Pearson’s apparent recognition of the Underground Railroad pattern had hinted at and our neighbor’s warnings had confirmed. How foolish I was. I should have been more vigilant, but even in hindsight I do not know how I could have predicted from which direction the most dangerous winds would blow.

&nb
sp; Fair weather brought a steady stream of runaways; they followed the creek north to our home, with slave catchers never far behind. Elm Creek Farm, which as recently as winter had seemed so remote, now was assured of a visitor at least every second day—and for every three friends we ushered inside to safety, we encountered one unfriendly stranger, full of suspicions and questions. And once again, the same two slave catchers who had searched our home in March came to contend with us.

  They arrived amid a fierce thunderstorm, the sudden, violent sort we had learned to expect in that region each spring, but which awed us anew each season. Our first warning of the men’s approach came in a respite between thunderclaps: the high, shrill whinny of a horse, so close and sudden we started. Barely a heartbeat later there was an urgent pounding upon the door.

  Needless to say, our usual night visitors did not arrive on horseback. Joanna hurried as fast as she could from the fireside upstairs to the secret alcove, and as I assisted her inside, my heart raced with alarm. I wondered who was outside, and if they had glimpsed Joanna through the windows.

  When I returned downstairs and found the two familiar and unwelcome figures dripping water in our foyer, I felt a lump in the pit of my stomach, which did not fade until I realized they must not have seen Joanna, for if they had, they would even now be dragging her from the hiding place. I longed to order them from the house, but we could not send them back out into the storm without raising their suspicions. Instead Hans took them to the barn where they could leave their dogs and tend to their horses, and I began to prepare them something to eat.

  Suddenly Anneke clutched my arm, stricken. “Gerda,” said she, and nodded out the window toward the clothesline.