Martha and the Slave Catchers

by Harriet Hyman Alonso

  Martha jumped back from the door as if struck by lightning, still leaving that teeny crack open. She turned down her lamp so no one would spot her from the darkness of the hallway and remained absolutely quiet. Leaning with her ear pressed against the doorjamb, she heard her aunt Edith say, “Come quickly, Sarah. She’s almost ready.”

  The furtive whispers downstairs increased Martha’s curiosity. Cousin Ned had once shown her how they hid runaways in the false bottom of their hay wagon that was then covered with straw. He and Uncle Jonah traveled the fifteen miles from their home southwest of Liberty Falls to hers, delivered their “package,” and immediately drove away into the night. Martha could not remember a time, however, when her papa’s twin sister, her aunt Edith, accompanied them. And what was “she,” whoever “she” was, almost ready for? Try as she might, Martha could not make out all the words the adults were saying.

  “. . . need . . . take her . . . attic . . . the slave catchers . . . on her trail . . .” whispered her papa.

  “. . . don’t know . . . can make it, Micah,” countered Aunt Edith.

  “. . . no choice . . . all of our safety . . . especially hers . . . help your papa . . . take the lamps . . . attic trapdoor . . . carry . . . hot water. Meanwhile, your mama and your aunt . . . come right up.”

  The next thing Martha heard was the two men bumping into the dark walls as they jostled the poor groaning woman up the steep stairs. As they passed Martha’s door, she peeked out and realized this was a girl, not a woman at all. She was tall and beautiful with long, wavy black hair and the palest skin Martha had ever seen, and she looked no older than her cousin Ned.

  Martha was shocked by how ragged and dirty the girl’s dress was. Her thin shoes had such big holes in them that they could hardly stay on her feet. Yet, she had a delicate red silk embroidered shawl around her shoulders that she gripped tightly across her chest in her clenched fingers. Martha wondered where she had obtained such a beautiful thing.

  For a brief second the girl turned her head, her almond-shaped hazel eyes catching Martha’s own brown ones gleaming from the shadows. She attempted a smile but instead grimaced as another wave of pain grabbed her and she knotted up her face and lowered her head. It was then, when Martha’s papa and uncle shifted their positions, that she saw the girl’s huge belly and immediately understood she was having a baby. But she could not figure out why she was here. Could white people be slaves?

  The next moment, Martha’s uncle hustled up the ladder. He placed his arms under the girl’s armpits and lifted her straight up. Martha’s papa quickly followed with his arms around her legs. They were both trying very hard not to jar her, causing her even more agony. In the blink of an eye they were gone, with the other three hurrying after them.

  For hours, days it seemed to Martha, she heard only sounds—creaking floorboards, groans, hustling feet, and whispering voices. Then one loud scream followed by silence.

  Time stood still, and Martha could no longer contain her curiosity. She ran out of her room and toward the attic. As she neared the foot of the ladder, she heard the small, feeble cry of a baby and her mama’s clear voice: “He is alive, but very tiny and weak. I do not know if he will survive.”

  “But this poor girl,” Aunt Edith sighed. “What will we do with her body?”

  Martha’s papa offered in such a low voice that she could hardly hear him, “I have some coffins in the workshop. We can use one of them to take her over to the town cemetery and bury her there. But we must move quickly.”

  “It’s too sad,” Aunt Edith added. “We don’t even have a name to place on her grave. She never said it, and none of us asked.”

  “Even if we knew,” commented Uncle Jonah dryly, “we couldn’t use it, for even that might give us and this poor baby away. What are we going to do with him?”

  Martha’s mama said softly, “We’ll decide that later. First, we must wrap her body in a sheet. It pains me that we have no time to wash and prepare her properly for burial. Edith and I will just clean her up a bit while thee, Micah and Jonah, prepare the coffin. Meanwhile, Edith, we must also warm up some diluted milk and water. The babe is sure to wake up shortly.”

  Martha sprang into action. Scurrying back to her room, again leaving the door open just a crack, she jumped into bed and pulled her quilt up to her neck. She was very careful not to allow the soft material to cover her ears.

  “Let’s go,” put in her papa, and down they came in a rush to get to the wood workshop behind the house. After a short while, the men returned.

  “We’ve placed the coffin in the hay wagon. Let’s hasten to secure her in it, so we can be off to the burial ground,” her papa said.

  Although they moved as quietly as possible, Martha heard the two strong but tired men carry the slave girl’s body down the ladder and prepare to descend the stairs to the first floor.

  “Micah,” Martha heard her mama whisper, “be sure to say a few words over her grave and to pray for some minutes.”

  Right next to her door, her papa answered, “I shall do the best I can, Sarah, but time is short, and there’s a storm brewing, one of those big ones from the South. The wind is picking up something fearsome. We need to dig the grave and disappear before daylight. It could take us a good four or five hours to finish up, and the morning light will come up long before six. Besides that, who knows when the rains will begin. For now, snuff out the candles, bank the fire, and darken the house.”

  “God be with you,” put in Aunt Edith.

  Martha heard the men quickly leave, then silence for several moments as the two women lingered on the stairwell right outside her door. She, meanwhile, pretended to be asleep, opening her mouth and letting out, perhaps a bit too loudly, her habitual brief snorts.

  “Oh, my goodness, Edith,” her mama whispered in a hoarse voice. “Martha’s door has been open a crack. I hope the curious little thing did not witness all of this.” Opening her eyes just a slit, Martha saw her peek in at her. “She seems sound asleep, but I worry.”

  “Don’t think about it now, Sarah,” Aunt Edith soothed her. “If she did see something, you’ll find a way to explain it, I’m sure. You already know the little dear heart has seen runaways here, but she holds her tongue well.”

  Martha’s chest swelled with pride as her mama responded, “Thee speaks true. She is a real blessing, my little Martha is. But, come, Edith. Let us clean up everything and put the house to sleep.”

  By this time, Martha was so exhausted that after grabbing hold of her rag doll she fell into a deep sleep. Hours later, she awoke startled as she heard the sound of horses galloping up the road to the farmhouse. It was already daylight, but the house was quiet. Outside there was a strong wind blowing and sheets of rain were pounding on the rooftop and against Martha’s windowpanes. While she struggled to untangle herself from her blankets, her mama rushed in holding a little bundle in the colorful shawl Martha recognized as the slave girl’s.

  “Martha, there are slave catchers rushing up our road. Do not ask questions now, but I need thee to hide this little baby. Put him in thy doll’s cradle and pretend thee is rocking thy doll and singing to her.”

  “But, Mama,” Martha asked, terrified by the request, “what if he cries?”

  “He will not, for I have given him just a small amount of laudanum to keep him quiet.”

  Martha had heard her parents say that some runaways did that so infants would not cry on the journey and expose them to recapture. But she also knew that laudanum was some kind of dangerous medicine. Her mama had some for emergencies, but she told Martha never, never to touch it because it could make someone sleep forever if they took too much. She sure hoped that would not happen to this very tiny infant.

  Although her mama was in a hurry, the always-curious Martha could not help asking, “Is this a slave baby, Mama?”

  “No. His mama was indeed a slave, but he was born here in a free state. So by our laws he is free. But I am afraid the slave catchers will see thi
ngs in a different light. They will say he is a slave because his mama was one. But I will explain it all to thee later.”

  As she placed the baby in the little doll’s cradle, she added, “Thy papa is out in the fields bringing the cows and sheep in before the storm gets worse, so I must face these evil men myself.” She then left, softly closing the door behind her.

  Martha sat down on the floor and looked at the sleeping newborn. He fascinated her, just like the baby calves she once saw in the barn. Or maybe the little chicks. But he was a human version, a doll-like person. No wonder her mama believed Martha’s toy cradle was a good place to hide him.

  Under the tiny knitted hat her mama had placed on his head, Martha could see black curly hair. She recognized the hat as her very own when she was a babe, and it made her feel a kinship with this little soul. His face, so tiny with a little snub nose, had long fuzzy sideburns on each side and even a little mustache that made Martha giggle. To her surprise, his skin was a very light tan, almost the same shade as her own. For a brief moment, he opened his unfocused almond-shaped gray eyes half-way. Then he slowly lowered his lids and drifted back to sleep.

  A loud banging on the front door quickly brought Martha out of her reverie. With a pounding heart, she muttered, “The slave catchers.” She had never seen one, but she imagined them to be very tall, strong, and armed with guns. Would they hurt her mama?

  “What is it that thee wants?” Martha heard her mama’s stern New England voice ask.

  “We’re looking for a female runaway slave. Young. Pretty. Light skinned, and big with child. You seen or heard of her?”

  Martha could not see these men, but their voices and unfamiliar accents sounded as frightening as she had imagined. To keep calm, she prayed hard that they would not enter the house.

  While she held her breath and remained absolutely still, a strange noise reached her ears. Looking down into the cradle, she saw the baby’s lips all puckered up and moving, sucking in air. What if those awful men downstairs heard him? Not knowing what to do, Martha stuck her pinky finger into his mouth. She then began rocking the cradle and humming in as soft and calming a way as she could. He quieted, happily sucked away, and sank into a deeper sleep. Martha dared not move her hand even though she felt like a huge squishy whirlpool was going to drag the whole thing further into his mouth and down his throat.

  Downstairs Martha’s mama coldly responded to the slave owners’ henchmen, “I have not encountered such a woman. Now excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “Well,” a deep voice threatened, “we know this is hostile territory to us hardworking slave catchers, ma’am, so we’ll be watching. And we may very well be back after this storm blows over. Just to take a look around, you understand.”

  “And that is illegal here, and I shall call a constable.”

  Martha jumped as she heard her mama slam the door.

  “Good day to you, too,” they laughed loudly as they galloped away, leaving their ugly spirit tossing about on the wind gusts.

  As soon as the sound of their horses’ hooves disappeared, Martha’s mama rushed up the stairs and into her room. Martha smiled at her, and her mama gave a hearty laugh.

  “Thee has saved the day, my darling Martha.”

  “But, Mama,” Martha answered despondently, “you lied. You told those men you hadn’t seen such a person. But I saw her.” She pressed on although her mama had given her a look mixed with concern and aggravation, “Do people on the Underground Railroad have to lie? Because you told me never to say anything that’s not true.”

  Martha’s mama moved over to the window and gazed out, sorrow written all over her face.

  “Thee speaks true, Martha. Lying is sinful. But sometimes we must do things to fight against an evil such as slavery. So, in this case—to save this child—I have lied,” she answered. With that confession, she returned to the cradle and pulled Martha’s pinky out of the baby’s mouth, causing a loud pop. “Now, let us get this child some nourishment.”

  “What will happen to him, Mama?”

  “Thee knows he is motherless, Martha. And thee can see how tiny and helpless he is. How would thee feel if we kept him and raised him as thy brother?”

  Martha jumped up and down with glee. “Oh, yes, please, Mama. It would be so nice to have a little brother.”

  Her mama smiled as she picked up the baby and cradled him lovingly in her arms.

  “Yes, thy father and I agree. His skin is light enough to pass as thy brother and his hair is dark like thine as well. We shall just tell everyone that we agreed to raise him for our poor recently widowed cousin Nora in Torrington, who died in childbirth. What does thee think?”

  Martha hesitated. “But you don’t have a cousin Nora, do you, Mama?”

  “No,” she sighed as Martha caught her in another lie.

  Feeling bad for her mama, Martha quickly added, “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Mama. I’ve always wanted a brother. But what’ll we call him?”

  “Thy papa and I think we should call him Jacob after thy grandfather who passed away the year thee was born.”

  “Jacob,” she whispered. “Jake or Jakey, maybe.”

  “But no one, Martha,” she added, “no one, not even Jacob, must ever know the true story of what happened here tonight. Does thee understand?”

  “Yes, Mama. But is that a lie, too?”

  “It is not a lie if thee does not say anything. And it will be necessary to lie if it means keeping him with us and from those who would see him as a piece of property.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Slave catchers and slave owners. This baby will grow into a fine young man. And fine young slaves can be sold for a good price.”

  Martha looked at the baby with tears in her eyes. “Will he turn black, Mama? And then the slave catchers will come and take him?”

  “No, Martha. Slaves are sometimes dark and sometimes light. It depends on their parents and grandparents and even further back. This boy and his mother obviously have many white ancestors. I doubt he will be much darker than he is now.”

  Martha was totally confused, but she did not know how to ask more questions. Maybe when she was older, she would be able to understand about skin color, but not now. So she simply said, “I understand, Mama.”

  Her mama rushed to change the subject. “Tomorrow, I will take the babe and go to stay with Aunt Edith and Uncle Jonah for a week or so. Thy father will tell his customers that I have gone to Torrington to tend to Nora’s funeral. The town gossips will spread the word so that when I return home everyone will accept Jacob as Nora’s orphan. Thee will stay here and help thy father as much as thee can. Yes?”

  “Yes, Mama. But you’ll come back soon, won’t you?”

  “As soon as things have quieted down. Now, get dressed. There is no school today because of the storm, but I will need thy help to pack and to take care of the child.”

  And so Martha got up, did her few morning chores, and helped her mama prepare for her journey. All the while she felt conflicted about everything that had happened. A baby, she thought, a little baby to love and be a sister to. But it was all a lie and that worried Martha. What would happen if one day one little lie escaped? Would others follow? And what then?

  CHAPTER 3

  MARTHA WANTED to be a good big sister, but she found it most difficult. And she wanted to love her little brother, but at times, she was not sure she could. The first few months Jake was in her life were tiring and confusing. He was such a small baby that every two hours he wailed, demanding to be fed, and he took up all her parents’ spare time and attention so that Martha felt left out. She sought every way she could to insert herself into their daily routines, but usually that meant she was asked to help with this or that or told to play by herself. What she really wanted was for her mama and papa to play with her or relax by the parlor hearth like they used to.

  One frigid January night when Jake cried incessantly, Martha, unable to sleep, got out of bed, wrapped he
r quilt around her, and dragged herself across the hallway to her parents’ room. There was her papa, rocking Jake in his arms while he paced the floor. Martha was overcome by envy as Jake nestled his little head on her father’s breast, uttered a sigh, and drifted off to sleep.

  “Papa,” she whispered, surprising him with her presence, “why does Jake cry so much? He’s driving me mad!”

  Her papa looked at her lovingly and, putting his one free arm around her shoulder, gently moved her out of his room and into her own. “Let’s talk here so that your mama can catch up on her rest,” he said.

  In the bright moonlight streaming in through Martha’s window, she could see the shadows and deep lines of weariness under her papa’s eyes. Meanwhile, Jake slept restlessly in his arms, from time to time his little body shaking with a spasm.

  Her papa sank onto Martha’s soft feather bed, leaning his back against the headboard. She, in turn, climbed up and snuggled against him, pushing so that he had to adjust his position in order not to jostle the baby too much and wake him up.

  Then he spoke. “He’s such a small baby, Mahthah, that he can’t eat a lot at one time. Even with Mary Rogers nursing him three times a day and the cow’s milk we give him at other times, his stomach seems upset and he gets cramps.”

  “But why does he always cry so much at night?” she whimpered.

  “I don’t know. Your mama and I think maybe the cow’s milk doesn’t agree with him. So tomorrow I’ll purchase a goat from Zach Freeman. We hope that’ll help.”

  “Papa,” Martha persisted, “why doesn’t he get bigger? He seems almost the same size as when he arrived.”

  “Again, I don’t know,” he said. Martha wondered why her papa, who knew everything about everything, should all of a sudden know so little. “Maybe his mother didn’t get enough nutritious food when Jake was growing inside her. Or maybe she was beaten. Or maybe the journey north hurt him. We’ll never know.”

  For several minutes Martha and her papa rested in silence. Then she offered tentatively, “Papa, maybe we shouldn’t have kept him. Can we return him?”