Martha and the Slave Catchers

by Harriet Hyman Alonso

  Her papa’s eyes shone with surprise at her blatant honesty. “Return him to whom?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered in a very small voice. “He’s alone in this world, Mahthah, and we’ve promised ourselves that we’ll raise him, and . . .” he paused, “love him. Would you have us return him to a slave owner?”

  “No, Papa,” Martha mumbled. Ashamed, but persistent, she added, “But maybe some other nice abolitionist family would take him.”

  “Oh, Mahthah, poor child,” he responded and then pulled her closer to him and gave her a little snuggle. “He’ll get bigger soon, and then we’ll all get some sleep. And . . . have some fun.”

  After some time, Martha and her papa drifted off to sleep, Jake resting peacefully in her papa’s arms and Martha curled up against his chest. Every few minutes her papa snored, she snorted, and Jake sputtered, sucked, and sighed.

  And, indeed, Jake did begin to grow. By the summer of his first year, he had turned into a smallish, crawling bundle of energy. But as he grew, Martha noticed that her mama, instead of relaxing, became very anxious. She tensed at every loud sound. Her hands shook a lot. But worst of all, she never wanted to leave the farm, not even to go to the shops in town or to Sunday Quaker meeting. Martha missed her mama’s former energy and enthusiasm for life and privately blamed it on Jake and the lie his presence had forced upon her family.

  Martha’s assigned job was to keep an eye on Jake so he would not get too close to the hearth fire or the well or traipse through the manure in the farmyard, or get into trouble in any number of other ways. Hands on her hips and foot tapping, she ordered him to behave. He rarely listened. Martha hated having to follow him around, even though at times she had to admit that Jake was a lot of fun. Martha could easily get him to laugh by making faces at him, wiggling her fingers, or tickling him under his arms. Because he was small, she could even pick him up and twirl him around, although her mama discouraged such rough play.

  “Martha,” her usually soft-spoken mama would nearly shout, “put him down. Thee will do him harm.”

  Martha always did as she was told, but at seven, she grew to resent having to spend so much time helping to tend to Jake. After all, she still had to feed the chickens, bring water in from the well, help clean the house, and assist in small ways with the cooking. She wanted to have some free time to make friends or to practice reading and writing, which she was just learning in school.

  “Mama,” she asked more than a few times, “may we go into town this Saturday and walk around and introduce Jake to folk?”

  “Maybe another time, Martha,” she repeated over and over again. “Jake is still so young that we do not want him to catch any illnesses.”

  So passed the autumn, winter, and spring, but during Jake’s first summer, Martha stood her ground. “Other babies are not hidden away. And look how much he’s grown. We’ve got to take him out sometime, don’t we?”

  Her papa, who had overheard the conversation, eagerly seconded Martha’s idea.

  “Sarah, let’s do that. I need to pick up some lumber at the sawmill, and you and Mahthah can visit Adam Burke’s dry goods store and walk around the village green a bit. What do you say?”

  Reluctantly, her mama agreed. So on one hot Saturday, the family climbed into the buckboard behind their two brown horses, Molly and Max, and drove the short distance to town.

  For Martha, Liberty Falls was just the right size. She loved the rectangular grassy village green, which marked the center of town and was alive with local farmers selling their produce and neighbors gossiping with each other. And she especially loved going with her mother to the dry goods store, the market, and the post office, which faced the green. Being somewhat shy and having to spend so much time watching Jake, though, Martha had not yet met a special friend of her own to play with on the green.

  “I wish I had a friend to play with, Mama,” she said.

  Her mama looked surprised. “Thee has Jake, Martha.”

  Martha tensed her shoulders, but did not respond. There was no point.

  On this first family outing, Martha felt it was most important for her to concentrate her attention on Jake and her mama. If they had a good time, maybe there would be lots more adventures away from the farm.

  Her papa stopped their wagon in front of Adam Burke’s dry goods store and helped her and her mama down. Jake, in her mama’s arms, craned his neck to look at all the new and interesting sights that Martha enjoyed pointing out to him.

  As they entered the store, Martha gave a timid wave to Adam Burke, who took a moment to step from behind the counter to offer her a warm greeting. The shop owner was a gaunt, middle-aged Quaker man, who, for some reason Martha never could figure out, was called by both his names when anyone spoke about him. He always wore a serious expression on his face, which belied the keen sense of humor and generosity he often showed Martha and the other village children. Since he was president of the Liberty Falls Anti-Slavery Society, Martha worried that he might surmise the truth about Jake. But if he did, she was sure he would never reveal it to anyone.

  “Good morning, Martha and Sarah. I’ve been waiting to welcome thy new family member. It’s been such a long time since thee has been in. And, Sarah, we have not seen thee at Sunday meeting for months.”

  Her mama softly responded, “Thank thee, Adam, for thy thoughts. The child has been sickly, so we have kept to home.”

  Martha looked up at her mama’s solemn expression and suddenly understood why she simply wanted to hide out at home and remain silent. In this way, she could avoid lying, which obviously pained her greatly.

  “And thee, Martha,” Adam Burke turned to her, leaning over so he could address her directly. “Are thee happy to have a little brother?”

  “Yes,” she squeaked out.

  The kind man then reached for a huge jar he kept on the counter and offered Martha a small candy. She knew that being a free produce shopkeeper, Adam Burke would not sell any product made by the hands of a slave, including candy made from sugar. All of his delicious sweets contained honey or sugar made from local beets. So she was accustomed to seeing on the candy’s wrapper the words:

  Take this, my friend, you must not fear to eat.

  No slave hath toiled to cultivate this sweet.

  “Thank you,” she muttered as her mama gently bumped her with her hip.

  “And what can I get thee, Sarah?” he added as he returned to the counter.

  “We need some diaper cloth, some soft homespun, perhaps in calico if thee has it, and wool to make baby dresses. Oh, and some end scraps for a baby quilt.”

  Martha noted that while Adam Burke helped her mama with her purchases, he took quick glances at Jake.

  “He was thy cousin’s son, Sarah?” he asked while wrapping her parcel.

  Her mama kept her head down so low that the wide brim of her bonnet hid her bright red face. “Yes, from out near Torrington.”

  Adam Burke paused for just a moment, and Martha caught his meaningful glance. Then to her surprise he simply said, “I can see the family resemblance, especially to Martha.” With that, he handed her the package. “That will be an even nine pence. The quilt scraps are my gift to the little lad.”

  After she paid for the purchases, Martha’s mama again offered her thanks and hurried out of the store to where her papa waited with the buckboard. “That went very well, I think,” she said.

  Martha reached for her plait and twisted it around her finger.

  “But, Mama,” she asked, “isn’t it strange that Mr. Burke thinks Jake looks like me?”

  “Not at all,” her mama answered. “It’s thy black hair and tan skin. Do not dwell on it.”

  Martha wrinkled her brow in thought, but said no more. However, the next morning, feeling encouraged by the previous day’s somewhat success, she asked, “Mama, are you going to meeting today? The Friends are wondering where you’ve been. And they haven’t met Jake yet.”

  Once again, her papa
agreed.

  “Come, Sarah. I’ll accompany you, and Mahthah can stay outside with Jake. Do you agree, Mahthah?”

  Martha was starved for the outside world. Staying home all summer long was boring and made her resent taking care of Jake even more. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed.”

  And so once again the small family headed back to town. There Martha watched her parents go to the separate men’s and women’s sections of the Friends’ meeting house to pray and meditate, while she sat down on the green lawn to try to keep Jake in one place. She definitely preferred the warm outdoors to sitting in silence inside the small white clapboard building with its hard wooden benches.

  “Hello, Jakey,” she smiled down on him as he clenched clumps of grass in his fists and tried to eat them. “No, no. Yech. Not in your mouth,” she warned as she leaned over to pry the grass away. As soon as he started protesting, she stopped, but not before quickly wiping his hands.

  “Hi, Martha,” came a peppy voice behind her. It belonged to Becky Franklin, one of her schoolmates. “What’ve you got there? Is that your new brother? He’s so small, just knee-high to a bumblebee.”

  “Yeah. He’s about nine months old now.”

  “He’s dear.”

  “Most of the time. But he’s difficult to keep up with.”

  “I know about that,” Becky shook her wild red hair out of her face. “Try watching five younger brothers and sisters just like him.”

  Martha laughed in surprise. She liked Becky. She was smart and, like herself, enjoyed school. But until now, the two of them had hardly spoken to each other. So having Becky approach her now was an unexpected pleasure.

  “You the oldest?” Martha asked.

  “Not quite. I suspicion that you’ve noticed my older brother Caleb in school. He’s the real smart one. He’s ten, works hard on the farm.”

  Becky looked sad for a moment.

  “Something wrong?” asked Martha.

  “Well, it’s my papa. He doesn’t really want Caleb to go to school. Says learning how to read and write is enough, and Caleb almost knows how to do that. Too much work on the farm.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Becky gave a small smile. “I help my mama with the house chores and taking care of the young ’uns, but once I learn to read and write, I suspicion I’ll have to stop, too.”

  Martha looked at Becky with great compassion. Her parents always told her how important learning was, and they would never stop her from going to school.

  “Is that why you pretend not to understand much at school?” she asked.

  Becky blushed. “Yeah. I hope no one else sees that.”

  “Well, I sure do. You might fool Miss Osgood, but not me.”

  Becky laughed at that. Martha wished that she herself was as full of good humor as Becky always was.

  “So, how come you’re not in church, Becky?”

  “I snuck out,” she confided. “Got bored listening to the reverend drone on and on about God and serving mankind and all that. I mean, I know it’s important, but I have so many other things I want to do. Like talk to you.”

  “I know what you mean,” Martha replied happily.

  “Oh! Do tell. I want to ask you something, Martha. How come I see you going sometimes to my church and sometimes to Quaker meetings?”

  “And sometimes, none,” Martha added. “My mama is a Quaker. But she fell in love with my papa, who is Unitarian.”

  Becky looked confused, so Martha explained further. “Papa sometimes goes with Mama. That’s where he is today. And sometimes he goes to the Unitarians, but only, he says, if there’s a good anti-slavery sermon. Otherwise, he says that faith is something you take care to live by every day. He doesn’t believe you have to go to church to be a good person. And he doesn’t believe Sundays are special, either. So, sometimes I go and sometimes I don’t.”

  “I like that, Martha. Wish I had folks like that.”

  “I do like Sunday school, though. I enjoy hearing the Bible stories and playing games with other children. But I don’t seem to be going much these days because of Jake here.”

  “That’s not so bad.”

  “I almost wish I could go to boring church instead of having to watch him all the time. He’s always crawling around. And he is really, really fast, so I have to run and run and run all the time. He tires me out some.”

  “Speaking of which, Martha, where is he?”

  “What do you mean? He’s right behind me.” But as she looked around, Martha saw exactly what Becky meant. Jake was gone. He was nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, no!” she shrieked, and jumped to her feet in a panic. “I’ve got to find him. Becky, please, help me find him!”

  Martha ran one way, then another, until Becky caught up and grabbed her arm.

  “Martha, calm down. He’s just been gone a minute, for pity’s sake, and he can’t have gone far. He’s just a little thing. My brothers and sisters disappear at least once a day. And I always find them.” Then Becky said with a mischievous look on her face, “Maybe the slave catchers got him.”

  Martha’s face turned as white as a ghost. “Don’t say that! Becky, why would you say that?”

  “Martha, I was just jesting. Don’t you know the game we play where one of us is the slave and the others the slave catchers? And the slave hides and the catchers have to find him?”

  “No, I don’t know it. And I don’t want to play it. I’ve got to find him. Hurry!”

  “My goodness,” Becky sighed. “You sure are fretful.”

  Just as they headed for the back of the meeting house, Martha heard Jake’s loudest wail of protest. She would know that sound anywhere. From around the corner of the building came a hefty, tallish boy with strawberry blond hair. He was carrying a struggling Jake across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  “Anyone missing something?” he asked.

  “Me! Me! Please give him to me!” Martha cried out.

  “Martha,” Becky put in, “this is my brother, Caleb.”

  Caleb handed Jake over to Martha, turned on his heels, and stalked away.

  “Thinks he’s quite special,” Becky said.

  “Please thank him, Becky,” Martha said with relief as she tried to comfort Jake. But he was too strong for her even at his size and his struggling knocked them both down, Martha landing with a resounding thud on her backside.

  Becky laughed. “I’ve gotta skedaddle, Martha. See you in school.”

  “Thanks, Becky. And please remember to thank Caleb.”

  As soon as Becky left, Martha turned back to Jake, now flat on his back and flailing his arms and legs around. Before she could get him upright, her mama came running out of the meeting house. She scooped him up into her arms and hugged him tightly. Between his hiccups and gasps for breath, her mama wiped his tears and quietly asked Martha what had happened.

  “Nothing, Mama. He was trying to eat some grass and then some pebbles, and I was taking them out of his mouth. So he had a fit.” Another lie, but a good one, she thought, because it did not implicate her. This lying thing was getting easier and was pretty useful.

  “Thee did the right thing, Martha. Micah, let us go home now, so I can quiet him down better.”

  CHAPTER 4

  FOR MARTHA, the weeks and months passed in a pattern just as reliable as the seasons usually were. Jake took his own sweet time, but Martha was relieved that by the age of two or so, he could walk and talk some. He was nowhere near as able as most children his age, but he was making progress. She tried as hard as she could to help him learn, but he was always too restless to stay in one place for long. He ran around the house, taking clothes out of drawers, utensils off the low wall by the hearth, and books and newspapers off tables and shelves. Martha was constantly cleaning up after him. He rarely went to sleep on time and often woke up in the middle of the night or very early in the morning or both, getting out of bed and making unintelligible loud noises. Since he shared a bed with Martha, she fell victim to hi
s erratic behavior.

  “Jake, get back to bed and go to sleep,” she would insist. But it was all to no avail.

  Jake also seemed to instinctively draw into himself and cower whenever a runaway slave was in the house. Martha thought this unusual for such a curious and active child. She had no idea how he knew they were there or why this upset him so. To ease his anxiety, her papa took to hiding the fugitives in the haymow or in a carefully concealed spot he had created behind a stack of logs. Martha sometimes got to bring them food. Her heart went out to them, but she never had time to say more than a brief “Are you comfortable?” or “I hope you like this pie I helped my mama bake.” Then she would hurry away, averting her gaze from their worried faces.

  One sizzling summer night when Jake was almost three and Martha nine, her papa took them out to the dark field behind the house where they could easily see the sky full of stars. It was cooler there, and a soft breeze rustled the corn stalks nearby. Martha loved these outings with her father.

  “Here, Jake, come lie between me and Mahthah and let’s gaze up at the sky.”

  Jake clambered into their papa’s arms, where he always seemed to feel safe and protected. “Stahs,” he squeaked and pointed his little index finger straight up.

  Her papa then took his son’s finger gently, kissed it, and moved it toward the North, and Martha knew what would come next, for she had experienced this wonderful moment many times in her younger years. “See that big drinking gourd and long handle?” he asked Jake as he moved his finger to outline the cup. “See if you can follow those two stars on the gourd’s edge. They point to that star right there. See it?”

  Jake nodded, but Martha knew he probably could not make out any of the gourd’s dipper-like shape. She certainly could not when she was his age.

  “That,” said her papa dreamily, “is the North Star. Slaves use it as a guide. And sometimes they sing spirituals about reaching the North and freedom.” Gently, her papa let go of Jake’s hand and, pushing himself onto his side, leaned on his bent arm and elbow. “Let’s sing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,’ for Jakey, Mahthah, but real soft lest unfriendly ears be listening.”