Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  The woman’s eyes flew open, and she took in one terrified breath.

  “We are friends,” Kate said. Please let this woman not sound the alarm. “We are here to take you with us, across the river.” Kate pulled the basket from her pocket to say what Mrs. Hanby had told her. “In memory of Joseph Selby, whom we knew. Are you Nelly?”

  The woman’s face went slack. She touched the basket with her fingertips, then cradled it in her hands.

  The sleeping man opened his eyes. He rolled to his knees and then to a crouch, fists clenched.

  Nelly looked up. “No.” She went and muttered something in his ear. He said something back to her.

  The woman approached Kate and leaned close. “I am Nelly. This is my husband, Frank. He must come with me.”

  Kate walked to the window. John looked up at her from outside with a silent question in the lift of his brows. She nodded to him, and he pulled himself over the ledge into the cabin. Once inside, John towered over both of the others, who were about Kate’s height.

  “This is her husband. Can we bring him as well?” Kate asked John.

  “Yes.” John looked at Nelly. “Are you ready?”

  Despair filled her face. “No, indeed, sir, I’m not.”

  John paused for a moment. “We are here now, and freedom is only a short run away,” he said.

  “We can’t leave,” Nelly said. “We have a baby girl. The master took our baby to sleep at the big house with Mammy. He knows we won’t leave her.”

  John rubbed his hand over his face. “Follow me.”

  Nelly and her husband padded barefoot after him across the wooden floor.

  The big house was about a hundred yards from the slave cabin. John led them across the grass, edging his way past the barn. Kate heard at least one animal rustling and stomping inside. If there were dogs in there, they would all be caught. This hundred yards seemed wider than the entire expanse of wood and tilled field that she and John had crossed on their way from the river.

  They made it to the shadow of the house and crept into the few feet of space under the wraparound veranda. John pantomimed a question to Nelly.

  Where is the baby?

  Nelly pointed to a window on the ground floor. John would have to go up on the veranda and through that window. Thank goodness for the heat of early June. The master had left his windows open to catch any breeze.

  This was too dangerous. They would certainly be captured. What would her mother think?

  John reached down and pulled off his shoes, handing them to Nelly’s husband. He vaulted up to the veranda, landing with less noise than a cat. Kate held her breath.

  John bent down, stepped through the open window, and disappeared inside the house. Kate’s fingernails bit into her palms. Deathly silence descended.

  A shout of surprise and rage broke on the air as John flew out the window with a small bundle in his arms. He leapt off the veranda past them.

  “I have the baby!” he yelled to them. “If you want to see her again, run like the devil!” He shot toward the fields, long legs scissoring, baby in one arm.

  A white man in his nightshirt struggled out of the window, yelling. Kate turned and ran as fast as she could after John, as Nelly and Frank followed.

  As they raced through the furrowed field, a hue and cry went up at the house. A quick glance over her shoulder showed several men pursuing them from the house. The edge of the woods shook in her vision as she hurtled onward. She tried to find John ahead.

  “Wait,” the fugitive man called. Kate turned. Nelly had tripped—her husband hauled her to her feet. She limped a few steps—a turned ankle to be sure. But the woman set her face like stone and staggered forward into a limping run. They all reached the edge of the woods.

  Someone had unleashed the dogs at the big house. Faster than any human being, they bayed like hellhounds as they bounded across the fields.

  Kate led the fugitives down the wooded slope and into the brook. Still no sign of John. They splashed downstream through the water. The terrible noise of the dog pack grew louder. There— the little opening in the brush that would take them to the riverbank. Kate tore through it.

  Stinging cuts streaked her arms and legs as she burst through the thicket to open water. John sat in the boat, ten feet out from the shore, the baby wailing but tucked safely between his knees. He had the oars in his hands. In a storm of flying droplets, the three runners splashed through knee-deep water to the boat. Frank hauled himself over the side and grabbed the baby, freeing John to row.

  Kate tumbled into the boat and turned to help Nelly.

  The first dog emerged from the underbrush and jumped out into the water after them. A pack of six or seven more plunged after the first, barking and snapping.

  Nelly dangled halfway over the side of the boat, the thin material of her dress sopping wet in Kate’s clenched hands. John thrust the oars in the water and launched away from the shore with a heave of his shoulders. Nelly lurched backward, but Kate seized her under one arm and kept her from falling in the water.

  The hounds paddled furiously, but the boat began to pull away from them. With Frank’s help, Kate hauled Nelly over the side and into the boat, where she collapsed in a heap.

  One of their pursuers ran out on the shore, a dim shape in the moonlight, thirty feet away now. A loud crack echoed above Kate’s head—a pistol. More men began to gather around the gunman, and Kate heard the reports of several pistols. With an oath, John rowed harder and snapped at Nelly’s husband, “Get the gun from its holster. Under my arm.”

  More bullets whistled over their heads in the darkness. Frank reached under John’s shirt as he continued to pull on the oars like a longshoreman. Retrieving a black, long-barreled pistol, Frank turned to the receding shore. With a steady hand, he aimed at the men with guns and fired. They yelled and dove for cover.

  “Hold this.” Frank handed Kate the gun. She took it, unaccustomed to its lethal weight against her palm.

  The other pair of oars lay in the bottom of the boat. Frank grabbed them and took a seat. He and John began to pull together, sending the boat scudding through the water at top speed. In a few more seconds, they were eighty feet from shore, out of range of the pistols of the furious men.

  It was almost a mile to the northern shore—a goodly distance even for two strong men. Another boat launched out behind them as John and Frank rowed. Chilled by river water, Kate held the pistol across her lap, her gaze riveted across the water at their pursuers. Nelly sat beside her and soothed the baby, all the while watching the other boat intently as if willing it to founder.

  The muddy flats of the Ohio side eased around their vessel and the boat ground against the bottom. John dropped the oars and scrambled out into the shin-deep water. He sloshed toward the wooden stairs that led up the riverbank. Frank jumped out and took the baby to help Nelly get over the side. Kate’s tired muscles had stiffened, but she followed.

  Mrs. Hanby slipped out of the shadows by the stairs. Even the moonlight revealed the worry on her face as she approached, very small in her baggy men’s trousers.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Kate.

  “Yes.” They both turned without words and ran up the stairs after the others.

  Kate’s lungs pained her by the time they topped the long stairs to Front Street. They had only a few minutes to make it to their hiding place elsewhere in Ripley. She had broken a sweat as they ran up to a neat house perched on a hillside. At the door, they were met by a stout man in his late fifties who wore a light overcoat over his sleeping attire.

  “Mr. Collingworth, we are pursued,” John said.

  “I saw you coming across the river.” He called back into the house, “Dora!”

  His wife appeared behind him. She was as plump as her husband, with cheerful pink cheeks and hair twisted up under a rag. She looked at the baby whimpering and squirming in Nelly’s arms.

  “I’ll need to take the baby, my dear,” she said.

  Nel
ly went ashen-gray, her grasp tightening on her little wriggling daughter. Then she handed the baby to the mistress of the house.

  “We will give her something to make her sleep, and no one will notice her if we put her in our own family cradle,” Dora said.

  Her husband hustled past them into the yard. “Come with me. You must hide—they will come after you.” Nelly took one pained glance at her baby then hurried after him. Kate followed and John and Frank came behind them.

  Their host took them to the building behind the house, a wooden stable with three stall doors. A gray horse was tied outside. Mr. Collingworth rushed inside the stable and called, “John, come help me with this!”

  “This” was a heavy wooden water barrel in the front corner of the empty stall. John put his shoulder to the barrel and pushed it a few feet to the side.

  Stepping to the bare space where the barrel had stood, the stout man inserted his hand in a crack in the wooden floor. He heaved up a small section of the plank floor, revealing a dark hole.

  John dropped down in the hole first, his broad shoulders squeezing through the tiny opening. Nelly and her husband went in after him and disappeared into the hiding place. Spiders. Kate shuddered. But there was no help for it. If they could bear it, she could.

  She lowered her feet through the hole after them. The stout man extended his hand to brace her, and she dropped into the pitch-black space. Her feet touched the bottom. She let go of his hand and crouched on the floor. Ragged breathing filled the blackness.

  The small square of light above them vanished with a thump and the barrel scraped back over the trapdoor. Their host’s heavy tread on the floorboards departed the stable. But his boots sounded again on the wood, along with the rapping of four shod hooves. The hoof-sounds moved into the stall above them.

  The horse from outside now stood over their hiding place. Brilliant! No one would think to look here.

  Minutes passed. No one spoke. Outside, they heard the voices of men, telling their host that report had it the slaves had run to his house. Sounding convincingly weary and put-upon, Mr. Collingworth said they were free to search his property. The men came into the stable, their boots scraping the wood above Kate’s head. A pinprick shaft of light fell through the floorboards from their lantern to touch John’s face. But when the men saw only drowsy beasts before them in the stalls, they departed.

  When all was once again quiet, their host returned, bringing them a lantern, food, and blankets. The lantern light showed Kate their hiding place. It was not as bad as she had feared. This secret cellar was at least ten feet by twelve feet, framed entirely in heavy wooden beams and planks, and though it smelled earthy and damp, the floor was smooth and clean, and piles of straw cushioned the corners. Nelly and Frank huddled in one blanket, and Kate and Mrs. Hanby shared another. It was warmer next to another human body, reassuring. Only John sat alone against the far wall of the little cellar. His feet were bare and scratched, covered with mud and traces of dried blood.

  “Mr. Parker—your shoes!” Kate said.

  He had left them below the porch of the plantation master’s house, across the river.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “They cannot identify me. I purchased them in Westerville, from Armentor.”

  The angry master could hardly go to every shoemaker in the state to ask who might have purchased this pair. It was a long journey to Westerville from here, even by stagecoach.

  John’s face sagged into fatigue. “Let’s eat and try to get some sleep. We need rest to make it to the next station.”

  They washed down the dried beef and bread with some water, and Mrs. Hanby extinguished the lamp. Kate was so tired she stretched out on the straw without hesitation, rolled to face the wall, and pillowed her head on her arm. Mrs. Hanby spread the blanket over them and set her back to Kate’s, comforting in their strange surroundings.

  God, if you are there, please help us . . . But exhaustion turned her thoughts murky, and dreams slipped in among them.

  Seventeen

  BEN POUNDED ON THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE.

  A plump woman in a nightcap answered. “Yes?” She looked none too friendly, but then neither would he if someone awakened him at the crack of dawn, when even the pigs were still slow and drowsy in the yard.

  “I’m here for John Parker.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “I’m his friend Ben Hanby. Miranda sent me.”

  “And how do I know that?”

  “She said to save her some strawberry pie.”

  The woman smiled and opened the door, beckoning him in. “I’m Dora Collingworth. They’re in the parlor.”

  He limped in, his wrapped ankle still sore. The steamboat had at least given him a few hours to rest, but there would be no rest from here, not if he knew John.

  The hallway was short and led to a closed door. Dora knocked three times. A locked door inside a house. The Collingworths had harbored fugitives before.

  A bolt slid with a thunk and a stout man with a red, full face opened the door. “And who is this?”

  “Mr. Ben Hanby, a friend of Mr. Parker’s, sent by Miranda.”

  “Welcome.” He shook Ben’s hand, still serious. “You wish to see your friends, I assume.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ben waited as the door swung wider.

  Two women sat before the unlit hearth. His mother struggled to her feet. “Ben!” She ran a few steps and embraced him. He held her tightly, without care for dignity. Thank you, Lord. He blinked and stepped back. Miss Winter stood a few feet away. He smiled at her, tentative.

  She seemed unharmed, though there were dark shadows under her eyes and her hair was coming down in a charming, disheveled way.

  “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Hanby,” she said.

  His heart warmed in an odd way considering the danger they still faced. “And I’m sorry to be so late. I’ve made you do all the hard work for me.”

  “I didn’t mind.”

  “Where is Nelly?” He couldn’t believe he was about to meet her.

  “Upstairs, with her husband and John,” Mr. Collingworth said. “It’s still too soon to have them on the ground level, where they would have no chance of escape. So John went to keep them company.”

  “You’re well prepared, sir.” Ben offered his hand. “Thank you.”

  “We could have lived anywhere, Mr. Hanby, but like many others in Ripley, we live here for this reason.”

  “God bless you.” Ben tried to convey his gratitude in the heartiness of his handshake. For all the bounty hunters and depraved masters in the country, there were also people like the Collingworths.

  “I’ll take you up to John,” Jonas said. His mother nodded and sat down, and Miss Winter did the same. They seemed to have a unity of spirit now, an understanding. He liked to see it—Miss Winter had bloomed so since their departure from Westerville. She was still quiet, but alert and bright, interested in her surroundings, not attempting to shrink from all notice.

  On the landing of the staircase, Jonas stopped and turned to the wall. The paneling moved at his touch—a door half the height of a man opened inward. “Watch your head,” he said as he ducked and went in.

  When Ben straightened up, he found himself in a small room, long and narrow. At the end of the closet-like space, John sat with his back to the wall, his knees drawn up. Facing him were a man and a woman with skin a few shades lighter than John’s.

  They all got to their feet. “Tardy, my friend,” John said with a faint smile. He indicated the woman. “Ben, this is Nelly and her husband, Frank.”

  Ben couldn’t take his eyes from her. The woman stared at him, a long look of question. She was still striking, with heavy black hair and high cheekbones, though her sorrow had left its mark in the droop of her eyelids. “Mr. Parker says you knew Joe,” she said at last.

  “I did, ma’am.”

  “You were with him when he died.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He spoke of you. He wasn’t afraid to go, but he wa
s sorry to leave you without a farewell.”

  Her eyes clouded. Her husband took her hand.

  Ben’s throat hurt, and he cleared it. He turned to John. “What next, Mr. Parker?”

  “We wait for the coach our host has arranged, and then we move.”

  “What if we’re stopped on the road?” Ben asked.

  “Don’t worry. The coach is equipped for our needs.”

  Kate shifted in the coach seat and pulled her skirt to a more comfortable position. Miranda had sent their clothes to the Collingworths’ home, and so Kate was back in crinoline and corset. It seemed more cumbersome after the freedom of the trousers, but she would not want to wear trousers in front of Ben. And John had said they would be safer from discovery in the coach if they were dressed as ladies should be.

  Twice in the last few hours, Nelly and Frank had gone into the empty compartments under the seats. Whatever the disadvantages of a bell-shaped skirt, it did make an admirable coach filler and seat cover to distract any nosy townspeople. Between her skirt and Mrs. Hanby’s, there wasn’t an inch to spare.

  Ben was driving, up top, with John riding horseback some way behind. Too many bounty hunters knew John, and he could not draw suspicion by riding with Ben. But it reassured her that he rode behind with his pistol while Ben was armed with another. Especially now that the light was fading and the trees crowded thicker against the road, stretching tall like a German forest where witches might wander.

  She must control her imagination. She needed all her wits about her, now that they would not be returning to Cincinnati. The starch went out of her at the missed opportunity, leaving her limp against the back of the seat. No, she would not give up—something else would present itself before they made it to Westerville. It did not seem right to be overly concerned with her own plans just now. The memory of the dogs at the river was fresh. If Nelly and Frank failed, what waited for them was far worse than an implacable mother and drunken father.

  The coach stopped. Nelly and Frank exchanged an anxious glance over the baby’s head. Kate and Mrs. Hanby jumped up, ready to open the seats.