Sweeter than Birdsong

by Rosslyn Elliott

  “It’s all right.” Ben’s voice sounded muffled through the coach roof. They all settled back into place.

  Mrs. Hanby reached for the door handle and opened it to call out. “What is it, Ben?”

  “We must stop for the night. John told me to stop here.” His voice grew closer as he climbed down to the ground, then fainter as he moved to the horses’ heads.

  Mrs. Hanby climbed out, so Kate followed, impatient with her skirt as it stuck in the narrow door frame. One always had to drag at the crinoline to make it fit through.

  She stared around them at the darkening forest. How had Ben known to stop in this nameless place, no different from any other mile of trees on the road?

  He was looking at her. With a slight lift of his eyebrows, he pointed to a tree. Carved into the gray bark was the shape of a cross, two feet long, unmistakable even in the gloom. She smiled, self-conscious. Impudent of him.

  Nelly climbed out of the coach, much more graceful than Kate in her simple dress without heavy petticoat. Frank handed her their sleepy baby, who whined with half-closed eyes before settling back against her mother’s shoulder. As Nelly circled her with a gentle arm, an expression of yearning crossed the fugitive woman’s face, clearing for a moment its burden of sadness before it rolled back like a wave that can never depart from the shore. Kate’s throat tightened to a hard lump. What did she know of sorrow?

  “John gave me directions to a shelter back here through the woods,” Ben said. “Mother, Miss Winter, you may stay with the coach. You will sleep in it tonight, but Nelly and Frank must be hidden off the road. They cannot sleep in compartments all doubled up like jackknives.”

  Frank’s lips twitched into almost a smile.

  “I wish to walk a little,” Kate said. Her legs were stiff from the run of the previous day, compounded by hours of immobility. “Mrs. Hanby, do you mind if I go with them?”

  “Not at all, dear.” Mrs. Hanby went to her son and took the reins from him.

  “Take this,” Ben said. “John will be along in only a few minutes, or I would not leave you alone.” Ben reached inside his coat and pulled out his pistol, offering it handle-first. His petite mother took it without hesitation. She probably had held a gun more than once if she was familiar with this kind of errand.

  The path under the trees was clear where only moss and ferns could grow. The earth was damp, its loamy smell fresh and light here where no one ever tilled and no cattle grazed. Ben led the way, Nelly and Kate followed, and Frank brought up the rear. Kate’s legs pained her as bruised muscles knotted and stretched. She visualized the drawings in anatomy class—the musculature charts the ladies were permitted to see. Sinew and muscle were acceptable to study as long as the ladies were not in mixed company, though some other human systems were forbidden completely.

  A sound like a whisper or soft laughter grew louder as they walked on, until a small brook trickled ahead of them over fist-sized stones, clear and ankle deep in the channel carved by its passage. Ben slung the canteen from his shoulder and knelt by the water to dip it below the surface. They all went down to the edge, Kate pushing back her skirt to lean down and trail her fingers in the water. If she were still in trousers, she would wade into it, cold and beautiful in the twilight.

  When Frank had dipped water into his palms and slaked his thirst, Ben handed Kate the canteen, then offered it to Nelly. They went on over a rise in the land that then fell away down a long incline. Not far down the slope, the dark shape of a lean-to girdled the base of a large tree.

  Nelly’s baby lifted her head and looked around the clearing, eyes bright. While Ben showed Frank the site and gave him the food he had brought in his satchel, Nelly carried her daughter to the tree and let her touch the bark. “Most of the trees got cut down on the master’s place,” she said to Kate.

  Nelly sat down and let her girl play with the ferns, which made her laugh in her high baby squeal. She grabbed a fistful and pulled with hands too gentle to break the stems. Her little head turned to watch a bird hop into the ferns, where it eyed her, then poked its beak into the ground covering. It was a plain bird, brown, with a spotted breast.

  “A thrush bird,” Nelly said. “Joe used to show them to me.” Her eyes went distant and soft. “Do you hear? Up in the trees.”

  The birdsong above them resolved from a blanket of sound into separate notes as Kate listened. It was a song of astonishing intricacy, phrases of music whistled from the air, each phrase different, a variety of notes and patterns floating though the leaves.

  “I’ll tell you what Joe always said.” Nelly kept her eyes on the thrush. “See how dull and quiet that bird looks, so no one would see him?”

  Kate nodded.

  “But it don’t matter how he looks. Up there where no one can catch him, he sings that freedom song.”

  Kate could not speak, her mind a mélange of memories and emotions as the little baby clapped her hands on the ferns.

  Nelly stretched out her fingers and let her daughter curl her tiny hands around them. “That’s how my baby girl gonna sing someday, Lord willing.” A faint smile graced her lips.

  Kate turned and walked away through the carpet of ferns, heading blindly in the direction of the coach. She was so small and petty. Her misery in Westerville, her fear of performance, even the recent incident with her father—all so negligible, compared to this woman’s suffering and her simple hope for her baby. Would she really run away to Cincinnati and forget she had ever seen them? Pretend that Kate Winter’s unfortunate family life was the most important problem in the world, and worth all her effort and attention?

  “Miss Winter,” Ben said. She started and looked over her shoulder to find him only a few yards behind, hurrying to catch her. She stopped, the hem of her skirt brushing the greenery.

  “I will escort you back to the coach,” he said. “It’s getting dark—you might lose your way. And Frank knows what to do here for his family.” His dark eyes held hers, and he paused, then moved a step closer, sidelong, and raised his arm to invite her to take it.

  It was not proper—they would not have a chaperone for the walk. Ben’s expressive face said all without words, his hesitance, a touch of mutiny against the rules, his desire to help and perhaps to be close to her. And above all, he did not want her to refuse.

  She looked away, a shiver moving up her back, and slipped her arm through his. As they walked on, the song of the hermit thrush broke out again in its wild, unpredictable melody. It was the only sound other than the rustling of her skirt through the ferns. She was stirred by the warmth of his arm, but also a consciousness of his whole presence, the support of his physical being only inches from hers, and most of all, his thoughts resting on her and hers on him, more intimate in the walk than any words.

  She did not want to leave the private, dusk-softened world under the trees, or let go of his arm. Ahead was the dim outline of the coach, and the figures of Mrs. Hanby and John Parker beside it as they tended to the horses.

  Ben gently unlaced her arm and held her hand for the last few steps to be sure she did not stumble at the edge of the road. He released it just before they rounded the coach, and they greeted Mrs. Hanby and John as if nothing unusual had occurred. But it seemed to Kate their thoughts had not disentangled as easily as their hands.

  Eighteen

  THE TRIPLE-BEAT DRUMMING OF CANTERING HOOVES rose above the crunch of the coach wheels. Ben snapped a glance over his shoulder as the reins vibrated in his hands from the bounce of the horses’ backs.

  Good, it was only John cantering up from his post behind. But he was waving for Ben to stop. Ben tugged the reins and slowed the horses from a trot to a walk. “What is it?”

  “We’re being followed.” John’s mount was in a full lather, its nostrils flaring with every breath.

  “By whom?” Ben drew the coach horses to a full stop.

  “A group of men on horses, perhaps three miles back. I caught a glimpse of them at the top of a hill and hid myse
lf by the roadside to wait and see what I could discover.”

  “How do you know they’re following us?”

  “I heard them. They’re bounty hunters. Someone tipped them to the possibility of a prize. They’re looking for a coach, but they haven’t spotted you yet. But they’re making good time.”

  “I can’t run the horses, not with four passengers inside. They would only last a mile or two.”

  “I know. You’re going to have to give me the coach. I’ll lead the bounty hunters on a merry chase, and you must take the others onward by foot.”

  “How far?”

  “Washington is only five more miles, and if you cut through the trees it might only be three. Just keep heading northeast and you’ll find the road again when it swings back to meet you before the town. When you get there, look for the two-story house at the crossroads. They’ll be expecting you. And I must get back to Miranda now, but you’ll have help along the way to Westerville.”

  The sun was dropping to the west in the late afternoon, so it would not be hard to keep direction by it.

  “Very well,” Ben said. “We must hurry. Tell the ladies and Frank to come out.” He climbed down from the driver’s seat.

  John turned his horse and rapped on the window of the coach. Ben’s mother opened the door. “Yes?”

  Ben leaned around the coach lamp. “We must go by foot and John will take the coach. Quickly.”

  Nelly, Frank, and the baby came out first, then his mother shut the coach door again. What was she doing? In three minutes, she and Miss Winter emerged, but changed. They had divested themselves of their cumbersome underskirts, it seemed, and his mother handed Miss Winter one of the tie-backs from the coach curtains. They knotted the makeshift belts around their waists and pulled the excess material of their dresses away from the ground.

  Ingenious, and necessary, for who could walk miles through the forest in a dress like a balloon? Miss Winter looked trim and strong in the graceful Grecian drape of her altered attire. But he shouldn’t gawk at her like a rude farm boy.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and led the little party off the road, checking the position of the sun. Behind them, John clucked to the horses and the coach rolled up the road.

  “I wonder what they will think,” his mother said, stepping over some twigs, “if they stop John and find two discarded crinolines in his coach.”

  “That he has some unusual tastes in his wardrobe,” Ben said.

  Kate laughed softly behind him. He grinned without looking around. They had a long and dangerous journey still ahead, but better to face it with a strong heart and good humor.

  The light was fading again by the time they saw the road ahead. Kate’s calves were tight and her shoes had rubbed blisters on her little toes. She limped on without complaint. Between her blisters, Ben’s still-wrapped foot, and Nelly’s turned ankle from the escape, Mrs. Hanby and Frank were the only members of the party with an even gait.

  A hedge of bushes stood near the road.

  “Wait here,” Ben said.

  They all crouched down to rest for a moment while Ben peered ahead toward a crossroads. A handful of buildings stood at the four corners, some brown-planked, some whitewashed. “That’s Washington,” he said. “There’s a railroad track there too, but it goes east-west,” Ben said. “No use to us.”

  The baby girl babbled, and the innocent sound set Kate’s stomach to fluttering. They had nothing with them to quiet the babe.

  “We would never be able to hide on a train anyway,” Mrs. Hanby said to Ben.

  “You might be surprised.” His brief abstracted gaze spoke of previous such hidings, perhaps on work with his father. “But it does us no good to go sideways on an east-west line. We need to go north. And we’ll start by going to that house.” He pointed to the only two-story building directly ahead of them and beyond the crossing. “After you, Mother.” His eyes glinted, though he seemed serious.

  “You want me to go first?” Mrs. Hanby asked. In the dusk, her surprise made her look like a girl Kate’s age.

  “You and Miss Winter. You’re least likely to be suspected. If all is well, wave to us so we can come to you,” he said.

  Of course. That made sense. White women could walk together at dusk without exciting undue notice. Not so for those of darker complexion.

  Mrs. Hanby rose, straightened her shoulders, and stepped out from behind the bush onto the road. Her skirt was dirty at the hem and bedraggled, but no one would notice that with the approach of nightfall. Kate scrambled after her, almost tripping on her own hem before she hitched it back up into her sash.

  Heart racing, Kate walked beside Mrs. Hanby a few feet up the road and out into the crossing. Noises rose from the houses around them. Two voices wrangled in argument, something metal clinked. The shutters of the house on her right were closed, but the one on the left had its windows open to the crossing. She held her breath as a shadow flitted inside the house, outlined by the glow of light from the room. But no one came to watch.

  They reached the door of the house that Ben had indicated. The paint flaked on the door and the doorknob hung askew in a hole too large for it. As long as the people inside were friendly to their cause, that was all that mattered. Kate turned back toward the place where Ben, Nelly, and Frank must be waiting for their signal. Should she and Mrs. Hanby wait for total darkness?

  The door opened behind her. Kate flinched and tripped over some tools leaning against the wall of the house. Spades and rakes clattered to the ground, but Kate stayed on her feet.

  A brown-skinned, stooped man with white hair and beard gestured to them. He carried no light. “Come in!” he whispered. “Bring them in!”

  Turning back, Mrs. Hanby waved three times. Kate hoped Ben could still see her white-clad arm through the gloom.

  After a few long minutes, Ben and Frank appeared, then Nelly with the baby on her shoulder. Thank goodness the little girl seemed to have fallen asleep. The three walked steadily through the crossing to the house. Mrs. Hanby stepped inside the door after the old man as Kate and the others crowded her. Ben was the last in and barred the door with a muted wooden thump.

  The old man led them through the front room toward a flight of stairs. On the bare floor sat a little girl not older than five or six holding her finger to her lips. Mrs. Hanby smiled at her with a wistful expression. Perhaps she wanted to see her own little ones again.

  Kate set her foot on the first step, which shifted under her weight. This household was in need of maintenance. But Mrs. Hanby had made it to the top of the stairs, so it must be safe enough.

  Kate was halfway up when a loud knock came at the door. Kate glanced at Ben behind her; he pointed up with a firm hand. Mrs. Hanby flew across the upstairs hallway and into one of the open rooms. Kate followed as the old man pushed past the rest of them to get down the stairs to the door.

  Kate heard him call, “Who is it?” but she had no time to listen to any more of his words. Frank and Ben were right on her heels and rushed into the small bedroom after her. But behind them, Nelly turned right and carried the baby into the second bedroom. Frank tried to get out and go with her, but Ben shoved him back and closed the bedroom door with care, in total silence.

  A voice spoke from outside. Even through the walls, the words were all too clear.

  “Federal officer! Open in the name of the law! Horace Abraham, open your door!”

  Horace—for that must be the old man’s name—began to argue with them through the door. At the same time, Ben crossed the room and eased open the window’s shutters. He stuck his head out the window, looking up. The pounding on the front door increased; it sounded as if it would bring the house down. Ben pulled his head back inside and nodded at Frank. Ignoring the racket below, Ben boosted Frank up and out of sight through the window. Ben beckoned to Mrs. Hanby, who stepped in his laced fingers, grabbed the lip of the roof, and vanished upward as if an angel had flown by and plucked her away. Ben pointed to Kate.

  T
hey were about to be caught if she did not hide. There was no time for hesitation. She ran to Ben as she heard the officer and others coming in the front door. She placed her foot in his hands, grasped the upper edge of the window, and pivoted up and out with blind trust. Strong hands caught her, then Frank dragged her over the rough shingles of the steeply sloped roof.

  She did not know how they managed to stay up there. Even a medium wind would blow them off. God, help us. If she had neglected prayer before, the sight of the ground far below and the shouting from the house were strong incentive. God, save us from here, please. Don’t let us fall.

  She clung desperately to the shingles beneath her with white, cold fingers. Footsteps pounded up the stairs below, vibrating even through the roof.

  Ben was still in the bedroom—had he gone to Nelly?

  Just then he appeared, hauling himself over the slight lip of the roof. He slid across the shingles to where another window opened below him, into the room where Nelly was hiding. Ben reached down to the shutter and tapped on it quietly. Frank crouched just behind him, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes haunted.

  Kate heard the door of one bedroom bang open underneath them. With frustrated curses, the voices moved to what must be the bedroom where Nelly was hiding with the baby.

  “Not here!” said one.

  Kate held her breath. They had hidden well.

  “Blast it!” another said. “Carter swore they would be here!”

  Who was this Carter who had known that they would come through Washington?

  She could hear them still cursing Horace.

  “Well, old man,” one of them said. “I guess we’ll have to do the next best thing.” After a pause, he said, “Because your name isn’t really Horace Abraham at all, is it? It’s Horace Campbell.”

  Kate did not understand his meaning, but she saw the sickened expression on Ben’s face as he pressed flat against the roof. Something was going very wrong.

  “That’s not my name!” the old man protested, but his objections were lost in the sounds of a struggle. The little girl screamed, “No! Grandpa!” and the old man shushed her. Then his voice rang out, “You can’t take her! She was born free!”