The Attic Diary

by Derek Miller

  One night there was a knock at my door. I opened it and it was my good friend Dave Adams. He was part of the small group of men from my church who were helping Preacher John in this great work.

  He had been beaten to a bloody pulp.

  “What in the world?” I said, as he collapsed in my arms.

  “It was Byrd, him and his goons caught me with three male slaves.” I tried to fight back but too many of them….I passed out. Just woke up. They were all gone,” he said. “They left me for dead.”

  I did not realize Milly had come into the room until I heard her gasp behind me. I glanced back. Her face was a combination of pity and pure outrage.

  “Put him in our bed,” she said. “Do what you can for him. I’m going for the doc. Then you and me are going to deal with Byrd.”

  Before I could protest, she was out the door and flying down the road on the horse I’d bought her when we got engaged.

  There was nothing left for me to do except help Dave to bed. He was in such pain. I could tell he had broken ribs. I was not sure what to do but I knew I had to keep him awake. His eyes were swollen nearly shut and he had two large lumps on his head where they had hit him.

  He was struggling to hang on to consciousness, so I tried to help him stay awake by bathing his face with cool water and talking to him about the good times Milly and I had enjoyed with him and his wife, Shannon, who made the best apple pies. I got him to smile thinking about eating another apple pie made by her. I teased him he better save me a piece. I tried to make him feel better but inside I was dying.

  In what seemed like forever, Doc Woodworth came rushing in. He was by himself.

  “Where’s Milly?” I asked, half afraid she’d gone after Byrd all by herself. Milly was like that. Bravest woman I’ve ever known, before or since.

  “Milly went to get Shannon after she got me.”

  “Oh.”

  Relieved, I helped the Doc as best as I could. After he got done wrapping Dave’s ribs and checking the rest of him out the doc turned to me.

  “He’s not going to feel like moving much for a couple days. Can he stay here?”

  “Come on Doc,” I said. “Why do you even need to ask such a question? He can stay here as long as he needs.”

  At that moment Shannon came running in. She started to run and grab onto Dave but the Doc grabbed her and stopped her.

  “Slow down Shannon,” Doc Woodworth said. “He’ll be okay, but not if you start hugging on him. The boy’s in enough pain as it is.”

  That night, after Doc Woodworth left, Shannon dozed on a small pallet Milly made for her beside Dave’s bed, and Milly and I slept up in the loft. It was hard hearing my good friend groaning in pain every time he tried to move. I never wanted to kill a man so bad in my life as I wanted to rid the world of Byrd.

  A few weeks later, long after Dave and Shannon had gone home, Dave showed up at my house with a still-hot apple pie that Shannon had made. He and I sat on the porch in silence as we ate. No words were spoken but the bond we had did not need words. We were men at war, and would stand back- to- back to fight if necessary.

  I would like to finish this by saying Byrd was caught, tried, and thrown in jail. But when I was finally able to catch up with the sheriff, it was not good.

  “Bryd’s got an iron clad alibi,” Sheriff Wolfe said. “Ten of his men swear he was sitting quietly at home with them having a Bible study and prayer meeting all night.” The Sheriff spit on the ground, as though to rid himself of the taste of their ridiculous alibi. “There’s nothing I can do yet. They have so little respect for the law, they didn’t even bother to come up with a good lie.”

  “He will get his” I said.

  “I hope so but don’t do anything stupid, my friend,” he said.

  I walked away shaking my head.

  Stories began to multiply about beatings and foiled escape attempts. I began to sense that even the sheriff was becoming a little afraid. He was only one man. As I said earlier, I am convinced evil walks among us. I am also certain that evil had a human name, and it was Fred Byrd.

  Chapter Ten

  The Tunnel

  Thanks to Byrd and his cronies, it was getting more and more dangerous getting slaves from the river bank out of town. The cash reward of returning runaway slaves to their owners was too tempting for the lower dregs of humanity. Throw in a little alcohol and they thought they were the President of the United States.

  I met with John and a few others from our church to try to figure out a way to get past this problem. One of the men who met with us had spent his early years in Wales, and had worked alongside his father for several years as a coal miner. His job had been to map out the tunnels and to create the supports to hold up the earth.

  Welsh miners are famous for their expertise, and we gathered around him as he outlined a bold plan—digging a hidden tunnel from near the river’s edge to a place of safety!

  The Welshman’s name was Isaac, and he was not a young man, nor was he a strong one. In fact, he was here only because he was living out his final days on the edge of his daughter and son-in-law’s farm. He wanted to be close to her, because of a debilitating lung disease he’d contracted, so he’d built himself a little one-room cabin right beside the river, with a small, private boat dock nearby so he could go fishing on the days he felt well enough.

  Looking back, I’m convinced that Isaac was one of those rare geniuses who had been born with a gift for engineering. I am also convinced that he was another one of those human angels God gave us with which to combat evil.

  So the plan was hatched. His cabin was built upon a bluff high enough above the river so that it was out of range of the river if it flooded. He convinced us that the mouth of a tunnel could be easily hidden beneath the front porch, which was supported by eight-foot beams. Since Milly and I had no visible neighbors, it was decided that the end of the tunnel, Lord willing, would open up directly into the fruit cellar I’d built for Milly near a spring. The spring provided a cool place to keep our milk and butter, and many a runaway slave was refreshed by a chilled jar of buttermilk that Milly tried to keep in that spring.

  I, with the help of Preacher John and Dave, supplied the timbers. Isaac, on the other hand, was ill, but he was a tough old guy. He supplied the knowledge and the skill that trained the rest of us. That man knew more about moving dirt than anyone I’d ever known. Ike was truly an artist.

  That is when I discovered that my Milly could be downright devious. She deliberately started walking around with a gun on her hip everywhere she went. To the store, walking down the street, just purposely acting a little off. The men started giving her a “wide” space, especially the drunks and trouble makers whenever she would drive her wagon down the street.

  Some of them even drew me aside to express concern over “crazy” wife. I’d shake my head mournfully and tell them that I just didn’t know what to do about her—that I was afraid she’d shoot me if I interfered with her—and that they’d better keep their distance, too, because she was one moody woman.

  What no one except our small group knew was that Milly was the one moving the dirt. If someone would have seen how much dirt she was carrying out in her wagon it would have created suspicion. No sane person would have had reason to wander all over the place with a wagon filled with dirt covered by old blankets.

  Her favorite trick involved Doctor Woodworth. He would let her know when a cow or horse died. She’d have me and Dave help her pick up the animal, and then let the animal half hang off her wagon. A dead animal with its tongue sticking out is not something most people want to stand around gawking at. Especially when it started to get a bit “ripe.”

  No one noticed that the animal was taking up more space under the blankets than it should have. No one realized that the rest of the wagon was filled with freshly dug earth.

  She would use the same animal for several runs. She would get white wash and put a spot on the dead animals head to make people who actually did l
ook think it was a different animal. We would laugh and laugh at the looks she would get. Sometimes she’d be muttering to herself as she drove through town.

  I have no idea how many tons of dirt that woman moved but my Milly was a mustard seed and she moved a mountain.

  That first tunnel took the longest to build and was not pretty but it did the job.

  There were two other tunnels secreted at other places near the river. One ended up at the church directly beneath the pulpit where we had loose floor boards that could be moved. Even with our church, we were careful. Not everyone who attended there would have approved of John’s activities. Not everyone would have welcomed these poor souls into their midst.

  I often wondered what any of them would have said had they known that more than one service was conducted with escaping slaves huddled beneath the very pulpit where John was extolling them that Jesus said for them to “love one another.”

  Another tunnel went straight to Dr. Woodworth’s barn—so we could move an injured slave quietly, and invisibly.

  And then we stopped. There were enough tunnels. Had we continued with the ones Isaac had drawn up, I’m afraid the entire town might have someday collapsed into the ground! For a sick man, he had more enthusiasm for tunnels than we could use.

  I started making a mark with a chisel and hammer on the rocky entrance of the tunnel that came through Milly’s fruit cellar. I just to keep track of the numbers of people we helped, but some of the slaves who came through took to making a mark, as well. Some who stayed long enough, and who were literate enough, even carved their names in the rock. I think they were afraid that if they didn’t make it to Canada there would be no record of them ever being alive—and they liked the permanence of engraving something of themselves into something permanent.

  By the time someone finds and reads this diary, Milly’s fruit cellar might no longer exist. But unless someone has removed them, my bride took the time to plant dozens of Easter Lilies near the entrance of her cellar. There might be some still growing wild, even if the cellar has caved in.

  Hannah’s jaw dropped and she stopped reading.

  “I know right where that is!”

  “You do?” Her dad said.

  “Out behind one of the sheds. Grandma took me on a picnic there once when all the Easter Lilies were in bloom. But I don’t remember any cellar.”

  “It probably caved in, just like Lyle suspected.”

  “I remember Grandma saying that those were antique lilies, that the hybrid ones people planted these days didn’t smell like that anymore.”

  “Maybe we could go see if we can find that tunnel!” Her dad’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “But keep reading for now. This is getting good! I want to know how it turns out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Murder

  It was Saturday and Milly and I decided to head to Isaac’s boat dock. We had been there the night before to pick up some slaves. We’d received word they would be coming, but they never showed. That was happening a lot more often. We didn’t know if the slaves were going another route that we didn’t know about, or if Fred Byrd and his henchman were capturing them.

  The easiest way to get to Isaac’s, was through town. As we got to Main Street a crowd had gathered outside one of the taverns. As Milly and I got closer we were overcome with dread when we saw what had happened. There had been a lynching in the middle of town. Two negro males. The sheriff was there. He had already cut one of them down.

  Milly and I looked at each other. We knew immediately that these were the two slaves we were supposed to help the night before.

  In the door way a few buildings down I could see Byrd standing there smiling. His eyes found mine and he gave me a look of supreme satisfaction. I knew immediately that he’d had a hand in killing these two men who had tried to come to us.

  “Why’d you do it, Byrd!” I yelled, standing up from the wagon seat. “Didn’t you realize you would lose your bounty money? That’s what you live for, isn’t it? Money?”

  He smiled showing those yellow teeth and tipped his hat to me. “I sure do, but the Bounty paper said ‘dead or alive.’”

  If I could have killed him at that moment I would have. I grabbed my gun.

  Milly held onto my arm. “Lyle, he will get his, he will get his.”

  Hannah’s blood began to boil. She felt like she was right there on the street with Lyle. She saw her grandfather gripping his gun. How had he not stopped?

  “Oh Dad!” she cried. “How could Byrd and his men do such a thing?”

  “They weren’t the only ones who did the unthinkable,” he said grimly. “Keep reading, sweetheart. Let’s see if Lyle and Milly figure out a way to even the score.”

  Hannah couldn’t keep the tears back. “I don’t think I can read anymore, Dad,” she said past the lump in her throat.

  “You stay right here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  A few minutes later, both he and her mother came up the stairs. Evidently he had already filled her mother in, because Mom was very subdued, and did not scold her for keeping the diary a secret these past few days.

  Now all three of them were sitting on the floor of the attic, but this time, Hannah’s mom had her arm around her.

  “You need a tissue?” Mom asked, dredging one from her pocket.

  “Please.” Hannah dabbed at her eyes, while Mom put her arm around her waist, and Dad began to read aloud—his glasses now firmly on his nose.

  Chapter Twelve

  No Choice

  You may wonder why this book was hidden. My hope is that someone in my family will eventually discover it, but for now, the story I’m telling cannot come to light without incriminating someone I love. But let me get back to the story…

  Several weeks after the lynching, Milly and I were going on a run. It was supposed to be a routine pickup but that seemed to rarely happen ever since Byrd came to town.

  It was a hot summer night. Mosquitos were biting like crazy. We were supposed to pick up a family of slaves at our church. Milly and I had driven our wagon down to pick them up.

  Milly had asked that I drop her off a ways away and she would walk the rest of the way just to see if anyone was watching the church I went into the church and the pastor was there with the family.

  “Lyle, they’re really scared,” he said. “We barely made it to the tunnel entrance. That Byrd has passed by here twice tonight. He doesn’t know they’re here, but I think he suspects they’re nearby.”

  “Well, do you think we can make it out of here?” I asked. “Or should they go back down and spend the night in the tunnel. I know it isn’t comfortable, but better that than dead.”

  I heard the woman gasp, and wished I hadn’t said that last part.

  “They have to get out,” John said. “It’s only a matter of time before he forces his way in here. They have a baby with them. If that baby cries, I’m afraid that he’ll hear it even if they’re back down in the tunnel.” .

  “Okay, let me look around and see if I see anyone.” I walked out on the front porch and nothing was to be seen. Not even Milly. I walked in a big circle around the church, listening. Again, I could hear or see nothing.

  I started to go back inside, to tell them to come on with me. I figured it would be better to make a run for it in my wagon than stay here like sitting ducks. At least if we were on the move, we had a fighting chance that Byrd would be going the other direction.

  As I turned and took a few steps toward the church, I felt something hard hit me on the head. It didn’t knock me out, but the blow made me dizzy and I fell to the ground. Then I was kicked in the side. As I rolled over I saw Byrd. He was grinning, and it was as though I was seeing Satan, himself.

  “I knew if I was patient I would catch you Lyle.” Byrd said. “Where’s that pretty wife of yours? Out wandering around in the dark with another dead animal in that wagon? You should have known better than to get into this business. Evidently it drove her crazy.”


  There was nothing I could do. Two of his men were behind him with guns drawn. I prayed that Milly had seen them coming and had run to get the sheriff.

  “This is the Lord’s house, and the Lord’s property,” Preacher John said from the doorway of the church. “You and your men need to leave.”

  Byrd smiled broadly, walked up to him, and punched him in the face. John didn’t even see it coming.

  While John fought for consciousness, and I lost my dinner from the sickness that kicked in from the blow to the head, Byrd and his men entered the church.

  I prayed that the runaways had managed to hide or get away out the back door, but they’d made the mistake of trying to head back into the tunnel, and there hadn’t been enough time.

  The next thing I knew, one of Byrd’s men was bringing out a female slave, yanking her along by her hair. Her husband was huge and muscular, but the minute he took a step toward her, Byrd pointed a .38 at his forehead.

  “Make one more move and your brains will be donated to the church.”

  One of Byrd’s buddies bent down and tied my hands together. They also tied the husband, wife and child up as well and put gags in all our mouths. Then they threw all of us in the back of my wagon. I prayed and prayed for Milly to show up with Sheriff Wolfe, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  We drove a short distance out of the city. It was the dead of night and no one was out. We finally stopped in the middle of the dense woods. My only hope at this point is they were just going to beat us up, but I doubted we would be so lucky. The pure evil of Byrd was astounding.

  They took us out of the wagon and put us in a circle on the ground. As Byrd walked around us with a lantern in his hand, he laughed, and then he pulled out a rope, the kind evil men preferred for hangings.