The Safe Room

by B. A. Shapiro

  It was as if the weight of the house, along with its burden of its inhabitants and history, was falling down on me, crushing me with its power.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  October 29, 1858

  I am filled with gladness as I write that we are all unharmed and Harden House is secure. Papa was magnificent and so too was the safe room. Everyone played his or her part to perfection, and even little Chloe, usually such a bright whirling dervish of noise, knew to be still when the Whigs were about. Although in the past I have sometimes questioned Papa’s piousness, in this instance, the Lord did indeed protect the just and the righteous.

  As Mrs. Child had warned, Mr. Alexander Lyman, constable of Concord, arrived with two men and three dogs. It was my job to act as hostess, to offer the gentlemen cakes and a light repast. When I did so, Mr. Lyman was curt, almost rude. He waved his hand dismissively and demanded to speak with my father. I had never before seen the two men with him, although they appeared to be of a rough sort. Neither of them said a word.

  Papa walked down the stairs, pushing his spectacles to the bridge of his nose, as serene as if there were no fugitives hidden behind the wall at his back, and I trembled at his courage. “Mr. Lyman, Sir,” Papa said, extending his hand in greeting. “Welcome to you and your companions.”

  It was obvious Mr. Lyman was taken aback by Papa’s cordiality, for he coughed and blustered and finally managed to sputter a few words about nigger runaways and danger to young girls.

  “I very much appreciate your concern, Alexander,” Papa said. “We have seen no runaways, but now that you are here with your companions and your dogs, I’d be in your debt if you would take a moment and look over the premises for us.”

  The two men remained in the yard with the dogs as Mr. Lyman docilely followed Papa through the house. I returned to the east parlor and once again took up my darning. Papa made sure that Mr. Lyman was out of the house within minutes. The Whigs remained on the property until nightfall, but of course, they found nothing.

  It brought joy to my heart to see Mr. Alexander Lyman so vexed.

  November 3, 1858

  Rachel and Chloe took their leave today, and I cried as I bid good-bye to that sweet child. I fear so much for her safety, but Papa reminds me that they have already traveled the most difficult portion of their journey and that the Lord is with them. It isn’t that I don’t believe him, or think the Lord would fail to watch over a poor mother and her child; it is just that there is so much evil in this world that I wonder how the Lord can keep track of it all.

  Papa tells me more dutiful reading of my Bible shall shore up my faith and end this confusion. It is my determination to do just that. I shall also pray daily for their safe passage.

  November 4, 1858

  Papa says that my dear friend, Nancy Southwick, may not come to visit! He says it is far too dangerous for anyone who is not acquainted with our endeavors to call, and that I shall content myself with my chores and prayers and the company of Caleb and Wendell and himself. He is so concerned with the needs of others, but fails to understand the needs of his own daughter.

  As I look upon my last sentence, I am filled with shame. I know Papa is right, that there are needs far greater than mine, but I do so long for the conversation of Nancy and a few moments of light laughter amidst all this passion and seriousness. Wendell is nice enough, but the more time I spend with him, the more dull he becomes. Lewis Campbell cuts a much more dashing figure and his conversation is always lively, but I am beginning to fear that Papa is so preoccupied with his activities that he may not wish to go to Connecticut for Christmas, and that I may never see Lewis again. Then I remind myself that even though Papa is completely engrossed in his abolitionist endeavors—and rightly so—he is well aware that visiting cousin Lizzie and Aunt Elizabeth, Mama’s sister, will mean much to me this year, my first Christmas without Mama.

  I wonder why it is my family who must carry this burden. I shall be very glad when it is over.

  November 5, 1858

  Now that I may do no entertaining, I have many empty hours to fill. I sit in my Boston rocker with my needlepoint and listen to Mrs. Harrington lament until I believe I shall go mad. Nothing appears to please this sour woman. Papa’s activities least of all.

  When Mrs. Harrington is not at my elbow, I slip away from the house and visit Mr. Silas Person in the barn. He tells me of his journeys. Although his eyes flame with fierceness as he describes his travails, I think he must be a very kind man, for I have the notion that he is telling me these tales to distract me from my own melancholy. When I was speaking of Chloe, of my worries for her safety, Mr. Person told me that the laughter of a free child is the purest sound on this great earth.

  “The worst part about being a slave isn’t weariness of the arms or the legs,” he said, “it’s the hopelessness of the soul.”

  November 6, 1858

  I was correct in guessing that Mr. Person had a white man for a father. “I am a ‘quadroon,’” he explained as he pitched hay this afternoon. I sat at the foot of the stack watching him. “A person who has one Negro grandparent.”

  I didn’t quite know how to respond. I was embarrassed by this frank discussion of his parentage, but I was also intrigued.

  Mr. Person must have sensed my discomfort, for he said gently, “Things are lots different in Louisiana.” He cleared his throat and all gentleness left his voice. “My daddy was the master of the plantation, and my mama was sired by the master before him. The Southern whites think they own Negroes the same as they own any animal.”

  “Oh, no,” I cried, unable to believe that any man who was as well spoken as Mr. Person could ever be considered an animal by another man.

  He didn’t answer me. He went back to pitching hay, and I sat in silence, embarrassed by my naiveté, not knowing what to say, whether to apologize, how to leave. I watched the ripple of his muscles as the pitchfork hit the hay then lifted it. I was mesmerized by his concentration, the power with which he approached his task. Who could think this man was anything other than a man?

  “I had a wife,” he said suddenly. “Her name was Ozella. She was pretty and sweet as the berries we picked in springtime. Her hair was long and dark and I used to comb it for her every night.” He leaned on his pitchfork and his eyes gazed beyond me, into the past. He looked so sad, so weary. Then he came back, and his eyes connected with mine. “Her hair was thick and straight. A lot like yours.”

  I felt a warm flush spreading up my cheeks, and I touched the hair gathered at the nape of my neck. “What happened to her?”

  “Died in childbirth.”

  “And the baby?”

  “Don’t know,” Silas said, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “I heard it was a boy.”

  Before I could respond, Wendell burst into the barn. “What are you doing in here, Sarah?” he demanded. “Why are you sitting in the hay? You’ll catch your death of cold.” He reached out his hand to me. I took it and allowed myself to be drawn to my feet.

  “I was talking with Mr. Person,” I explained, brushing hay from my skirt, embarrassed for Wendell, but not quite sure why. “He was telling me about his wife.”

  Wendell nodded curtly to Mr. Person, then lead me from the barn. “It isn’t proper for a woman of your station to converse alone with a Negro,” he scolded as we walked to the house.

  “The poor man is lonely,” I explained. “His wife just died.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Wendell said, “but it makes no difference to you.”

  I did not argue nor resist, being a proper young lady, but I was most annoyed. Wendell Parker is neither my father nor my brother—and he surely is not my husband, nor even my betrothed—and therefore he has no warrant to instruct me on what is proper or improper behavior.

  November 7, 1858

  All of Mr. Person’s stories are extremely painful, and I now understand why he so rarely smiles, although when he does, his smile lightens my heart. Mr. Person was sixteen years of ag
e when he and his three brothers were sold away from their mother and the plantation on which they had been raised. They were shackled together and forced to walk from Vicksburg to Jackson, Mississippi, along with four hundred other slaves. As the eldest brother, Mr. Person watched over the little ones. The roads were alternately dusty and muddy and everyone was chained together without sufficient food or drink. If one fell over or was pulled into a stream, all the others would follow.

  Mr. Person managed to keep his brothers alive, and the four boys were sold in Jackson, then marched in chains to a plantation north of New Orleans. The boys never saw their mother again.

  Mr. Person is scarred by the horrid events of his life, and I do not blame him for his bitterness, yet I want so badly for him to understand that we are not all like those he had known. “All white men and woman are not so cruel,” I told him. “Many of us are kind.”

  “I cannot wait around for those who might be kind,” he said, his voice as hard and unyielding as iron. “It’s safer not to trust anyone.”

  How could he not see that my heart was pure, that Papa and Caleb and Wendell and I were truly on his side? I think I might have cried right there in the barn if Silas had not smiled at me just then, telling me with the warmth in his eyes that perhaps he did know me to be of a different sort.

  November 8, 1858

  Dr. Miller came today and examined Mr. Person. When he was finished, he announced that Silas would not be able to travel for at least three more weeks. Silas said nothing, but the hardness in his eyes said everything. I worry that he will leave before he is able.

  November 9, 1858

  Just as I had feared, Papa says we cannot go to Connecticut for Christmas! We have gone to Hartford for the holidays since I was a small child, and Papa knows I longed to visit with Aunt Elizabeth this year more than ever before. He knows how desperately I miss Mama, and now I shall not be able to dance with Lewis Campbell! Papa says it is more important for him to be here for Mr. Person and the other fugitives than to “gorge himself on roast turkey.”

  Sometimes I wonder if “St. Papa” makes too much of his own importance.

  November 10, 1858

  Mr. Silas Person is still with us, and today he told me more of his travels. His journey from Louisiana to Lexington is a most miraculous story of his courage and perseverance, as well as the story of an enslaved people fighting for the freedom that is rightfully theirs. For as Mr. Person reminded me, the Negro slaves were not brought here from Africa; Negroes were brought here and then turned into slaves.

  One of the most amazing things he told me was about quilts. Yes, quilts. But these are very special quilts, almost magical, for Negro women design them full of secret symbols which show when it is time to escape and where it is safe to go. It is a Morse Code of stitches and knots. Pictures to tell of a particular action. Is this not immensely clever? A communication that cannot be overheard or ever washed away! Mr. Person said it was made all the better because the messages were hidden in plain sight.

  And the quilts have such wonderful names: Monkey Wrench and Wagon Wheel and Shoofly and Flying Geese and Tumbling Boxes! Each with its own secret message. Mr. Person knew it was time to gather his tools when the Monkey Wrench quilt was hung from the porch of Aunt Zella’s quarters. When the quilt was changed to Wagon Wheel, he packed his things, and when he saw Tumbling Boxes waving from the railing, he made his escape. He says many others are following in his footsteps.

  Quilts helped him along his way also: one was a map that could only be seen when it was turned to its reverse side, and another was a pattern of arrows which showed him which way to go! We up North so often think that it is only we who are helping the Negro, that without us, they would forever be slaves. Mr. Person’s stories remind me that the Negro is fighting for his own freedom, and has been doing just that for a long time.

  Most often though, Mr. Person had no one to aid him on his lonely and dangerous journey. After escaping the plantation, he slipped into a bayou and passed three days and two nights by himself in the branches of a tree at the heart of a snake-infested swamp. Then he made his way to New Orleans.

  In New Orleans, he jumped into the hold of a steamer and hid amongst the cargo. Silas knew that every boat heading north on the Mississippi was met by police and checked for runaway slaves, so when the steamer reached Kentucky he walked calmly onto the pier and began unloading containers from the ship. The police believed him to be hired help and paid him no mind.

  From there he traveled along the Maysville Road to Ohio, hiding in barns and backyard pits, eating wild blueberries, and when he was lucky, finding a kindly Negro cook who would spare him a bit of food. He went hungry for days and slept where he was able: in fields, along riverbanks and one night, in a coffin! He went from safe house to safe house, traveling usually by foot, but once in the secret compartment of a double-bottomed hay wagon.

  He was harbored and aided by “Midnight Marauders,” the conductors of this extraordinary association we call the Underground Railroad. What is it that makes one man so wondrously selfless and another so evil? Silas was being chased by bounty hunters in the forests west of Concord when he fell and broke his leg. He managed to elude them, then limped all the way here. When I told him he was indeed a brave man, he claimed bravery had nothing to do with it. “I am risking nothing,” he said. “Without freedom, I have nothing.”

  Silas’ conversation is far more interesting than that of Wendell Parker. Perhaps even more interesting than Lewis Campbell’s.

  November 11, 1858

  Now I know why Silas has not left Harden House. He confessed to me today that his brothers are also following the quilts. They have escaped the plantation, and it is Silas’ mission to blaze the trail to freedom for his family. He heard through the grapevine dispatch that at least one of them made it to Red Oak, Ohio. I told him I would pray for their successful journey.

  His eyes got that hard gleam, and he said, “Prayers are not nearly enough.”

  I was frightened by the intensity of his anger. “I can do more than just pray,” I stammered. “I can talk to Papa, and he and his friends on the Vigilance Committee will make sure your brothers are safe.” When he didn’t say anything, I added, “They can do it. They will.” But Silas still said nothing.

  November 13, 1858 (morning)

  I am ashamed of writing of “St. Papa” the other day. Papa is truly a wise and noble man, and I am but a small and selfish girl. When I told Papa of the plight of Silas and his three brothers, Papa pushed his spectacles up on his nose and immediately went to meet with Wendell’s uncle, Theodore Parker, and the Vigilance Committee. He told them the story, and all who were present, including Mr. William Lloyd Garrison, vowed to help.

  As Silas is unable to travel, the idea is that his brothers shall be brought to him, then they shall all go on to Canada together. Mr. Parker and Mr. Garrison will take advantage of their many connections to get word to Silas’ brothers that they are to come to Boston. I told Papa about the Negro women who sew the secret quilts, and he was delighted with this intelligence. He said the quilts might be a valuable aid in leading the brothers to Lexington and helping many other runaway slaves.

  As Harden House is under almost constant surveillance by Mr. Lyman and his Whigs, a safe way must be secured for the boys to escape from here. Papa suggested that a secret tunnel be dug from Mama’s canning cupboard in the cellar to the abandoned well in the eastern woods. He said Caleb and Wendell could do the work. Silas’ brothers will hide in the barn or carriage house—using the safe room when necessary—until Silas is ready to travel, then all will escape through the tunnel to the well, where members of the Vigilance Committee will be waiting. The Committee will lead them north to freedom, while anyone watching the house shall see nothing.

  Is this not a brilliant scheme?

  November 13, 1858 (afternoon)

  After lunch, I begged Papa to allow me to tell Silas the wonderful news. Mrs. Harrington’s frown was so deep that
it appeared to be permanently gouged into her face, but Papa ignored her and said that I could. I wish it had not been necessary to apprise Mrs. Harrington of our schemes. I trust her even less than I value her company.

  I, too, ignored her and raced out to the barn. When I found Silas pitching hay, I was suddenly shy and blurted out a silly question about the red flannel sack he wore around his neck. But Silas did not think it was silly—he never thinks my questions silly—and he told me the sack was a charm bag, sometimes called a “Mojo” or the “Hand,” and that he wore it to bring him good luck.

  “It must be working!” I cried. “It’s good luck that I’ve come to tell you of.” But when I described the plan, rather than the smile of pleasure I longed to see cross his face, Silas’ eyes grew hard and his mouth narrowed.

  “You can tell your brother and his friend not to bother,” he declared, his voice full of fierceness. “I will dig the tunnel myself.”

  I stepped back, confused and I admit, a bit hurt, by his unexpected anger. Then he reached out and touched my hand, and my entire body flared with his passion. I looked into his eyes and understood that I had been mistaken: it wasn’t anger Silas was feeling, it was determination. His fight to bring his family to freedom would be deterred by no man. And I would do everything in my power to make his dream come true.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It turned out that I wasn’t crushed by the weight of the house or its history. After some furious and, according to Beth and Gram, very impressive digging, Michael pulled me from the tunnel with nothing more serious than a bruised ego. But as I stood under the shower, letting the water pound the dirt from every surface and cavity of my body, I kept thinking about all that filthy, wet, spider-ridden dirt collapsing on my head, filling my nose, my mouth. All that dirt burying me, smothering me, bringing to life every nightmare I’d ever had of darkness and ghosts and death in close places.