Though Waters Roar

by Lynn Austin

  Henry didn’t reply to Hannah’s request until after she’d finished cooking his breakfast the next morning and had set it on the table in front of him. He crunched into a piece of bacon and said, “That name would be acceptable, I suppose.”

  Hannah had learned patience during her ten years of marriage. She hadn’t expected a reply any sooner than noon. Henry required a sufficient amount of time to pray about such matters and didn’t like to be rushed. Three-year-old Franklin, who couldn’t pronounce “Beatrice,” shortened the baby’s name to Bebe. The name stuck, and my sister and I still call her Grandma Bebe seventy-two years later.

  The first few years of Grandma’s life passed uneventfully, by her account. She grew to be a quiet, nervous child, which was understandable since everyone else on the farm was bigger and louder and stronger than she was. With four older brothers to dodge— along with a team of horses, a pair of oxen, and a herd of milk cows—at times it felt as though there were a conspiracy to trample poor Bebe underfoot. The first useful phrase she comprehended as a toddler was, “Get out of the way, Bebe!”

  “I was a skittish child,” she told me, “perhaps because I spent a great deal of time skittering out of danger. And so shy! I would cry at the drop of a hat—and there were plenty of hats to drop, not to mention hoes and hay bales, wheels and winches, boots, buckets, and butcher blocks.”

  I tried to imagine growing up in a home that had butcher blocks dropping from above, and I cringed involuntarily. When I questioned Grandma about it, she laughed and said, “Don’t ask, Harriet! The butcher-block incident was my brother William’s doing. He was always into some sort of mischief, risking life and limb. That’s why it surprised all of us when it was Joseph who lost his life and Franklin who lost a limb. Of course those tragedies happened years after the butcher-block episode, but we all remembered it.”

  Grandma Bebe never did tell a story in a straight line. In order to make any sense of her life, I’ve had to piece together all of her astounding statements as if working a huge jigsaw puzzle. But I happen to have a lot of spare time as I languish in this jail cell, and her peculiar stories are beginning to make sense to me as I endeavor to figure out how I got here—and what to do about it.

  Bebe’s brothers were wild, uninhibited boys who took great delight in risking their lives each day in newer and more creative ways. One summer they tied a rope from a branch of the tall oak tree that stood near the river on the edge of their farm. They drilled a hole through an old plank and threaded the fraying rope through the center of it, knotting it beneath the plank to form a seat. Bebe watched from a safe distance as they took turns swinging wildly from it, pumping higher and higher, sometimes falling off and skinning their knees, adding more lumps to their knobby heads. She wondered what it would feel like to fly freely through the air on that swing, the blue sky above her, the wind in her hair. But even though she longed to try it, fear always stopped her.

  One day when it was hot enough to roast the chickens right on their roosts, William decided to sail out over the river on the swing and let go of the rope, splashing into the water some twelve feet below, oblivious to the unforgiving rocks. Rain had fallen for weeks that spring and the rushing river looked eager for a victim to drown. But when William bobbed safely to the surface, Bebe’s other brothers followed his example, leaping into the water as if eager to meet Jesus. Bebe watched from the side of the path, wary of the snakes that lived in the tall grass near the river. James and Joseph had once caught a thick, glossy black snake three feet long and had scared Bebe half to death with it as they whooped into the barnyard, dangling their prize from the tines of a pitchfork.

  After the first five years of Grandma Bebe’s jittery life had passed, a momentous change occurred. Harriet Beecher Stowe had published her book Uncle Tom’s Cabin; or Life Among the Lowly in 1852, and when it made it’s way to New Canaan, the ladies from church passed around a well-worn copy of it. Hannah read it by lamplight in the farmhouse parlor and wept. Bebe had never seen her sturdy, devout mother cry before, and she quickly hurried over to comfort her.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?”

  “It’s this book I’m reading, Beatrice dear. It describes the daily lives of slaves in our country, and it’s simply horrifying. Imagine being owned by someone! Just think how horrible it would be to be considered someone’s property and thought of as inferior. Imagine having no life of your own, forced to do someone’s bidding day and night, body and soul, with no power and no voice.”

  Hannah talked about the plight of the slaves continually for the next few months as she and Bebe kneaded bread and plucked chickens and scrubbed laundry. She spoke as they weeded the garden and peeled potatoes and mopped the floors and sewed new clothes for the family.

  “I believe the Almighty is calling me to do something to help those poor, pitiful people,” Hannah decided one fall afternoon while rendering fat to make soap for her household. With her conscience as her guide, she gathered all of the other women who’d read the book and held a meeting in the village church. They decided to form a local Chapter of the Anti-Slavery Society. Henry sympathized with the cause after reading the book himself. He even allowed Hannah to hitch the team to the wagon if he wasn’t using it and drive into town for the society meetings. Bebe accompanied her mother, watching and listening.

  At first the anti-slavery meetings resembled a Sunday church service with lots of praying and hymn singing. But then the women devised a plan, mapping out their battle lines and the course of action they would take. They wrote countless letters and sent innumerable petitions to the government officials in Washington. They raised money to help publish and distribute anti-slavery pamphlets. Hannah contributed to the cause by raising an extra dozen chickens and selling the eggs, along with any spare produce from her vegetable garden.

  Every once in a while the Philadelphia Chapter of the Anti-Slavery Society would send a special speaker up to New Canaan to give a progress report. One orator told how the society was helping slaves escape, one by one, on an invisible “Underground Railroad.” With millions of men, women, and children still enslaved, it seemed to Bebe that it was going to take the society a very long time to reach their goal if the slaves had to escape one at a time.

  Then one spring night Bebe awoke to a vicious thunderstorm. Terrified by the howling wind and blinding lightning, she ran downstairs to her parents’ bedroom and crawled into bed beside her mother, trembling from head to toe. “ ‘God is our refuge and strength,’ ” Hannah whispered to her, reciting her favorite psalm. “ ‘Therefore we will not fear . . . though the waters thereof roar and be troubled. . . .’ ”

  Bebe thought the banging noise she heard was caused by the wind until her father said, “I think there’s someone at the door.”

  He rose to answer it. Mama put on a dressing gown to follow him, and when a flash of lightning lit up the room, Bebe scrambled out of bed and ran after both of them, clinging to her mother’s leg.

  “Come in, come in,” she heard her father say as he opened the heavy oak door. “It’s a terrible night to be out on the road.” Henry was as tall and sturdy as that massive door and not afraid of anything. He invited the dripping stranger into the house without a second thought.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m much obliged,” the man said. He stood inside the doorway, drenched and shivering.

  “What about your horse?” Henry asked, peering out at the drooping animal tethered to the hitching post.

  “Well . . . allow me to state my errand quickly, Mr. Monroe. If you’re unable to assist me, I’ll need to ride on ahead to the next station.”

  “You know my name—have we met?” Henry asked in surprise. He hadn’t bothered to light a lamp, relying on the intermittent flashes of lightning for illumination.

  Hannah took a step forward. “I think . . . I think I know you, sir. You’re from Philadelphia, aren’t you? Didn’t you accompany that former slave who spoke at our society meeting last August?”

  “That r
ight, Mrs. Monroe. My name is . . . well, maybe it’s best if you just call me John Smith.” He removed his hat and a puddle of rainwater cascaded from the brim. “I’m glad you recognized me. It makes my request that much easier. You see, I have a . . . a package . . . that I need to deliver to one of the stations in this area. I understand that you are a stockholder in our railroad, Mrs. Monroe?”

  Henry stared at Mr. Smith as if he regretted his decision to open the door. But Bebe, who was wide awake now, had attended enough anti-slavery meetings to know exactly what Mr. Smith was talking about. He must be a conductor on the so-called Underground Railroad. The “package” was an escaped slave who needed refuge in a safe house or “station” on the invisible line. Anyone who had contributed money or goods to the effort, as Hannah and her friends had, was known as a stockholder.

  “Yes, that’s right, Mr. Smith. I am a stockholder,” Hannah said with a smile. “Henry, you’d better put our guest’s horse in the barn, out of the rain. This might take a while. I’ll light a fire and put on some coffee.”

  Henry grabbed his overcoat and trudged outside with Mr. Smith. Bebe followed her mother into the kitchen and watched as she lit a lamp and gathered kindling and stoked the fire. Hannah didn’t seem to notice Bebe until she bumped into her on her way out of the pantry.

  “Beatrice, dear, why don’t you go back to bed,” she said, stroking her hair. “The storm is over for the most part.”

  Lightning still flashed even though the thunder was only a distant rumble among the hills. Bebe heard the rain hammering on the back porch roof and knew that her father was going to get soaked as he walked from the house to the barn. “I want to help, Mama.”

  She meant that she wanted to help with the “package,” but her mother misunderstood. “Well . . . get out a bowl and some cups, then. Perhaps Mr. Smith would like a little soup to help him warm up.”

  A fire blazed in the stove by the time the men returned. Hannah hung their coats behind it to dry, filling the kitchen with the sour smell of wet wool. Stripped of his bulky overcoat, Mr. Smith turned out to be a slightly built man, dressed in a city suit and fine leather shoes. He dropped onto a kitchen chair, looking as limp and pale as a plucked pullet. Bebe watched the color slowly return to his pallid skin as he gulped his coffee and ate a bowl of leftover soup. His yellow hair curled into delicate ringlets as it dried.

  “What can you tell us about this package?” Hannah asked.

  “When might it arrive?”

  “Well, first I should explain that we don’t usually send packages to stations where young children live.” He glanced at Bebe. “Ever since the Fugitive Slave Law went into effect, this business has become much too dangerous to risk innocent young lives. If a package is discovered in your possession—”

  “The Good Lord can protect my children and me,” Hannah interrupted. “We must obey God, not an unjust law. The Bible says we are to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and rescue the perishing.”

  The stranger smiled slightly. “I’m glad you feel that way, Mrs. Monroe.” He wrapped his fingers around his coffee cup to warm them.

  “What brings you out our way, Mr. Smith?” she asked. “I didn’t think the Underground Railroad passed through New Canaan.”

  “It doesn’t, but we’re in a difficult situation. Bounty hunters have discovered our usual rail lines, and our safe houses simply aren’t safe anymore. We’ve been forced to expand the railroad into new territory, and we recalled what a faithful Chapter your local society has been in the past. I spoke with your pastor, and he felt that our package would be safer out here on your farm than in town, where the wrong person might accidentally see it. It’s so hard to know whom to trust, you see.”

  “You may trust us completely,” Hannah said. “How can we help?”

  “All that’s required is a temporary place to rest, eat, and hide until the way is clear to the next station. I don’t know how long that might be. We’re asking you to take an enormous risk, as you probably know. If you get caught you could be fined as much as one thousand dollars and face six months in jail. But if you’re willing to help, we would be very grateful. We simply must get our package to Canada. It has traveled so far already.”

  “I’ll need to pray about it,” Henry Monroe said. He stood abruptly as if heading to the celestial throne room to consult with the Almighty. “Can you wait for my answer?”

  “Certainly. I understand. I’ll wait.”

  But Bebe wondered if the stranger really knew how long it usually took her father to pray about something and make up his mind. Mr. Smith might well be waiting until after the next litter of hogs were born, fattened, butchered, and turned into bacon.

  “I’ll fix a bed for you, Mr. Smith,” Hannah offered. “You should try to get a little sleep. It will still be a few more hours until dawn.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you.”

  Hannah shook her head. “It’s no trouble at all.”

  “Well, if you’re certain. I have been riding all night. . . .”

  Hannah evicted William from his warm bed and tucked him in with James and Franklin to make room for the stranger. Bebe crawled back into her own bed, but she had trouble falling asleep. A real live escaped slave might be sent here to hide, in her very own house! She felt scared yet excited.

  Bebe had first seen a person with black skin at one of her mother’s Anti-Slavery Society meetings. The man’s face and arms were the color of dark, rich molasses, and she thought he must have fallen into a vat of blackberries. Her mother told her that the color wouldn’t wash off, even if the man scrubbed and scrubbed with lye soap.

  “People have made the Negro race into slaves, Beatrice, just because their skin is a different color than ours,” she had explained. “But the Bible says that God is no respecter of persons. Man looks at the outward things, but God looks at our hearts.”

  “Is the man’s heart as black as his skin?”

  “No, his heart isn’t black at all because he knows Jesus. Our sins are what turn our hearts black, but Jesus can wash each heart as white as snow.” The conversation left Bebe confused. She wondered why Jesus didn’t wash the slave’s skin white along with his heart, so he wouldn’t have to be a slave anymore. She had never forgotten the beautiful color of that man’s skin—and now a slave just like him was coming to her farm.

  The next morning when Bebe peeked into her brothers’ room to see if Mr. Smith was still asleep, all of the beds were empty. He wasn’t downstairs in the kitchen, either. “Did Mr. Smith go—?”

  Hannah shushed her. Her father and brothers were tramping indoors after their morning chores, bringing mud, fresh milk, and the scent of cows with them. “We’ll talk later,” Hannah said. “Sit down and eat your biscuits.”

  The boys ate breakfast, too, then left for school. While Bebe helped her mother wash and dry the dishes, Hannah explained that Mr. Smith had left at dawn.

  “Did Papa decide about the package?”

  Hannah nodded. “It will arrive in a few days.”

  The news astounded Bebe. She had never known her father to make up his mind so quickly. He always emphasized the need to “wait on the Lord” for any answers to prayer, and waiting usually took a very long time. The Lord must have let Henry go straight to the front of the line for an answer this time.

  “But listen to me, Beatrice. This is very important.” Hannah crouched down so she could look right into Bebe’s eyes as she gripped her thin shoulders. “Your papa and I have decided not to tell your brothers about Mr. Smith or the package. The more people who know about it, the more dangerous it will be for that poor soul who is trying to escape. If one of your brothers should happen to have a slip of the tongue and accidentally tell someone at school, we could all be in danger. Do you understand?”

  Bebe nodded soberly.

  “Promise you won’t say a word? To anyone?”

  “I promise.” No one had ever entrusted her with such an important secret before—and the fact that her b
rothers didn’t know about it made her smile on the inside.

  “You aren’t frightened, are you, Beatrice?”

  “No.”

  Bebe was terrified.

  CHAPTER

  3

  The package arrived three days later in the middle of the night while Bebe slept. She had no idea it was there. The next morning she watched her mother prepare a second breakfast of bacon and eggs and biscuits after the boys left for school and wondered why. When Bebe asked her about it, Hannah smiled and said, “We have company.”

  Bebe looked all around, wondering if the package was as invisible as the railroad. Hannah carefully tucked the plates of food inside a basket along with some cups, knives, and forks, then covered everything with a clean towel. She handed Bebe a container filled with fresh milk.

  “Will you help me carry this, Beatrice? Be careful not to spill any.”

  “Are we going down to the root cellar?” She was afraid that her mother had hidden the visitor underground, since that’s where the invisible railroad was. Bebe hated the damp, spidery cellar. It smelled like the graveyard on a rainy day, and the crumbling dirt walls always seemed to close in on her.

  “No, we’re not going down to the root cellar.”

  Bebe followed her mother upstairs instead, then watched as Hannah retrieved a chair from Bebe’s room and moved it into place below the opening to the attic. Hannah climbed up first, pushing the trapdoor aside and carefully lifting the basket up to the attiCfloor. She reached down to take the container of milk from Bebe and set it on the attiCfloor, too, then stood on tiptoes and hoisted herself up and out of sight. Bebe scrambled onto the chair to see where her mother had gone, but she was too short to see into the dark hole.

  “Mama? Where are you?” she called, her voice quivering. Hannah’s face reappeared above her.