Out Through the Attic

by Quincy J. Allen

  Abigail told him her plan. She knew it would be expensive … and dangerous if they were ever caught. But she wanted to do something for a cause she believed in.

  So, he built it.

  It took him eighteen months and cost her over ten-thousand dollars. First, he had to build a large boat house that extended over the river. Then came the tunnel that connected the main house to the boathouse. And finally, he had to redesign and manufacture a wider submersible than the one in the schematics.

  He didn’t work alone, of course. The farm hands all helped, and Abigail pitched in where she could, getting just as dirty and sweaty as the rest. But everyone kept the secret. They all knew the risks but believed in what they were doing.

  When they were done, and the submersible was ready, they set themselves upon the real work. They made the right contacts, paid the right riverboat captains, and sent out a promise of freedom.

  Their passengers came in ones and twos—usually men, occasionally women, and sometimes children. All of them were escaped slaves, but the fear in their eyes turned to hope as soon as they saw the name of the submersible.

  Freedom.

  Abigail and Billy set the escapees up in the tunnel under the house, fed them, clothed them, and kept them warm. Every month or so, when there were enough, Billy would steal them away in the Freedom and make the 120-mile trip from the boathouse all the way to Evansville, Indiana.

  Abigail, on the other hand, never made the journey. She had a dreadful fear of water, so bad that she could only get as close as the doorway to the boathouse. Even the thought of getting near the Mississippi sent her into fits. It was the only weakness Billy ever saw in her, but he never judged her for it. She was always there to see the escapees off and welcome him home.

  For almost two years this went on, becoming a happy routine.

  They laughed together and kept up appearances in the farming community.

  They made piles of sandwiches and gallons of lemonade for a journey that wasn’t their own. And they used a submersible designed by a Confederate, paid for by a white woman, and built by a negro to grant freedom to those who had none.

  JULY 17TH, 1864

  Abigail ran a pale, freckled wrist across her forehead, shifting a red lock from green eyes. “With the group from this morning, how many does that make?” she asked, cutting another thick slice of bread from one of the loaves she’d baked that afternoon.

  “Seventeen,” Billy replied as he fried up another batch of peppered bacon.

  “Did you check her out?” she asked.

  Billy chuckled. She knew damn well that he always checked out the Freedom before a run. “Last night, Abigail,” he replied with feigned irritation. “She’s as ship-shape as the day I finished putting her together.”

  “Just checking,” she said innocently.

  He could see her trying to hide her smile. He nudged her with his elbow. “You’re terrible!” he shouted, and they broke into fits of laughter.

  It took them two hours to finish the sandwiches and wrap them in clean, white butcher paper. They spent another two hours squeezing lemons and pouring lemonade into a row of five-gallon jugs.

  The setting sun had turned the kitchen burgundy by the time they finished. Billy walked into the pantry and knocked on the back wall three times, then two, then three again. Shifting a dusty bag of sugar from where it sat on a high shelf, he pulled a small lever set into the wall. With a click, the secret door he’d built swung open, revealing a dark stairwell. Pale lamplight shone from the tunnel below. He heard people shuffling around, and then two dark, nervous faces peeked around the corner.

  “Tyrell, Jacob.” Billy nodded. “Can a few of you come up and carry our vittles down to the far end of the tunnel?”

  “Yeah, Billy,” Tyrell called up. “We’ll be right up.”

  “And start loading up the boat once everything is down there,” Billy added.

  “Yes, sir!” Jacob replied nervously.

  “You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Jacob. Billy will do just fine.” Jacob had arrived that morning. With all the preparations, Billy hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.

  Jacob gave a sheepish grin and then disappeared the way Tyler had gone.

  Billy started moving the jugs into the pantry when he heard a young boy shouting out front.

  He exchanged confused looks with Abigail, and they both rushed to the front window.

  In the dusk outside, they saw a young negro boy running up the steps.

  “Miss Abigail! Miss Abigail!” the boy yelled as he pounded on the front door.

  It was Keenan Holly, the fourteen-year-old son of a family that worked a patch of land at the edge of Abigail’s farm.

  “Lord, child!” Abigail cried, opening the door. What has got you in such a state?”

  “It’s Anderson! He’s coming! He KNOWS!” The boy was frantic.

  “Anderson?” Abigail asked, bewildered.

  Billy knew there was only one Anderson who could terrify Keenan like that. “Bloody Bill Anderson,” he said with grim certainty.

  “Oh, God,” Abigail whispered.

  Billy kneeled down and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Calm down, Keenan, and tell me what happened.”

  “I was in town, getting some cloth for Mamma’s new dress. I overheard some soldiers talking in the General Store. I tucked outta sight so’s they wouldn’t see me and heard the whole thing.”

  “Heard what?” Abigail asked.

  “Anderson’s men captured an escaped slave west of here. The soldiers said the slave was tough, but they got it outta him.” Keenan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He told them he was headed for the Watson farm.”

  They were silent as the reality sank in.

  Bloody Bill Anderson had earned his name by killing anyone sympathetic to the Union. He’d butchered whole families and burned churches to the ground with the congregation still inside. There had been skirmishes between Union and Confederate irregulars all across Missouri since the start of the war. They were always brutal, and the reprisals horrific.

  Right up until that moment, Billy and Abigail had been able to stay out of the war, contributing to the cause in their own way. Now the war was knocking on the front door.

  Billy stood and looked at Abigail, fear in his eyes.

  She turned, stepped out onto the porch, and looked down the road towards Sikeston.

  “Abigail?” Billy said quietly. The last traces of sunlight had turned the clouds black and burgundy.

  Like distant thunder they heard Anderson’s armor rolling, a deep, mechanical groan mixed with the shriek of grinding metal. Six electric lights came around a low hill a mile away, splitting the deepening gloom. A line of torches bounced along behind Anderson’s large, armored machines.

  Without turning she said, “Billy, you need to get them out of here. Now.”

  “You’re coming with us this time, right?” he asked, fear and panic rising in his chest.

  She turned and shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  His eyes went wide. “But Abigail—” he started.

  “Even if I could set foot in the Freedom,” she said calmly, cutting him off, “I’m not leaving my home. And I’m not leaving these people behind to that monster. Without me, all of the farm hands would go right back onto the auction block, and you know it.”

  Billy couldn’t argue. Abigail was a widow with no children. In her absence, the farmhands would be enslaved by her neighbors. He’d seen it happen before. The surrounding landowners would swoop in like vultures and pick the place clean.

  “Anderson might kill you,” he said quietly.

  She stepped up and put her hand on his arm. “Not even Anderson would murder an innocent woman. If the escapees and the Freedom aren’t here when he arrives, he has no reason to do anything.”

  Billy was trapped, and time was running out. He shook his head, doubt filling him to overflowing.

  “Then I’m staying,” he said desperately, his
eyes meeting hers.

  “You know you can’t,” she said gently. “You’re the only one who can get the Freedom up to Evansville. Would you sacrifice all of them,” she asked, nodding towards the pantry, “just to stay here?”

  Billy’s heart broke. “No,” he whispered. His shoulders slumped and he stared at the floor.

  “Keenan,” Abigail said, turning to the boy. “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything, Miss Abigail.”

  “Take my horse. It’s in the barn. Ride out to every family on the farm and tell them what’s happening. Tell them to be ready to pack up and go if all of this turns to Hell.” She put her hands on the side of his face and stared into his eyes. “Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Now get going!” she said. She turned him around and pushed him out the door. She closed it quietly and then turned back to Billy. “I’ll go make sure they have everything down into the tunnel. You go get your things. You might not be able to come back for a while, at least not until this is whole thing settles down.”

  “Abigail, I—”

  “We haven’t got all night,” she said as she walked towards the pantry.

  He closed his mouth and watched her disappear down the stairs.

  Billy had to force his legs to move. He headed upstairs to his room and looked around. He didn’t have anything that he really needed. All his memories were tied to the farm, not things that could be put on a shelf. He fought back tears as he threw together some of his clothes and stuffed them into a sack.

  He opened the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a thick stack of bills tied together with a leather shoelace. It was over eight-hundred-dollars. He shoved it into a pocket and headed back down to the kitchen where Abigail was quickly filling a sack with the squeezed lemon halves.

  Without looking she said, “They’re all headed down the tunnel.” She cinched the sack up and threw it through the pantry down the stairs. “No evidence,” she added, turning to him.

  He nodded his head. “Good thinking.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  Abigail stepped up to him and reached into her apron. She pulled out leather billfold thick with money. “Don’t say a word,” she said as she slipped it into his pocket and led him into the pantry. “Just get them out of here, Billy. No matter what happens. And promise me you won’t come back unless you hear from me.”

  They could hear Anderson’s machines rolling up the road, not more than a quarter mile away.

  Billy gulped. They both knew the horrible risk she was taking. Anderson might not care whether she was innocent or not. He might still want to punish a woman who had freed her own slaves.

  “I promise,” he said as tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “I’ll send a telegram to the Evansville office when it’s safe, and I want you to sink the Freedom once you get there. If men like Anderson got their hands on it, they could use it to terrible purpose. You can always build another.” She smiled weakly and then paused, looking up and searching his eyes. “I never could have done all this without you.” She kissed him once on the cheek and pushed him gently through the door.

  Her eyes never left his as she closed the door.

  Billy turned and walked slowly down the stairs, half of him fighting to rush back and stay with her. But he knew what he had to do.

  Tyrell had left him a single lantern the bottom of the stairs, so he picked it up. Stepping into the tunnel, he looked around, remembering those who had passed through. He could almost hear their voices. He broke into a jog, ducking his head under the low support beams and made his way through the tunnel.

  He came to an open door, the light of a single lantern flickering beyond. He found them all there, huddled in silence as the river lapped up against the hull of the Freedom. There was only a four-foot gap between the outer walls of the boat house and the river, but it was more than they would need.

  Stairs rose to his left, topped by a single door, and he could see torchlight flickering faintly through it. The rumble and screech of Anderson’s machines sounded like they were right on top of him.

  “Kill the lantern,” Billy said. He turned his own down and threw it into the river. Tyrell shut off the other, and it followed the first with a splash.

  “Everything’s onboard, Billy,” Tyrell said. “Where’s Miss Abigail?”

  “She’s not coming,” he replied, his words hollow and faint.

  There were whispers from the dark faces around him.

  Billy looked around at the frightened eyes that dotted the darkness. It was time for The Speech. He paused and gave them a stern look. “Most of you have heard this, but there are a few who haven’t, so I’m going to say it again. You can’t tell anyone about this. Not about Abigail. Not me. Not that boat over there. None of it. You hear me?” His eyes narrowed, and he glared at them.

  They all nodded, their frightened eyes rising and falling in the darkness.

  “One peep,” he continued, “one little whisper, and some of the people that have helped us all could end up at the end of a rope or burned to death in their beds. You take this to your graves!” He locked eyes with each of them, forcing a nod. “Now get on board.”

  In a silent, single file they shuffled across worn boards and onto the rear deck of the Freedom. Her wooden hull rocked slightly, but the long, copper ballast tanks on each side kept her from tipping.

  Billy went to the hatch and helped everyone down a short ladder. Once inside, he closed the hatch. Complete darkness folded in on them. He reached out and grabbed a small coal-miner’s hat from a shelf, fumbled with the latch, and lit it with a match from his pocket. Pale, orange light filled the wooden interior.

  The cabin was twenty-five feet long with support beams crisscrossing every four feet. Wooden benches lined the walls, and his passengers moved to them, sitting down nervously. A thick pedestal bolted to the floor stuck up at the front of the cabin, with a shipman’s wheel attached. A spotter scope dropped down from above, and Billy could change the direction it pointed with a small wheel on top of the pedestal. On each side of the wheel were large hand cranks that controlled ballast pumps. Billy could control everything from there.

  In the middle of the cabin were two sets of pedals that ran air pumps. Hoses ran up through the middle of the ceiling, with one pulling air in and the other pushing it out. The spotter scope and the hoses would be the only things above the water, and at night they were nearly invisible.

  The rear section held the drive mechanism. Billy had scavenged two railway pump cars. A man on each side moved the levers up and down like teeter-totters, which turned the propellers.

  Billy had already shown everyone how to operate machinery, and each person would rotate through thirty-minute shifts while he navigated.

  “You four,” he said, pointing to the men closest to him. “Get on the levers and start pumping. Tyrell, Jacob. You get on those pedals.”

  Everyone took their positions, and with a gentle lurch and a swirl of water along they hull, they set off into the dark Mississippi. Billy quickly turned the ballast valves a few times, and the ship sank several feet beneath the surface with a hiss of air and bubbling water … leaving Abigail’s farm behind.

  They travelled at night, hid during the day, and slowly made their way up stream. There were closeable buckets for when they had to relieve themselves, and these were emptied whenever they surfaced, which was as often as possible.

  Although there was plenty of conversation amongst his passengers, Billy didn’t say a word during the entire voyage. He just kept thinking about Abigail.

  After three days, they reached their landing spot. He’d picked it on his first voyage up river. It was a large oak tree atop a low hill that rose from the bank of the Ohio River. It was easy to pick out, even in moonlight. He pulled the Freedom up as close to shore as he could and then surfaced, overfilling the tanks so the submersible rode high on the dark water.

  “Everyone out,” he s
aid. “Make your way to Evansville and find Doc Horton. He’ll help you get situated.”

  Everyone came to Billy, hugging and thanking him. He took the money Abigail had given him and split it up amongst them all. And when they were all ashore, he let the Freedom drift to the middle of the river. Then he opened the valves a single turn. He was through the hatch and swimming towards the shore when water closed in around the open hatch. The Freedom disappeared beneath the water with a swish and gurgle of bubbling air.

  Billy’s tears disappeared in the water that ran down his face as he climbed out of the river, and then he too set off for Evansville.

  JULY 7TH, 1916

  Grandpa leaned his head back against the tree and took a deep breath.

  “I read about what happened to her a week later,” he said and put his hand on mine. “Bloody Bill Anderson didn’t take prisoners. I knew it. Abigail knew it. But in those last minutes together, we convinced ourselves otherwise.” Grandpa squeezed my hand as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Anderson burned the house down around her.”

  All I could do was listen, and I felt my own eyes watering. I wanted to hug him, make him feel better, but he wasn’t finished.

  “She was my best friend, you see. And I left her behind … because she told me to. And I’ve never forgiven myself for it.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but there was something that didn’t make sense.

  “Grandpa,” I started quietly, “if she died in the fire, why is her grave here?”

  “When the war was over, Tyrell, Jacob and I took a trip.” Grandpa’s voice changed, and I could hear the hate in him welling up. “We went back and found her grave. Her headstone read, ‘Abigail Watson–Traitor to Missouri.’” Grandpa clenched his fists. “We broke the God damn thing apart, dug her out, and moved her here.”

  He was quiet for a while, just staring at the river. Then he sighed, as if the weight of the world had lifted off his shoulders. He opened the picnic basket and pulled out two sandwiches wrapped neatly in butcher paper. Then he pulled out a tall milk bottle filled with pale liquid.