by Sarah McCoy
“Ham? We got a smoked rump in the cellar already, don’t we?”
They did, but she wasn’t in the mood to be reminded.
“One isn’t enough for six mouths,” she snapped.
Matthew set down his halter. The metal bindings made a quiet click on the table.
“You’re right.”
He sat, waiting. They’d spent too many years together. He knew her well.
“I met John Blythe’s wife today.” She pulled the butcher paper off the ham. “A fine match for him. Bright, cheerful, beautiful, and young.” She scored the ham flesh over and over into a neat hatch pattern for the dressing.
Matthew said nothing. When she turned back from fetching the brown sugar and vinegar from the pantry, he’d left.
In the parlor, Abraham and Al played the quietest game of checkers she’d ever seen.
“Where’d everyone go?” she asked.
“Miss Izzy and Pa Meachum went on an errand,” said Abraham.
“Told us to stay right here and not make a sound,” added Al.
It was unnerving to see two boys so still.
“Ever trussed up a New Year’s ham before?”
They shook their heads.
“Come on then, leave those checkers. Win or lose, everybody’s got to eat.”
XXXIII.
Fugitive Slave Hunt
A week later, Marilla sat knitting by the fire. Her eyes ached her. She rubbed them to regain focus, but her vision remained soft and smudged like butter on a knife edge. She thought about having Dr. Spencer give her a tonic to help. Rachel had said something about an elixir of ginkgo and bilberry that eased Mrs. White’s cataracts.
The parlor was dim. She hadn’t the energy to light the lanterns, so she and Matthew huddled by the fire, as close to it as they could get without scorching. Izzy and Mr. Meachum joined them after putting the boys to bed. Marilla thought it endearing how Izzy doted on Abraham and Al as if they were her own. Each night she and Mr. Meachum tucked the boys under their pallet covers and said a prayer with them before sleep. Part of Marilla envied the intimacy of that ordinary tending.
“Marilla, Matthew, we have news,” said Izzy.
Matthew put down his Harper’s Weekly and Marilla her knitting.
“We’ve heard from our Underground Railroad contact in Charlottetown. He’s agreed to make free papers for the boys. He has a route mapped out from Prince Edward Island to Newfoundland. There’s a couple there who’ve offered to take the boys for as long as needed. Until Mr. Meachum can reunite them with his daughter, of course.”
“If they can be reunited.” Mr. Meachum didn’t flinch when he said it, though the rest of them did. “I’m not purblind to the reality of our situation. No one has heard from my daughter in South Carolina since she dispatched the boys. Slave masters don’t deal kindly with having their property disappear. An ad has already been placed for Abraham and Albert’s return—at a significant bounty too.”
He looked away to the fire, crackling and spitting at the log. Izzy took his hand. Her eyes glinted worry.
“The farther north the boys go, the safer they are from being found,” he continued. “We’ve got to move them. We can’t stay hidden at Green Gables much longer. Visiting relations over the holidays is one thing, but folks will start suspecting soon. We’ve got to get the boys to Newfoundland and then return to St. Catharines.”
“From St. Catharines, we can do our best to prevent the fugitive-slave hunters from following the trail,” said Izzy.
Marilla understood. She hated to think of them leaving, but it was the only way to ensure the boys’ protection. Prince Edward Island was too close to the mainland. It was only a matter of time.
“What can we do to help?”
“We must get papers in Charlottetown first. Then go to the coast. There’s a safe house there with a boat ready to sail for Port aux Basques.”
“I’ll drive you,” said Matthew. “No one would think twice about me and Aunt Izzy with Mr. Meachum accompanying us. But you two alone . . . people would talk.”
Mr. Meachum nodded. “True.”
“It’s a full day and night to Charlottetown and back,” said Marilla. “With the livestock bedded down in the barn, there are only the indoor chores to be done. Abraham and Al can help me.”
“Thank you.” Izzy gave Marilla’s hand a warm squeeze. “So we leave at first light.”
All in agreement, they said their good-nights and went to bed, anxiety gnawing on the hems of their dreams.
Marilla was up well before sunrise, wrapping oatcakes and cold bacon in knapsacks. Matthew finished his coffee in three gulps and was out the door preparing the horse and wagon. He thought it best if they took theirs so that Izzy’s charge would be rested for the journey to the coast. They left at dawn.
The boys hardly made a peep at breakfast. Abraham forced down a bite of hotcake, while Al forked his over and over until it looked like a tilled field.
“I don’t blame you for not being hungry,” consoled Marilla. “But no matter what, you’ve got to face the day. Air to breathe, ground to walk, chores to do. You need sustenance for that.”
She drizzled maple syrup over the cakes, and before she’d returned from the pantry, their plates were clean.
“That’s the way, lads. Everything looks better with a full stomach.”
They helped her do the dishes, and afterward they went to the barn for the morning milking and feedings, mucking the stalls, and refilling the animals’ water buckets. The boys had quiet, peaceable spirits—eager to lend a hand where they could, without dawdling off to daydream as children were wont to do. At ten and seven years old, it was as if they were grown-up men in boy disguises. Marilla admired them while simultaneously grieving for their abridged childhoods. Losing a mother irreparably aged a person, she knew, but she’d never feared someone would come to take her life too. That kind of ceaseless terror was unimaginable at any age. Yet these two bore it as nobly as princes. It softened her toward them, and for the first time she felt the bud of something she could only assume was a kind of mothering.
“Bonny-D favors you both,” she complimented them. “She never gives me or Matthew this much milk on the day to day.”
By noon, the boys proudly stood in the kitchen with the pail full of milk, the firebox restocked, half a dozen eggs collected from the henhouse, and their Christmas mittens drying by the stove.
“I know Matthew introduced you to the simple goodness of Bonny-D, but when hard work earns extra measure, I like to add a bit of cocoa and sugar. Keen on a taste?”
Al’s expression broke into a smile. “Yes’m! That’s how our momma makes it when Missus gives her a special chocolate. She boil it down in milk for us.”
“I told you not to talk about Momma!” Abraham hissed.
Al nearly came to tears. His bottom lip stuck out so far, Marilla was afraid he might’ve swallowed the top.
“Now, now,” she put her arms around the brothers so that they were three in a circle. “Why can’t Al talk about his mother? She was a good woman, and she done right by sending you boys to your Pa Meachum. You should tell each other happy memories of her. That keeps a person with you no matter how far away or how long it’s been since you saw each other. Not even the grave can take that from you. I know. My mother’s been gone since I was a little older than you, Abraham.”
She didn’t know how she’d come to say so much—like a honeycomb, once pressed, she couldn’t stop the flow.
Abraham’s eyes widened, tearful. “Your momma’s gone to Glory?”
Seeing his emotion brought out her own. She had to gulp hard to keep it in place. “Yes.”
It stuck her like a pin: the hypocrisy of what she’d just said and what she didn’t do. Matthew and she never spoke of Clara, and hardly of Hugh since his passing. She suddenly wished Matthew were there so they could.
“Do you miss your momma?” asked Al. A tear wormed down his cheek.
Marilla cupped his face between her palm
s. “Every bit as much as you miss yours.”
She came close to kissing his forehead but restrained herself and wiped his tear away with her thumb instead.
“Now, how about you two play checkers while I simmer the milk and cocoa.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they said and went to the parlor without making another sound.
Darkness came on too early in winter. She’d barely ladled the hot cocoa into cups when her eyes began to smart for squinting. Probably best. Night was a comfort when one wanted to remain hidden. She hoped Izzy and Mr. Meachum had accomplished their mission and were resting comfortably under the roof of the Charlottetown Inn. They’d be back soon enough, repacking their wagon and heading north. Then her Gables would be emptied.
In just a short time, she’d grown used to having them all there. It was hard to imagine the house without them. But tomorrow was a new day, with no memory or sentiments of yesterday. How wonderful, she thought. How tragic.
She lit a lantern and put it on the tray with their drinks.
“Here we are.” She set the tray on the parlor table beside the checkerboard.
Just as each boy was taking a cup, there came a distant thudding. Horses. Riding toward them at a pace.
The boys heard it too, and their eyes looked to her wide.
“Go!” Marilla directed. “Into the West Gable sewing room. There’s a black horsehair trunk with brass nails for fabric bolts. Get inside and cover yourselves. Don’t come out no matter what you hear.”
Their cups sloshed over as they fled.
Marilla was glad she’d only lit the one lantern light, and now she blew it out. She went to the parlor window and willed her eyes to see as best they could: a line of black bees winged their way closer and closer; giant locusts set upon the Gables. All she could do was wait as calmly as possible. Her mind raced. Her heart pounded. Fear hammered her skull. Do what you would on any given night. Do what you would alone, she told herself. Quickly, she went to the kitchen, refilled the pot with water, carrot, turnip, onion, and set it on the stove. She picked up her knitting and held it in her lap for what felt like an eternal purgatory. And still she jumped at the bang on the front door.
“Who’s there?” she said loud enough for the boys to hear upstairs. “Just a moment!”
She put down her needles and slowly, calmly unbolted the front door.
The men did not surge inside as she’d anticipated. A foursome stood across the front lawn with rifles in hand and horses flicking dark manes. The leader greeted her on the porch.
“Good evening, are you Mrs. Cuthbert?”
“Miss Cuthbert,” she corrected and raised herself high to conceal her shaking knees. “And who are you coming onto my property in the dark like this?”
“Miss Cuthbert, I am Mr. Rufus Mitchell of the Runaway Slave Patrol.” He flashed a metal badge pinned lopsided to his vest.
Marilla squinted. “Never heard of you.”
He laughed a sharp, tinny sound that reminded her of a plow blade hitting bedrock.
“Pardon me,” he bowed. “Of course you haven’t. Never been to this part of Canada. An island is an unusual place for Negroes to be congregating, don’t you think?”
“Not so unusual,” she dared. “Nova Scotia has many. Whole families. We have some working on Prince Edward Island.”
“So you do have Negroes around.” He raised an eyebrow high. “Any staying with you here?”
She held her tongue a beat, not knowing how much to say. Only Rachel and Robert had seen the boys. The rest of the town was of the mind that Izzy was visiting with her butler Mr. Meachum, a free servant traveling with her of his own accord.
Mitchell took her pause as an indictment. He stepped forward. “You wouldn’t mind if we take a look. Nothing to hide, right?”
His companions came up the steps behind him.
Marilla barred the door with her arm. “You have no right.”
“Property laws say otherwise.”
“This is my property, and I object.”
“If our employer’s slave property be within, then I must insist.”
He pushed past her into the house.
She pulled at her collar. “For the sake of propriety then—if you do believe that there is anyone fitting your description here. I live with my brother, Mr. Matthew Cuthbert, and he is away. It would be indecent for an unmarried woman such as myself to have men in the house. I’m told the people of the South have the utmost honor. Are you the outlier, sir?”
Mitchell put both hands up innocently, though she saw the bulge of his gun against his side. “I’m not going to lay a finger on you, Miss Cuthbert. You have my word as a gentleman of the Confederate States of America.”
“What country is that?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of it either.”
“Oh, you will,” said Mitchell. “You surely will.”
His guardsmen entered. Snow-muddied boots clomped across her floors. One of them went to the parlor, pushing past the Christmas tree. Needles fell to the ground. The other three men went into the kitchen, Matthew’s bedroom, and the barn beyond. Marilla had to keep them from going upstairs. The man in the parlor picked up her father’s Bible, flipped the pages as if looking for hidden messages. She hated his impertinence—and his filthy hands on her private things.
“‘Lying lips are abomination to the Lord,’” he sneered at her. “Proverbs 12.”
The truth will make you free, she thought, but how? Then it came to her.
“Mr. Mitchell, please.” She took the Bible from the guard and gestured to the mess on the floor. “I would appreciate if your men respected my home. If you would simply ask if I’ve had any slaves under my roof, I would tell you truthfully.”
Mitchell sucked his teeth, then gave the signal for his man to move aside.
“All right, Miss Cuthbert. I’ll give you one chance to tell me the truth.”
She forced herself to take two steps toward him so that she could see every hair of his beard. “I’ve provided accommodations for my aunt’s butler, a free black man with papers. She was here for the holidays. They’ve gone to Charlottetown on an errand. That’s where my brother is too.”
The men came from the kitchen. “All clear. Want us to go upstairs and look?”
Mitchell stared hard at Marilla. She held her breath to keep from trembling. “Mr. Mitchell, I cannot abide . . .”
“I take you for an honest woman, Miss Cuthbert. I do indeed.”
He set his hands casually on the back of Matthew’s sitting chair, and she’d never been gladder for an antimacassar.
“Do you swear to me that there is no reason we need look through your bedrooms?”
She met his gaze with narrowed determination. “Absolutely none.”
He turned to his men. “See anything suspect?”
They shook their heads. “Just supper on the stove,” said one, and the other smacked his lips.
Mitchell gave a wolf grin. “Well then, I suppose we’d best be on our way to Charlottetown. But before we go, my men have traveled a great distance and would be much obliged for a little Christian charity from your stewpot.”
Marilla had no desire to host these men, but if that’s what it took to make them leave . . . “Certainly. Take all I have. As you see, I am alone. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”
With that, she marched into the kitchen. Vegetable broth was hardly a meal, but they could have the soup and the pot so long as they got out of Green Gables. She put a towel around the wire handle, prepared to pick up the whole thing, when Mitchell said loudly:
“I love checkers. Who’re you playing with, Miss Cuthbert? I see you’ve got three mugs of cocoa too.”
The room bucked, then spun like a coin flipped head over tail.
“That was earlier today.” Her voice was pitchy. She cleared her throat, but the tightness remained. “I was playing with . . . with . . .”
She heard their boots moving toward the stairwell.
“No!” Sh
e dropped the pot, but before she could start back down the hall, the front door opened in a bluster of cold and moonlight.
XXXIV.
A Friend Closer Than a Brother
John. Once again, and always, he was there. Marilla had never been happier to see anyone in her life. He held a rifle, cocked and loaded, under his arm.
“Sirs, may I ask your business with Miss Cuthbert?”
The bounty hunter by Mitchell’s side took a hostile step forward and the others gathered behind him, but Mitchell put out a firm hand. None of the men had their guns ready, giving John the advantage. Despite being outnumbered, he would get at least one lethal shot before they had the chance to return fire.
“Let’s all calm down,” said Mitchell. “We don’t want trouble with you, sir.”
“Your actions speak to the alternative.” John pointed his gun squarely at Mitchell’s chest. “You obviously aren’t from around here, so perhaps you aren’t aware. Trespassing at night is a violation of our criminal code. I have every right to shoot you and your men for no more reason than where you stand.”
“Well now, are you Mr. Cuthbert? Because if not, then from where I stand, this is not your property, so shooting us would be a kind of murder.”
“Not if Miss Cuthbert gives me her permission.”
“I do.” Marilla didn’t wait a beat.
Mitchell put up his hands again, higher.
“We apologize for inconveniencing Miss Cuthbert. We’re only here looking for fugitive slaves on behalf of Mr. Laurens of Cottage Point Plantation in South Carolina. We’re simple men upholding the law, just as you are.”
“I told you, there’s no one here but me,” said Marilla.
“You heard her.” John nodded the rifle. “It’s time you take your leave of Green Gables—and Avonlea.”
Mitchell tugged the brim of his hat respectfully. “Well then, we best be on our way to Charlottetown, where Miss Cuthbert says her aunt has gone. See if her slave has any information to share.”
“He’s a free man—her shop assistant and butler,” corrected Marilla.
Mitchell smirked. “Black is black, Miss Cuthbert. No paper can change that.”