Dying to Decorate

by Cyndy Salzmann

  “Immoral laws cannot be obeyed, Anna,” he said, his voice full of conviction, “and they will not be obeyed by me. If I am arrested for doing my best to obey the teachings of the Bible, then let me go to jail. Our lives are in God’s hands, and I feel I have His approval.”

  “But Papa, the notice said the fugitives had committed terrible crimes and those who helped them would be considered accomplices.”

  “Anna, I suspect the only ‘crime’ these brave souls committed was to escape from the tyranny of an unjust system that has kept them in bondage all of their lives. But, regardless, do you think the Good Samaritan stopped to ask whether the man who fell among the thieves was guilty of any crime before he helped him? If you came across a poor woman who had fallen into a ditch, would you have to be satisfied she was not a criminal before offering your help?”

  “Of course not, Papa, but the risk right now . . .”

  “I cannot—and will not—let fear keep me from doing what I know is right . . . what I have known is right since the time I was a boy.”

  As I blathered on and on like a scared kitten, Papa put down his bundle and motioned for me to sit with him. He paused several minutes before speaking. During the silence, I was quite uncomfortable, anticipating a stern lecture regarding my lack of moral rectitude. Instead, when Papa turned to me, he seemed to be in great turmoil . . .

  “My dear child,” Joseph began, “it has always been my hope and prayer that this day would never come. I do all I can—just as any father would—to shield you from the evil in the world.” He bowed his head. “I see I can no longer do so.”

  Anna sat with rapt attention as her father related an incident he had witnessed as a young man. An incident he firmly believed God used to fire his hatred of slavery.

  “I was still living with my parents in North Carolina. Although I was familiar with slavery, we owned no slaves ourselves and had very little contact with those who did.

  “On this particular day, my father had asked me to deliver some tools in need of repair to the blacksmith shop near our farm. When I reached my destination, I saw that the blacksmith was riveting a chain around the neck and wrists of a slave. All the while the poor man’s master chastised him for running away. Their conversation is as seared in my mind as if the blacksmith had touched me with his poker.

  “‘Didn’t I treat you well?’ asked the slave owner.

  “‘Yes, Massa,’ replied the frightened young man.

  “‘Then what made you run away?’

  “‘My wife and young-uns were taken away from me because you refused to sell me with ’em. I think as much of my family as you do of yours—as any white man does of his. When I saw ’em taken, I had to follow.’

  “Anna, words can’t convey the despair in the man’s voice or how his body trembled. It was enough to melt all but a heart of stone, which is, apparently, what the slave owner’s chest contained.

  “The cruel man totally disregarded this father’s desperate plight and continued to press him to reveal those who had helped him escape the plantation. When the brave young man refused to betray those who had befriended him, the master laid the slave’s shackled hand on the blacksmith’s anvil and struck it with the hammer until blood seeped from the fingernails. The man winced with each cruel blow but remained silent.

  “The slave owner then became enraged with the man’s refusal to speak and ordered the end of the chain, which was riveted to the man’s neck, to be attached to the axle of his buggy. Once this was complete, the owner took off at a fast trot, forcing the slave to run at full speed or be dragged along the ground by his neck.”

  Anna’s father turned to her and added quietly, “I watched them until they disappeared down the road. For as long as I could see, the slave was running.

  “As I stood in the road, a strong hatred for oppression and injustice welled up in me. As a boy I was helpless to intervene in what I knew was a sin against God and humanity. I vowed that when I became a man, I would not sit by idly and allow this evil to destroy our great nation.”

  Joseph took his daughter’s hand and looked straight in her eyes. “Ever since that day, I have thought of that slave. I have prayed he was able to keep running behind that buggy. That he was able to stay alive . . . until someday he could escape and live his life as a freeman, as God intended.”

  Papa and I resumed our work in silence—he firm in his resolve and me distraught over my selfishness. No, there will be no sleep for me tonight.

  “Shall I go on?” Jessie asks. She gently closes the journal on a finger to mark her place.

  But there are no voices—no sound—except for the lonely call of a loon in the distance.

  TOTALLY DECADENT HOT FUDGE SAUCE

  1/3 cup butter

  4 oz. unsweetened chocolate

  2/3 cup boiling water

  2 cups sugar

  1/4 cup corn syrup

  1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla

  Instructions

  1. Melt butter in a 3-quart pan over low heat.

  2. Add chocolate; stirring, until melted.

  3. Stir in water, sugar, and corn syrup.

  4. Bring to a boil over medium heat and cook without stirring until sauce is thickened and glossy, about 7–8 minutes.

  5. Stir in vanilla.

  For what seems like a long time, none of us on that front porch in Tredway speak. Each woman is apparently lost in her own thoughts. Just listening to Anna’s account of man’s inhumanity to a fellow human being is disturbing. Not just on the surface, but way down deep. Much like reading a news story about a gruesome murder and finding out it happened on the next block.

  I also wonder if a part of my discomfort stems not just from the slave owner’s behavior, but my own if I were to witness a similar scene. Joseph Simmons showed tremendous courage, never wavering from the course he knew was right. He backed up his words with action.

  Would I, Elizabeth Harris—a woman who often has trouble even standing up for her political beliefs—do the same in the face of such danger? Would I be willing to risk everything to help people I didn’t know and would likely never see again? All because it’s the right thing to do?

  Evidently I’m not the only one thinking this way.

  “Joseph Simmons really bucked the system,” Kelly says. “Opening his home to all those fugitives could have gotten him in big trouble.”

  “Maybe it did,” I add. “We don’t know the end of the story yet.”

  “I can imagine making some quilts, like Anna did, to keep the runaway slaves warm. Or feeding them dinner, as Anna’s mother did,” Mary Alice murmurs. “But would I do more?” She focuses on her hands, clasped in her lap. “I’m not sure I could dare take the risk. Especially if it meant my family might get hurt . . .”

  “Or you might end up in jail,” Kelly states.

  “It would take a lot of guts,” I admit. “No wonder Anna was scared. I’d be scared, too—for myself and my family.”

  “Just think how frightened the slaves were. Separated from their families. Treated more like animals than human beings.” Jessie pauses. “Actually treated worse than animals, like that young slave who had to endure so much.”

  Lucy’s eyes look sad and misty. “How could someone be so cruel?”

  Marina flexes her fists. “I’d want a few words alone with that slave owner. Some fightin’ words. The kind of guy I’d like to knock into tomorrow.”

  “All that poor man wanted was to be with his family,” Lucy continues. She takes a shaky breath. “Don’t we all want the same thing? To be with the ones we love?”

  Again, quiet descends.

  I think of Lucy, who has recently lost two of the people she loved the most. Of Marina, who never planned on divorce . . . or being a single mom. Of the young slave and his family, who were separated by the cruelty of a slave owner and the unjust “law of the land.”

  Then I think of how much I have, and I’m ashamed of ever complaining.

  Marina finally breaks o
ur heavy silence. “I feel like the kid who didn’t study for the history test, but I’ve never heard of the Fugitive Slave Act. I thought Nebraska was a free state.”

  “Jess,” says Kelly. “What’d this law have to do with Nebraska? You have a library of history texts at home.”

  “Hey, kiddo, I have menopause knocking at my door. Just wait and see what it does to your short-term memory.”

  “Stop it, Jess,” I plead. “I get a hot flash just thinking about menopause. And I’m wearing a turtleneck today.”

  “Lizzie, you are way too young to be worried about menopause,” says Lucy.

  “Maybe, but I’m very susceptible to suggestion.”

  Jessie chuckles. “You’re a stitch, Liz! Seriously, all I know about the Fugitive Slave Law is that it was designed to prevent abolitionists from helping slaves who had run away from their owners. I don’t remember the particulars.”

  “Wait one minute!” All of a sudden Mary Alice pops up from her chair and hurries into the house.

  “Where do you think she’s going?” asks Kelly.

  “Beats me,” I say, “but please pass that hot fudge sauce Janelle left with her dessert. I hear chocolate prevents hot flashes.”

  Face flushed, Mary Alice rejoins us on the porch. Clearly she’s excited about something. “Craig gave me this new cell phone for my birthday. It connects to the Internet.”

  Lucy shakes her head. “Now I really feel out of touch. I never knew such a thing existed.”

  “Me neither, until I got it. You know how Craig loves gadgets. I hate to admit it, but I thought he bought the phone more for him than me.”

  “Typical,” says Marina. “One time Bobby bought me a year’s subscription to satellite TV for Christmas. It had sixty-four sports channels.”

  “Actually, Craig must know me better than I know myself because now that I know how to use it, I’m addicted. It’s so convenient.”

  “For what?” says Kelly. “Why would you need to surf the Net in your car?”

  “I’ve used it to look up movie times, restaurant hours—even our bank balance. And one time I downloaded a map to Claire’s soccer game when I couldn’t find the field.”

  “Now that would be handy. Unlike Kelly, who has a natural sense of direction”—I look at her and grin—“I am always getting lost.”

  “Very funny,” says Kelly. “Maybe there’s a spot for you on Last Comic Standing after all.”

  “Play nice, girls,” Jess warns.

  “So, M.A., show me how this thing works.” Marina moves closer to look over her shoulder.

  “See? I used the keypad to type in Fugitive Slave Act. Now I just hit Send. The phone connects to the Internet and runs a search.”

  “Phat,” says Marina.

  “Phat?” I ask. “Rina, did you say phat?”

  “Liz, phat means—”

  “I know what it means. My kids told me that phat means ‘cool,’ not ‘fat.’ But I still can’t help looking at my thighs every time I hear it. I vote to add it to the list of words banned from FAC conversation.”

  “Only if we can also ban ‘low carb.’”

  “Deal,” I say.

  Marina and I shake hands to seal our agreement.

  “Here it is . . . the top-five matches,” Mary Alice reports. “Now I just select the one I want to pull up.”

  “Let me see.” Kelly cranes her neck, apparently changing her mind about the usefulness of Mary Alice’s high-tech phone.

  “Technology is amazing,” says Jess. “I just wish it came as easily to me as it does to my kids.”

  “Here we go,” Mary Alice adds. “I have an article about the Fugitive Slave Act from a U.S. history site.”

  “What does it say?” I ask. “Can you read it to us?”

  “Well, it looks like the law was passed in 1850 in return for Southern support of California’s admission to the Union as a free state. And you were right, Jessie, the law was designed to help slave owners protect their property.”

  “It is so sad to hear people referred to as property,” says Jess.

  “I know what you mean,” Marina chimes in. “One of my elementary-school field trips was to the old courthouse in St. Louis where the Dred Scottcase was argued.”

  “The case sounds familiar but help me out,” I ask.

  “From what I remember, Dred Scott was a slave who sued for his and his wife’s freedom after their owner died. The Supreme Court ended up ruling that black people could never be citizens and had no right to sue.”

  “The Court also said Congress couldn’t pass a law to outlaw slavery,” says Jess.

  “You’re kidding? That came from the U.S. Supreme Court?” Kelly’s tapping her toe again.

  “Makes you understand how Roe v. Wade came about,” adds Jess, shaking her head.

  “Does it say how the law was enforced, M.A.?” asks Marina.

  “Let me scroll down. Here it is. I’ll read it. ‘The new law created a force of federal commissioners who were empowered to pursue fugitive slaves in any state and return them to their owners. These slave catchers, as they were called, received ten dollars for each man, woman, or child they seized. No statute of limitations applied—therefore slaves who had been free for many years could be returned.’”

  “That’s heartbreaking,” Lucy declares. “Just think how many families must have been torn apart.”

  “It says here that the commissioners could force local citizens to help them apprehend runaways. And if a person refused, they were arrested and fined.”

  “So if you were arrested for not helping to hunt down a runaway slave,” says Marina, “what was the penalty?”

  “Pretty stiff, if this article is right,” Mary Alice explains. “It says the fine could be as high as a thousand dollars, along with six months in jail.”

  “I understand now why Anna kept her diary hidden, even when the Civil War was over,” says Lucy. “Even after slavery was abolished, there were probably some people who would not have agreed with their decision to participate in the Underground Railroad.”

  Jess turns to the next page of the journal. “From what we’ve seen so far, her entries aren’t very regular. The next one is almost four months later . . .”

  GRIDDLECAKES

  2 cups cornmeal

  1 teaspoon salt

  2 tablespoons sugar

  2 cups boiling water

  1 cup milk

  Instructions

  1. In a pan, mix cornmeal, salt, and sugar.

  2. Stir in boiling water and milk.

  3. Drop 1/4 cup batter on hot, well-greased griddle. Cook on both sides until golden brown.

  August 10, 1862

  There was a soft knock in the middle of the night, which usually means an unexpected stop. I’ve come to recognize Papa’s step as he hurries down the stairs to open the door . . .

  The largest man Anna had ever seen was warming himself before the stove in the Simmons’ kitchen. Even without his battered brown hat, he was almost a full head taller than her father—a man of significant height himself. His chest reminded her of a large barrel. His legs were like tree trunks.

  Anna was so shocked at the sight that she was tempted to tiptoe back to her bedroom and fasten the latch on the door. She held her breath when the big man turned to face her, and her heart pounded in fear.

  Then she saw his eyes—dark eyes full of kindness. His wide smile immediately dissolved her worries.

  “Anna, I’d like you to meet our guest,” Joseph said. “This is Mr. Miller. He goes by the name of Big Henry.”

  “Hello, Mr. Miller.” Anna smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet y’all too, missy,” said the man with a twinkle in his eyes. “But I’d shore feel better if y’all called me Big Henry.”

  “Thank you very much. I’ll do that, Big Henry.”

  She grinned at him, and he grinned back, showing broad, white teeth that glistened even in the dim light of the kitchen.

 
“Anna, your mother is not feeling well,” said Joseph. “Would you mind preparing some breakfast for our guest? He’s come a long way, and I suspect he is quite hungry.”

  “Yes, Papa. Right away.”

  “That’s mighty kind, missy,” said Big Henry. Still gripping his hat in his hand, he nodded politely. “Thank you.”

  Anna set about putting together a hearty meal—all the time wondering how much food such a large man might eat. She mixed a double batch of griddle cakes and put a slab of salt pork on to fry. As she tended the skillet, Big Henry and her father continued to talk in hushed tones.

  “We hadn’t received word that you might be arriving, Henry,” Joseph explained. “How did you know it was safe to stop here?”

  “A fella I met down in Kansas Territory told me to look for the house on the hill. He said it safe if I see the quilt like the one he showed me hangin’ on the line in back. I was a happy man to see that quilt!”

  “Where did you come from, Henry?”

  “Texas, suh. I run cattle for Ol’ Massa since I was a young-un. Before I was even born, my folks come to Texas with Ol’ Massa from Missouri—’round a town called Potosi. He came out wid Mister Stephen Austin to settle the Texas territory. My pappy fought right ’longside Ol’ Austin in the war for independence.

  “Las’ year my folks took sick and passed on. Ol’ Massa promised them he would set me free ’fore he died. After we bury my folks, he say to me, ‘Well, here’s your papers, Henry. You might as well go on now as later.’ That’s one thing ’bout Ol’ Massa—he a man of his word.”

  “So you are a free man, Henry?” asked Joseph. “You have documents to prove this?”

  “Yes, suh. They right here. Next to my heart.” He patted his chest.

  “Make sure you hang on to those papers,” Joseph warned. “There are many unscrupulous people who would jump at the chance to try to sell you back into slavery.”

  “Don’ I know it, suh.”

  “How did you make your way all the way to Nebraska?”