“I jus’ followed the drinkin’ gourd north. I walked at night so as not to cross any patty rollers who be lookin’ for slaves that run away.”
Anna heard her father’s sharp intake of breath. “Henry, are you telling me that you walked here all the way from Texas by yourself?”
“Yes, suh. My pappy always say, soon as I get my papers, to go north to the promised land. He say Ol’ Massa better ’n most to his slaves . . . but a man got to be free.”
“I can certainly understand that, Henry. I am convinced the desire for freedom was planted in all men by our Creator.”
“When I be runnin’ cattle and sleepin’ under the stars, I’d look up and think what it would be like to be free. I jus’ couldn’t get it out of my mind. No matter what people say, there no future for a slave.”
Anna could hear the sadness in the man’s words. She wondered if it was sadness for himself . . . or for those he had left behind . . . or maybe both.
“Well, Henry, you are no longer a slave. And your future is yours to do with as you see fit,” Joseph declared. “Do you plan to go on to Canada?”
“Well, suh, I been ponderin’ that. I’d like to go out West to see if I can get some work runnin’ cattle. Maybe get some stock of my own. I’m pretty good with a horse and a rope—and I don’ mind sleepin’ under the stars. It helps a man remember the one that made him.”
Joseph nodded. “You’re right there.”
“That’s what I’d like to do. But lately I been thinkin’ I might join up with the Yanks. I wanna have my own family someday, and I want my young-uns to know their pappy fought for freedom.”
“Henry, I admire your courage,” Joseph said slowly.
Anna could hear the hesitation in her father’s voice.
“But you know there’s a good chance you will be captured—or even die—if you choose this course,” Joseph continued. “You’ve just tasted freedom. Are you sure you want to put it in jeopardy?”
“Well suh, that’s what I’ve been ponderin’. What if all the Yanks . . . or old Mr. Lincoln . . . say it not worth riskin’ their lives to stand up against the slave states that wants to keep things the way they is? Where would that leave me? Yep, I been thinkin’ theys some things worth fightin’ for.”
The kitchen was silent as I served breakfast to Papa and Big Henry at our long table. It seemed both men were lost in their own thoughts. And so was I. For the first time since we moved to the Nebraska Territory and started working with the Underground Railroad, I am beginning to truly understand what freedom means—and that keeping it has a cost.
“Lofty thoughts for a teenager,” says Lucy.
Jess nods. “It’s so easy to take freedom for granted when you’re born with it. Anna saw that it isn’t always a given.”
“Makes you think, doesn’t it?” adds Marina.
“I hate to change the subject, but now I feel like the one who didn’t study for the history test,” I apologize. “What’s all this about following the drinking gourd?”
“I know this one,” answers Jess. “The drinking gourd refers to the Big Dipper, which contains the North Star. Fugitive slaves used the star to keep them on the right course—going north.”
“I was really interested in Anna’s mention of a quilt used as a signal that it was safe to stop,” says Lucy. “I remember seeing an episode of Antiques Roadshow that explained how different quilt patterns were used to communicate.”
“I saw that same show,” adds Mary Alice excitedly.
Marina rolls her eyes. “Figures.”
“Quiet,” I whisper, elbowing her playfully.
“Anyway,” continues Mary Alice, “the log-cabin pattern meant it was safe to stop. Whereas the bear-track pattern meant a runaway slave should hide in the woods and stay off the main road.”
“I wonder if any of those old quilts are left,” Jess muses.
“We should check the attic,” Lucy suggests.
“Maybe later,” Kelly insists, “but I’d like to find out what Big Henry decided to do. Keep reading, Jess.”
EMILY’S POTATO PUDDING
3 large potatoes, peeled
3 eggs, separated
1 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup cream
Sweetened berries, if desired, to serve with dish
Instructions
1. Boil, mash, and cool potatoes. Mix with egg yolks.
2. Beat egg whites and sugar until soft peaks form. Add this to potato mixture with flour, salt, and cream.
3. Bake at 350 degrees in a buttered 9x9-inch dish until firm, about 45–60 minutes.
September 10, 1862
Papa and Big Henry left today to enlist with Mr. Lincoln’s Union forces. I am trying to be brave, but my deepest struggle is with bitterness. How could Papa leave Mother and me unprotected? Granted, before leaving, he took our good friends, the Olsens, into confidence regarding our work as a station on the Underground Railroad, as well as arranging for Matthew Olsen to live in the old cabin to help with the farm work. But he is just a boy—and an extremely shy one at that. About the only time he utters a word is to ask for a second helping of Mother’s potato pudding. Papa says the war will be over soon. I am already counting the days until he returns!
Kelly tucks her feet underneath her and scoots around until she’s more comfortable. “Once again, typical teenager. One minute spouting lofty ideals. The next minute ‘It’s all about me.’ Not a thought about how difficult it must have been for Joseph to make this decision.”
“Or that he may not come back at all,” I add.
“With Joseph gone, I’m wondering about their work with the Underground Railroad,” says Lucy. “If they were living alone, with only a boy to help out, it would be too dangerous to continue, don’t you think?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Jess turns the page . . .
EMILY’S CHICKEN AND DUMPLINGS
3 lb. chicken
1 medium onion, peeled and quartered
3–4 ribs of celery, cut in chunks
3 carrots, peeled and cut in chunks
1 sprig of fresh thyme
6 peppercorns
2 cups all-purpose flour
2/3 cup milk
Instructions
1. Place chicken in a 12-quart stockpot.
2. Add onion, celery, carrots, parsley, thyme, peppercorns, and enough cold water to cover chicken. Simmer about 45 minutes or until chicken is falling off bones.
3. Remove chicken and debone when cool.
4. Strain stock and adjust seasoning.
5. To make dumplings: mix flour with milk to form a dough. Do not overmix.
6. Drop dumplings into boiling chicken stock with spoon. Bring stock back to a boil, stirring often so dumplings don’t stick together.
7. Cook 15 minutes until dumplings are done.
8. Return chicken to pot and serve.
November 3, 1862
Iam so tired that my bones actually ache. We have had a steady stream of visitors all week. Thankfully, the Olsens have lessened the burden by taking in some of the fugitives. And Mrs. Olsen and her daughters are swift with a needle and thread. A true blessing, since most of the fugitives have arrived in rags—totally insufficient to continue on their journey north . . .
Anna’s breath curled in little puffs in front of her face as she made her way to the smokehouse in the early morning light.
The Bible says that man cannot live on bread alone, she thought, but even that sounds better than the squirrel and venison Mother has cooked for the last month. Anna was grateful for the game Matthew brought back from his hunting trips—for they would starve without it. Nevertheless, how she longed for a pot of Mother’s chicken and dumplings!
Once in the smokehouse, Anna pulled a stool across the floor so she could cut down the sack of meat hanging from the ceiling. This was their last ham. Mother had been saving it for when Papa and Big Henry came ho
me on a furlough at Christmas. But both Anna’s and her mother’s hearts had broken at the sight of the starving family that had arrived on their doorstep early that morning.
The young mother and her two children had been traveling with their owners across Missouri to join the Oregon Trail. A Confederate sympathizer, the farmer suffered great losses as a result of the war and thought he might have better luck starting over out West.
With food in short supply, the mother overheard the owner telling his wife it would be more expedient to leave the slave children to fend for themselves. The young mother pleaded with her master not to leave her children in the wilderness, but the cruel man refused to relent. Taking note of the young mother’s distress, and fearing she might attempt to flee with her children, he chained her wrist to the covered wagon after setting up camp for the evening.
While the slave owner and his family slept, the young woman was able to work the hasp of the chain from the wagon and flee with her children.
That very morning, Anna’s mother had discovered the terrified family hiding in their barn—the heavy chains still hanging from the young mother’s wrist. As Locust Hill became known among conductors as a station on the Underground Railroad, discovering a group of fugitives who had stopped unexpectedly had become a common occurrence.
At first Anna had been surprised by her mother’s determination to continue participation in the Railroad while her father was away at war.
“Mother,” she had said, “surely Papa would not approve of continuing to accept visitors while he is away.” Seeing her mother’s determined expression, she had added, “But perhaps we can help another way by providing clothing and other necessities.”
“Anna, although we didn’t speak of it, I am quite certain your father would prefer I not harbor fugitives at Locust Hill in his absence. However, child, I also know your father would realize this is a matter of conscience and would not deem to dictate mine.”
“But Mother—,” Anna had begun to argue.
“I have prayed much about this, child,” Emily said, “seeking to balance my responsibility as parent and citizen. But the Lord keeps drawing me back to the book of Deuteronomy, which says, ‘Thou shalt not deliver unto his master the servant which is escaped from His master unto thee.’ The Good Lord is plain in His teaching—and I cannot turn my back on it.”
Anna knew from experience that it was useless to argue with her mother. Once Emily Simmons made a decision, there was no turning back.
So on this chilly morning, as she walked back to the house carrying their last ham, Anna remembered her mother’s words and the fierce determination that backed them up—and steeled herself for another long, hard day.
Mother is hopeful a conductor will stop in the next day or so to escort the young family on its way to safety. I will include this request in my bedtime prayers, for now I am ready for some much-needed sleep.
“OK, now I feel guilty for criticizing Anna for complaining,” says Kelly. “The poor kid has had to handle more in her young life than most people face in a lifetime.”
“I find it hard to believe they actually continued operating a station on the Railroad,” says Lucy. “They had to be scared to death.”
Marina snorts. “These two chicks put any cop I know to shame. Keep reading, Jess.”
November 4, 1862
Although quite exciting, today was a day I’d rather not repeat . . .
Anna woke to her mother’s urgent whisper.
“Get up, child! We’ve got to hide our guests! Hurry!”
The sound of barking dogs and approaching hoofbeats jerked the young woman from her pleasant dreams to the reality of their present danger. Knowing instinctively there was no time to dress, she leapt from her warm bed in almost a single motion, grabbed her shawl from the peg, and ran to the kitchen.
Before the dying embers of the hearth, Anna saw the three slaves huddled together, rusty manacles still circling their wrists. Anna and Emily had tried for several hours to remove the primitive apparatus—with no success. In spite of the heavy chains, the young mother wrapped her thin arms around the children protectively. The six-year-old looked around the room with wide eyes as her younger brother began to whimper.
“Shush, Billy!” hissed the little girl. “We’ll be all right if you just hush up! Ain’t that right, Mama?”
In response, the mother gently ran a hand over the girl’s braids and whispered to the toddler, “Hush now, baby. You stay close to Mama.”
Working in the faint light, Emily yanked the few baskets and pieces of crockery from the cupboard shelves and struggled with the concealed latch. “There it is!” she exclaimed softly as the mechanism popped open. “Anna, help me with the door.”
Through the wavy glass of the window, Anna could see the flicker of torches moving across the prairie as she and her mother managed to open the creaking cabinet.
At Anna’s direction the young mother herded her children through the opening behind the cupboard and then disappeared into the dark space herself.
“Remember, not a sound,” warned Emily, putting a finger to her lips. “Your lives depend on it!”
“Mother, what about a candle? It’s so dark in there. The children—,” Anna began.
“There’s no time,” her mother replied, closing the secret panel. “Quick now! Put the dishes back into place while I fetch my nightcap. After all,” she said, with a slight drawl and a coy smile, “we have to look like frightened gentlewomen—clearly unaccustomed to disturbances at this hour.”
“I won’t be acting, Mother. I’m shaking like a leaf!”
As Anna put the last dish on the shelf, Emily returned to the kitchen. Anna heard the coarse voices of several men dismounting from their horses. In a moment, they would be at the door.
“Be brave, child,” said her mother, tying the muslin cords of her nightcap. “I’m going to count to ten. Then I’ll light a lamp and greet our visitors.” She raised her eyes heavenward. “Lord, protect us . . . and forgive me for my deception.”
My mother never ceases to amaze me. It took less than five minutes of feminine outrage before the men fled Locust Hill in a flurry of apologies for disturbing our rest.
Jess flips through the remaining pages of the journal. “It looks like that’s the last entry.”
“What?!” Kelly nearly jumps out of her chair. “That’s all Anna wrote?”
“Apparently so,” says Jess, again paging through the rest of the journal.
Marina whistles. “Nothing like leaving a person on the edge of her seat. There’s gotta be more.”
“Wait a minute.” Jess pulls a thin, folded sheet from between the yellowed pages. “This looks like it might be an old letter.”
“Really?” asks Lucy. “Who is it from?”
With a frown of concentration on her face, Jess carefully unfolds the brittle page. “Let’s see . . .”
SOUR CHERRY PIE
Crust:
2 1/4 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
5 oz. vegetable shortening
1/3 cup ice water
Cherry Filling:
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
4 tablespoons cornstarch
1 1/2 cups cherry juice
3 lb. frozen cherries (with sugar)
1 1/2 tablespoons vegetable shortening
1 tablespoon vanilla
1/2 tablespoon milk
2 teaspoons sugar
Instructions
1. For crust, combine flour and salt in food processor.
2. Add shortening to food processor. Pulse until mixture looks like small peas.
3. Add ice water and pulse until dough begins to stick together. Remove and form dough into two balls. Cover and refrigerate for 30 minutes.
4. For filling, combine sugar, cinnamon, and cornstarch in saucepan. Add cherry juice and cook until mixture is thick and bubbly.
5. Stir and boil for one minute. Add cherries and cook until it s
tarts to boil again.
6. Remove from heat and add shortening and vanilla extracts.
7. Remove refrigerated dough.
8. On lightly floured surface, roll bottom crust into circle one inch larger than pie plate.
9. Gently ease dough into pie plate. Trim edge even with pie plate.
10. Spoon cherry filling into prepared pastry.
11. Roll out top crust the same way and gently place over filling. Brush top crust with milk and sprinkle with sugar.
12. Bake at 350 degrees for 40–45 minutes or until crust is golden brown.
Benton Barracks, near St. Louis, Missouri
May 10, 1863
My dearest Emily,
It has been a long time since I have had a spare minute to write, so great are the needs of my present assignment. However, I gladly seize this opportunity to scrawl a few lines and let you know that I am among the living.
The longer I am stationed at this post, the more I realize that the hospital here is exceptional. This is extremely advantageous since Missouri, as a border state, is near the site of many battles with high numbers of wounded. The state also has many Confederate sympathizers, and it is especially heartbreaking to hear tales of brother fighting against brother.
The hospital is enclosed, thoroughly ventilated, and furnished with good beds. Now that it is complete, it is capable of accommodating 2,500 patients. And trust me, my dear, all of those beds are needed to care for the wounded.
As is expected from such a fine facility, the patient mortality rate is quite low. While this news is heartening, it pains me to see the care of the colored troops who have journeyed north to assist the Union Army.
In the Second Missouri Colored Infantry, I am sad to report that more than a hundred men died before the regiment even took the field. These brave men, having enlisted of their own volition throughout the state, after making a long, perilous journey north, were forwarded to this post during the winter season. They were not only starving, but thinly clad, hatless, and shoeless. Many of these men had already undergone amputation of their frozen feet or hands—with many dying as a result of infection. It is disheartening to see the indifference many of the troops demonstrate for the colored regiments. Thus, I am sad to report, the level of care offered to the colored troops is substandard—especially when compared to that given to the white regiments.
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