by Jack Ford
Pulling her hand away from his, Kitty stood, her voice now defiant. “So, I be goin’. . . . We all be goin’.” She paused. “You be helpin’ me . . . or not?”
Ol’ Joshua sat still as stone, the agony of the decision playing its way across his lined face.
“If we be caught, no one ever know it be you that helpin’ us,” Kitty said softly, reaching down and placing her hand on his shoulder.
“Ain’t me I be worryin’ ’bout,” he murmured. “I jus’ an ol’ man gettin’ ready fo’ the Jubilee an’ to meet my Maker. Since my Sarah taken from me, I be lookin’ fo’ to leave this unhappy earth,” he mused. “Lookin’ fo’ the chariot to take me to the mountaintop, to the Lord, where I finally be free.” He shook his head sadly. “No, chile, I ain’t worryin’ one bit ’bout me. Be you and them little ones I be worryin’ ’bout.”
The old man reached out, took Kitty’s hands in his, and gently coaxed her back into her chair. “Too bad Robert ain’t round no more,” he said sadly. “Don’ know what he woulda thought ’bout this idea.”
Robert was Robert Payne, the father of Kitty’s children. He had been a free black man, a formerly indentured wagoner who had lived in a small village about five miles away. Kitty had taken up with him when she was a teenager, with Samuel Maddox’s permission, and had given birth to their three children since that time. A fourth child, who had been named George, did not survive infancy. They had never lived with each other as husband and wife, but Samuel had allowed them to spend time together on his farm. Robert had died nearly one year ago, after suffering from pneumonia for many months.
“I ’spect he be agreein’ with me—to keep the chilluns safe—if he was still alive,” Kitty said firmly, her eyes misting at the mention of Robert.
Ol’ Joshua was silent for a moment and then leaned his face in close to Kitty.
“You run an’ dey catch you—an’ chances are dey will—you can be sure dat after the beatin’, they be sellin’ you off. An’ your chillun, too. Good Lord knows dey will. Don’ wants no runners round to infect dem others, give dem any ideas ’bout runnin’. An’ you know it, too, chile,” he said, lightly brushing her cheek for a moment with his leathery, wizened hand.
Kitty let the old man’s hand rest on her cheek, salved by the reassuring touch, as she had been so many times as a small child. Her mind was in turmoil, struggling fiercely with the dread of separation from her children and the sense that she had to do something, anything, to protect them—and herself. Audacity and caution both swirled around her brain, each seeking traction and dominance, then joining and unraveling like ink spilled into clear water. But what if Ol’ Joshua was right? What if attempting to escape, rather than staying and protecting her family and keeping it intact, actually guaranteed that the fate she most feared would, indeed, become her reality?
She had never seen a slave whipped on the Maddox farm; in fact, the master and mistress had treated their slaves much better than most local slave owners. But then, she didn’t remember any of the slaves attempting an escape in her lifetime. But she had certainly heard of whippings and beatings suffered by runaway slaves from other farms and plantations in the area, men and women who had set out on a desperate quest for their freedom, only to be tracked down by the brutal slave catchers and returned in chains, staggering and bloody, to face their punishment. And she knew that many of them had then been sold off, some to the Deep South, others to the hellish plantations in the tropics, disconnected forever from their families. The message was a stark and excruciating one: “Do not try to run. If you do, you will be caught, and you will be punished severely.”
Yet Kitty feared that choosing to do nothing—ignoring her trepidation that, as Mistress Mary had once allowed the sale of Kitty’s mother so many years ago, she would now sell her off, too, and once and for all purge the stain and the shame of Samuel Maddox’s sin from her life—may well condemn her and her children to that same disastrous fate.
She made up her mind. After reaching for Ol’ Joshua’s hands, she held them to her face and kissed each hand gently.
“Uncle,” she said almost prayer-like, “you know I be lovin’ you like you be my own papa. An’ I know you tryin’ yo’ best to protect us.” She paused. “But I gotta do whatever I can do to protect my li’l ones. I got to run, Uncle. An’ I need yo’ help.”
“Right then, chile,” Ol’ Joshua said mournfully. “Seems I ain’t gonna change yo’ mind. Like always. So we be needin’ to talk to some folks.” He thought for a moment. “Y’all come on back here t’night, after dinner be served. We got some plannin’ to do.”
CHAPTER 5
THE VILLAGE OF WASHINGTON HAD, ACCORDING TO LOCAL LEGEND, been surveyed and its streets laid out by the then seventeen-year-old George Washington in 1749. An early center for trade and agriculture, Washington had been named the county seat for Virginia’s Rappahannock County in 1833. The village consisted of two parallel streets traveling north and south—Main Street and Gay Street—transected by five short cross streets. Nestled within these confines were a church, a post office, two taverns, four stores, an academy, a seminary, and a small collection of tradesmen, including a blacksmith, a tanner, a tailor, a shoemaker, a cabinetmaker, a bricklayer, three attorneys, and a physician.
Most of the stores and tradespeople, along with the post office and taverns, were located on Main Street and the short cross streets. When the village was designated the county seat, a stretch of Gay Street became the site of a number of official structures, most of them erected in 1835, including a courthouse, the clerk’s office, the treasurer’s office, and the county jail. The courthouse, the most imposing structure in the village, was a redbrick, two-story Greek Revival–style edifice marked by a front-gabled roof that was capped with a square cupola, and fronted by four large white columns framing a central pedimented entry.
Sam Maddox dismounted his horse in front of the courthouse and tethered it to a hitching post. After removing some papers from his saddlebag, he strode across Gay Street to a small, square, weathered two-story wood-frame structure with an elegantly lettered sign on the front door that read ZEPHANIA TURNER, ESQUIRE, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. Maddox rapped on the door once and then lifted the exterior latch and entered.
The front room was a combination sitting room and office, decorated with fashionable and comfortable wingback chairs encircling a broad stone-faced fireplace. An Oriental-style rug covered most of the oak-planked floor. The walls were painted a soft, elegant eggshell blue, with stylish cream-colored carved moldings along the ceiling.
Zephania Turner sat at a large desk in a corner of the room, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. He looked up and seemed surprised at the obviously unexpected appearance of Sam Maddox.
“Ah, Mr. Maddox,” Turner said as he stood, crossed the room in just a few strides, and shook Maddox’s hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Zephania Turner was a slim, graceful man in his early thirties, with a fine aristocratic bearing. He was blessed with handsome, narrow features, highlighted by lively, intelligent, sparkling eyes beneath a broad forehead; and his long light brown hair, plaited and tied up in a silk bow in the back in the old-fashioned colonial style, accentuated his patrician air. He was dressed, even at midday in his own home, in a well-tailored formal jacket and waistcoat. The son of a wealthy plantation owner from the nearby town of Warrenton, he had rejected the life of the landed gentry and had chosen instead to become a lawyer. After studying at the University of Virginia, he had opened his law practice in the village of Washington and had quickly earned a reputation as an honest, intelligent, and diligent—if somewhat eclectic—professional. He was both liked and respected, and consequently his practice had grown, encompassing not just Rappahannock County but the surrounding counties, as well.
“Mr. Turner,” Maddox said, “I’ve come about a business matter.”
“Certainly,” Turner answered smoothly. “Won’t you have a seat?” He gestured toward a wooden-backed ch
air near the desk.
Once they were both seated, Turner asked, “So, what is this business about?”
“Well,” Maddox began, “I think I might be needin’ a lawyer, so I thought I might come visit with you first.”
“I certainly appreciate that,” Turner said in a clipped, formal, almost British tone. He leaned forward and folded his hands on his desktop. “And what is it you think you might need a lawyer for?”
“I been havin’ a bit of a rough spell on my farm,” Maddox said. “Tried to swap out some wheat fields for tobacco—given the high prices a good batch of tobacco can fetch—but, with the lack of rain and all, it’s been a bad year.”
Turner nodded knowingly. “I’ve heard that from a number of other farmers who’ve been experimenting with tobacco growing. What about your other crops?”
“So, you see, that there’s the problem,” Maddox said, shifting in his chair. “I was bettin’ on the tobacco and used up most of my acreage for it. Got a bit of wheat and some corn planted. But I fear it ain’t gonna be enough.”
Turner raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Y’see,” Maddox continued, “I’m behind with the bank—way behind—and was countin’ on a big tobacco crop to get me square. Or at least close to square. But now . . .” Maddox spread his hands and shrugged. “Now it don’t look like I’ll be able to pay up anytime soon.”
“Have you talked to the bank?” the lawyer asked.
“Yep. Not much help. Said I’m too much in arrears—that there’s the word they used. Said I got to come up with a big chunk of what I owe . . . or else they got to foreclose. And take the farm.”
Turner thought a moment. “Do you have any other source of funds? Or anything of value you could pledge as security?” he asked.
“Well, that’s actually why I came a-visitin’. Need some advice—legal advice—’bout just that,” Maddox said.
“Perhaps I can help,” Turner said solicitously.
“Got a fella over in Warrenton might be willin’ to lend me enough to get square with the bank so I can keep the farm.” Maddox leaned back, shrugged his broad shoulders, and exhaled a long, frustrated sigh. “But he’s wantin’ a damn sky-high interest rate—and he’s also demandin’ some security in addition to the farm.”
“Just what kind of security can you offer?” asked Turner.
“Told him I got some farmin’ equipment. And two old darkies—field-workers that my papa bought years ago,” Maddox said.
“And?” asked Turner.
“And he said that ain’t enough,” Maddox said. “Said that them two darkies are too old to fetch much if he had to sell ’em to collect. And the farm tools ain’t worth enough.”
Turner shook his head thoughtfully and spread his hands, puzzled. “I’m not sure, then, how I could be of help.”
“So, that’s where this comes in,” Maddox said, unfolding a document and pushing it across the desktop in front of the lawyer.
“This is your uncle Samuel’s will?” Turner asked as he flipped through the two pages of the document.
“Yep,” answered Maddox, leaning forward, his eyes now anxious and narrowed. “And I been told by a lawyer in Warrenton that I might just have a claim to his property—farm, livestock, and the darkies he owned.”
Turner appeared perplexed. “Why then come to me if you already have a lawyer?”
Maddox’s face creased into a malicious grin. “Well, if I got to be fightin’ with my aunt Mary—and she never liked me much—over this, I’d want a local fella like you, who’s known and respected round these parts, on my side.”
Turner leaned back in his chair, his elbows propped on the armrests, his fingers steepled prayer-like in front of his face. After a moment, he folded his arms across his chest.
“Well, Mr. Maddox,” he began in a measured tone, “I must admit that I most certainly appreciate the compliment.” He paused. “But I also must tell you that I consider your aunt Mary to be a personal friend. As I did your late uncle Samuel. And, in addition, my reading of the will does not comport with that of the lawyer you spoke to,” he continued, his voice now more professional and stern. He tapped the will with his index finger. “It seems fairly clear that your uncle meant to deliver to your aunt Mary, on his death, the title and interest to everything—land, livestock, and slaves. With no limitations whatsoever.”
Maddox was silent for a long moment, the only sound in the room the soft ticking of a baroque carved grandfather clock in the corner. Then his eyes flared and his face hardened in anger. As he leaned forward, his now steely gaze bored into the lawyer’s eyes, and Turner could not help thinking about the man’s reputation for violence when he felt crossed. This could be a dangerous man when provoked, thought the lawyer, squirming a bit in his chair as he struggled to suppress a percolating sense of fear, his resolve and professional aplomb under assault.
Then, just as suddenly, the nascent rage disappeared, replaced by a cold, distant countenance.
“Well, then,” said Maddox, rising from his chair, “guess I’ll just have to find me someone else to take my case. Sorry to have taken up your time.”
Turner rose also, walked him to the door, and offered his hand. “I’m very sorry that I can’t help you,” he said.
Maddox pointedly ignored the outstretched hand and merely grunted, “Good day,” before he walked out the door and slammed it emphatically behind him.
A dangerous man, indeed, thought Turner.
CHAPTER 6
“IF YOU BE GOIN’, YOU GOTTA BE GOIN’ SOON.”
Ol’ Joshua’s frail figure was perched tensely, like an anxious cat, on the edge of a chair in front of the hearth in his room, the fire hissing and guttering, casting shifting ephemeral shadows on the walls. Kitty sat across from him, her hands folded calmly in her lap, and she nodded at his words. Two days had passed since she first told him of her plan to escape. She had done nothing since, carefully watching Mary Maddox, surveilling her every sound and gesture, hoping for some sign—any sign—that might allay her fear of being sold off. But Mary had said nothing, done nothing, to provide Kitty with any clue to her intentions.
For those two days, Mary had been neither harsh nor kind in her dealings with Kitty. Indeed, she had seemed to be anxious to avoid any contact at all with Kitty or her three children. And, ultimately, it was this sense of avoidance, this enforced distance, that had finally convinced Kitty that she could not risk waiting any longer. It was time for her to act.
“When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow night be best,” he answered. “No moon. Feels like some rain’ll be passin’ through. Shouldn’t be many folks out an’ about.”
Kitty raised her head, her jaw set defiantly. “Then tomorrow night it be.”
“You be needin’ ’nough food for two days’ travel,” he said.
“Why just two days?” she asked. “Cain’t get far enough away in just two days.”
“Two days be what you needin’ to get to a place where you be findin’ some help,” he answered.
“Help? Who be helpin’ the likes a me, a runaway slave with three little ones?” she said, puzzled.
Ol’ Joshua nodded and gave Kitty a reassuring smile. “There be some folks out there willin’ to help runaways. Just got to know who they is and where they at.”
Kitty peered at him uncertainly. “So,” she asked, “where they at? And how you know they be helpin’ me?”
“Once you get ’bout fifteen miles down the road to Warrenton, near Amissville, there be a church jes’ off the road. Big steeple painted red. Wait till it dark. Then go round the back door and knock. Preacher and his wife be good folks. You can trust ’em,” he said in a soft, comforting tone.
Kitty stared at him. “How you know all this?” she asked.
Ol’ Joshua shrugged his worn, sagging shoulders. “I jes’ know.”
Kitty was silent for a moment, contemplating this surprising plan. “Then what?” she said.
“They be hid
in’ you for a spell. Got some space down in a root cellar. Then someone be takin’ you to ’nother hidin’ place. Prob’ly few miles past Warrenton. Then someone be takin’ you up north.”
“Who all these people be takin’ me these places?” Kitty asked, exasperated. “And why they be riskin’ themselves to help me?”
Ol’ Joshua shrugged again. “Don’ know who they be. Don’ know why, either. Jes’ good Christians, I s’pose. Folks who don’ believe God ever meant for one man be ownin’ ’nother man. Even a black man.”
Kitty gave him a piercing look, her eyes narrowing. “You don’ learn all this just listenin’,” she said.
“Mebbe not,” he answered, a slight knowing smile creeping across the folds of his craggy face.
Kitty stared hard at him for a moment. “You ever try to run?” she asked incredulously. “That how you know all this?”
Ol’ Joshua shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “Thought about it some, back when I be a lot younger.” He paused. “But then I found my Sarah. She tell me no way she be runnin’.” His smile turned melancholy. “An’ since no way I ever be leavin’ her, I jes’ gave up on the idea.”
“But . . . ,” she began.
“But jes’ ’cause I ain’t runnin’ don’ mean I ain’t helpin’ some who did. I listen up a lot and then be passin’ on what I be learnin’ to folks that be needin’ help.”
Kitty raised a quizzical eyebrow. “So you sure these folks’ll be willin’ to help?”
“Yep,” he said. “They be callin’ it a kind of railroad. The Underground Railroad. Not a real railroad with trains an’ all, mind you, but jes’ folks who hide you an’ then help you get from place to place. Till you make it up north. Then other folks’ll take you in an’ help you find work.” He paused, then reached out and grasped her hands. “An’ then you be free,” he added softly.
The room was quiet; the only sound was the sputtering flame in the hearth.