by Jack Ford
“Sorry to wake you,” the man said in a deep, gruff voice, not really sounding sorry at all. “Name’s Finnegan. From ’cross the border in Maryland. Hopin’ we could water our horses and leave the extras here a few hours, till we return.”
“Sure thing,” Myers answered, relief in his voice. “Happy to help. Where y’all headin’ this time of night?”
The man didn’t answer at first, shooting Myers a steely look that suggested it was none of his business where they were heading. Then he relented, not wanting to arouse any more suspicion in the taverner than necessary.
“My friend here,” he said, gesturing toward the big, good-looking man on the lead horse, “is lookin’ for his woman and children. Run off a few weeks ago. Heard they might be stayin’ round here.” Finnegan paused and shook his head. When he spoke again, he dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Was me, I’d just as soon say good riddance. But he wants her back.” He shrugged. “So, we’re lookin’ to go get her.”
Finnegan removed some coins from his pocket and handed them to Myers.
“This enough?” Finnegan asked.
Myers nodded, pocketing the coins.
“More for you when we get back,” Finnegan said.
Myers led the group around to the back of the tavern. The men took turns wordlessly watering the horses and then tethered the extras inside the barn. The whole process took less than twenty minutes.
When they had finished, Finnegan gathered the men together a few feet away from Myers, and outside his hearing, and engaged in a hushed but animated discussion. After a few minutes, Finnegan looked at each man, nodded once, and they all mounted up.
Finnegan looked down at Myers from astride his horse. “Back in a few hours, maybe sooner,” he said. “Leavin’ right quick once we get back, so be ready for us,” he added, a command, not a request.
The men all put spurs to their mounts and, followed by the wagon, charged out of the rear of the tavern and raced off down the road toward Bear Mountain.
CHAPTER 45
KITTY WAS LOST IN A SHALLOW, FRETFUL SLEEP, MARKED BY SHADOWY images of Mary standing on the far side of a wooden bridge, beckoning, her hand outstretched. But no matter how hard Kitty tried, she could not reach her. With each laborious, slow-motion step that Kitty took toward her, Mary seemed to recede, floating backward like a fleeting apparition, a look of anguish spreading across her face, shouting words that Kitty could not comprehend. And then she was gone, disappearing into a swirling, misty darkness.
Suddenly, the door to their bedroom exploded inward, shattered by some devastating force, the wood splintering as the door was ripped from its hinges. Kitty sat bolt upright, her sleep-sodden mind at first unsure if this was real or another segment of her troubled dreams. But as shouting men came storming into her room, the excruciating realization struck immediately that this was no dream—this was real. And she and the children were in great danger.
Before she could react, the first man into the room grabbed her roughly by the arms and hurled her off the sleeping pallet and onto the floor. She landed awkwardly on her hands and knees and tried to swiftly scramble away from him toward the children, who had been startled awake by the crashing noise. Before she could reach the children, who were now crying fearfully, the man grabbed her by her hair and one arm and viciously dragged her through the smashed doorway and out into the main room.
Driven now by the anger that had overtaken her fear, Kitty tried desperately to wrench herself free of the man’s grip. As she twisted away from him, she saw his face—it was Sam Maddox, his eyes stormy and filled with hatred.
“Leave us be!” Kitty screamed at him, now furious with rage. “We’re free! You can’t take us!”
Maddox lashed out with a brutal backhand across her face, snapping her head back and knocking her to the floor. “Shut up,” Maddox snarled. “You damn well ain’t free, and you’re comin’ back where you belong!”
Kitty glared at him defiantly, blood curling down from the corner of her mouth. “I’m free, and I got papers to prove it. Them too,” she cried angrily, looking fearfully now toward the three children.
“Throw them into the wagon,” Maddox ordered, pointing to the children, who were now wailing as they reached frantically for their mother. “Quick!”
“No!” Kitty screamed. “You can’t do this!”
As Maddox jerked Kitty to her feet, she thrashed, twisting and flailing, dragging her nails across his face and kicking out at him. He stepped back away from her, and then threw a crushing overhand punch, striking her flush on the side of her head, knocking her again to the floor. Dazed, she stumbled as she fought to stand.
“Tie her up! Good an’ tight! Then throw her in the wagon,” Maddox yelled as two other men rushed into the cabin. “And get them damn kids outta here,” he ordered. “Now!”
Kitty, lapsing in and out of consciousness from the force of the blow, felt herself being lifted and carried out of the cabin. Once outside, she was thrown to the ground and bound up, hands and feet together, by a length of coarse rope. A wad of cloth was stuffed into her mouth.
As two sets of strong hands heaved her upright and her legs buckled under her, she glimpsed Amon Jones near the front door to the cabin. Sam Maddox loomed over him, holding a shotgun to his face. Then she saw Maddox throw a number of coins on the ground in front of Jones. And even through the haze of her grogginess and throbbing pain, she understood. Amon Jones, a free black man whom she had trusted, had sold them out to Sam Maddox.
“Get these damn niggras loaded up,” Maddox ordered, turning away from Amon Jones, “and let’s get the hell outta here!”
The men dragged Kitty to the wagon, trussed up, barely conscious, but still feebly struggling. They lifted her and flung her into the rear, where she landed painfully on her head and shoulder. The children, their hands bound, were tossed in after her and quickly scrabbled to her side. They cried uncontrollably as they tried to wrap themselves around her.
The driver cracked the reins, and the wagon lurched forward, then hurtled down the mountain road, carrying the bound and crying cargo back to captivity.
CHAPTER 46
THE ORANGE GLOW THAT PRECEDED THE SUNRISE WAS JUST BEGINNING to slither above the horizon when Charley Myers heard the clattering of hoofbeats and then a hammering on the front door of the tavern. He had been dozing in a chair in the front room, awaiting the return of the night visitors. After straining to raise his bulk from the chair and trying to shake off the cobwebs of his fitful dozing, he shuffled across the room and unlocked the door.
Finnegan stood in the doorway, while the other three horsemen waited on restless and lathered mounts. The wagon arrived moments later, one man in the driver’s seat heaving on the reins as it braked to a stop.
“Welcome back,” Myers said pleasantly.
“Need to swap out the horses,” Finnegan said gruffly. “And get these watered, right quick,” he added, gesturing toward the tired animals.
“Sure thing,” said Myers, stepping outside to help. “Horses are ready round back, watered and brushed down. What about the wagon?” he asked, peering over his shoulder at the wagon, which was not following the others as they headed to the rear of the tavern.
“Wagon horses’re fine,” Finnegan answered brusquely.
“Any luck findin’ the feller’s woman and children?” Myers asked, his head still turned and his gaze fixed on the wagon and the shadowy shapes that seemed to be moving about inside.
“Yup,” Finnegan answered.
Myers waited for more details, but none were forthcoming, as Finnegan strode over and joined the others, who were swapping out the tired mounts and saddling up the fresh ones. Myers casually sidled over closer to the wagon, trying to get a better look inside. The large, handsome man he had seen earlier astride a horse was now driving the wagon. He was fidgeting with the reins, jerking the horses’ bits to keep them steady, and seemed especially anxious for the riders to finish their work and get back on the ro
ad.
Suddenly, a head appeared in the rear of the tarpaulin-covered wagon. Although he could not see clearly, the figure seemed to be struggling to rise up. Peering through the dawn shadows, he made brief eye contact with the figure. It appeared to be a woman—a colored woman—and although he could not be certain, she seemed to be bound in rope, with a cloth stuffed in her mouth. She stared at him, her eyes wide, a muddle of terror and anger.
Myers was about to take a step toward the wagon when the driver turned, reached into the rear, and roughly thrust the woman back down onto the floor. At that moment, Myers thought he heard children’s voices in the back of the wagon, although he could not clearly see anyone else.
The driver turned toward Myers and shot him a fierce and threatening glare, warning him to get away from the wagon without actually uttering a single word. Myers swiftly averted his gaze and drifted back toward the other horsemen. The riders had finished watering the worn-out horses, had hitched their saddles onto the waiting spares, and were just remounting when Finnegan approached him, holding the reins to his fresh horse. He handed Myers a handful of bills.
“This should do it,” Finnegan said.
Myers looked down at the wad and shook his head. “More here’n I need,” he said.
“Keep it,” Finnegan said. “Appreciate your help, ’specially in the middle of the night.” He took a step toward Myers and leaned in close. “Anybody come askin’,” he added, his tone now low and menacing, “you didn’t see nothin’ tonight. No riders. No wagon. No nothin’. Understand?”
For a moment there was a strained silence between the two men. Then Myers nodded his head slowly. Finnegan clapped him once on the shoulder.
“Good man,” Finnegan said, a grim, crooked grin turning up one corner of his mouth.
Finnegan leaped into the saddle of his horse and joined the others as they took off at a gallop down the road toward the Maryland border. As the wagon rumbled past, Myers was jolted by a terrible thought. He recognized the face! He now realized who the bound and gagged woman in the wagon was. And he realized that he had to get help—before it was too late.
After rushing to the barn, he swiftly saddled his own horse, struggled into the saddle, and took off at a fast trot down the road in the direction of Bendersville. As the sun rose on what promised to be a bright and clear day, he could see the blooming silhouettes of dust stirred up by the horsemen and the wagon in the distance ahead of him. He knew now where they were going. And he knew that he had to get to the Wrights’ gristmill as soon as possible to tell them what had happened—that the young Negro woman they had aided and befriended had been seized by slave catchers.
By the time Myers arrived at the Wrights’ gristmill, he and his horse gasping for air, the dust bloom from the slave catchers’ convoy down the road was barely visible. He clambered awkwardly from his saddle, nearly tumbling to the ground, and rushed into the mill building.
Aaron Wright and his son, John, were in the office, talking with two customers, when Myers burst in. Panting, Myers quickly related what had happened and, pointing to the road, told them that if they hurried, they might still be able to catch the men before they reached the Pennsylvania border.
Aaron Wright seized his shocked son by the shoulders. “Go after them,” Aaron said, the anxiety in his voice palpable. “I’ll find the sheriff and follow thee. Go now.” He pushed John toward the door. “Quickly! And keep them in thy sight.”
Grim faced, John Wright nodded and sprinted out of the office. He grabbed the nearest saddled horse, which actually belonged to one of the customers in the office, swung himself into the saddle, tugged at the reins, and galloped off down the road.
At first, Wright feared that he had lost them. But after a few minutes of hard riding, he could see a faint wisp of road dust in the distance. His heart pounding, he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks to spur him on, hopeful that his father and the sheriff were close behind him. He was not sure what he could actually do if he caught up to the riders without the sheriff—there were many of them, all apparently well armed—but as he envisioned the faces of Kitty and her children, knowing how terrified they must be, he was determined that he would not give up the chase.
Charging through the hamlet of Fairplay, Wright began to worry. His horse—a farm animal, not a racer—was beginning to falter, its stride uneven, its strength sapped. But what distressed him most was that he—and the slave catchers—were now just minutes away from the Maryland border and the protection afforded by the fact that Maryland was a slave state, one that did not recognize Pennsylvania’s antislavery laws. Once they crossed the border, there was nothing that he, or even the sheriff, would be able to do to rescue Kitty and her family. He flailed the reins and ferociously kicked the horse’s flanks yet again, hoping for at least one more burst of speed.
When he rounded a curve, his heart sank as he spied the racing caravan of riders and wagon up ahead. They had crossed into Maryland. One of the riders had peeled away from the group and was now facing in his direction. Puzzled as to why one rider would have stopped, he charged on. Suddenly, he saw a puff of smoke, which was followed by the buzzing sound—pffft!—of a musket ball whizzing by his head. He pulled back hard on the reins, and the horse skidded to an abrupt halt, nearly toppling over.
Wright stared angrily at the rider, exasperated and pained at the realization that the chase had ended and the slave catchers had won. The rider waved his hat haughtily, jerked his horse’s head around, and galloped after the others. As the man had turned to ride away, Wright thought he heard the sound of laughter. He pounded his saddle in frustrated fury, and tears began to stream down his dust-encrusted face.
CHAPTER 47
THE JANGLING OF CHAINS JOLTED KITTY OUT OF A FITFUL, ACHING sleep. Twisting her body carefully, she tried futilely to find some remotely comfortable position as she lay stretched out on the dirt floor. Heavy steel shackles circled both of her ankles, attached by a length of chain to each other and by another length of chain to a bolt hammered into the wall of the shed.
As she raised her head slightly and searched for the children, a stabbing pain, like a sudden bolt of lightning, shot through her shoulder. She gasped, paralyzed for a moment, and waited for the throbbing surge to pass.
Although she knew that she and the children were captives, held in chains in Sam Maddox’s shed, her memory of how they had arrived there was blurred. She recalled vividly, of course, the attack at Amon Jones’s farm and her struggle with Maddox. But after he punched her in the head, her recollections were scanty. Since she had lapsed in and out of consciousness during the days of the wagon ride back to Virginia, she could only vaguely recall the journey. What she did clearly remember, however, was the sensation of her body frequently slamming painfully on the floor of the bouncing, shuddering wagon, her head and jaw aching, her eye swollen shut, and her shoulder feeling as if it were on fire each time it struck the unforgiving wooden planks. She had a faint recollection of the children, who were tied securely to each other but whose hands were loose, trying to lift her bound body and force water and bits of food down her throat. But she had no memory of arriving back in Virginia or of being cuffed and chained in the shed.
As the pain subsided, Kitty struggled again to raise her head a few inches off the hard floor. This time it was her head and jaw that screamed in pain. She winced as she squinted with her one good eye and scanned the cramped, cluttered space, then sighed in relief when she spotted the children fast asleep just feet from her. Their little slumbering bodies were bound together by a long length of rope coiled around their waists and wrapped securely around a post, while their feet were also shackled and chained together.
Furious, Kitty kicked out with her legs for perhaps the hundredth time, desperately trying to somehow loosen the chains that tethered her to Sam Maddox’s wall. The shackles did more than just bind her; they were a terrifying foreshadowing of her plunge—and that of her children—into the depths of a permanent captivity i
f she could not somehow free them all. Weak and woozy from her injuries and the lack of food and water, she fell back to the floor. Just before she felt herself fading back into a dark and dizzying oblivion, she silently cursed Sam Maddox as tears of frustration formed in her eyes, vowing to herself that somehow she would kill him if she ever got the chance.
* * *
At that moment, Sam Maddox was lounging in the parlor of the Witherses’ mansion, slouched in a stuffed wing chair, his booted feet perched on an embroidered footstool, a glass of tea in his hand. Katie Withers sat across from him, balanced demurely on the edge of a straight-backed cane chair, captivatingly attired in her best afternoon receiving dress, her hair swirled into a bun atop her head, a cameo brooch adorning her slender neck.
“So,” Katie asked in a soft, seductive, syrupy drawl, “when will you be leavin’?”
“Plannin’ on leavin’ day after tomorrow,” Maddox said. “Need to get the wagon fixed first. Cracked an axle. Bringin’ it to the wheelwright later this afternoon.”
“Are you takin’ all the niggras with you?”
Maddox nodded. “The woman should fetch a good price. Little girls, too. Already been kitchen trained. Don’t know ’bout the little brat. Just have to see what I can get for him.”
“How long will you be gone this time?” Katie asked, injecting just a touch of sorrow and longing into the question.
Maddox smiled. “Not too long, I s’pose. Take ’bout a week to get to Charleston. Then, depends on when the next auction’s scheduled. Shouldn’t be too long, though.”
“Why not just sell ’em here?” Katie asked, pouting a bit. “Auction’s next week right in Washington, at the courthouse. That way you wouldn’t have to be away again for so long.”
“Get a much better price down there,” Maddox said, sipping his tea. “Can make more sellin’ ’em there ’cause the agents’ll then ship ’em either farther south or to the islands, where they’ll double their money.” He shrugged. “So it’s worth it for me to travel to South Carolina. Even if it means missin’ you for a while,” he added with his most engaging smile.