Ten
Amelia gathered her medicines together and headed downstairs. Tabitha had told her that another group of slaves had been brought in and were resting in the barn as before, and she knew she would not be able to get a wink of sleep until after she checked on them. She pushed her bedroom door open and crept down the stairs, thankful for the dim glow of a lantern that showed her the way to the kitchen.
All the dishes and leftover food had been stored, and the fire was banked for the evening. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. A squeaky noise behind her made Amelia freeze and hold her breath. After a moment passed without further noise, she eased forward once again.
She opened the back door and slipped through it, picking her way along the path to the barn. She’d been out here several times in the past weeks, even though she had originally hoped her work with runaway slaves would be done after Melek took that first group out of town. But that had only been the beginning for Amelia, the agent Melek now referred to as the Mockingbird.
She stopped outside the door and pursed her lips. Her first attempt at a whistle failed miserably, sounding more like a hissing snake than a bird. Amelia licked her lips and tried again. There! That was more like it. She was quite proud of the liquid sound she produced.
After a moment, the barn door opened, and the old coachman, whose name she had learned was Tom, grinned at her and beckoned her inside. He led the way to the tack room. “We’ve a tired group tonight. They been running for days without much sleepin’.”
Amelia went inside, and her heart melted at the sight that met her eyes. A couple about her own age cowered against the wall. The young man had a protective arm about the girl. He watched Amelia with wary eyes.
“I came out here to help you.” She set her bag of medicines down on the floor and dropped to her knees beside them. “Let me see your feet.”
She unwound several layers of dirty cloth from the young woman’s feet, dismayed to see the cuts and bruises on them. It was a good thing she had found a merchant who sold tincture of iodine. She soaked a clean length of cotton in the solution and gently cleaned the young woman’s feet. Tearing several new lengths from a discarded sheet she had rescued last week before it could be thrown away, she rewrapped the slave’s feet before turning to her companion.
“You have a gentle touch.” The young man’s eyes were not nearly as wary as they had been before.
“I need to do the same for you.”
He nodded and stretched out his feet, and Amelia began the process again. When she finished, she drew out some of her precious willow bark. “If you chew on this while you are walking, it should ease your pain.”
The young woman reached out her hand and took the bark from Amelia before settling back into the curve of her husband’s arm.
“Where are you from?”
“Al—”
“It’s safer if you don’t know too much, miss.” Tom the coachman interrupted the girl before she got more than the first syllable out.
Amelia’s cheeks heated as she glanced at the old man. “You’re right. It’s not the time for polite conversation.”
Amelia gathered up her supplies, pointing to the bloody rags she had removed. “Those should be burned. They are too dirty to be of use to anyone.”
“I’ll take care of it.” The old man held open the door to the tack room. “It’s time for you to get back to the big house.”
It was nearly dawn by the time Amelia divested herself of her clothing, her mind on the frightened pair hiding out back. They had so far to travel on their poor feet. She hoped her ministrations would help speed their journey. As she drifted toward sleep, Amelia prayed for their safety and for the courage to continue helping those like them.
❧
Sunshine warmed Amelia’s face as she stood amongst the crowd. She was frustrated at not being able to see the foot soldiers, but at least she could hear the cadence of the drums and the reedy notes of the fifer. The mounted cavalry looked smart in their matching, double-breasted frock coats, gray in color with gold buttons and red silk sashes. Given the way Luke had talked last week, he would soon be one of them. She could imagine him sitting proudly astride, his shoulders straight and his red forage cap, so like the one that went with her own riding suit, perched on his dark hair.
The people around her seemed to be caught up in the patriotism of the day. They cheered and waved. Some of the ladies even blew kisses to the men in the parade. The horses were barely past her location in the crowd when Amelia spied two flags—the first was the Bonnie Blue flag, a single white star in a field of brilliant blue. Following it was the official flag of the Confederacy, a bright white stripe separating two red stripes and a circle of stars inside the blue corner on its upper left side. Luke had told her a different flag, the Southern Cross, led soldiers on the battlefield. The colors of this flag reminded her of the Union flag, but the differences it symbolized opened a pit of despair in her stomach.
She supposed the soldiers must be marching behind the flags, but all she could see were the tips of their bayonets. A young boy wove in and out of the crowd, following the progress of the soldiers. A miniature drum was slung over his shoulders, and he beat a tempo to match that of the parade drummers. She wondered where his parents were. If they were not careful, the child was likely to become the youngest member of the army, judging from his fervent expression.
“Miss Montgomery, Miss Montgomery.” The sound of someone calling her name took Amelia’s attention away from the youngster. She turned and recognized Mrs. Downing.
“I am so happy to find you, Miss Montgomery.” Mrs. Downing was out of breath from pushing her way through the crowd of onlookers. “Your aunt said you had planned to attend the parade.”
“Hello, Mrs. Downing.” She looked behind the older lady, searching for Faye, but could not spot the tall, spare girl. “Where is your daughter today?”
“She is. . .indisposed this morning.” Mrs. Downing looked around them. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Amelia gestured Tabitha toward them. “Where would you like to go?”
“There’s a house about a block from here which is being used as a church and for other, more important purposes.” Mrs. Downing’s glance was pregnant with a meaning that escaped Amelia. She grasped Amelia’s arm and began pulling her away from the other spectators.
Mrs. Downing loosened her grip as the crowd thinned. The soldiers were more than a block away by now, the sound of their marching feet fading into the distance. Finally Mrs. Downing, Amelia, and Tabitha came to a street corner. A two-story frame house stood there, its windows boarded up, its doors scarred as though from fire or assault. Their guide hesitated before going up to the door, and she looked around once more before turning and gesturing for Amelia and Tabitha to follow her. “Come on. We’ll be able to talk inside.” She pushed open the front door.
Amelia heard it squeal in protest. “Whose house is this?”
“The original owners are not important. The only thing that matters is that it was donated to the free blacks they had employed and now has new life as a church.” Mrs. Downing led them past an empty parlor and several closed doors toward the back of the house where the original kitchen would be. She pushed open the door.
The sight that met Amelia’s eyes caused her to halt. Several battered trunks sat on the floor, their lids open. They were filled with clothing—skirts, trousers, shirts, and hats. The far wall was lined with shoes and boots, neatly arranged in order of size. Jars of preserved foods lined the shelves, and a pile of blankets lay neatly folded on a large table. Nothing was new, but the room held more items than any mercantile she had ever shopped.
Her gaze met Tabitha’s in wonder before she turned back to Mrs. Downing. “What kind of place have you brought us to?”
The
older woman’s wave encompassed the items. “It’s a storeroom. It has been filled by people who disagree with the position of our great state, people who are sympathetic to the plight of slaves, people who believe slavery must end if our country is to survive.”
Amelia could feel Mrs. Downing’s gaze on her. “How do you know I will not turn you in to my aunt and uncle?”
“Because you are the Mockingbird, the person responsible for helping more than one group of slaves escape capture.”
A tall black man stepped through the servants’ entrance into the kitchen. He was dressed in a loosely cut, brown frock coat, fawn-colored trousers, and a brown silk brocaded waistcoat.
Amelia did not recognize him until Tabitha breathed his name. “Melek!”
He nodded to her before turning to answer Amelia’s question. “Mrs. Downing is a friend of mine. I asked her to bring you to me.” He then turned his smile on Tabitha. “You are surprised to see me, little one?”
Tears pooled in Tabitha’s eyes as she nodded. “You lookso. . .”
He tugged at the cuff of his sleeve. “Civilized is the word I think you seek.”
“I was going to say handsome.” Tabitha put a hand to her mouth, apparently as shocked as Amelia at her forwardness.
Amelia watched as his smile broadened. He bowed over Tabitha’s hand. “These clothes are what I wear when I am not in the South. But when I leave this church, I will once again don the ragged clothing of a slave.”
“It matters not to me what clothing you wear.”
Feeling like an eavesdropper, Amelia cocked her head toward the front of the house, and she and Mrs. Downing left the couple alone.
“I’m sorry there’s no furniture.” Mrs. Downing stepped into the parlor and looked around. “It’s been sold for clothing, food, and money for the railroad.”
“Tell me what you do.”
Mrs. Downing chuckled. “They call me a stationmaster. We take all of our terms from the railroad business. Melek is a conductor. He infiltrates plantations and talks to the slaves, offering them his guidance if they wish to escape. I find safe shelter for groups who come through this part of Tennessee.”
Amelia watched her closely, admiration overcoming her for this kind woman with unsuspected depth of purpose. “But how do you do it? How do you hide your true nature all the time? Does your family know what you’re doing, or do you have to lie to them?”
“I was raised to believe people were equal regardless of the color of their skin, but the man I married does not share my views.” She turned from Amelia and walked toward the empty fireplace. “He’s a good man, but he does not understand his wife’s liberal ideas. So we agree to disagree. I do what I can, provide money and shelter when necessary. He may have some idea about what is going on, but he doesn’t ask questions.”
Was Amelia looking at her own future? Her heart was heavy. She could not imagine such a thing, yet what was the alternative? Was she destined to be like the mockingbird Melek compared her to, changing her tune all the time to hide her true feelings? She could not turn a blind eye to the injustices around her, but what did God expect of her? What was a conscientious Christian supposed to do?
“I’ve been working with the railroad for almost two decades now.” The older woman sighed. “It’s become a way of life for me. Sometimes it does become a heavy burden, but then I receive a message from a grateful family who has been reunited through the railroad’s efforts, and I realize how important this mission is.”
Amelia listened as Mrs. Downing described the people, young and old, who had passed this way over the years. How could she begrudge sacrificing a few of her comforts for such a worthy goal? The answer was simple. She could not. No matter what it cost, the Mockingbird would have to continue her work.
❧
Jared’s stomach grumbled as he sat and listened to the professor droning on and on about Latin declensions. As much as he enjoyed language arts, he could not find anything of value in learning a language that was seldom used for anything other than scientific purposes. Most classical texts had been translated to English, so why should he bother to fill his head with unnecessary drivel? His conscience pricked him at the thought. The university president didn’t think it was drivel. Who was Jared to decide which classes were useful?
Another grumble. He glanced around to see if anyone else could hear his protesting stomach. He should have found time for breakfast this morning. But after chapel, he’d been struck with inspiration and hurried back to his room to jot the ideas down before classes started.
Finally, Professor Wallace pulled out his pocket watch. “If there are no questions, we will end today’s lesson.”
Jared gathered his papers, careful not to let the professor see the drawings he’d created when he should have been taking notes. He folded them into his textbook and put his pencil in the pocket of his waistcoat.
“Be prepared for a test on Friday,” the old man continued, raising his voice above the noise of the students who were preparing to leave.
A collective groan answered his announcement. Mr. Wallace grimaced and turned toward the blackboard, erasing his work in preparation for his next class.
Jared hurried out of the room with the other students, intent on reaching the dining hall and appeasing his stomach.
“Mr. Stuart.” A voice called his name, halting Jared’s headlong descent down a flight of stairs.
His eyes opened wide. He recognized the short, large-bellied man who stood on the second-floor landing. Martin Stone! The editor of the Tennessee Tribune. And he had called Jared by name! Excitement replaced his hunger.
“Mr. Stuart,” the editor repeated. “I’m glad I found you.” He held out a pudgy hand and grasped Jared’s, pumping it enthusiastically. “I have a proposition for you. Actually a job if you’re as talented as your professor tells me.”
Jared’s stomach clenched. A real newspaper editor wanted to talk to him? It was a dream come true. The answer to a prayer. He could feel the grin that stretched his mouth wide. “You want to hire me?”
Mr. Stone returned his grin. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”
“I was on my way to the dining hall. Would you care to join me there?”
A shake of his head made Mr. Stone’s chin wobble. “We need some privacy.”
Jared was torn. His belly was as empty as a pauper’s purse. But he desperately wanted to hear whatever it was Mr. Stone had to say. His stomach protested loud and long, warming his ears.
Mr. Stone clapped him on the shoulder. “It sounds like you do need to eat. Perhaps you will let me take you to a small establishment a few blocks from here.”
They exited the building and walked briskly away from the college. Jared tried to start a conversation, but Mr. Stone was winded from the exercise, so he contented himself with waiting. They reached the restaurant and took off their coats as they were enveloped in warm air and delicious scents. The restaurant was busy, but Mr. Stone managed to procure them a table tucked away in a far corner.
“I recommend the stewed beef with macaroni.” The older man tucked a napkin into the collar of his shirt and beamed at Jared. “Not only is it delicious, it is a prompt meal.”
Jared nodded to the waiter, who complimented them on their selections before marching toward the kitchen.
“Mr. Stuart,” the man began, his voice hushed, “your literature professor forwarded to me a piece you wrote recently.”
“Do you mean my treatise—‘The Pernicious Effects of Enslavement in the United States’? ”
“Yes, it was an outstanding work.” Mr. Stone continued for several minutes. “Almost on the same level as Harriet Beecher Stowe’s book.”
Pleasure at the man’s compliments filled Jared’s chest. “Thank you, sir. My parents have always been avid protectors of the rights of others
. They taught me to put myself in the place of those less fortunate. When I began to consider how it would feel to be owned by another human being, the words seemed to flow.”
“If only more people could share your vision.”
The waiter returned with two steaming plates of food and a loaf of dark bread. As soon as Mr. Stone blessed their food, Jared dug in with gusto. Silence reigned at the table while both men satisfied their appetites.
“I’d like to offer you a job.” Mr. Stone held up a hand to stop Jared from responding immediately. “You need to understand exactly what I’m talking about before you make your decision. I’m not talking about the Tennessee Tribune. This is a different paper, one my conscience has prodded me into starting. I have named it The Voice of Reason. It will be distributed throughout the city, and I hope it will garner attention from those who oppose the institution of slavery. The work is sometimes dangerous as it does not support the Confederate mandate. I am too old and unfit for soldiering, so I want to use the strengths God blessed me with to make a difference.”
“I want to do it.” Jared inserted his statement when Mr. Stone stopped to untuck his napkin and lay it next to his plate.
“The pay will be negligible,” Mr. Stone warned. “Probably not even enough for room and board.”
“The university feeds and houses me.”
Mr. Stone smiled. “Ahh, the enthusiasm of youth. It is exactly what my new venture needs. But make no mistake, this is serious business. If we are caught, you will likely be arrested or fined.”
Jared heard the warnings, but his mind was busily crafting a new article for Mr. Stone’s newspaper. The opportunities were endless. He wanted to get a message across to the families of Knoxville. His fingers itched for paper and his fountain pen. He could see the title spread across the front page of the newspaper. Like Benjamin Franklin, he would write stories that he prayed would live on long after he died. “I’m your man, Mr. Stone.”
“That’s wonderful news, my boy. Can you have something for me next Wednesday? If that’s too soon, I can see about delaying the next edition until the following week.”
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