Fairer than Morning

by Rosslyn Elliott

  “And Phoebe?” She finally got the words out, blushing again at her own directness. But she must know before she gave him an answer.

  Now he was the one to drop his eyes. “We have agreed that we are good friends, no more.” He met her gaze again. “Please say you’ll come with me.”

  Her wariness melted at the humble appeal in his eyes. “Very well, then. My father will return later today. I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  Eli’s smile lit his whole face. “I’ll be back tomorrow, then.”

  She smiled too. “Thank you.”

  “Good morning to you.” He turned and walked away with a spring in his step.

  She watched him go. I like him very much. I wonder what Mama would think.

  The longing for her mother swept through her, sharper than the freezing air outside. She closed the door hard as if she could force the emptiness away. My sisters are still so young. I don’t know if I can consider leaving them.

  But perhaps Eli could come live here?

  She could not picture that. She was sure Eli would not be happy as a farmer. As far as she knew, he had always wanted to study to be a doctor. And she could not go so far away as Cincinnati, not now or perhaps ever. Her sisters would need her as they became young women.

  She sighed in frustration and walked back to the hearth. Susan had set the pan on the stone, very sensibly. Picking it up, Ann used the flat fork to pry the burnt cake off the griddle, scratching the flaky black remnants off the cast iron.

  Susan moved to Ann’s side as she reached for the mixing bowl and poured more batter. “Is Eli your sweetheart?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  Mabel jumped out of the back hallway, where she had apparently been hiding. “Prince Eli and Princess Ann!” she chanted, waving her arms.

  Susan giggled.

  Ann slapped the spoon back into the bowl, splashing batter on her forehead. The girls cackled. Even in her annoyance, Ann felt her mouth twitching. She gave in and laughed, wiping her face with the rag.

  “Get out of my sight until I call you,” she said. The girls scurried back down the hall. She heard them arguing about who would be the princess and who the prince.

  Ann could not sort all this out. She would have to leave it to Providence.

  At the thought of Providence, she felt a sharp twinge of guilt and prayed again that Will was all right in Pittsburgh. And that God would forgive her—and Allan—for the death of Mr. Holmes.

  Twenty-One

  IT WAS THREE DAYS BEFORE WILL COULD STAND again, and a week before he could walk more than a few steps at a time. Had it not been for Tom, who cared for him like a nursemaid, he did not think he would have survived the master’s beating.

  But Tom still would not look him in the eye. More than once in the past week, Will had awakened in the dead of night to the sound of Tom’s stifled sobs. He was probably so remorseful he could not abide himself. But beneath Will’s pity for his friend was a knife-sharp edge of anger. Let Tom feel the pain in his spirit as long as Will felt it in his body.

  He set the pitchfork against the side of the stall and rested his elbows on the wooden door, breathing deeply to steady his still-weak legs. Of course, as soon as he could walk he had to work, though Tom was still taking on more than his share. When Will lifted the pitchfork, he could feel the stiff hardness of the scabs on his back. He moved with care so as not to tear them and start the bleeding again.

  The barn door opened. Tom propped it with one elbow to let himself in, carrying in both hands a bowl that steamed in the cold. The smell of real beef made Will’s mouth water. Mistress Good had been secretly sending Tom out with food since the day of the beating.

  “She told me to tell you this is the last day for meat,” Tom muttered, head hanging. “She said back to stew tomorrow.”

  Of course. She had not been feeding him out of compassion, he knew all too well, but out of concern for their source of labor. Tom had told him that the mistress had actually dared to berate the master for risking their investment—until the master put a stop to her talk with the back of his hand.

  “Here,” Tom said, holding out the bowl, which Will could now see was full of sliced meat and chunks of potato. He took it from Tom and walked away to sit on an old crate. He did not object when Tom picked up the pitchfork to finish the stall. If that was how he wanted to soothe his conscience, so be it.

  He ate slowly, feeling the warmth in his belly and the strength returning to his limbs. By the time he had eaten half of it, Tom had pulled the wheelbarrow to the next stall.

  “I need your help with something.” Will set the bowl on the crate and stood up. He winced as his movement jarred the deep soreness in his muscles and pulled at his whip-scabs.

  “What?” Tom forked dirty straw, face turned only to his work.

  “Listen.” Will walked up close beside Tom, who glanced at him.

  Will’s whisper was barely audible. “I’m going to leave.”

  Tom straightened up and looked him full in the face, his jaw slack with astonishment. Then he leaned close and whispered, “You’re going to run away? When?”

  “Tonight, while I still have some food to take with me.” He looked at the bowl sitting on the crate. The two remaining palm-sized pieces of meat would keep well in the cold.

  “But where will you go?”

  “Westward.” He could not trust Tom with specifics. A friend who betrayed him once might do so again.

  “But if the master catches you, he’ll kill you.”

  “He’ll kill me if I stay, next time I refuse him anything.”

  “Just don’t refuse him.”

  Will pulled back from their close conference and regarded Tom steadily. Guilt surged in his friend’s face.

  “You’re right,” Tom muttered. “You should go.”

  “I need you to do something.” Will leaned close again. “I can’t leave Emmie with no explanation. I need her to know I plan to marry her. Carry that message from me. Tell her I’ll come back for her as soon as I can earn my living.”

  “But how will I tell her? Where is she?”

  “Ask Dr. Loftin to direct you, after I’m gone. He knows. It’s a boarding house beside the docks, near where we pick up the oakum.”

  “But how will I get away from my work?”

  “You’ll manage.” Will fought his rising temper. “You will probably be sent for the oakum after I am gone. It should be simple enough to find her.”

  “All right.” A line of worry split Tom’s forehead.

  “If I make it to a safe place, I may be able to write, care of the doctor. You can take her my letters on your errands down there. It’s the least you can do.”

  “Very well.” Tom rubbed his dark hair away from his face with his elbow and picked up the pitchfork as he turned away.

  Will turned his back too. He could be just as proud and standoffish as Tom. It hurt that his traitorous friend would dismiss him so, even when Tom knew full well he might never return.

  Picking up the bowl of meat, Will crossed to the wooden box that held dried corn. A rag hung on a nail above the box; he grabbed it and wrapped the meat in it. He lifted the heavy, hinged lid and laid the bundle on the bed of yellow kernels. He would retrieve it tonight.

  He walked back toward Tom, who was still working feverishly in the last stall on the end. “I’ll finish.” He held out a hand for the pitchfork.

  Tom handed it over, face averted, but from the dirty smears on his face, Will could tell he had wept. He wanted to put his arm around his younger friend and wish him goodbye, tell him he was sorry to leave him in this misery. Then the knife of anger inside him flashed out, cutting off the impulse, and he took the tool without comment. Tom picked up the empty bowl and left the barn without another word.

  Will was thankful that, even after night had fallen, the water stood dark and liquid in the horses’ water buckets, without the white skin of ice that had formed every night last week. If the freezes had not
ended, he could never have lived through a night in the open.

  He uncovered himself from where he had lain sleepless in the straw. At his motion, Tom turned over. In the dense darkness of the workshop, a glint of white told Will his friend’s eyes were following him. Will moved quietly to the place where he had hidden the doctor’s gloves and drew them on.

  “Take my scarf,” Tom whispered.

  Will hesitated a moment, then took the tattered strip of wool from Tom’s hand. Tom would live without it. Will might not.

  Next to them in the barn, one of the horses nickered as the other blew out a snort and stamped its hooves. Will froze, barely breathing, until they quieted.

  The barn door faced away from the house, but the workshop door faced toward it. Will would have to go through the barn. He paused as he opened the flimsy door between the two spaces, glancing back to where Tom lay. But further speech would be too great a risk; he went on with no goodbye.

  He took the meat, put it in his coat pocket, and stepped to the barn door. Silence, except for the soft breathing noises of the horses. He cracked the door open. It was lighter outside, but not much, as the moon was only a bare sliver in the sky. No life stirred. A dark gray expanse of ground led to a black line of trees.

  He slipped out into the yard. His heart battered against his chest, but he forced himself to keep to a hurried, silent walk. He was in no condition to run any distance. He breathed in, breathed out, not looking back, hoping to reach the relative safety of the tree line. At last he was enveloped by the woods. He turned to look behind him. No movement, no light. His heart still beat as fast as a bird’s.

  He set off through the trees, picking his way over brush and twigs. There was a semblance of a path to take him through to the road, but he strained to find it. His movements sounded unnaturally loud; he flinched every time he rustled a bush or snapped a twig underfoot.

  The trees cleared and he emerged onto the road. Out here on the packed earth, he could walk without sound, but someone might see him. He poured his nerves into quickening his pace. Now there was nothing to do but walk. Over the bridge to Pittsburgh.

  He would need to cross the two rivers by going through the city; he knew no other way. At least he could mingle with the wharf men, who could be counted upon to be up at all hours carousing in the dockside taverns. He wished he could see Emmie—he would pass very near her boarding house. But his master might raise a hue and cry at any time, and Will feared he would soon be pursued. He had to try to make it out of Pittsburgh as fast as he could walk.

  When he set foot on the bridge, his nerves went taut. The two lanterns set to guide travelers over the bridge revealed the silhouette of a man on horseback. The hoofs of the horse rapped with a hollow sound on the wooden bridge. Will tried to look purposeful as he hurried forward.

  The horseman drew to a halt in front of him.

  “Where are you going at this hour, young man? You can’t be up to any good.”

  The man’s voice sounded old, and Will could make out a big nose even in the shadowy darkness.

  “If you please, sir, I’m on the way to fetch the midwife for my mistress.”

  The man continued to block the way on his horse. “Not headed to a tavern or some other . . . den of iniquity?”

  “No indeed, sir. My mistress is in a bad way.” His agitation must have lent his lie an air of urgency, for the man rode his horse forward and past Will. “Off you go then,” said the old man.

  Will’s shoulders remained tight with apprehension when he stepped off the end of the bridge onto the Pittsburgh levee. Now he had to concentrate on navigating his way among passing groups of men. Some were talking boisterously, some staggering in the throes of strong drink, leaning on their companions. Will kept his brisk pace, though it made him stand out among the leisurely rivermen. The midwife excuse had worked once; he would use it again if necessary.

  He passed building after building. Many were silent and dark, the merchants having retired to their upstairs living quarters. But here on the wharf, every fourth or fifth establishment was a tavern. He skirted the dim pools of light cast by their wall lanterns, favoring instead the darker shadows of the closed shops.

  And then he had made it to the final obstacle. The barn-like end of the Monongahela Bridge jutted against the sky. The toll-keeper lived up there in a small apartment. The last time Will had crossed this bridge was in broad daylight, when Master Good brought him to Pittsburgh. Would the toll-keeper still take the toll at this hour of the night? Would he suspect that Will was a runaway?

  But as Will drew near, no one opened the little window above the bridge. It was all silent, candles guttering in the lanterns hung from the bridge’s tunnel-like walls.

  Three men came out of a tavern just to Will’s left. They were dressed better than the rivermen—older gentlemen out for a night’s pleasure, no doubt. Will had drifted into the light cast by the door lamp of the tavern. He could see the men clearly; all three gray-haired, one big-jowled, one with spectacles.

  The one with spectacles looked familiar, and Will met his gaze. In a split second, he remembered. The last time he saw that face, it was under a white, curled wig. It was the judge.

  He looked away and kept walking, panic rising. He turned his steps to the bridge. When he passed into its shifting shadows, he breathed more easily. The judge had not recognized him, or surely he would have known that this apprentice from Allegheny City must be a runaway.

  He continued to go as fast as he dared across the bridge. He was at the halfway point.

  And then the cry went up behind him. “Stop! Runaway! Stop him!”

  He ran for the other side of the bridge, his feet thudding against the wood. Behind him, his pursuers’ footsteps sent a rapid drumbeat echoing down the tunnel. They were gaining on him. His lungs strained to take in enough breath. The lantern on the far end of the bridge created a circle of light like a halo on the riverbank. If he could just get past that light and disappear into the woods . . .

  Fragments of curses and threats flew past him like bullets. He dared not look back when they were so close. He redoubled his efforts, legs scissoring as fast as they could, fists pumping. In a flash, he passed under the lantern and into the welcoming darkness.

  The woods were too thin here. Even in the dark of night, there might not be enough brush to hide him. He cast about wildly for another route. The din on the bridge was growing louder; they would be upon him at any moment.

  He jumped to the side of the bridge and slid down the bank, feet first, scrambling for purchase through loose rock. His palms stung as they skidded over the gravel, then his shoes plunged into a thin layer of mud and icy water. Pushing himself up to a half crouch, he crept into the total blackness under the bridge itself. He felt his way up and wedged himself prone in the crevice where the bank met the underside of the bridge. Footsteps pounded inches over his head, half-deafening him as they passed.

  “Which way?” a man yelled, voice strained.

  “He can’t have gone far!” another shouted.

  “Check behind that house!” A different voice.

  “You go over into these trees!”

  Will had lost track of how many were shouting—four or five. He tried not to wheeze for breath and prayed they would not think to check the bridge.

  The middle of his back stung as much as his abraded palms. He must have torn some of the scabs from the whip.

  It seemed like half an hour before he heard their voices again.

  “Fast as a rabbit! Blast it!”

  “He kicked up his heels like the devil himself was behind him!”

  Laughter.

  Will laid his cheek on the dirt in the blackness. A few feet away, a slice of moonlight revealed broken, dead reeds where he had slid down the bank. He stared straight ahead, praying they would not notice the marks of his passage.

  “Ain’t much of a reward, anyhow.”

  “No, not for a starveling apprentice.”

  “A
nd the master might be too cheap, besides.”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat and spitting. “The next round’s on me.”

  There was a shout of approval.

  “Aye, the game’s up for tonight.”

  Their feet clunked overhead and back across to the Pittsburgh side.

  He did not know how long he remained there, collapsed boneless against the hard pebbles.

  At last he inched back down from the bridge, wincing at the pressure on his hands. He moved crab-like over the mud at the edge of the river toward the swath of moonlight. He peered up the bank. Empty and quiet. This side of the river was less traveled, less populated. There would be only a few dwellings to pass.

  He would have to make it to the National Road. It would be a journey so long he did not know if he could do it, alone on foot as he was. In a few hours, Master Good would be sure to discover his absence and send out notices far and wide. He might even come in pursuit himself, on horseback. So Will had no choice but to walk without stopping.

  But he was free. And he would remain free. His determination stormed through him, stronger than his weakened body. Moving his stiffened limbs, he pulled himself up the bank. Still no sign of life around the scattered dwellings.

  He did not think he could find his way by the stars, and he had no way to defend himself from wild creatures deeper in the forest. There was no choice but to stay close to the dirt roads.

  But he would not rest until he found the saddler and his daughter.

  Twenty-Two

  ANN HAD FINISHED CARING FOR THE ANIMALS AND was preparing supper when her father returned. She let him in; he was travel worn and his hair in need of a trim.

  He crossed to the kitchen bench and sat down, leaning back and closing his eyes. After a moment, he fished in his vest pocket.

  “I have a letter from Pittsburgh.” Handing her the sealed parchment, he bent over and began to unlace one boot.

  She glanced at the address. “But it’s addressed to you.”

  “Will you read it to me?” he asked. “All I want is to remove my boots. They aren’t yet broken in.” He huffed with the effort of pulling off the first boot.