“What should we do, then?” asked Richmond. “We have a family now with relatives waiting in Pennsylvania. If we cannot transport them… will you take them in your wagon?”
“No, I move too slowly. I am merely a vehicle of information. As to what you should do… for now simply wait. All I can say is that they will continue to come, and I will work with my contacts in the network to find safer means to move them on from here. You and your own blacks are too valuable to conduct them yourselves. The way will become clear. In the meantime, I want you to give me a word, a phrase, some secret expression of your own choosing.”
“For what purpose?”
“As a password or sign between you and me.”
“Till now we have relied on the wind in the horse’s head to let us know that refugees are seeking asylum. That is why we put up the weathervane.”
“That has come to be a widely recognized phrase,” said Southcote. “Unfortunately, too many ears have heard it. The network is even now being infiltrated by those who would destroy it. I need something that only you will recognize, as a means for you and me to communicate with one another and no one else.”
“I see,” said Richmond. He thought a moment.
“Then if one comes from you,” he said, “Tell them to say, We come as children of our Father.”
Southcote nodded his head. “So it shall be,” he said. He then walked around to the other side of his wagon. “Ho, good lady!” he said, assuming again the mantle of seller of wares, “have you found anything to interest you!”
The expression on Carolyn’s face replied well enough that she had not been examining brushes, brooms, and cutlery, but had been listening around the corner of the wagon. She had heard every word that passed between her husband and the good professor.
“Come, Mrs. Davidson,” said Southcote, “select two or three items to account for our being here so long. Not even your house lady must know about me. No one must know but the two of you.”
As they had concluded their clandestine talk, a lone black man, raggedly dressed, walked up the drive toward the house. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere like so many others who had come. Richmond looked up, saw him walking toward them, and assumed him yet one more runaway seeking refuge.
Observing the strange wagon and three white people standing beside it, the black newcomer walked in their direction.
“Dis be da Davidson place?” he asked.
“Yes it is, young man,” replied Richmond, “I am Richmond Davidson. I am the owner of the plantation.”
“Thank the Lord I found you, Mister Davidson,” said the black man. “I been searchin’ high an’ low fo’ days ter git here…”
Professor Southcote’s eyes narrowed slightly as he listened. He scrutinized the newcomer carefully, then, as the man spoke to Richmond, slowly and with steps so tiny that neither man noticed, began inching his way around to the one side and then behind the black man.
“I cum from da Souf lookin’ fer freedom,” the man was saying, “an’ dey tell me dat you help black folks in need….”
Gradually Richmond saw Southcote come into his line of vision behind their strange visitor. He became aware that Southcote was subtly attempting to get his attention.
“—an’ hide out runaways dat are in trouble.” The man went on. “I’s hoping you can hide me wiff da others, so I don’t git caught.”
Richmond let his eyes drift over the black man’s shoulders. He saw the professor slowly begin to move his head back and forth. The expression on his face, along with the gesture, said clearly, Do not believe this man!
Richmond brought his attention back to the man in front of him.
“I, uh…” he began a little hesitantly, “I don’t exactly know what you mean,” he said. “We do have free blacks here, but that is because we set our own slaves free several years ago. If you are looking for work, perhaps I might see if we might have something for you. But otherwise…”
He let his voice trail off, glancing at Southcote. Again the professor shook his head with an expression of warning.
“I don’t want no work, Mister Davidson,” replied the would-be traveler, sounding almost angry with Richmond’s reply. “I’s a runaway. I need fo’ you to hide me out.” He spoke in a tone of demand. The humility, fear, and gratitude that were uniformly present with every other refugee that came asking for help were completely missing from the countenance of this man.
“I’m sorry,” said Richmond. “But I just cannot help you.”
The man stood a moment more, seemingly confused as well as angry, then slowly turned and retreated back along the drive until he was out of sight.
As Southcote came toward him, Richmond’s face wore a look of perplexity. “You were warning me against him, I take it?” he said.
Southcote nodded. “And fortunate for us all that you were able to discern my meaning.”
“Do you know him? Have you seen him before?”
“No, I have never laid eyes on him in my life. But I sensed immediately that he was lying. He was a spy, I am convinced of it. From where I have no idea. Do you have someone you could trust to follow him? We might learn something.”
“I’ll get Seth,” said Carolyn who had heard everything.
Ten minutes later Seth was on his way toward Dove’s Landing, following a route through pasture and woodland paralleling the road where he would be able to keep his eye on the man for most of the way.
He returned an hour later. The traveling emporium of Professor Southcote was nowhere to be seen.
“You were right, Dad,” said Seth. “Halfway to town, who should step out of the trees and onto the road with two horses to meet the guy—Wyatt Beaumont. They mounted and I followed them just long enough to see that Wyatt was taking him back to Oakbriar.”
Richmond shook his head and let out a long sigh.
“That was close,” he said. “If I hadn’t been warned and we had taken the fellow in, it would have been as good as telling Wyatt everything that is going on here.”
“Wyatt sending spies,” sighed Carolyn in disbelief. “I just cannot believe it.”
“It appears we are going to have to be more careful than ever.”
Forty-Two
Heeding the warnings of the strange purveyor of tools, instruments, pots, pans, cleaning supplies, detergents, and cure-all remedies for every ailment known to man, Richmond began to consider alternate routes in and out of the plantation besides those that Malachi had been using that were apparently now in jeopardy. The region to the north and west of Dove’s Landing became increasingly mountainous in the direction of the Alleghenies, of which Harper’s Peak and the ridge it overlooked were a distant eastern outcropping. Malachi contrived a meeting between Richmond and the Quaker Brannon, the cousin of Mueller, and the two men set in motion a new series of rendezvous points and routes, as well as methods of contact by which to get runaways safely to the hills about fifteen miles west, and from there to move them northwest toward that part of the state where abolitionist sentiment ran strong, and where Brannon had many more contacts in Ohio and Pennsylvania. They hoped these new measures would prove a less perilous conduit to freedom than more direct routes.
In accordance with this new strategy, Seth and Malachi Shaw sat wearily one morning in mid-October on the seat of a wagon returning along the little-used western road, the bed behind them piled with an assortment of hay bales, boxes, and various pieces of equipment made to look like a usual load that might be seen around any plantation. A few hours earlier, however, they had let out six single young men in the middle of the night, who were, they hoped, by now safely inside the abandoned barn in the Allegheny foothills to which they had been given directions by Brannon and where the runaways would sleep the day away until Brannon’s conductors should come for them.
It was about daybreak. They had just turned onto a path, barely wide enough for a wagon to pass, on their way back to Greenwood by backroads and through isolated woodland.
&nb
sp; Seth, at the reins, was suddenly awakened from his sleepy reverie by a large dark figure darting across the road a hundred yards ahead.
He glanced over at Malachi.
“Did you see that!” he said.
“Dat I did,” he replied, “but what wuz hit?”
“I don’t know… could it have been a bear?”
“Don’ think so, massa Seth. Dat be a black man fo’ sho’.”
This close to Greenwood, near the border between the Beaumont and Davidson properties, Seth’s first thought was that another runaway was hiding out and perhaps in search of the wind in the horse’s head. Leon Riggs had clamped down so tight at Oakbriar in his boss’s absence that none of their blacks could move ten yards on their own without reprisals from the whip. The Sunday services at the Brown house which his mother was now conducting had been very sparsely attended by the Oakbriar slaves as a result. Certainly none of their own people would be out this early and so far from home.
“Must be a runaway trying to find us,” said Seth.
Malachi wasn’t so sure. A suspicion had entered his brain as he turned the shape of the bearlike figure over in his mind. But he kept it to himself.
Seth continued on, then gradually slowed as they approached the spot where the figure had run into the trees. He glanced into the wood. Slowly he reined the two horses to a stop. But Malachi was anxious and unsettled.
The morning grew still and quiet. The horses snorted and moved restlessly. A few birds had begun to herald the arrival of the sun from the trees.
Seth handed Malachi the reins and slowly got down off the wagon, scanning the woods. Gradually he began walking into the trees.
“I wudn’t go no further, massa Seth,” said Malachi. “Dey ain’ no way you’s gwine fin’ no black man in dere what don’ want ter be foun’.”
“What if he is looking for us? What if he needs help?”
“Don’ matter now, massa Seth.” came Malachi’s voice behind him. “Hit’s too late. I’s reckon we orter jes’ keep goin’. We ain’t gwine fin’ nobody in dere no how. He be long gone whoeber he wuz.”
“Whoever you are,” said Seth aloud, “we’re friends. You have nothing to fear from us.”
No response came from the early morning forest.
Two eyes were gleaming at him from behind a tree, watching his every move. But their owner did not move a muscle.
Seth continued, occasionally breaking a twig beneath his feet.
“If you need help,” said Seth, “my name is Seth Davidson…”
He waited, hoping that the mention of his name would bring the runaway out of hiding.
“Seth Davidson,” he repeated. “It may be that I can be of assistance if you—”
Suddenly from behind a tree, powerful arms seized him and yanked him back against a massive bulk of chest. The same instant he felt cold steel against his neck.
“I know who you is well enuf,” growled a deep voice. “I been waitin’ fo’ dis chance to put it right atween us, an’ it looks like you dun gib it to me!” He laughed a low wicked laugh. Seth could smell his foul breath.
“What do you want, Slade?” said Seth. “You’ve got me where you want me.”
“I gots what I want, w’ite boy. I want you. I wants ter see yo’ blood on the ground, dat’s what I want.”
“You’ll never get away with it, Slade. You’ll hang.”
“Mister Beaumont won’t let me hang. He knows his slaves’d run wild effen it weren’t fo’ me, speshully wiff him gone. Riggs ain’t nuthin’. It’s me what keeps dem all in line. An’ after I’m dun wiff you, maybe I’ll jes’ take care ob dat father er yers da same way.”
“What did he ever do to you, Slade?” said Seth. “I can understand your being angry with me, but why my father. He gave you your freedom. You owe him more than you owe any man alive, certainly more than you owe Mr. Beaumont. You ought to thank him for what he did.”
“He’s w’ite. Dat’s enuf.”
“He gave you your freedom, Slade. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Effen da man’s a fool, dat ain’t nun er my concern. Ef he wants ter let me go, dat’s his affair. But he’s still a w’ite man, and you’s his son, an’ I’s gwine kill you.”
Slade’s arms stiffened and Seth felt the knife blade against his skin.
But a voice from behind him postponed the murder.
“What’s takin’ you so long, massa Seth?” it called out. “You be all right in dere? Who dat you’s talkin’ wiff?”
Seth did not reply.
Malachi slowly crept forward into the wood.
“Massa Seth,” he repeated. “What’s you—”
“Git outta here, Shaw!” spat Slade, inching out from behind the tree. He still clutched Seth in a vise-grip. “Me an’ dis w’ite boy’s got biz’nes dat don’ concern you. Now you jes’ go git on dat wagon dere an’ you go back ter yo’ massa like da good ol’ nigger you is, an’ you tell him where he kin fin’ what’s left ob his son—dat is effen he’s got da stomach fo’ it, an’ den you tell him he’s nex.’”
“I won’t let you hurt ’im, Elias,” said Malachi as he came forward through the trees.
“You fool nigger—he’s a w’ite boy! Wha’chu care?”
“He’s ma boss’s son—dat’s why I care. He’s da son ob da man dat freed me, an’ you too. An’ he’s a good boy too, dat treats da black man an’ da white man da same.”
“What dat to me!”
“It orter be plenty ter you, Elias Slade, dat’s what. An’ it means a heap ter me, an’ dat’s why I ain’ gwine let you hurt im.”
“Who’s gwine stop me?”
“I will, Elias.”
“Den maybe I’s jes’ have ter kill you bof. Den I’s take Phoebe wif me nex’ time she an’ me’s—”
“You been seein’ my Phoebe agin!” cried Malachi.
“Where you think I jes’ been?” laughed Slade cruelly. “I come ober ’cross da ridge mos’ eber week, an’ she an’ me—”
The words and tone of scorn was unwisely chosen.
The righteous indignation of the father, and the loyalty of the free man to his liberator, rose up in the heart of Malachi Shaw. With a great cry he rushed forward.
Momentarily taken by surprise, for no one willingly attacked him—What was it with the absurd courage of these Davidson people? Were they all determined to get themselves killed!—Elias Slade hesitated for the merest instant.
Seth felt the change. If he were unable to break loose from Slade’s grip it would surely cost him his life. But he had no choice. With all the force he could summon, he sent his booted foot down on Slade’s foot and his elbow into the big man’s ribs.
It was enough to get his neck away from the knife. The same instant the avenging angel flew with vengeance against Seth’s accuser.
Slade released his grip to ward off the attack. Seth fell to the ground as the two titans collided in a fury of wrath and hatred. But in the dawn darkness of the wood, Malachi had not seen the glint of the blade in Slade’s hand. The skirmish was thus brief. Nor in the commotion of shouted curses and threats had any of the three heard the clatter and clanking of a wagon on the seldom-used road.
Suddenly a shot exploded behind them. As its echo died away, Elias Slade groaned in pain. A bullet to his shoulder had thrown the red-stained knife from his hand. At his feet, Malachi Shaw lay with a gaping gash in his chest pouring blood onto the forest floor.
The small stout white man wearing a peculiar top hat and holding a rifle did not look imposing. But the expression on his face said clearly enough that he knew how to use the weapon in his hand, and would not think twice about sending a second bullet after the first.
Slade saw the look and did not hesitate. He turned and fled through the trees. A second shot chased after him as he disappeared, though in the dim light did not find its mark. The same instant Seth rushed forward and knelt at Malachi’s side. A moment later Weldon Southcote was beside him.
�
��Quick… help me get him back to the wagon!” cried Seth.
But the man merely stared down at the face of the man on the ground.
“Hurry,” implored Seth, leaning down and slipping his arms under Malachi’s shoulders and knees and somehow lifting the great bulk off the ground.
“Son…” said the top-hatted man quietly.
“Please!” said Seth, struggling with his heavy burden, “there are some blankets in my wagon. Get them for me… we’ve got to stop the bleeding!”
“Son!” repeated Southcote with more force.
At last the urgency in his voice arrested Seth’s attention. He stopped, holding Malachi’s limp form, blood staining his shirt down the front of his own chest. He looked into the man’s face with an expression of helpless confusion and horrified disbelief.
“Son… he’s dead.”
At the words, Seth’s eyes filled with tears. He looked at Malachi’s face as he held his body in his arms. One look told him it was true.
Slowly he stumbled forward to the road with a strength he did not even know he had, and carefully set Malachi’s broken form on the straw in back. Only then did he collapse on the ground and weep.
He heard footsteps behind him.
“It we’re going to catch the man that did this,” said Southcote, “we had better hurry.”
“I know who he is,” said Seth, staring down at the ground.
“You know him?”
Seth nodded.
“What was this all about?”
“He was after me. He was about to kill me. Malachi saved my life.”
“Is he free or slave?”
“Free,” said Seth softly. “Both of them are free.”
“Well, then, the law will do nothing, one free black killing another. This was one of your freedmen?”
American Dreams Trilogy Page 84