On a not-too-distant part of his estate, Richmond Davidson heard the shots. He had no idea of their cause, but shots fired from an unknown gun rarely signaled welcome news. Fortunately Dusty was saddled and nearby. He was in the saddle and galloping in the direction of the sound almost by the time echoes had ceased.
It was not a suspicion exactly, but from the sound of the shots in relation to his own position, the ridge, and the Brown tract, Richmond guessed where he might possibly gain a vantage point to tell him something. He gained the bare crest of the ridge a couple miles east of Harper’s Peak about ten minutes later. He reined in and gazed into the valley below him. There was a wagon in the distance making for Oakbriar. Whoever was at the reins might have had nothing to do with the shots, but he was moving fast and that might tell something in itself.
He gazed about and thought for a minute. What the occupant of the wagon could possibly have been doing on the isolated and mostly abandoned road between Dove’s Landing and the old Brown place, he hadn’t an idea. But as the land was his, he ought to at least investigate.
He wheeled Dusty around, and made for the valley.
Brad McClellan was feeling very proud of himself. Not only had he single-handedly coerced all nine runaways out of the woods with a pretended slave dialect, he had managed, with threat of the rifle in his hand—a threat aided immeasurably by Wyatt’s violent volley of shots a few minutes earlier—to tie up the three men. The women and children would be easy. Wyatt, of course, would never condescend to speak a word of praise, but he would be pleased with Brad’s efforts. The only ones who wouldn’t be pleased, he thought to himself as he tied up one of the women, were the dogs.
He had just secured the last of the men to a tree when Brad heard something behind him. He grabbed his rifle, spun around, but saw nothing.
As he resumed his task, several of the blacks saw a strange sight, a man without boots and wearing no shirt emerging from behind a tree with a finger to his lips indicating silence. What it could mean, they didn’t know. But the boy with the gun and his friend certainly weren’t about to help them. Whoever the man was, therefore, they had nothing to lose by doing as he said. And thus, though the eyes of the children widened, fortunately none of them made a peep as he approached, tiptoeing in stocking feet and with shirt in hand toward their captor.
For all his gentleness, Richmond Davidson was yet a large and powerful man, several inches taller and easily outweighing Brad McClellan by thirty or forty pounds. As the gun again lay on the ground at his side and he was occupied with the ropes with his back turned, in one swift movement, Brad found some soft object thrown round his head and eyes and his chest and arms suddenly clutched in a grip of great strength.
He shouted and swore but to little effect. It required but a few eye signals and nods of the head for Brad’s silent assailant to bring the women and children quickly to his aid. Within seconds, Brad was face down on the ground with Richmond’s shirt so tightly bound around his eyes, and part of it stuffed in his mouth, that he would be able to see or say nothing however hard he struggled. Emily Diggs and her sister-in-law busied themselves with the ropes meant for them.
“Who is dat man?” finally said one of the children, breaking the strange silence of the rescue.
“Shush, chil’,” she said.
The moment Brad was secure, though the women were taking no chances and continued to coil the rope around him, Richmond leapt to his feet, grabbed the gun and tossed it into the brush, made another deliberate and forceful gesture with finger to mouth, especially toward the children, to silence, then sprang at the ropes binding the three men who watched the marvel unfold with expressions of silent wonder.
Within three minutes, the troop of nine, led by their strange savior—who had retrieved his boots but left his shirt behind as the only evidence, he hoped not sufficient to identify him, that he had ever been here—were making as quickly as possible through the woods.
“But who dat man?” asked one of the children again.
“I said shush, chil’,” snapped Emily. “He’s a frien’, dat’s who he is, an’ effen he wants ter tell mo’, he’d do it w’en he’s ready. Till den, you keep yo’ mouf shut.”
They continued for perhaps four minutes, until Richmond judged them out of immediate earshot, though he continued to listen for sound of the return of reinforcements, which he now had no doubt was the purpose of the wagon he had seen from the ridge.
He stopped, then gazed around at the five adults as they gathered close around him.
“The lady is right,” he said, speaking softly. “I am a friend. Where are you from?”
“Norf Carolina, suh,” answered Macon.
Judging him to be the leader of the group, Richmond looked into his eyes.
“Who do you come from?” he asked.
The man hesitated and glanced at his wife. She nodded.
“We come as chilluns ob da Father,” replied Macon Diggs.
Richmond smiled. “I thought as much, but I needed to know. You are safe now. You are with others of his children. Now,” he added, “I must retrieve my horse. If they find it, my identity will be discovered. You must never speak of what happened back there, or what you will see and hear later today. Many lives are at stake. And though we are children of the Father, we must be quiet and prudent children. Do you all understand?”
“Yes, suh,” said Macon, as eight heads around him nodded vigorously. “But, suh,” he added, “dat man, he say he wuz goin’ fo’ da dogs, an’ I’s feared dey’ll come follerin’ us.”
Richmond stopped to think. “Yes, you’re right,” he said, “we had better go by a different route than I had planned.”
He thought again. He would take them up toward the ridge, and, if need be, hide them in one of the caves. Though that would be risky too. How could he get the dogs off their scent? One thing he must not do was head straight for Greenwood!
“All right, then,” he said at length, still pondering his options, “wait right here. Do not move. You will be safe until I return.”
Fifty
Cherity’s father returned from the offices of the Herald early in the afternoon, weary from exertion but obviously optimistic over what he had heard. “The magazine’s editor would like to talk to you,” he said to Seth. “I think the job is yours if you want it.”
“Even though I know nothing about it?”
“Nobody knows anything about it,” he laughed. “It’s that new. He is looking for someone who can learn.”
“I suppose I can do that.”
“There is a photographer in the city who is familiar with all the latest developments and has equipment we can either rent or buy. He’ll train you first, then you’ll bring what you learn to the magazine.”
“You make it sound like I’ve already got the job!” laughed Seth.
“Just come in with me tomorrow and meet my editor.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll introduce you myself,” said James. “We’ll go in after breakfast. I think he may want you to begin immediately.”
True to his prediction, by ten o’clock the following morning Seth had been hired at the Herald and was on his way to meet the man who would train him in photographic techniques. He spent several hours at Mr. Phillips’ studio, then returned to the paper where he was introduced to the typesetting department. He returned to the Waterses’ home late in the afternoon, hands smudged with black ink and enthusiastic with the prospects of his new job.
“Are you going to like it?” asked Cherity.
“It’s remarkable!” answered Seth buoyantly. “You can reproduce anything you want on photographic plates, creating an image that’s just like the thing looks in real life. I could hardly believe what I saw! Mr. McClarin, that’s the paper’s editor—”
“Yes—I know him. He’s been over for dinner.”
“Oh, right… of course. Anyway, he says eventually we will be able to run photographs in the paper right along with the news
reports. That may be years away, no one knows yet. It’s all new. For now they are concentrating on the magazine, possibly with woodcuts from the photographs.”
“What will your job be?”
“I’ll go out—once we get the equipment—and take photographs to go in the magazine. If President Lincoln, say, comes to Boston to give a speech, I might go and photograph the event. The next week when the people open their magazine they will see a picture of the president and the crowd and everything.”
“That is amazing.”
“Or I might take portraits of people—close up, just their face, I mean. Hey, I might take a picture of you!”
“Not for the magazine!” Cherity laughed.
“No, but for your father to hang on his wall. What a great job… yes, I am going to like it! Your father was right—it sure beats loading cargo onto ships at the docks. And I have him to thank for it. Which reminds me, I need to talk to him about paying for my room and board now that I am working again, until I find another place.”
“What—you’re not going to move? You just got here!”
“I know, but I can’t presume on your father’s hospitality.”
“Why not?” laughed Cherity. “We have a house full of empty rooms. Your parents didn’t make us pay when we came for a visit.”
The thought of such a thing brought laughter to Seth’s lips. “But this is different,’ he said. “I came to Boston to work.”
“I don’t think it’s different at all. We are not a hotel! I won’t hear of you paying for room and board.”
“Well, I think it is only right that I talk to your father about it.”
Meanwhile, events back at Seth’s Virginia home were about to take a startling and unexpected turn.
Still not altogether sure how he was going to get the troop of runaways to the plantation, and at the same time throw off Wyatt’s dogs—if he could smell them himself from twenty feet, thought Richmond, the dogs would easily track their every step!—Richmond led them by a circular route, away from Greenwood at first, then toward the ridge and in roundabout fashion across a distant corner of the Brown tract.
But he was not the only one who had heard the shots from Wyatt’s rifle forty minutes earlier. Even now, unknown to him, Richmond was being watched and his movements monitored by someone other than either Wyatt Beaumont or Brad McClellan.
When the watcher judged that no harm would come to anyone by the revelation of his presence, at last he stepped out from the shadows where he had been moving in a line along with the little group. He now waited as they approached.
Richmond detected the movement, froze momentarily in panic, then, as the sunlight fell on the face in front of him, broke into a great smile.
“Sydney!” he exclaimed. “What… I cannot believe my eyes!”
He dropped the reins of his horse and ran forward, shook Sydney’s hand vigorously, then embraced him warmly.
Macon Diggs and his group of fugitives stood watching the display with mouths hanging open. What kind of white man was this who not only risked his life for them, but actually embraced blacks!
“My friend… what are you doing here!” said Richmond.
“I came back,” answered Sydney, obviously sharing Richmond’s joy.
“I can see that! And your family?”
“They are well and safe. We are still near Philadelphia where I am working for your friend Travers. He has been very good to us. But I had to come back.”
“But why? Haven’t you heard—war is about to break out.”
“I have to help,” replied Sydney. “I have to help our people. I found myself unable to sleep at night, words haunting me from the day I escaped my old plantation. There was a boy sleeping beside me who heard me getting up. ‘Take me with you,’ he pleaded. But I refused, because of my family. Perhaps I had no choice, I will never know. But his words have haunted me ever since. I finally had no choice but to try to help him, and perhaps help others get North, just as you and so many helped us, just as you, I presume, are even now risking so much to help those standing behind you. Can I do less? Ought I do less? So I am going back.”
“I applaud your courage, Sydney,” said Richmond. “But it is becoming more perilous all the time. You will bring great danger upon yourself.”
Sydney nodded. “Freedom comes with a price, my friend,” he said.
“But there are so many in bondage who dream of a new life, how can I not try to help them? And these?” he added, gesturing behind Richmond.
“A group of runaways I just snatched from capture a few minutes ago. There is much to tell you, Sydney! Many are now coming to us. But first we must get these people, and you, to safety. Will you help me?”
“That is why I returned. What can I do?”
Richmond thought a moment, then turned to the leader of the band of refugees.
“Diggs,” he said, “this is Sydney LeFleure. He is a runaway slave like you, and a friend. He will take you to safety. Sydney, can you find our house from here?”
“I have been watching you and your house for a day,” replied Sydney. “I needed to be certain I would bring no danger to you. Yes, I could find your home almost with my eyes closed.”
“All right… good… but we have to throw the dogs off. Hmm… let me see… right, it could work—follow me, everyone.”
Richmond took the reins of his horse from Diggs, who had picked them up when Richmond ran forward, and led out again, with Sydney at his side, as quickly as possible, until they came to a small stream that tumbled down the near side of the ridge not far from the Brown house and toward the river.
They arrived at the water’s edge. Richmond stopped and turned to face the group.
“Now, we must be very, very careful,” he said, untying a rope from his saddle. “We must fool the dogs, and they are not easily fooled. Diggs, take off your shirt. All the rest of you give me something you are wearing, scarf, shirt, cap… anything.”
Confused but not inclined to argue, they proceeded to do so.
“Sydney,” said Richmond, “take them downstream a hundred or two hundred yards. They must stay in the middle of the water and not so much as touch a rock at the edge. By then you should be safe. Take them to the house. Carolyn will know what to do.”
“What about you?”
“I will drop this lad’s shirt,” Richmond said as he began to collect the clothes, “on the other side, then tie the rest to the back of my horse and drag them from there on a wild-goose chase up the ridge. The dogs will follow the scent straight across the stream. At least that is what they will try first and I am confident they will pick it up and come after me. Then I will dispose of these things and make my own way back through town. Oh—Sydney—would you be willing to give me the shirt off your back?” grinned Richmond. The words had scarcely been asked before Sydney’s shirt was over Richmond’s head.
Two minutes later the scent decoy was tied in a bundle and attached to his saddle. Richmond crossed the stream, dragged the clothes about the ground, tossed the shirt a short distance away in the brush, then turned to watch the troop splashing their way carefully along the course of the streambed.
“See you at the house, Sydney!” he called.
He turned again and urged Dusty away, followed by the bundle of wet smelly clothes bounding on the ground behind him, and up the ridge. Already he could hear the baying of hounds behind him.
Thirty minutes later, having completed a complex and circuitous navigation of the ridge, and judging from the sound of it with the dogs having by now closed about half the distance, Richmond carefully made his way through thinning woods toward the plantation of Oakbriar. He was not afraid for his safety, for he knew well enough that Wyatt was not on the premises. But it would not do to be seen by Leon Riggs or any of the Beaumont slaves. Slowly he worked his way within two hundred yards of Denton’s huge storage barn. Closer than that he probably ought not to press his luck.
He reined in, glanced about as he dismounted,
then retrieved and untied the bundle of clothes. One by one he tossed the items into the brush and woods over as wide a distance as time permitted. Sneaking yet closer on foot, he threw two of the shirts almost to the barn. Then he crept back to Dusty, remounted, retraced his steps the way he had come until he crossed one of the well-worn wagon paths connecting various of the Beaumont fields, turned onto it, and galloped away.
Skirting the edge of Oakbriar so that he would not be seen, he made his way back to the main road, then galloped for Dove’s Landing. He reached town, moving now at a leisurely pace, just about the time he judged Wyatt’s hounds would be arriving in the precincts of their own home. What Wyatt would conclude to find himself staring at the back of his own barn when the trail finally went dead, he could only imagine. Stopping in at several shops to make certain he would be seen, Richmond then proceeded back to Greenwood.
Except for his recent accompaniment of Murdoch and his small mob, this was the first call Wyatt Beaumont had paid on Greenwood in three years. Back then he had been in a friendlier mood than he was today.
He rode up to the house with Brad McClellan at his side. Richmond had half expected to see one or another of them and thus had remained around the barns and stables all afternoon since his return. Sydney and their other guests were safely hidden away where no possible search would locate them. Seeing the sons of his two neighbors ride up, Richmond went out to meet them.
“Hello, boys,” he said walking toward them as they dismounted. “I hope, Wyatt, that the circumstances of this visit are not so unpleasant as the last time you were here. I must say that I was disappointed to see you throwing in with a man like that Murdoch fellow against lifelong friends.”
“Like I told your wife, Mr. Davidson,” said Wyatt without a smile, “there are things that have to be done. We brought back your shirt,” he added, tossing the shirt on the ground that he had untied from Brad’s face.
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