By the time fall came, Veronica was more than a little uncomfortable. She knew she had been followed twice more, and didn’t like it.
Denton Beaumont, seeing Veronica upon occasion when she had business with Wyler, by now had his own suspicions. But as long as the Confederacy benefited, he saw no reason to worry anyone about it, though he was concerned for Fitzpatrick, whom he liked. He was not anxious to see Veronica ruin her marriage. But he had problems of his own to worry about.
The Confederate Congress was in shambles. They quarreled amongst themselves, met in secret because they were so unpopular with the people of Richmond, and disliked one another almost as much as they despised Jefferson Davis. There were reports of personal attacks—with every conceivable weapon from inkstand to bowie knife, from umbrella to handgun. The journal clerk of the Confederate House shot and killed the chief clerk. The continual disorder, dissension, and strife prevented any reasonable progress toward democratic nationhood. Though Davis had obvious faults, the task before him was daunting—trying to win a war and at the same time forge a nation out of eleven suspicious, bickering states where the tiniest move toward compromise was seen as paying homage to that holy grail of the Confederacy—states’ rights. Money was printed almost randomly until the simplest things cost hundreds of dollars, with prices doubling weekly. And then, because Confederate money was so valueless, farmers and plantation owners were taxed one tenth of their produce to sustain the war effort. Looting and rioting was beginning to break out in some Southern cities for lack of food.
It was hardly any wonder Denton Beaumont had other things on his mind than his daughter.
Twenty
When Thomas Davidson awoke, the sun was high in the sky and he was alone.
He came to himself gradually, remembered what had happened, then sat up and looked around. He was sitting at the trunk of a large oak twenty or thirty feet up the bank from a small stream. He was still trying to orient himself to his surroundings when he heard a sound behind him.
He turned and saw Deanna hurrying toward him from up the hill.
“Here’s some apples, massa Thomas,” she said, kneeling and opening a fold in her dress she had been using as a pocket. A dozen or more green and yellow apples tumbled onto the ground.
“Where did you get these?” exclaimed Thomas, grabbing one, wiping it off briefly, and biting off a juicy chunk.
“From the plantation. I know it’s not much of a breakfast for you, but it’s something to put in your stomach.”
“You went back to your own plantation… in the middle of the day! What if they’d seen you?”
“I was careful,” replied Deanna. “I was worried about the dogs getting a whiff of me. But I know where they store the apples and I kept downwind.”
“What about you—come on, have some,” said Thomas, tossing away the core of one apple and grabbing another. “You’re hungrier than me.”
“I ate four or five when I was there so I could carry more for you. And look—I found us a chunk of dried venison from the smokehouse.”
She now took a long thin slab of brown meat from somewhere else in her dress and handed it to Thomas.
“It’s a feast!” exclaimed Thomas, chomping down on one end and gnawing off a sizeable piece. “Good for you, Deanna! Here, you have some too.”
She took it from him and bit off a more modest portion. They sat a few moments in silence as they munched on the tough deer meat.
“What now?” said Thomas. “I feel better already. Are you ready to get moving to wherever we’re going?”
“You were so exhausted a couple hours ago you could hardly stand up,” replied Deanna. “I think you need to rest. And we’re still so close to the plantation, I don’t want to take any chances of being seen.”
“Will your master go looking for you?”
“I don’t know, but if he knew I was so close, he’d try to get his hands on me, if only to give me a good whipping.”
Thomas looked at her with a strange expression. “Do they really whip girls like you?” he asked.
“Every chance they get,” answered Deanna. “I watched my papa almost killed from a whipping once. What kind of a question is that, massa Thomas? You’re from the South. Have you never seen slaves whipped before? They must have had slaves where you came from.”
Thomas’s lips formed a thin pensive smile. “I came from an unusual kind of place, I suppose you’d say,” he said.
“I just hope we can find a conductor and then follow the railroad to the place with the wind in the horse’s head—that’s what they sometimes call the stations.”
Again, Deanna’s words jolted into Thomas’s ears with unexpected familiarity.
“Uh… where did runaways meet this… the conductor?” he asked.
“Beneath a bridge over a river,” replied Deanna. “I don’t know where it is, but that’s what I heard. I know there’s a river somewhere around here because I’ve heard the people at the plantation talk about it.”
“We marched across a good-sized bridge several days ago,” nodded Thomas. “I think I could find it again. But how does a conductor know when to meet slaves that are on the run?”
“I don’t know. Somehow they know when folks are coming.”
“They won’t know we’re coming,” said Thomas.
“All we can do is find that bridge and then see what comes next. My daddy always says that when you don’t know what to do, you’ve got to take the next step the Lord shows you before he can show you the step you’re supposed to take after that. He says the Lord always works one thing at a time, not five things at a time.”
It was just like something his dad would say, thought Thomas. A surge of nostalgic fondness swept through him.
He did not have time to reflect on it. Suddenly the sound of horses’ hooves broke the stillness of late morning. By the sound of it, whoever the riders were, they were a hundred or hundred and fifty yards away, and coming toward them!
Thomas and Deanna glanced at each other. Deanna jumped to her feet. Thomas struggled to get up. Forgetting his wounds, he winced in pain. Deanna reached down, took his two hands, and helped him to his feet.
“This way, massa Thomas,” she said. “We can hide on the other side of the stream.”
He hurried after her, clutching her hand for support. They splashed through the water, up the opposite bank, through some brush, until suddenly Deanna knelt down, pulling Thomas after her.
“How’d you know where to hide?” said Thomas.
“I looked around before, when you were asleep. That’s something we always did when my daddy was leading us—we always kept our eyes out for places to hide, just in case something happened. He taught us always to plan ahead… but shush! They’re coming! Get down and keep real still.”
Already they could hear several voices now along with the horses. In another few seconds the riders reined in, by the sound of it not far from the oak where they had just been sitting.
“Look, here’s some apples,” said a voice Thomas recognized instantly. “You was right, Travis—he’s making for that plantation down yonder, likely where that nigger girl is.”
“Yeah, I thought as much,” said Durkin. “Where else he gonna go? He probably figures she’ll help him.”
“Must have been following the stream,” said another voice. “These apples are fresh. We can’t be far behind him.”
“What if he’s not going to the plantation, Travis? Maybe he’s going the other way.”
It was silent as Durkin thought a minute.
“Yeah… all right, we better split up,” he said. “Max, you and Shorty follow the stream up a ways further. Me and Clint, we’ll go have us a talk with the farmer, see if he’s seen him and make sure he knows to keep an eye out. Maybe we’ll get some of his dogs to help us. If you don’t see nothing after a mile, then come back and we’ll meet somewhere along the stream or between here and the plantation. If you find him, give a shot in the air. But don’t hurt him,
you hear. I got a slug in my gun that’s meant for him. I don’t want no one spoiling my fun. Okay, let’s go.”
The horses galloped off in both directions. After a few minutes again they were left in silence.
“How did they get on our trail so fast?” sighed Thomas.
“We haven’t gone that far, massa Thomas. They’ve got horses too. If they bring some of massa Smith’s hounds, they’ll sniff us out for sure. We’ve got to go, massa Thomas. We’ve got to move fast, and we’ve got to find that river. Even hound dogs can’t follow us across a river.”
She jumped to her feet and again helped Thomas up.
“Nothing else we can do but follow the stream down the hill and hope it leads us to the river.”
“That’s toward the plantation,” said Thomas.
“How else are we going to find the river?”
“Let’s keep climbing,” suggested Thomas. Harper’s Peak had suddenly come to his mind. “If we get high enough, in this sunlight, we’ll be able to see the river somewhere, with the sun glistening off it. I’m sure it’s to the north.”
“All right, massa Thomas. But let’s get going… I’m afraid of massa Smith’s dogs.”
By the time Thomas and Deanna reached the Hiwasee River midway through the afternoon, the lack of food, as well as fatigue from the pain of his wounds, were taking their toll on Thomas’s energy. His face was pale and Deanna knew he could not keep up the pace much longer. But the unmistakable baying of dogs in the distance behind them kept urging them on.
Deanna ran the final few yards down the gently sloping bank, half dragging Thomas behind her, then stopped at the water’s edge. She glanced up and down the flowing current with a sinking feeling of despair. It was not a rapid river, but was wide and moving steadily. She wasn’t sure whether she could swim to the opposite bank herself. But in his weakened condition and without the full strength of his arms, she knew Thomas could not make it even halfway across.
She could not prevent a groan of hopelessness as she glanced for the twentieth time behind them. There could be no mistake—the dogs were louder than they had been only a few minutes before. They were obviously on the scent.
“Come, massa Thomas,” she implored, though Thomas hardly heard her. “We’ve got to keep moving. We’ll go along at the edge in the water—maybe that will throw them off.”
“Effen you’s tryin’ ter git away from dem dere dogs,” suddenly said a voice from the bank above them, “you ain’t gwine do hit like dat.”
Deanna spun around and looked toward it. Above them, as if he had been watching calmly for some time, stood a lanky black man who appeared to be in his mid-forties. She stared up at him with a blank expression, so surprised that for a moment she could not find her voice.
“Wiff you stirrin’ up dat mud like dat,” the man went on, beginning to chuckle, “hit don’t take no houn’ dog ter foller yo track. Laws almighty, a blin’ man cud foller you!”
“Well what would you do if you were us?” snapped Deanna, a little annoyed at his manner. “We know we’re in trouble and you standing there laughing at us doesn’t do us any good.”
“What kind er trubble you in?”
“Those hound dogs are chasing us, what do you think! We’re runaways, and those men back there are trying to catch us.”
“Den wha’chu doin’ talkin’ like er white girl? An’ why’s you wiff a white soldier? Dis look like sum kind er unushul situashun ter me.”
“Well maybe it is, but you’re not doing anything for us—do you know where the bridge is? We’ve got to get to the bridge.”
“You’s neber make da bridge. Dem dogs’ll interecep’ you long before dat.”
“Then we’ll just have to keep running. Come on, massa Thomas,” said Deanna, again urging Thomas forward along the bank through the shallow water. “We have to go. We’ve got to find that conductor before those dogs find us.”
On the bank, the man watched as they struggled to continue, slowly shaking his head. He was more convinced than ever that they would never make it alone. He had been watching them for the last ten minutes, trying to figure out just who they were and what they were up to. He was still not entirely sure. They were in trouble, that was clear enough. But to help a Confederate soldier, even if he was a runaway, went against everything the railroad stood for.
He continued to watch, thinking hard. If he made the wrong decision, it would put many people in danger. If he did nothing, they were sure to be caught. He sighed and shook his head. Sometimes you had to go with your instinct and trust that things would turn out for the best.
Finally he hurried down the bank toward the river after the two fugitives.
“Wait… jest hoi’ up dere a minute,” he called after them.
Deanna stopped and turned, though she was in no mood for more small talk.
“What is it now?” she said.
“Jes’ what I tol’ you before—you’ll never make it dat way. Dey’ll cotch you. If you want ter git ter da bridge, dere’s only one way. You gots ter swim for it. Can you swim, girl?”
“I can swim.
“Den foller me. You get on one side ob dis boy an’ I’ll take da other, an’ we’ll git him right on across.”
He took Thomas’s hand, though his grip was weak, and led him straight into the current.
“Come on, we can do it,” he said. “I knows dis river like da back ob my han’. Dere’s nuhin’ ter be feared ob—we’ll jes’ flow wif da current. Even if dey see us dere won’t be nuthin’ dey can do, cause we’ll be long gone in a few minutes.”
Hardly knowing what to think of the strange man, but offering no objection, Deanna held on to Thomas’s other arm as they eased their way forward and slowly gave themselves to the current. The black man proved to be a powerful swimmer. He moved them straight out into the middle, working his way across even as he allowed the current to take them along with it. Within minutes they were moving rapidly.
It took twenty minutes to navigate the crossing. Even as they felt the water begin to slow and the opposite bank draw near, Deanna looked up to see that they were approaching a bridge spanning the river they had just swum across.
“Dere it is,” said the black man. “Now you two keep floatin’ right on down till you’re directly under it, den carefully git out, makin’ as little mess on the bank as you can, an’ sneak up underneath an’ wait dere.”
“Wait for what?”
“For who you’s expectin’—your conductor.”
“How do you know about our conductor?”
“I know a lot ob things, miss.”
“Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m da conductor on dis side. But don’t worry, you’ll be met. Someone’ll come fer you under da bridge. An’ dere’s some other folks dere too. I jes’ lef’ dem off an hour ago. Dat’s when I ran into you. You’ll have ter explain ’bout da soldier boy. Dey’ll be afraid when dey sees him. But tell dem I said dey could trus’ you. An’ you stay real quiet. I’ve got ter git back now where dey’ll be able ter see me directly across when dey get ter da river an’ make a mess an’ a fuss an’ give dose men who were after you somebody ter follow. Dey’ll still likely use da bridge, so if you hear dem keep real still. If I don’t lead dem off someplace else dey’s sure ter come over ter dis side tryin’ ter pick up da trail. Don’t worry, I’ll lead dem where dey’ll never see you two again.”
Still bewildered at the sudden turn of events, Deanna watched the black man climb out of the water and up the bank and upriver.
“Thank you, mister,” she called after him.
The water of the river had somewhat revived him, but Thomas was still weak and could hardly keep to his feet as they struggled out of the water under the bridge.
“Who was that man?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Deanna. “A black man from the other side of the river. He said he was a conductor. Come, massa Thomas,” she said, tugging Thomas behind her up the bank. Their water-soaked c
lothes made it all the more difficult to move. As they made their way, Deanna glanced up and saw two figures seated in the shadows. As they drew closer, she saw that two men were watching them—an older man about forty and a young man perhaps half that.
They collapsed on the sloping grass beneath where the timbers of the bridge met the ground. Thomas groaned in pain.
“Wha’chu doin’ comin’ here?” said the older man. “An’ who dat white boy!”
“Look, Papa,” said the younger. “He’s a soldier!”
“Laws, girl—you tryin’ ter git us all caught an’ killed?”
“We’re just trying to get away, same as you,” said Deanna. “The same conductor man that brought you here just met us up the river and told us where to come.”
“What ’bout him?” said the man, looking at Thomas.
“It’s him they’re looking for,” replied Deanna.
“Den let dem have him! Leastways den dey wudn’t find us.”
“I’m not going to do that,” said Deanna. “He’s hurt bad and I’m not about to let them get their hands on him.”
Within minutes, in spite of the wet, Thomas was to all appearances sound asleep. The rest of the small group fell silent and waited. The man and his son continued to eye the newcomers with suspicion.
It was not much longer before they again heard the dogs and shouts and horses’ hooves.
“Look wha’chu dun!” exclaimed the man. “You brung dem right to us! Now we’s all dun for.”
Deanna did not reply but held her breath and put a finger to her lips as she heard their pursuers coming closer and closer. A minute or two later, the four soldiers from Thomas’s unit thundered over the bridge overhead, followed by the dogs and several men from the Smith plantation. In their haste to hurry back upriver and pick up the trail at the point where they had seen the black man climbing up the bank opposite them, they did not stop to search the area around the bridge. The dogs, too, went howling straight over the top of them, so intent to keep pace with the four horses and so excited by the chase and with the multitude of smells from the river in their noses that they did not so much as slow down.
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