by Tara Johnson
She pulled the sticky candle free and reached in her other pocket for the single match she’d stashed. Striking it, she blinked as it sizzled to life and thirstily licked up the waiting wick.
Keziah hunkered down and eased her way along the wagon bed, carrying the candle to the far side to obscure as much of the light as possible. “Are you there? It’s all right. You’re safe.”
Not a trace of human presence greeted her ears. Unable to put her mind at ease, she reached for the crumpled tarp and yanked it free. A soft gasp sounded in the quiet. She stepped back in surprise as two frightened eyes blinked at her from the darkness of the wagon bed.
Taking a step closer, she whispered, “Don’t worry. You’re safe here.”
The waif was still for a long moment and then lunged, scurrying out of the wagon bed like a cornered animal. Keziah grabbed the skinny, wiggling body and snuffed out the candle before she unwittingly started a fire. Hefting the wiry little form onto the edge of the wagon, she panted against her stays as he stilled. A pale shaft of early moonlight threaded through the shuttered window on the other side of the room. Not much light, but hopefully enough for the tyke to make out some of her form.
“Please don’t run. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
The boy’s frantic breathing cut a path through her heart. Did the poor thing think she was the sort to whip a terrified child? The frantic thrum of the runaway’s pulse felt like the flutter of hummingbird wings against her fingers.
“Are you hurt?”
A sniffle. “No’m.”
“Who are you?”
The trembling mite wiped his nose, his small voice shaky. “My name is Solomon.”
Relaxing her grip ever so slightly, Keziah nodded, though she doubted the boy could see the movement in the faint light. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solomon. What, may I ask, caused you to seek refuge in my wagon?”
She could hear the indecision thickening the air around the boy. Finally he spoke. “I can’t say, ma’am. You might try to send me back.”
“Send you back where?”
Solomon’s thin frame shuddered under her touch. “To my massa.”
“You’re a runaway then?”
Solomon snapped his mouth shut, refusing to utter another incriminating word.
Knowing he would decline to say anything further, she tried another tactic. “Are you hungry?”
If the featherlight arm she clutched was any indication, the poor child was starving.
“Yes’m.”
“Perhaps if you tell me why you’re running and what I can do to help, I could get you some food.”
Although his features were hidden in the shadows, the skepticism dripping from his voice was unmistakable. “How’s I know you won’t give me to a paddy roller?”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. He was correct, of course. How could she prove she meant him no harm?
“I suppose you’ll have to trust me, Solomon. If not me, then God. I saw you earlier after you snuck into the wagon—don’t you think that if I intended to relinquish you to the authorities I would have done so already?”
His voice drawled, “Well . . .”
“I suggest a compromise. I’ll go get you something to eat first. It’s your choice if you decide to run away in the meantime. But if you wait for me here, you’ll have a full stomach and my solemn oath to help you if there is any possible way that I can. Agreed?”
His faint outline nodded, causing her to smile and release him. He would very likely run while she scraped together a meal for him, but there was little else she could do. He would have to trust her and she him.
A difficult task since neither of them knew the intent of the other.
Keziah watched Solomon shove another piece of corn bread into his mouth. In the silver patch of moonlight painting the stable walls, she could see yellow crumbs dotting the nearly threadbare shirt covering his thin chest. What she had managed to sneak from the kitchen wasn’t much—the corn bread, a slice of ham, a wedge of cheese, a jar of canned peaches, and some water—but for this starving boy, it was a feast. With one hand, he continued to cram in bite after bite.
Spreading her skirts around her, she studied the child, surprised he had not run when given the chance. He must have decided to trust her after all. Either that, or the prospect of a full stomach was a greater enticement than freedom.
“So, Solomon, tell me how you happened to find yourself in my carriage.”
With a loud swallow, he hunched his shoulders, his face solemn. “I got separated from my group.”
“What group?”
“The other slaves.”
Her heart pricked. “So you ran away from your master with a whole group of slaves?”
“Yes’m.” He sounded resigned as if he already knew what she would do with him and had accepted his fate. “We was told to meet the next engineer at a church. Said he would have a wagon waiting for us and that we should hide in the back.” He sighed. “I fell behind and had to guess which church we was supposed to go to. I musta been wrong.”
She tried to puzzle out what he was saying—and not saying—but her thoughts were in a jumble. “Wait, you said something about an engineer. What does that mean?”
He blinked, the shaft of silver light reflecting off his mahogany eyes. “It’s a person to help us get from place to place until we cross into free land.”
The picture was slowly beginning to sharpen in focus. “So it’s a secret association of people to help runaway slaves find freedom?”
“Yes’m.”
Something stirred in her chest. A longing. A flicker of that need to do. She leaned forward, dropping her voice even lower. “How can I help you, Solomon?”
His breath hitched, his face slack. “You mean you wanna help me escape?”
“Yes. Unless you’d rather return to your master.”
He shook his head vehemently. “No’m. I sure don’t. He a mean man. The other slaves talked about his cruel streak, but he was always nice to me, especially when he learned I have a gift with the fiddle. He loved me playing fiddle for the parties he threw. Massa always puffed up with pride when other white folks would say what a good fiddler I was. That is, until . . .” He grew silent, and she nearly trembled at the stark fear lining the silver traces of his face.
“Until?”
“Massa had some folks to the house. Important folks, I guess. He called me to come and play the fiddle for them, but I couldn’t. I’d done cut my fingers up but good in the fields that morning. I tried to play, but . . .” Solomon shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “Massa got mad. Powerful mad.”
“What did he do?”
Solomon looked down and clutched the cold slice of ham. “Don’t remember much. I got a whipping, I guess. When I came to, my right hand was smashed up and bleeding bad.”
“Let me see.”
Wordlessly, he lifted the small hand he’d kept tucked away, the pale shaft of moonlight illuminating a deformed gnarl of twisted fingers and mutilated flesh. Nausea bubbled up her throat. How could anyone be so cruel? And to a child?
She reached out with trembling fingers, grasping Solomon’s deformed hand and giving it a light squeeze, enough contact to let him know she was not repulsed by him but easy enough not to hurt his still-healing injuries.
“Returning to your master is not an option then. How do I help get you back to the others?”
Nibbling slowly on his victuals, he swallowed and puzzled out the predicament, his eyebrows pinching in thought. “Don’t know. We ain’t told what to do next until we get to each station. The only thing I was told was to go to a church.”
“Think, Solomon. Do you remember anything else? Any names, either of a person or the church itself?”
Solomon closed his eyes in concentration. “All’s I heard ’em say was it was a church for the slaves.”
A church for the slaves? Keziah’s mind struggled to latch on to what the phrase might mean. With a start and a gasp, she mur
mured, “First African Baptist.” It had to be. It was the only church she knew of in that part of Savannah that might be described as “a church for the slaves.” Its congregation was completely Negro, the majority consisting of slaves from nearby homes who were allowed to attend their own house of worship on Sundays. But would the congregants be so bold as to smuggle their own in such a manner?
No, most people wouldn’t believe the meek, obedient slaves who attended there would have the intellect or capacity to do such a thing. Keziah suddenly smiled. She knew such a thing was possible. But she couldn’t just drop Solomon off at the door.
She searched his face. “Keep thinking, Solomon. Anything else. A person mentioned, perhaps?”
Wiping the ham grease from his lips with the back of his good hand, the boy wrinkled his nose. “Don’t recall a name. I did hear some talk about a blacksmith, but no one told me his name.”
She frowned. There were any number of such men in Savannah.
Solomon took a nibble of the cheese and murmured, “The man told us this blacksmith was a friend to slaves.”
A friend . . .
Giddy relief danced through her chest. Friends and Brothers—the blacksmith and farrier’s shop. Marcus Brothers. She’d never met the man but had heard her father praise him. A good craftsman.
Grasping Solomon’s arms, she moved closer and looked him directly in the eyes, an attempt to press the importance of her plea into his child soul. “I think I know where the church is, but going there will take some planning. It’s not safe to keep you here through the night. There’s no secure hiding place, but I’ll figure out how to get you away. Do not leave this stable for any reason. Please.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes’m.”
She stood and brushed the dirt from her skirts. “Drink the jug of water while you wait for me to return.”
The poor boy would likely fall into a sleep, exhausted as he was. Now for the more daunting task. How was she to sneak him all the way across town without being discovered?
Keziah knocked as loudly as she dared on the house settled next to the blacksmith shop. She bit her lip. Past midnight already, and the chance of Mr. Brothers hearing her timid knock was remote.
She glanced back to where Hiriam stood waiting in the darkness, holding the reins to Molasses with a gussied-up Solomon perched in the saddle. Not that anyone would suspect it was a young slave boy nestled atop the nickering mare, clothed as he was in a small dress, complete with pinafore and bonnet.
She knocked lightly again, trembling under her own racing heart. She felt Hiriam’s disapproving frown on her back as she impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot. Back at the house, he’d caught her trying to hitch up Molasses and demanded to know what she was doing leaving so long after dark. She had no choice but to spill the whole awful truth.
At first, he’d stubbornly refused to involve himself, insisting the foolhardy plan would put her in grave danger, and even threatening to tell Father. But when she’d pulled Solomon from the darkness, forcing Hiriam to look into the solemn eyes of the boy so thirsty to be free, something in the old slave’s expression changed. With a weary sigh, the driver reluctantly agreed to help . . . just this once.
She frowned. Why his initial reluctance? His vehemence had surprised her. Shouldn’t Hiriam be burning to take action, even more than she was? It didn’t make sense.
Even though she had initially put on a brave face, insisting she would go with or without him, she was relieved he’d acquiesced. His wisdom and quiet strength were the only things holding her in place at the moment. She shook like a brittle autumn leaf.
The door jerked open and she gasped, peering into the face of a very large, very grouchy-looking, bearded giant of a man. He held no lantern, no candle, but squinted at her through the inky blackness of night.
“May I help you?”
She tried to speak, sucking in a sharp breath, but her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.
“Miss?” His dark brows furrowed, eyes snapping. “Did you knock on my door simply for the joy of rousing me from a decent night’s rest?”
Stung by his barb, she straightened her shoulders. “Absolutely not. I’m here because my horse threw a shoe and we are desperate to be on our way.”
He shook his head and stepped back from the door. “Sorry, miss. I don’t do that kind of work until the sun is up.”
“Please.” A burst of courage propelled her forward, and she wedged her boot in front of the doorjamb before he could shut her out. “I don’t know who else to turn to.” She enunciated each word slowly, desperate to convey a message rife with double meaning. “I have a package I’ve promised to deliver tonight and cannot without your help. I was told you were a friend to be trusted.” She arched a brow, praying that if he was the man she sought, he would catch on. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”
He stared at her, his gaze discerning, taking her measure. She refused to cower or look away.
After a long moment, he gave a curt nod. “Very well. Bring your animal into the livery next door. I’ll meet you over there shortly. And don’t forget your package. It would be a shame to lose it while I work.”
A surge akin to euphoria sliced through her veins. He understood. Stepping back, she slunk into the shadows and motioned to Hiriam. “Come. Follow me.”
The hopefulness in Solomon’s faint whisper pierced her heart. “Will this man help me?”
She patted his knee. “Yes, Solomon. Very soon, you’ll be on your way to freedom.”
She paced in the dark confines of the livery, impatient for Mr. Brothers to appear. Solomon watched her with a sense of calm that belied his age, but Hiriam looked as nervous as a worm on a hot rock. Just when she thought she could stand it no longer, the door creaked open and the giant Mr. Brothers approached.
“That was a mighty foolish thing you did, miss.”
Taken off guard by the rebuke, she arched her back like a riled cat. “Pardon? I’m merely trying to help this child who came to me for assistance.”
Mr. Brothers came close, and she took a hesitant step backward, even as Hiriam moved to stand beside her. The giant’s expression was fierce, but his voice held no anger, only concern. “If you want this post to continue operating, you must follow the rules. Lives are counting on it.”
Her shoulders slumped. Feeling like a foolish child, she could do nothing more than nod, chastised by the enormity and recklessness of what she’d undertaken.
“Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking. This has never happened before.”
His bushy black eyebrows shot up. “This is your first time conducting?”
Conducting? “I—yes. That is, I suppose so,” she stammered.
The fierceness lining his face relaxed a degree, though his eyes gave a warning. “Don’t fret. I’ll take the boy to the next station. But in the future, don’t knock on my door in the dead of night. It might arouse suspicion. Next time find a way to pass me a note during business hours. Be discreet. Wise as serpents, harmless as doves.”
She nodded wordlessly, gave a parting squeeze to little Solomon, and slipped back out into the street, Hiriam and Molasses two steps behind.
Would the boy be safe? Had she done the right thing trusting a stranger, a cranky giant who could very well be an impostor? How would Solomon find his group? What if danger befell him?
Feeling like a mother abandoning her child, she joined Hiriam on the mare. They hurried as fast as they dared through the streets of Savannah, Keziah’s mind racing with every step. When they arrived home, Hiriam gave her a look that conveyed a dozen meanings before quietly slipping Molasses back into the stable.
She tiptoed into the house and escaped to her room without incident, kicked off her boots, and shed her dress. Squirming into her nightgown, she slid between the cold covers, her body buzzing with exhaustion yet pumping wildly with purpose.
Eyes gritty, it wasn’t until she heard the grandfather clock downstairs chime four times that she recalled Mr. Brot
hers’s admonition. “Next time find a way to pass me a note during business hours. Be discreet. Wise as serpents, harmless as doves. . . .”
Next time.
She feared Mr. Brothers was all too correct. She’d unwittingly opened a door that could never be shut.
CHAPTER 7
NOVEMBER 11, 1861
“Two letters came for you, missy.”
Offering Elizabeth a smile, Keziah set her cup of steaming coffee on the parlor table and took the wrinkled letters from the servant’s outstretched hand. Sleepiness tugged at her, though it was ten in the morning. A yawn escaped and she tried to cover it with the back of her hand.
Elizabeth frowned. “You been doing a powerful lot of yawning lately. Are you patrolling the city during the night watch?”
Unsettled by how accurate the jest was, she gave the curious woman a weak smile and prayed Elizabeth would change the subject. Keziah was indeed tired, but she couldn’t say why. For indeed, she was roaming the streets of Savannah in the dead of night.
Somehow the underground network of people working to lead escaped slaves to freedom had been alerted to Keziah’s sympathy for the cause. Perhaps it was through Mr. Brothers’s instruction. She didn’t know. All she knew was that since delivering Solomon to the blacksmith a week ago, two more escaped slaves had been routed to her, both of them hiding in the stable on separate occasions.
After the escapade with Solomon, Hiriam had steadfastly refused to help her anymore, saying she was playing with fire and he would not be responsible for encouraging her to risk her life. She’d reminded him that Solomon’s appearance was an accident, purely providential, and that she’d only helped him out of compassion. But the look the old servant gave her forced her to admit, if only to herself, that such a decision had already put her in the thick of danger.
Instead of beseeching him further, she’d smuggled the terrified slaves to the blacksmith herself. Alone.
She suppressed another yawn and blinked hard. She must get more sleep. Dr. Kelsie and Micah had both pressed the importance of sufficient rest. The last thing she wanted to deal with was another epileptic attack.