The House Girl
Page 22
Kate, perhaps you will think this improper but there is something in Jack that held me & I admit that I did linger even after he passed back the empty glass. Father finally arrived from the workshop & shook Jack’s hand. He murmured words of condolence & the two walked off. My eyes followed them & Kate, I felt such a stirring of sympathy for Jack—abandoned by his brother, his Father not right in the head (so Mother says), & left to arrange his dead Mother’s interment. I am glad that Jack came to Father, for he will lend a helping hand & a sympathetic ear.
Yours,
Dorothea
July 6, 1848
Dearest Kate,
Today we laid Jack Harper’s good mother to rest. I remember her scarcely at all, she was rarely in town & never once called socially on Mother or for Father’s services. But no doubt she was a good, kind-hearted woman, I am sure of it as Jack seems such a worthy person. All members of the congregation were in attendance, save the poorly Mrs. Broadmoor. Pastor Hoady spoke of Mrs. Harper’s godliness & thrift, her service as dutiful mother & wife, her striving to fulfill God’s will in all manners of daily life & toil. I could not help but steal glances at Jack, who sat stony-faced beside his Father. Nothing seemed to move him, no words from the Pastor or well wishes from the neighbors who filed past following the sermon. His Father too displayed no emotion apart from an abject tiredness & he leaned upon Jack’s shoulder as the well-wishers filed past. Unlike the custom with Pastor Shaw, Pastor Hoady did not invite the congregation to the parish house but instead encouraged us all to retire to home & reflect in solitude on the blessed journey of the departed.
Jack & his Father were fast into their carriage & away but a group lingered, ourselves included. There was much conversation outside the church, though I suspect less of the sacred nature than Pastor Hoady would have wished. Mr. Gilkeson was there, milling about with the other landowners, speaking of the loss of his slave Alfred Joiner and where could he have gone, he must have been aided by one among the neighboring farms, and what he wouldn’t do to any such scoundrel caught harboring another man’s property.
Mother, Samuel & I stood some distance apart from the men but still I heard his words, he spoke them with such force. Presently Father bade the group good-bye & came to join us & we made our way home under the noon-day sun. We rode in silence, Father & Mother both with faces set and grim.
Yours,
Dot
July 21, 1848
Dearest Kate,
I am sorry to be so long delayed in answering your last letter. We have had much activity here recently, & my nights have been full. I hesitate to describe the particulars of each sorry case Father & I have seen appear at the barn door like apparitions come from the darkness. There have been 5 since last I wrote, 4 men & 1 woman. Father seems now to accept me as his helper, & we have arrived at a routine of sorts. He hides the fugitive away in the barn & sets to work on ascertaining the best means of escape while I prepare food & drink & retrieve items of clothing or blankets, medicine, or whatever else may be needed. I sit with the fugitive while he eats & it is these times that have proven immensely illuminating. Last night’s fugitive was an elderly gentleman of 58 years, Langston Crockett was his name, born & raised on a cotton plantation in Alabama, never traveled further than the perimeters of that estate in his whole long life until setting foot upon the path north, & now we find him, brought to Father’s barn by a neighboring conductor. On his right hand, instead of a thumb he had only a stump of flesh, the result of a punishment some 30 years prior for the sin of fainting dead away in his pickers’ row while ill with fever.
Father & I have arrived at a problem. We cannot send them all inside the caskets as Father’s shipments are not so frequent as are the fugitives who appear at our door. Last night Father transported Mr. Crockett in the dead of night in the wagon, fitted now with a clever bottom panel such that the fugitives may lie beneath the floor of the wagon unseen by any who might examine it. Upon leaving, Father said that I was to bar the door, close & lock the shutters & remain inside until his return. The night was a long one. I scarcely closed my eyes, imagining our Father stopped by some patroller or the sheriff, but he returned unharmed, just as the sky showed dawn, with his task completed. But he cannot be ferrying large numbers in this manner. Such night-time activity will only rouse the suspicions of our neighbors and Father’s exhaustion would soon leave us without a livelihood.
I plan soon to involve Samuel in our activities, to give him the satisfaction of participating in our family’s good work. He has been quite taken with Pastor Hoady’s sermons of late & indeed their effect is difficult to escape. The Pastor leads the congregation in chanting & at times a great emotional wave sweeps through the hall such that people cry out spontaneously, or fall to the ground with writhing. It is both horrible & intoxicating to witness & is most affecting to the younger members of the church. I believe Samuel suffers still from the sudden loss of his Mother & those lost hours during which he sat with her body alone, awaiting his murderous Father’s return. With our parents’ love and guidance, he will in time inure to the devious charms of men like Preston Hoady.
I have not yet spoken to Father about my intention, but I am confident he will agree with me as to Samuel’s fitness for such work & indeed the need for another pair of helping hands.
Yours,
Dorothea
August 13, 1848
Dear Kate,
There has been a most distressing development. I have learned that the runaway from Mr. Gilkeson’s plantation—do you recall my letter about him? The gentleman Alfred Joiner who came to our door these many weeks past?—has been recaptured & is now bound once again for Charlotte County. A slavecatcher discovered him in Richmond & I have no doubt, is happily awaiting the substantial reward offered by Mr. Gilkeson for Alfred’s return. It pains me beyond measure to consider that this has been the outcome of his flight.
It was Jack Harper who told us the news. He came to call this afternoon, bringing Mother a basket of fine apples from their trees. He told us that his own dear Father had passed on, peaceably dead in his sleep, joining his own beloved wife in Heaven. Jack dug a simple grave himself, his Father having wished for no ceremony or fuss.
We sat, all 5 of us, to visit & express our condolences. Presently Jack relayed the story of poor Alfred & of Mr. Gilkeson’s vow to whip him until he divulges the name of any & all who assisted him in his escape. Jack knows not where Alfred & the slavecatcher are now on their journey, but it seems certain they will arrive back in Lynnhurst within the week.
This is my worst fear realized—certainly we shall be revealed. And what then? Will Gilkeson take Alfred at his word? Shall we try to dissuade Gilkeson from believing in such a confession, that a whipped man is inclined to say any number of untrue things? Shall we leave town now, even before the slavecatcher’s return, forfeiting our home & livelihood? Poor Jack throughout his visit knew not the agitation his words provoked. I sat gripping the seat of my chair as he spoke, & Father’s face washed white as ash. Mr. Gilkeson is adamant, Jack said, truly committed to discerning the truth.
What will become of Mother & Samuel? Will our neighbors believe that it was Father & I alone who acted in defiance of the law? What will they do to Father? And how might we continue to assist the fugitives? Think of the numbers whom we might still help, think of the man or woman who even now may be readying a pack, counting the minutes until nightfall when escape will be at hand.
Yours,
Dorothea
August 14, 1848
Dear Kate,
It is scarcely 24 hours since I posted my last letter & already there is great change in our situation. Even as I wrote my troubled lines to you yesterday, Alfred & the slavecatcher had already returned to Gilkeson’s farm & Alfred whipped to death. He said not a word before his death but remained silent as the grave, not even crying out in pain as the whip bore down. Father heard the tale from Gilkeson’s overseer, who himself administered the lashes. We are not reveal
ed, we can continue unmolested in our efforts, that is the only solace here. The rest is simple tragedy, pure & unrelieved. Surely Gilkeson does not now believe that this example will weaken the Negroes’ desire for freedom? The punishment meted out on poor Alfred will do nothing to dissuade others from fleeing. It will only strengthen their resolve. Men like Mr. Gilkeson or Mr. Stanmore cannot guess at the intensity of feeling to throw off the shackles & yoke. Perhaps it is that living as they do, Lords of their personal kingdoms with nary a voice to raise above theirs, they have no way of imagining a life bereft of autonomy. You & I can so imagine, can’t we, Kate?
Today I have told Samuel of our work. I did not seek Father’s permission beforehand & even now he does not know the extent of Samuel’s understanding. Perhaps this was foolish of me, perhaps Father will scold me for it later, but we desperately need another to assist in our activities. Samuel can run ahead to the next safe lodging, he can fetch the supplies that the fugitives need for their journeys, he can perform any number of useful tasks that now have Father & I running to & fro all night long. He looked at me wide-eyed as I told him my tale—the man in the barn, Father with the hammer—and of the recent horrible events & our blessed release from suspicion. He asked me not a single question, only nodded his head gravely. Perhaps it was too much for him to take in at a single sitting & me in such a state today, weeping & so forth. Samuel is a good boy, I have great faith in him, that he will support Father & I. We must continue with even greater secrecy than before.
Your adoring sister,
Dot
August 28, 1848
Dearest Kate,
What times these are for us, Kate. Last night a girl came to the house. She was heavy with child, though she seemed not to understand, she only wanted to flee. She would not tell us from where she ran. It did not seem that she had come far, her feet were hardened but did not bleed though she was nearly delirious with exhaustion. I feared for her child & for herself, she was not fully present in her mind. After much entreaty, she told us that her name was Josephine.
Lina stopped reading. Josephine. Heavy with child. A descendant. Lina looked to the photo of Lu Anne and Josephine on the porch and smiled because of what this meant for the reparations case and also for Josephine herself, for the girl running in the night, searching for a barn, and at last it appears, a lantern perhaps lighting the path, and Dorothea ready with some food, a blanket, an onward journey.
But what had happened? Lina checked the relevant dates: Dorothea’s letter was dated August 1848, but the photo of Josephine and Lu Anne at Bell Creek was taken in 1852. Why had Josephine gone back? And where was her child?
Lina checked her watch. Only an hour remained before the cab would take her to the airport. She resumed reading, faster now, her pen poised over paper, jotting the important dates and facts: Last night a girl came to the house.
She had scarcely anything with her, no pack or parcel, just an ear of corn in one pocket & a drawing of a woman in the other, a drawing quite expertly made. I asked her who was the artist but she did not answer, only looked to it with a certain sadness. She was young, younger than myself, & Father & I were both deeply moved by her. I sat with her quietly, stroking her head as Father fetched food from the larder & left the two of us to ourselves. Perhaps he thought that she & I would speak as girl friends might, or as sisters, but it was too difficult, our worlds were too far apart. She refused to speak of the events that had led her to our barn, despite my patient urgings. Instead she spoke of the colors of the sky & the mountains, chickens beset by a pox, children laughing & playing, a cow gone dry, sheets blowing on a dry wind. It was an odd story she told, not even quite a story but more a series of pictures she painted for me in the air.
When Father finally returned, she lay asleep across the floorboards, her head resting lightly against my leg. “We cannot send her,” Father said. “She is not right in the head and her child could come at any time. She would never last the journey.” Indeed I had considered the same, but what then were we to do? I thought it best for her to sleep, then we might give her a good meal, help her return to herself, & transport her in the wagon, on to another station in the Railroad, a less dangerous locale, where she might be safer. Father’s reply surprised me. “We cannot risk her in the wagon. The space is close under the boards, she might scream or start to birth her child. The patrollers are more numerous since Alfred’s capture & I cannot place us at risk.”
I carefully shifted her head & stood so that I might look Father in the eye. “What then would you have us do? We cannot forsake this girl, she has come to us for help.” He answered, “We cannot save them all. There are great risks for us, for Samuel & your Mother, were we to be discovered. Would you have us jeopardize all our efforts for this one?” We stood face to face as the girl slept on. I asked again what he would have us do. I have never spoken so coldly to Father before but anger & frustration rose up within me. Why this girl? Why were the risks now too great? “Perhaps we might bring her to the Sheriff with requests for mercy,” Father said. “I do not suggest we leave her on the road. We will arrive at a solution.”
Father spoke on but his solutions seemed impossible to me, for they were merely different routes to the same end—to return the girl to servitude & almost certainly to grave punishment. And in our solution we were condemning her unborn child as well. “I then will assist her. I will do it alone,” I told Father, believing fully that I possessed the capability. Who would suspect a girl such as myself? I would concoct a story, load the wagon with supplies for the journey, carry the small revolver that Mother keeps hidden away in the back pantry.
But Kate, all of this was not to be. How I wish Father & I had kept our voices low! For the girl Josephine awoke, unnoticed by us. She must have lain as if asleep, listening to our talk, to Father’s reticence, to his plans of return. At some point in our discourse—I know not if she ever heard of my intention to act alone—she stole away from the barn & ran into the cold night, storm clouds amassing overhead. I searched for her, I called out as loud as I dared into the darkness but she was gone.
Father said only, “I am sorry,” but his face spoke what his words did not. He saw a rift open up between us, & the rift healed as the girl disappeared into the night.
But the rift is not healed. I cannot forget Father’s heartlessness towards the girl, surely the one most deserving—of all the fugitives we have seen on our doorstep—of our help. And it is this girl we failed to aid.
Yours,
Dorothea
September 1, 1848
Dear Kate,
I cannot look Father in the eye. Surely Mother has noticed, though she says not a word about it, she simply goes about her tasks as though nothing has changed. I feel almost a physical shift, as though the sky has changed its color or the air has thickened so that my breathing comes harder now. Samuel, in his quiet watchful way, has seen the change in me & stays close during the days. Yesterday he nary left my side from morning till night & finally I whispered to him the sorry story of the girl. It was long past Samuel’s bedtime, he had crept up the stairs to slip under my blankets as he does after one of his nightmares.
At last we slept & I dreamt of her. She was running in my dream, but it was I who chased her, not the patroller or her master but I & she ran onwards, glancing behind her with eyes full of such fear as I struggled to keep up, breathless to explain myself. The girl’s eyes were quite remarkable, did I tell you? They were green & blue, flecked with yellow, wide & clear even in her exhaustion.
This morning I sat in church & heard scarcely a word uttered by Pastor Hoady, my mind was worlds away. I gazed at the altar above the Pastor’s head, the roughly carved cross that has darkened as the years progress until now it seems to gleam with a dark fire. Do you recall when the yellow grain still could be seen & each notch of the ax? When the wood was still new & green? I wondered at how the passage of time does not heal all wounds, how the hurt of Percy’s passing still cuts me today as it did in
those first moments on the riverbank, when Father heard my screams & finally pulled him from the water. Time does not heal, Kate, but it does ease the hurt. My hurt has eased. Already I feel as though it is my memory of that time by the river that cuts me, rather than the hurt itself. Does that sound foolish? And perhaps next year, it will be the memory of the memory, & with each step I am further removed from the true source of my sorrow. I do not know if this is better or worse. I suppose it is necessary for me to live. I would not survive myself to have always that grief so green & new. Will time ease the weight I feel at failing this girl? Yes, I hear your voice say & I do believe you. My pain will fade, but our error still remains. The act cannot be undone & it is these acts by which we are ultimately judged, by which we all must judge ourselves.
All this passed through my mind, this morning in church. I was thus lost until my attention was drawn away from the cross to a lone figure turned backwards on the pew—his face a flicker of pale against the sea of dark heads turned away, his eyes on mine. Jack Harper. He seemed to care not if Pastor Hoady saw his distraction. He smiled at me and I held his eyes for a moment only & then could not bear it & turned my gaze to my lap. When I raised my head again, his face was gone. I saw only row after row of featureless heads, each so like the next, but then easily I picked out Jack’s: the glint of his dark curls & the square set of his shoulders marked him for me as though he stood alone.