The Last Runaway

by Tracy Chevalier

  “He could of asked the wrong person about me, then what kind o’ trouble I would of been in,” Mrs. Reed continued. “Course they’s mostly sympathizers here, but not so many as you might think, and you can’t always tell ’em apart. Best to be cautious. Next time, tell ’em to look for a candle in the rear window of the red house on Mill Street. Then they’ll know it’s safe to come. If that signal change I’ll let you know.” Mrs. Reed increased her stride, and Honor hurried to keep up.

  “Usually springtime’s when you get the most runaways—winter too cold, summer they busy in the fields and their masters lookin’ after ’em. But they’s gonna be a flood of passengers this fall now it look like the Fugitive Slave Law comin’ in. People who thought they was safe up here now thinkin’ twice and headin’ for Canada. Even coloreds in Oberlin lookin’ over they shoulder. Not me, though. I’m stayin’ put. My running days behind me.”

  Donovan had mentioned the Fugitive Slave Law to Jack, but at the time Honor had been too feverish to ask what he meant. She wanted to ask Mrs. Reed now, and why there would be more runaways, and who else was helping. But Mrs. Reed was not someone of whom you asked too many questions. “What more can I do?” she said instead.

  Mrs. Reed gave Honor a sideways look and rolled her tongue over her teeth. “Get you a crate and put it upside down behind your henhouse. Put a rock on it to weight it down so animals can’t get at it. Put you some victuals there—anything you got. Bread’s best, and dried meat. Apples when they come in. Y’all make peach leather?”

  Honor nodded, remembering the hot peach pulp that scalded her arms as she stirred it, drying into tough strips that softened in her mouth into tangy sweetness.

  “That kind o’ thing. Food that’ll travel. Even dried corn better than nothin’. I’ll get word to the people sending runaways your way so they know what to look for. Don’t ever talk to me about it, though.”

  They were getting curious looks—not hostile, as Honor suspected would be the case in other towns, but nonetheless an acknowledgment of the rarity of a white woman and a black woman talking together in public. By now they had reached the First Church, a large brick building on the northeast corner of the square. Mrs. Reed shook her head as if to say, “I’m done with you,” and hurried up the steps. Honor dropped back, for Quakers did not go inside what they called steeple houses. Mrs. Reed probably knew that.

  “Was thy daughter pleased with her wedding dress?” she called as the black woman was about to disappear inside.

  A wide smile cracked open Mrs. Reed’s sober face. “She looked good, oh yes she did. That was a success.”

  * * *

  The next time a runaway came to the farm, Honor was more prepared. One evening when she and the Haymakers were sitting on the front porch to catch the last of the daylight, Donovan rode by. Jack lowered the newspaper he had been reading, Dorcas stopped sewing a tear in her skirt, and Honor paused, her needle half in and half out of the red appliqué she was working on for the new quilt. Only Judith Haymaker continued to rock back and forth in her chair as if there had been no interruption. Donovan raised his hat and grinned at Honor but did not stop, disappearing down the track into Wieland Woods.

  “Must be a runaway somewhere nearby,” Jack said. “There is no reason for him to be over this way otherwise.” He glanced at Honor as if to reassure himself.

  “They were saying at the store that a Greenwich family who had been helping runaways has stopped because of the Fugitive Slave Law,” Dorcas remarked. “Now that part of the Railroad is disrupted, some of them are ending up over this way rather than going through Norwalk.”

  “That Greenwich family has sense,” Judith Haymaker declared, “though doubtless another will take their place.”

  “What—what is the law?” Honor asked.

  “It means a man like that”—Judith jerked her head at Donovan’s back—“can demand we help him capture a runaway or be fined a thousand dollars and imprisoned. We would lose the farm.”

  “Congress is on the verge of passing it,” Jack added. “Caleb Wilson led a discussion of the law at a Meeting for Business during thy illness, Honor, so thee did not hear. It was decided that each individual must follow his own conscience when it comes to helping fugitives or obeying the law.”

  Honor looped the thread through itself, pulled tight, and bit off the end.

  * * *

  The next morning when she went to collect eggs, there were two fewer than usual, and the chickens—normally laying like clockwork—seemed upset. Honor told her mother-in-law she had stepped on the eggs and broken them, though she hated lying, and suspected Judith did not believe her anyway.

  Later, though, she took some leftover corn bread, smeared it with butter, folded it in a handkerchief and hid it beneath a crate she had taken from the wagon shed where Jack kept farm tools, a rock on top to weigh it down and signal that something was concealed there. It was a risk—any of the Haymakers might find it, or Donovan if he came snooping. The next morning when Honor went to collect eggs, the corn bread was gone, the handkerchief neatly folded. She left a few pieces of bacon that evening, but in the morning they were still there, crawling with ants. Runaways must not linger, she reasoned, or people would notice.

  She began to keep a closer eye out for signs of runaways: rustling in the woods; Digger’s barking in the night; the shifting of the cows in the barn. More than these clues, though, Honor began to be able to sense when a presence hovered on the outskirts of the farm. It was as if she carried an inner barometer that measured the change in the surrounding area, as one senses the air swelling before a thunderstorm. The shift was so clear that she marveled none of the others seemed to notice. To her, people’s beings gave off a kind of cold heat. Perhaps that was what Friends meant by an Inner Light.

  Often she did not see the runaways, and could only be sure they were out there when the food she hid disappeared. Each time she waited for one of the Haymakers to find the crate and accuse her. But no one went behind the henhouse unless a chicken got out or Jack took the hoe to the snakes that lived in holes there and stole eggs. He normally announced he was doing this, and Honor hid the crate until he was done. To her surprise, and sometimes shame, she was growing used to stealing, and to hiding what she was doing. It was not like her, and it went against Quaker principles of honesty and openness. But since she had come to America, Honor was finding it harder and harder not to lie and conceal. At home her life had been simple and open, where even the heartbreak of losing Samuel was conducted in front of family and community. Among the Haymakers, Honor felt she was constantly working to keep from speaking out, and maintaining a blank expression so that her thoughts and behavior did not clash openly with her new family.

  Yet while she said nothing and accepted that it was for her to adjust to the Haymakers, she could not agree with their stance on slavery and fugitives. And so she kept watch, and noted when she became aware of a presence, and looked for ways to help that would not bring attention to what she was doing. She must not seem to be disobeying her husband’s family. Underneath it all, though, she was.

  It was not easy to hide her activities. A farm is run communally, with all taking part and working together. Honor was rarely alone. If she was working in the garden—as she often did, for it felt more familiar to her than the rest of the farm—Judith or Dorcas was at the kitchen window, or shaking rugs outside, or making butter on the back porch, or pegging out laundry in the yard. Once the cows were milked, Jack led them out to pasture for the day, and then mended fences, or chopped firewood, or delivered cheese to neighboring towns, or mucked out the pigs, or groomed the horses, or worked in the fields. He was constantly busy with different tasks, and his movements were unpredictable.

  Slowly Honor found gaps where she could be alone. Though she was not keen to help with the cows, she willingly took over the chickens, for it was harder to make mistakes with them. Every morning she fed them and collected their eggs; once a week she cleaned out the henhouse. J
ack and Dorcas were busy milking then, while Judith was at the stove making breakfast, and Honor was free to check the food crate. When she went to the outhouse to use it or empty chamber pots, she could fill an old mug with water and leave it under the crate or at the edge of the woods. She did these things, always expecting that eventually she would be found out, and not knowing what she would do then.

  While the weather was mild, passing fugitives remained in Wieland Woods, only venturing out to look for food under the crate. Honor never saw them, or heard of them, unless they were caught by Donovan or another slave hunter. Donovan in particular liked to advertise his victories to Honor, making sure to ride by the Haymakers’ farm, even when it was out of his way. Often he had the runaway shackled and bound and forced to ride behind him, struggling not to be bounced off the horse’s back.

  One evening when the Haymakers were sitting on the porch, Donovan rode up, raised his hat, then nudged the man he had caught off his horse. Honor leaped up, but Jack grabbed her and held her back. “Do not get involved, Honor. He wants thee to.”

  “But a man needs help. He may be hurt.” The runaway was lying facedown in the dust, kicking his legs to try to roll onto his side.

  “It is a victory to a man like Donovan if thee goes to him.”

  Honor frowned.

  “Do what thy husband tells thee,” Judith Haymaker said. “And do not look at me like that.”

  Honor winced at her sharp tone, and looked to Jack to soften his mother’s command. He did not: he was watching Donovan, arms folded across his chest.

  “Haymaker, help me out here,” Donovan called. “I got a live one tryin’ to escape.” When Jack did not immediately move, Donovan grinned. “You want me to quote the law? I’m happy to oblige you: ‘All good citizens are hereby commanded to aid and assist in the prompt and efficient execution of this law wherever their services may be required.’ See, I learned to read just to be able to quote words like that. Now, you gonna be prompt and efficient or you want me to bring you in for breakin’ the law? Or maybe you’d like a little stay in jail, away from your pretty wife.”

  Jack’s jaw flexed. He is caught, Honor thought, just as I am caught. Is it worse to have no principles, or principles you cannot then uphold?

  She stood on the porch and watched while her husband helped Donovan pick up the black man and heave him back into the saddle. The man’s face was bruised, his clothes torn, but as Donovan rode away the slave’s eyes met Honor’s for a moment. Donovan did not see the exchange, but Jack did. He glanced at his wife, and she dropped her gaze. Even looking was becoming dangerous.

  Faithwell, Ohio

  10th Month 30th 1850

  Dearest Biddy,

  I have been meaning to write to thee these last several weeks, but each time I pick up my pen I fall asleep over my words. We have been so busy bringing in the crops that I am too tired to do anything other than eat and wash before falling into bed. Then I am up at dawn for the milking. Yes, I now know how to milk a cow! Judith has insisted on it, and I do understand that if I am truly to be a Haymaker I must take part in the milking.

  I confess at first I was terrified of the cows. They are so big and solid and bony, and would do what they like rather than what I wish them to, shifting and stamping and pushing at me. I was frightened that they would step on my foot and break it, and was always jumping out of the way. Even when Judith gave me the more placid cows, I found it hard to master the technique. My hands are small and my arms are not strong. (Judith and Dorcas’s forearms are as thick as fence posts!) For a time it took me twice as long to milk a cow as the others. I think they despaired of me, especially as I wasted so much milk from the cows kicking over my pail.

  It is an odd thing to touch a cow’s udders. At first it did not feel right, and I thought it would upset them. But Dorcas taught me to spit on my hands so that I would not chafe them, and the cows seem not to mind. Little by little I have become more confident, and in the past week I have not had one pail spilled. Perhaps my arms are stronger, for now I can milk a cow in fifteen minutes. That is still slower than the others, who take only ten minutes. But I am persevering. I have even begun to enjoy the milking: there is something calming about leaning against a cow’s flank and coaxing milk from her. Sometimes I even have that sinking-down feeling that I get at Meeting.

  I am glad to be able to help. Indeed, I must help, if the farm is to grow. Each year the Haymakers try to add a cow to the herd, if they have brought in enough extra hay to support one. Jack is very pleased that we managed three good crops of hay this summer, which means that we can afford to keep the calf born last month.

  I can picture thee now, smiling at my talk of cows and hay and crops. I too never thought I would live such a life. If thee could see the pantry here, thee would be amazed at the rows and rows of jars filled with all the food from the garden: beans and peas and cucumbers and tomatoes and squash. The cellar is full of potatoes and turnips and carrots and beets, and apples and pears. The cherries and plums are in syrup or dried. We are now making apple sauce, apple butter, and drying apple rings as well.

  Of course back home we put up our garden too, but not as extensively as here. We must have five times the produce that Mother put up. It was a great deal of work, and I stank of brine and vinegar, and have burns on my hands and arms from hot syrup or the wax we used to seal the jars. At times I thought of the ease of going to the shops in Bridport and simply buying what we needed. But here we haven’t the money. Moreover, the Haymakers—indeed, everyone—take great pride in being self-sufficient. It is satisfying to look in the pantry and see it brimming. And the hay is topping the haymow; the corn crib is full of dried corn. The pigs are fattening fast and will be slaughtered in a month or two, the chickens will be bottled (yes, they put them in jars!), and Jack is going hunting for deer. In short, the farm is ready for the winter, which they say is long and very cold. I do not think I will mind it—I prefer snow to the suffocating heat. Actually I am enjoying the autumn here—fall, they call it, for the falling leaves. It has been quite mild, though the nights are sharp, and there was a frost two weeks ago. The leaves are glorious colours, far more vivid than any I have seen in England: bright red and orange maples, so plentiful here, gold birches, purple oaks. The sight makes my heart glad.

  I am getting on a little better with Judith and Dorcas, now that they see I can be useful. I have learned to defer to Judith and let her tell me what to do, for if I go my own way I always err, in her eyes. It is wearying at times, but easier than trying to justify my methods. And, by submitting to her, it gives me more freedom, as she does not scrutinise me quite so much. Also it lessens the strain I feel at times with Jack, that he is being pulled between us. It is not easy, joining another family.

  I am afraid that I have failed in my cooking. They do not like it; they say it is too delicate. Indeed, the ingredients here do not respond as I would like them to. When I try to make a posset, the milk burns rather than curdles. The flour is so coarse that my pastry falls apart. The beef is tough and I don’t know how to make it as tender and tasty as English lamb. There is no lamb—cows fare better here than sheep. The ham and bacon are so salty I can barely eat them. The Dutch oven is too hot and burns everything. And whatever I cook tastes of corn, whether I am using it or not. Now I simply do what Judith asks of me—chopping, scrubbing, sweeping.

  The one thing I am truly valued for here is my sewing and quilting. Judith has handed over all of the sewing, and I have happily taken it. At several of the frolics I have been asked to quilt the central panel, as that is the one most noticed on a bed.

  I am now working on a quilt for Dorcas to replace one of those she gave me for my marriage—the first of three I owe her. I am making good progress on it. Dorcas has settled on an appliqué pattern they call a President’s Wreath, made of circles of red flowers and green leaves on white fabric arranged in repeated blocks. They are bordered first in solid red, then with an outer border of a trailing green vine, with
more red flowers all around. The colours, being complementary as well as standing out against the white, are very bold. The effect is striking but much less subtle than what thee and I are accustomed to. I drew it out for her, with her changing her mind several times about the details—vines in green or red, the size of the wreaths, daisies alternating with tulips or not. Then she changed her mind again after I had already cut out the pieces! I thought I would have to throw away a great deal of cloth, and be considered wasteful, but for once Judith came to my rescue and told Dorcas to let me decide what is best. In that one area, then, I am my own mistress.

  I did manage to convince Dorcas to let me use printed material rather than plain, so the red has tiny blue dots, the green tiny yellow. That way the appliqué will look less flat. It was one small victory, and makes me more willing to work on the quilt. Then, too, appliqué does go much quicker than patchwork, so at least I will not be working on this one for too long. By the time I make the next, perhaps I will have persuaded her to allow me to make her an English patchwork quilt, even if it takes much longer.

  I wonder sometimes why I don’t make quilts for myself and simply give back hers when they are done. We have not used them yet anyway—at the moment Jack and I are sleeping under my signature quilt and the whole-cloth white quilt made for us the week before our wedding. I have not suggested this idea to Judith, however, for I sense that she and Dorcas would not like the suggestion. Mine will be the better made, and Dorcas would prefer that, as long as she gets the pattern she wants. I look forward to the quilting, as she has fewer opinions about that element of the work, and I can quilt the patterns I prefer. I think I will quilt a running feather border, though it is more difficult than other patterns. Then when one looks past the red and green wreaths and flowers, one may see that bit of sewing which is truly me.