The Last Runaway

by Tracy Chevalier

  When we have finished our chores for the morning, Judith begins dinner and Dorcas and I sit by the stove and sew or knit. I am now working on the second red and white appliqué quilt I am making for her. I did not manage to convince her to let me make patchwork, but I do not mind so much now, as I am growing fonder of the simple cheerfulness of the design, especially during these grey months. It goes slowly, however: the cold and the stuffy air and the repetition of each day makes me slow-witted and less inclined to accomplish much. I make more mistakes, and must unpick them. When we were so busy in the autumn, I still managed to sew more than I do now. And it is hard to be so confined together; at times it makes me almost wild with frustration. I feel trapped here, frozen into a house and a family I still do not feel I belong to.

  I miss the meadows of Dorset, which remained green all winter. I never appreciated them until faced with the prospect of months of brown, grey and white. I think now that the stunning show of leaves in red and yellow and orange in the autumn was one last gift from God to see us through these colourless winter months.

  We rarely see anyone else, for they are shut up in their houses, waiting out the winter. Only occasionally does someone brave the cold and snow to come for milk and cheese. And the milliner Belle Mills came once to visit—in a sleigh! (That is what they call sledges. I have had to learn many new words.) Does thee recall the parrot a sailor once had in Bridport? Her arrival was like that parrot landing in Faithwell—all bright feathers amongst the snow. Judith and Dorcas didn’t say a word. I was so pleased to see her I’m afraid I cried, and Belle teased me, for I cry every time I am with her. She is the only person in Ohio whose friendship approaches what thee and I have—and yet she is as different from thee as American robins are from English ones. Robins here are big and brash, with bright chests, compared to the delicate, more subtle bird thee knows.

  Belle brought me some beautiful tan silk I am hoping to use in a quilt when I have finished those for Dorcas. Then I will be able to make what I like, in the spring, when everything will come alive again.

  Thy faithful friend,

  Honor Haymaker

  Sugaring

  THE THAW WAS like a fist unclenching, with the world—and Honor in it—expanding in the newly formed palm. It was surprising how little time it took for the cold to lose its dominance. One day Honor woke and the air felt different: still icy but the sharp end of it blunted and less insistent.

  She was finishing the quilt for Dorcas, quilting it herself rather than having it done collectively at a frolic, for food stocks were low and it was not the time for such a celebration. As she sat over the small oval frame that held the fabric taut to make piercing with a needle easier, Honor realized she was not holding herself tense to combat the cold. Then Dorcas laughed at something Judith said—a sound Honor had not heard all winter—and she knew others were feeling the shift too.

  That night, as she lay against Jack’s warm back, monitoring another change that had taken place deep in her body over the past weeks, Honor heard the hopeful sound of dripping outside. Within a day the track to Faithwell had turned into deep, sticky mud, which was almost as hard to get through as snow had been. On her way to Meeting, Honor stepped up to her knees in it, and Jack, Dorcas and Judith all had to pull to extract her. Even then she left behind a boot, and Jack had to fetch a spade to dig it out.

  The next day he put taps into some of the maples in Wieland Woods to drain sap for syrup. After fresh corn, maple syrup was Honor’s favorite food in America. She had not thought anything could taste so sweet and earthy and resinous all at the same time. It was not a taste she could easily describe in letters to her family, and she wished she could send them some.

  After the dawn milking Jack took her out to Wieland Woods to collect sap for her first sugaring. Boiling it down for syrup took an entire day, so they must start early, bringing back sap that had dripped out during the night. Honor was glad to have a moment alone with her husband—so rare except when they were in bed. Winter had brought the Haymakers into a tight huddle that at times made her want to scream. Now, perhaps, she could enjoy his company without the press of Judith and Dorcas around them. At least there had been no spontaneous visits from Donovan to raise tensions further. As Mrs. Reed had predicted, there were few runaways in the winter; that, combined with the deep snow, had kept him away.

  Honor and Jack worked together in the woods, going from tree to tree and transferring sap from the pails hanging on the taps into larger buckets they carried. With its trees bare of leaves and the tangled thicket died back, Wieland Woods had lost some of its wildness during the winter, and Honor felt more comfortable and less threatened there. In the companionable silence, she decided to tell her husband news that would please him. She had held back during the cold, but the thaw shifted something inside her as well. “Jack—” she began.

  At that moment a black man stepped out from behind a bur oak, and Jack and Honor jumped.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you, sir, ma’am,” he said, removing his hat and rubbing a scraggly beard. “I heard they was Quakers up this way would look after a man if he asked.”

  “We are not—”

  “Thee is not far from Oberlin,” Honor interrupted her husband. “It is just three miles that way.” She pointed north. “When thee gets there, go to Mill Street—the second right off Main Street. There is a red house near where the street crosses over Plum Creek. Look for a candle in the back window, and they will help thee.”

  Jack stared at her in astonishment.

  The man nodded. “Thankee.” Pulling his hat down over his ears and wrapping his buttonless coat around him, he ran off in the direction she had indicated.

  Jack glared at Honor. “How does thee know all of that?”

  Honor could not meet his eyes, and instead studied the thin, transparent liquid in the pail. It would only turn brown after hours of boiling.

  “We knew thee was leaving out victuals, but didn’t know thee was talking to them and giving such detailed instructions—and talking as well to others working on the Underground Railroad, it seems.”

  Honor looked up. “Thee knew I was hiding food?”

  “Of course. It is difficult to hide anything from a farmer. I suppose thee hid runaways as well?”

  “A few times.”

  “I thought so.”

  In a way it was a relief to have her activities out in the open. “Why did thee not say anything?”

  “Mother wanted to, of course. She was furious that thee disobeyed us and was putting us at risk of being fined. And that thee was attracting that slave catcher.” Jack picked up the larger bucket and moved to the next tree. “But I asked her to let thee continue.”

  Honor followed him. “Why?”

  Jack took the smaller pail from the tap and poured the sap into the bucket. Then he gave her a sad, sober look. “I wanted to make thee happy, Honor, for I knew that thee was not. I thought if I could let thee act on thy principles, it would make thee more content to be my wife.”

  Honor stared at him. She had no idea he had been trying so hard to please her. Taking a breath, she reached out a hand, but he had already turned to the next tree. She should speak, tell him what she had been meaning to say, but the words were stuck in her throat. Once the moment had passed, it was impossible to bring up the subject again, especially as Jack was careful to keep his back to her.

  When they finished emptying the pails, Honor and Jack took the sap back to the farmyard. Jack had erected a temporary shack there, for boiling down sap created so much steam that it was best not to do it in the house. Judith and Dorcas had built a fire and hung a cast-iron cauldron over it. They would take turns stirring the sap all day, reducing it to a thick, dark syrup.

  Honor had wondered if Jack would remain quiet, but he immediately announced that they had seen a runaway in Wieland Woods, and repeated what Honor had told the man.

  Judith Haymaker glanced at her son as she took one of the buckets from him, and then
at Honor. “Thee must not start that nonsense again,” she declared, pouring the sap into the cauldron. “I have deferred to Jack’s wishes on this subject long enough. I am sure he will agree with me that not only must thee not put this farm at risk—thee must also think of thy and Jack’s child. It would not be fair for him to come into the world with the farm ruined.”

  Honor turned red. “What?” Jack barked.

  Judith widened her half-smile, though it did little to warm her face. “Honor, surely thee did not think thee could hide such a thing from me? It is clear in thy face and in how thee walks.” She turned to Jack. “Thee is a man and would not notice such things. I thought to wait for Honor to tell thee herself. I am sorry it has come out in this way, but thee needs to know, to help thy wife understand how much is at stake if she persists in this foolishness.”

  Jack turned to her. “Is this true? Thee is with child?”

  Honor nodded.

  Jack’s anger at her melted like snow in the sun. He put an arm around her. “I am glad.”

  “Thee must promise not to get involved again in helping runaways,” Judith continued. “It is illegal, it is dangerous, and the Haymakers cannot tolerate it any longer. We have suffered enough already.”

  “What—what does thee mean?”

  The Haymakers exchanged glances. Judith sighed. “Back in North Carolina we lost our farm from having to pay a large fine when we hid a runaway. There have been fines to pay even before this recent Fugitive Slave Law was enacted. The new law is simply more insistent, and harsher.”

  “Is that why the Haymakers moved to Ohio?”

  “Yes,” Jack said. “We could not bear to live there after what happened.”

  “I thought . . .” Honor stopped. Now was not the time to point out that he once said they had moved north because of principles, as most of the southern Quaker families who founded Faithwell had done. Perhaps principles were not as strong a motivation as the reality of losing money and land.

  Dorcas was stirring the sap faster and faster, her brow furrowed. “What Mother has not said—” she began, but a shake of Judith’s head stopped her. “Am I the only one who has to stir this?” she demanded. “I suppose Honor will have to stay away from it in her condition.”

  “Nonsense, she is not a fragile vase,” Judith said. “We will all take turns. So, Honor, thee must promise not to help slaves if they stop here.”

  “All right,” Honor promised, her heart sinking.

  “Good. Now thee can stir the sap. Dorcas, give Honor the spoon.”

  Faithwell, Ohio

  2nd Month 27th 1851

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I have news for you and the rest of the family: I am with child. I have thought so for some time now, but waited to tell you until the signs seemed certain. I am not sure when the baby will come, but think it may be in 9th or 10th Month. The Haymakers are pleased, of course, though Judith did feel she must point out that I will not be useful at harvest when I am so big or nursing.

  The baby has made me a little tired, but otherwise I am well, and not afflicted with the sickness other women have suffered early in their pregnancies—and for some like Abigail, even longer. She still suffers, though the baby is due in a month. (She says two months, but we know it will arrive sooner than that.) I have seen little of her this winter, or Adam Cox—and that is a shame. I had hoped to work in his shop now and then, but the Haymakers said they want me to remain on the farm with them. Though I am glad to have someone from home so close, we are not the friends I had hoped we would be. I expect it will take some time for the awkwardness between us to fade.

  I am pleased to report that there is no snow now, and it is a relief not to feel trapped inside. The days are warmer, though the nights are still very cold, and there are snowdrops and even a few early daffodils out. The willows are budding, bringing a welcome green to the grey and brown. In a few weeks we will be able to dig the garden.

  It is perhaps foolish of me to hope that one day you may meet your grandchild. That is in God’s hands.

  Your loving daughter,

  Honor Haymaker

  Milk

  HONOR’S DECISION NOT to help runaways any longer did not stop them coming. As the weather improved, a steady stream passed through from the south. Nor was it easy simply to turn them away as was expected of her.

  The first time it was not so hard. A man appeared from behind the outhouse when Honor was coming out. He looked at her expectantly but said nothing. She glanced over at the kitchen garden, where Judith was turning over soil in preparation for planting. Her mother-in-law had stopped and was leaning on the fork, watching them. Honor repeated the words she had been practicing in her head for this moment: “I am sorry but I cannot help thee.” Then she added in a low voice, “Go three miles north to Oberlin, to the red house on Mill Street and ask for help. God go with thee.” Surely telling him this would not be seen as helping him. Even as she said it, though, she knew that Judith would not approve.

  The man nodded, turned on his heel and disappeared into the woods.

  That was not so bad, Honor thought, feeling only a little awful. She waited for Judith to say something, but she simply went back to forking the garden.

  The next fugitive was an older woman, surprising Honor: most slaves who ran were younger, for they were stronger and more able to cope with the hardships of the road. She discovered her when Digger began to bark and snarl behind the henhouse, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the dog work himself into a frenzy. Her face was covered with deep lines, but her eyes were still clear, and yellow-brown like a cat’s. “Quaker lady, you got somethin’ to eat?” she asked when Honor had called off Digger. “’Cause I got a hunger.”

  “I am sorry but I cannot . . .” Honor could not complete the practical phrase she had learned.

  “Jes’ a piece of bread an’ some milk from one o’ them cows you got, an’ I’ll be on my way.”

  “Wait there.” Honor hurried to the kitchen, dragging Digger with her and shutting him inside. Luckily, both Judith and Dorcas were at the general store, and Jack was delivering milk. As she cut a slice of bread and a slab of cheese and poured milk into the tin mug, she tried out in her head the reasoning she would use with Judith: I am not hiding her, I am simply giving her food, as I would any passerby who asked.

  She watched the woman eat, keeping an eye on the track for any returning Haymakers. The old woman chewed the bread and cheese slowly, as she had few teeth left. After draining the mug, she smacked her lips. “Good milk. You got some fine cows there.” She rose to her feet and adjusted the rags bound around them in place of shoes, then brushed crumbs from her front. “Thankee.”

  “Does thee know where to go?”

  “Oh yes. North.” The woman pointed and, following her finger, began to walk.

  At dinner Honor waited until there was a pause, quelling her stomach with sips of water. “A fugitive came to the farm today while everyone was out,” she announced. “An old woman,” she added, hoping to soften the news by making the slave seem particularly needful. “I—I gave her some bread and cheese, and some milk. Then she left.”

  There was silence. “We have discussed this,” Judith said. “Thee has promised not to help runaways.”

  Honor swallowed. “I know. But it is hard to say no to someone who asks for food as she did. It is only what I would have done for any traveler. I was simply being courteous, not aiding a fugitive.” Her rehearsed argument sounded feeble.

  Judith pursed her lips. “Thy slave hunter, Donovan, would question that logic. In the future if thee has trouble turning coloreds away, come and get me.”

  The next time a runaway passed through, Honor could not take up Judith’s offer. She felt strangely protective, and did not want to subject any of them to her mother-in-law’s smiling mouth and flat eyes. The refusal would sound softer coming from herself. “I am sorry, but I cannot hide thee,” she said to a light-skinned man a few days later. Say
ing “hide” instead of “help” sounded less rigid, as if holding out the hope that she could still help in some small way. She took to carrying a piece of jerky in her apron pocket so that when she next said “I cannot hide you,” to two teenage boys, she handed them the food—more to make herself feel less guilty than to give them sustenance.

  Eventually, however, her practiced words failed her. One early spring morning, as she and Dorcas were crossing the yard after milking, she heard a cry from Wieland Woods that sounded like a baby. They stopped and listened. The baby’s cries came again, though muffled, as if someone were trying to quiet it.

  Honor stepped toward the trees, fuzzy with the green buds of leaves about to open. “Surely thee won’t go out there and look,” Dorcas chided, trailing behind her. “Has thee learned nothing from Mother?”

  “It may not be a runaway. It may be someone who has lost her way.”

  A short, tea-colored woman with round cheeks like pancakes was crouching in the brambles, hugging a child to her breast. She was hardly more than a girl. “You come to turn me in?” she said.

  “No,” Honor replied.

  “I ain’t got no milk left for her. That’s why she cries.”

  “Dorcas, go and get some milk, and something to eat,” Honor ordered.

  Dorcas gave her a look, but turned and went back to the house.

  While they waited, Honor tried to smile reassuringly at the baby, though it felt forced. “How old is she?”

  “Four months. Don’t know why I ran with a little baby. Ain’t fair to her. But I jes’ couldn’t take it no more.”

  “Where have you two come from?”

  “Kentucky. Ain’t so far as some has come. But it’s close enough my master come after me, him an’ a slave catcher from round here.”