The Last Runaway

by Tracy Chevalier

  When Honor did not immediately answer, Belle added, “I can tell you one thing.” She nodded at Mrs. Reed’s hat. “Maple leaves. You’re always pointing out that red they change to in the fall, saying that don’t happen with English trees.”

  Honor nodded. “Yes, they are beautiful. And the cardinals, and the red-bellied woodpeckers. I did not think birds could be so red. I also like hummingbirds.” She paused. “Fresh corn. Popcorn. Maple syrup. Peaches. Fireflies. Chipmunks. Dogwood trees. Some of the quilts.” She glanced at Mrs. Reed, thinking of the quilt in her front room.

  “Listen to you. Not so bad, is it? You keep lookin’, with an open mind, and you’ll find more.”

  A sound came then from the cradle: Comfort was not crying, but simply announcing, in her baby way, I am here.

  “Ah, baby girl.” Before Honor could move, Mrs. Reed had lifted Comfort from the cradle and was holding her against her chest and patting her back. Comfort did not cry, but lay in the stranger’s arms, accepting where she was. “Love the feeling o’ babies’ weight,” Mrs. Reed said. “They like a sack o’ cornmeal, just settin’ there all solid and waitin’ to be eaten up.” She smacked her lips against the baby’s ear. “I love me some babies.”

  Honor looked at her daughter and had for a moment that patchwork feeling of being locked into place, and fitting. This time it was not with Jack, but with two women, alike in ways that made their skin color irrelevant. But she knew it could not last: Mrs. Reed had her own community, and Belle—sitting now, already drained of whatever energy she had stored during the night—would not last long. Honor could not remain here; she saw that. The question was whether she could find that settled feeling elsewhere.

  * * *

  The sound was so loud that Belle and Mrs. Reed shouted. It made Honor go silent, though, and so did Comfort, though after a second she began to scream.

  Donovan had broken down the back door, kicking it in so that the hinges twisted and the glass shattered. The women jumped up and swung to face him, Mrs. Reed holding tight to Comfort.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty, Donovan, what are you doing?” Belle cried. “God damn you, breakin’ down my door! You’re gonna pay to have that fixed. Hell, I’ll make you fix it.”

  “Havin’ yourselves a little tea party, are you, ladies?” Donovan said. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m lookin’ for someone.”

  “She ain’t here—you missed her by a week.”

  “I ain’t missed her—she’s right here.” He grinned at Mrs. Reed.

  “What you want with me?” Mrs. Reed looked grim. Comfort was no longer screaming, but had settled into a steady wail.

  “Stop that goddamned baby crying,” Donovan growled.

  Mrs. Reed handed Comfort to Honor, who wrapped the baby in her shawl to protect her from the cold air coming in through the gap where the door had been.

  “What you want with me?” Mrs. Reed repeated.

  “Got a little business to take care of. Your old master in Virginia will be mighty pleased to see you back after all these years. Even if you an old woman now, he might still get some work out o’ you.”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Belle interjected. “She’s a free woman, lives in Oberlin.”

  “Oh, I know where Mrs. Reed lives, dear sister,” Donovan answered. “In that little red house on Mill Street, got all the interesting activity goin’ on. I know all about her—ran away from her master twelve years ago, her and her daughter. Don’t worry, I’ll be lookin’ for her too, and your granddaughter. Take you back all together. It’ll be worth it for the baby, grow up to make a fine slave, if she ain’t been spoiled yet by freedom.” He pronounced the last word as if it were a disease.

  “You can’t do that,” Belle protested. “She’s protected by the law. And the baby was born free.”

  “You know very well the Fugitive Slave Law gives me the power to take her back even if she ran away years ago.” He turned to Mrs. Reed. “Tell me, what are you doin’ down here having coffee with my sister and Honor Bright? That was a risk, wasn’t it, strayin’ so far from home, for what—her?” He jerked his head at Honor.

  Mrs. Reed did not answer except with the tight line of her mouth.

  Comfort had stopped crying and was now hiccuping. “Donovan, please leave Mrs. Reed alone,” Honor said in a low voice. She knew why he was doing this: to punish her for having a child with Jack. “Comfort and I will leave Wellington tomorrow and thee will never have to see us again. Please.”

  “Too late for that.” Donovan gazed at her and Comfort as if from a distance, his eyes flat, and Honor understood that something had clicked back into place, a way of thinking that was easier for him. The moment when they had stood together looking at the stumps outside Oberlin and he had offered to change for her now seemed a very long time ago.

  He took from his pocket a length of rope. Grabbing Mrs. Reed’s wrists, he twisted them behind her back and tied them together, all in a quick motion, as if expecting her to fight. Mrs. Reed did not fight, however. She simply looked at him over her shoulder, the spectacles blanking out her eyes.

  Then Belle ran at him and was on his back like a cat, beating at him and trying to choke him. Though her action surprised him, Belle was so weak that her blows had little effect, and Donovan threw her off easily. Honor stumbled over and crouched by her where she fell. Belle moved her hand a little. “Don’t mind me. Help Elsie.” For a moment Honor did not know whom she meant, then remembered: it was Mrs. Reed’s first name. Honor had never asked her.

  Donovan was already dragging his prize out of the back door and down the porch steps. Mrs. Reed did not resist so much as simply let her weight slump; in that way she seemed to maintain her dignity. He dragged her through the frosty crabgrass at the side of the house to the front and into Public Square. It was a cold, gray morning, and very still. Honor followed, still holding Comfort, who gasped in the chilly air, but otherwise remained silent. “Please stop, Donovan,” Honor called, knowing that it would have no effect. She looked around the square, hoping a neighbor would be out who might help. But it was deserted—everyone was at church. Even the hotel bar was empty.

  Everyone except her husband: Jack Haymaker was walking down Main Street from the north in his broad-brimmed black hat and his black coat, his suspenders flashing against his white shirt as he moved. He was carrying a bunch of late asters from his mother’s front garden. Moving steadily, he smiled as he caught sight of Honor and Comfort. Honor had never thought she would be so relieved to see him. “Jack!” she cried, and ran to him.

  Jack’s smile vanished, however, as he recognized Donovan, now struggling to get Mrs. Reed onto his horse.

  “Thee must help us!” Honor urged as she reached her husband.

  Jack stared at Donovan. He cleared his throat. “Friend, what is thee doing?”

  Donovan turned. Taking in the family triangle before him, he smiled. “Jack Haymaker,” he drawled. “Just the man I need. I been meanin’ to get you to help me with another runaway, but out of respect for your wife, I ain’t asked till now. Help me get this nigger up on my horse. She and I got a little trip to take.”

  “I don’t need his help to get up on this here horse,” Mrs. Reed interjected. “You jes’ give me a leg up and I’ll get on. Don’t need to involve them Quakers in this.”

  “Oh yes, I do need to involve ’em. So, Haymaker, you gonna help me and upset your wife, or break the law and ruin your farm and family? You chose the law last time I asked. You gonna do the same this time too? I hope so. You got a daughter now.”

  Jack turned pale. He glanced at Honor, and she felt a familiar sickening twist in her stomach. “Jack—” she began.

  “Don’t you do it, Jack Haymaker,” Mrs. Reed interrupted. “This man jes’ tryin’ to set your wife against you. Don’t you dare help him.”

  Jack looked around wildly. “Honor, I—” He took a step toward Donovan.

  Honor heard the click first. Somehow it seemed louder than the e
xplosion that followed.

  She screamed. Longer and louder than ever in her life, she screamed as Donovan’s chest burst like a red flower blooming; as his horse whinnied and bucked with the sound and broke free to run off down the street; as Mrs. Reed went, “Huh,” as if someone had punched her in the gut, and reeled into the walkway in front of the shop; as Comfort stiffened with fright and matched her mother’s scream with her own. Then Jack was gathering her and Comfort in his arms and squeezing them so tight that Honor could not breathe. She freed her face to draw in a breath, and saw over his shoulder Belle Mills, still standing by the side of the house, holding the shotgun she had once used to kill a copperhead. The gunpowder had sprayed into her face so that her yellowish skin was peppered with black. As Honor watched, Belle sank to her knees, her dress billowing around her, and laid the shotgun down in front of her.

  The blast had seemed so loud that Honor thought it would bring people running. It was surprising how long it took for anyone to reach them. The owner appeared in the doorway of Wadsworth Hotel, wiping his hands on a towel, but did not come over. The group of men who emerged from the Methodist Church made slow progress down the center of the street, as if in a dream.

  Honor was at Belle’s side, holding Comfort.

  “Don’t worry ’bout me, honey,” Belle said. “You know I’m dyin’. That’s been clear since we first met. Noose’ll make it go a little faster, is all.”

  Jack had cut loose Mrs. Reed’s hands. She approached Belle. “I’m sorry you had to do that,” she said, “but I thank you.”

  Belle nodded. “It ain’t so hard choosin’ between good and bad.”

  “I got to disappear now.” Mrs. Reed glanced at the distant group of men. “Ain’t never good for a Negro to be ’round a shooting.”

  “Go round the back down to the railroad tracks, then follow ’em out of town,” Belle said. “They’re less likely to go that way. I’m real glad to have met you, Elsie.”

  “Me too.” Mrs. Reed removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. There had been no change in her face, but Honor saw now that she was crying.

  She put her spectacles back on and wrapped her shawl tight around her. “I gon’ pray for you.” Mrs. Reed glanced at Honor and Jack. “All of you. If I ride fast enough I might jes’ get to church before the service end.” She headed around the shop toward the backyard, then looked back. “Bye bye, baby girl,” she said to Comfort. “Get those parents to look after you good.”

  As if on cue, Comfort began to cry. Mrs. Reed smiled; then she turned and disappeared behind the shop.

  “Honor,” Belle whispered. “You see that bonnet in the window? Gray one I was workin’ on?”

  Honor glanced up at the gray bonnet with its sky-blue lining.

  “That’s yours. Time you had a change of color. But you knew that.”

  She did know it.

  “Honor,” Belle said again. “He dead?”

  No one had gone to Donovan, who lay on his back, blood pooling in the road under him. His brown vest was shredded and turning a dark red. Next to him were his hat and the bunch of flowers Jack had dropped.

  “He has not passed yet.” Honor could feel his presence still, like a runaway in the woods.

  “Nobody should have to die alone, not even a bastard like Donovan,” Belle murmured. “Somebody needs to see him out. He’s my brother.”

  The group of townsmen had arrived in Public Square, but stood back. They had taken in Belle and her shotgun, and were waiting for the drama to run its course.

  Honor bit her lip. Then she got to her feet and went up to her husband. They gazed at each other. “We cannot continue as we were before,” she said. “We must find a new way, different from thy family’s.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Now I have to do this.”

  Jack nodded again.

  Honor handed their daughter to him and walked over to Donovan. Kneeling beside him, she saw, amid the meaty, metallic blood and torn cloth on his chest, the glistening key to her trunk. His brown vest was broken up with tiny yellow stripes. I will use some of it for the next quilt, she thought, for he should be a part of it.

  Honor looked into his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth a grimace that told her death was waiting.

  Then Donovan opened his eyes. Honor could just make out the black flecks in them, suspended in the brown.

  “Hold my hand, Honor Bright,” he said.

  And she did, squeezing until she felt the Light fade.

  Faithwell, Ohio

  3rd Month 10th 1852

  Dearest Biddy,

  This is the last letter I shall write from Faithwell. When I finish it I must pack away my writing things, to go in the wagon with our other belongings. Tomorrow Jack and Comfort and I are going west. All winter we have been debating where to go. For the moment we will head to Wisconsin, which Friends from Faithwell have gone to and written well of. There are prospects for dairy farms there. I have heard too that parts of the west have what they call prairie, with few trees and a great open space. I look forward to that.

  We have been waiting for the winter to pass, and for Dorcas to marry. She did, last week, to a dairy farmer who has moved here. He is taking on the farm—and Judith Haymaker as well. We gave her the choice to come with us or remain in Faithwell, and I am relieved to report she has decided to stay. She says she has moved enough. I am content to accept that as her reason.

  We are leaving most things behind, for we can buy or make them where we are going. We are taking four quilts, however. (I am very glad now that I sent thy quilt back to thee!) The signature quilt from Bridport, of course, whose names will remain dear to me always, wherever I go. Our marriage quilt, made so quickly by the Faithwell women. It is not the finest stitching, but it is warm—sometimes that is the most one should expect of a quilt. I have also made a small cot quilt for Comfort out of scraps of material from both Dorset and Ohio. It is in a patchwork pattern called Ohio Star, made up of triangles and squares in brown and yellow, red, cream and rust. Comfort sleeps well under it. Finally, a Negro woman called Mrs Reed has given me a quilt I once admired, made up of blue, cream, grey, brown and yellow strips of cloth. It is very different from any quilt thee will have seen, for there is a pleasing randomness to it that defies description. I would like to learn to make such a quilt. Perhaps in the west I shall.

  Thee will be pleased to hear that for the first time I spoke at Meeting, the last I attended in Faithwell. I have always felt that words cannot truly capture what I feel inside. But I found the urgency of the Spirit pushing me to open my mouth to explain, even imperfectly, what I feel about helping runaways until that day arrives when slavery is finally ended in this country. For I do believe it will end. It must. When I sat down, the air felt thick with thoughts, and afterwards the blacksmith commended me for finding my voice.

  I am not sorry to leave Ohio and go west, except that it is taking me farther from thee, Biddy. I will write again once we have found a place to settle. Because thee remains there, it is easier for me to go, for thee can be the shore I look back on, the star that remains fixed. After the voyage across the ocean, I had not thought I would ever have the spirit to move again, but now that I have chosen to go, I am glad.

  I am anxious, of course. I expect I shall not sleep tonight for thinking about what lies ahead. But I feel different from when I left Bridport with Grace. Then I was running away, and it was as if my eyes were shut and there was nothing to hold on to. Now my eyes are open, and I can walk forward, holding on to Jack and Comfort. It is what Americans do. Perhaps that is what I am becoming, at last. I am learning the difference between running from and running towards.

  Always with thee in spirit,

  Thy faithful friend,

  Honor Haymaker

  Acknowledgments

  I have used many resources to create this book, but here are a few for those who want to pursue some of its subjects.

  On the Underground Railroad and abolition: The Underground R
ailroad from Slavery to Freedom by Wilbur H. Siebert (1898) is the classic from which all the others draw their material; Let My People Go: The Story of the Underground Railroad and the Growth of the Abolition Movement by Henrietta Buckmaster (1941); Freedom’s Struggle: A Response to Slavery from the Ohio Borderlands by Gary L. Knepp (2008).

  On Quakers: The Quaker Reader, edited by Jessamyn West (1962); An Introduction to Quakerism by Pink Dandelion (2007); Reminiscences of Levi Coffin, the Reputed President of the Underground Railroad, edited by Ben Richmond (1991); Slavery and the Meetinghouse: The Quakers and the Abolitionist Dilemma, 1820-1865 by Ryan P. Jordan (2007); A Fine Meeting There Is There: 300 Years of Bridport’s Quaker History by Suzanne Finch (2000; thank you, Marian Vincent, for finding this for me).

  On Oberlin and its surrounds: Oberlin: The Colony and the College by James H. Fairchild (1883); The Town that Started the Civil War by Nat Brandt (1990); A Place on the Glacial Till: Time, Land, and Nature Within an American Town by Thomas Fairchild Sherman (1997).

  Quilts: There are many books on quilts and their fascinating history, but those most useful to Honor’s quilting were Quilts in Community: Ohio’s Traditions, edited by Ricky Clark (1991), Classic Quilts from the American Museum in Britain by Laura Beresford and Katherine Hebert (2009), and Philena’s Friendship Quilt: A Quaker Farewell to Ohio by Lynda Salter Chenoweth (2009).

  Writing from the period: Buckeye Cookery and Practical Housekeeping (1877; thanks to Carole DeSanti for lending me this treasure); Our Cousins in Ohio by Mary Botham Howitt (1849)—less a novel, more a year in the life of an Ohio farm; and, of course, Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe (1852). For nineteenth-century English views on Americans, you can’t do better than Domestic Manners of the Americans by Frances Trollope (1832) and American Notes by Charles Dickens (1842); although both were highly critical of the United States, many of their observations still hold true today.