Good Fortune (9781416998631) (22 page)

“'Scuse me, ma'am,” I said, walking up to a woman who stood alone, taking care of laundry. I was making myself vulnerable to the daytime on the outskirts of a plantation. The woman looked up kindly at first, but seeing me, she became irritated.

“What you want?” she asked, turning her eyes away again.

“I'm goin' back to my masta's plantation. He gave me
leave, an' I been travelin' some days. Would like it if I could have some food.” I looked with pleading eyes, searching for the kind soul I knew had to lie beneath her irritation. She looked at me sharply and tried to walk away, but I followed her.

“What you want?” she asked again without looking back at me. I could see she was afraid—afraid I was a runaway. For most of what I'd seen and heard, harsh punishment would be given to any slave who helped a runaway. So I lied to the woman. I had to.

“Ma'am, I need some food, that's all. I ain't . . . I ain't no runaway or nothin', I jus' . . .”

“Go!” she whispered harshly, spittle flying in my face. I could see her fear playing across the creases in her forehead. “Go away. I ain't got nothin' to do wit you.” She hurried from me, beyond where I was willing to venture, out into the fields. I stared after her mournfully, my hunger buzzing in my ears. I crouched down and disappeared back into the woods.

But someone followed me. I squatted beneath a bush, watching a male figure creep into the woods. Once well out of view of the fields, he stood up to his full height and stared in my direction.

“There's dried meat hangin' in the buildin' near the outhouse. You should take wat you need, miss, an' get goin' quick.” The man stood, waiting for me to come out of hiding. But I didn't move. I stayed hidden and watched him walk slowly back toward his work.

I tried listening to my reason rather than my hunger.
I knew that certain slaves existed that would take it upon themselves to tell on runaways. These slaves sought only to appear loyal to their masters so that their plight as a slave would not be so bad. I knew I looked very suspicious. The man seemed sincere, but I didn't know for sure.

What if this is a trap? What if someone is there, just waiting for me to come out of hiding?

I didn't feel good about this, but I needed food. The day slipped by, and I found a new place to hide about half a mile from the plantation, though I was too nervous to fall into full sleep. I knew I couldn't run any farther without food in my belly, and so I waited.

When night came, I hastened over as quietly as I could to the area near the smokehouse the man had pointed out. I squinted through the dark to get a good view of it. All seemed still and silent, but the fact that the door hung open made me cautious.

Aren't smokehouse doors almost always kept shut?

I sat back against a tree, still hidden in the woods, but only a few paces away from the clearing. All I needed to do was get in, cut however much meat I could hold, and run back out. But anyone who saw me could grab me by force and throw a sack over my head, or even knock me out with a rock or stick. So first, if there was danger lurking, I had to get rid of it.

I emptied my mind of the longing for food, and focused. I opened my sack, laid a piece of fabric over the top for the meat, and held it close to my body. I took out my knife, then found a few small stones and a large, thick tree branch
that I was able to carry. Backing farther into the woods, I threw the stones, one after another, as far as I could to the left of the smokehouse, then watched with quickening heartbeats as a figure emerged from the shadows near the house and disappeared in the direction of the sound.

Just what I thought. He had been waiting for me.

Taking my chance, I ran as low and as quickly as I could to the smokehouse and passed through the doorway. The smell of meat hit me instantly. How hungry I was! Without wasting time, I found a piece of meat that didn't look so tough. But my small knife wouldn't cut quickly enough.

Panicked, I glanced back toward the door. Nobody was there—not yet, at least. I searched desperately, walking through the hanging meat, for tool I could use.

A butcher knife!

I picked it up, and sliced the meat I had chosen into portions that fit into my sack. I was almost there. Just a couple more strokes.

I paused to wipe away sweat that had dripped into my eyes, took another worried glance toward the door, and steadied my shaking hand. I would make it out, I would.

When the last piece snapped free, I almost let out a cry of thanks to God. But I still needed to escape. Moving to the door, I glanced out, to see if the man was anywhere in sight. Grasping the large stick, I darted out. But the night remained silent as I slipped away from the smokehouse and traveled on.

By the time I was far enough away that I could stop and eat what I had taken, anger was rushing through my
body. I tore viciously at a large chunk of meat, tying the rest of it up for later. Whom could I trust? The man who had told me about the smokehouse had betrayed me. So what stranger could I trust? I could trust my loved ones, but at this point they seemed like nothing more than memories in my mind. I was angry at how close I had come to being captured back into slavery by a person who knew how it felt to be bound in bondage.

I washed these thoughts away as best I could with a sip of water from my gourd.

A few nights later, I came to a little house in the woods. I had slept in a ditch close by and come upon it soon after I awoke. There was no plantation, no corn, tobacco, or cotton field, just a small garden and the house. But what especially drew my interest was a basket that sat in front of red shutters, adorned with a cloth that almost glowed in the evening light. Dusk had just fallen, so it was still early, but I saw no movement or light inside the house.

“Might be food, Sarah,” I whispered to myself as I crept up to the basket to peer inside. But just as I did, candlelight flickered behind the cracks in the shutters. I darted a few feet away, then heard a rustling, followed by the shutters flying open, just missing the basket. A white woman, whose hair was tied neatly back, dumped bread and other food I couldn't see into the basket.

“I wonder, dear, if they'll notice these leftovers. We
can't eat them. Might as well leave them here for whatever can get to them.” The words seemed to have been directed over her shoulder to someone in the house, but I saw her eyes dig deep into the night. I listened carefully to her words, then waited until a few minutes after the shutters had closed before I advanced toward the basket.

As I reached into it, the shutters opened again, and this time, I had no chance to hide. I could have run, but some instinct kept my feet planted as I watched the woman, whose head was turned, say “Dear, do you think they're hungry tonight?” But when her head came around, she gasped and took a timid step back. I simply stared at her, convinced that this had to be one of the safe houses Daniel had spoken of—it had to be.

She recovered quickly, and approached the window again. She nudged the basket closer to me. “Go 'head,” she said in a gentle whisper, “you're safe.” I stepped closer but remained partially obscured in the shadows, ready to depart as quickly as I could if I needed to. But the woman was now wrapping the food in the cloth, and she held it out for me to take. I stepped up, grabbed it from her fingers, and backed up to the spot I had left. I watched her a bit longer, and she watched me just as closely. Her hands were busy with something, and eventually she lifted a wet cloth to me. I stepped closer and gently took it from her.

“Wipe the dirt from your eyes. You can, well, . . . this is a safe place to stay for a day, if you need to,” she began, softly as a cricket's breath.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and turned to dart away,
even after she called, softly, after me. I left her sight, but stayed by the house to see what she would do.

“Well, anyway, dear,” she said, calling behind her back again. “The weather's not warming up any. Figure it may get pretty cold.” As she said that, she lifted a small blanket through the window, a blanket small enough to serve as a coat, and placed it on the windowsill. Then she retreated, closing the shutters.

I grabbed the blanket and ran on.

CHAPTER
 
22 

THE WEATHER DID TURN COLDER, AND I HAD NO SHELTER. THE
ground was my floor, the biting wind my walls, and the sky my only roof. The day was a routine, a monotonous drone of walking, creeping, running, eating, and sleeping. With the strain of this routine, my continual efforts to keep a decent food supply, the burden of constant fear, and the cold, my body grew tired.

I don't remember when the fight began, but suddenly, my mind and body were battling against each other. I was getting weaker, but I didn't want to accept it. My body would ask me if I could keep this up. But why did it matter if my body could or not? I had to. It was as this fight raged that another one of my dreams came, sneaking up on me in the silence of daytime, when I slept, and leaving me sweating heavily, even in the cold, the tears on my cheeks and the heaviness in my chest shoving me further into a gloom that was hard to find my way out of.

Some days, the loneliness ran so deep, I had to fall asleep to conjure up memories and the faces of loved ones. I sought them out for comfort, but their distant faces were
from a yesterday that seemed almost like a dream. What was real was my escape, this running.

During those brief moments that hopefulness would slip up to me, I allowed my mind to wander to places I had not yet seen, to a life that sat waiting for me on the other side of this struggle to stay alive. I daydreamed sometimes about sitting in a classroom with other students, answering questions and reading books—daydreams that occasionally seemed so real, I longed to disappear forever into them. Education seemed to be an odd incentive, but thoughts of it spurred me along when nothing else could.

I knew there was a large river I had to reach, a river much bigger than the one I had already crossed, one I couldn't possibly miss. If only I could make it there. But where was it?