Never Too Late (7 page)

“. . . wuz it?”

“. . . don't know fo sho . . . burned up too bad . . . think hit's dat kid Mose.”

“. . . dat boy wiff no kin?”

“Dat's him.”

“What wuz he doin' dere . . . middle ob a fire . . .”

“Who kin say . . . horses all got out . . .”

“. . . roof musta fallen on him afore he cud git out hisse'f.”

“. . . shame . . . a nice boy . . .”

Seffie's eyes flooded with tears. She had known the truth last night, but somehow the shock and a night's sleep had temporarily erased the searing memory from her brain. Now it all came back, how she had stood . . . and stood . . . and stood . . . and done nothing to help.

She cried and cried in her silent agony, until she had cried herself to sleep on a pillow drenched in her own tears.

She awoke, hoped that she had dreamed the whole thing, remembered, cried again . . . and slept again.

Seffie remained in bed five days, gradually began to eat and drink, but did not speak for weeks. What good were words with her friend gone? What was there to talk about? Who was there to talk to? If life had held little interest for her before, it held no interest for her now.

The next months passed like a blur. She lost weight, but, with nothing to interest her now but her work in the kitchen, she eventually gained it back and continued to expand around the midsection. Within another two years Mammy had begun to value her skill and depended on her more than any of the other girls. And after a couple more years, by sixteen Seffie was responsible for most of the master's and mistress's meals, and they were more than appreciative for her gifts. She was a good worker but said little, for she had little to say. When the master began hinting that it was time she had a husband, then at last Seffie spoke up and declared that if he wanted to continue eating white biscuits, brown bread, apple and mince pie, assorted cakes, and all his other favorites with her special touch, then he had best forget such talk once and for all and let her decide for herself when and if she wanted to marry. She told him it was pretty easy to
accidentally
get too much salt in his
food. She wasn't about to marry just to provide him more slaves to add to his tally. The master did not like being talked to with such determination by anybody, least of all one of his slaves. But she had him over a barrel. Nobody could cook like Seffie. He knew it. She knew it. And that was the end of any more such talk.

Deep inside, Seffie knew she would never marry. Ever since that tragic night, she had said to herself that she would never allow herself to have a friend again. What good came of loving? Only pain. She did not want to feel the pain that came from loving ever again. Mose had been her friend, her best friend, her only friend. She had loved him with the devotion of a young girl to a boy who watched out for her and took care of her and treated her with kindness.

Now he was gone. She would never love again. It hurt too much to love.

When and how the thought first entered her mind, Seffie could not have said. Perhaps it was that she felt no attachment to any person or place that she could truly call home. But along with the determination not to marry, Seffie began to hunger for freedom. She didn't know how slaves got to be free. But she knew some did. She knew blacks in the North weren't slaves. So why shouldn't she be free too?

If she had to, Seffie could speak her mind. But she didn't very often. She knew that most of the other slaves about the place, and all the whites, thought she wasn't quite all there. But as long as she was in the kitchen doing what she liked to do, she didn't much mind what people thought. As she got older she came to realize that it was a
blessing in its own way to be taken for granted. She heard things she knew weren't meant for her ears, because people paid no attention to her and didn't stop talking when she was around.

That's how she first heard about the strange railroad.

At first she didn't know what they were talking about because there was no railroad anywhere around there. Gradually she realized they were talking about another kind of railroad, an invisible railroad, a railroad for people—colored people.

It was a railroad that took slaves to freedom!

She didn't know how it did it, but she knew that's what they were talking about. She overheard two of the men talking in quiet tones when she'd been sent by Mammy to dig some turnips from Mabel's garden. They were whispering and talking together about hitching a ride on the railroad.

“. . . risky bizness . . . whites out lookin' fo you . . .”

“. . . safe hidin' places . . .”

“. . . effen a body kin fin' 'em . . . dem conducters ain't always dere . . .”

“. . . chance you gotter take . . . freedom ain't cheap . . .”

Two weeks later, Rufus was gone. Everybody said he'd just disappeared. But among a few of the slaves there was a rumor that he'd bought himself a ticket on “dat ol' freedom railroad” and was on his way north.

Seffie didn't know how much the tickets cost. But she made up her mind to keep her ears open!

F
LIGHT

10

P
ATIENCE IS NOT ONLY A
C
HRISTIAN VIRTUE, IT IS
also an important part of courage. Being brave sometimes means waiting for the right time to act.

Eighteen-year-old cook and house slave Seffie Black would never have considered herself brave. She thought herself the worst coward that ever lived. Not a day, not a night, went by that she was not haunted by her inaction the night of the fire. She lived with the constant torment that Mose might still be alive had she run for help, or done
something
to try to save him.

But she had been terrified of fire since that night so long ago that had gotten her and Mose sold away from their families, never to see them again. The very sight of flames paralyzed her with images too terrible to think on.

So she had done nothing when he had run into the burning building after the horses, and would forever have to live with the memory.

Yet now as the thought of freedom stirred her heart, a new and strange kind of bravery awoke within her. She did
not know it was bravery. But the seed, once planted, took root and grew. And she began to think what she would do when that railroad came again. Until then, she would wait.

In some strange and deep way, the thought of escaping to freedom became her dream to atone for her cowardice. In the only tests life had thrown at her, she had failed. Now maybe she could succeed in something important. It was something she had to do . . . for Mose. He had been a friend to her. She would one day be free as a way to honor that friendship, and his memory. She could never make up for what she had done or not done, but maybe some good might come out of it yet. The memory of Mose would give her strength to be brave.

In truth, Seffie had it better than many slaves because of her gift, her ability to make food taste good. The master and his wife treated her with respect. As Mammy began to slow down, more and more of the management of the kitchen fell to Seffie, though she was not yet even twenty. There was no more talk of marriage. The master knew he was lucky to have such a young woman as cook, and had no idea that he would not have her for much longer.

Seffie bided her time, listened, and waited. Patience and bravery grew side by side within her. Still she said little. A year went by, then two, then three. No one knew what Seffie was thinking or what opportunity she was patiently waiting for. She went about her duties, and, as much as a slave could be said to enjoy what she did, Seffie found satisfaction in making people happy by cooking delicious food for them to enjoy.

Occasionally strangers came and were hidden in the slave quarters, and then in a day or two were gone again.
They had no idea how closely Seffie was paying attention. But she missed nothing. She knew that such nighttime appearances by slaves on the run had to do with the railroad, and that all the strangers who appeared were moving in the same direction—north.

Another four or five years went by before her own chance arrived. By then she was a young woman in her midtwenties, large but strong, keen-eyed, intelligent, and more determined than ever to make good on her promise to herself and the memory of Mose.

Then came a night when there was a stirring in the slave village. Her years of patience were at last rewarded. She got wind of the news by overhearing whispers in the dark from across the room. Two sisters who also worked in the kitchen shared her sleeping quarters in the big house. One was the wife of a field worker. She had been out late with her husband, and now crept into bed in the darkness beside her sister. Both women assumed Seffie to be asleep.

“. . . two men, a mother, an' a chil' dis time . . .” the one whispered.

“Laws almighty, where dey put 'em?”

“In da cabins . . . overseer, he ain't been down dere in days.”

“. . . how long?”

“Dey got here yesterday . . . wuz plumb starvin', dey wuz. Dey's okay ter move on now.”

“Where dey boun'?”

“Don' know . . . Alabama, Carolinas maybe . . . jes' norf, dat's all I know.”

“. . . gone already?”

“. . . waitin' till da dark er da moon, till massa's ol'
houn' dogs is asleep. Den Uncle Fred'll take 'em ober da hill where dey'll meet somebody called a conducter, whatever dat is, who'll take 'em ter da nex' station.”

“Soun's fearsome ter me.”

“Hit don' go too good fo runaways dat git derselfs caught, dat's a fac'.”

Wide awake on her pad on the floor, Seffie strained to hear every word. Ten minutes later, when snoring from the bed told her that the two sisters were sound asleep, she rose quietly from the floor, hastily grabbed the few things she thought she would need, the few extra clothes she could carry. Then noiselessly she slipped from the room, passing through the kitchen for a few necessary foodstuffs, and then out of the house into the damp air. The night was black and cold. As predicted, the hounds were asleep, but one could never trust that, for a hound's nose never slept.

She glanced about to make sure of her bearings, then crept across the lawn and made for the slave village. She didn't know exactly what she was looking for, but she would wait near Uncle Fred's little shanty to see what might happen.

She sat down on the cold ground—patience and bravery now both rewarding themselves—and waited.

She had just begun to doze an hour and a half later when she heard movement. On the quietest of feet, Uncle Fred emerged into the night. Two men and a woman carrying a child followed. Not a single word was spoken. They made not a sound. A hound dog could have been asleep at their feet and remained still unless their scent betrayed them.

Seffie watched from her vantage point behind a tree
twenty feet away. Within seconds they had disappeared behind the cabin and were making their way with careful steps toward the woods opposite the cotton field.

She rose . . . and followed.

She kept far enough back that, in the moonless sky, even with the few backward glances Uncle Fred and his small troop took, they were unaware they were being pursued by the most unlikely of fugitives. They reached the woods, crossed through it with Uncle Fred leading the way in near total blackness, and came to a fork in the road. He took it to the right where it led steeply upward for a mile or two east, then down for another mile, until they came to a wooden platform at the river's edge.

Uncle Fred gathered his small band together, pulled out flints, and lit his lantern.

“Here's where I leab you,” he said. “You'll meet yo conducter yonder on da udder side. Hit's mighty wide across dere. But dat cable'll git you 'cross effen you jes' keep haulin'.—Now, stan' away . . . I's gwine gib a signal 'cross dere. We don't want no bounty hunters waitin' fo you ober yonder.”

He held up his lantern, then hid the light with his coat, and repeated the signal three times. Far across the way, a tiny light could be seen, then disappeared, then reappeared four times in succession.

“Dat's him, all right,” said Uncle Fred. “Dat's yo conducter. He'll take you ter da nex' station, where you's be safe fo a coupla days. So git on dat dere skiff an' start pullin' yo'selves across. You ain't free yet, but you's one step closer, I reckon.”

The two men and the woman with the child followed
the light of Uncle Fred's lantern toward the rickety makeshift barge. It did not look or feel safe, but this railroad was built on trust, and at this stage of their journey they did not ask questions.

Suddenly a fifth passenger stepped out of the night and stepped aboard, tilting the barge precariously downward on one end for a moment or two.

“Seffie!” exclaimed Uncle Fred. “What'n tarnashun!”

“I follered you, Uncle Fred,” said Seffie. “I'm goin' too.”