North by Night (16 page)

“What happened? She looks fine.”

“I almost missed it the first time. She didn’t make noise, just began to shake. Her back arched up. The baby whimpered. Cass got quiet for a while. Then it happened again.”

I felt Cass’s head for fever, but she seemed cool. I couldn’t see much in the darkness. “Is there a candle?”

“I’ll find one,” Miss Aurelia said.

I watched Cass as hard as I could, but the only thing that shook was me. I’d forgotten slippers, and my nightgown
wasn’t warm enough without bedcovers. I found a spare blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

Then I saw it. Cass began to shudder as if she too felt cold. She shook all over. Miss Aurelia came in with two lighted candles and a laundry basket. I could see Cass’s eyes roll back until only the whites showed. Her mouth made strange, strangling sounds, and she seemed not able to breathe. Then the spasms passed, but only for a heartbeat. They started up again, worse than before.

Miss Aurelia hurried to the baby. She reached for Hope and tucked her into the laundry basket, out of harm’s way.

I grabbed Cass’s hands, which jumped at her sides. I tried to quiet her, but she was strong, and the shuddery, jerking spasms went on and on. I loosened my hold, afraid I’d bruise her arms. “Please, God,” I prayed. “Take care of her for me. Make this go away.”

Did He answer? At first I thought so, for it grew quiet, so quiet I could hear my heart thud in my chest and the sound of Miss Aurelia’s breath, coming fast and harsh. But those were the only sounds in the room, those and a tiny squeak from Hope.

Cass lay still and absolutely silent. I placed my hand on her shoulder. No motion. Nothing. I felt for a heartbeat, for the movement of her chest as she breathed. Still nothing.

Miss Aurelia reached into her pocket and brought a mirror close to Cass’s mouth and nose. “Get the candle so we can see.”

I did as she said, but woodenly, liked a carved doll, for somehow I knew we would see nothing. In an instant Cass
had gone—gone home, gone to freedom, leaving us behind.

S
UNDAY
, F
EBRUARY
23, 1851
A
FTERNOON

I have eaten a meal, but whether it was corn bread or corncobs, I can’t say, for I smell and taste nothing. I can barely speak. I feel as if a door has opened in my chest and icy air pours in.

My friend Cass is dead.

I still pray that I’ll wake from this dreadful nightmare. But I don’t. We’ll bury Cass tonight.

When it first happened, Miss Aurelia and I held on to each other and stared at the bed, at Cass lying peaceful and still. We stood there a long time.

Then Miss Aurelia bent and picked up the laundry basket where the baby slept on, unaware. She passed the basket to me and stooped to straighten the covers around Cass.

“Come, Lucinda. We have much to do.”

I followed her downstairs and watched her kneel to build up the fire. I still wore a blanket around my shoulders, and I huddled into it as I sat in a rocking chair with little Hope at my side and tried to get warm.

Miss Aurelia pressed her fingers to her temples and sat back on the raised hearth. “Where to begin, where to begin?” She looked up at me. “You know this will make everything more difficult,” she said. “We must act, and quickly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We must bury her. But the ground is frozen. Above all else, we must safeguard the child.”

I hadn’t yet thought of the consequences of Cass’s dying. My mind could hardly cope with the raw fact that she was gone. And yet if we were to keep the baby safe, Miss Aurelia was right. We had to act, and soon.

“I’d like to see Mama and Papa,” I said.

“So you should. And we must inform the Strongs and Bessie Smith as well. How soon can you ride?”

In a daze I dressed and saddled the mare.

Snowy fields reflected the thin light of a waning moon as I rode, and I could see as if it were morning. Black trees, white snow, no color anywhere, only cold. I urged the horse on, for I felt chilled myself—not a chill of wind and snow, but a chill of death and dying. It numbed me to other feelings, and I simply rode.

I had never ridden alone at night before. Some other night, on some different errand, I might have found it exhilarating. But I could barely contain my sorrow—Cass, dead—so I boxed the sadness tightly in my chest and froze it solid like pond ice so that it wouldn’t overpower me. Dear God, I was so tired and cold.

Emma, Cass, and the children had traveled in the coldest hours of the night. How frightening for a person used to warm southern nights to be suddenly exposed to lake storms and blizzards. I studied the sky. I found the Big Dipper and the North Star, imagined them as my only map.

I neared the curve that marked the last mile before our farm. Hoofbeats. I pulled the mare up and listened. Two horses at least.

I dismounted and led the mare to a hedgerow, where weedy trees and brush marked the edge of a field. I hid her in the shadows and stood where I could watch the road but remain unseen.

The hoofbeats grew louder, and creaking wood told me that a wagon traveled as well. I held the mare’s mouth to keep her quiet. Only two sorts of people went out driving wagons in the middle of the night: rescuers and catchers. Lord help me, but if that Clayton Roberts rode by me tonight, I wouldn’t be able to restrain myself. I’d do him damage for certain.

I held my breath and watched the curve in the road. The minutes crawled. At last the wagon rounded the curve in half shadow. As it drew closer I saw a single driver wearing an old-fashioned wide-brimmed hat. I stared as the wagon came close.

Thanks be to God.

I stepped from the shadows onto the edge of the road. “Jeremiah?” I said. “Jeremiah Strong?”

When Jeremiah’s arms went around me, the ice jam inside broke up. My sorrow burst loose and I shook with all the sobs I’d been holding back.

“She’s … she’s gone.”

“The baby?”

“Cass. Oh, Jeremiah!”

“No!”

“Jeremiah, she was my friend. Only nineteen. Just three years older than I am.”

He stood there with me at the side of the road and held me.

I raged and cried out my grief. When I had exhausted
the tears he boosted me up to the seat, rounded up the mare, and hitched her to the back of his wagon.

“I’m taking thee home,” he said.

“But—you travel at night. Wayfarers?”

“Yes. Two. In thy parents’ care. But we must get thee home.”

“It’s not safe, Jeremiah. I can ride alone. I’ll be all right.”

“No.” He drove with one hand and kept the other arm around me, steadying me.

When we reached our house Papa came out. “Lucinda! What brings you here in the middle of the night?”

“Bad news,” I said. I ran to him, and the well of tears I’d thought empty spilled over again on his shoulder.

I told Papa about Cass. “We—We’ll gather at Miss Aurelia’s,” I stammered. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

“My family will be there,” Jeremiah said.

“Thank you for bringing me home. I was so tired.” In truth, I might not have made that last long mile without Jeremiah’s warm, strong arm tight around me.

“Sleep now. Thy family will give thee comfort.” He took my hand. “I admire thy strength, Lucinda. Not many girls would ride out alone at night. Until tomorrow.”

Papa led me into the house. Mama was awake, and as she took me in her arms I cried again. She patted my back and comforted me as if I were a child like Miranda. I felt her love and kindness warm my icy soul, and I drifted into a dreamless sleep.

I shall need Mama’s arms around me again tonight as I stand by the grave in the Quaker cemetery and bid farewell to Cass. How can God be so cruel?

S
UNDAY
, F
EBRUARY
23, 1851
L
ATE

I’ve never attended a sadder funeral. Clouds drifted across the night sky, and only a dim sliver of moon showed. We’d bundled ourselves in dark clothes and hats and stood in the graveyard.

In the burying ground behind their meeting house, the Quakers prepare a few graves each fall for any who die when the ground is hard. Jeremiah had selected a grave far back from the road, where a thick oak shielded us. Still, we didn’t dare stay long or make noise.

We stood in a circle, Papa with his arm around Will, then Mama and me. I held the baby. Miss Aurelia, on my other side, had agreed that we should bring Hope. When she was grown, she’d be glad. The Smiths stood with Miss Aurelia, and Jeremiah’s family finished the circle.

We whispered prayers as the men lowered the coffin into the grave. Without intending it, I began the words of the familiar psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd …” The others joined in, and we said the words slowly, softly, to bless Cass on her way. Tears wet my cheeks, and I brushed them aside.

We stood quiet awhile, as the Quakers do. Then Mrs. Smith began to sing, her voice soft and mournful. “Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus! Steal away, steal away home, I ain’t got long to stay here.”

I felt my cheeks grow wet again, but I lifted my voice and joined in. Emma had taught me that song. Cass would like it as her benediction.

Dear Cass. She’d lived a hard life, a woman’s life, yet
we’d laughed together as girls. I hadn’t known her long, but we’d become friends. For her to die now, on the very edge of freedom … it felt so wrong.

For comfort, I held tight to Hope. Hope, so well named. Cass had not survived, but Hope would go on. Hope would endure. I would see to it. That thought eased my heart as the men lifted their first shovelfuls of dirt to fill in the grave. I would carry Hope to freedom. Nothing would stand in my way.

And so I sit here and mourn my friend. I try to warm myself, but without success, for a chill is always with me. Nineteen is much too young to die.

M
ONDAY
, F
EBRUARY
24, 1851

At last some of the ice leaves my heart. Anger burns hot and fine and melts it away. I long to pour my rage out in letters—to President Fillmore for signing that dreadful law, to Clayton Roberts for his evil lechery, to his wife for her killing jealousy. But anger begets anger, and such letters would only stir up trouble. I need a cool head, for I have more to do. I’ll write to Jeremiah, for courage.

24
February

Dear Jeremiah
,

Guard this page carefully, for my heart aches and I haven’t the energy or cleverness to write with hidden meanings today
.

I’m not at home, but with Miss Aurelia, for I feel a great warmth for Hope, my only connection to Cass. She seems to return my affection. When I hold her, she stops crying. Just
now she sleeps, all sweet and rosy in the laundry basket as I write
.

My Friend, I’m not sure I would have reached home that awful night without your help. My heart was so heavy, I might just have drifted into a snowbank, frozen, and joined Cass on her heavenward journey. But God sent you for me, and you carried me home to my family. I thank you for all your kindness
.

Now I ask your assistance again. I must carry the child to Canada. Mrs. Smith has offered to find a nearby colored family to raise her, but I cannot allow that. Emma must be told of her sister’s death and must have the child. And since Hope seems most content with me, I shall take her myself. Mama and Papa tried to discourage me. But as neither of them could devise a better scheme, they have reluctantly agreed
.

I will ride north with my brother and pose as a young wife with a new baby, rejoining my husband in Cleveland. Might you and your sister speak with Will and devise a travel plan? For you know the routes and all the best places to stay. If I can keep Hope’s dark curls covered, I believe she will pass as white, for her skin is mostly rosy
.

Please help me with this journey, dear Jeremiah, for some part of me won’t begin to heal until I have completed this mission
.

I am your most grateful and heartsore friend
Lucinda

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
25, 1851

Is there anything like a baby? Hope smells sweeter than a field of spring flowers. She keeps my spirits from
plunging into despair when she snuggles into my shoulder and mews like a kitten. Yet sadness returns again and again.

Will came today. He will carry my letter to Jeremiah and bring news and a reply as soon as he can. Now that I have made up my mind to travel, I find waiting a wretched waste of time.

W
EDNESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
26, 1851

Anger got hold of me again today and I snapped at Miss Aurelia. When I apologized, she patted my shoulder and passed me a sheet of paper.

“I’ll send it out once you have returned and the child is safe,” she said.

24 February

To William Lloyd Garrison, for publication in
The Liberator—

A V
OICE FROM THE
W
ILDERNESS