Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad (14 page)

“I’m here to see Mr. Thaddeus Burns, please.” My voice quavered a little, and I struggled to keep calm. It was my first underground trip alone, and the responsibility lay heavy on me.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” I stammered. I returned to the buggy and drove the horses on through the U-shaped driveway and back out to the street.

“No, thank you. We’re waiting for someone,” I replied. It was hot now, and the dark clothes were stifling. I wished I could at least take off the bonnet. My silent passengers must be melting. Only Abby’s head was bare, her blond braids glistening in the sun.

There must be some place we could rest and keep out of sight for a few hours. Not knowing what else to do, I turned right on Montgomery Street and followed it down over the hill toward the canal. At the end, I turned left, crossed the canal and proceeded through a little community identified on a signpost as Gaysport. Here the houses were farther apart, each with a small barn and some livestock. We moved slowly. The horses needed a drink. As we passed a neat looking farmstead, we saw a woman picking beans in her garden. I stopped the buggy, climbed down, and went over to talk to her.

“You look tired,” the woman said, observing my protruding belly. “Do you have far to go? You can stop here and rest for a while if you want.”

“That would be nice, but I think watering the horses will do,” I replied cautiously. I climbed back up and drove the horses in at the lane, stopping by the trough. The horses drank like they’d never tasted water before.

The woman came along, carrying her basket of beans. “Can I get you something to drink, too? I’ve some fresh root beer on hand.”

I hesitated, but a look at my drooping passengers made me accept. “Thank you. Yes.”

We sat in the buggy under a huge Chestnut tree, grateful for the shade. In a few minutes our hostess was back with four glasses of root beer on a tray. As I loosened my bonnet, I realized my passengers couldn’t do the same. I hesitated, but Abby jumped down and took the tray from the woman’s hands. She ran around to the other side and handed a glass to me and a second to one of the ladies in back. Returning, she handed the third glass to the other passenger and took the fourth herself.

She turned to our hostess. “Is that a rose garden I see out back?” she asked. “Would you show it to me? I just love roses.” She neatly lured the woman way from the buggy, giving the rest of us a chance to drink. In a short while they were back, Abby having been given the full tour.

“They don’t mind waiting,” Abby was telling the woman. “Their sister, my Aunt Hattie, died, and they’ve come for the funeral, but they don’t care much for her husband, so the later they get there, the better.”

“Oh, don’t worry ’bout us. Ma’s sisters are widows. Pa couldn’t get away from the farm, but we get on fine without any men,” Abby assured her. “Well, thanks for the refreshments and the tour. We’ll be goin’ now.” She climbed back up in the buggy, waved to the woman, and I turned the team toward the road. As we moved slowly back up the road to town, we looked at each other and sighed with relief

Back in Hollidaysburg, close to four o’clock, we turned in again at the Thaddeus Burns house. This time a young man opened the door.

“Are you Thaddeus Burns?” I asked, relieved not to have to deal with the maid again but still wary of dealing with someone I didn’t know.

In the parlor, I explained my errand as Daniel listened, nodding. His kind response reassured me, and my apprehensions melted away. When we emerged from the house, he drove the buggy into his father’s stable. Inside, he helped our passengers down and ushered them into the tack room. They took off their bonnets, their faces glistening with sweat.

“As soon as it’s safe, I’ll take you down to the cellar,” he told them. “This is a pretty quiet town. No one will even notice you’re here. We’ll move you on tomorrow without any problem.”

“Do you think you can find them some other clothes for tomorrow? I want to keep those in case we need them again. I can stop for them on my way home.”

“I’m sure we can. I’ll leave them with the maid so you can pick them up.”

I must have grimaced at the mention of the maid, because Daniel laughed. “Once she knows the nature of your business, she’ll be your friend for life.”

We thanked him, said goodbye to our charges, and followed his directions to Altoona, which proved to be the boom town Rachel had described, full of building and bustle. The railroad was changing life as we knew it, and Altoona was a hub of activity, building locomotives and railroad cars as fast as its workers could turn them out.

We had no trouble finding Rachel and Jacob’s house, and Rachel, radiant with the joy of marriage, was delighted to see us. Of course she was taken back by our costumes and my condition, but I parried her questions until she gave up asking. Then we talked and giggled like school girls. There was so much to catch up on.

Jacob arrived soon after we did and, with a long and meaningful glance at my belly, said, “Looks like some of us have been busy.”

I blushed, wondering whether this visit was a good idea. But I longed be with my sister, so I bore his leering and unkind remarks without comment. Fortunately, he went out for a drink with his friends soon after supper and left us alone.

We spent the evening in quiet talk, Rachel anxious to show off her home and Jacob’s prosperity. Giving only the essential details about the real reason for our trip, I caught Rachel up on the Quaker settlement since her departure. Abby mostly listened, speaking only when spoken to, leading me to marvel at the change in her. The talk went on until quite late, about everything except the most obvious: my impending motherhood.

A
beautiful autumn came to Bedford County.
The flow of fugitives dropped off somewhat, but still they came, singly or in pairs. Because of my condition, Jesse took care of most of it by himself, with occasional help from Abby, who had brought her meager belongings and taken up residence at Redfield Farm after the July trip to Hollidaysburg.

“Ann needs me,” she said.

I took to staying inside as my time neared, but still attended Weekly Meeting. My condition was obvious, and it was only a matter of time before a committee would be assigned to look into my case. I accepted this as a matter of fact. Friends were not vindictive, but transgressions must be dealt with.

I loved being a Quaker. Our plain ways suited me. I was comfortable in myself, going about life in concert with my inner light. I loved the silence of Meeting, and I loved it when someone, moved by strong conviction, held forth about some issue. This sharing of sense and sentiment bonded us in ways that other religions couldn’t. I loved the doctrine of equality: Man was not above woman, nor was any man above another. I loved the Quaker tradition of educating girls as well as boys, an uncommon practice in those days.

So I accepted that the Meeting would have to take action. I expected them to be fair and was resigned to abide by the result. If I was read out of meeting, I could apply for reinstatement. It was simply a matter of time . . . time, I knew, during which I would be expected to ponder the gravity of my actions and resolve not to repeat them. Little enough recompense since I had done aught else but ponder the gravity of my actions since January.

One afternoon as I was going over this in my mind I looked out the window and saw Pru Hartley standing in the yard, hands on her hips, staring at the house. What could
she
want? I opened the door, and stood in the doorway, shading my eyes. “Hello, Pru.”

She stood in that challenging posture, daring me to step outside. I wasn’t sure what to expect, given that almost every interaction we’d ever had had been mean spirited. I stayed in the doorway.

“Well, they’s right about you. You
are
standin’ behind a baby, sure ’nough. Big as a house, I’d say.”

I colored. Pru certainly had a way of saying what was on her mind. I stood dumbfounded, not sure how to respond.

“Whatcha got to say fer yerself now, Missus Prim and Proper? Didn’t git
that
by follerin’ the Quaker teachin’s now, did ya?”

I had a notion to go inside and slam the door, but I couldn’t seem to make myself move. It was as if I felt her abuse was somehow my due. I stood in dumb silence for long seconds before I found my voice. Actually it was William Penn’s voice I found. “See what love can do.”

“Sounds like you’re weary, Pru. Why don’t you come inside and have a piece of bread? I baked this morning.” It was a spineless response in the face of her tirade, but I didn’t feel like a fight. I hoped kindness would turn away wrath.

To my surprise, she moved toward the porch, looking almost shame-faced. “Don’t mind if I do. Ain’t et yet today.”

She stepped into the kitchen, accompanied by a strong body odor, and sat down at the table, casting a scrutinizing gaze about the room. It was the first time she’d been in our house since Mother died. Mother felt sorry for the poor, neglected Hartley children, and had done her best to ease their way. She’d invited them to her Quaker school, and, even though their attendance was sporadic and their attention short, she’d made over them every time one of them showed up. I hadn’t been as charitable, given that Pru antagonized me at every turn, and I usually did my best to avoid her.

“Don’t you go tellin’ me how to raise my own young ’uns!” She scowled with indignation. “We’ll see how you do. You an’ yer high and mighty ways!”

Ignoring the insult, I cut off a big slice of bread and buttered it. Pru was looking for a fight, and I was resolved not to give her one. I put the bread in front of her and poured hot water for tea. Obviously ravenous, she looked around the room as she stuffed big chunks of bread into her mouth. I wondered if she was looking for something to steal, then admonished myself for my lack of charity.

Watching her eat, I felt a slight compassion—very slight. She was ragged, dirty, and half starved. Her dress was torn, and her only wrap against the cold was an old shawl that had to have been her mother’s. She wore shoes barely worthy of the name, so run down and cracked her bare feet showed. She saw me watching her and drew herself up.

“I’ll have another slice,” she announced “and honey on it, too.”

I rose to get it for her, wondering where this visit was taking us. “Could you use some potatoes and carrots? We’ve got more than we need. Our garden was huge this year.”

“I’ll take ‘em if ya got’em,” she replied between bites of bread. I gave her a feed sack and told her to help herself in the root cellar on her way home. Then I wrapped up the rest of the bread in a cloth and handed it to her. “Here. Your children will likely want some of this.”

Pru didn’t know how to show gratitude. There was always a threatening edge to her thanks. Like you owed it to her, and if you didn’t give it there’d be hell to pay.

She guzzled down her tea and picked up the bag. “I’ll be goin’ now. You take care, honey.” She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and was gone. I watched her after she came out of the root cellar, making her way down the hill with the sack on her back. She really was a sad soul, in spite of her meanness. Ever since her drunken father died and her brothers had wandered off, she was alone, at the mercy of whoever or whatever happened along.