Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad (34 page)

In the morning, Amos, Nate and I talked about what to do with Maggie and her little ones. “This Abe fellow’s dangerous. He could show up any time. Best keep a loaded shotgun handy,” Nate declared.

“Not around these children. You can load it and keep it up on the rack, but not where they can reach it,” I told him.

Amos agreed. “Send them along the old Railroad route as quick as you can get them there.”

“I’m not sure about that, either.” I mulled the situation. “Abe could try to catch up with them by doing the same. Besides, Maggie’s not well. Her cough sounds consumptive. She needs time to regain her strength. I’m for keeping them here for a while. I’ll write to Josiah and see if he can find her brother. She should know where she’s going, at least.”

“Suit yourself,” Amos replied. “It’s not like the old days. They can stay here in plain sight. But I don’t want any of us to get the consumption.”

“Unless . . .”

There was a knock at the back door, and Nate opened it to Jeremiah, one of Ben’s twins. “Mornin’ Grandpa, Aunt Ann, Uncle Nate. Papa wants Nate and Grandpa to come over. Someone stole one of our horses last night.”

A look of alarm spread over Amos’ face. “You go, Nate. I’ll stay here with Ann and the little ones.”

I went upstairs to awaken Maggie and her children. James was already out of bed, pulling on his britches. “Where’s Uncle Nate going?” He’d seen Nate and Jeremiah walk across the yard toward Ben’s.

“Hurry and you can catch up. Someone stole a horse last night.”

I dressed Ellen and baby John and took them downstairs. Maggie’s three children were already seated at the table. I dished up cornmeal mush and maple syrup to the lot of them. Gideon, Della, and Andrew stared in silence at Ellen and John. James had run out without a thought for breakfast.

A deep rumble rattled the silverware in the empty plates. My eyes sought Amos’s. Outside, a cloud of dust rose from the road. Fearful of who or what might be coming, I shepherded Maggie and her children up the kitchen stairs and into the room Jesse had fixed to hide slaves. Sliding the panel aside, I pointed to the space under the eaves. Maggie understood immediately and pushed the children in ahead of her. I had no idea what was happening, but I wanted to be sure these poor souls were not involved.

Downstairs, Amos stood in the kitchen, shotgun at the ready, watching a group of horsemen ride past. They didn’t stop, but proceeded to Ben’s as though on a mission.

“I’m going over to see what’s going on.” I was out the door and across the porch before Amos could respond. I hurried through the yard and up the orchard path to Ben’s. I arrived, out of breath, in time to see a lot of rough looking men open Ben’s corrals and herd his horses away.

Rebels! Some wore remnants of grey uniforms, but most were clothed in ragged, nondescript castoffs. Their leader sat astride his horse, pointing a long barreled pistol at Ben’s family while a few of his men stood by, to see that no one interfered. There beside him on a huge roan sat Cooper Hartley, looking as ragged and unkempt as ever—but no more so than any of his compatriots. I faded back among the trees, hardly breathing for fear of being noticed.

Cooper Hartley threw his head back and laughed a mean, hateful laugh. “Can if we want. Don’t see none of
you
stoppin’ us,” he jeered. “Put you together and you barely make up one man!”

The officer leaned forward in his saddle and peered at Nate’s empty sleeve. “Where’d you get that?”

“Sharpsburg.”

“
Good
fer you! I was there, too. Lost a couple friends. Maybe that’ll learn you not to mess with us.”

Nate moved to reply, but Ben grabbed his good arm. “Keep quiet, or they’ll kill us.”

“With pleasure,” Cooper growled, lifting his rifle.

The officer grabbed the barrel and forced it down. “Good advice about keepin’ quiet. We’ll be goin’ now. All we come for was the horses.” He nodded in Nate’s direction. “Thank you, in the name of Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee.” He spit on the ground and rode off.

I emerged from the orchard as Ben comforted Rebecca and the children. Nate stood by, helpless and frustrated, his anger overwhelming.

“Damn Rebs,” he muttered. “Should have killed more of them when I had the chance.”

“No such thing,” I chided him. “There will be wars as long as men like you want to fight, and as long as you think you’ll win.”

“Yeah, well,
they
ain’t gonna win,” Nate declared. “We’re two years into it, and no end in sight, but one of these days we’ll break their backs. You wait and see. Cooper Hartley won’t want to show his face around here when this is over.”

The raiders were attached to Lee’s Army, which had boldly invaded Pennsylvania in late June. The Army needed shoes, food, horses. This ragtag bunch was simply foraging for the cause. The clash was coming within the week, down near Menallen Meeting, at Gettysburg.

Ben counted himself lucky not to have lost more than a dozen or so horses. There were more in the south pasture and in the barn, but the raiders had been in much of a hurry, so had missed them. It was enough of a loss, but Ben was resilient.

“They missed the best of them,” he observed. “Anyway, with no help around here, I could do with fewer horses to take care of.” He looked around at his oldest sons, the twins, now eight. “You two better hurry and grow up. I’m gettin’ worn out, doin’ it all.”

Nate picked up a rock and threw it against the barn. “Damn Rebs.”

“It’s all right, Nate,” Ben reasoned. “It could have been worse. They didn’t burn us out or kill anybody.”

I silently thanked God the Rebels didn’t know about Maggie and her children hiding in our house. It could, indeed, have been much worse.

O
urs wasn’t the only farm the rebels visited that day.
Most of our neighbors lost stock, provisions, or both. I was spitting mad at Cooper Hartley for leading them to us, but there was nothing to be done. Still, I wanted to give Pru a dressing down. After all I’d done for her over the years—without so much as a thank you!

The next day, I put on my sunbonnet and marched down over the hill to the Hartley cabin. Everything was quiet there, and no one showed as I approached, not even a scrawny hound. The yard was trampled and littered with trash, like a camp meeting. Nothing moved. I approached the porch and called. No answer. Stepping carefully around rotten boards, I knocked at the door and waited. Nothing. I called again. No reply.

Gingerly, I lifted the latch and entered. It looked like a cyclone had passed through. Not a piece of furniture stood upright; the floor was littered with broken bottles, dishes, and rags, fragments of curtains ripped from the windows. I stood in the doorway. A whimper came from the bed in the far corner of the room. Pru huddled there, wrapped in a filthy quilt, knees to her chin, rocking slowly back and forth.

“Pru! What happened?” I rushed to her side, but she raised a bruised arm to ward me off.

I could hardly make her out in the dim light. Her hair was matted and dirty, her face battered and swollen almost beyond recognition. One side hung limp, drooping, and her left eye was swollen shut.

Pru looked at me like a lost child. She put her head down on her arms and continued to rock slowly back and forth. Seeing she wasn’t ready to talk, I picked up trash and righted furniture. Everything of value was gone. There was no food or supplies of any kind. The utensils were gone. The spit was bent from the fireplace. Everything that remained was shattered or splintered beyond use. The table had only three good legs, and the only thing to sit on was a chair without a back. Wanton destruction everywhere I looked.

Cold fear in my gut told me she was right. I could see enough damage to know that she’d been beaten and abused, but I had no way of knowing how much I couldn’t see. I reached out to help her up.

“Soldiers? But, Pru, they’re just little boys. They can’t be soldiers.” I paused, piecing the scene together. “Was it the soldiers who did this?”

Pru Hartley lay helpless and broken. I cried. In spite of her meanness, she didn’t deserve this. Her breathing became more shallow as I watched. She opened her right eye and looked at me.

“They kilt the dogs,” she said, and then she drifted away.

I held her lifeless hand for long minutes and thought of our years of contention. None of it mattered anymore. I pulled the blood stained quilt over her. The cabin was pitiful. Bare and beaten. I closed the door. War is a terrible thing.

Ï

Antietam was about seventy-five miles from Redfield farm, as the crow flies. Gettysburg about fifty-five. Too close, both of them. Some of Ben’s horses probably died at Gettysburg. Better the horses than any of us.

That month of July in 1863 was almost as bad as its predecessor of 1856, when I’d given up Sam. I thought not to like the month ever again, but I was wrong. July would redeem itself.

We kept Maggie and her children with us, to protect them from this Abe fellow and to nurse them back to health. Little Della never did say one word to any of us. She warmed up some—enough to take sliced peaches from me or to let me wipe her face clean, but not to speak. Gideon’s leg healed pretty quick, and by benefit of regular food he started to fill out a little. He was full of the dickens, always teasing and trying to get my goat. A likable imp who made me think of my own child up there in Canada. Little Andrew warmed up, too. He’d climb up on my lap and snuggle like a lost lamb.

It was Maggie who worried me. She was so thin, my old dress hung on her like a sack. She tried to help with the work, but her strength was about used up. Sometimes she coughed up blood, and I tried to keep her down, but she
would
get up and try to work. It was too late for Maggie. Death was waiting for her around the bend. She was determined to get back on the road to Canada, but I argued against that.

“Maggie, I know how bad you feel. You’d never make it to Canada if Canada was down by Fishertown.”

“Where Fishertown?” she asked, her eyes feverish.

“Not that far,” I replied. “You need to stay here so you don’t get sick on the road. Your babies wouldn’t know what to do. Stay here where we can take care of them.”

She lowered her eyes and nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her thin shoulders drooped.

“Don’t you worry, Maggie. I wrote to my friend in Canada and asked him to try to find your brother. If anyone can do it, he can. If you don’t get better, we’ll see that the children get there.”

“Uh huh.” The fight was gone out of her. She took to bed soon after and didn’t get up again.

I took this time to try to wean her children away, to dull the pain they would feel when she died. Gideon and Andrew were all right, each in his own way, but little Della was a challenge. She wandered around the farm with her thumb in her mouth, dragging a rag doll, lost without her mama.

We buried Maggie in the Friends Cemetery in Spring Meadow not six weeks after they came to us. Nothing more was heard from the elusive Abe, but just before Maggie died, the constable brought back the bay gelding that had been stolen from Ben the night Maggie arrived. He said it was taken from a black man jailed for stealing another horse. We guessed it was Abe.

The week after Maggie’s death, a letter came from Josiah, saying he’d found her brother and that the children’s father was, indeed, with him. Once more a party from Redfield Farm made the arduous journey from Alum Bank to Erie and sent a black family across to Freedomland. This time it was Nate who accompanied them—and James, who had attached himself to his uncle like a barnacle. They put Maggie’s children on the ferry, with Josiah waiting on the other side to take them to their father.

Poor little ones, lost in the world. I looked at Rachel’s babies, so recently orphaned and abandoned. Well, at least they had me, and would for all time. But I needed some respite from the sadness. From the horrible stories that kept coming in the wake of the great battle at Gettysburg. Needed the company of another woman. I wrote to Mary.