Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad (36 page)

James giggled, wriggling free and dancing toward the door. “Oh, you never touched me,” he sassed. “You better be nice, or I’ll tell Hattie Kensinger you’re sweet on her!”

T
rue to his taciturn nature, Nate didn’t speak of his plans to marry Hattie Kensinger,
partly, I surmised, because Hattie was not a Friend, and that meant disownment for marrying out of Meeting.

“That may be,” I replied. I was again glad to be a woman and not subject to the forces that drove men to violence. I had only once had the urge to fight, on the road to Oglestown that night—in self-defense.

“Anyway,” Nate continued, “the Friends are falling away. Every time you go to Meeting there are fewer. Some go west, some die, some marry out, some are disowned, and some just quit. The only reason I asked to be reinstated was for Pa’s sake. He was so put out with me for going to war.”

I sighed. This younger brother would always be a mystery. I barely knew Hattie Kensinger, but then I barely knew Nate. He would go his own way. I had no desire to criticize anyone’s religious leanings or lack of them. That part of life was wholly personal. If Nate wanted to leave the Society, it wouldn’t come between us.

“Have you and Hattie decided where you’ll live?” I asked.

“I’m working out a deal with old Mr. Jakes to buy his dry goods store in Bedford. Hattie’s father owns a little house on Richard Street that he’ll sell me on time.”

It didn’t surprise me. Their mutual need was clear to anyone with two eyes. James was rarely more than three feet from Nate’s good elbow, and he did, in fact, help Nate with many of life’s chores. He buttoned his shirts, cut his meat, saddled his horse, baited his fishhook. I knew some of those duties could be taken over by a wife, but James and Nate would still be lost without each other.

“I don’t like to split these children up, after losing their parents, but if you promise to keep close so they really are part of each others’ lives, I’ll allow it.”

So it was decided that James would live in Bedford as Nate and Hattie’s son. The wedding took place on a cold day in February, 1865, in the Bedford Presbyterian Church. James stood up beside his uncle for the ceremony, looking older than his almost nine years. When it came time to paint a new sign for Nate’s store, the wording was thus: Redfield and Schilling, Dry Goods.

One morning in April, Rebecca came running up the orchard, her skirts hiked like she was being chased by demons. I met her on the porch, fearing the worst. “It’s over! The war is over! Lee surrendered yesterday down in Virginia!” Her face was flushed, her eyes alight. I hugged her, and we danced around the porch for joy. Amos heard the goings on and came in from the barn.

“Papa! Papa!” I cried. “The Rebels surrendered. The war is won!”

Amos stood speechless, head down, in the middle of the yard, thinking of a return to peace and pacifism, I guessed.

It was five days later that Rebecca was back, walking slowly this time, her face ashen. “Oh, Ann. They’ve gone and killed Mr. Lincoln.”

I stared at her. “He was such a kind man, just what the country needed to help it heal,” Rebecca lamented. We sat down on a bench under the newly budding grape arbor to try and make sense of it.

One tragedy on the heels of another. So much news in so little time. It took some getting used to.

My mind wandered to the former slaves still in the south. Now Negroes walked freely on the streets of Bedford with barely a notice. For me it felt a little strange—like I was no longer needed. I thanked God for Rachel’s babies. Without them, I might have lacked a reason to live.

I wrote to Josiah, told him of my joy that the war was finally over and my hope that the former slaves would now know the joy of freedom. The Railroad was passing into history, and I reflected on my role in it with quiet satisfaction.

Josiah, free for ten years now, wrote that he was skeptical about the lot of free blacks in the South. For him, the bitter and complete southern defeat and the appalling ignorance of most slaves was a recipe for exploitation and discrimination. Still, he rejoiced in freedom for his people and worked harder to bring more of them to Canada, where the future looked brighter than in the south.

With Nate’s wedding, the number around the Redfield table was again reduced by two. In some ways it felt like a little family. Grandfather Amos, Mother Ann, Father Preston, and two children. A fantasy family, to be sure, but still all I had ever wanted in life.

Preston came and went between our house and Ben’s farm, asking little and working hard. Rebecca said he’d saved Ben’s back
and
his sanity. I was grateful for that, but it was another side of Preston that interested me. He was a man of the world in my eyes. He’d often traveled to Philadelphia and Baltimore to attend Yearly Meetings, and he opened my eyes to the wider world of the Quaker faith. The Society of Friends might be losing ground in these western counties, but it was alive and well in the east and in far flung places like Indiana and Iowa, even California.

“You should go to Yearly Meeting, Ann. You’d meet interesting people and learn how wide the Friends’ influence is,” he told me.

The idea was appealing, but I hesitated. Why was he asking
me
? Would he have extended the same courtesy to anyone? I put my doubts aside, and decided to join him and a small group from Dunning’s Creek Meeting for the trip to Baltimore. I still loved the Quaker faith, was proud of the pacifism, equality, moderation, and self-restraint it stood for. I’d once dreamed of attending Yearly Meeting at Elias Finley’s side. Now I understood how the answer to some dreams was, ‘Wait’. Going at Preston Neff’s side was a far more worthy dream.

I sought a favor from Deborah Finley. “Can Ellen and John stay with you while I go to Yearly Meeting?”

“Of course! Ellen and Sarah will be happy playmates for a few days, and John loves to play big brother to my Elias. What about Amos?”

Thus freed of responsibility, Preston and I met the group at the Meeting House and traveled to Hagerstown, where we boarded the train to Frederick. We spent the first night in Quaker homes there and continued on the train the next day to Baltimore. Preston escorted me to the home of his uncle, Robert Neff, where I was introduced to Robert’s wife, Susan, and his daughters, Mariah and Miranda. We four women fell together like old friends, talking about the issues that confronted the Society.

“You’ll love Yearly Meeting, Ann,” Susan Neff assured me. “Women’s rights will be on the agenda this year, and high time!”

Such talk awakened interests I didn’t know I had. The Neff women were open and outspoken. Their animated conversation kept me up late every night. I’d never experienced such intellectual stimulation, and I reveled in it, thriving on the energy it awakened in me.

“I’ve heard of these issues before—of Seneca Falls and the Declaration—but only vaguely. This is the first time I’ve met anyone with intention to act upon them,” I told Susan Neff as we sat in the parlor one evening. Preston and Robert were still engaged in Society business and wouldn’t return until late.

The next day, I listened in rapt attention as a parade of Quaker women addressed the conference, modestly self-congratulatory for the victories of abolition and the Underground Railroad, and exhorting the group to new action in the area of women’s rights. “What good,” they asked, “does it do black women to shed the bonds of slavery only to retain the bonds of gender? Why should any person be deprived of rights others enjoy simply by accident of birth?”

My head was still spinning three days later when Preston and I boarded the train for the trip home. At first, I was shy about addressing the topic of women’s rights with him, but he brought the subject up.

“What did you think of my girl cousins?” he asked. “And their confrontational attitude on Women’s Rights?”

“I loved it!” I blurted, in spite of myself. “I’ve always felt that women needed to assert themselves more, and I’ve certainly met some kindred souls!”

Preston laughed. “I knew a trip to Baltimore would unleash some tumult in the Redfield house!”

He wasn’t at all threatened by the prospect of associating with a strong woman, for that is what I was – had always been. Now I was confident enough not to hide it away. We talked almost all the way back to Bedford, finding ourselves in delighted agreement on many points. I was giddy with the excitement of new ideas and new horizons, and, though I tried, I couldn’t keep myself from hoping that a true union of souls might still be in store for me.

When we got home, it didn’t take long for my new found inspiration to find a voice. The very next First Day, I stood at Meeting and preached—yes, preached—my first testimony on equal rights for women.

“You can not profess to believe in equal rights and still deprive the women in your own family of the right to a voice in government and a share in the decision making.”

The ideas weren’t new, but my call to action stirred some underlying discontent among the women and opened the way for serious discussion across the aisle.

Preston, on his side, supported me and pressured the men to put into action the equality they professed belief in. It was the liveliest Meeting in recent memory—at least since before the war, when abolition held sway. People stood outside talking in small groups well into the afternoon. I visited with Rebecca and her sister Hannah, but my eyes scanned the crowd for Preston, ever conscious of his whereabouts.

Try as I would to resist, I felt myself drawn to him. My cautious nature made me wary. Elias’ treachery still lingered in memory. It was coming up on a year since Preston had appeared in our lives, and my good opinion of him had grown steadily. Still I tried to keep a tight rein on my feelings, this time not revealing to anyone that I saw him as a dream postponed, even though I guessed there was talk. There is always talk.

The summer came in full blown. Life at Redfield Farm was routine but never boring. My newfound interest in Women’s Rights flourished, and I was soon the center of a small but determined group of female Friends who shared the writings of women like Lucretia Mott and Elizabeth Cady Stanton over canning, preserving, or quilting. I spoke up with more courage and frequency at Meeting. One cause is won and another takes its place. Life goes on. It is ever thus.

One evening in July after helping me wipe the dishes Preston whispered, “Let’s go for a walk along the creek.”

I untied my apron and patted my hair. I noted the children playing on the porch with Amos, and followed Preston across the yard and down over the hill to Dunning’s Creek. As we walked, he took my hand. He’d never actually touched me before, beyond rubbing shoulders in a crowded coach or offering a hand to help me up or down. His touch sent an impulse through me, and I shuddered involuntarily.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No. Someone just stepped on my grave.” I spoke lightly, determined to mask my joy.

We walked hand in hand down over the hill to the creek in the July twilight. We stood looking into the clear water, keenly aware of each other. He turned to face me, taking both of my hands in his. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Well, I was thinking maybe we could marry. Raise these two children. Maybe have one or two of our own,” he said, hopefully. “I’ve learned to love you, Ann.”

My hands began to shake and I pulled away. Love! He’d said he loved me! No one, not even Josiah, had ever said that. How could I be worthy?

“People talk, Ann. They talk all the time—about everyone. I picked it up from my sister Melissa, from Deborah Finley, from Ben and Rebecca. You’d be surprised how free they are with information when they think you already know. But it doesn’t matter.”

My eyes searched his. I felt myself carried away by an irresistible current. Too weak to stand, I sank to the ground. “How can a man like you love me? What do you see in me?” I asked.