Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt (31 page)

I
nodded, too tired to do anything more, but Anneke took the quilt and wrapped it around her son. “It’s beautiful.” She cradled her son in her arms and kissed his brow.

My heart swelled with pride. Anyone else would have laughed in surprise to hear this quilt, sturdily though hastily made, pieced of scraps and quilted in simple lines, given such praise. But I understood my sister-in-law’s meaning. The quilt was beautiful not for itself but for what it represented, and what it would accomplish.

It was the finest thing my hands ever made, then or since.

We sent word to stations south of us—as before, I shall not explain the particulars of how—so that fugitives would know to look for our new signal. Within days of the completion of the quilt, it had beckoned a runaway from Virginia into our home. The Elm Creek Farm station of the Underground Railroad was open once again.

11

The second time the librarian passed by to remind Summer that the Waterford Historical Society’s archives closed early on Fridays, Summer nodded absently and glanced at her watch. She had five more minutes to search the database before the librarian would kick her out and lock the door, but with the pitiful luck she’d had so far that day, five minutes more or less probably wouldn’t make much difference.

She sighed and shut down the computer, admitting to herself that she might be wasting her time. Lately she had turned up nothing related to the Bergstroms or Elm Creek Farm, so she had not even told Sylvia about her searches. She would rather have Sylvia believe she was too busy to investigate rather than dash her hopes that something remained out there, waiting to be found.

“That was one heavy sigh. You’re supposed to be quiet in the library.”

Summer looked over her shoulder to find the same dark-haired man who had tried to help her in the stacks smiling at her from his usual
carrel. “Sorry,” said Summer. “Does this mean you have to confiscate my library card?”

“I don’t think that happens on the first offense.” He rose and crossed the aisle, and nodded to the computer. “Are you having trouble finding something?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve been here for two hours and all I’ve found is frustration.” Summer laughed ruefully. “I wouldn’t mind if at least one of my possibilities would have led somewhere.”

“Maybe I can help. What are you looking for?”

“Birth records, death records, documents relating to a family that immigrated here before the Civil War. I looked through the hard copies of the city government files already, but when I couldn’t find what I wanted, I tried the database. Unfortunately, it’s even less complete than the books.”

“Did you look in the old local newspapers? The historical society has microfiche of issues going as far back as the 1800s.”

“I looked, but the years I wanted are missing.”

“Did you ask at the newspaper office?”

Summer nodded. “They said they might have the issues but they couldn’t be sure, and they couldn’t spare the personnel to help me look.”

“That’s rude of them. I think I’ll cancel my subscription in protest.”

“Don’t do it on my account. It’s not their fault.” Summer checked her watch and, seeing that the archives were about to close, began gathering her notebooks and photocopies. “All I can give them is a last name and a time period. If I could be more specific about what I was looking for, they could probably be more helpful.”

The man picked up his stack of books and followed her to the door, where the librarian waited, key in hand. “Have you checked the phone book?”

Summer raised her eyebrows
at him. “They didn’t have phones back then, so they didn’t have much need for phone books.”

“No, I mean our phone book. The family you’re researching lived in this area, right? Maybe there are some living descendants who would be willing to talk to you. Even if they don’t have the specific details you need, they might be able to point you in the right direction. They could give you additional names to research, like other branches of the family.”

“Oh, I know there are living descendants,” said Summer. One living descendant, anyway, but if Sylvia had that information, Summer wouldn’t be searching for it. And as far as additional names were concerned—

“That’s it,” exclaimed Summer. She had to get home and get her hands on a phone book. “Thank you so much, um—”

“Jeremy. And you’re?”

“Summer. Thanks, Jeremy. You’ve given me a great idea.” She left the archive room and headed briskly for the stairs, Jeremy close behind. “I should have asked you for help before. I’m so glad I happened to be here during your shift.”

“My shift?”

She glanced at him. “You don’t work for the library?”

“Nope. And not for the historical society, either.”

Summer stopped short and regarded him with a skeptical grin. “But you offered to help me search the archives.”

He shrugged. “I’m just a good citizen.” When Summer laughed, he added sheepishly, “I’m a grad student in history. I study in the Waterford Historical Society’s room because it’s quiet. Usually no one comes in there except for you. Not that I’m keeping track or anything.”

He looked so embarrassed Summer couldn’t resist teasing him. “Well, if I need any more research assistance, I’ll be sure to ask.”

He grinned, pleased. “You know where to find me.”

May 1859—
in which we enter our darkest hours

Our new signal quilt proved so successful
that I allowed myself to believe we had eluded the dangers Mr. Pearson’s apparent recognition of the Underground Railroad pattern had hinted at and our neighbor’s warnings had confirmed. How foolish I was. I should have been more vigilant, but even in hindsight I do not know how I could have predicted from which direction the most dangerous winds would blow.

Fair weather brought a steady stream of runaways; they followed the creek north to our home, with slave catchers never far behind. Elm Creek Farm, which as recently as winter had seemed so remote, now was assured of a visitor at least every second day—and for every three friends we ushered inside to safety, we encountered one unfriendly stranger, full of suspicions and questions. And once again, the same two slave catchers who had searched our home in March came to contend with us.

They arrived amid a fierce thunderstorm, the sudden, violent sort we had learned to expect in that region each spring, but which awed us anew each season. Our first warning of the men’s approach came in a respite between thunderclaps: the high, shrill whinny of a horse, so close and sudden we started. Barely a heartbeat later there was an urgent pounding upon the door.

Needless to say, our usual night visitors did not arrive on horseback. Joanna hurried as fast as she could from the fireside upstairs to the secret alcove, and as I assisted her inside, my heart raced with alarm. I wondered who was outside, and if they had glimpsed Joanna through the windows.

When I returned downstairs and found the two familiar and unwelcome figures dripping water in our foyer, I felt a lump in the pit of my stomach, which did not fade until I realized they must not have seen Joanna, for if they had, they would even now be dragging her from the hiding place.
I longed to order them from the house, but we could not send them back out into the storm without raising their suspicions. Instead Hans took them to the barn where they could leave their dogs and tend to their horses, and I began to prepare them something to eat.

Suddenly Anneke clutched my arm, stricken. “Gerda,” said she, and nodded out the window toward the clothesline.

I raced outside to snatch the Birds in the Air quilt from the line. I returned inside, thoroughly drenched, and hurried upstairs, where I wrung out the quilt in my washbasin and hid it beneath my bed. I had barely enough time to change into dry clothes and return to the kitchen before the men returned.

My own stomach was in knots, so that I hardly dared speak to them as I served their supper, lest they detect my turmoil. Anneke busied herself with the baby, as if too distracted by him to notice the men. To my relief, they conversed with Hans as if they did not notice anything out of the ordinary; or perhaps they noticed but had grown accustomed to odd behavior from the Bergstrom family, as we were never at ease when they were around. I prayed they would soon depart, but as the hour grew late with no abating of the storm, we had no choice but to invite them to spend the night.

They bedded down beside the fireplace, and as I climbed the stairs, I thought of Joanna crouching in darkness almost directly above her enemies. Upstairs, I paused outside the hidden alcove long enough to murmur a warning to Joanna, then crept off to my own room, where I lay in bed, too tense to sleep. If Joanna should cry out as she slumbered—if slumber was possible in such close quarters—or if she did not hold perfectly still and silent, the men below might hear her. We might be able to convince them that Anneke or I had made the sound, but what if—and this was my greatest fear—what if Joanna’s child should decide to enter the world that very night?

Eventually snores drifted
up the stairs, telling me the slave catchers were resting peacefully, but they were the only ones in the household to do so. Even the baby, who woke twice to nurse, did not rouse them with his cries. I heard Hans and Anneke whispering, but from the sewing room, there was not even the smallest noise. For my part, I held perfectly still in bed, clenching my quilt in my fists, praying that we would somehow manage to avoid detection a second time.

When finally the morning sun began to pink the sky, I dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen to prepare breakfast, making no attempt to work quietly and allow our unwelcome guests to sleep any longer than absolutely necessary. I heard them stirring in the other room, speaking in low voices, then one or both left the house briefly and returned. By the time I summoned everyone to the breakfast table, I had regained my confidence. The men had not demanded to search the house, and perhaps our hospitality would once and for all convince them we had nothing to hide.

We Bergstroms all but wolfed down our food in our eagerness to bring a swift end to the meal, and we could barely contain our relief when the first of the two remarked that they would need to set off immediately, to make up for time lost. Then he looked directly at me and said, “Miss Bergstrom, I don’t wish to trouble you none, but if you could spare some of that bread, we’d be mighty grateful for it on the road.” He smiled. “We never know when we’ll come across a home as welcoming as this one.”

“Of course.” I hastened to the kitchen and packed a bundle as quickly as I could, and spinning around to return to the dining room, I ran right into the slave catcher. I gasped, startled, and stepped back. “Excuse me,” said I, and tried to laugh. “I did not realized you followed me.”

He stepped toward me. “Why so nervous, Miss Bergstrom?”

“I’m not nervous,
not at all.” I thrust the bundle at his chest, shoving him backward. “Here. Enjoy the bread.”

He caught my arm. “Yesterday, when we arrived, you wore a blue dress,” said he, stroking the fabric of my sleeve with his other hand. “When we returned from the barn, you were dressed in brown.”

“You are mistaken,” said I, and pulled myself free. “You have confused me and Anneke. I was dressed in brown. She wore blue.”