Out Through the Attic (2 page)

When I caught up with him, he was standing under the oak, the river flowing behind him a hundred yards down the hill. There wasn’t a cemetery, just a single headstone set in tall grass shadowed by low-hanging branches and wide, green leaves that rustled in the wind.

I stepped up beside him and looked at the stone as he took my hand in his.

ABIGAIL WATSON
June 18, 1816–July 7, 1864

GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN

My breath caught in my throat. Her name, the dates … none of it made any sense. I’d never heard of Abigail Watson before, not from anyone in the family.

“That’s right, Baby-girl,” he said quietly. “You two were born on the same day … just eighty-four years apart.”

“Who was she, Grandpa?”

He sighed again.

“She was my best friend,” he said slowly. His face scrunched up, like he was in pain. “And she was the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”

“What’s this all about?” I asked quietly. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s why we’re here. Now that you’re sixteen, you’re old enough to wrap your head around what happened … where I come from. It’s time somebody else knew about her … about what she did.” He smiled, just a little, and a quiet chuckle passed his lips as he nodded towards the headstone. “Hell, most of the folks who were there are with
her
now. And I ain’t too far behind.” He squeezed my hand and looked at me. “I just hope I get to see her again when I’m gone.” He kneeled, his eyes never leaving the headstone. “Your father knows I come here a few times a year. He knows she was important to me. But I never told him what I’m about to tell you.” Grandpa reached down and ran his hand over the long grass. “You see, she swore us all to secrecy … all two-hundred-and-forty-three of us. I suppose I could have talked about it after she was gone, but my promise to her was all I had left. That and my shame.”

I felt him shaking, and he looked like he was sobbing. I’d never seen him in such a state.

He sniffed, wiped his eyes, and then told me his secret.

May 12
th
, 1846

Abigail Watson’s elderly husband Joshua owned a few thousand acres of oat and corn fields in the southeast corner of Missouri, right up against the Mississippi River. He also owned sixty slaves to tend them. He was a gambling man, and a drinker with an appetite for whipping his property—including his wife, as he saw it—whenever he lost at cards. But he was a good enough gambler to win regularly, and everyone on the farm was grateful when he did.

One late summer night he came home from Sikeston after a long gambling session. He had a young slave in tow, literally. The slave, who Abigail guessed wasn’t more than seventeen or eighteen, was dressed in rags, a chain around his neck, and shackles around his wrists.

Joshua had won the boy and said his name was Billy. He presented Billy to her as a “gift.” She knew it was some half-assed attempt to apologize for all those nights he’d lost at cards and taken it out on her. Like a good wife, she smiled and thanked him.

She removed the shackles and collar as soon as her husband was out of sight, and in that moment a life-long friendship was born.

June 18
th
, 1846

Joshua dropped dead in his tracks on Abigail’s thirtieth birthday. She always swore it was the best birthday present she’d ever received. Joshua had no kin, and they’d had no children. This left her with fields to tend and quite a few slaves to tend them with.

A week after her husband’s funeral, she decided to do things her way. There was no one around to argue with her, so she freed every single slave on the farm. She offered to pay good wages to anyone willing to stay. A few headed north, but most—the ones that knew Abigail for who and what she was—stayed, including Billy. And because of his talents, they ended up making one hell of a team.

Everyone for miles and miles knew Billy was good with tools and metal and wood. He always had been, even for his previous owner. He made new equipment for bailing oats, fixed up the house with running water, and even built a small autocarriage for Abigail.

Between the two of them, and with the help of the farm hands, they made the Watson farm more productive than any other for three counties. Abigail had been wealthy before, but a few years of running the farm her way made her the richest woman in Missouri. And her farm hands shared in that fortune.

Things stayed like that for fourteen years—Billy and Abigail running the farm, laughing together whenever they could.

October 28
th
, 1860

A package from Abigail’s brother Baxter arrived early in the morning. At first she was surprised that he’d sent more than a letter. They had never gotten along, exchanging correspondence a few time a year, generally at the holidays, and purely out of familial duty. They both did the same thing with their parents, and for the same reason.

When Abigail opened it, she knew right away that Baxter wanted something. He was a resident of Alabama and firmly committed to the continuation of slavery. The package contained a roll of schematics and a letter, both done in his own hand.

As she unrolled the schematics and realized what they were for, an idea formed in her head. Upon reading Baxter’s letter, the idea solidified into a plan. There was a certain symmetry to it that pleased Abigail, touching her sense of irony … and justice.

In his letter Baxter spoke of how he could get rich with his invention … that it would make the South stronger. He wanted to do something to help his countrymen, “beat the damn Yanks if push comes to shove.”

Even in far-off Missouri, Abigail had heard the grumblings of secession by a number of states, and things were starting to look grim.

Abigail composed a polite, apologetic letter to her brother, explaining that times were hard on the farm and she was barely making ends meet. She didn’t wish him luck, of course, but he probably wasn’t aware of the omission. She doubted he was capable of comprehending what it meant even if he had. Abigail was like that—subtle and polite and ever-kind, even when she despised someone.

She asked one of the farm hands to take her reply to the post immediately and then called Billy in from the shed where he had been fixing farm equipment. She laid out the schematics on the dining room table, handed him a glass of lemonade, and asked him what he thought.

Billy took one look and realized they were for a submersible boat. He found the idea intriguing but didn’t see much use for a boat that could travel underwater. It couldn’t be that large, air would always be a challenge, and there was really no practical reason to build one. He said as much.

Abigail smiled and asked him if he thought he could build the thing.

At first he looked at her like she was addled. Then he noticed the gleam in her eyes and understood that she had something specific in mind. He took a second, longer look. After a few minutes he said that given both the time and materials, it could be done. But it would be
expensive
.

Abigail told him her plan. She knew it would be expensive … and
dangerous
if they were ever caught. But she wanted to do something for a cause she believed in.

So he built it.

It took him eighteen months and cost her over ten-thousand dollars. First he had to build a large boat house that extended over the river. Then came the tunnel that connected the main house to the boathouse. And finally he had to redesign and manufacture a wider submersible than the one in the schematics.

He didn’t work alone, of course. The farm hands all helped, and Abigail pitched in where she could, getting just as dirty and sweaty as the rest. But everyone kept the secret. They all knew the risks but believed in what they were doing.

When they were done, and the submersible was ready, they set themselves upon the real work. They made the right contacts, paid the right riverboat captains, and sent out a promise of freedom.

Their passengers came in ones and twos—usually men, occasionally women, and sometimes children. All of them were escaped slaves, but the fear in their eyes turned to hope as soon as they saw the name of the submersible.

Freedom.

Abigail and Billy set the escapees up in the tunnel under the house, fed them, clothed them, and kept them warm. Every month or so, when there were enough, Billy would steal them away in the
Freedom
and make the 120-mile trip from the boathouse all the way to Evansville, Indiana.

Abigail, on the other hand, never made the journey. She had a dreadful fear of water, so bad that she could only get as close as the doorway to the boathouse. Even the thought of getting near the Mississippi sent her into fits. It was the only weakness Billy ever saw in her, but he never judged her for it. She was always there to see the escapees off and welcome him home.

For almost two years this went on, becoming a happy routine.

They laughed together and kept up appearances in the farming community.

They made piles of sandwiches and gallons of lemonade for a journey that wasn’t their own. And they used a submersible designed by a Confederate, paid for by a white woman, and built by a negro
to grant freedom to those who had none.

July 17
th
, 1864

Abigail ran a pale, freckled wrist across her forehead, shifting a red lock from green eyes. “With the group from this morning, how many does that make?” she asked, cutting another thick slice of bread from one of the loaves she’d baked that afternoon.

“Seventeen,” Billy replied as he fried up another batch of peppered bacon.

“Did you check her out?” she asked.

Billy chuckled. She knew damn well that he always checked out the
Freedom
before a run. “Last night, Abigail,” he replied with feigned irritation. “She’s as ship-shape as the day I finished putting her together.”

“Just checking,” she said innocently.

He could see her trying to hide her smile. He nudged her with his elbow. “You’re terrible!” he shouted, and the broke into fits of laughter.

It took them two hours to finish the sandwiches and wrap them in clean, white butcher paper. They spent another two hours squeezing lemons and pouring lemonade into a row five-gallon jugs.

The setting sun had turned the kitchen burgundy by the time they finished. Billy walked into the pantry and knocked on the back wall three times, then two, then three again. Shifting a dusty bag of sugar from where it sat on a high shelf, he pulled a small lever set into the wall. With a click, the secret door he’d built swung open, revealing a dark stairwell. Pale lamplight shone from the tunnel below. He heard people shuffling around, and then two dark, nervous faces peeked around the corner.

“Tyrell, Jacob.” Billy nodded. “Can a few of you come up and carry our vittles down to the far end of the tunnel?”

“Yeah, Billy,” Tyrell called up. “We’ll be right up.”

“And start loading up the boat once everything is down there,” Billy added.

“Yes, sir!” Jacob replied nervously.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Jacob. Billy will do just fine.” Jacob had arrived that morning. With all the preparations, Billy hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.

Jacob gave a sheepish grin and then disappeared the way Tyler had gone.

Billy started moving the jugs into the pantry when he heard a young boy shouting out front.

He exchanged confused looks with Abigail, and they both rushed to the front window.

In the dusk outside they saw a young negro boy running up the steps.

“Miss Abigail! Miss Abigail!” the boy yelled as he pounded on the front door.

It was Keenan Holly, the fourteen-year-old son of a family that worked a patch of land at the edge of Abigail’s farm.

“Lord, child!” Abigail cried, opening the door. What has got you in such a state?”

“It’s Anderson! He’s coming! He
KNOWS
!” The boy was frantic.

“Anderson?” Abigail asked, bewildered.

Billy knew there was only one Anderson who could terrify Keenan like that. “Bloody Bill Anderson,” he said with grim certainty.

“Oh,
God
,” Abigail whispered.

Billy kneeled down and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Calm down, Keenan, and tell me what happened.”

“I was in town, getting some cloth for mamma’s new dress. I overheard some soldiers talking in the General Store. I tucked outta sight so’s they wouldn’t see me and heard the whole thing.”

“Heard what?” Abigail asked.

“Anderson’s men captured an escaped slave west of here. The soldiers said the slave was tough, but they got it outta him.” Keenan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He told them he was headed for the
Watson
farm.”

They were silent as the reality sank in.

Bloody Bill Anderson had earned his name by killing anyone sympathetic to the Union. He’d butchered whole families and burned churches to the ground with the congregation still inside. There had been skirmishes between Union and Confederate irregulars all across Missouri since the start of the war. They were always brutal, and the reprisals horrific.

Right up until that moment, Billy and Abigail had been able to stay out of the war, contributing to the cause in their own way. Now the war was knocking on the front door.

Billy stood and looked at Abigail, fear in his eyes.

She turned, stepped out onto the porch, and looked down the road towards Sikeston.

“Abigail?” Billy said quietly. The last traces of sunlight had turned the clouds black and burgundy.

Like distant thunder they heard Anderson’s armor rolling, a deep, mechanical groan mixed with the shriek of grinding metal. Six electric lights came around a low hill a mile away, splitting the deepening gloom. A line of torches bounced along behind Anderson’s large, armored machines.

Without turning she said, “Billy, you need to get them out of here.
Now
.”

“You’re coming with us this time, right?” he asked, fear and panic rising in his chest.

She turned and shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

His eyes went wide. “But Abigail—” he started.

“Even if I could set foot in the
Freedom
,” she said calmly, cutting him off, “I’m not leaving my home. And I’m not leaving these people behind to that monster. Without me all of the farm hands would go right back onto the auction block, and you know it.”