Stand the Storm (8 page)
Daniel Joshua said nothing because he was full of his own plan. He knew how to get from here to the next place for a person making a run. He was putting together a route for Mary in his mind—one that he had been working out in his head for the past days. It was the kind of escape Daniel Joshua liked, for it was planned and clever. He felt a warmth and affection for this particular young woman, too. He liked a good adventure. He liked outwitting the powers. There was some of all of that in it.
When Mary returned to their circle, pawing at her wet cheeks, Gabriel stared down into his lap and his feelings were contrary. Gabriel Coats did care for Mary in this short time and the loss of her would pinch him. If the plan unfolded, as it ought, this brand-new Mary would be walking in freedom in Canada! She would be lost to him forever. Maybe some word would get back to him or maybe he would one day be free and walk to Canada and find new Mary again. That much good fortune seemed unlikely.
Gabriel’s uncharacteristic ill ease threatened to give away the leaving plan. For, in the days of preparation for Mary’s journey, he became a restless, pacing man who made frequent trips to the toilet.
“Aye, Gabriel, has your old mam poisoned you?” Aaron Ridley asked with sardonic jesting on noticing his discomfort.
“Yes, Master Aaron,” taciturn Gabriel replied with uncommon clever faces. “She has mixed up her dye pot with her stew pot and I am to suffer.” Aaron laughed loudly, for he cherished a low opinion of Annie and was ever eager to express it.
Daniel Joshua knew a white man committed to his God and the cause of abolition who worked at a crossroads in the state of Maryland some miles north and west of the city. If Mary would get to this cooper, the man would take her up into the western mountains to join a group following bear trails all the way to Cincinnati. Along the string of trails were beads—people and resting places and some food and warmth.
“Brother Chester—do not say this name aloud, but know it to see it,” Daniel said, and drew the letters of Chester’s name on a piece of paper. “Brother Chester is a saint for the people and he will take you on further,” he said to buoy her spirits. “He will deliver you, for he is on a firm footing with God almighty. Brother Chester and his woman will take you on.”
Daniel patiently repeated the words to Mary and spelled the letters and impressed this all upon her. She was wanting so hard to stay with Annie and Gabriel that she was a reluctant pupil. Daniel was firm. He traced along the table with his sausage fingers, repeating the names of places on the route and the letters:
C-H-E-S-T-E-R.
At dusk of the leaving day, Annie helped Mary to dress in layers of dry breeches and wrapped Mary’s breasts and gave her three shirts to wear. She’d last longer on the foot trek if she wore the garments of a man. Annie cut away most of her hair. Plenty of gals would cry at losing their crowning glory. Even one with measly shreds upon her pate would balk at losing it all—or most of it. Mary didn’t cry. She agreed to the sense of it.
Gabriel questioned his own resolve and his plan. Was he unable to gird himself for a trip like this one? He envied Mary’s sturdiness. Mary had, in fact, no choice. She had to go—to run. Ought he to be going with her—to look after her, to make certain she reached?
At midnight, Mary and Daniel Joshua set out upon the path. Told to follow closely and silently, Mary sidled and crab-crawled through Georgetown alleyways behind Daniel Joshua until the cobblestones fell away under their feet. Threading through brush and tangles behind the cemetery for colored that bordered the creek, Daniel led Mary out of Georgetown. She breathed shallowly and quickly, and Daniel slowed his walking to steady the enterprise.
When they reached the Maryland side of the creek some ways from where they’d begun, Daniel dropped back to let Mary move ahead of him.
“Don’t look back. Keep on a’ goin’. Go all the way,” he whispered at the back of her head. “God keep you, Mary.”
Mary froze at Daniel Joshua’s voice. She’d been expecting it. She knew he’d not go the distance with her. She knew he was bound to take her only as far as the District border. She knew he’d gone on a pace or two beyond that for sake of lookout and affection. She heard his words and was beguiled by them. “Go, Mary, go on.” The whisper pushed her along and she followed the directive. She didn’t turn to look back at him. She felt the urge to make water and to fall to the ground and wail. Her body quaked and dripped sweat. She settled her guts and walked on as she’d been instructed.
She went on solidly and surely—avoiding puddles and sharp sticks and loud crackling branches. She remembered that Annie had cautioned her not to wet her feet if she could avoid it. She remembered Daniel’s words: walk on cat feet, run like a rabbit, sly as a fox ’round the henhouse, chew the bear’s paw. She remembered that Gabriel had simply held her hand and warmed it in his palm and held her eyes with his own. And she had savored his thirst for her.
Now there was a place to reach before her—a person. This was a steadying knowledge. She was going toward a place and a person and a refuge. She would get there.
She walked throughout the first night in the weak light of the waning moon. When light of morning came back, Mary’s feet were still dry.
The sign Mary had been looking for—the ray of hope, the rest for her two feet—was on the horizon. It had come into view as she climbed the rise of a small hill.
CHESTER COOPERAGE COMPANY.
C-H-E-S-T-E-R.
Mary had repeated the letters in her mind for all of the journey. Daniel Joshua had drummed it in that she was to reach the town of Clearwater and proceed upon the road northwest of town to a crossroads where the barn with its sign would be.
CHESTER COOPERAGE COMPANY
Mary squatted next to a tree until the sun dipped down. The socks were no longer on her feet. She’d taken them off to keep them dry. Now she rubbed off as much dirt as she could and put the socks back on. Her legs and feet were weary and at the end of their day’s strength, but she thought to present a decent picture.
CHESTER COOPERAGE COMPANY
Shooks, Barrels, and Staves
Daniel had assured her that the white man who owned and operated this concern on the outskirts of town was a friend of the runaway. This man was of the Quaker people and he and his wife assisted any who were fleeing from slavery.
“Wait out by the tree for the signal. If it be clear to come in, Missus will put a sign on the windowsill that says to come on in,” Daniel had schooled her. “Don’t be fearful of them. They’re good people of God who can’t abide slavery.”
Mary kept her eye on the windows facing toward the hognut tree behind which she stood. When most of the light had faded in the sky, Missus did come to open the shutters on the window just to the right of the doorway. A woman who was nearly as wide as she was tall, Missus Chester placed a quilt on the windowsill. First she spread the cloth and shook it as if to rustle crumbs. The woman never raised her eyes up to look around. She made a careful fold in the cover to leave the full pattern clearly visible.
Mary’s eyes fastened on the yellow at the center instead of the red carbuncle of the quilt. She could not so clearly distinguish much else of the pattern in the lowering light. But she did see the yellow center and knew it was the all-clear signal.
Still Mary waited for the sun to go down completely. The moment came. When she heard from the birds that call out the oncoming darkness, the running girl went to the back door of the house and scratched her fingers on its wooden planks. Missus appeared at the door and Mary removed her cap and bowed her head. Her body shivered and she feared the woman might hear that every bone within her body was clicking and clacking against its neighbor.
“Praise the Lord who has brought you,” the woman said softly but earnestly as she opened the door. Conscious of what shadows and silhouettes and slivers of light can remain to be seen from a lighted doorway, the Chesters were careful with their lanterns.
“Come in,” the woman said, and drew Mary into the room.
The woman held her lantern low so that Mary saw little of her face until she was well in the room and the door had been closed behind her.
Though not tall, Mary stood a head over Emily Chester, who might have been taken for a child if not for her womanly bosom.
Emily Chester was solicitous of Mary and immediately urged the girl off her feet. She seemed unsurprised at Mary’s soft face, revealed when she doffed her hat. The woman brought her guest to a seat near the warm fire.
The Chester home was a small, sweet haven that served only to shelter and hold sway against the elements. It was a plainly furnished and sparsely decorated edifice that would never cause envious tongues to wag. There were only necessaries for work and simple comforts about the rooms. A spinning wheel and a weaving loom shared the small living room with four plain, straight-backed chairs and two stools.
Emily Chester brought a bowl of stew, a spoon, and a chunk of bread to the chair in which she’d installed Mary. As the white woman approached her, Mary leaped to her feet, then tottered a bit before collapsing back in the chair.
“Now, now, young one,” Emily Chester cooed. “Rest and eat and settle your nerves. I shan’t eat you. I have had my evening stew.”
Matthew Chester joined his wife in her chuckling. He emerged from a darkened inside room as a man of typical height and breadth for his line of work. Matthew Chester did most of his business selling barrels to a local brewer of ale. This happy circumstance yielded his living wage and the perquisite of an ale belly.
Matthew Chester’s workshop was a large structure appended to the barn. In the workshop, Chester had constructed a particular barrel that he used to transport those who must travel under cover.
Kind as he was, Matthew Chester insisted that Mary leave at dusk of the next day. His establishment was a way station only. It was not safe to tarry.
In a large barrel generally used for great stores of flour or rice or such, Chester had fashioned handles and a small platform upon which one traveling inside of the barrel might rest. Unlike the barrels made for his trade, this one had nearly invisible seams to allow air to reach inside. Also, there were holes whose bungs could be removed for more air and to see out. In this way, Matthew and Emily had transported former bondpersons out of the county and over the roads to the next stop on their journey. Some were frightened of the barrel and balked at being shut up. It was then that Missus Chester would implore and assure and swear that many had reached the free territory through hiding in this barrel.
“As God is my judge, you will arrive in one piece,” she said. “Do not cry out. We are all in the hands of the Lord and upon the lips of the righteous!”
Rather than remain at home to give in to heathen fears and premonitions, Emily Chester accompanied her husband on the trips. There were no two ways about it, Pansy, one of the mares who pulled the wagon, was a finicky creature. She favored Emily’s hand upon her reins and Matthew gladly allowed Emily to guide the team. They drove away from their place side by side, shoulder to shoulder, like the barrels in the rear of the wagon—the one barrel full of Mary, its twin filled with sorghum, and a third full of ale.
The band of patrollers—three men—came upon them and surrounded the wagon. The horses reared up at their sudden, noisy appearance and there was no possibility of cutting past the men. Matthew called out, “Quiet now!” The team settled and halted, but Mary knew he spoke to her. The horsemen circled menacingly.
“Ma’am,” a scarlet-faced man said while tipping his hat mockingly. He reached and snatched the reins from Emily’s hands. She would have answered him with a slash across his face with her horsewhip, for she was quick and strong. Matthew held her arm.
“I’ll have what is in that barrel, sir!” The voice was loud and whiskey-slurred. “If it is flour, I will have it! If you are carrying sugar or sorghum for feed or cornmeal perhaps? Well, maybe you have ale in that barrel. Enough to wet all of our whistles.” The fierce-looking brigands guffawed and the two Quakers foolishly relaxed their fears and laughed with them. These men were only out for drink. Matthew Chester cheerfully opened the ale barrel and invited the men for a drink.
The ringleader of the patrollers grimaced over his quaff and eyed the barrel that hid Mary.
“Whatever is in that barrel there will be mine unless you put down your life to keep it!” the man barked, and looked directly into Emily’s eyes. He thought to unhinge her, but did not. The cruel knife twist of the man’s voice unhinged Mary’s courage instead. The runaway could not stifle a gasp of horror. Her voice was heard from within the barrel.
The patrollers broke open the top of the barrel over Mary’s head and dragged her from her hiding place. They had found what they’d been tipped to look for: an escaping slave.
The men tossed Mary on the ground. The leader clubbed her at the back of the head to render her quiet.
The patrollers then used their clubs on Emily and Matthew and left them lifeless on the road.
D
ANIEL JOSHUA WAS
accustomed to slipping imperceptibly down the labyrinthine streets and alleys of Washington. The city of snaggletoothed houses hunched up with just enough space between to sidle past and interspersed with alleys snaking and coiling was perfectly suited to Daniel’s habits of skulking around unseen. Maybe he’d become slippery for having come to Washington and trying to stay free and helping some others. Maybe he found himself in Washington because he was the slippery sort. He and Washington were well suited.
Bending down a row of something growing and looked after by a man upon a horse wielding a whip is what Daniel Joshua had left behind. A plan had come to him and he had leaped and got free. He had stayed free through his wiles.
Daniel Joshua did not entirely inhabit the shadows. He earned his bread by day driving a dung wagon through the city streets. He was seen abroad. The work gave him good cover. Not many will look full at a man following horses and shoveling up their whatnot. The work was ever more steady and plentiful. More horses and their shit and their riders and carriages streamed into Washington and Georgetown each day.
