The House Girl (30 page)

She had scarcely anything with her, no pack or parcel, just an ear of corn in one pocket & a drawing of a woman in the other, a drawing quite expertly made. I asked her who was the artist but she did not answer, only looked to it with a certain sadness. She was young, younger than myself, & Father & I were both deeply moved by her. I sat with her quietly, stroking her head as Father fetched food from the larder & left the two of us to ourselves. Perhaps he thought that she & I would speak as girl friends might, or as sisters, but it was too difficult, our worlds were too far apart. She refused to speak of the events that had led her to our barn, despite my patient urgings. Instead she spoke of the colors of the sky & the mountains, chickens beset by a pox, children laughing & playing, a cow gone dry, sheets blowing on a dry wind. It was an odd story she told, not even quite a story but more a series of pictures she painted for me in the air
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When Father finally returned, she lay asleep across the floorboards, her head resting lightly against my leg. “We cannot send her,” Father said. “She is not right in the head and her child could come at any time. She would never last the journey.” Indeed I had considered the same, but what then were we to do? I thought it best for her to sleep, then we might give her a good meal, help her return to herself, & transport her in the wagon, on to another station in the Railroad, a less dangerous locale, where she might be safer. Father’s reply surprised me. “We cannot risk her in the wagon. The space is close under the boards, she might scream or start to birth her child. The patrollers are more numerous since Alfred’s capture & I cannot place us at risk.”

I carefully shifted her head & stood so that I might look Father in the eye. “What then would you have us do? We cannot forsake this girl, she has come to us for help.” He answered, “We cannot save them all. There are great risks for us, for Samuel & your Mother, were we to be discovered. Would you have us jeopardize all our efforts for this one?” We stood face to face as the girl slept on. I asked again what he would have us do. I have never spoken so coldly to Father before but anger & frustration rose up within me. Why this girl? Why were the risks now too great? “Perhaps we might bring her to the Sheriff with requests for mercy,” Father said. “I do not suggest we leave her on the road. We will arrive at a solution.”

Father spoke on but his solutions seemed impossible to me, for they were merely different routes to the same end—to return the girl to servitude & almost certainly to grave punishment. And in our solution we were condemning her unborn child as well. “I then will assist her. I will do it alone,” I told Father, believing fully that I possessed the capability. Who would suspect a girl such as myself? I would concoct a story, load the wagon with supplies for the journey, carry the small revolver that Mother keeps hidden away in the back pantry
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But Kate, all of this was not to be. How I wish Father & I had kept our voices low! For the girl Josephine awoke, unnoticed by us. She must have lain as if asleep, listening to our talk, to Father’s reticence, to his plans of return. At some point in our discourse—I know not if she ever heard of my intention to act alone—she stole away from the barn & ran into the cold night, storm clouds amassing overhead. I searched for her, I called out as loud as I dared into the darkness but she was gone
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Father said only, “I am sorry,” but his face spoke what his words did not. He saw a rift open up between us, & the rift healed as the girl disappeared into the night
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But the rift is not healed. I cannot forget Father’s heartlessness towards the girl, surely the one most deserving—of all the fugitives we have seen on our doorstep—of our help. And it is this girl we failed to aid
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Yours,
     

Dorothea

September 1, 1848

Dear Kate,

I cannot look Father in the eye. Surely Mother has noticed, though she says not a word about it, she simply goes about her tasks as though nothing has changed. I feel almost a physical shift, as though the sky has changed its color or the air has thickened so that my breathing comes harder now. Samuel, in his quiet watchful way, has seen the change in me & stays close during the days. Yesterday he nary left my side from morning till night & finally I whispered to him the sorry story of the girl. It was long past Samuel’s bedtime, he had crept up the stairs to slip under my blankets as he does after one of his nightmares
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At last we slept & I dreamt of her. She was running in my dream, but it was I who chased her, not the patroller or her master but I & she ran onwards, glancing behind her with eyes full of such fear as I struggled to keep up, breathless to explain myself. The girl’s eyes were quite remarkable, did I tell you? They were green & blue, flecked with yellow, wide & clear even in her exhaustion
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This morning I sat in church & heard scarcely a word uttered by Pastor Hoady, my mind was worlds away. I gazed at the altar above the Pastor’s head, the roughly carved cross that has darkened as the years progress until now it seems to gleam with a dark fire. Do you recall when the yellow grain still could be seen & each notch of the ax? When the wood was still new & green? I wondered at how the passage of time does not heal all wounds, how the hurt of Percy’s passing still cuts me today as it did in those first moments on the riverbank, when Father heard my screams & finally pulled him from the water. Time does not heal, Kate, but it does ease the hurt. My hurt has eased. Already I feel as though it is my memory of that time by the river that cuts me, rather than the hurt itself. Does that sound foolish? And perhaps next year, it will be the memory of the memory, & with each step I am further removed from the true source of my sorrow. I do not know if this is better or worse. I suppose it is necessary for me to live. I would not survive myself to have always that grief so green & new. Will time ease the weight I feel at failing this girl? Yes, I hear your voice say & I do believe you. My pain will fade, but our error still remains. The act cannot be undone & it is these acts by which we are ultimately judged, by which we all must judge ourselves
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All this passed through my mind, this morning in church. I was thus lost until my attention was drawn away from the cross to a lone figure turned backwards on the pew—his face a flicker of pale against the sea of dark heads turned away, his eyes on mine. Jack Harper. He seemed to care not if Pastor Hoady saw his distraction. He smiled at me and I held his eyes for a moment only & then could not bear it & turned my gaze to my lap. When I raised my head again, his face was gone. I saw only row after row of featureless heads, each so like the next, but then easily I picked out Jack’s: the glint of his dark curls & the square set of his shoulders marked him for me as though he stood alone
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Yours,
     

Dot         

September 10, 1848

Dearest Kate,

Someone has told. I know not who. Last night I awoke to yelling & an ominous rushing sound, as though a locomotive passed beside the house. There was the sound of glass shattering, & Mother’s voice high & hysterical. Father yelled, “Stop there!” & I bounded out of bed & down the stairs. A flickering lit the kitchen as I ran to the door & upon throwing it open I saw our barn ablaze. Mother & Father raced back & forth before it, their faces streaming black with ash & tears, searching for a route inside to rescue our animals whose cries rang horrible above even the rushing noise of the fire. But the heat proved intolerable. There was no point of entry. Father pointed towards the well & the three of us began a hopeless rally of throwing bucket after bucket of water towards the flames. Desperation drove us even as the flames reached higher & the cries of those poor creatures fell silent
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Finally we stopped & simply watched the conflagration. We stood far enough away to breathe, though my lungs still burned with every inhalation. The hair around my face is singed now, my voice cracked & dry from yelling with fury into that awful tempest. It raged all night & even as the sky lightened with dawn the flames still licked at the last remaining corner beams & through the gutted innards of the barn
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Samuel did not assist us at the well but stood apart throughout the night & watched the mighty destruction from atop the chicken coop. I was grateful he remained out of harm’s way. Upon morning I saw that he was black from head to toe, his eyes red-rimmed & feverish. I took him in my arms but he remained stiff against me, his body unwelcoming to comfort & I let him go
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The barn of course is no more, the animals dead, our stores of grain & seeds for spring planting destroyed, Father’s workshop & all his tools gone. Father saw riders cantering away from the barn in the earliest moments after he awoke. Surely the fire had been deliberately set & we must leave with first light tomorrow or else risk our lives as well
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Today we had but one visitor, although the smoke surely gave notice to all our neighbors of our misfortune. It is telling that none have offered help, do you not think, Kate?

And our single visitor, have you guessed? It was Jack, our dear friend. He told us of the town’s talk. He awoke this morning to the smell of smoke & called first thing on Sheriff Roy to report it, but the Sheriff displayed no surprise, expressed no sympathy for the unknown victims, called on no team to investigate. He instead directed Jack back towards home, informing him that all matters had been concluded, that there was nothing more to be done. Upon exiting the Sheriff’s, Jack saw on the road Gilkeson’s man & two others who told him of Father’s betrayal, that Father harbored fugitives & would suffer mightily for it. The men carried rifles, Jack said, & had been drinking, a whiskey bottle sat in the dust between them. They talked of Alfred & the other runaways from Charlotte County, of Mr. Gilkeson’s anger, of Widow Price’s calm certainty that we will receive our due reckoning
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Jack fears for us & urged Father to pack our things quickly & leave forthwith. It brought me unexpected pain, to hear Jack say these words, urging us to leave this place & thus leave his good company. Will I never see Jack Harper again? Is this an end to our renewed friendship? And where shall we go? Father believes we should travel west, to the Oregon Territory where they say land stretches unclaimed as far as the eye can see. We can farm, Father can return to his carpentry, perhaps in time again to undertaking. Mother wept as Father spoke of the long journey ahead, but then dried her eyes when she saw Samuel’s stricken face. He has not spoken since the fire, despite my & Mother’s attention to him. He seems to suffer some affliction, but I cannot say what to call it
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Your loving sister,

Dot                       

September 11, 1848

Dearest Kate,

It is with shaking hand that I write this letter to you. It is Samuel who told, Samuel who brought the town’s wrath upon us & broke our strictest confidence. I struggle to understand it. It was Pastor Hoady who informed us when he appeared at our house this morning. Our wagons stood half-packed, the ruined barn still smoked & smoldered. And truly like an apparition the Pastor appeared on the road from town, in black cape & astride his tall dark horse, seeming less like the man of God he professes to be, more like a rider out of Hades. Father, Mother & I all stood outside, busy in our preparations for the journey, but urgently Father waved us towards the house. “Inside,” he said & the look in his eyes was fearful. Before Mother & I could enter, Samuel appeared at the doorway, his eyes round with fear but a fascination there too, his eyes never leaving the Pastor’s & he stepped forward into the yard. It was then I knew
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