The Last Runaway (18 page)

Honor had not heard the phrase before.

“Most runaways pass through Oberlin,” Jack continued, “but now and then one strays this way. That must be what happened to bring Donovan here. If ever a runaway comes to the farm, thee must not keep them here, but indicate the way to Oberlin.”

“What if they are hungry—or thirsty?” Honor did not dare look at the mug.

Jack shrugged. “Of course give them water if they need it. But do not get involved. It could get thee—all of us—into trouble.”

She slept then. Later that evening when he came back from the fields, Jack sat next to her. “Donovan caught a colored woman in Wieland Woods,” he said. “He rode past here with her, but thee was probably asleep.”

He was watching her carefully, and Honor was equally careful not to react.

“I am glad he caught her,” Jack added.

Honor stiffened. “Why?”

Jack shifted on the edge of the bed. “It is better not to have people like Donovan chasing others across the countryside, disrupting honest people and scaring women.”

“Does thee think slaves should not try to escape?”

“Honor, thee knows we do not support slavery. It goes against our beliefs in the equality of all in God’s eyes. But—” Jack stopped.

“But what?”

He sighed. “It is difficult to explain to someone like thee, who comes from a country that has not had slavery woven into the very fabric of its foundation. It is easy to condemn slavery outright, without considering the consequences.”

“What consequences?”

“Economic consequences. If slavery were abolished tomorrow, America would fall apart.”

“How?”

“One of this country’s main products is cotton and the textiles made from it. The southern states grow it using slaves. The free northern states make the cotton into cloth. Each relies on the other. Without slaves to harvest the quantity of cotton needed at the right price, the northern factories would shut down.”

Honor considered this, wishing her head weren’t so fuzzy so that she could supply a coherent response.

“I know English Friends have strong principles about slavery, Honor,” Jack continued, “as do Americans. But we are perhaps a little more practical. Putting beliefs into practice is harder than preaching them. Think of all the cotton thee has used for thy quilts. Much of it, even what thee bought in England, is made using slave labor. We try when we can to buy cloth with no associations to slavery, but that is difficult, for there is little of it.” He fingered a rectangle of green chintz that made up part of a block on Honor’s signature quilt. “This bit of fabric was probably made in Massachusetts with cotton from a southern plantation. Will thee now throw away the quilt because of it?”

Honor found herself curling her fingers around an edge of the quilt, holding on to it as if she expected Jack to try and yank it away. “Does thee think that we should not help slaves who run away?”

“They are breaking the law, which I do not condone. I would not stop them, but I would not help them. There are fines, and imprisonment—and worse.” As he spoke Jack’s jaw tightened.

There is something he is not telling me, she thought. Shouldn’t a wife know everything about her husband? “Jack—”

“I must help with the milking.” Jack bolted from the room before Honor could say more.

Later, alone in the sick room, she wept for the black woman who had brought her water and was now in Donovan’s hands.

* * *

The next afternoon she woke to find Belle Mills sitting beside her. Honor blinked to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. But no: she could never have dreamed up Belle’s bonnet, with the widest oval brim she’d ever seen, lace ringlets cascading down on each side and tied with a bright orange ribbon. It accentuated the yellow tone of her skin, though, and while the bonnet was very feminine, it had the effect of making Belle’s face, with its strong jaw and staring eyes, more masculine.

“Honor Bright, you went and got married and didn’t even tell me! I had to find out from my brother, and I hate getting news from him. I’d a mind not to even come out here, ’cept he told me you were sick and I had to see for myself that your new family’s lookin’ after you. Don’t look like they’re doin’ much. Ain’t even here.”

“Harvesting oats,” Honor murmured. “They have to get it in before the storms that are expected tomorrow.”

Belle chuckled. “Honey, listen to you, talkin’ ’bout the harvest. Next you’ll be tellin’ me how many jars of peaches you put up.” She laid a cool hand on Honor’s brow—Honor wondered how she managed to remain so in such heat. The gesture reminded her of her mother, and she closed her eyes for a moment to relish the kindness.

“Well, you still got a fever,” Belle announced, “but it ain’t too bad. You’ll live. Now then, I’m glad to hear you took my advice about marryin’. And it’s no surprise you chose Jack Haymaker, with a farm like this. Course you got the mother-in-law to go with it. I remember her stare. Oh, honey, what is it? There you go again.” For Honor was crying, tears rolling in hot rivers down the sides of her face to pool in her ears. Seeing Belle Mills was like discovering a sweet plum in a bowl of unripe fruit.

“There, now.” Belle slid her arm around Honor’s shoulders and held her tight until she had stopped. She did not ask what the tears were for.

“Guess what’s come to Wellington,” she said when Honor was quiet. “The train! Had her maiden run from Cleveland a couple weeks ago. Whole town was out to see it come in, and of course most of the ladies had to have new hats. Told you the train would bring business.”

“I would like to see it.”

“It’s like the biggest blackest snorting horse you ever saw. Did you know it goes fifteen miles an hour? Fifteen! Only two and a half hours to Cleveland. I’m gonna ride on it soon. You should come with me.”

Honor smiled.

“Oh, I brung your wedding present,” Belle said. “You didn’t think I’d come empty-handed, did you?”

“We—thee didn’t have to—I thank thee—Jack and I thank thee.” Honor went through a series of corrections to find the right words. In general, Quakers did not give gifts, as material possessions should not be given heightened status. But she did not want to criticize Belle’s generous gesture. And so she took the flat, paper-wrapped parcel tied with a blue ribbon.

“Go on, open it. You don’t have to wait for your husband. I didn’t come all this way not to see if you like ’em.”

Honor pulled off the ribbon and unwrapped the paper to find two linen pillowcases edged in fine lace. She was not meant to care, but she loved them.

“Here’s what I think,” Belle said. “Whatever’s happened to you during the day, as long as you got a nice pillowcase for your head at night, you’ll be all right. You got yourself a place to lay your head, Honor Haymaker. Things are lookin’ up.”

Faithwell, Ohio

8th Month 27th 1850

Dear Belle,

I am writing to thank thee for visiting me when I was ill. I am feeling better now, though still weak.

I thank thee too for the beautiful pillowcases thee has given Jack and me. No one has ever given me such a gift. I will treasure them, as I treasure the hand of friendship thee extends.

Thy faithful friend,

Honor Haymaker

Blackberries

A FEW DAYS
later, when her head was clearer and she had regained her strength enough to be up and about, Honor found a response to Jack’s argument about slavery and cotton. It came so plainly to her mind that she wanted to pass it on before it lost its shine. And so at supper, to the astonishment of all three Haymakers, Honor spoke out without having been asked a question first. She was so eager to say what she was thinking, and so unused to leading a conversation, that she did not preface her words with any explanation. Into the silence—the Haymakers did not talk much when they ate—she stated, “Perhaps we should all pay a bit more for our cloth, so that cotton growers may use that extra money to pay the slaves, making them workers rather than slaves.”

The Haymakers stared at her. “I would pay a penny more a yard if I knew it was paying to dismantle slavery,” she added.

“I did not know thee had the pennies to be generous with,” Dorcas remarked.

Judith Haymaker passed her son a platter of ham. “Adam Cox would have to shut down his business if he raised the prices on the cloth he sold,” she said. “There are few pennies to spare these days. Besides, southerners would rather stop farming than pay their slaves a wage. It is not in their nature to make such a change.”

“‘The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you, and thou shalt love him as thyself.’” Though she had heard the words many times, Honor spoke them without as much force as she would have liked.

Judith frowned. “Thee does not need to quote Leviticus at me, Honor. I know my Bible.”

Honor dropped her gaze, ashamed of her attempt to engage in a true discussion of the issue.

“We come from a slave state,” Judith continued. “We moved to Ohio from North Carolina ten years ago, as many Friends did at the time, for we could no longer live in the midst of slavery. So we understand the cast of the southern mind.”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to judge.”

“There are a few farmers in the South who have given their slaves freedom, or allowed them to buy it,” Jack conceded, “but they are rare. And it is difficult for free Negroes to find a living. Many come north, leaving families behind, to settle in places like Oberlin, which is more tolerant than most. But even in Oberlin they are a separate community, and those who have run away are not entirely safe. That is why we support colonization. It seems a better option.”

“What is colonization?”

“Negroes come originally from Africa, and they would be happier living back there, in a new country of their own.”

Honor was silent, thinking about this. She wondered how Jack knew what would make Negroes happy. Had he asked them?

* * *

She had an opportunity to do so herself the following week. Jack was driving the wagon to Oberlin to have a corn husker repaired, and Honor accompanied him. Ten days before she could not imagine having the strength to cross a room, much less go to town, but when the fever abated, her recovery was quick, as others told her it would be, and she was eager to go to Oberlin again. Adam had promised that once the harvest season was over, he would ask Jack if she might occasionally help him at the store on Sixth Days. She did not know what her husband would say: probably that she should learn about cows instead of fabric. Judith had said she would soon have her milking, which Honor dreaded, for the cows seemed big and alien. Because of her illness, so far she had remained in the house and garden, and managed to avoid the animals, with their insistent hunger and muck. She could not escape the smell, however.

Each time Honor’s life changed, she found she missed what she’d had before: first Bridport, then Belle Mills’s Millinery, now Cox’s Dry Goods. But there was no use in dwelling on what her life might have been: such thinking did not help. She had noticed that Americans did not speculate about past or alternative lives. They were used to moving and change: most had emigrated from England or Ireland or Germany. Ohioans had moved from the south or from New England or Pennsylvania; many would go farther west. Already since she had arrived in Faithwell three months before, two families had decided that after the harvest they would go west. Others would come from the east or south to take their place. Houses did not remain empty for long. Ohio was a restless state, full of movement north and west. Faithwell and Oberlin too had that restless feel. Honor had not noticed it when she first arrived, but now she was discovering that all was in flux, and it seemed to disturb only her.

In the center of town she and Jack parted, he to the blacksmith, Honor to Cox’s Dry Goods to say hello and search for fabric for a new quilt she was making for Dorcas. The boy was sitting out front, sharpening a pair of scissors; he barely looked up as she stepped inside. The shop had just one customer: Adam Cox was helping Mrs. Reed. Today she was wearing black-eyed Susans on her hat. Honor nodded to them both, and out of habit went over to one of the tables to fold and restack bolts of cloth. Gazing across the sea of colors, she was reminded of the discussion at supper several days earlier. She had always loved fabric, admiring the weaves and patterns and textures, imagining what she could make. A length of new cloth always held possibilities. Now, though, she understood that much of it was not innocent, unsullied material, but the result of a compromised world. To find fabric without the taint of slavery in it was difficult, as Jack had said; yet if she refused all cotton, she would have to wear only wool in the intense Ohio heat, or go naked.

“I will just step next door to get change,” Adam was saying to Mrs. Reed. “Honor, will thee look after the shop for a moment?”

“Of course.”

As they waited for Adam to return, Honor continued to fold, while Mrs. Reed walked around the tables, patting the odd bolt, letting her hand linger on the material.

“May I ask thee a question?” Honor ventured.

Mrs. Reed frowned. “What . . . ma’am?” Honor did not wear a wedding band, as Friends did not need such a reminder of their commitment; yet somehow Mrs. Reed knew she was married.

“Please call me Honor. We do not use ‘ma’am’—or ‘miss.’”

“All right. Honor. What you want to know?”

“What does thee think of colonization?”

Mrs. Reed let her mouth hang open for a moment. “What does I think of colonization?” she repeated.