The Last Runaway (23 page)

“Is that why the Haymakers moved to Ohio?”

“Yes,” Jack said. “We could not bear to live there after what happened.”

“I thought . . .” Honor stopped. Now was not the time to point out that he once said they had moved north because of principles, as most of the southern Quaker families who founded Faithwell had done. Perhaps principles were not as strong a motivation as the reality of losing money and land.

Dorcas was stirring the sap faster and faster, her brow furrowed. “What Mother has not said—” she began, but a shake of Judith’s head stopped her. “Am I the only one who has to stir this?” she demanded. “I suppose Honor will have to stay away from it in her condition.”

“Nonsense, she is not a fragile vase,” Judith said. “We will all take turns. So, Honor, thee must promise not to help slaves if they stop here.”

“All right,” Honor promised, her heart sinking.

“Good. Now thee can stir the sap. Dorcas, give Honor the spoon.”

Faithwell, Ohio
2nd Month 27th 1851

Dear Mother and Father,

I have news for you and the rest of the family: I am with child. I have thought so for some time now, but waited to tell you until the signs seemed certain. I am not sure when the baby will come, but think it may be in 9th or 10th Month. The Haymakers are pleased, of course, though Judith did feel she must point out that I will not be useful at harvest when I am so big or nursing.

The baby has made me a little tired, but otherwise I am well, and not afflicted with the sickness other women have suffered early in their pregnancies—and for some like Abigail, even longer. She still suffers, though the baby is due in a month. (She says two months, but we know it will arrive sooner than that.) I have seen little of her this winter, or Adam Cox—and that is a shame. I had hoped to work in his shop now and then, but the Haymakers said they want me to remain on the farm with them. Though I am glad to have someone from home so close, we are not the friends I had hoped we would be. I expect it will take some time for the awkwardness between us to fade.

I am pleased to report that there is no snow now, and it is a relief not to feel trapped inside. The days are warmer, though the nights are still very cold, and there are snowdrops and even a few early daffodils out. The willows are budding, bringing a welcome green to the grey and brown. In a few weeks we will be able to dig the garden.

It is perhaps foolish of me to hope that one day you may meet your grandchild. That is in God’s hands.

Your loving daughter,

Honor Haymaker

Milk

HONOR’S DECISION NOT
to help runaways any longer did not stop them coming. As the weather improved, a steady stream passed through from the south. Nor was it easy simply to turn them away as was expected of her.

The first time it was not so hard. A man appeared from behind the outhouse when Honor was coming out. He looked at her expectantly but said nothing. She glanced over at the kitchen garden, where Judith was turning over soil in preparation for planting. Her mother-in-law had stopped and was leaning on the fork, watching them. Honor repeated the words she had been practicing in her head for this moment: “I am sorry but I cannot help thee.” Then she added in a low voice, “Go three miles north to Oberlin, to the red house on Mill Street and ask for help. God go with thee.” Surely telling him this would not be seen as helping him. Even as she said it, though, she knew that Judith would not approve.

The man nodded, turned on his heel and disappeared into the woods.

That was not so bad, Honor thought, feeling only a little awful. She waited for Judith to say something, but she simply went back to forking the garden.

The next fugitive was an older woman, surprising Honor: most slaves who ran were younger, for they were stronger and more able to cope with the hardships of the road. She discovered her when Digger began to bark and snarl behind the henhouse, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, watching the dog work himself into a frenzy. Her face was covered with deep lines, but her eyes were still clear, and yellow-brown like a cat’s. “Quaker lady, you got somethin’ to eat?” she asked when Honor had called off Digger. “’Cause I got a hunger.”

“I am sorry but I cannot . . .” Honor could not complete the practical phrase she had learned.

“Jes’ a piece of bread an’ some milk from one o’ them cows you got, an’ I’ll be on my way.”

“Wait there.” Honor hurried to the kitchen, dragging Digger with her and shutting him inside. Luckily, both Judith and Dorcas were at the general store, and Jack was delivering milk. As she cut a slice of bread and a slab of cheese and poured milk into the tin mug, she tried out in her head the reasoning she would use with Judith: I am not hiding her, I am simply giving her food, as I would any passerby who asked.

She watched the woman eat, keeping an eye on the track for any returning Haymakers. The old woman chewed the bread and cheese slowly, as she had few teeth left. After draining the mug, she smacked her lips. “Good milk. You got some fine cows there.” She rose to her feet and adjusted the rags bound around them in place of shoes, then brushed crumbs from her front. “Thankee.”

“Does thee know where to go?”

“Oh yes. North.” The woman pointed and, following her finger, began to walk.

At dinner Honor waited until there was a pause, quelling her stomach with sips of water. “A fugitive came to the farm today while everyone was out,” she announced. “An old woman,” she added, hoping to soften the news by making the slave seem particularly needful. “I—I gave her some bread and cheese, and some milk. Then she left.”

There was silence. “We have discussed this,” Judith said. “Thee has promised not to help runaways.”

Honor swallowed. “I know. But it is hard to say no to someone who asks for food as she did. It is only what I would have done for any traveler. I was simply being courteous, not aiding a fugitive.” Her rehearsed argument sounded feeble.

Judith pursed her lips. “Thy slave hunter, Donovan, would question that logic. In the future if thee has trouble turning coloreds away, come and get me.”

The next time a runaway passed through, Honor could not take up Judith’s offer. She felt strangely protective, and did not want to subject any of them to her mother-in-law’s smiling mouth and flat eyes. The refusal would sound softer coming from herself. “I am sorry, but I cannot hide thee,” she said to a light-skinned man a few days later. Saying “hide” instead of “help” sounded less rigid, as if holding out the hope that she could still help in some small way. She took to carrying a piece of jerky in her apron pocket so that when she next said “I cannot hide you,” to two teenage boys, she handed them the food—more to make herself feel less guilty than to give them sustenance.

Eventually, however, her practiced words failed her. One early spring morning, as she and Dorcas were crossing the yard after milking, she heard a cry from Wieland Woods that sounded like a baby. They stopped and listened. The baby’s cries came again, though muffled, as if someone were trying to quiet it.

Honor stepped toward the trees, fuzzy with the green buds of leaves about to open. “Surely thee won’t go out there and look,” Dorcas chided, trailing behind her. “Has thee learned nothing from Mother?”

“It may not be a runaway. It may be someone who has lost her way.”

A short, tea-colored woman with round cheeks like pancakes was crouching in the brambles, hugging a child to her breast. She was hardly more than a girl. “You come to turn me in?” she said.

“No,” Honor replied.

“I ain’t got no milk left for her. That’s why she cries.”

“Dorcas, go and get some milk, and something to eat,” Honor ordered.

Dorcas gave her a look, but turned and went back to the house.

While they waited, Honor tried to smile reassuringly at the baby, though it felt forced. “How old is she?”

“Four months. Don’t know why I ran with a little baby. Ain’t fair to her. But I jes’ couldn’t take it no more.”

“Where have you two come from?”

“Kentucky. Ain’t so far as some has come. But it’s close enough my master come after me, him an’ a slave catcher from round here.”

Honor froze. “Is his name Donovan?”

The girl shrugged.

“Are they close by?”

“They was in Wellington last I knew.”

“Not far, then. We cannot hide you both here. But if you stay in these woods, away from the road, you may be as safe as anywhere else.” She explained where Mrs. Reed was, but the girl was not listening, her eyes on something behind Honor. Dorcas was returning, and she had brought her mother.

Judith Haymaker held out a mug of milk to the girl, who took it and tried to tip it into the baby’s mouth. The child could not gulp, however, and the mother resorted to dipping her finger and letting her suck it off.

“Who has told thee to come here?” Judith demanded.

“A woman in Wellington, ma’am,” the girl mumbled, her focus on her child.

“What was her name?”

The girl shook her head.

“What did she look like?”

“White woman. Kinda yaller-looking. Sickly.”

“Where did thee see her?”

“It was the back of a shop.”

“What kind of shop?” Judith persisted. Honor tried to warn the girl with her eyes.

“Dunno, ma’am.” The girl paused, then brightened with a piece of information. “She had feathers in her pockets.”

Honor groaned to herself.

“What, she kept poultry?”

“No, ma’am. They was dyed, blue and red.”

“The milliner.” Judith glanced at Honor before turning back to the girl. “Has the baby finished the milk?”

She had, and was asleep. The girl looked as if she could do with some sleep as well, her head nodding over the baby.

“Then thee must go.” Judith stood as solid as her words. The girl’s eyes snapped wide. She handed the mug to Dorcas and scrambled to her feet, clearly used to doing so without waking the baby. Laying her in a length of striped cloth, she lifted her up onto her back and tied knots at her chest so that the baby lay like a cocoon against her. “Thankee,” she said, gazing at their feet, then trudged off through the woods, disappearing among the maples and beeches.

Judith turned toward the house. “I will go to Wellington to speak to Belle Mills and put a stop to her sending coloreds this way.”

Honor and Dorcas followed. “I would prefer to speak to her myself,” Honor said.

“I do not want thee to see her. She is clearly not a good influence.”

Tears stung Honor. “Then I will write to her. Please.”

Judith grunted. “Tell her not to come visiting here either, for she is not welcome. And show me the letter when thee has written it. I am sorry to say I do not trust thee to do as I ask.”

Faithwell, Ohio

4th Month 3rd 1851

Dear Belle,

I am writing to ask thee not to send fugitives towards Faithwell. I have agreed with my husband and his family that there is too much risk to the farm. Recently a marshal in Greenwich arrested a Friend there for helping a runaway, and he is now imprisoned for six months, with a substantial fine to pay as well. The strengthened Fugitive Slave Law has made such occurrences more common.

I am very grateful for thy generosity to me, in particular when I was alone and needing help. We think it best, however, if thee does not come to visit us in Faithwell. Our ways are too different from thine. However, I wish thee all happiness, and I will pray that thee will always walk in the Light.

My sincere good wishes,

Honor Haymaker

Onions

HONOR WENT WITH
Jack to Oberlin to send her letter to Belle Mills. She had not been to the town in months: first because of the cold and the snow, then because when the thaw came the mud was so bad they could not use the wagon, and Jack would not let her ride a horse for fear of her falling and damaging the baby. Finally, however, the weather improved, and she accompanied him when he went to the college to deliver cheese.

Jack dropped her by Cox’s Dry Goods, but rather than go in, Honor waited until her husband had driven on, then hurried south along Main Street. There was someone else she felt she should inform of her decision.

Though she had described her destination often enough to fugitives, Honor had never been there. When she reached the turning, however, and gazed down Mill Street, over the bridge crossing Plum Creek to the little red house on the right, she lost her nerve, and decided to walk on a bit to regain her composure. It was a mild afternoon, full of the breezy sunshine she had missed all winter.

She thought she would continue south to the edge of town where the railroad was being built. Clearance of thousands of trees had begun, though it would be a year before trains would begin to run, eventually connecting Cleveland with Toledo, a hundred miles west. Honor could not imagine ever wanting to go farther west than Faithwell. She never even walked west through Wieland Woods, or west along any of Oberlin’s roads. Roads and trains running east were more tempting, though she knew that however far east she traveled, she would always run up against the barrier of the Atlantic.