Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (21 page)

Uncle Jacob surely would not have sent the runaways so close to an unknown household. She considered, for a moment, that the Wheeler farm might be the next station, but she could not be more than two miles from the sugar camp and had three clues yet to follow. She held perfectly still and listened for the sound of horses on the road, but heard only the wind in the trees. Reassured of her solitude, she made her way stealthily through the woods, drawing closer to the corner fence post. Suddenly she tripped over a low depression in the ground; naked branches scratched at her face as she stumbled and struck her shoulder on the rough trunk of an oak. Instinctively she pressed her lips together to hold back a cry of pain. She quickly regained her footing but had to pause to collect herself. Her shoulder ached. She rubbed it with a mittened hand and searched the ground for the obstruction. It was not a hole, as she had assumed, but a narrow patch where the undergrowth had been worn away to bare earth.

With the tip of her boot she cleared away fallen leaves from one end of the patch. When she found more worn ground, she eagerly looked up and detected an indistinct path winding to the northeast for a few yards before it disappeared into the forest. It was an old Indian trail, abandoned for decades—or perhaps not entirely abandoned. The path did lie along the same angle as the next block in the Sugar Camp Quilt, and the braid appearance could be meant to evoke an association with Indians.

Dorothea concealed the part of the path she had uncovered and set off to the northeast. The trail that had seemed all but invisible until she knew what to look for widened slightly a quarter mile east of the Wheeler farm, wide enough for a horse and rider. Years ago, Dorothea and Jonathan had explored old Indian trails that crossed Thrift Farm, and they had followed one all the way from Widow’s Pining to the foothills of the Appalachians at the southern end of the Elm Creek Valley. Such trails laced the valley; European settlers had widened some into roads, but most remained overgrown and forgotten. Pennsylvania remained difficult to traverse despite the rise of towns such as Creek’s Crossing. Most easterners traveling to points west still preferred the water routes to the south along the Maryland and Virginia border rather than the national roads through Pennsylvania’s mountains. Mr. Wright had said that the rugged terrain of the Elm Creek Valley had compelled weary fugitives to find easier routes to the north, but as slavecatchers increased their patrols along the more well-traveled crossings, more runaways would be forced into their valley.

The sun rose higher in the sky as Dorothea followed the Indian trail through the woods. It was past its peak when she finally had to stop to rest and eat. Her shoulder still hurt where she had slammed it against the tree; her hands were cold, but not numb. Her feet were cold inside the work boots she had borrowed from her mother, but they were dry, and the three pairs of socks she wore would hold off frostbite.

Dorothea saved half of the bread, cheese, and meat for later and sated her thirst with a handful of snow. She shivered from the cold but took another mouthful before pulling her muffler over her mouth and nose and continuing on.

Another hour passed, or so Dorothea guessed. She had meant to note how long the journey took, but the passage of time had become a blur of weariness and cold and the glare of sunlight on snow. Her feet ached in the overlarge boots; despite the three pairs of socks, a blister had formed on her left heel, and cold had crept into her bones. Her hand, nose, and feet steadily grew colder until they became numb. She longed to stop somewhere to warm herself, but the woods surrounded her. There was no place to go, and she could not be certain that home was closer than her destination.

Runaways could not turn back. She pressed on.

She should have taken the horse, she thought as she floundered through a thick patch of underbrush. Once she lost the trail, but found it again. The next block in the sequence was the one that resembled the curves of the Fool’s Puzzle block. The Indian trail must eventually cross another path, perhaps a circuitous or hilly road. She shook off the anxieties that had been growing ever since she left the familiarity of the worm fence. She told herself she would recognize the next landmark when she saw it.

Another hour passed, or perhaps more. She stopped to rest on a fallen tree, to remove her boots and rub feeling back into her toes. The temperature had steadily dropped as the sun descended in the sky. It could be no more than midafternoon, but she was as fatigued as if she had walked from dawn until sunset. Wave after wave of weariness overcame her as she sat rubbing and pinching her feet. They tingled a bit and she could still move her toes, but she yawned as she tried to work sensation back into them, great, enormous yawns. Her hands moved ever slower.

She woke with a jolt as her hip struck the ground. Dazed, for a moment she did not understand what had happened. When she did she yanked on her stockings and boots and laced them, shivering from fear as much as from cold. She had dozed off and fallen from her seat on the log. If she had not, she might have slept until she froze to death.

Fright sped her footsteps. The trail grew more difficult to discern as the forest thinned and shadows stretched out longer and longer. The trees grew more sparse, the path all but invisible. Disbelieving, she came to a halt as the trail ended. She must have missed the road. The Indian trail surely would have crossed it. She turned slowly in a circle, heart sinking. She would have to retrace her steps and look more carefully. But how far off the route had she wandered? How many needless miles and hours had she added to her journey?

Fighting despair, she closed her eyes and whispered a prayer for courage. Uncle Jacob expected fugitive slaves to make this journey, men and women and even children who had not that morning left the comfort of their home and family, who could not expect a cordial welcome at any farm in the valley. Unless her uncle was a fool, he had known that the people following the symbols in his quilt would be tired, hungry, frightened—and possibly pursued. He would not have made the quilt so difficult to follow. Unless she believed her uncle to be a fool, she would have to trust the message he had left behind.

With her eyes closed, she heard the wind blow through the trees. The few dried leaves still clinging to the trees rustled. Bare boughs squeaked as they scraped against each other. Behind it all, she heard another sound: a gentle, almost musical burbling.

Her eyes flew open and she hurried toward the sound. She recognized it now: the trickling of water. The curving road she sought was a stream, shallow and rocky, nearly frozen over.

She looked down upon it from the snowy bank, laughing aloud from relief even as tears sprang to her eyes. She had found it, she was sure of it, but this was only the third of four landmarks. She could not endure another walk as long as the Indian trail to reach the fourth.

She took a deep breath and gave only one quick, worried glance to the sun nearly touching the horizon. The creek flowed to the east, but instead of following the current, she chose west and hurried on.

She should have started out from home earlier. She should have taken the horse. She should have let her father go instead. Her feet slipped on snow-covered pebbles as she hurried to beat the sunset. The last symbol in the quilt, a square in the upper left corner between the last ring of Delectable Mountains blocks and the saw-tooth border, was the most cryptic of all. While piecing it, she had noted the similarities to the Spiderweb block, with its eight slender triangles meeting at a point in the center, but the bases of the triangles were made of narrow rectangles. Surely she could not be looking for something as transient as a spiderweb.

Racing the fading light, she reached the origin of the stream, a broad, fast-flowing creek—not Elm Creek, she was sure, but one that ran from the northwest between cultivated fields. On the other side of the creek was a road, and beyond that, a banked barn and farmhouse. Her hopes rose, and she forgot for a moment the cold and the dull ache of her hands and feet. Though she might not reach the end of her journey before nightfall, she would not freeze to death. Unlike the fugitives for whom the Sugar Camp Quilt had been created, she could seek shelter at one of the farmhouses.

Newly energized, she quickened her pace. Scattered houses appeared more frequently until she was sure she had reached the outskirts of a town. A wagon passed on the road on the opposite shore, but if the driver regarded her curiously, he could not surely consider her behavior suspicious.

Then, suddenly, the sound of the creek altered. She rounded a bend and gasped. Another wagon and a man on foot passed on the road, but she barely noticed them.

Up ahead, turning steadily in the fading light, was the water wheel of a mill. Just beyond it were a bridge and the gray-board buildings of a town.

Relief flooded her. In moments she had reached the road and hastened across the bridge. The sun was nearly gone by the time she pounded on the door of the millhouse, heedless of any passersby who might wonder at her urgency.

The door opened, and a woman with piercing eyes and streaks of white in her dark hair regarded her with concern. “What is it, my dear?”

The moment had come and Dorothea knew not what to say. “I—I’m Jacob Kuehner’s niece.”

The woman did not hesitate. “Come in. Come in at once and warm yourself.”

Muffling a sob, Dorothea stumbled inside.

T
HE WOMAN SHUT
the door and guided Dorothea to a seat by the fire. Dorothea fumbled with her wraps, her eyes tearing from the sudden warmth and light. Her hands were stiff and useless. The woman swiftly removed Dorothea’s muffler and coat, then knelt to remove her boots and stockings. Dorothea began to shiver, shaking so uncontrollably that she could not have spoken even if she could have summoned enough strength for words. Within moments the woman placed a cup of hot tea in her hands, and, once assured Dorothea was thoroughly cold but not frostbitten, began to scold her.

“I cannot imagine what your uncle was thinking, sending you out so late and in such cold,” she said, using a long-handled hook to pull the iron arm of the kettle crane out of the fireplace.

“He didn’t send me.” Dorothea drank deeply of the tea, her shaking hands rattling the cup against her teeth. “He is dead.”

“I see.” The woman stirred the kettle, tasted its contents, and swung the arm back into the fireplace. The aroma of beef stew made Dorothea’s head swim and mouth water. “The last passenger told us so, but I had hoped he was mistaken.”

Passenger. “You mean Sam. He did come here.”

“Yes, riding your uncle’s horse. She’s in our barn.” The woman set out plates and spoons on a wooden table in the center of the room. “You will ride her home, of course, but not tonight. You’ll spend the night here.”

“Thank you.” Dorothea glanced around the large room for a sign of the runaway, but her hostess was not that careless. “Is Sam still here?”

“He continued on north the day after he arrived.” The woman gave her a searching look. “We had snow that day. He should have remained with us until the storm passed, but he was terrified to have northerners as well as slavecatchers pursue him. He feared he would be blamed for your uncle’s death.”

Dorothea thought of her father’s suspicions. “Very few know Sam was present when my uncle died. Only one voiced any concern.”

“You will have to set that one straight, then. Sam had nothing to do with it.”

“Did he tell you what happened?”

“Sounds like an apoplexy, the way Sam described it. He was hidden in the wagon beneath a tarpaulin when the wagon lurched and left the road. Sam peeked out and saw your uncle slumped over in the wagon seat, still holding the reins. He drove the wagon right off the path and into a river—some tributary of the Juniata, I suppose.”

“It was Elm Creek,” said Dorothea softly, picturing the scene. Uncle Jacob must not have died instantly after all. She wondered if he had lived long enough to realize what was happening to him.

“That horse of his is a capable creature. She didn’t buck or panic when the wagon overturned, but waited patiently for someone to unhitch her.” The woman set a loaf of bread and a ball of butter on the table. “Your uncle wasn’t breathing, nor did his heart beat. Sam spied a cabin and considered asking for help there, but instead he took the horse and gave it its lead home.”

“He was wise not to knock on the door of that cabin. The man within would have turned him over to the next band of slavecatchers to pass through the valley.”

“They pass through far too frequently these days.” The woman sighed and settled into a chair opposite Dorothea’s. “We never used to see more than one group every two or three months around here.”

“Where, precisely, is here?”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t know? You’re in Woodfall, dear. You’ve walked eleven miles, nearly halfway to Clearfield.”

Dorothea gave a shaky laugh. “That explains why I’m so weary.”

“Indeed,” the woman said dryly. “You look hearty enough, but one wonders why your father did not come instead.”

“He wanted to, but I thought I would be less likely to raise suspicions.”

“Oh, certainly. A young woman wandering about alone on a cold winter’s eve. No one would think twice about that.” She regarded Dorothea with amusement. “So the children make the rules around your house now that your uncle’s gone, do they?”

Before Dorothea could reply, a door on the far wall opened. Dorothea glimpsed the machinery of the mill in the room beyond as a barrel-chested man with sandy hair and whiskers entered. He shut the door and halted at the sight of Dorothea shivering beside the fire. “Well, who’s this now?” he asked, his voice deep but friendly.

“This is—” The woman gave a small laugh. “My goodness, I don’t know her name.”

“I’m Dorothea Granger.”

“She’s Jacob Kuehner’s niece.”

The miller’s eyes filled with sympathy. He shook her hand and offered his condolences. “Your uncle was a good man,” said the miller, whose name was Aaron Braun. “His death is a great loss to the abolitionist cause.”

“My parents and I intend to continue to run his station.”

The husband and wife exchanged a look. “I see,” said the miller slowly.

“This is not a task entered into lightly,” said his wife. “To the young it may seem a romantic adventure, but it is a dangerous business.”

“The fugitives depend upon us not only for their freedom, but often for their very lives,” said Aaron Braun. “And we depend upon each other’s secrecy for our own survival.”

At once, Dorothea understood the reason for their concern, the dread that lingered not far below their calm exteriors. “My parents and I realize we must scrupulously conceal our activities. We will, of course, rely on your advice.”

“What if our advice is to abandon your plans?”

Dorothea straightened in the chair and met his gaze levelly. “Then I would tell you that would be unwise. You have already lost the Carters, and as I have myself discovered, the journey from Creek’s Crossing to Woodfall is too far to venture without a safe haven along the way.”

A smile flickered in the corners of Mrs. Braun’s mouth. “Most slaves are wise enough not to attempt an escape in the dead of winter.”

“Some have no choice. Sam, for example.”

The Brauns exchanged a look. Dorothea had no idea why Sam had fled to the north in January rather than waiting for spring, but she could imagine various reasons. She felt a flush of shame at allowing the Brauns to believe she knew more than she did, but securing their confidence was too important.

“They already know enough to betray us,” Mrs. Braun told her husband after the doubtful silence dragged on unbearably long. “We might as well let them help.”

“Our uncle’s activities have already exposed us to the dangers we would face as stationmasters,” said Dorothea. “We are prepared to face them knowingly, now.”

“So it is to be ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’?” said the miller, but his voice was kindly.

His wife’s expression was graver. “If we allow you to do this, we will be putting our lives into your hands.”

“We would die before we would betray you.”

“Would you, indeed.” Mrs. Braun smiled, but deep grooves of worry appeared around her mouth. “My dear, you cannot make that promise on anyone’s behalf but your own. Especially when you will be expected to keep it.”

M
RS
. B
RAUN BECKONED HER
husband and Dorothea to the table and served them steaming plates of fragrant beef stew with thick slices of fresh bread. Ravenous, Dorothea thought she had never eaten anything more delicious. While they ate, she expected to query the Brauns about the operation of the Underground Railroad, but they put two questions to her for every one she asked them. They asked how she had found the route to the mill and why her uncle had not confided in her family. She told them about the quilt and answered their other questions as honestly as she knew how. By the time the meal was over, Dorothea felt as if her memory had been put through a mangle and squeezed dry. She had learned almost nothing about the Brauns’ station. They did not reveal by so much as a word or a glance whether they hid their passengers in the mill itself or their adjacent residence.

It was late in the evening when Mrs. Braun ordered Dorothea to bed, in a motherly way, affectionate but unyielding. When Dorothea protested, Mr. Braun promised her they would continue their discussion in the morning. Dorothea nodded and resolved that it would not, however, proceed in the same fashion. She had only a few hours to learn all she could from her hosts, and she could not do that if they subjected her to more questioning.

Mrs. Braun led her to a small bedroom on the second story. Dorothea undressed to her shift and climbed beneath the layers of quilts, shivering until she grew warm. She fell asleep almost immediately and woke, hours later, to the sound of the low, steady grinding of the mill. The whole house seemed to tremble.

She dressed swiftly, judging from the sunlight outside it was past eight o’clock. Mrs. Braun was already working in the large room downstairs, which seemed to be kitchen, front room, and parlor all at once. The Brauns had eaten their breakfast earlier since Mr. Braun had to run the mill, but Mrs. Braun invited Dorothea to the table and soon placed a hot plate of potato pancakes and sausages before her.

Mrs. Braun poured them each a steaming cup of tea, and as she seated herself, Dorothea said, “There is much my parents and I need to know about running a station.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Braun sipped her tea. “So a good night’s sleep did not clear your thoughts of such foolish notions.”

“They are not foolish notions, and like it or not, you need our help. The situation is so desperate I must wonder why you would turn us away.”

“Forgive me, but your uncle did not think your parents capable.”

Dorothea felt a surge of loyal anger. “He did not know them as well as I. We found you, did we not?”

Mrs. Braun nodded in acquiescence. “
You
did. Very well, then.” She set down her teacup and folded her arms on the wooden table. “I will tell you what you need to know.”

Dorothea drank in every word as Mrs. Braun explained the coded language preferred by the stationmasters and conductors, how to conceal one’s tracks in the forest, various means to convey a fugitive north, and so much else that Dorothea felt she could not absorb it all. There was too much to remember, and as Mrs. Braun gravely recounted stories of friends and acquaintances whose stations had been discovered and what they had suffered, Dorothea felt her confidence wavering. A fine her family could bear, but imprisonment? The seizure of the farm? The responsibility was so great, as were the consequences. If they failed, they could be worse off than when Elm Creek claimed Thrift Farm. They could be rendered destitute. They could fail those who depended upon them.