Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (35 page)

They went inside the house. Constance told her that the runaways were upstairs, sleeping in a hidden room in the attic, gathering their strength for the long journey ahead. “Paul was their leader,” said Constance, referring to one of the younger men, as Dorothea helped her prepare supper. “He was the courage of this group. Liza tries her best to keep everyone’s spirits up now that he’s gone on ahead, but it’s only worked with the children. Something’s gone out of the old man like an old tree hollowed out.”

Dorothea felt a quiver of nervousness. “You don’t suppose he’ll put the others in danger?”

Constance glanced darkly to the ceiling as a floorboard creaked overhead. “You’re worried about the children spilling the truth? I’m more worried about the old man.”

Night was falling as the four runaways crept quietly downstairs and seated themselves around the table. The two children, girls who looked to be about six and eight, stared at Dorothea with wide eyes as Constance made introductions. Dorothea noted that the four wore the sturdy work clothes of a moderately prosperous farm family, not the garb of slaves. Liza gave Dorothea a polite nod, but Old Dan kept his eyes cast down and did not seem to notice her.

Abel Wright urged them all to eat heartily, but only the children willingly obeyed; Liza choked down her food as if it were the bitterest medicine and Old Dan barely took a bite. After they cleared away the dishes, Constance privately told Dorothea to wrap up as much food as she could. The fugitives, though too nervous to eat now, would be hungry later.

Then it was time to depart.

Liza embraced Constance and thanked her for her goodness. Even Old Dan came to himself enough to shake Abel’s hand and murmur that he wished he could repay the Wrights someday. Abel went outside to load his wagon with hay and hitch up the team while the runaways soberly put on their wraps and gathered their few belongings, small bundles that, Dorothea guessed, contained more clothes Constance had sewn for them and food for the journey. They could not rely upon reaching a station every night.

Outside, the stars shone in a clear sky just cool enough to make Dorothea grateful for her shawl. The runaways climbed aboard the wagon and concealed themselves in the hay, with only the smallest mew of complaint from the youngest girl, whom Liza quickly soothed. Dorothea took up the reins as Constance swung up to the seat beside her, chirruped to the horses, and set out for the Creek’s Crossing road.

Dorothea and Constance rode without speaking. Dorothea’s mouth was dry, her stomach a knot of worry. For all the fugitives who had passed through the Grangers’ station, she had never felt so solely responsible for any runaway’s fate as she did at that moment, driving to the ferry. As they passed the entrance to the road that led through the woods to Mr. Liggett’s farm, the knot in her stomach tightened, but the only sounds were the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves on the hard-packed dirt road. Constance breathed a sigh as they left Mr. Liggett’s land behind and approached Two Bears Farm. Dorothea studied the tall, white-boarded house as they rode by; two lights were burning, one upstairs and one below. She wondered what Mr. Nelson was doing at that moment.

They reached the outskirts of Creek’s Crossing without encountering another wagon or rider. Dorothea turned east on a back road to avoid the noise and lights of the taverns and inns on the main streets. It was too much to hope that they could pass through the town entirely unobserved, but she would avoid as many eyes as possible.

The few townspeople they passed did not seem to give the wagon a second glance. The tightness in Dorothea’s stomach began to ease as they crossed the last few blocks to the ferry. If they could reach the northern shore of Elm Creek unchallenged—

“What’s that?” said Constance, nodding toward the ferry dock. A cluster of men stood by the boathouse, horses tied up nearby. Two carried torches. One loosely held the reins of a pack of hounds, sitting lazily at his feet.

“I don’t know,” replied Dorothea. She slowed the team as they drew closer. Just then, a carriage turned on to the street two blocks ahead of them and slowed as it approached the ferry. The men carrying torches leaped forward and blocked its way. A third man opened the carriage door and leaned inside, then withdrew and shouted something to his companions.

Dorothea did not wait to see if the four men allowed the carriage to board the ferry. She pulled hard on the reins and swung the wagon west on to Second Street.

“They’re searching that carriage,” murmured Constance, turning in her seat to look back upon the scene. “They ain’t the constable’s men.”

“Indeed they are not.” Dorothea urged the team into a trot. “They are slavecatchers.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. But even if they were not, they would search the wagon before permitting us aboard the ferry. That is reason enough for us to turn around.”

Constance studied her as the horses pulled them briskly away from the ferry dock. “Are you taking us back to the farm?”

“No.” Dorothea fought the instinct to make the horses run. “I know another crossing.”

“Not on Liggett’s land, like your uncle tried?”

“The creek does narrow there. My uncle would have made it if not for his stroke.”

“But Liggett—if he sees us—”

“He won’t see us,” said Dorothea grimly. “He is engaged at the moment.”

For Dorothea had recognized the slight, hunched form of the man who had peered within the carriage, and the golden curls and arrogant stance of one of the torchbearers.

Cyrus and Mr. Liggett, working openly with slavecatchers.

T
HE FOUR RUNAWAYS MUST
have felt the wagon turn completely around. They must have sensed their increased speed. Dorothea braced herself for a nervous question from Old Dan or the piping voices of the children, but the fugitives remained hidden.

“What if they saw us?” Constance said in a low voice.

“Let us hope they did not.” But Dorothea knew it was possible. They had been only two blocks from the ferry dock when they turned west. Surely Cyrus would wonder about a wagon suddenly veering off as soon as their blockade came into view. Dorothea prayed he had not recognized her or Uncle Jacob’s mare.

They passed through Creek’s Crossing without incident. As the lights of the town faded behind them, Dorothea strained her ears for any sound of pursuit. All she heard was the steady clopping of the horses’ hooves on the road headed south and the gurgling of Elm Creek, unseen in the darkness that fell sharply outside the pool of light their lanterns provided. In the distance Dorothea spied lights from farms, small and fragile in the dark.

They passed Two Bears Farm, the house silent on the top of the hill with only the two lighted windows hinting at warmth within. Dorothea and Constance did not speak. Soon even the sound of the creek died away as it curved around the oxbow to the west. The forest grew deeper; if Dorothea had not known the valley so well, she would have missed the turn onto the road to Elm Creek Farm.

The wagon creaked and jolted over the narrow trail, jarring on rocks and tree roots. Tree branches clawed at Dorothea’s face; a lantern pole caught on a limb and snapped. Dorothea pulled the horses to a stop so Constance could get out and retrieve the lantern. The tin was dented, but miraculously, the light had not gone out.

“Seems to me this might be a very bad idea,” said Constance as Dorothea started the horse again. Constance held out the lantern at arm’s length, but it was a futile gesture.

“If you have a better alternative, I’m listening.”

Dorothea’s voice was strained from the effort of driving the team. The horses pulled at the bit and tossed their heads, annoyed at Dorothea for steering them into the tangled wood. Dorothea urged them forward, and the wagon jerked and bounded deeper into the woods. Constance nervously clutched at the wagon seat with her free hand, but she did not voice her doubts again. Just when Dorothea thought her aching arms could wrestle the team no further, she glimpsed moonlight on water.

“The creek,” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “We can cross up ahead.”

Constance held out the lantern and shook her head. “It’s too far off the road. The wagon will never make it.”

“We have to try.”

Dorothea pulled the team to a halt, jumped down from the wagon seat, and led the resistant horses off the trail into the woods. The horses strained and pulled the wagon into the underbrush, over a rotten log that crumbled onto a carpet of fallen leaves. “Good girl,” Dorothea praised her uncle’s mare quietly, urging her onward and hoping Abel Wright’s horse would follow. They reached the top of a small incline that sloped down a steep hill to the creek bed. The crossing was narrower here, as Dorothea had remembered, but she and Jonathan had been on foot in daylight.

“We can’t turn the wagon around here anyway,” said Constance. “We might as well go forward.” She secured the lantern and climbed down from the wagon seat.

Dorothea nodded and took a deep breath, blood pounding in her ears. She grasped the reins and bridles of Uncle Jacob’s mare while Constance took hold of her own horse, and together they pulled the team forward. The horses whinnied in complaint but stepped forward once, then twice, and then quicker steps as the wagon began to roll down the slope of its own accord. Muscles straining, Dorothea held the mare in check as the wagon picked up speed. Suddenly Constance cried out as a wheel jolted against a tree root and sent her sprawling to the ground. The leather reins burned Dorothea’s palms as they tore free from her grasp. She fell to her knees and scrambled out of the way as the horses and wagon sped past her down the steep slope to the creek. There was a rumble and a crash of breaking branches, and then the wagon fell from sight.

A scream strangled in her throat. She crawled forward and spotted the wagon below, upright and stuck in the creek. One lantern lay on the pebbled creek side, the other extinguished, lost in the darkness. Abel Wright’s horse whinnied and bucked, then tossed her head and snorted, pacing, still bound to the wagon and Uncle Jacob’s mare. After a moment of horrifying stillness, a child’s wail broke the night air.

Dorothea forced herself to her feet, choking back a sob. She made her way to Constance, who groaned as she sat up and clasped a hand to her head. Dorothea helped her stand, and together they picked their way down to the wagon, where the runaways were cautiously emerging from the bed of hay. The youngest girl stretched out her arms for Liza, sobbing. As Liza snatched her up, the eldest girl stood and looked around, dazed and silent, picking hay from her hair.

“Where’s Old Dan?” said Constance in her ear. They quickly climbed into the wagon bed, and while Liza comforted the girls, Dorothea and Constance dug through the hay, searching frantically for the old man. Then, a flickering of lantern light drew Dorothea’s attention to a limp form half in the creek, half on the shore. Her gasp alerted Constance, and together they jumped from the wagon and raced to his side. Dorothea was afraid to move him, but Constance ran her hands over him as if feeling for broken bones. He groaned as she rolled him over. Blood trickled from his brow.

Sitting on the damp shore, Constance drew him onto her lap and shook her head. Her wordless gaze confirmed what Dorothea already knew: Old Dan could not walk.

She left Constance with the injured man and returned to the wagon, thoughts churning. Liza had calmed the youngest girl, who had quieted her sobs and merely sniffed back tears, thumb in her mouth. “She’s more scared than hurt,” Liza said quietly. “Please, see to Hannah.” She nodded to the eldest child, who stood wide-eyed and wordless in the same spot as when she had first emerged from the hay.

Dorothea approached her gently. “Are you hurt?” No response. Dorothea placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

The girl looked up at her, wordless, but did not even shake her head. Dorothea knelt beside her. “Since you seem to be just fine, I wonder if you could help me. I need someone to hold the lantern while I unhitch the horses. Do you think you could do that?”

Hannah hesitated, then nodded. Relieved, Dorothea helped her down from the wagon and fetched the lantern. Quickly she surveyed the wagon: It had thrown an axle and the right side was smashed in. It was not beyond repair, but they had neither the tools nor the time to attend to it. Dorothea unhitched the mare, who tossed her head and snorted as if to declare that she had warned Dorothea not to try to cross there. Dorothea wished she had taken heed.