Honor (37 page)

Both George and Deborah stared at the bald question.
George cleared his throat. “Ending slavery will not be easy, but establishing a democratic republic has not been easy either. Sometimes one must work for what is right, even when the odds of victory appear small.”

“What do you think of people who hide or aid runaways?” Samuel asked.

Honor translated but felt her pulse speed up. She had not revealed her involvement with runaways to anyone outside the household, not even to Deborah. Was her husband trying to show her she was wrong? Or expose her wrongdoing?

Deborah spoke before her son. “I would not turn an escaped slave over to a catcher. I’ve seen the kind of men who do this nasty job. They are the sort of people who kidnapped Royale and your nephew.”

Samuel looked startled at her response.

“My mother is bold in her cause,” George said. “We have never had a runaway come to our door, but I too would help him. My mother and I were forced to leave North Carolina when we freed our slaves. The anger our former neighbors and friends turned on us told us much. When a person does what is right, it stirs the rage of those who will not turn from doing the same evil.”

Samuel nodded slowly but did not give away what he was thinking. Once again he had shut them all out, including Honor, his wife. She absorbed his withdrawal, praying that someday her husband would cease hedging out the world, walling himself away.

Soon after the tea had been finished, George and Deborah left the Cathwells’ for the drive home. Honor
stood at the door, waving them off in the bright sunshine. When they disappeared around the bend, she turned to face her husband, finally able to ask him, “So is thee angry about my poem appearing in the press?”

“You might as well have put a sign on our door for all the slave catchers around to see.”

The truth of what he said settled within her like a cold rock. “I should have asked to remain anonymous.”

“Our only hope will be that slave catchers only read the classifieds, not poetry. But this kind of paper—” he pointed to the newspaper lying on the table—“is just the kind of thing they would read for leads.”

Honor sank into the rocker, weak with regret. “What should we do?”

“Hope that it goes unnoticed.” With that, he left her.

She rocked beside the low fire and tried to come up with a way out of this trouble. She recalled the pride she had felt when she’d first seen her name in print. Well,
“pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall,”
and Honor had the safety of others to consider, not just what people might think of her. Anonymity would have been a small price to pay if it had kept the slave catchers away. If only she’d considered that earlier.

FEBRUARY 8, 1820

Once again Royale hovered by Honor’s bed in the early hours of the morning. Honor rose and, this time, shook Samuel awake too.

“We got a whole family in the kitchen,” Royale said,
shivering slightly in her robe and shawl. “Where we gon’ hide a whole family?”

Honor threw on a dress and shawl over her nightgown, and Samuel dragged on his trousers and jacket. They hurried through the gray light of dawn to the kitchen, where they found a man, his wife, his mother, and their two children, both around Caleb’s age. They were huddled near the fire, eating leftovers and gulping water.

“Boss, the loft won’t hide this many,” Judah said. “And what if the catchers come?” They’d all been on edge since the poem had appeared in print the previous day.

“We must take them to Bucktown. Now,” Samuel replied. “Judah, go get the team harnessed. We’ll leave immediately.”

Honor could hardly believe her eyes. Her husband was taking action for these runaways.

He turned to her and signed, “Think up some reason for us to go to Bucktown so early in case anyone asks. We’ll come back at once.”

As he passed her on his way to the door, she gripped his forearm. “Thank thee, Samuel. I know this seems an imposition.”

He shrugged and pulled free, leaving her.

Honor smiled at the runaways, but her thoughts were on her husband. A desire to keep their neighbors from finding out what they were doing might explain his quick actions. But he could be acting out of respect for her—or even out of a growing compassion for runaway slaves themselves.

Samuel and Judah returned well into the morning. They entered the kitchen, where Honor waited with Royale and Perlie. Eli and Caleb played with their pets and small leather balls in front of the fire.

“They’re safe,” Judah said under his breath, hanging back by the door. “We met no one on the way, and the people of Bucktown took the family into hiding right away.”

Samuel nodded toward Judah, obviously prompting him. “Mr. Cathwell says we got to build a better hiding place than just putting people in the loft.”

As if nudged sharply, Honor sprang up from the bench to join them. She schooled her voice to avoid drawing Eli’s attention. “What?”

“We planned it on the way home. We’re going to get started on it right away. If you see anybody coming, give us a shout and we’ll hide our work. Mr. Cathwell doesn’t want anybody to know what we’re building.”

Honor nodded, stunned. When the two men left, she turned to Royale and Perlie. “Does thee think my husband has come around to our way of thinking?”

“No,” Royale said laconically. “I think he don’t want to stick out and be noticed.”

“The mister never like people to come or to look at him,” Perlie joined in. “I think that’s what this is about.”

Honor didn’t contradict them, but a flicker of hope flared, hope that Samuel was drawing nearer.

APRIL 4, 1820

Honor blinked herself awake to a tapping. She sat up, glad of spring, glad to wake without a cold nose. The feeble gray of predawn lightened the window. The tapping at the door sounded again. A caller before dawn? No, it would be another runaway.

Jolted fully awake, Honor rolled out of bed and donned her robe. She hurried to answer before the noise woke Eli this early. She opened the door and saw in the barest light two women, hunkered under shawls in the morning mist.

“This be the Cathwell house?” one asked.

Alarm quivered through Honor. Usually the runaways didn’t know or ask their name. “Yes,” she replied in a cautious whisper. “I am Honor Cathwell.”

“Honor.” The one word was spoken in a voice she had never forgotten, fixing her in place, her blood frozen.

“It is me, Honor.” The woman lifted the shawl she wore over her head and shoulders, revealing her familiar pale face surrounded by brown curls in disarray.

“Darah,” Honor gasped, her heart throbbing within her.

“Can we come in, Miss Honor?” begged the other woman, who was rounder and whose skin was the color of brown sugar.

Not recognizing this other young woman, Honor fell back, dazed. She closed the door behind them, shutting out the early mosquitoes. She stumbled to her chair and sat down, feeling she might faint. Was she having a dream? Could this be real?

His nightshirt tucked into his trousers, Samuel came up beside her and touched her shoulder.

Honor looked up at him in the shadows. Even in her shock, his presence strengthened her. Samuel moved farther to the side, evidently so she could see his fingers by the faint light from the window. “What’s wrong?”

“This is my cousin,” she signed, unable to go on.

Samuel tried to read his wife’s face but saw only taut suffering. Her cousin? The one who’d inherited the plantation instead of Honor? He drew near his wife, who sat as stiff and still as wood.

He motioned for the two women to come farther inside. They didn’t move, remaining huddled by the door. The pale skin of one shone in the low light. What was going on?

Honor did not move to hurry the early morning visitors to the kitchen or barn as she usually did—but then, these weren’t typical runaways. If indeed they were running at all.

The two women still did not move.

Reaching over, he gently touched his wife’s arm. She didn’t respond. Increasingly worried, he lit a candle.

Finally Honor held her hand high in front of the candlelight and signed her words as she spoke. “Darah, why has thee come here, and in this way?”

The pretty but drawn-looking white woman buried her face in her hands. “You must hide us, Honor. We’re headed to Canada.”

Samuel read the reply from Honor’s fingers and could not make sense of it. Why would a white woman need to go to Canada?

“I thought—” Honor said. “Thee wrote me of thy marrying.”

Following the conversation through Honor’s fingers, Samuel watched the woman called Darah bend over, shaking, sobbing. “What troubles her?” he asked Honor.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why she’s here. She should be in Maryland.”

“Miss Honor,” the maid said, “I’m Sally. I know us comin’ is a surprise, but there be two catchers on our trail. I think you better hide us quick.”

Though Honor signed the woman’s words, she still didn’t move.

Catchers. Samuel motioned for the women to follow him. When Honor rose at last, the two strangers obeyed him. His wife trailed them, lagging behind the quick pace he set.

Soon, in the first true glimmers of the dawn’s light, Samuel and Judah led the women to the secret room they’d built in the rear of the barn near Judah’s bedroom. Royale and his wife followed them, both looking confused. Inside, with the touch of a hidden lever, Samuel opened a wall covered with bottles on shelves.

The women behind him appeared surprised. But they walked into the secret room, obviously noting the blankets neatly folded there as well as the jug of water. Honor set down a bag of bread, turned away, and started back to the cabin.

Quickly Samuel showed the women how to open the door from the inside in case of emergency, then shut them in. Even now, just before dawn, the day promised unusual heat and humidity. He had drilled holes high and low in the wall for ventilation, but still it would be warm, stuffy inside.

Bewildered, he hurried after his wife. Sunshine already lit the sky, though the sun still had not cleared the horizon. Inside their cabin, she sank onto the rocking chair, folding in on herself.

Samuel sat down in the chair opposite her. He didn’t know what to say. He’d followed the conversation but couldn’t see why her cousin had come here. And why was the woman running away with her slave? “I don’t understand,” he signed, moving his chair closer to hers.