Lily's Story (68 page)

“
Does Stoker
know?”

Sophie went white. “Stoker must
never know. I’m no hooer. What’s done in the Alley is never
told.”

“
An’ the
park?”

“
The only
time, I swear it.” She shivered. “Never again, not like
that.”

They sat in silence for a
while, listening to Wee Sue’s laughter and Bricky’s squealing from
the other room.

“
Are you
tellin’ me you ain’t been with a man since Tom?” Sophie said
casually as if they had been in the middle of a
conversation.

Lily nodded.

“
Then you mean
that devil’s shivaree an’ your house burnin’ down was all for
nothing?”

“
Ti-Jean
wasn’t there, he left to see his mother.”

“
He was one
handsome fella, eh?”

“
Uh huh.” For
the first time Lily was able to smile, feeling once again the
undefiled kinship between them.

“
You need to
take a lover,” Sophie said very quietly.

L
ily was just putting
Brad’s supper on his plate and beginning to wonder where Robbie had
got to, when Sophie pulled open the front door and stood on the
stoop trying to catch her breath.

“
What’s
wrong?”

“
They’ve run
away with the circus,” she gasped. “Stumpy saw them gettin’ on the
train at the park.”

“
Who,
Sophie,
who
!”

“
Freddie, an’
your Robbie. They’re gone.”

Lily grabbed Brad and
pulled him past Sophie. “Run up to the station an’ see if the
circus train’s left yet. Hurry.” Brad was already off, his whippet
legs flashing in the sunset over the river flats. Lily followed
only yards behind him even though her heart, after the first
convulsion, refused to make another move. Sophie rumbled after
them, sobbing and thrashing her hands. The circus train with its
purple and yellow-striped coaches and box-cars could be seen
against the orange glow of the horizon ahead, moving slowly and
inexorably around the curve that would take it north out of the
country, out of all reach, beyond the range of forgiveness and
regret. The derision of its chattering bogie-wheels stunned the two
women as they came to a foolish halt among the milkweed and the
wild mustard and the evening swallows overhead.

“
Stoker’ll
kill me,” Sophie said.

Suddenly Brad shouted and the
women turned to stare across the space just cleared by the
deserting train. A male figure, only a shadow against the perishing
sun, was trotting towards them and holding something aloft in its
right hand like an offering. No one moved an inch until Robbie came
right up to them, the fishing rod over his shoulder and a string of
perch thrust out for admiration and approval.

“
Can we have
them for supper, Ma?” he said amiably.

S
ophie sat in the
swelter of her kitchen wrapped in a shawl and sipping from a glass
of brown liquor. “Go on, have some, it won’t kill you. John the
Baptist makes his pig try it first. Go on.”

Lily let a drop of the hooch
slither its way over her tongue.

“
He’ll kill
me, you know. He never got over Burton stayin’ up in Bruce County,
an’ he keeps askin’ why Stewie an’ John don’t come home to see him
no more, an’ I tell him they’re busy gettin’ their lives started on
the Great Western, an’ he yells ‘yeah, two fuckin’ miles away!’ and
I can’t think of a thing to say back except that Peg brought her
little one over here last month an’ he was so happy with that baby
I thought he’d cry, but then he an’ Peg got to arguin’ about
religion an’ how her husband insisted on havin’ Peg dunked in Perch
Creek an’ gettin’ the baby baptized too an’ then Peg just up an’
leaves, and I want to say, ‘See, it ain’t all my fault, you can’t
blame me for Peg nor for Marlene, no sir, it ain’t my fault Marlene
won’t ever come home or even see her own brothers an’ sisters or
tell anyone where she’s livin’.”

“
I’ll stay
with you,” Lily said. “I ain’t afraid of Stoker.”

“
No. You
mustn’t do that, you mustn’t ever think of doin’ anythin’ like
that.” She drained her glass, keeping her lips sealed to trap the
afterwaves of the whiskey. “You promise me that.”

“
Why don’t you
leave him?”

Sophie flinched at the question
and the long look she gave Lily ran the gamut through
incomprehension to resentment, hurt, self-loathing and resignation.
“You don’t understand, Lil. I deserve it.”

26

1

O
ne Monday in June of
1877 Lily was a bit later than usual in arriving at Hazel’s as she
and Sophie had been up most of the night sitting with Bricky who
was down with the mumps and having a bad time of it. Sophie said
she was too tired and too hot to come so Lily walked on by herself.
As she went past Stumpy’s and waved to Cap Whittle on his bridge,
she felt a deep unease inside, and quickened her pace. Violet had
not been well, Winnie was thought to have got herself pregnant
again and was very depressed – there was something waiting for her
in the yellow and purple house at the top of the rise, of that she
was certain. She leaned on the newel-post, her head woozy, her
breath staccato. I’m just tired, she thought, and went
in.

E
veryone was listening
so intently to the newcomer that Lily was able to slip unnoticed
into her usual chair in the corner by the south-east window, and
note with relief that both Violet and Winnie were hanging on each
word being spoken by the tall, silver-haired man. He was like no
other Negro she had ever seen – with his gold-rimmed spectacles,
his trim business suit, white shirt and cravat, his patent leather
shoes and the pearl-knobbed cane he leaned on from time to time for
rhetorical effect. His voice was baritone, beautifully cadenced,
and urban to the last vowel. He was a sixty-year-old American
gentleman – whose skin had been accidentally charcoaled. Lily
caught the very end of what had obviously been a detailed story of
hairbreadth escape and considerable pathos. You could hear the
whisper of Hazel’s taffeta all the way across the room. A single
gold tear rolled down the right cheek of Shadrack Lincoln who was
seated, or kneeling, at the feet of the stranger and peering up
with adoration and awe.

Winnie leaned
over and spoke into Lily’s ear: “He’s Mr. Abraham Jackson,
from
Philadelphia
.” And,
Lily learned later, come to the County in search of the long-lost
cousin of a friend in Pennsylvania who turned out to be their own
Shadrack Lincoln. The story, just completed, had been one of a
series Mr. Jackson had been urged to tell about his days on the
Underground Railroad.

“
Those were
exciting days and they were dreadful days. But of course even now
we have much work to do. Many of the committees we formed then are
still in operation, but instead of helping people to escape to
freedom, we’re involved in a variety of Negro causes, including
this one – searching for missing relatives and trying to put back
together families who were so cruelly broken up by the heinous
institution of slavery. We’re also helping many of the people who
fled here to Canada without wives, children or parents to resettle
back in their home counties if they wish to.” He glanced at
Shadrack.

“
Tell us more
about the Railroad, Mr. Jackson,” Hazel said, as if she were
coaxing a reluctant diva towards an encore. “Did you ever get up as
far as Canada?” She looked about for support and got it. Betsy
filled his cup with alacrity for they all knew he had to catch the
late-afternoon express for London.

“
I worked out
of Philadelphia. I worked for Stephen Smith, a wealthy lumberman of
my own race who financed much of the local operation, which was
centred around Mr. William Still, whom you’ve heard about. I was
supposed to be an agent for the lumber company, but my travels in
Pennsylvania were really designed to keep supplies and money
flowing to key points along the line. We were the principal relay
station on the main route from the Carolinas over what we called
the Great Black Way of the Appalachians and thence on to Ohio. And
no, I never did get to Canada myself, but naturally I heard
detailed accounts of the bravery and dedication of Canadians, and a
number of them came to work for us on the American side. In fact,
it was through the Partridge family in Moore Township that we were
able to get a line on the whereabouts of Shadrack here. Many of the
old railroaders continue to help us out in any way they can. I
talked with Harry Partridge before I came up to Sarnia, and we
reminisced about the old days. In particular we talked about the
Canadians who’d served the cause so well back in the ‘fifties when
the Fugitive Slave Law made it a very dangerous business. You may
already have heard of the exploits of Bill Shepherd, Harold Flint,
Michael Corcoran –”

“
Quick, get
the smellin’ salts, Vi,” Hazel cried, holding Lily in her
arms.

H
ere in the Alley, no
questions were asked; Hazel had given them her own sitting room
where the curtains, carpet and plush chairs combined to soften
voices and accentuate intimacy. Abraham Jackson sat no more than a
yard from Lily and delivered his soliloquy in a hushed, umber,
elegiac tone, as if the theme itself might overwhelm the solitary
listener or crush the fragility of the words themselves.

“
I knew your
father long before I met him; he was an early organizer of the
Railroad at the Michigan-Canadian border-crossing, one of the most
dangerous spots on the line because after the Fugitive Slave Law
the bounty-hunters concentrated on these crossing-points, and they
didn’t care who they killed to get their quarry. I heard of your
father’s courage from the great Harriet Tubman herself. So when he
came over to our side of the border in 1851, he had many
influential friends to help him. I met him that fall in William
Still’s living room in Philadelphia. We never asked him much about
why he had to leave Canada, but I could see that he was suffering a
great deal as a consequence. Later on he confided to me that he
had, in a vengeful rage, accidentally killed a man who had
committed some crime against his family. He feared there was a
warrant out for his arrest. Only a few years ago did I learn that
there never had been any such warrant. Nevertheless, the Lord saw
fit to bring him to us, and we were grateful. Your father became
the most important person in the human chain of ties, rails, siding
and way-stations that made up the Underground Road to Freedom
during those grim years before the War. His job was to pick up
refugees along the edges of the Carolinas and direct them or lead
them himself over the Appalachian Way, with bounty-hunters and
bears and renegade outlaw bands all looking for the same helpless
prey. Twice he was shot, frost-bitten many times, cut his way out
of a southern jail before a lynch mob could take its revenge – he
was a legend among the Negros and Abolitionists everywhere. He was
a man possessed, a man with a mission.” He paused as if to let that
much sink in, but Lily’s querying, avid eyes urged him
on.

“
I met him
often at Still’s house during our many strategy sessions, and it
was there that I saw him for the last time in March of
’fifty-eight, almost twenty years
ago. I remember ever detail of that evening because all the
important people on the Railroad were there to meet and listen to
another legendary figure of the day – John Brown, Old Brown of
Ottawatomie. He was there with his son, John Jr., looking for money
and for recruits. That night he got both. I tried to talk your
father out of it, but like so many others, he too had glimpsed the
apocalyptic blaze in Old Brown’s eye, and I guess he felt the same
frustrations that Brown did after a decade of danger, miniscule
hopes, senseless death and no sign of victory anywhere they looked,
only the trickle of lives they had redeemed with such expense of
body and spirit, while the principal evil festered and gloated on
every side. They were ready to chance Armageddon, to drive the
money-changers from the temple with a single, sacrificial blow;
they were willing to use their bodies like sword-blades and
ultimately as fodder for gibbets and the poles of crucifixion. We
never saw him again.”

He paused,
swallowed thickly and continued. “He died at Harper’s Ferry in the
blood and horror of that wonderful
débâcle
. His name is
not recorded among the official twenty-two, but his bravery there
is well-known among the people he died trying to liberate. He was
guarding the Potomac Bridge with Oliver Brown and others when the
militia arrived and drove them off. Apparently your father refused
to retreat and was shot on the bridge. Before the local troops,
slavering for blood and souvenirs, could reach him, he jumped or
fell into the river below, where the current swept him gently
towards the sea. The Virginia guardsmen stood on the bridge and
used his body for target practice till it drifted out of their
range of interest. However, when the Federal Marines went looking
for it later that evening, it was gone, spirited off by a group of
free Negroes who carried it upstream to Chambersburg where they
buried it secretly in their churchyard. It’s still there under a
plain white stone marked simply: ‘Mr. Corcoran’. Every year
hundreds and hundreds of people – black and white – slip quietly
into the shade of that little cemetery to pay their
respects.”