Promise Bridge (38 page)

Tears stung my eyes as Colt lay motionless. I pulled the blanket back to expose his smooth skin. His tight frame glimmered with perspiration as I rubbed liniment on his chest. With the faint bump of his heart beneath my fingertips, I spoke to him of memories we shared. Using a razor found in a drawer, I shaved the whiskers from his chin to reveal the familiar Colt of yesteryear. However, when I pressed my lips to his, their warmth and stillness tore my heart in two. A tap upon the door pulled me from my wishful fantasy.

“Hey, girl,” Livie said as she stepped inside with a group of townsfolk on her heels. “Thought I’d see how you were doin’ and found a line outside your door.”

Raizy was the first to approach me. “I mixed up some extra honey-and-tallow poultice. It may come in handy on those wounds of his.” She handed me the jar of brown salve and stepped aside to allow Corine to offer a small sack filled with roots and herbs.

“I’ll come over and boil whatever herbs you need. There ain’t an ailment I can’t treat with the herbs in this bag.”

“Thank you.” I grinned, overwhelmed by the show of support by the people of Promise Bridge. Men came with split logs and skinned game, while the women offered countless herbal remedies to aid Colt in his recovery. More than their gifts, I deeply appreciated the message of welcome that was delivered in their generous gestures. The town meeting had served to unite them in goodwill rather than mark me as an outsider. Livie smiled as I smeared Colt’s chest with mustard plaster and dripped sassafras tea on his tongue. Late in the evening, I drooped onto the rocker with the comforting sound of laughter and caring voices lulling me into sleep.

Sunlight was streaming through the cabin windows when I felt the soft tug of the quilt around my shoulders. “Thank you, Livie,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” I reached to touch her hand on my shoulder. When I pressed down on the rough, large knuckles, my eyes sprang open.

The crescent scar beneath Colt’s lip creased when he smiled. “You look at peace in your mother’s quilt.”

“Colt! You’re alive!” Before I could stand, he wobbled and lowered onto one knee. I cradled his face in my hands and released tears of relief. “I was so frightened and lost without you. Thank God you’ve come back to me.” I shifted onto my knees so I could embrace him completely. He pulled me in, as if desperate for my warmth.

“Where are we?” he asked, as I continued to stroke his hair and shoulders.

“We are in Promise Bridge. This is Marcus’s cabin.”

Colt stiffened. He looked around, seemingly sifting his memory until the horrible events at the militia camp darkened his eyes. “You are in mourning.”

“Yes.” I sniffled. “Marcus’s death was a shocking blow.”

He reached up and released my arms from around his neck. “I am dizzy. Is there a well where I can draw water?”

“There is a well at the top of the hill behind the cabin,” I said, confused by his sudden retreat. “Sit here in the chair and I will fetch it for you.”

Colt rose gingerly onto his feet. “That won’t be necessary. The fresh air and movement are good for me. I suffer more from exhaustion than significant injury. Your treatment of my arm and sores prevented serious infection and complications.”

“The folks in town gave me a good deal of support and guidance,” I said, clinging to his waist. The more I drew him to me, the more I sensed his inner reserve pulling away. “Don’t push yourself, Colt. Let me care for you while you take time to heal.”

“Time does
not
heal all wounds, Hannah.” Sadness dimmed his eyes as he slipped from my grasp and limped out the door. I lifted my skirt and followed him as he labored up the clover rise, toward the well. He hoisted a bucket and splashed water against his flushed cheeks. “I may need a few days to gather my strength, but then I must go.”

“Go?” I gasped. “Why? I don’t understand!”

“They say war is inevitable. If it comes to pass, the army of the Union will need doctors. I believe it’s a cause worthy of my commitment.”

His words dropped like stones into the pit of my stomach. “I prayed over you night and day. I prayed you would return to me. I want you to know all that is in my heart. How can you leave me now?”

Colt tenderly glided a fingertip along my cheek. “I know your heart well enough to understand that it is my duty to leave you with your grief.”

“But my grief is not only for Marcus; it is also for you and the bodily harm inflicted on you by Twitch. I grieve because the North is not the land of promise our friends imagined and deserved. I also harbor disappointing grief brought by those who support the cause in words but not in practice. We grieve the same things, do we not, Colt? Let us mourn and gain strength together.”

Colt leaned against the well, tormented by my reply and struggling to answer. My head swirled as I searched his eyes. Suddenly, a thought nudged my mind. I remembered a gesture made on the day he rode into town. I had dismissed it as misdirected sentiment, but it would explain his urgency to leave.

“Colt, why did you present me with Marcus’s hat when you returned him for burial?”

“Well, seeing you here . . . taking up residence, I assumed you and he . . .”

I stepped close to him and placed my hand gently against his chest. “I am here only for you, Colt. Desperate to find you, I came searching for the path that would lead me to you. Marcus stepped forward to help me.”

Colt’s breath deepened, and his heart thumped wildly beneath my touch. “Seeing you appear at the encampment, coming to me in my time of need, gave me the will to fight my way free. But there in his cabin, I realized you may have been driven by loyalty and nothing more.”

I brushed the curls away from his eyes. “Both you and Marcus have walked a path of great conviction and compassion. These traits stirred deep feelings of respect and admiration in me. But love is more than respect and admiration. Love is being a part of someone, and they of you. I love you, Colt. I have always loved you. You are ever present in me, and the only one who holds my heart and stirs my depths with need.”

Colt burst toward me and swept me into his arms. I lifted my lips and let his mouth take mine, delicately at first, and then in glorious surrender of heart and soul. We trembled against each other, not wanting to let go.

“Please forgive me for taking so long to understand my feelings. We have been loving and devoted friends for so long. You are woven into the fabric of my very being. It was not until you left me after Livie’s escape that I realized I not only love you, but am also deeply and hopelessly
in
love with you. When you said good-bye, all we were went with you. Growing up together, we never shared a breathtaking moment, as lovers often do, when friendship spills over into passion. Yet all these years, you have been a part of every breath I’ve taken, and in every memory I hold dear. We may not have had that magic moment, but we are already joined as one. My heart is yours, Colt. Now and forever.”

“Sweet Hannah,” Colt whispered, caressing my cheek and covering my face with gentle kisses. “The gift of your heart is a dream come true. Not even a golden sunset can match the magical glow in your eyes. I can barely breathe, so brace yourself, my love. . . . That moment of breathless wonder you have been waiting for has arrived.”

Colt’s soft lips closed over mine and he breathed me in. Elation released within me and filled the empty cracks and lonely corners of my soul. My lips begged for more as he rolled his warm mouth from mine. “What shall we do, Hannah? Under the circumstances, we cannot go home. They would persecute us as traitors.”

“Having you by my side is all that matters to me.” I smiled. “Home does not require a house with walls and hearth. Sometimes home is simply a person who offers all the warmth and shelter we seek. My dear, precious, Colt . . . you are my home.”

A wistful giggle came from behind us. “Lordy, you white folk sure do drip with honey and flowery words.” Livie smirked at us devilishly as she walked our way. “A big ol’ hungry kiss could have solved this long ago.”

I put my arm around her and eased her to my side, so grateful for our friendship. She looked at me with inquisitive tenderness and then studied Colt for a moment.

“Do you mind if I throw a thought into the breeze?” She looked over her shoulder as the whole of Promise Bridge stretched below us. Her face was clear and thoughtful as she spoke. “Here is a town without a doctor. A town of courageous people, where you can use yo’ skills for the good. And there are sweet boys and girls who need a teacher to learn them to read and write. Only the two o’ you can decide if you were brought here for a reason. There is no guarantee a town like ours will survive in the shiftin’ winds. ’Tain’t gonna be easy, but Marcus always said, ‘You never know how much gumption you got inside until somethin’ pokes you hard enough.’ ”

Colt gazed out over the valley and then down at me with a thousand questions glimmering in his misty, gold-flecked eyes. Premonition of purpose sparked alive in me.

“You are needed, Colt. By me and by this town. We may have lent these brave trailblazers a momentary hand in their journey to freedom, but we must also acknowledge responsibility on the road ahead. Livie is right when she says the future of this town is precarious. The time has come for us to step from the shadows and serve as a bridge into a resistant society. This beginning must take hold for the journey to continue.”

Colt lifted a strand of hair from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. His fingers brushed softly across the nape of my neck and up under my chin. He brought my lips to his with warmth and certainty, and then released them long enough to whisper in my ear, “I love you, Hannah. Marry me, and let our commitment of togetherness spread to those around us. Fate has brought us to Promise Bridge. Love and friendship will root us here.”

I held his face in my hands and kissed his tears. “It would honor me to be your wife and join with you in heart and intent. My dear, sweet Colt, let us begin anew.”

Livie nodded with a proud grin as I took her hand in gratitude. After a tender pause, Colt smiled and offered me his arm. With hope and commitment bonding us, the three of us descended the hill, each of us harboring the promise of a better tomorrow.

Authors’ Notes

Imagine fleeing the only home you know, alone, with nothing but the ragged clothes on your back. Without shoes or map, you tread through murky nights along landscape you have never seen. What horrors lie in wait? Hungry and exhausted, you stumble upon a rattlesnake in the brush, and fight deadly fever in the swamps. Man and beast are unleashed in your wake, determined to track you down and drag you back, dead or alive. The truth is, you have no idea where you are going or where you will end up. Yet what you are escaping makes the treacherous journey not only worth the risk, but the lesser hell.

The first time I recall hearing the term
Underground Railroad
, I was a schoolgirl conjuring up images of a hidden rail system that runaway slaves hopped aboard like hobos. Better still was the picture of a long, underground tunnel used by the enslaved to run South to North, if only they were lucky enough to find it. Those myths were quickly dashed upon reading about the legendary Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass, during which I learned that the Underground Railroad was a secret network of escape routes, organized in some areas, while spontaneous and opportunistic in others. The routes were land based as much as sea driven, and conducted by whites, blacks, and Native Americans alike. The “system” was ever changing, taking as many forms as there were attempted escapes, failing as much as succeeding, and always with the threat of recapture, vicious punishment, torture, and death. I do not profess to be an expert on the Underground Railroad, but I am an admiring believer in its power to unite for common cause and awed by the courageous spirit driving it forward in the changing face of a nation.

Although there is some debate as to the origin of the metaphor, it is said that a slaveholder, upon closing in on a runaway slave, only to have him slip away, never to be seen again, declared that it was as if the slave disappeared on some kind of underground railroad. The name stuck, and though not widely used during the height of runaway activity, later became the descriptive term for the integrated, secretive freedom movement that stretched from Eastern ports like Philadelphia across the country to Cincinnati and points west. Its veins began in the deep South, flowing northward to the free states, and eventually into Canada, when the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 allowed slaveholders to reclaim runaway slaves found in Northern states and return them to bondage. During the 1800s, more than one hundred thousand enslaved Americans used some form of this network while seeking their freedom. The Underground Railroad was the best of America within the worst of America.

Although countless names and deeds associated with this widespread network were well hidden and have since been lost, in obscurity, the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio, preserves and celebrates its legacy. This amazing museum and educational facility pays tribute to and offers remembrance of the movement, beginning with the Underground Railroad and continuing forward to the challenges of modern-day slavery and issues of freedom in areas of the world like Darfur. At the grand opening of the center in 1984, former First Lady Laura Bush remarked, “This is more than a center of education, more than a memorial of remembrance or a monument for justice. The Freedom Center is a cornerstone of the American conscience.”

Each exhibit is unique and moving. I can still feel my skin prickle in their environmental theater as darkness falls, crickets twitter, and fog rolls in, enveloping visitors in a dangerous scene of escape and immersing us physically in the film
Brothers of the Borderland
. After my first visit to the Freedom Center, I remember sitting on a bench outside the entrance doors overlooking the Ohio River, scribbling my thoughts and ideas as they rushed through me and around me, leaving me barely able to keep up. I think I was first in line the next morning as the center opened its doors!

Discovering the characters of
Promise Bridge
was a moving experience. Hannah and Livie represent the best in all of us: Hannah, with her loyalty and emerging social conscience, and Livie, brave and unashamedly honest, daring to trust and reveal herself so the burdens of her fellow slaves cannot be ignored or denied. They are composites of women struggling during an oppressive time, both seeking a kind of personal freedom. Hannah and Livie find strength and courage in one another. They are not perfect, but of pure intention. Naive, yes. But sometimes naive belief is what frees us to attempt the impossible. I love their friendship. The bond between them enriches them and makes them better; their love and devotion empowers them. Obviously, their personal struggles and exposure to danger are vastly different. Hannah’s journey is internal, indicative of a woman seeking control of her beliefs and conscience at a time when women were corseted by social inferiority. Livie’s plight is more urgent and life- altering. Her dream of freedom and controlling her destiny becomes a race to save her husband and child. Hannah and Livie discover something in each other that helps them overcome their obstacles and lay claim to their lives. Isn’t this the blessing of a true friend?

Some of the traits found in Augusta and Colt were inspired by two well-known “conductors” on the Underground Railroad. Reverend John Rankin was a prominent figure in his community and used his advantage to shepherd runaways. Conversely, John Fairfield was born to a slaveholding family on a Virginia plantation, but detested slavery. When he reached manhood, Fairfield became very active in the Underground Railroad. Colt and Augusta are representative of a cross-section of Southern conductors whose participation in the network depended on their anonymity. Unlike abolitionists who voiced their beliefs in public forums, hoping to garner support and expand the cause, conductors provided aid under a veil of secrecy. To be found out meant possible imprisonment, physical harm, and social recrimination. The most organized networks of the Underground Railroad were often found farther north, particularly along the border states. Augusta and Colt were doing their part to move those on the run to where the networks could deliver them to freedom.

The Freedom Center is also where I discovered the story of John P. Parker, a former slave who risked his life hundreds of times crossing the Ohio River under the cover of night to ferry others in their escape from slavery. Helping those left behind was a common practice among freedmen. It is estimated that Harriet Tubman returned south nineteen times to lead as many as three hundred from their bondage. This sense of commitment and responsibility felt by former slaves for their counterparts is a lesson in humanity. The courage and determination of John P. Parker is sewn into the character of Marcus. Just like real-life freedmen, Marcus felt a duty and compassion to not only return for his sister, but for anyone else seeking the path north.

Writing the cruel and evil Twitch was a difficult process; his vile treatment of others left me angry and shamed by its truth. His character was not based on any specific figure in history, but, sadly, was the embodiment of a way of life.

Signs and codes of the Underground Railroad were varied. Indicators used by one safe house were likely to be unique from the next. For example, one corridor might pass secret instruction to look for a man with one red feather adorning his derby who would lead them to a safe house. Or in the back hills, one might be directed to find the house with three candles burning in a window, indicating that food and shelter would be offered. This did not mean these signs applied across the South. In fact, other than the oft-noted lamp illuminating the window of John Rankin’s home high above the Ohio River, there was no universal lamp-in-the-window sign. In other words, each station master signaled his or her presence in his or her own way. Their methods were secret, changing, and undocumented. This gave me flexibility in creating a network. The signs woven into the novel were unique to their system. For instance, the notion of sophisticated quilt codes is disputed by some as myth; however, in this story, quilts are used as reason for travel and worthy of hidden compartments, as well as hinting at landmarks on a route leading north. Their use is not reflective of the quilt codes hypothesized by some researchers as a form of complex communication. My quilts are merely a contributing method developed by this small group of people. Widely recognized signs, such as a white man tugging his ear when passing a slave or using the term
friend
, provided signals to other sympathizers or to a fugitive seeking a safe house. These subtle signs are used throughout the book, although they go largely unnoticed until the second half of the story.

It should be noted that large numbers of runaways struck out on their own with nothing but the simple signs of nature leading the way. Stories shared in cabins or whispered at prayer meetings gave clues to follow the “drinking gourd,” the Big Dipper in the night sky, its scoop pointing to the North Star, or wade through water to hide their path from tracking dogs. They were also instructed to watch for moss, which grows only on the north side of a dead tree. These are a few examples of the environment acting as a companion to a runaway. But more often than not, nature was a brutal foe.

I love writing in this genre of what I call Pre-Civ Lit. Loosely framed between the years 1830 and 1861, the period is ripe for fiction, particularly of interpersonal discovery. Endless stories of inspiration, danger, upheaval, and bold beginnings are waiting to be unearthed from beneath the ashes. We can tiptoe past it, hoping not to stir old ghosts, or we can choose to give voice to generations deserving of acknowledgment, tribute, and literary life, as with any other period in our history. We are entrusted to do so, respectfully and responsibly. The spirit of the Underground Railroad must never be forgotten.

Promise Bridge
is not meant to preach, only to inspire. Hopefully, it brings thoughtful reflection. If men and women of the Underground Railroad could find ways to build mutual trust and cooperation in spite of their differences in the harshest of times, with potential consequences far beyond our wildest imagination, then what excuse have we today? Where are the divides in our lives? They do not have to be racial. Divides can be personal, political, religious, familial, and even internal. Bridging a divide, any divide, expands our possibilities. We are the bridge keepers, and have the ability to extend or retract. What will you do? When faced with a divide, be a bridge.