Stealing Freedom (18 page)

Ann walked across the sitting room and back. The shoes made a hollow thumping sound on the floor, and the britches swished softly. Mr. Bigelow knitted his brow at her and shook his head. “You need to look more like you've been on a horse all day. Like this.” He demonstrated an exaggerated rolling gait.

Ann frowned, and walked across the room again, trying to
imitate Mr. Bigelow. She thought she must look more like a rag doll than a boy, swinging her arms like that.

“Good!” Mr. Bigelow proclaimed. “Much better. Now try sitting.”

Ann dropped down gently on the settee, knees together, hands resting on her knees, back straight. Mr. Bigelow sighed heavily.

“Think slovenly,” he commanded. “I want you to lean back—slouch. And you've got britches on now, so let those knees flop north and south.”

Ann gave him a pleading look. Couldn't she just stay in her old hiding place? But she concentrated, and tried to remember how Alfred sat. She relaxed her back, lounged a bit to one side, and, against her better judgment, let her knees flop apart.

“Yes!” Mr. Bigelow gave her a round of applause. “And remember to slurp your food, and burp after drinking.”

Ann covered her mouth and giggled.

“And no covering your mouth when you laugh.”

She gave him a perturbed look.

Mr. Bigelow cocked his head to one side and gazed at her as if he were examining a painting. “I'll have to cut your hair,” he said thoughtfully.

Ann reached up and tugged at her unbraided hair. It was too long for a boy's, certainly.

“And you'll need a name,” he said.

So she would have a new name, just like the Powder Boy and Uncle William. A name for the Road. But how would she choose one, she wondered? “Do you have an Underground Rail Road name?” she asked Mr. Bigelow.

“In all my letters to other conductors, I am William Penn, after the freedom-loving Quaker who founded Pennsylvania,” he said.

“Might I have a Quaker name as well?” Ann asked.

Mr. Bigelow rubbed his chin, thinking. “William and Phebe Wright are good Quakers and friends of the slave. They live in Pennsylvania, not far from York—that's where we'll say you're from. Would you like to share their name?”

Ann smiled. “Then I'll be Phebe Wright,” she said, satisfied. She liked the sound of it.

Mr. Bigelow leaned forward. “Phebe is a very odd name for a coach boy,” he said.

Ann glanced down at her britches and jacket, then up at Mr. Bigelow. She grimaced. “You mean I'd be
William
Wright?” she asked, still not quite believing it.

He raised one eyebrow at her.

Ann sighed. “I'd like to pick another given name, then, so my family doesn't think that everyone who goes north to Canada becomes a William.”

Mr. Bigelow waited patiently.

“I'd like to be called Joseph,” she said finally. “I want to be as brave as my brother Joseph.”

Mr. Bigelow offered his hand to shake hers, man to man. “I'm honored to meet you, Joe Wright,” he said. “My name is William Penn.”

They shook hands, pleased with their shared secret.

“Now, one more thing,” Mr. Bigelow said.

Ann looked at him expectantly.

“I need to teach you to drive.”

“Pull in a little. No, he thinks you want him to stop; you just want him to slow. Better. Now have him speed up; slap those reins. Whoa! Not too fast … watch this turn. Cattle have the right of way, so pull in hard and let this herd pass.”

Ann held the reins in her leather-gloved hands and watched as a boy followed a small herd of cows across the mud street. She squinted her eyes almost shut, but still the sunlight sent stabbing pains through them. It had been over two months since she'd been outdoors.

“I think you're ready for Pennsylvania Avenue,” said Mr. Bigelow, who sat next to her in the driver's seat.

He directed her onto the cobblestones of the wide avenue. The loud clatter of the carriage wheels over the stones was suddenly familiar to Ann. “The Powder Boy took me along here!” she said loudly over the noise.

Pennsylvania Avenue was filled with scores of other carriages, wagons, and horses, one flock of sheep, and clouds of
dust billowing around them all. Ann had to dodge a large omnibus, overflowing with passengers, pulled by an entire team of horses.

“I think we'd better go back to the side streets!” she shouted to be heard.

“Not until I show you where Franklin Pierce lives,” said Mr. Bigelow.

“The President?” Ann asked in amazement.

“That's where you'll be leaving from—directly in front of the White House. Sometimes the best place to hide is the last place anyone would expect to find you.” Mr. Bigelow took the reins himself to guide the carriage. He nudged her and pointed as they approached a magnificent building. It was white with tall, slender pillars, set far back on a grassy lawn. A bronze statue of a man stood proudly looking out at them. All around the lawn was a black iron fence, its sharp posts pointed skyward like a thousand spears.

“The statue is of Thomas Jefferson,” said Mr. Bigelow. “So we have one President on the outside of the White House, and another President on the inside.”

Ann stared in awe. She blinked and squinted harder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Franklin Pierce on his veranda.

Mr. Bigelow took her past other important buildings. They passed the hulking Treasury Building, which had more tall columns than Ann could count, and the Capitol with its mountains of white marble steps, pillars, and huge wooden dome. On their way back to Mr. Bigelow's house they passed the General Post Office, with its towering gray marble walls and black iron fence.

“Decisions for the whole country are made in this city,” said Mr. Bigelow.

The sheer size of the buildings had made Ann feel the importance of the decisions made inside them.

As they rode the last couple of blocks, Mr. Bigelow went over their plan one more time. A professor from one of the medical schools in Philadelphia would come to fetch her as soon as his Thanks Giving vacation started. His Underground Rail Road name was Dr. H. They would meet in front of the White House and, with Ann acting as his driver, they would cross the Mason-Dixon Line into Pennsylvania. He would accompany her first to Philadelphia and then to New York City, where she would be delivered to members of the New York Vigilance Committee. Ann's life was beginning to change very quickly again, and she didn't feel the least bit ready for all of it.

Back in the humble row house, Ann blew into her hands to warm them. With the curtains drawn, her eyes felt much better.

“Let's have tea,” said Mr. Bigelow.

They both went to the kitchen. Ann filled the kettle with water she'd fetched earlier, and Mr. Bigelow rummaged in the cupboard for biscuits.

Suddenly there was a loud pounding on the front door. Ann jumped like a startled cat. She dropped the kettle and ran to where her ladder should have been. It was gone. In a panic she rushed back to the kitchen and clutched Mr. Bigelow's arms. “Where shall I go?” she whispered hoarsely.

Mr. Bigelow loosened himself from her grasp. Out of a closet he brought a groom's box and handed it to her.

“You are Joe Wright, my coach boy,” he said calmly. “Where you will go is outside to curry and brush my horse, as soon as you have served our guest.”

Ann tried to calm her breathing. Mr. Bigelow opened the door to an angry Sergeant Orme.

“You could have hidden five fugitives in the time it took you to come to the door!” Sergeant Orme shoved his way into the house. He was wide and burly, with straight red hair that stuck out from under his policeman's cap.

“Pardon me. I was in the back of the house, in the kitchen, making tea,” said Mr. Bigelow.

“It's been reported that the Weems family is here night and day.” Sergeant Orme narrowed his eyes. “That missing Weems girl can't be far away.”

“I am friendly with the Weems family. They've been visiting me on Sundays,” said Mr. Bigelow. “Would you like some tea? Or a glass of water, perhaps?”

“Water,” Sergeant Orme grunted.

“Joe, get the officer a glass of water. And get it fresh, mind you,” Mr. Bigelow said to Ann, who had been standing like a statue holding the groom's box in both hands.

Ann set the box down and went through the kitchen and out the back door to the water pump. Though the air was cold, she felt sweat drip down her back. She pumped a fresh bucket of water and carried it into the house. Her hands shook terribly as she filled a glass with the icy water and handed it to the officer. He didn't even look at her.

“Get back to your work now,” said Mr. Bigelow.

Ann was thankful to leave the house. She patted the horse
on the nose, and he snorted at her. He nuzzled her hand, looking for a treat. “If you stand still for a good grooming, I'll bring you a carrot,” she told him.

The rhythm of the curry comb against the horse's warm back calmed her. She brushed him all over and picked out his hooves. When she was done, she said, “That miserable Sergeant Orme isn't gone yet, but you deserve your carrot.”

She took a deep breath and marched up to the house. Inside, she was shocked by what she heard and saw.

Sergeant Orme had Mr. Bigelow by the collar. “I think you know where that Weems girl is, and when I prove it, I'll have you thrown in prison for so long your own mother won't recognize you when you get out.” He thrust his rubbery face to within an inch of Mr. Bigelow's nose, then shoved him away. He cast an indifferent glance at Ann and left.

Ann was horrified. “Did he hurt you?” she cried.

Mr. Bigelow adjusted his collar and straightened his tie. “No harm done,” he said briskly.

“But… what if he figures it out?” she whispered. What if Mr. Bigelow was sent to prison—or worse—because of her?

“My dear, that man is such an imbecile he can't figure out which shoe to put on first in the morning.”

Ann twisted her hands and said nothing.

“Don't be so worried,” said Mr. Bigelow. “
Whom
was he searching for?” He gave her an amused look. “And
where
was she?”

Ann tried to see the humor in the situation, but she was still quite shaken.

Mr. Bigelow held her shoulders firmly and looked at her
hard. “You will face guards and sheriffs and constables from time to time on your journey.” He went to his desk and pulled out pen and ink. “Let's do this immediately. It will help you remember who you are.”

He took an official-looking piece of paper out of an envelope. It had printing on it, and a raised seal. He mumbled as he wrote on the paper, “Name: Joseph Wright. Place of birth: York, Pennsylvania. Description…” He glanced up at her several times as he wrote, “Light-skinned, slender, freckles…” He signed the document with a flourish and folded it back into its envelope. “Your freedman's papers. Don't let them off your person.”

Ann slipped the forged document inside her jacket. Freedman's papers—just like her father's. Only they were for her other self. Her Underground Rail Road self.

“And let's hope all the constables from here to Canada are as stupid as that Sergeant Orme,” Mr. Bigelow said. He pulled back the curtains and peeked out front. “How is my horse doing? Still confused from breaking in a new driver?”

“Oh!” Ann suddenly remembered the carrot. “I promised him a treat.”

She went to the larder, found a carrot, and held it up with a smile as she passed Mr. Bigelow on her way out the front door. She broke the carrot into pieces and shared it with the horse, then rested her cheek against his jaw and listened to the hollow crunching as he chewed. The sky grew red with the sunset, and the words “from here to Canada” echoed in her mind. Thanks Giving was in just eight days. Dr. H. would be coming for her soon.

“If I didn't know better, I'd think I had a new son!” said her father.

Ann showed off her newly acquired talent of walking, sitting, and moving like a boy. It made everyone laugh, and the levity helped her forget for the moment that this was their last Sunday together.

Arabella took Ann's cap off and examined Mr. Bigelow's handiwork. “A new son with the crookedest haircut I've ever seen,” she said.

“Oh, dear. My failings as a barber have been discovered,” said Mr. Bigelow, looking sheepish.

“Give me the scissors and I'll fix it,” said Arabella.

Ann watched more of her hair fall to the floor. How fitting, she thought, to have her mother cut her hair the same way she used to cut Joseph's. “Now I'll look even more like Joseph,” she said.

When she was done, Arabella stepped back. “Yes, sir,” she
said with satisfaction, “you'll blind the eyes of anyone looking for that ‘fleeing girl of fifteen.’”

“What ‘fleeing girl of fifteen’?” Ann asked.

“It's just the advertisements about you, Ann,” said Catharine. “They've been running for months in the papers. Haven't you seen them?”

“Advertisements about
me? I'm
the ‘fleeing girl of fifteen’?” Ann's voice trembled.

Mr. Bigelow reluctantly pulled a newspaper out of a pile on the floor. “I didn't think you particularly wanted to see them,” he said apologetically. “But since you'll soon be on safe soil, you might as well read one.”

Ann jutted out her jaw as she held the paper and read.

$500 REWARD. Ran away on Sunday night, the 23rd instant, before 12 o'clock, from the subscriber, residing in Rockville, Montgomery county, MD, my NEGRO GIRL “Ann Maria Weems,” about 15 years of age, a bright mulatto, some small freckles on her face, slender person, thick suit of hair, inclined to be sandy. Her parents are free and reside in Washington, D.C. It is evident she was taken away by some one in a carriage, probably by a white man, by whom she may be carried beyond the limits of the State of Maryland.

I will give the above reward for her apprehension and detention so that I get her again. C. M. Price.

Ann's thoughts swam with confusion. About
fifteen
years of age? Had she miscounted? Had Richard lied? Could she have been wrong in figuring her age all this time? Her throat tightened
and she looked up into the worried eyes of her parents and sister. She decided to simply blurt it out. “But I thought I was
thirteen!
“