The Lost Quilter (4 page)

She took one last look around and broke into a run.

She raced across the cornfield, stumbling in the furrows, bare feet sinking into the soil, ears straining for the shouts of alarm that would surely come at any moment. Her breath came in raw gasps, tearing from her lungs. The sun shone fiercely, turning the road into a bright glaring line, impossibly far away.

She heard the wagon before it emerged from the trees. She flung herself to the ground, knowing the green shoots would hardly conceal her. Exposed, she held perfectly still, digging her hands into the moist earth as if to fix herself in place. The sounds of jingling harness and clomping hooves grew louder, passed,
faded, until only the hum of insects and the distant popping of fireworks remained.

For minutes Joanna could not move except to tremble.

She dragged herself to her feet and sprinted for the road. Her filthy skirt clung to her legs, threatening to trip her up. Panting, she yanked it out of the way and dashed across the road, dirt and pebbles hot and sharp against her bare feet. Another acre of corn, and then she reached the grassy slope. She flung herself down the hill, half running, half falling, the trees ahead of her cool and dark and beckoning. Branches scratched at her hands and face as she broke a path into their shade. She pushed through the underbrush until she could not see the cornfield, until the fireworks fell silent behind her. Only then did she sink to the ground at the base of an oak, gasping for breath, limbs shaking, a cramp stabbing her side. “Praise Jesus,” she sobbed between gasps, but she knew she was far from safe.

She plunged ahead on the trail, straining her ears for the sound of pursuit. All she heard was birdsong, and her own jagged breathing, and the blood pounding in her ears. The woods were cool and shaded, a blessed relief, but her mouth was dry, her stomach hollow. It took all her strength to stay upright and moving.

After a time, the woods thinned ahead of her and she slowed her pace, reluctant to cross an open meadow. All too soon the trail ended at the edge of a wheat field, the pale green shoots rustling in an intermittent wind. About a quarter mile ahead, she spotted the back of a tidy white farmhouse with a wraparound porch. A barn and two smaller outbuildings stood several yards away, and beside the barn she spotted an iron pump with a trough. Horses milled in a nearby corral, and the wind carried to her the lowing of a cow and the clucking of chickens. On the
sunny, southeastern corner of the house, a large kitchen garden thrived, and a few paces away, two quilts hung on a clothesline strung up between two trees. Joanna recognized the patterns, a Rose of Sharon and an Economy Patch, neither of which were the secret designs that indicated she had reached a station on the Underground Railroad. For all she knew, those patchwork symbols carried meaning only in the Elm Creek Valley. When she had journeyed north months before, no other stations had used a quilt to tell a weary runaway that she had found sanctuary. Each family had made themselves known in a unique manner that she was told only as she departed the station before. Now the order and nature of those symbols were so jumbled in her memory that she had no hope of sorting them out. Even if she could, Peter had chosen a different route south than the one Joanna had followed north, and she did not know how to find her way back to the Underground Railroad. She wasn’t even sure where she was, how close to the Pennsylvania border or how far.

There were no slave quarters here that she could see, but that was no guarantee that the folk were abolitionists. It was a small farm, and perhaps they could not afford any slaves. Light-headed, wavering, Joanna watched from the woods, but she detected no sign of any people, no movement except the horses grazing and the quilts swinging back and forth in the breeze. It was late afternoon, the sun still high in the summer sky, and she knew she ought to press on and wait until nightfall to approach a dwelling. But she also knew she might not come upon another source of water before she fainted from exhaustion.

She waited as long as she could bear, her gaze returning again and again to the pump. Then, praying that this family too had gone into town to enjoy the Independence Day celebration, she
crossed the wheat field and approached the back of the house, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.

When she reached the pump, she worked the handle with shaking hands until water gushed from the spout. She cupped her hands beneath the clear, cold water and drank her fill, pausing only to pump the handle and start the flow again, the iron handle creaking like a song of joy. When her thirst was quenched, she pumped more water to wash her feet and face, laughter bubbling up like the water from the hidden spring. Refreshed, almost gleeful, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and shook the droplets from her fingertips—

And froze at the sight of a small boy standing on the whitewashed porch.

He stared at her, openmouthed and motionless.

For a long moment she stared back in silent panic. “Why, hello there, young man,” she finally said, trying her best to sound like a woman of quality. “I hope it weren’t no trouble that I refreshed myself at your pump.”

The boy stared.

Joanna took a step backward, her bare toes squishing in the mud. “I’ll be on my way now.”

“Pa,” the boy shouted. Joanna stumbled backwards and broke into a run. “Ma! Come quick!”

She bolted around the corner of the house, straight into the solid form of a man. The impact knocked her to the ground, and as she scrambled backwards away from him, he recovered from his surprise and quickly caught up with her. He seized her around the arm and lifted her kicking and struggling to her feet as the boy continued his cry of alarm.

“Settle down, now,” the man said as Joanna frantically tried to peel his fingers from her arm. “Settle down.”

Behind him, the front door burst open and a small, fair-haired woman stepped out. “Mercy, Miles,” she cried. “What on earth—”

“I found her, Ma.” The boy had come running from the back of the house. “She was drinking at the pump.”

“What’s your name?” The man closed his beefy hands around her upper arms. His voice was gentler than his grip. “What are doing out here, all alone?”

With a sob, Joanna ceased struggling, knowing she would never break the man’s iron hold. Her gaze fell upon the boy, who had dared draw a few paces closer and stared back at her with eager curiosity. She looked away.

“For heaven’s sake, Miles, the poor thing’s terrified.” The fair-haired woman descended the steps and lifted her skirts over her shoe tops as she crossed the yard. A deep crease appeared between her brows as she inspected Joanna, her sure gaze taking in Joanna’s bare feet, her soiled clothing, her matted hair, and the burn scar on her face.

“What’s your name?” The man gave her a little shake, but such was his strength that it rattled her teeth. When she did not respond, he shook his head and said to his wife, “I’ve never seen her before. Do you think she’s simple? Maybe she came in to town for the celebration and wandered off from her family.”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” said the woman. “She’s colored. She’s on the run, no doubt, or why else would she drink from the pump instead of knocking on the door like decent folk?”

The man studied Joanna, perplexed. “This here’s a white woman. Look at her skin. She’s as white as me.”

His wife laughed. “And you’re as dark as an Indian yourself, in the summertime.”

He shook his head, still disbelieving. “Maybe she’s one of
them Italians. They put their women out to work in the fields.”

“Look at her hair. She’s colored.” The woman took Joanna’s chin in hand and turned her face to examine her scar. “My, my. She’s been ill-treated, this one. No wonder she ran off.”

“Are you a runaway, girl?” the man asked.

“I am colored,” Joanna said. “But I’m no runaway. My name is Constance Wright. I’m a freedwoman from the Elm Creek Valley in Pennsylvania. My husband is Abel Wright, a freeborn colored man who owns his own land.”

“How’d you find yourself here in Maryland?” the man asked.

Maryland. A slave state.

Joanna took a deep breath. “Some slave catchers passed through our town. When they couldn’t find the runaways they were after, they snatched me instead. I told them I was no runaway, but they didn’t care. They say they can sell me anyway.” She began to sob, real tears, for herself and her dream of freedom, slipping away. “My husband don’t even know where I am. My two boys probably think I’m dead.”

The husband and wife exchanged a look. After a moment, the man’s grip relaxed. “Come on,” said the wife, taking Joanna’s arm. “Let’s get you inside and get some food into you. Johnny, go fill the bathtub.”

“But it’s not even Saturday,” the boy protested.

“It’s not for you. Go.” She pointed to the doorway, and Johnny ran off. “My name is Ida Mary Dunbar. Mrs. Miles Dunbar.” She beckoned for Joanna to follow her into the kitchen, where she pointed to a wooden bench next to a table and indicated that Joanna was to sit. “We’ll have to get word to your husband so he can come fetch you.”

“My husband can’t leave the children, or the farm,” said Joanna. “Thank you kindly, but I’ll make my own way home.”

“You can’t go on foot, not all the way to Pennsylvania.” Ida Mary took a loaf from the breadbox and cut two thick slices, which she buttered and placed on the table. “Tomorrow my husband can take you into town. You could send a telegram to your husband and ask him to wire money for train fare.”

Joanna forced herself to take small, ladylike bites of the bread. “I don’t want to put your man to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble.” Ida Mary set a tin cup of milk and a dish of sweet pickles on the table. “But you can’t go like that. None of my dresses would fit you, but we can wash the one you’re wearing.” She glanced at Joanna’s feet. “You’ll need shoes. My neighbor’s daughter is about your size. She might have an old pair that will do until you get home.”

“Please don’t tell anyone I’m here. If those slave catchers find out…”

Ida Mary’s eyebrows rose. “All right, then. I’ll tell her my feet are swelling from the heat and my own shoes pinch me. That’s no lie.”

Joanna thanked her and finished every crumb of the meal. She could not remember ever tasting anything so fine. Afterward, Ida Mary sent her son to the neighbor’s for the shoes, and her husband went outside so Joanna could bathe in the copper tub. Hidden from the rest of the kitchen by a white bed sheet draped over a string, Joanna sank blissfully into the cool water, letting exhaustion and the heat of the day dissolve from her body. The water eased the soreness in her engorged breasts. Soon, unless she made it back to her son, she would have no milk for him.

Closing her eyes against tears, she let her head fall back against the rim of the tub, praying that her son was safe, that when she returned to Elm Creek Farm, she would find him there. Perhaps even now Gerda held him, snuggled within the soft folds of the
Feathered Star quilt Joanna had sewn for him as she awaited his birth. Perhaps Gerda whispered stories of his brave mother, promising to find her and help them make their way to freedom in Canada. Gerda would not let her son forget her.

Her hopes restored, Joanna rested and planned, her stomach almost unpleasantly full. She would see her son again. When night fell, she would fill her pockets with food and set out on foot, and by the time the Dunbars woke, she would be far away.

On the other side of the draped sheet, Ida Mary had set out an old cotton shirt and trousers belonging to her husband, as well as some undergarments that Ida Mary must have worn when she was expecting little Johnny, because they surely would not fit her now. The soft cotton undergarments fit loosely but they would do. After Joanna rolled up the pant legs and sleeves and pinned the waist of Miles’s borrowed clothes, she felt comfortable for the first time since she left Elm Creek Farm. Ida Mary had washed Joanna’s garments while she bathed, and by the time Johnny returned with the shoes, her dress and underclothes were hanging on the line. Though the sun shone brightly, the air was thick and humid, and Joanna doubted they would dry by nightfall. She would have to don them nevertheless. It was sin enough that she planned to steal the Dunbars’ food. She would not add the theft of clothing to her crime.

“Why don’t you sit down?” called Ida Mary from the kitchen, and Joanna realized that she had been in constant motion since stepping out of the bath, moving from the kitchen to the front room and back, peering out each window, searching the road and the distant trees. “Even if those men track you down here, they can’t take you against your will, not if you’re a freedwoman.”

Joanna forced herself to stop pacing. “That didn’t matter to them back in Pennsylvania. I think it’ll matter even less here.”

“Perhaps they didn’t believe you when you told them you weren’t a runaway.” Ida Mary gave a little laugh and tied on an apron. “I confess I’m having some difficulty believing you myself.”

Joanna went cold, but she forced herself to appear calm. “If even good people like you and your husband doubt me, I can see why men of low character like them slave catchers wouldn’t believe a word I say.”

“You must admit that it does sound a bit fanciful, two men willfully breaking the law by taking a free woman into slavery.”

Joanna forced a smile and gave an acknowledging nod, and spared a glance out the window. She spotted Miles working in the barn, Johnny at his elbow, likely getting in the way rather than helping. She could not see the road from that window, but she dared not arouse Ida Mary’s suspicions by resuming her anxious lookout. Joanna knew there was nothing fanciful about what she claimed Peter and Isaac had done. Slave catchers were lazy folk, and to them, one colored person was as good as another if they couldn’t find the one they sought. A white person’s word that a free Negro was really an escaped slave was all that the law required. No white lawman would believe a colored person’s protests that the slave catchers had lied.

“Your speech is very much like that of the colored folk hereabouts,” Ida Mary remarked. “I should have expected you to sound…different. More like a northerner.”