The Quaker and the Rebel (22 page)

Icy fingers of dread clawed her neck as she dropped the curtain back in place. This was no party. But Emily wasn’t about to hide in her room like a baby. She dressed in the calico skirt and blouse her mother had pressed for church and crept down the stairs to the living room. “Mama?” she called. Padding to the front window, she called again, “Mama?” Through the wavy glass came only men’s muffled shouts and the whinnies of frightened horses. Then she heard wood splintering as something crashed in the back of the house. Emily ran to the kitchen and found the door wide open—something her mother never allowed.
“Are you letting every moth, mosquito, and cricket take up residence?”
Her mother’s favorite expression ran through her head as Emily began to shiver. Seeing the door gone from the hinges frightened her more than the men dancing in the backyard.

“Infernal slave-lover. Stinkin’, lousy slave-lover.” Loud voices pierced the night from the direction of the bonfire.
Slave-lover?
There were no slaves here. The preacher at the meeting house said there never had been slavery in Ohio. What were these men talking about?

Emily inhaled a deep breath and stepped onto the back porch. She heard her mother’s voice but couldn’t see her amid the smoke. Then she spotted her father by the barn with his arms tied around a tree. He looked to be giving the oak a big hug. While she watched, a fat man hit her father on the side of his head. The man wore a black hat pulled low on his forehead. “We’ll show you what happens to meddlesome slave-lovin’ abolitionists!” he yelled.

Bile rose up Emily’s throat as the man pulled out a large hunting knife. Did he intend to stab her father? She stared, dreading what she would see but unable to look away. The man sliced through her father’s shirt and yanked it down around his waist. He cut through the braces holding up his britches, too.

“Stop, I beg of you.” Her mother’s pleas pierced the din in the yard. “We didn’t mean you people any harm. Please, leave us in peace.”

“Didn’t mean no harm?” Another man carried his burning stick toward the sound of her voice. Now Emily could see her mother clearly. She still wore her nightgown with her bare feet sticking out from beneath the hem. Mama never let people see her bare feet, insisting they were big as a mule’s.

“Didn’t mean no harm?” mimicked the man. “You steal someone’s property, property he paid good money for, and you say you didn’t mean no harm?” He moved the torch closer to her face.

“Go in the house, Martha!” hollered her father in a voice that was barely recognizable.

“Yeah, go in the house,
Martha,
unless you want some of this yourself.” The fat man flourished his knife through the air.

“I beg of you, we’re good Christians just trying to help the downtrodden,” pleaded her mother. “Have some compassion, sir.”

“Quakers make me sick. You only spout Scripture that suits you.” The thin man shifted his torch close to her mother’s face. She cringed helplessly from the flames. “Whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not steal’? What about ‘Thou shalt not covet that which is thy neighbor’s’?”

“We don’t covet slaves, sir. Slavery is an abomination before the Lord.”

Even with her tender years, Emily knew this was not the right thing to say.

“Nowhere in the Good Book is slavery described as an abomination!” he shouted. “Slaves are supposed to obey their masters.” He loomed toward her mother again with his torch dangerously close. Martha Harrison could step back no further—a ring of men had closed in behind her.

“Martha, do as I say. Go in the house!” Her father’s desperate pleas came too late.

The black-clad man dragged Mama by the arm to the same tree to which Papa had been tied. Emily yearned to holler; she wanted to make the men stop, but instead she could only watch from the porch, stupefied.

“I will teach you, Martha, what happens to thieves. Because that’s all you two are—stinkin’ thieves.”

“Please, sir, we’ll pay for your loss. Tell us how much those slaves were worth and we’ll pay you.”

The man with the hunting knife stepped forward, but the thin man didn’t release his grasp on Mama’s upper arm. “Pay us for what they’re worth?” He laughed with cruel mockery. He turned his head to gaze left and right. “Look around, boys. Does this rundown farm look like they have fifteen hundred dollars sitting in a coffee can on the shelf?” Several men guffawed and slapped each other on the back.

“Because that’s what the young buck and his wife were worth to the man who hired us. A thousand for the man and five hundred for the woman—more if she was carrying a youngin’. Then you’re looking at eighteen hundred dollars for sure.” He grabbed Mama’s face by the chin. “You got that kind of money in your cookie jar, you Yankee abolitionist?”

Sobbing hysterically, Mama made no effort to knock away the man’s hand.

“I didn’t think so.” Thin man sneered and shoved her mother backward. She would have fallen if the crowd hadn’t prodded her upright.

“Stop pushing my mother!” A voice rose above the clamor created by rabid men and skittish horses. The voice belonged to Emily. “Stop that right now!”

For a moment they did stop and turned to stare. No one had noticed a little girl on the porch before. No light filtered from the house to illuminate the spot where she watched the terrifying goings-on. But Emily knew her father was in trouble and a horrible man was pushing her mother. No one ever pushed full-grown women.

Everyone looked at the skinny, red-haired little girl in faded calico and laughed.

Then things began to happen fast. The ring of men parted while the thin man tied her mother to the tree. Emily breathed easier when the other man shoved the hunting knife back into his belt. But her relief was short lived. A man on horseback handed down a whip, the likes of which she’d never seen before. Then the thin man started to whip her father. Emily heard the whip crack and her father scream. Never
before had she heard such a pitiful sound. Again and again, he bellowed in agony each time the whip struck bare skin. No one tried to stop the man with the black hat. Instead onlookers formed a circle and shouted hateful words.

Emily ran from the porch, straight into the arms of a burly man in a long coat. He swung her up and tucked her under his arm like a feed sack. Her bare feet dangled a foot from the ground as he carried her back to the house. No matter how she pleaded or sobbed or pounded on him, the man held her tight and took her away from the devilish activity at the tree. On it continued—her father screaming, her mother weeping, the men shouting, the dogs barking.

There was nothing left for Emily to do but scream too. So that’s what she did, until not another sound could issue from her throat…

“Miss Emily!”

Someone was calling her name and shaking her like a rag doll.

“Miss Emily, wake up!”

She opened one eye, terrified she would see the thin man or the fat man or the man in the heavy coat. But it was none of them—it was Lila. And she was shaking the stuffing out of her.

“Stop, Lila. I’m awake.” Emily sat upright in bed, rubbing her eyes to drive away the horrific nightmare.

“Goodness, I thought the devil had you. I couldn’t wake you up.” Lila released Emily’s shoulders and began dabbing her forehead with a hankerchief.

“Something just as bad,” she replied. Emily peered around the room. Five black and two white faces were staring at her—all of them very concerned.

“That must have been quite a dream, Miss Harrison.” The serene voice of Mrs. Bennington commanded her attention. She stepped forward and touched Emily’s forearm. “Are you all right, my dear? Your screams scared the entire household.”

“It sounded as though you were being murdered in your bed,” added Mrs. Hunt.

“Nightmares can be quite vivid,” said Mrs. Bennington, angling her sister a wry look.

“I apologize for creating such a fuss.” Emily drew the quilt to her chin.

“Shall I have a cup of tea brought to you, or perhaps a brandy to settle your nerves?” asked Mrs. Hunt.

“I am fine, really. It was just a bad dream. And no to the brandy, Mrs. Hunt, but thank you just the same.” She slowly regained her manners along with her composure.

The servants gave her another peculiar perusal before filing out of the room. Embarrassed, Emily could only imagine what she had been raving. Tears filled her eyes. The dream had been so vivid, so real, as if that horrible summer night in Marietta was happening all over again. She hadn’t suffered that nightmare in years and had prayed she never would again.

Mrs. Bennington smoothed the hair away from her face as she probably had done to her own daughters over the years. “I’ll have Lila stay the rest of the night with you. I’m just down the hall should you need me.”

Who is supposed to be taking care of whom?
Emily smiled at Mrs. Bennington. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’ll be fine. It was only a bad dream.”

After further murmurs of comfort, the ladies went back to their rooms. Lila remained, closing the door after everyone left. “Goodness, you can make a lot of noise for one skinny gal.” She perched on the edge of Emily’s bed.

Emily didn’t want to go back to sleep. “It’s nearly morning. Let’s take our pillows and quilts out to the balcony to watch the sun rise.”

Huddled close together without speaking, they waited for the first pink streaks to appear, followed by bands of rose and bright orange. The glorious sun rose above rolling pastures, heralding another perfect day in western Virginia. Emily was glad to see dawn because phantoms and ghosts would be held at bay. Lila didn’t press her to talk about the nightmare.

As her friend dozed in the warm morning air with her head on Emily’s shoulder, Emily had time to think…about the dream and about her behavior last night. She had practically thrown herself at Alexander. He was a slaver—no different than the men who had flogged her father and left him unconscious at the feet of her hysterical mother. Those bounty hunters had destroyed fences, trampled the vegetable patch, set fire to the barn, and then ridden to the river ford whooping and hollering.

Martha Harrison had not known what to do first, whether it was to try to put out the barn fire, comfort her eight-year-old daughter, who had just witnessed depraved brutality, or tend to her husband’s lacerated back. Emily’s parents never talked about the bounty hunters and forbade her to speak of them. With his wife’s herbs and salves, Robert Harrison’s back eventually healed, but he never worked his fields without a shirt or swam in the river again, no matter how hot the day. No one would bear witness to his shame. After that night, he was a changed man until the day he died.

Emily’s thoughts rambled between her parents’ ordeal to her fateful night with Alexander. The two events, separated by years and circumstances without parallel, somehow seemed connected. She felt ashamed, as though she’d betrayed her parents. Would they be proud of a daughter being held in the arms of a man without honor? She blushed as she remembered his smile, his touch across the dinner table, and their kisses in the bower. He was not the man for her no matter how special he made her feel. He had left in the middle of the night, dressed in the uniform of a dead soldier, for who knew where. This was all a game to him, one she could never win.

Virginia belles might have the leisure to ponder flirtations and indiscretions, but Emily had work to do. She gently slipped away from her sleeping friend and marched to the bath to scrub every inch of her skin until nearly raw. Then she dressed in a plain black skirt with white blouse and pinned her hair into a severe chignon. By the time she emerged from her dressing room, Lila had disappeared.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bennington,” Emily said as she slipped into the chair opposite her employer in the dining room. “Forgive my tardiness, ma’am.”

“I didn’t know you were up. Breakfast seems to be served at all hours of the morning.” Mrs. Bennington poured a cup of coffee and passed the carafe to Emily.

“Where are Mr. and Mrs. Hunt? Are they not up yet?”

“They are up and have gone out. A bit of a mishap, one might say. Two of their people seem to have misplaced themselves.” Mrs. Bennington studied Emily over the rim of her cup, her expression never wavering.

Emily almost sprayed the table with coffee. She swallowed down the mouthful and bravely looked the woman in the eye. “Two people are missing? Who are they?”

“A young widow and her child. The woman worked as a field hand, so I doubt you would have run into her.”

I’m about as subtle as a starving man at a banquet. Maybe my next job should be a professional poker player on a riverboat.
Emily glanced at the door, expecting Robert E. Lee himself to appear and drag her off to prison…or slave-catchers like those who had crossed the Ohio River to tie her to the nearest tree. “A young woman and child? Perhaps they’re on an errand to a neighboring plantation. Maybe they’re delivering garden produce or baked goods from the kitchen.”

“I’m sure it’s something like that. Rebecca asked the house servants if they had any ideas. She is concerned about the young woman. There have been skirmishes in the area, with deserters from both sides roaming the countryside.” Mrs. Bennington paused, as if waiting for some reaction, but Emily didn’t respond.

“Apparently the woman has been unhappy since her husband died last spring. If she has run off, she could cross paths with dangerous bounty hunters. Who knows what kind of unsavory people are out there?”