Through the Storm (4 page)

Grief accompanied her like a companion, and on long, lonely stretches of the trek she let it have its head. At times she cried so hard, she couldn’t see, and her heart ached as it never had before.

By the time the sun climbed directly overhead, she’d been walking for hours. Hot and weary, she finally surrendered, admitting the need for rest. She took a seat against the trunk of a sheltering tree, ate part of a yam she found wrapped in the canvas bag, then spent a moment surveying the other contents. There was a skin from which she took a small sip of water, a couple more yams, and at the bottom, a red kerchief that appeared to have something tied inside it. The red cloth had been of high quality at one time, but now looked old and frayed. As Sable untied the knots, the fabric fell away like dust, as if no one had opened the thing in many years. Inside lay a thin, elaborately carved gold bracelet. Its weight
made her guess it was very valuable. She wondered at its origins, and why Mahti had placed it in the bag.

A closer look at the bracelet’s engravings revealed a delicately detailed moon, a sun, and a sprinkling of what appeared to be stars. The sensation of having seen the celestial pattern before rose sharply in her. Sable puzzled over the conundrum for a moment before she knew. Looking around to make certain she wasn’t being observed, she raised her skirt and peered closely at the small design on her upper thigh. The two designs matched. She righted her skirt, then turned the bracelet over in her hand. Sable’s skin carving had been done by Mahti, one week after Sable’s first show of woman’s blood. At the time, Mahti had explained it as tradition. Young women in her village were routinely given such decoration to enhance their beauty. Mahti’s own ceremony had been performed after her enslavement in America. Two women servants of Sable’s grandmother, the Old Queen, had presided over the ancient rite.

Sable turned the bracelet over again and wondered about its significance. Mahti had taken so many secrets home with her. Sable wished there’d been time to learn more. Grief began to rise in her again, but as if magically summoned, Mahti’s parting words whispered clearly in Sable’s mind,
I’ve given you all you’ll need, my Sable
.

Sable drew a modicum of strength from the memory, and since she had no way of disputing the claim, she gathered up the bag and set out once more.

It came to her that maybe the bracelet would be safer hidden on her person than in the bag. Who knew what lay ahead? When Otis and Opal were planning their escape, they’d told her they were going to join the hundreds of other escapees who’d attached themselves to the Union army. That was Sable’s goal too. But she was not so naive as to believe she would find the camps overnight or arrive there without incident. War was raging. Sherman’s straggling troops, called “bummers” by the locals, were reportedly everywhere, stealing, poach
ing, and terrorizing. There were also hungry and desperate Confederate deserters trying to reach their homes. Sable looked around. Once again making sure she wasn’t being watched, she cautiously raised her skirt and tied the bracelet into the frayed strings of her muslin drawers. She pulled the tapes tightly, then set out once more.

The road Sable was following led north to Atlanta. She’d traveled it many times with Mavis and Sally Ann. By carriage the journey took a full day. On foot, the trip would take infinitely longer, but the determined Sable walked on. Atlanta had fallen to the Union two weeks ago, on the first day of September. There were reports of many runaways who had joined the conquering Yankees. Sable had no way of knowing what she might find upon her arrival, but the prospect of an unknown freedom won hands down over the known reality of being a slave.

When dusk began to settle, she sought a place to sleep for the night. About a half mile further, she came upon the old Dresden place. The family had once been social acquaintances of the Fontaines. When the war broke out, Mr. Dresden, a teacher, had enlisted on the side of the Union. After his departure, his wife had been so ostracized and harassed by neighbors, she and the children had gone North to live with her mother. Last fall someone had set fire to the vacant house. Only a shell remained, but Sable hoped it would be safe enough for one night.

As she walked cautiously into the burned-out hulk, an old woman stepped out of the shadows and scared Sable half to death by saying, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Once Sable got over her initial fright, she studied the smiling, dark-skinned woman. The aged face was round and unremarkable, and a colorful bandanna covered her hair. The dark eyes holding Sable’s were intelligent and powerful, eyes that reminded Sable of Mahti’s.

“Who are you?” Sable asked.

“That was going to be my question to you, my dear, but introductions can wait. Come on now, I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

Sable hesitated, trying to determine what to do, but the woman gave her such a commanding look that Sable followed without comment.

She led Sable outside and down into the Dresden cellar. Sable was surprised to see the stub of a candle and a mound of bedding on the earthen floor. Did the old woman live there?

As if having read Sable’s mind, the woman offered, “I’ve been waiting for you for two days. I was just about to give up on you ever coming.”

Confused to say the least, Sable asked once more, “Who are you?”

“Araminta is what my mama named me. Owner named me something else. The good Lord named me Moses. And you are?”

“Sable. Sable Fontaine. How could you have been waiting for me if you don’t know me?”

“Dreamed about you.”

Sable stared.

The old woman handed Sable a tin plate. On it was half a spitted rabbit, a helping of dandelion greens, and a slice of bread. “Here. Eat,” she instructed. “We got a long walk tomorrow.”

Sable was torn between wanting to devour the food and asking a dozen questions, but her starving stomach took priority over her curiosity.

Sable ate robustly but politely, and noticed that the woman watched her the whole time. “Something wrong?” Sable finally asked.

“Just admiring your manners. Raised in the house, I’ll bet.”

Sable nodded yes.

“Some of our folks’ll resent you for that, but don’t ever be ashamed of who you are. Can you read?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s a glorious thing, that reading. Hope I’ll be able to one day.”

“I could help you learn.”

The woman’s eyes shone as she replied, “You’ve a good heart, but I don’t have time right now.”

“Why not?”

“Have to take you to LeVeq.”

“LeVeq?”

“Yep. Dreamed about that too.”

Sable hadn’t a clue as to whom this LeVeq might be. “Do you dream often?”

“Most of the time. A dream took me out of slavery.”

“You’re a runaway too, then?”

“Yep. Ran the first time when I was seven, but got so hungry I went back. Ran for good once I became a woman. My husband and brothers wouldn’t go with me, so I went alone.”

“You left your husband?”

“Had to. The good Lord needed me.”

Sable did not know what to make of this mysterious new companion. “Are you from around here?”

“Nope, born in Maryland.”

It astounded Sable to hear of a Black woman roaming so far from her home. “Why are you in Georgia?”

“Doing the work I was called to.”

“Which is?”

Araminta smiled. “Freeing slaves.”

Since Araminta told Sable it would be safer if they traveled at night, Sable spent that first night sleeping and regaining her strength; she spent the following morning listening to and marveling over the tales and adventures of the woman who’d taken her under her wing. Although the woman had originally introduced herself as Araminta, Sable learned that the rest of the world knew her as Harriet Tubman and that she was very famous. It seemed Mrs. Tubman stole slaves. Many slaves.

She explained to Sable that during her nineteen trips
into the South between 1849 and 1857, she’d led hundreds to freedom, including her aged parents, six brothers, their wives and fiancées, nieces and nephews. Although she’d been a slave when she married her husband, John Tubman, John had been free.

“We’d been married five years when my master died. Rumor had it that me and my brothers were going to be sold. A dream told me to run so we wouldn’t be, but John chose staying put. So I ran alone. I went back to get him in ’51, but he refused to see me.”

“Why?”

“He’d taken another wife.”

Sable’s eyes widened.

“I was so angry and broken up inside, I wanted to storm right onto the place and confront him, and I didn’t care if the master saw me and threw me back into slavery, if I could only give John a piece of my mind. But I came to my senses. You can’t make a man love you, so—if he could do without me, I could sure do without him. Dropped him out of my heart then and there.”

Sable sensed that the pain of the incident continued to linger in spite of Araminta’s staunch stance.

“After that, I turned my life over to the Work.”

Her “Work” entailed much more than encouraging slaves to leave their masters, Sable learned. Mrs. Tubman also did reconnaissance missions for the Union command, mainly the Second South Carolina Volunteers. “They’re a Black brigade under Colonel James Montgomery,” Araminta told her.

“You certainly don’t look like a Union spy,” Sable said with a smile.

Araminta grinned. “Sure don’t. No one would suspect an old Black woman with a bandanna on her head to be scouting naval defenses or city fortifications. Who would believe I’d be behind enemy lines for the express purpose of gathering information on livestock, supplies, and rumors of troop movements?”

Sable had to agree. Araminta appeared aged and
harmless, not the kind of woman who always carried a pistol, or the kind who, on her treks north, threatened to shoot any man who faltered or whined about the hard journey.

She told Sable, “It’s two things I got a right to and these are Liberty and Death. One or the other I mean to have. No one will take me back alive; I shall fight for my liberty, and when the time has come for me to go, the Lord will let them kill me.”

They set out after dark. When Araminta instructed Sable to be quiet and sit still, Sable obeyed. When she asked Sable to stay behind and wait while she scouted ahead, pistol drawn, Sable did that also.

During the next day’s daylight hours, they slept in the shell of a Yankee-burned mansion and headed out again as soon as dusk gave way to night. As dawn of the second day approached, Sable began to notice a change in the landscape. A dense forest had once covered this area but now, the land looked as if a giant had come through with a mighty scythe and cut down every tree. There were acres and acres of nothing but stumps for as far as the eye could see.

“General Sherman needed the wood,” Araminta explained.

Sable marveled at the denuded land and her awe grew when she and her companion crossed what had once been one of the region’s main railroad lines. The iron ties had been torn out of the rails and were now twisted macabrely around the trunks of the few trees that remained.

Araminta explained, “They’re called Sherman’s neckties. His men tear up the ties, then heat them in a pile. Once the ties are red hot, they’re twisted around trees. Rebs can’t use the ties or the railroad. Smart man, that General Sherman.”

Sable could only stare in amazement.

They walked for four days, through burned-out bat
tlefields filled with fresh graves, across land scarred by cannon fire and past abandoned fortifications. There were more Sherman neckties, and every now and then the bodies of soldiers in blue and gray who’d died alone and remained unburied.

Midnight of the fourth day found them crouched in the thick brush above the banks of the Ocmulgee River. It was a moonless night, and the surroundings were so silent, they could hear the water lapping softly against the embankment.

Whispering, Sable asked, “Why are we here?”

“To meet some friends,” came Araminta’s low reply.

Sable didn’t see anyone. “Where?”

“Out there,” Araminta answered, pointing at the dark river. “Let’s see if they’re at home.”

Sable watched silently as Araminta struck a match on a flint and held the flame above her head. She waved it toward the river for only a second, then blew it out.

A few heartbeats later, an answering light appeared against the blackness. Araminta took Sable’s hand. “Come, we must hurry.”

Sable was surprised by the old woman’s agility as they made their way quickly down the bank, but she was surprised even more to see six Black men propelling a raft silently toward them.

Araminta splashed out into the water to meet them, and Sable, faced with no other choice, did the same. Both women were helped aboard by strong arms.

“Take a seat, ladies,” said a tall man. “We need to get across as quickly as possible.”

Sable sat beside Araminta on the damp wood. The men dug their poles into the shallow water and turned the conveyance around. Sable had no idea where they were headed or who these men were, but she trusted Araminta and the Old Queens to keep her safe.

Up river, Major Raimond LeVeq of the Union army paced back and forth in front of his tent. Mrs. Tubman
was a day late. If she didn’t show up tonight, he and his small band of cavalry were going to have to push on without her, even though she might be carrying information vital to the Union command.

Not that she couldn’t make her way back to the main camp on her own. Her reconnaissance and survivial skills were so legendary that the late abolitionist John Brown had dubbed her “the General.” While in South Carolina with Colonel James Montgomery she’d headed a group of Black men who’d acted as the unit’s scouts and spies. Montgomery, one of the Union army’s best guerrilla fighters and foragers, had used her tips to mount raids in South Carolina, Florida, and Georgia. One of the most celebrated sorties had taken place near the Combahee River in June 1863. Not only had Montgomery and his eight hundred Black soldiers destroyed millions of dollars’ worth of Confederate warehouses, cotton, and assorted other buildings, but Mrs. Tubman had led nearly eight hundred slaves to freedom that day. A front-page article in the
Boston Commonwealth
, printed a month later, had given her credit for guiding the soldiers, and noted that none of Montgomery’s men received so much as a scratch.