Where Grace Abides (16 page)

 
20
 
V
ALLEY OF
S
HADOWS

Life with trials hard may press me;
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.

H
ENRY
F. L
YTE

G
ant didn't go to Phoebe Esch's funeral service, which in the Amish tradition was held at her home on the third day after her death. He chose not to view her body, wanting instead to remember her as the sweet, lively woman who had always been so kind to him.

He did, however, go to the cemetery, standing just outside the fringes of the crowd. Although Doc and Susan had invited him to be with them—and thereby with Rachel as well—he thought it more respectful to the People that he remain at a distance. To them he was still an
auslander,
and despite their respectful and even friendly demeanor toward him, they might prefer him to keep his distance on a sad and tragic day such as this.

Besides, he knew that if he were anywhere near Rachel, the desire to comfort her would be unbearable, for to do so was forbidden.

So he stood now, scanning the grounds where the most modest of gravestones marked the final resting places of the Riverhaven Amish. As best as he could tell, the stones stated only the deceased's name and what he took to be a birth date and date of death, carved in the German language of the Plain People. The markers all looked the same to him, and that would be just like the Amish—no one
would want to show status or wealth with a more distinctive or elaborate gravestone than that of his neighbors.

It was an overcast, gloomy day with low-hanging clouds that only minutes before had begun to release a light drizzle. Phoebe's grave had already been dug and awaited the simple pine coffin in which she would be buried. From the looks of the crowd, it seemed that every Amish person in the community was in attendance. A significant number of “outsiders,” like himself, also stood at a respectful distance.

Doc had explained to Gant the day before that the graveside service would be brief and extraordinarily quiet, with no singing, although the words to an Amish hymn would be read. The Lord's Prayer would also be prayed silently, after which the People would disperse, only to gather once again at the Esch farmhouse for the traditional funeral meal.

Gant's eyes came to rest on Rachel, who stood just behind Susan, Fannie, and Doc Sebastian. Jealousy stabbed at him, for it seemed that Rachel would not be without comfort during the service after all. Samuel Beiler and three boys Gant assumed to be the Amish deacon's sons hovered close to her.

Beiler's usually stern and somewhat cold countenance today was directed toward Rachel in a look of attentive concern that caused Gant to look away. Inexplicably the boys stood in a stiff and formal manner that very nearly duplicated a military stance—which, given their Amish heritage, would almost certainly scandalize them, were they aware of the resemblance.

Gant found it curious that the youngest—a lad of perhaps ten years or so—every so often would glance up at his father with a look that seemed to border on anxiety, while the oldest, almost a copy of Beiler himself in size and appearance, wore an expression that could only be described as barely concealed boredom.

For her part Rachel seemed nearly unaware of the foursome gathered around her. Gant winced as he took in the paleness of her skin, the smudged shadows under her eyes, the taut features that clearly
indicated that only by the most deliberate effort was she maintaining her self-control.

He watched her for another long moment, his heart aching for the sadness engraved upon her features. At last he tore his gaze away lest his attention become too obvious.

When Gant glanced back toward Rachel only moments later, he was surprised to see the eldest Beiler boy glaring at him with open hostility. He had to wonder what the deacon might have told the lad about the
auslander
in their midst.

Or was the boy simply aware that Gant had once been a rival for Rachel's affection? No doubt he resented any interference with his father's interests.

Rachel thought her heart might surely shatter before the graveside service for Phoebe ended. The past days of sorrow had wrung her dry and left her feeling like a fading shadow.

Her grief had been brutally sharpened by the awareness of the cruel treatment and physical pain that had been inflicted on her dearest friend before her death. Every time she thought of the awful fear and humiliation Phoebe must have suffered that terrible night, she felt overcome with despair and a forbidden rage. She knew her bitterness and anger were as wrong as could be, and she made every attempt to shut them out from her emotions, but then she would remember, and fury would seize her again.

She wished Samuel and his sons wouldn't hover about her so. Their nearness just made it that much more difficult to conceal her feelings. No doubt their intentions were the best. Even the boys had shown their concern for her sadness during this difficult time. But she found their nearness and protectiveness strangely suffocating, as well as embarrassing. It wasn't as if she and Samuel were betrothed or in any way committed to each other.

Why couldn't he realize that right now what she needed more than anything else was to be alone to grieve?

Not so,
she admitted to herself. What she really needed more than anything else was to be with Jeremiah. Just to have him nearby, to know the strength of his presence would have comforted her. Instead, she had seen him standing at the edge of the crowd of mourners, alone because he was prohibited from being with her.

In this moment the bishop's order that they remain separate from each other seemed so terribly unfair.

Her thoughts might be rebellious, but truth was she was too exhausted and weak to exert much self-control. The days since Phoebe's death had been a nightmare. No matter how hard she tried not to think about what her dearest friend must have endured, she couldn't stop the terrible images from rushing in on her when she least expected it. Even when she finally dozed off for a blessed few moments of fitful sleep, such awful dreams plagued her that she would awaken in anguish.

And always there was the question of
why.
She had the distinct feeling that Mamma and Dr. Sebastian knew more about Phoebe's death than they were willing to tell, though why that should be she couldn't think.

She dared to look at Jeremiah only once more. When she did, the tender depth of concern she encountered in his gaze nearly undid her. She looked quickly away, blinking back the tears she didn't want him, or anyone else, to see.

At last the service was at an end. Samuel moved to take her arm as if to help her walk away, but she evaded his touch by stepping forward and gripping her mother's hand.

How she would endure the funeral meal that still awaited, she didn't know. But endure it she must for any chance to comfort Mamma…and out of respect for the precious life now lost to the People but surely received by the Lord, whom dear Phoebe had served all her life.

 
21
 
T
HE
R
OAD
N
ORTH

The dictates of humanity came in opposition
To the law of the land
And we ignored the law.

L
EVI
C
OFFIN

T
hey had been on the road only a few days, but that was long enough for Asa to observe that, with the exception of one stubborn, steely-eyed youth who had not quite attained manhood, young Gideon had a way with the slaves they were transporting. In spite of the vast differences between their worlds, he seemed to have won their trust early on.

There was nothing too surprising about that. The boy had an easy, agreeable way about him that wasn't in the least off-putting. Moreover, his genuine interest in folks as individuals and not merely as “cargo” to be transported probably warmed them to him.

Most of these folks weren't accustomed to being treated as human beings, but more as property—chattel to be used or abused at the whim of their owners. To have such an apparently decent young man committed to their safety and to helping them attain their dream of freedom must, in itself, hint of a self-worth previously unknown to them. But for understanding to gradually dawn that this same unlikely advocate actually
cared
about them—was even capable of developing a true
fondness
for them—well, Asa reckoned
that could take awhile to grasp but, once realized, would surely go a long way in helping a fellow win their trust and respect.

That's how it had been for him with Captain Gant years before.

“You're deep in thought, Asa,
ja
?”

The question from Gideon, sitting beside him on the wagon bench, brought Asa back to his surroundings. “My mind does tend to wander on these long nights of travel, I suppose.”

He didn't pull out the pocket watch the captain had given him to check, but he figured it must be going on ten o'clock or so by now. There was a little too much moonlight to suit him. Unlike some conductors, he preferred as much cover from darkness as possible. At least the rain they'd encountered over the past two days had finally let up.

Behind them, in the trough behind the bench, Mac stirred and sniffed the night air. Gideon twisted around to pet the dog. Tonight his appearance was that of a typical farm boy. Although the lad no longer lived among the Amish, on occasion he still donned the clothing of his people—especially if he was planning to pay a visit to his mamma. The captain had warned him against the practice for this journey, however, pointing out that if they should encounter any slave catchers, they would be immediately suspect. An Amish boy traveling with a man of color was no ordinary sight.

“So, how did you and Captain Gant meet?” Gideon asked when he turned back to Asa.

It was as if the boy were reading his thoughts, bringing up the captain all of a sudden, even as Asa's own thoughts had ventured in that direction.

“My owner hired me out to Captain Gant on a temporary work detail.”

He felt the boy's eyes on him. “You were a slave, Asa?” the question came as a near whisper.

Asa nodded. “I was.”

“I'm sorry.” Again the words were little more than a murmur.

“Important thing is that I'm not a slave now, thanks to the captain. He eventually bought my freedom for me.”

“Captain Gant is a good man.”

Asa glanced at him. “He is indeed. A better man than most folks will ever know.”

“How did that come about—the captain buying your freedom? Or maybe I shouldn't ask?”

Asa gave a twist of his hand to show he didn't mind the question. “I worked for him on his riverboat for quite some time—on a temporary basis, as I said. Eventually he decided he wanted to hire me full-time, so he talked to my owner about buying my papers. It took some doing, but the captain persisted, and they finally worked things out.”

Asa went on, briefly explaining to young Gideon that Cottrill, his former owner, later changed his mind and tried to get Asa back. Ainsley Cottrill had a vicious temper, and when the captain refused to sell Asa back to him, Cottrill started hunting him down.

Indeed, the bullet that had so seriously wounded Captain Gant had come from a gun belonging to one of Cottrill's men. Asa had been right in the line of fire, but at the crucial moment, the captain jumped in front of him, risking his own life to save Asa's.

“So you've been together a long time then?”

Asa nodded. “Several years now.”

“Where are you from originally? Before you came here to the States?”

Gideon stopped, then pulled a face. “Aw, I'm sorry. Seems like I'm asking too many questions. But I can't help noticing that you talk a little different from the rest of us.”

Asa smiled. To be young was also to be curious, it seemed. “I'm from one of the islands in the Caribbean. I never knew its name. I was brought to this country as a boy.”

“With your family?”

Asa delayed his answer, intending his reply to satisfy the boy's
curiosity for now. They were nearing areas into which he wasn't willing to venture. “My parents and myself, yes.”

He didn't speak of the beating that had killed his father in later years nor of his half-sister, sired by Ainsley Cottrill, their owner. Cottrill had sold Ariana into a brothel as punishment for trying to escape the plantation. After that she simply disappeared from Asa's life. He and the captain searched for her everywhere they went, but their efforts always proved futile. Asa had never entirely given up hope, though he knew that with the passing of the years it became more and more unlikely that he would ever see her again.

They drove along in silence for several minutes. As if the boy had sensed Asa's reluctance to field any further questions into his personal life, he changed the subject.

“What do we do if we're stopped? You know—by a slave catcher?”

“We need to pray hard that doesn't happen. With fifteen people in this wagon, the only thing we can do is hope we're close to a woods so they can scatter and run and hide.”

“But you and I, we have to stay with the wagon, right?”

Asa nodded. “We don't dare give up the horse and wagon.” He paused, then added, “You remember to let me do the talking if we're stopped.”

“Don't worry none about that. I'd probably be too
naerfich
to say a word.”

“
Naerfich
?”

“Nervous,” Gideon explained.

Asa looked at him. “I need to trust you to keep your head, boy. If we're found out, it could mean jail for both of us and a lot worse for those folks in the back of the wagon.”

Gideon's expression sobered. “I was just joking with you, Asa. I won't let you down.”

After that the boy seemed to run out of questions and let the steady rolling rhythm of the wagon lull him until his head began to nod.

Sometime just past three o'clock in the morning, Asa was beginning to feel a touch of the nervousness Gideon had mentioned earlier. The folks at the Spencer station had turned them away because of lack of room. They were a small dwelling, with no barn and only the smallest of cellars, in which they were already hiding half a dozen runaways.

Joseph Spencer had been obviously reluctant and apologetic, but Asa understood his dilemma. Now he could only hope it would be different at the next station, just outside of Freeport, which they ought to reach within the next hour.

If they, too, were short on room, the best he could hope for was a nice dark forest. Trees were a poor substitute for a roof over their heads, but at least they provided a hiding place of sorts. And as long as they could evade discovery, he knew from experience there would be little complaining.

The concern of a runaway slave headed for the North wasn't comfort, but freedom.