#annanna — Public Fediverse posts

Passing To Freedom: Willow and Weems, 1855 escape is done

I decided to keep the blurb mostly as it is, given that the story is one of an escape from slavery, which is common, but not too common as , Willow, a young enslaved woman of 17 is still a girl, but from that time period, 1885, in Virginia, is essentially considered a woman. She must escape the powerful and corrupt antagonist, a man who has held her in slavery her entire life, watching her closely, in the main plantation house. That is also not terribly uncommon, now, as stories go. When her latest escape attempt goes wrong, which is part of every novel, can she find the requisite courage, learn the crucial knowledge quickly enough, still not terribly new as part of a plot, and make the ever-present friends who are part of the Hero’s journey, to make her obligatory escape, but along with that of her beloved Anna, 15, stick? This is a rather large risk, taking a known historical figure and changing the outcome of part of the escape, as Anna Marie Weems went directly up to Canada, with lots of help, no forest detours, and then had descendants, who live in Canada to this day. Ok, not likely to go over well with an agent, due to what I now know is called a sexuality swap. She’s presumed to be straight, having had children, and I’ve not hinted at that, at all. Actually, I guess I sort of turned her into a Lesbian, so even though this is not mentioned in the historical record, it is a definite change to what is known to have happened, even if it portrays Weems in a very good light, in terms of her woodsmanship and horsemanship, and her ability to read and to bluff an important and dangerous adversary. Still, many people, possibly including some of her descendants, will not look kindly at all upon her being portrayed as other than straight. So, scratch that part of the story, for an agent or publisher.

This daring journey of finding friends who become family, and of forging one’s own identity within and despite cultural ambiguity, while defying the odds in an escape, with a couple of plans that many readers may find a bit difficult to swallow, since pretty much everything had to go right, in the rescue of Tilly, and in their final escape from powerful (and corrupt) pursuers, which starts at the White House. Two girls push through class and sticky inter-community cultural issues, as they persist, learning skills, exposing corruption, and using audacity, which had been forbidden to them as slaves. The minority within a minority is not as untold an issue as I had thought it was for light-skinned Black enslaved women. There are more novels where literacy is used alongside passing for white, if no incredible take-downs of corrupt officials. I must admit now that I read it again from an outsider’s point of view that the planning and execution of the push to make Loving, which is another historical name whose family may or may not be happy with the way an ancestor has been portrayed, turn on his employer requrired a good bit of luck that makes the story a bit hard to swallow.

This YA, or maybe New Adult historical novel is set in the mid-Atlantic region of the US in 1855. Readers who are interested in history, escapes, female trafficking, and in the audacious use of new knowledge to fight powerful and ruthless villains will love this story that shows why knowledge is power, especially for the classes of people traditionally denied such power.

The novel is freely available both here on the ShiraDest website, and also on the Internet Archive, as part of my personal contribution to Phase II of the Project Do Better mission to expand both access and learning for the benefit of all. Passing To Freedom, pdf freely available right here, after more than three years of work, which began as my serial Ann & Anna, which became Act I of Passing, is the final version of the initially published first draft before the title was changed, which was published under isbn 9798224898114 as Passing: A Rough First Draft, back in September of ’23. I am finally giving up on traditionally publishing this novel and I am releasing it under a CC non-comercial Share Alike license so that it will be as accessible as possible. The ePub version is also available on The Archive, here… I keep faith, since faith is nothing more and nothing less than the belief, illogical as it may be, that hope is still possible, and I hope in the hope that the use of knowledge, cooperation, and connection can still be shown to bring down even the most powerful and corrupt of oppressors.

S. Destinie Anto. Jones, aka Nia,

or just Ni,

fka Shira

Injustice Delenda Est

Proofreading draft 6 of Passing To Freedom

I recall mentioning that Willow is about 17 when we begin this escape, but never tells her age, feeling much older than she is. Anna, as we all know, is 15 at the moment of escape from the White House. My Query information includes the pitch line and the audience:

PASSING TO FREEDOM: WILLOW AND WEEMS, is a 79,000 word YA historical suspense Lgbt novel. This daring journey of escape from powerful pursuers by two girls starts at the White House, where they evade dangerous foes as they both learn new skills, and audacity, which had been forbidden to them as slaves.

Audience: Those interested in history, escapes, trafficking, and audacious use of new learning to fight powerful and ruthless villains will love this story that shows why knowledge really is power.

Comps are a bit more challenging, but I think that

Passing and La Tulipe Noire meets Chains meets The Parable of the Sower

make a decent comparison set due to the theme of Willow’s having to use her identity as an octoroon or quadroon in order to pass as a way of getting the three of them out of MD reminds readers of that complexion issue raised by Nella Larsen’s seminal work, the literacy themes in this not so well know book by Dumas, the obvious slavery escape by another girl coming of age in Laurie Halse Anderson’s book, and the themes of empathy and forged community in Octavia Butler’s well-known work, as well as that of the Black female protagonists having to figure out their identity and skill-sets while overcoming tremendous adversity of escaping from enslavement, literally or pretty close to it.

This novel has come a long way since it began with a nightmare and the short series Ann & Anna, which became the first draft of Act I of Passing To Freedom: Willow… (the initial working sub-title was Willow’s Story, now Willow and Weems…) . Now, if no one picks it up for representation or publication, I’ll release it under ShiraDest pubs with a Copy-Left copyright of

ShiraDest Publications work is distributed free of charge uner a Creative Commons NonCommercial-ShareAlike (CC BY-NC-SA) license, © Destinie Anto. Jones (aka Ni or Nia), 27 July, 2026

if, by that time, none of my queries get positive responses. I know that novels about women and especially girls dealing with slavery or trafficking, which the story of a Fancy Maid essentialy encapsulates, are not popular, and particularly when they come with suicidality, even if that issue is happily resolved by the end of the story. Combinging those issues with the minority-within-a-minority problem of racism both against and within the Black community seems to throw off the vast majority of modern agents and publishers, and many readers, as well, so I know that my chances of finding a publisher are pretty low, especially now that everyone is being inundated with AI sprouted rubbish. The fact that this novel has been in the works since 2021 makes me wonder if I regret having put off the Work while I tried to get citizenship outside of the US, but in fact, there was not much else I could have done, as I examine my decisions. I just was not ready to continue working on Acts II and III until now, so I have done pretty much all that I could do with the resources and skills/talents that I have. Since ‘to whom much is given , much is expected’ and Toni Morrison both tell us that the Black woman writer must bear witness, I have done so, to the best of my ability, and I have worked to make a difference via my writing, as I did years ago via my activism, and still do via my advocacy, even at the risk of being called a reformer or ‘creeper’ versus a true rebel. I think that the young and fully able bodied are not really able to understand the fatigue and the pain of being old, tired, and worn out from the battle. I certainly could not understand it when older burned out activists told me these things, twenty years ago. Now, I begin to understand. Also, even back then I understood very well that my physically disabled fellow activists were simply unable to run away, which is one of the things that most young revolutionaries don’t seem to get: rebellion and revolution only work for the able-bodied, not for the physically vulnerable. We must protect all members of our society, at all times. Otherwise, what are we, really, but bullies, ourselves?

Nia,

nearly always tired and headachy and a bit nauseous, yes, waiting for doctor’s appointment, but still doggedly proofing (now on ch. 12), and still stubbornly working to help protect and build a better edifice as Dr. King spoke of in 1967, via the free first edition of Project Do Better: Enough for ALL in Four Phases, and The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications FUND benefiting the kids of Bright Beginnings in DC via the GWCF.

editing p. 217 of 4th draft of Passing To Freedom

Tightening up the chapter where we rescue little Tilly, despite the disruptions in my working environment. Hoping that all will have supportive community, and safe, smoke-free environments, in which to breathe, build, and help create new systems for all of humankind, possibly with a little help from the free Do Better man.

First page of 4th draft … done

I’m keeping most of this first page the same, just tightening up a bit of the verbiage. I’m also putting the author byline in the name of ShiraDest Publications, rather than listing my various name changes since I began this novel project. I want to put the novel out under a Creative Commons share-alike non-commercial license, to make access as broad as possible as long as no companies or persons make profit on my work. Still deciding on that detail, which I will leave for the final draft.

Nia,

continuing my work as part of that Work Toni Morrison spoke of, to Bear Witness, as part of my personal contribution to Project Do Better…

Picking Character Names

So, for my fourth draft of Passing To Freedom, my current historical WiP, I need to pick a name for the wife of Brutus, and I think I also may need to pick a name for the wife of Doctor H. Many formerly enslaved people changed their names, just as Willow did, upon taking their freedom, partly because in general, enslavers saddled people with rather insulting or infantilizing names, like Toby (as all Gen X will recall from the series Roots…) Tilly, Sally, etc. Names denote ownership, and Willow was known by one name by some people, but she was generally referred to via another name, Ann, by certain other arrogant individuals. Likewise, probably, for the wife of freedman Brutus. The doctor’s wife, on the other hand, is a relatively well to do white woman from up North, so I need to figure out more about her family background before I can decide on a name for her. The fact is, also, come to think of it, that while Brutus may currently have his Free Papers, his wife could be from any number of backgrounds, living so close to the Maryland PA border. So, both names will be a challenge to choose, as I edit my fourth draft of this escape from slavery.

Nia,

continuing The Work of which Toni Morrison spoke, in the hope that it will benefit others, and especially the kids served by early childhood education NGO Bright Beginnings in DC, via The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications Fund, administered by the GWCF, based on the free Do Better man(ual/ifesto)…

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 53: Real Rails…

Working title: Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni, fka Shira Destinie Jones

Chapter 53

I had urged Mr. Loving’s horse on, fearing that the Senator would turn around and come back for us at any moment. Both of our injuries made it excruciating. With one good arm between the two of us, my right wrist and Anna’s left arm both broken, I wrapped my left arm around her to hold her close to me. She used her right to hold the reins, and we let our horse have his head, using our legs to hold on to both the saddle, and to each other.

Warm tears dripped down on to my left arm, and I knew that Anna was also weeping for our little Tilly, gone far too young. We had no time to mourn her as we fled, nor to mourn for Captain, nor for Courageous Red, also gone too young. Their deaths will not be in vain.

We fled along that path, riding mechanically, without thinking. I suddenly remembered what Old Mary had done when Tilly and I had been spotted along the road to Shrewsbury, and I tapped Anna’s belly with my left hand.

“Yes, Willow dear?”

“I think we should turn off the path here, to our left.”

Anna nodded. Someone would have heard the gunshots. I hoped that they would follow the trail back to find the men responsible for shooting Courageous Red down in cold blood, an act that was undeniably murder in any state, because he was a white man. That should lead the constables to prioritize what was left of Smith’s men, and perhaps even the Senator, rather than looking for us. Tilly, as a slave, was another matter.

No charges but that of property destruction could be leveled for her death, and that only by the now long gone Mr. Tibbet. That was now Farmer Brown’s problem. Without Tilly to bargain with, he would once again be a fugitive, I supposed, but no longer a threat to us.

I hated to have to leave poor Tilly’s mangled body behind, but there was nothing we could do for it. I had heard the Senator’s orders to Mr. Loving, finally understanding the words he had shouted over his shoulder as he had run to chase after Charles Price.

In spite of my warning that he would be ruined should he take me back into his custody, he had chosen to have Mr. Loving bring me back to his rooms at the hotel where he was lodging in Philadelphia. Mr. Loving, fortunately being a far more astute man than the Senator, wanted nothing to do with murder charges, not to mention the insurance fraud and credit problems, that awaited the Senator in Virginia. And I also knew that he did not want to be forced to carry out the punishments which the head overseer Smith would have meted out. Smith having been dismissed, that task now fell to Loving. So he had let us go. And given us the Senator’s horse. Donating this animal to the cause was poetic justice.

The next question was how to find those Porters with whom we were meant to meet up later in the day, after Courageous Red had turned back to go home. The pain in my wrist, and I imagined also in Anna’s arm, was starting to become too difficult to ignore, and so I sat back and pulled a bit on the left rein quickly, before settling my arm more tightly around Anna’s waist. She got the idea, and sat back, too, as she pulled on the bit lightly, and our horse seemed happy enough to come to a walk.

We both looked around as we walked, and I wondered how it was that we had neither seen nor heard anyone yet. Those gunshots must have been heard for miles, and these woods ought to be filled with men investigating the reason, so close to the city.

“Don’t fret, Willow,” Anna squeezed my hand, “we are to be met very soon, by our next Porter, with helpers.”

Just then, we saw our next Conductor.

We went to a Quaker farm in Pennsylvania near the New Jersey border, where we joyously met up again with Dr. H. Now, though living further north, and thus a bit safer than they had been in Maryland, they were still in a delicate position.

They did, however, endow us with even more clothing, papers, money from their insurance settlement upon the house in Maryland, and even a lovely set of pearls, from Mrs. H. More astonishingly for me, the doctor’s wife now gave me her explicit blessing to carry on our Peculiar Ruse, with Anna acting as my body servant if we should be stopped.

A very kind white farmer volunteered to drive our carriage as far as New York City, where we were to meet up with some old friends, and board a train. Brutus and his family had decided to move to Toronto, Canada, and so we would all be able to travel together, if rather loosely. I would travel separately, passing for a white woman of means, thus riding in “the Ladies’ car” or first class, where I was less likely, so far North, to be challenged.

I had been provided with a cover story, and escorted by a white gentleman, pretending to be a distant cousin of mine, and who also pretended to have hired Anna, Brutus, his wife, and two of their children, to act as porters and attendants to both of us in our journey on this marvelous train ride.

I should say that it was marvelous for me, being allowed to sit in the car designated for first class ladies, which allowed only men accompanied by a lady to enter the car. My poor dear Anna, who had forged Free Papers, Brutus, and his family, had to suffer the indignities of riding in the colored section, which they told me was worth it if only to be able to escape more quickly than had ever been possible before, on this new train line directly up to English speaking British North America.

We saw each other whenever the train stopped for water or fuel, and at the few stops we made to allow everyone to get out and stretch their legs, for the journey was only one or two days, and discretion was of the utmost importance. Until we crossed the Niagara Suspension Bridge.

When we finally arrived in Toronto, being met by a kind representative of The Acting Vigilance Committee, we were welcomed to British North America as free residents. Upon hearing these words, Anna and I exchanged a look of gratitude. Then, we set about the task of finding work, making a living, and building a home.

We were finally free.

End of ActIII, draft 3, Passing To Freedom: W & W

The End

Passing to Freedom, Chapter 52: Comeuppance…

Chapter 52

The Senator cursed again. He had left Loving there to see to that gal while he went after Price to make the trader see reason. The damned trader’s hired men had blocked him, their horses walking slowly and forming an impassable knot between himself and the madly galloping trader, along the path back to town.

In the end, he had managed to follow Price to the telegraph office, where the trader had been exiting, apparently having sent his telegram, when the Senator had finally caught up with him. But by then it was too late, and with none of the Senator’s own men around him, the trader had simply ignored him. Ignored him, the Senator. If he had considered Price a real gentleman, he would have challenged him to a duel, but as it was, he decided he would use other means to deal with the trader.

Returning to his rooms at his hotel on Chestnut Street, he settled in with a cigar to wait for Loving, anticipating the pleasure of finally having his Ann again to attend him. But the knock at the door had instead been that of a messenger boy delivering a summons for him from some court.

Now, he was being harassed by the local judge and bailiffs from that godforsaken town in the Maryland back country over what that fool innkeeper woman was calling irregularities in the sale of her tavern, as if his credit wasn’t good. How dare she; forgets her place. Now, when he left here with his Ann, he would have to give up his desk in that inn, falling back to his usual rooms at the Willard Hotel to finish up his business with Price before going back home to Virginia, damn her.

He had poured himself a whiskey, settling down again, to await the arrival of Loving with his Ann. Where was the man? Another knock came at the door.

“Finally, Loving. What news?” Where was his Ann?

“Well, sir, Senator, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

The Senator lifted his cane.

“Somehow, that colored boy has run off, and what was left of Smith’s boys have all quit, and-”

“That’s enough!” How had she managed to slip through the man’s fingers? Intolerable. And lost a good horse, to boot, the fool. As the Senator was raising his cane to teach Loving a lesson, another knock came at the door.

“What is it now, by God?”

Loving, as if his pants were on fire, ran to the door, and flung it open, to reveal yet another messenger, this time with a telegram from his attorney. Price’s attorneys had just contacted him to notify him of their intent to sue him for money owed on three charges: for destruction of property in the matter of his mulatto gal, for libel over the affair of the house fire in Maryland, and most incredibly of all, for attempted assault and battery here in Pennsylvania over the matter of his having threatened to cane the man.

For all of this, the trader apparently intended to sue for damages in both Maryland, and Pennsylvania, and also in his home jurisdiction of Alexandria, now once again part of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

There was another knock at the door.

“What now?!”

A second telegram from his attorney reminded the Senator that he was now no longer permitted to remain upon the soil of Pennsylvania.

“You are ordered, Senator, to surrender yourself to the court in Virginia.”

“What?”

“The legislature has need of your presence upon the most urgent matter of an ongoing investigation: misuse of public funds.”

As if the Great Deluge had returned to open up the heavens and rain messages down upon him, yet another messenger arrived with still more news, but not from his attorney.

Loving had disappeared between the delivery of the first telegram and the second. The Senator had been so busy reading them in disbelief that he had never noticed the gaunt man’s disappearance. Now, however, there was a note from Loving, delivered by the hotel boy.

Loving’s note informed the Senator of three things. First, that one Dr. Hastings, of Maryland, was suing the Senator, in a civil case, for destruction of property and attempted murder, in the matter of the fire set by Smith’s boys upon the Senator’s orders, and that this Dr. Hastings would also be requesting prosecution of both crimes through the criminal courts of Maryland, and also here in Pennsylvania, as the Senator was known to be in the city of Philadelphia at this time.

Second, that the New York Life Insurance Company would also be suing the Senator, for insurance fraud, in the matter of one slave by the name of Mary, and in a connected matter of a claim involving several slaves alleged to have died in his mills up north. The note assured the Senator that these suits would certainly win, for they would have iron clad evidence to back them.

“Evidence from where?”

The Senator began to laugh as he read the remainder of the message, that coward Loving not even able to take his licks and make his reports like a man should. Then he read the last lines of Loving’s note. He stopped laughing. The evidence had already been sent to each of these parties, and notarized by his hand.

“His hand, whose hand?”

The final lines of the note indicated that Loving had also provided copies of the relevant pages from the Senator’s private ledger book to a variety of interested parties, having been compelled to report the Senator’s illegal activities, and was resigning his employ with the Senator, effective immediately.

“Damn him!”

There was another knock at the door.

“Who is it now?”

“Senator, open in the name of the law.”

What was this? The door had opened, not being locked, and in stepped what appeared to be two local constables, and a magistrate, carrying a paper which he held up for the Senator to see:

“Senator, I am afraid that I have been ordered by the court to take you into custody, sir.”

“What is the meaning of this? How dare you-”

“Senator, you are charged with murder, and it is my duty to confine you.”

The man had nodded to his men as the Senator watched, unbelieving, while he was manacled, and led from the room.

***

draft 3 of (current ) Working title: Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni, fka Shira Destinie Jones

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 49: Ice Cream Socials

Chapter 49

We got our beautiful little Tilly back safe and sound!

I was overjoyed, and glad that all had gone so smoothly in her rescue. I had asked the men who went to get her from the hotel to tell her to:

“be strong, and of good courage,”

and, then, to wait to see what she would say.

They told me that upon hearing these words, the child had responded:

“for the Lord is with us!”

She then merrily jumped to take the hand of the Porter who was waiting for her to go with him, and she had even skipped over the prone body of her guard, whom she told them had stolen her after dinner ice cream for himself.

The dessert for our meal that evening had been reading in the paper that the vile head overseer Smith, along with two of his more vicious men, about whom complaints had been recorded in various local neighborhood papers and larger papers from here back to Shrewsbury, had all been dismissed from the Senator’s service, and even humiliatingly escorted to the Maryland border by local state militia.

Now that I knew that Anna was safe, uninjured, and able to get news of us and more importantly, to make contact with us, I wondered how long we would have to wait to hear from her again, as I was anxious for us to continue North.

We didn’t have to wait long. To my delight, Anna walked through the door just after we finished eating supper, and were looking forward to dessert, a surprise, in honor of that dessert which had been stolen from young Tilly by the constable during her captivity. I was thankful that the dessert was all that had been stolen from her, and gave a prayer of thanksgiving for her safety. And I then gave a second prayer of thanks for Anna’s. She was back!

The three of us fell into a hug that moved everyone in the room, from visiting Porters, to the Conductor who had accompanied her, to our Station Master, and his wife and children, to tears of joy for us. Hands were shaken all around, a place was set at the table for Anna, who was served a heaping plate of supper to eat in peace while we all talked in celebration, listening to our Courageous Red, as the others had also now taken to calling him, recite the story of how we had orchestrated the luring of Tilly’s Mr. Tibbet up here, and then how she had been rescued from under the nose of one gluttonous local constable. With that, it was time to have a special treat for dessert: ice cream all around.

We had actually done it. Thanks in tremendous part to what Anna had taught me, about so many things both practical and natural, like trees, and even to what young Tilly had taught me about believing in what was possible. The local papers were all leading both evening and morning edition headlines with stories about Charles Price, his quarrels with the Senator over the house fire in Maryland, and how Tilly seemed to have disappeared from under the nose of Mr. Tibbet, who was furiously accusing the Senator of having stolen the resale value of little Tilly, if not her person, yet again.

Local readers were already writing to the editor, scandalized that such a small child as Tilly might be used in such ways with out the slightest regard for her tender age, let alone her own consent in the matter. I hoped that the uproar would encourage Price to leave the state, or even take the Senator to court, both of which would provide good distraction from our further escape, but Anna thought that Price would stay long enough to continue looking for her, as long as the Senator remained in the city. The next news came bursting through the door with our Courageous Red:

“This special extra edition of the paper has set you free!”

***

This is part of the third draft of historical novel

Passing To Freedom: Willow and Weems, by

S. Dest. Anto. Jones,

aka Nia,

or,

Ni

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 48: Audacity, Red?

Chapter 48

The message really was from Anna. I could see her distinctive mix of cursive and print handwriting, which she used when she was in a hurry. I first read the words quickly, seeking any of the words I already knew for danger, and finding none, stopped.

What was that whining sound? I looked down:

“Shhh. Hush now.”

My faithful furry companion was pawing the door, but I only had eyes for Anna’s letter.

I sniffed the paper, hoping to find her scent there, and then traced the lines of her writing with my fingers, feeling her own fingers as mine traced the indentation of her lines in the paper.

I devoured the words again. She is safe! She even seemed to be doing fairly well, all things considered. I wished that she could be with me, to share a warm bath, wished that I could wash her back for her, and run my fingers through her hair as I washed her curly locks.

I read her note again, slowly, relieved to have some word from her, at last, and to know that even if she was not with me in the flesh right now, she was so in spirit, and she was safe. She was also aware of the situation, and urging me, like everyone else, to flee right away. Had she, too, given up young Tilly for lost? No. She would meet me at the border? Which border?

Another knock came at the door. It was Courageous Red, again. Or, perhaps, still. I realized my rudeness, with a start, and felt my face turn hot, as I looked down, stammering.

“I am terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to close the door in your face!”

Rather than make a show of bluster, or even speak a word at all, he merely looked at me, and smiled. And it was a warm smile, not at all the cold harsh one that I might have expected. He bowed, again, telling me that he had thought that a word from Anna might move me so, as he, and indeed all of the Porters, were worried also for her, having no word of her doings from the tight-lipped Conductors, nor much less from any of the Station Masters. Of course. Discretion was the money of exchange in this endeavor. Even I had no idea whether she was in contact with any of them.

Her note had given me no hint of other connections.

I refused to leave this city without our Tilly.

I had invited Red in for a moment, asking if he’d had time to read my note.

He had, he assured me, and also wished fervently to do as I bid, the eagerness of youth for adventure shining so brightly that his red locks glowed with that fire which only those who have not yet seen too much loss, too much pain, still had. I dropped him a half-curtsy.

“Thank you.”

That was as much as I dared say, my instincts telling me not to be too kindly with this ardent young man. I would not risk giving him illusions of affection which I did not have, and frankly wished to avoid. He left, after promising to perform every duty I could ask to his best, and assuring me that he also knew just the right group of young adventurers for the tasks that needed doing to see this plan through. I had risked explaining it to him because I felt that he needed to feel useful in our endeavor, not having been entrusted yet, with the tasks of a Conductor. The zeal of this young man might work to the advantage of us both, if he could help me accomplish the task I had in mind, and thus also gain for himself the recognition of his superiors in the network, this Underground Railroad, or the section thereof, here in Philadelphia. Not to mention the fact that I had no one else to turn to. Every other person with whom I was in contact had joined Anna in urging me to flee Northward without delay. I would have to trust to the courage and discretion, not to mention good judgment, of this young man with the flaming red hair.

My furry friend’s ears pricked up. I thought I had heard something, too, like something hitting a window.

“What is it?”

I watched those ears closely as they indeed swiveled toward a back window. It turned out to be one of Courageous Red’s little band of fellow adventurers. They were even younger than he was. Every so often, starting near the end of the afternoon, tiny young street urchins would knock at my door, or I would hear another pebble at one of the windows, and a note would appear, informing me of his progress. Since none of these little ones, mostly orphans, I had been told, could read, he had not taken the time to encode any of them. I was surprised to see that most of them were colored children, until being told that the white orphans were taken in more often at the orphanages, most of which did not allow colored children. Though there were some facilities for what they called special classes of children, they were not enough to house the many children of all classes that roamed the streets, hungry and poorly cared for, if at all. So I was especially glad to be able to use our money to give them enough for a meal, every time one of them delivered a message reporting back on Red’s progress. He’d been able to find watchers to take notes as they egged on that vile Smith in his cups, and others to encourage the tavern keeper to throw the villain out at the right moment.

Courageous Red’s next updates were even more impressive.

He had accomplished his task: no fewer than four of his friends were hidden within earshot of Smith and his cronies as they drunkenly complained of not being paid by the Senator, blaming Mr. Loving as I had hoped, then turning to a disgusting and bawdy conversation on the merits of visiting brothels, and the one in particular where a certain:

“little mulatto whore eats real good,” to the raucous laughter of his men, he reported.

As planned, at that point one of Red’s more intrepid friends complained to the tavern keeper about the low sorts being served too much drink at his establishment. He started the brawl which allowed certain other friends to shout out Loving while insulting the Senator and defending the honor of colored ladies all at once.

This had the desired effect.

All involved were ejected from the tavern.

Two more of his well paid street children set off to fetch their friends for the next part of our plan.

With each message I received, my stomach took a lurch, waiting for the next part of the plan to be set in motion. All four pieces, those of Smith, Loving, Price, and Tilly’s master, had to fall smoothly into place for our plan to work.

“Good Lord, please do not let any of your little children be trampled under the calloused feet of these brutes.”

A pebble tapped against one of the back windows, and I locked the door before going to the back and went to the back to open the window, finding a note left under a rock waiting for me on the window ledge. I glanced about, put my hand out, and slammed the window shut. I saw no one in the back alley. I’d been warned to be especially careful of that alley, as it led to one of the seedier streets in the area.

This note contained only two words:

“theft halted”

I this took to to mean that Red had gotten word from his young hirelings that they had finished the most dangerous part of their task. Their friends, acting as Good Samaritans, were to catch the two friends acting as the thieves, and return Mr. Loving’s ever present ledger book to him, and, most importantly, in the right location.

They had succeeded. I still worried. Were the purported thieves unharmed? Was Mr. Loving in the right place? Were Smith and the others still brawling about missing pay and young Tilly, outside that tavern? Is Tilly safe?

How could I possibly have thought that I would be able to direct such a complex plan, while hidden away, no less? I felt myself suddenly assailed by doubts, terribly worried for Tilly, and for Red, and the street children who were carrying out our plan at this very moment, to their own hazard. Just as my breaths were becoming shorter and my stomach beginning to tie itself into nauseous knots, another knock came at the door.

I rushed to the door, opening it without thinking to look first, but fortune had smiled upon me, and I was met by a tiny waif of a colored girl, this time, shyly holding a note with a coin, looking for all the world as if she were there to purchase something for her mistress.

“Come in.”

She had quickly stepped through even before I could fully open the door. Perfect. I got her seated on a stool and gave her a biscuit to eat while I read the note she had handed me as I had closed the door. This one would make not only a good Porter, soon, but an excellent Conductor to boot, should colored girls be allowed to do so, until that blessed day when this infamous Peculiar Institution should be ended in all of the states of the Union. Pushing those thoughts aside, I saw that this note was the answer to my earlier unsaid prayers:

“book loves tavern brawls”

I understood this could only mean that Mr. Loving had been given back his famous ledger book, in front of the tavern, just as Smith and his men were having their long awaited brawl. Now, whether Smith and this famous brawl were still just in front of that tavern, as they ought to be, or moving away by now, was still a question for which I was anxiously awaiting an answer. My little messenger having finished eating her biscuit, I gave her back her coin, then handed her a basket with more biscuits, for which she rewarded me with a broad smile, curtsied, and turned and left like a flash. Her tiny curtsy, clumsy but well enough executed to be acceptable, reminded me of the contrasting perfection of our little Tilly’s performance, and the child’s mischievous smile.

I had no time to think on our young Tilly any more, for which I was actually grateful, having had to fight back the tears. I must focus on the matter at hand. Another knock came at the door. This time it was a small colored boy, carrying what looked like a sack of flour that must have weighed more than he did. I did not know where my next note might be concealed, and I hoped it was not inside the sack, as I hated to waste good flour. I hastened the boy inside, where he dropped the sack with a thump, and then produced the expected note from an inner pocket in his coat, before bowing like a gentleman, and turning to open the door, look both ways, and then dash back out, leaving the door pulled to, but not quite shut, apparently so as to avoid making the noise of closing the door all the way. This note read:

“The price is paid for all out brawl!”

At this, I breathed a sigh of relief, and then drew my first full breath of the last several hours, taking those words to mean that everyone, from Smith, to his vile men, and Mr. Loving, and even either Charles Price’s men, or Price himself, were all outside of the tavern, watching the brawl if not taking part in it, and that all of the street children involved in this endeavor, either as messengers or as active participants, had been paid in coin as well, I hoped, as in at least some bit of extra food. This must mean that the most intricate part of the plan, that of getting the attention of Charles Price long enough to have him send a trusted man, or even to go himself to investigate, must be happening at this very moment. I imagined the scene I had planned, with that mad dog Smith and his mangy curs who worked under him shouting drunkenly at Mr. Loving about not getting their pay, and provoking him, not to mention Charles Price, about how young Tilly was being treated too well, staying at that house of ill repute while she awaited a fate worse than death should anyone provide what the Senator thought to be valid information on how to find me. I could not help allowing my thoughts to stray into worried visions of what might be happening to our poor Tilly even at this very moment, but I knew that I must keep my thoughts on the plan. I had yet to receive confirmation about the most important part of the plan, now that all of the key men were together in one place. Had any mention been made of Tilly, and if so, had Charles Price understood it, and been made aware of the theft which the Senator was perpetrating upon the trader? If not, how would I remedy this before it was too late?

Just then, another knock came at the door, and a very small red haired child stepped in as soon as I opened it, even helping me close it behind him. I handed him a biscuit as he handed me a note, and spoke one word:

“Reply.”

I gathered that this meant that I was to write a reply on the back side of the note, and hand it back to this lad, who would take it to Red immediately. The situation must be grave, indeed. I looked at the note, which seemed scrawled in a very hasty hand, and sat down with pen and ink before I read it. It was a simple one line question, asking,

“Price leaving, what to do?”

Almost without thinking, for I had imagined this scenario over and over the entire night before, I turned the note over and turned to find ink. The boy tugged on my dress:

“I can remember real good, Miss. I’m to repeat your words.”

A very good idea, as long as this young boy did not get himself caught.

We’d have to risk it. I bent down and whispered in his ear:

“Have someone yell out the words ‘He don’t pay his men, but he sold the freckled mulatto gal!’ then, everyone must laugh.”

I ushered him out the door, watching him take off running even as I began closing the door and locking it. Here was another child who would make an excellent member of this network, for as long as it was so sadly and so sorely needed. Those words would be an awful risk to Tilly, vulnerable as she was, but no southern man, especially Smith, could stand being laughed at. Especially not by Yankees. That would surely get his blood up, and cause more fighting.

The reference to both money and to selling Anna would surely stop Price in his tracks, and Loving as well, for both men would be obliged to check on those allegations, true or not. It would help if the one who shouted it could do a reasonable imitation of a Virginia or Maryland accent. Here, so close to the border, I dared to hope.

The next hour was an agony of waiting and worrying. Just as it was growing light outside, a knock came at the door, and it turned out to be Courageous Red, himself, all smiles. With a triumphant laugh and an extra flourish of his hat after I had closed the door, he bowed low before me, and presented me with a bouquet of the most lovely red roses. I nearly vomited on him.

“Are you ill, Miss Beth?”

The name from Shrewsbury being considered too well known, now that a certain Farmer Brown had surely given it away, had been changed to a more common one, derived from the popular name Elizabeth. At least I was told that it was a popular name, for it was not one that I had thought to be especially popular. I tried to ponder the issue of names, rather than that of roses.

“No, thank you, Red, I am fine. Merely fatigued.”

I had just realized that I had made a terrible mistake. Oh, no. And now, I was also starting to sound like …

“So, how did your young friends like their pay increases? I ask because I can see, by your manner, that our endeavor has evidently been successfully.”

I tried to smile politely at him, but kept my distance, so as not to give him false impressions. He already had false hopes, despite my attempts to prevent them. He seemed not to notice, bouncing closer as I stepped back. I said nothing, hating to spoil the air of youthful delight on his face.

“They ate their pay increase with gusto, giving thanks to the good Lord above, and to your kindness as well, Miss Beth.”

“You also paid them all in coin, I expect, with extra for our little thieves and Good Samaritans, I hope. Was it enough?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Beth, the money you gave me went around most generously, and with just a little to spare.”

He made a half bow as he extended his arm to give me the change, left over from the money that I had carried for the three of us to use as we journey North. I had judged it needful to spend as much of our money as it took to accomplish this task.

I’d thought we could find work along the way to support ourselves, but nothing would do if we lost young Tilly. I could not allow this young man to go unpaid, especially as his gallantry, it was now clear to me, was out of a desire for something which I could not give him.

“Please, do keep the rest for yourself.”

At his abashed look, I added:

“For you above all have risked much, and the laborer is worth his hire.”

At this, he nodded, accepting my pay for him, and pocketing the remaining money inside his coat. As he looked up, I quickly added,

“Now, please tell me how it all went, and spare no detail, not a single one.”

The young man smiled, drawing himself up to his full height as he puffed out his chest, striking a theatrical pose. This young man really ought to be in theater. I smiled in spite of myself. That brought a smile from him, as he began, almost as though he were declaiming poetry:

“Well, now first I saw to the arrangement,” he nodded in my direction, “as you suggested,” then tilted his head before continuing, “of the part of the affair with Mr. Charles Price, making sure to hire some of our little friends to be at the other tavern, and I had to get this from one of our watchers, friends of our cause who have been keeping an eye on both of these southerners since they came to town on their dastardly mission of dragging yourself,” here, he bowed again to me, “the worthy Miss Wright, and your young charge” his face falling into a rapid succession of sadness and anger, “back into the claws of that villainous beast of a Peculiar Institution, as they call slavery.”

He took a deep breath, and then made a tossing salt over his shoulder motion, as though to rid himself of some evil spirit, and then continued, again striking that storyteller’s pose.

“I made sure to tell them which men to sit near,” he waved a hand as if warding off a bad smell, grinned, and continued, “so as to be sure to be overheard, and to gossip rather loudly about a certain rumor they had heard tell of at that other tavern, about how that low Mr. Smith had just caught a freckled lady, and that none of them had ever seen a slave with freckles, for didn’t that make her just as white as they were, and right over by that tavern where Smith always seems to drink!”

Then he sent a telling look at me, before going on.

“I also told them to be sure to act surprised about Smith and his men not getting paid, as they were doing their drinking on credit.”

He went on to tell me about how proud his friends were as they ran to him, reporting that they had both seen Price’s men leave to go find him with looks of anger upon their faces, and already sent one of their fastest runners to warn those in the tavern that it was time to get Smith thrown out, by use of judicious tips to the right servers, and many complaints to the tavern keeper. I thanked Red for his valiant work, now wondering aloud if we knew any press men willing to write an article about this night’s events, and he added that he had indeed paid attention to my earlier comment in this regard, and had already sent a note about the incident to one of their company known to the Conductors as a newspaper man willing to write for several of the smaller local papers. He added that the local constables also regularly listed this type of event in the papers, so he was confident that we could expect good coverage from many different sources.

Courageous Red’s confidence was not misplaced. The local paper did indeed print a long article about the altercation, even mentioning that it was the Senator who had put our poor Tilly on display, and giving the exact name of the brothel in question where she was being held. After that article appeared, more articles appeared, along with a great number of letters to the editor, expressing horrified indignation at the Senator’s actions, and asking if it was legal, and how such a thing could be allowed. The war of words between the trader Charles Price and the Senator also spilled into the local papers up here, with each accusing the other of intention to steal their property, and of libel, slander, and a number of other offenses which, I knew that had the Senator considered Price to be a gentleman, rather than a vulgar man of commerce, he would have challenged him to a duel with pistols. I shuddered at the bitter memory of duels the Senator had won.

By the end of that very same day, almost miraculously, I had thought, until I remembered the telegraph office near the tavern, we had news:

the plan had succeeded!

I was informed that a Cease and Desist order had been served upon the Senator and also upon Smith by both local and Maryland constables by order of a court in Virginia, reordered by courts here and in Maryland, to release our poor Tilly into the custody of local constables.

The local court here in Philadelphia had further directed their head constable to lodge Tilly, in accordance with the “secure location” ordered by the Virginia court, in a respectable hotel of that official’s choosing, under guard, there to await the arrival of her lawful owner.

The Senator had been ordered to pay all expenses for her lodgings. Even better, the Senator appeared to be under further investigation back in his home jurisdiction, with something called a subpoena having been issued to him.

I did not yet know what this meant, but I was assured that it was very good for our side.

Finally, and most importantly, the local court, and Tilly’s owner, being suspicious that the Senator might try to harm her in some way to prevent her from speaking, both the Senator, his attack dog Smith, and the beasts who worked for him were all refused permission to come anywhere within five hundred feet of Tilly, by local court order at the request of her legal owner, one Mr. Tibbet, of Maryland, it seemed.

The plan had worked, and Tilly was safe from the Senator. Now we simply needed to bribe or otherwise trick her guard, and we could have her back safely with us.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia, or,

Ni,

of ShiraDest Publications

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 47: Attention as Currency…

Chapter 47

They agreed to my plan, but only by the skin of my teeth.

Several members of our network had gathered to present me with a letter from a fellow in a different state, asking about a specific visitor of the Senator’s.

“True, gentlemen. It is dangerous to contact Tilly’s owner.”

I had to agree. “But, we already have a great deal of information about both Smith and Mr. Loving.”

One nodded:

“Yes, some are even coming to admire Mr. Loving,” with a deep frown. “They say that despite being in the Senator’s employ, he abhors the institution of slavery.”

I leaned forward:

“Dividing them in order to better ruin the Senator will not be difficult, now that we know Smith’s vices. This would be of tremendous benefit to our cause, for a great many reasons, but,” I insisted, “Tilly’s owner is the key.”

I got several doubtful looks.

I raised a finger: “Tilly came to us via a different Conductor. There is no telling how many more overseers, bounty hunters, and other slave owners have the remaining details of our network.”

The Doubting Thomas began pacing the room. “True, but how does alerting her putative owner help us? He will simply come and claim her, legally.”

“Not if we can get to her before he arrives. He will send a telegram, surely, to have her held for him. And then…”

I raised a second finger.

I waited.

A Porter finished for me: “Then he must come in person to present proof of ownership.”

“Just so. And during that time,” I spaced my hands as if opening a letter, ”between his telegram and his arrival, we have an opportunity.”

I had written back to my questioner to tell him that I had indeed heard of his visitor, and proceeded, a bit slowly, to encode my response in a fairly long letter to him, giving him as many details as I could recall of that visit, and any other names, dates, and gifts, I could recall.

A funny thought hit me, as I remembered a peculiar piece of embroidery. I’d worked on it during the visit by a certain New York Life Insurance company man. I had been given a certain handkerchief by Miss Mary, saying that the Senator had need of more like this, right away. I was to copy the decoration in the corners. It was a simple decoration, and I had briefly wondered why the Senator would want this rather than some pretty flower or other motif. I knew, now. It was no decoration. It had been letters. Someone’s initials. But they were not the Senator’s initials. Who had that gift been for, and to what end?

I vowed never again to work in ignorance. I would always know the ends of any work I was doing. After all, was that not the truest part of freedom?

To get the attention of Tilly’s legal owner, I decided that another gift might help. Information on this dispute between Price and the Senator might gain his attention. Surely he was looking for young Tilly. How to find his name?

If we could provoke the confrontation between Smith and Loving, and ensure that someone credible reported the words from that confrontation to Charles Price, he might lead us to Tilly’s “owner”. What words could lead Price to find that man for us, I was not yet sure.

One Conductor, after hearing my story of the years spent in attendance upon the Senator, had urged me to listen to my instinct, as I worked out my plan to free little Tilly. For it was I who was left to do this, largely alone. Those of this city were worried over the damage to the network, working urgently to find any other men susceptible to doing what our former friend Farmer Brown had done.

So, obeying my instinct, I tried to find a way to involve that horrid trader in human flesh, Charles Price, and his men in this affair, in the hopes that they would at the very least, help spread the word, if not directly Tilly’s owner. We knew that Price was seeking to lay hands on my beloved Anna. We must make Tilly important, somehow, to Price, before this tavern brawl, Then, unleash the mad dog Smith and his men upon the poor Mr. Loving.

I did feel a twinge of guilt as I planned an event which I knew would be to the emotional detriment, if not also to the very person, of the Senator’s personal secretary. I did not feel too much guilt, however, for the man was still a well paid employee whose salary came in large part from the suffering of many people held in chains.

Price, himself being even more involved in the traffic of people in chains, might feel it important to know why the two head hirelings of his chief associate in this endeavor to recapture us, as it might affect him, were quarreling.

If we could have Price’s men there, if not even Price himself, to hear for themselves this quarrel that would transpire between Smith and Loving, then perhaps he would Tilly’s owner. Especially if that brawl made the papers. After the articles were published, we could then have friends of our cause follow up by sending letters to the editors of the various papers to which they were subscribers, and in this way, extend the reach of the news of what would happen here. Better still, if Price should feel that his interest were somehow threatened, he might intervene personally to protect Tilly merely as a way to protect Anna.

“Ouch!”

I needed to pay more attention to what I was doing. The idea came back to me of how the Senator appeared not to be paying his overseers, the perfect source of disgruntlement. If Smith was seen as being favored by the Senator, he would blame Mr. Loving, especially if they happen to stumble over the bookish man as they were being thrown out of the tavern. How to raise the question of their lacking pay? Perhaps by having the tavern keeper insist on payment in coin for their drink? Would he take such a risk when the Senator was likely to have given orders to put their drinking down to his credit? Unless…

If a stealthy unseen onlooker were able to put a word into one of their ears, for them to shout out, making the others think that it had come from one of their own, could that start the fight? But then, even so, that did not make mention of young Tilly’s being held in the Senator’s power. Somehow, the conflict must revolve around how the Senator was refusing to pay his overseers, while he was certainly paying for young Tilly to be boarded somewhere. And, well fed enough to be displayed at a baudy house, as someone else had called it. That must cost the Senator something in coin. Or did it? I couldn’t risk anyone speaking a word that would merely be dismissed and forgotten, or worse, still, causing an argument that had nothing to do with young Tilly.

I continued to ponder the problem of getting Price’s attention strongly enough to push him to communicate Tilly’s presence here to her owner. As I prepared to go to sleep, bedding down this night in the back room of a dry goods shop with a sheep dog for company, an idea came to me. What if we gave him the firm impression that the Senator had every intention of doing to Anna what he was now doing to young Tilly?

“Well, that would both threaten the value of his investment, now wouldn’t it,” I had asked my furry companion.

I got no answer from the sheep dog, but if Price thought that the Senator posed even the slightest threat to Anna, he would intervene at once, as would any southern slave owner, particularly of anyone would could be considered a Fancy, as Anna could have been. It was a dangerous idea, but it was next to my only idea, and I had no time to lose. Now, I needed someone brave enough to be in the tavern, willing to plant the words that would begin a brawl among well armed and drunken southern men.

I then recalled the young Porter whom I had dubbed Courageous Red. I wondered just how much courage he had, for courage, he would need if he took up this endeavor. I had finished writing a message that seemed sufficiently innocuous not to need coding, especially if I could get it directly to him, or to another Porter whom I trusted to give directly to him.

“Now, how do we get this note to him, hmm, my furry friend?”

Again, my sheep dog merely looked up at me, but giving me no reply. Just then, a ray of sunlight shone through the window, and I was surprised to see that it was already dawn. How quickly the night had passed as I meditated upon my plan, but it had finally been worth the lost sleep, for now I could begin putting the pieces in place. As I rose to freshen myself for the day, I heard a knock at the inner door, and cautiously went to answer it. The dog ran ahead of me, eagerly pawing the keyhole, as though he recognized the person on the other side. Thus reassured, I opened it, to find the very person I had intended to speak with standing waiting, hat in hand as the last time we had spoken.

“Well, good morning,” I smiled with a nod, “Courageous Red.”

“Good morning, Ma’am.”

He gave me a shy smile, bowed, and then handing me a message. I accepted it with a nod of thanks, glanced down at it, and as I handed him my message, curtsied, and then shut the door in his face. I hated to be so discourteous, but I had gotten a glimpse of the name on the message.

The sender claimed to be Anna!

***

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 46: Contingencies?

Chapter 46

The Station Master had more news for me, as it turned out. I had been moved immediately after I had burned the note from Mrs. Brutus, going directly from the barn where I had been working upon the Station Master’s arrival, with a Conductor whom I had met upon first arriving in the city, to a new safe house, not even meeting the Station Master there, but, leaving Captain at my old lodging, while being told that young Tilly’s gelding was to go to a different stable, in a private home outside of the city. From there, the gelding would be sent in various stages to rejoin the family of Brutus once they were resettled farther north, in a different state.

The betrayal by our Farmer Brown was a painful shock to me, but would also harm all of us in a multitude of ways, starting with our ability to trust anyone and any information coming from Maryland. Washington City and County, too. I wondered if those at Mount Zion Church, back in what I now knew to be Georgetown, rather than the Federal City itself, had gotten this sad news. I hoped that those evil slave gaoles, several sitting nearly within site of the President’s House, were not even now being filled with my benefactors, men who had helped organizing my own escape from the Senator’s clutches. Their entire network must now also be in grave danger. Anna and I were also now closer, by the information given over to our enemies by our Mr. Brown, to the grasp of the men whom the law considered to be our legal owners.

I had no way of knowing whether Anna had gotten wind of these recent doings, but I felt that I must find a way to get a message to her. Friends of the cause had heard that there was,

“a game afoot to cast the serpents who worked for some large slaveholders out of our fair city.”

This obscure sort of half explanation was intended to prevent any sharing of unnecessary information, especially to those not part of the larger endeavor. I only hoped that these precautions would suffice.

I had decided that removing Smith from the Senator’s employ would no longer suffice, since Tilly was only a pawn as far as the Senator was concerned, in his larger vicious game. It was evident that the first thing I must do was to find a way to get the fact of Tilly’s being in the hands of the Senator communicated to the man who was deemed her legal owner, and this must be done as quickly as possible. Short of actually rescuing her from the custody of Smith and his rabid dogs, only that man was capable of saving our poor Tilly, as the situation stood, it seemed to me. I cast about for some other means of removing her from the clutches of that foul beast and the disgusting fate that awaited our poor Tilly should that beast confirm the receipt of valid information on my present location at the hands of any man with the means to find me. The original idea of dividing Smith from Mr. Loving in order to better ruin the interests of the Senator still held some appeal for later, but for now, my priority had to be finding a way to get little Tilly into some safer location.

While it would be running a terrible risk, bringing the man who would surely be seeking after and most desirous to punish young Tilly, it seemed to me that that would be the surest, and fastest, way to prevent her from being given over to an even worse fate, in the inevitable event that some man provided him with verifiable information on my whereabouts. But no southern man like the Senator would consent to the degradation and possible damage to his property, as Tilly being violated by some foul beast of a man represented, unless it was under his authority. I was counting on the legal owner of Tilly being such a southern man. Also, given the knowledge of the financial problems which the Senator was currently hiding, and what we hoped would also become serious legal problems, once the case of the burning of Dr. H’s home arrived in some court whose jurisdiction, this was a word I had heard the Senator use, and now had even seen it in a book for myself, the Senator could not ignore. If a well known slave trader like Charles Price were in open dispute, via the papers, with the Senator over the origins of that house fire, then it could only lead to further problems for the arrogant beast, sooner or later. I thought that it would suit us most if those problems arrived for the Senator sooner. But how could I arrange to get word, in some safe and evidently anonymous way, to the fiend who held himself to be the legal owner of our poor Tilly?

***

( Although this chapter was originally written some years ago, it now seems to be a bit too predictable, given the recent feedback on chapter 45. Instead of further editing this chapter, I may need to cut it entirely, and think of a more surprising plot twist, in the next draft…

-Nia)

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 45: Fates Worse…

Chapter 45

We put our plan into action. I’d spoken with several who had been taking turns listening at the taverns and following Smith and his men, changing costumes often, I was glad to hear. They told me that they did this especially often when they followed Loving, who tended to be far more solitary, and thus more difficult to follow. Many were young men, boys, even, who found the adventure of this chase both exciting, and a story for their grandchildren, one confided in me.

“You are like unto a damsel in distress.”

His gaze upon me made me blush, and we both turned our heads. He had even knelt before me, hat in his hands held over his heart, his red hair clipped so short it was sticking up at all angles on his head. I reproached myself bitterly for not having seen this.

“I am loath to give offense, but as much as I am honored by your affection, my heart belongs, to another.”

This young man seemed kind and courageous. He took my rejection in good humor, saying:

“Nonetheless, I will ever be you defender, come what may.”

“I thank you,” I paused, searching for a name: “May I call you Courageous Red?”

His face lit up like the sun, as he scampered out the door.

Because of my training in grooming horses, courtesy of the family of Brutus, I was moved by a Conductor early in the pre-dawn hours to a new Station: a stable. Adding paddock boots to my costume, I tended the horses.

I saw many whom I had met earlier during my stay, coming and going with messages all day. They always looked relaxed once they crossed the threshold into the stable, as though suddenly free from the weight of vigilance.

One of those messages, to my surprise, a young boy delivered into my own hand, right under the curry comb I was using at that moment, just about mid-day.

The message could only be from a vanishingly small number of people, as most working class women could not read. Few knew that I could. I waited until he left, and then chose a stall with good light, as though going to see to my personal needs. It was a very short note, written in the hand of Brutus’ wife, which I recognized from all of her recipes as she had taught me to cook. It said only:

Farmer Brown has betrayed us. Burn this note. Mrs. B.

I stood in the stall in shock, glad of the privacy, horrified that this man whom I had thought to be our friend would do such a thing. An entire free family was now at the mercy of a law which not only made their activities illegal, but also punished colored people far more harshly than white citizens. Even worse, Mr. Brown knew all of us.

He knew me, he knew young Tilly, he knew Anna, and he knew, or had known, all three of our horses. He had been a stable hand in the home of family for some years, so he could also point each of them out on sight.

As I stood in the stall fighting back tears for the friends who had saved us in Shrewsbury, I head footsteps crossing into the barn. A voice called out my name. Or rather, my newest name.

“Jenny, are you decent?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

I hurried out to make the worker’s curtsy to the Conductor who had led me here in the morning, showing me which stalls to give to our Tilly’s little gelding, who needed coaxing to eat, these days. I often wondered if this little horse missed both Captain and Old Mary as much as I did their riders.

He looked very sad, and grim. His thin lips were stretched nearly flat, and they were entirely devoid of blood.

“I have bad news, I am afraid.”

I could see that, already. And just as I had been starting to have high hopes for our plan, as it began to show fruit. Tonight had been fixed as the evening to draw both of the Senator’s head men together. Smith was more and more belligerent lately, making it easy to get him thrown out. But these tidings looked like they might change things. I nodded, giving him my full attention.

“I’m afraid that your friend, young Tilly, may be out of our hands.”

My eyebrows shot up, and I waited.

“She seems to have been sold.”

“Sold?” I was confused.

“But her former owner has been looking for her. Has he ceased to advertise for her in the papers, then? This makes no sense.”

“That is what we thought, too, but her owner seems to have renounced all claims to her.” He’d pronounced the word owner as if it were an expletive. “There have been no more postings for her, and now,” he had paused to look at me, frowning again, and said, “that Senator from Virginia has had Smith take her away, shutting her up along with his other people under Smith’s guard.”

The Senator? Bought Tilly? No. God, please, no! That could not be. She already had an owner who was searching for her, and that meant that … unless he had found her and was holding her for the other man?

“Why do you believe that her former owner has renounced all claims to her? Do you mean to say that you have seen a bill of sale for her, in his name, or” God forbid, “was there an auction?”

“No,” the man had rushed to say, putting out a reassuring hand, “nothing like that. Certainly not in this city,” he had added, as though such a commonplace thing, where I was from, were unthinkable here in the North.

“So…?”

“The Senator has been displaying her, rather … publicly, since yesterday.”

The man looked suddenly embarrassed, blushing deeply.

“Displaying?”

I continued to wait for a reply.

“He has been displaying her outside of a house of ill repute, promising to give her, free of charge, to any man with information on the whereabouts of a certain very light skinned …”

“For me.”

I felt nauseous, my knees trembling and my arms aching suddenly, fists clenched as I fought to draw breath and stay on my feet. How dare that foul beast of a man do such a thing to this child.

Then it occurred to me:

“But, how can he do that?”

I got another blush in response.

“I mean, without the permission of her owner, how can he do something that would compromise her value later, at auction, or even for a private sale.”

The man looked mildly shocked at my words, but I was merely repeating such things as I had heard the men in the company of the Senator saying for nearly my entire life, in Virginia.

“You must forgive me. I had forgotten that this is not a topic of general conversation up here in the North.”

“Is is so, down there?” He turned beet red, now. “I mean to say, down south?”

“Yes, it is,” I had replied. “And rather too often, I am afraid.”

But how had the Senator been able to find Tilly, and why do this to her? We knew that he must have found out we were all together, after that woman had locked us in and called his men to come collect us, while she collected the rewards on our heads. But how had he gotten hold of her?

In the instant that a thought came to me, I knew that it was true. Could I really have any other choice?

“I am very sorry,” then, almost in a murmur, “the poor child.”

I had quite forgotten that this man was still standing there. Perhaps he would know.

“Do we know how she came to be in the clutches of that foul b-, man?”

His eyebrows had risen, hearing me about to call the Senator a beast, but a knowing nod was all that betrayed his thoughts. He heaved a great sigh, as though he were thinking something over.

“We were able, through some accountants who are friends of the cause, to trace her papers, which have been examined,” he added quickly, “and the papers are genuine, or at least they appear so, being properly notarized with the Virginia state seal,” he paused, and then said, “only to trace the sale to another enterprise in that state.”

Then he sighed again.

“And now we also know how she was found, for it seems that this was no accident, I am afraid.”

Of course it was not. Nothing was, with the Senator. I braced my self, waiting to hear what was coming.

“It seems that the child had been tracked down by a certain notorious bounty hunter, and with the help of a formerly enslaved man.”

“But if he has not even been paying Smith and his men, as we have heard, then how has he been able to pay this bounty hunter?”

“On credit, from what we have been able to glean.”

That made sense. I now recalled a long ago discussion between the Senator and Loving. Some of his creditors were demanding that any new purchases be made in coin, others calling for full payment of his debts. I’d forgotten that gentlemen were always presumed to be in good standing, and expected to be extended credit for nearly all of their purchases.

“Some of our watchers saw the kidnapping take place, but were unable to stop it.” He frowned, and then his face brightened:

“I know that particular Porter, and I can assure you that he, at least, would have tried, if he could have gotten to the horse in time.”

He coughed as I looked down, balling my fist.

“But we did get a good description of the colored man who grabbed her. He’s likely working in the employ of the bounty hunter, for whom the set of expenses, including his hire of the man who identified young Tilly, was enumerated as part of the set of transactions listing the child’s sale to the Senator.”

So that was how they had found the slave catcher who had caught young Tilly. This sounded like the work of Mr. Loving. I heard him ordered to investigate rivals, both political and business related, from time to time. And the slave catcher, if he had found young Tilly, must have had help. Who was this former slave he kept mentioning, though?

“How do you know of this former slave that helped capture Tilly? You seem to be very familiar with that man.”

He frowned, his face falling even further. “We are, or we were, at any rate, sadly.”

“How so?”

“The man was once a friend not only to the cause, but also to some friends of yours, in Shrewsbury. That family has had to leave the state, now, due to this sad business.”

“Wait,” I said, feeling a growing pain in the pit of my stomach, “not the former slave who left that town not long before we ourselves did?”

He had nodded, then hung his head, holding it in one hand, and admitting:

“The same, yes. It seems that he somehow met up with this bounty hunter, whether by accident or of his own free will, we do not know. From the large number of expenses requested for payment, it seems that he gave away quite a lot of information, about many of us, to his employer, for quite some time before Tilly was taken by him.”

That, I realized, explained how the Senator knew that using young Tilly to get to me would be an effective attention keeping strategy, a phrase I had heard him use many times before. It would also keep the attention of much of our network of friends in the surrounding states. He could sell a wealth of information about Brutus. And about Old Mary’s training, Captain, and my beloved Anna. This was very bad.

I knew that for the Senator, faking a document with the seal of the Commonwealth of Virginia was a trivial matter. None of this business of a sale by Tilly’s owner made sense, given what she had told us, what Anna had surmised, and also the words of Dr. H.

What did make sense, given my knowledge of the Senator’s lack of scruples, even for his fellow white property owners, was that he might have faked documents. They might keep until young Tilly’s owner finally got word that she was up here, and sent to retrieve her. After that, even the Senator would face serious consequences.

I heard a throat clear. I had forgotten his presence. He’d been telling me about my old acquaintance at the home of Brutus, who was now a traitor, who had given our little Tilly into the hand of the enemy.

“I believe that he was often known as Farmer-”

“Brown.”

“Yes,” he had acknowledged.

When I realized that this was how our Farmer Brown had betrayed us, I knew I could never forgive him.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or

Ni,

fka Shira A. Destinie Jones

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 44: Plans

Chapter 44

I was moved by yet another Porter to a new Station. A laundry, where I was to work, or at least pretend to do so. I also intended to make a plan, as Anna always did.

My face was rubbed with coal, a work bonnet covering my hair. A large working dress and old cloak covered the rest of me. I was helping to stir the dirty linens, and pondering my plan, as I kept to a dark corner. I remained ready to follow one of my fellow laundresses at the slightest signal. A boy was assigned to watch the door for strangers, constables, and informers.

“You might be better off continuing your journey North alone, Miss B.”

I’d raised an eyebrow, waiting for the other shoe.

“It would be safer for all.”

I refused to leave without any word of the fate of young Tilly, and the whereabouts of Anna. I knew that the one would never stop hoping for us to find her, and the other would never rest until we did.

My plan should work. One thing I’d had plenty of time to do, trapped in that house in Virginia, was to observe. I had seen how those around me reacted, to the Senator, to his visitors, to the overseers, to myself, and to each other. Invisible, as only a piece of decoration can be, I’d watched and listened, even if I spent much of my time trying to forget most of what I’d witnessed. Now, I realized, I must draw upon that which I had tried to throw away.

I knew that Smith was a jealous man, and now I added proud, and unlettered, to the list. Those were faults which my plan must use to our advantage. He must be cut out of the picture, as a spot of mold is cut away from a piece of cheese. There must be some way to encourage, help, trick, or trap him into making a mistake that would remove him.

I hesitated at the idea of plotting a man’s death, for I was no murderess, but I had to admit that a deadly bout of over drinking, or accidentally eating a poisonous mushroom, would not go unwelcome. Removing one of the Senator’s most trusted men, and one who was a distinct danger, would serve us very well, indeed. But how to help that happen?

The animosity between Smith and Loving must be used to render both unable to move forward in the service of the Senator.

“Ouch!”

Heads lifted from their work and turned in my direction. I raised a hand to show that I was alright, bending back to my task. I must be more mindful. Keeping an eye on the boiling water, I continued stirring the laundry cauldron. I went back to mulling over how Smith’s vices could be used to our benefit.

Cutting him out would make life more difficult for the Senator, at least temporarily. That should make it easier for us to find Tilly, and then I could move further north.

Anna, would surely hear of our progress, and could join us later. But how to make some concrete use of that division between the two servants of this Pharaoh?

“Paid.”

“Sorry, what was that, Miss Berty?”

“Oh, sorry, Miss Jenny,” I had babbled, “just thinking out loud.”

“Oh, alright then, but mind your work, do remember, Dearie.”

Her voice had been kindly, but stern, and she wasn’t wrong. It was dangerous to forget to pay attention in these surroundings. As much for the spies and informers, as for the large vats of boiling laundry.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once it was dark, and everyone had left for the day, I got word that I was wanted for a conference with two Station Masters. They wished to know more about the Senator’s operations, and Loving, in particular. I made a note to myself to remember to mention the man’s evident dislike of Smith, and to ask after Brutus’ wife, while thanking her for teaching me how to judge cheese.

I learned, at that meeting, that in addition to the other actors already known to us, there were a new variety of miscreants active in the city. Some were free men of color in the employ of bounty hunters. The Senator had raised the reward for my capture, and added to those for Tilly and Anna, directing them to be given directly into his custody, by the hand of Smith, here in Philadelphia. Both Station Masters urged me to leave the city at once, but how could I leave young Tilly, and my dear Anna? So I told them of my plan.

“They are already divided, so it may be that all we need to do is simply give them a little push, and that fighting between them can grow into a full scale conflagration.”

I saw one Station Master nod, though looking a bit doubtful. I continued.

“Smith is already spending time in the tavern, and his men are already very unhappy here. Is that not so, gentlemen?”

They had both nodded, evidently having heard at least some of the same reports that I had known must be circulating about the rantings of Smith and his men. I could see that these two Station Masters, both accustomed to shepherding their passengers from one short stay to the next, were not eager to involve themselves in what seemed to be a pointless argument among hired men, but I was sure that there was something larger at stake, here. I tried to explain it as I knew from my years of observing all three of these men.

“The Senator, as he claims, was the key mover in passing this law which so badly affects you now, here up North, is this not so?”

Both men had nodded, as I had known they must agree. Brutus had explained to me that a great many white abolitionists had been angered by the law about which the Senator had boasted so much, which I now knew to be called the Fugitive Slave Act of 1851.

Just four years ago, then, the citizens of even states as far away as New York, or in great cities like Boston, had been affected, and they were angry. So how could it be that a person, myself, who had been privy to the private dealings of the Senator, should not have some idea of how to make good use of this dispute between his men? I had seen how puffed up the Senator, and his man Smith as well, had been, while Loving, who, as the Senator’s personal secretary, ought to have been even more proud of such an accomplishment.

Loving, as the Senator’s real right hand man, must have done a great deal of the actual work involved in bringing that work to fruition. I explained how any affront to the Senator’s good standing affected his relations with the powerful men of Virginia. These, he was always concerned not to offend. At least, not openly. I further explained that if Loving were as angry with the Senator as I suspected him to be, then he was the perfect tool with which to bring down the Senator, starting with Loving’s rival, Smith.

“Which should not be too difficult, seeing as how that drunkard is already doing half the work for us, in the taverns every night.”

This comment from one Station Master reassured me. Smith and his discontented men were now in the habit of carousing rather than searching for me. That likely indicated that they had still not been paid. The taverns were merely allowing them to dispose of the credit in the Senator’s good name. If we could show, by getting Loving to make some misstep, that the first was no longer good, then the second would not take long to follow.

My plan was to get Loving to admit that the Senator was, in fact, no longer in good standing with his creditors. That would begin by bringing the two men together in a public place so that words could be had, heard, and written down. All our men needed to do was to sit in the tavern, help get Smith and his men drunk, which should be no great challenge.

We’d then find a way to lure Loving to the right street, and trip him out in front of the tavern. We would get Smith and his hooligans thrown out at just that moment, running in to Loving there.

It should be no great difficulty to either tip one of the servers or merely encourage a local youth to pull some prank that would start a brawl, and get Smith ejected from the tavern, along with his rascals.

“After all, I don’t imagine that these men are very well appreciated, even at the best of times,” I had observed.

Neither Station Master objected to this idea. They agreed to set the stage and have the audience ready. A show, indeed. On which my freedom and that of many of my fellow bondsmen depended.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni, fka Shira Destinie A. Jones

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 39: The City

Chapter 39

“She went that way…”

I need a better hiding place.

I had eaten sparingly these past days. All three of us had, despite the lady of the house urging us to eat. We knew not how the fortunes of the journey ahead might treat us, and whether food would be easily had, after this resting place. I knew not even the name of this town. It was as if the townsmen were afraid to speak, lest a similar fate befall them.

I began to hear shouts in the direction that Anna had retreated.

I ducked lower.

Shrewsbury. The name of that town would forever be linked with blood. A town of double loss. We kept to the woods. Nowhere would we be safe, we had been told, until we got to the city of Philadelphia.

That great city, they told me, had once served as the capital of this nation, before the Federal City was built. Now, it seemed that this city, like Boston, was committed to the cause of the Abolition of the condition of servitude. In all of these United States.

We were told that here was a place where we would be sheltered, protected, and given aid and guidance to further our journey North up to Canada. I had tried to trust in what I was being told.

But, as it turned out, it was not true.

***

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 36: Returns and Departures

Chapter 36

I nearly leapt out of my chair.

Anna!

How had Brutus gotten such an idea? Had he spoken with her, himself? And why mark the phrase Particular Friend, which was quite normal for a close friendship, but not normal, at all, on his lips.

It was Anna’s lips that I was thinking of, now. I put away the thought, and hoped I was not blushing. Both adults were watching me closely. My little Tilly seemed to have let the cat out of the bag with her impish grin. I tried to regain my composure:

“So, she does, does she?” I stuttered, finally choking out the question, “does she remember what happened at the tavern,” and then I understood.

“Wait, how did you-”

“She’s here.”

I blinked. Here? Had I had heard correctly? I sat forward on my chair, my arms out, elbows bent, as if holding a tray of biscuits, and dropping it. That couldn’t be right.

“She-”

I didn’t have time to get my question out before I heard:

“She’s here.”

This time Brutus had spoken. They both looked up at the stairs, and then back at me. Then, they both smiled.

While I was rising from my seat, little Tilly had already sprung out of her chair, raced up the stairs, and was presently stomping down a hallway. How did she know where to go? When could Anna have gotten here, and how had I not seen her?

“Just how long has she been here, and-”

“We do have more than one set of stairs, you know.”

Brutus was grinning like a man who’d escaped from the lunatic asylum. My questions were all swept aside by the voice of young Tilly reverberating off the walls:

“Annaaaaa!!”

Both parents and all of the children burst in to gales of laughter. Two of the children fell out of their chairs and rolled along the floor in gales of merriment as if they’d seen Saint Nick.

I looked up toward the source of that delighted cry, and heard two sets of footsteps above us. At last, I saw her.

“Anna.”

I ran up the stairs, just as little Tilly had done, no longer caring about the eyes that might be upon us. I flew into a waiting pair of arms.

Anna was back!

I could hardly believe my eyes. I sat her next to me, young Tilly sitting on her other side, both of us hugging her. Brutus cleared his throat, and his wife offered a hot plate of food for Anna. Neither Tilly nor I wanted to let her go, but we relented. We finished eating in the silence of angels. With her company, manna from heaven could not have tasted better.

Later, she told us of her travels from our tiny bush arbor, her contact with the Porter in a town which she would not name, but that seemed to be a bit north of this one, and of how she had heard of Smith’s setting the fire. That was how she had known to come here.

She had lain low, not daring to approach any of the people of this town until after Smith and his men had left. She agreed that his scouts, and other hired men, too, would be about, as spies. She had also heard news about that woman from the tavern.

“She does not own that tavern any more, if ever she did.”

Brutus had gotten word about the tavern, too.

“Oh?” Anna had raised an eyebrow at him, waiting to hear more.

“Seems she got bought out, lock, stock and barrel, by one of the Virginia senators, and that mangy cur Smith has been installed there, close by.”

While he sounded angry, somehow, Brutus did not sound very worried. I know I am. We did not have the luxury of resting very long. Anna seemed to be of the same mind, for she abruptly stood up:

“We must go, soon.”

“How soon,” I asked, fearing the worst.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “maybe even tonight, which would be better, in fact.”

I sighed. She must be right. Thinking over what provisions I had already managed to pack, I thought we could make do. I nodded. Tilly and I were both well fed, healthy, and prepared for the journey, even if we had not expected to leave quite so soon. I had hoped we could stay in this house this night.    A bath before leaving would be welcome. I wondered how long it would be before any of us could next have a bath. Take care in making wishes, for they often come true.  

We triple checked our saddlebags. Brutus lent young Tilly the smallest horse the family had, a small gelding that was good with the children. It was their favorite. When I tried to object to taking their favorite horse, Brutus reassured me that:

“We will look to get him back as a carriage horse, don’t you worry about it. The Porters along the way will return him after they introduce you to your next Conductor.”

Our journey was to be a simple one, with a porter in a town off the main road which Anna knew well, who would lead us to one of the Conductors in that town. It seemed that Brutus had anticipated this Departure, and sent word ahead. We would fall back upon our old ruse if need be, expecting it more likely to work this time, in no small part due to the number of well-wishers and even of white citizens who simply detested being manipulated by Southern slave holding interests. They would look the other way even if they did not really believe our ruse.

Buoyed by all of the support, planning, and good food we had shared, the three of us left the house after the children had scouted the area for about five miles around. They reported all quiet, then went to bed. Anna also made her own search of part of the route ahead.

We left, escorted by Brutus, who had also sent two porters to check road and paths, while he scouted through the woods as Anna was doing her search, and Tilly and I rechecked our saddlebags and our story. During those early morning hours as I looked back at the house for the last time, I prayed that these children might finish growing up in a world where the risks that their parents took was no longer necessary.

Anna had only told us that we were to cut across country so as to be as sure as we could to avoid the roads, and thus not making it easy for Smith to find us. If he obeyed, for a while at least, the Pennsylvania court’s order to remove his dogs, then it would be at least a week, she had estimated, in agreement with other estimates, including that of Brutus, before Smith could return to Shrewsbury to continue his search for us.

The most reliable information that we had put eyewitnesses watching the man and his cronies loading their dogs into wagons and following the road back down south, having been confirmed at several places in Maryland by the lookouts, who wired telegrams to one another for the express purpose of keeping as many eyes as possible on such a threat to the entire network in this part of the eastern seaboard. And to think that only a few short months ago, I had had no idea what the eastern seaboard might be. Now, I was traversing half of it, with two other intrepid souls who had become very dear to me.

“We are about half way there.” Anna allowed a short rest, but no fire. She had a short look around, and came back to tell us that all seemed well. I began to hope, when I was reminded, again, never count chickens before they are hatched. What had reminded me was the sound of a gunshot.

I saw, dimly as through a broken mirror, young Tilly’s gelding bolt. Anna ran to catch the reins as they passed her. Tilly was riding between us, with Anna in the lead, Old Mary and I bringing up the rear.

As Anna grabbed the bridle of young Tilly’s gelding, Old Mary stumbled, falling to the ground in a tangle of legs and saddlebags.

Old Mary had been shot.

***

(New working title is Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni…)

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 33: Betrayal?

Chapter 33

Farmer Brown had left the barn, and Brutus had walked in, glaring at me:

“Your little gal has betrayed us.”

My breath cut short. That can’t be right. How could it be?

“What? Which little gal?”

How could that be possible? Young Tilly, he had told me, was safe. Little Sal. My dear little Sally. She had also known about Dr. H.

“No.”

Brutus glowered at me. Then, he repeated himself, as if speaking to a small child:

“You heard me right. I said your little high yella gal, has betrayed us.”

That could only mean little Sal.

“And what about Little Tilly?”

“Oh, she’s safe. Don’t you worry about her. She is in good hands. It’s that other little friend of yours,” he had looked at me, here, as if to emphasize that young Tilly could not possibly be any real relation to me, “that quadroon child.”

His look was even more hostile than when we first met.

“Little Sally.”

He had nodded once, and then pursed his lips. I fought to keep the tears in my eyes from brimming over, recalling the flesh of Miss Mary’s back hanging in ribbons from her limp body, little Sal tied next to her. I refused to believe that this man, and this whole town, could believe that small child guilty of such a thing.

“Who could she have possibly betrayed, she is-”

“From here to half of Maryland,” he had said, a grim set to his face that promised swift and brutal vengeance upon the source of this calamity. I stepped back, aghast. He spat out the confirmation I had feared:

“Dr. H, his wife, and another Conductor, too.”

My stomach turned. Our meeting site by the President’s House, and from there to Dr. H’s house. She knew.

“But she was whipped, wasn’t she,” I began, hoping to make him see reason, “she was just a little thing.”

My pleading eyes met rock solid refusal in his stare.

“She is just like little Tilly!”

He shook his head, setting his face against me, as if the two young girls were not only of different skin colors, but belonged to two different species’ altogether. As if I were also from a wholly different species than he.

I frowned. Then I understood. The grapevine must be asking how could I resist turning on the rest of them.

“Really?”

His tone of voice woke me up, hitting me in the chest. I felt as if a hole had been punched in my very heart.

“What is wrong with you?”

I had not been able to contain myself.

“That poor girl has clearly been forced.”

More grief threatened to break my gritted teeth and spill past my lips.

Brutus only glared. Then he spat out the worst of it:

“She has compromised our entire operation for moving people across the Mason-Dixon Line.”

“What?” I swallowed the bile that began to rise up in my throat. All our hopes, ruined. How? I had seen little Sal tied there, that night, by the light of the fire. Then I remembered. Even worse than the information that little Sal might have divulged. If her confessions had led them to Dr. H, then that meant…

“Berty?”

Berty? Who was Berty? A female voice, deep and soothing, was calling that name, almost in a whisper, while something warm and soft patted my face. The voice sounded familiar, and not dangerous, but who? It was not Miss Mary, nor yet that of my dear and so long missed Anna. The smell of lavender wafted into my nose, and with it, that voice:

“Miss Berty, honey, wake up.”

I opened my eyes, and the face of Brutus’ wife brought me back to the present moment. And to the present problem. Oh, God, I must have fainted. Every one from Pennsylvania down to Virginia would be in danger, and… I clenched my fists to keep from vomiting. Anna. Then, all was nausea and darkness, again.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia,

or Ni, fka Shira Destinie Jones

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 32: New Skills

Chapter 32

“Good mornin’, ma’am.”

I awoke just before sunrise to the soft nuzzling of Old Mary’s habitual morning greeting. The first thing I thought of was Tilly, but the next thing I thought of was Old Mary’s frog. I had slept in her stall, curled up next to her for warmth, even sharing one of my blankets with her, since I did not know if horses felt the cold the way we human beings do. I was also missing both Anna and Tilly, as I tried not to mourn for my poor Miss Mary. Was she was alive or dead? I pushed away the thought of what might have happened to poor little Sally, using the work of examining and cleaning Old Mary’s hoof to force myself to focus on the here and now. I must start making inquiries to find Tilly, I reminded myself, trying not to worry about where my dear Anna might be right now. I feared that she might worry if we took too long to get to our destination. That plan now seemed like nearly a lifetime ago.

I gave Old Mary and the other horses their morning feed, as the children had taught me. Then I started on their daily barn chores, mucking out the stalls. I was finishing the first stall when I heard Farmer Brown call out:

“Good morning!”

He doffed his hat to me as I turned to greet him, leaning on my rake. He started to laugh as if the circus was in town.

“What’s so funny?”

He swiped at his face, wiping tears out of his eyes, and pointed to my legs. Then he laughed even more. I looked down to see my bloomers, now spattered in muck. I had tucked my skirts up but forgotten to wear hose.

“Oh.”

Now I saw why barn chores was children’s work.

I began to laugh along with him. Then I saw three little heads pop up, laughing with us. The children were rolling in the hay up in the loft. Old Mary, whose presence I had entirely forgotten, nudged me in the back affectionately with her head, and I rubbed her muzzle.

“I am sorry that I have no carrots or apples for you, ma’am.”

Old Mary tossed her head.

“That’s not like you, miss Lady.” Are you also worrying about our little Tilly? I saw Farmer Brown looking at us, but he held his peace.

“Could you have a look at my work on Old Mary’s frog, here, please, Mr. Brown? I just want to be sure-”

He stepped over and took hold of her hoof mid sentence.

“Won’t you take her out of her stall and bring her over by the door. Light’s better.”

Why had I not thought of that this morning?

He had inspected it, pronounced it a tolerably good job, and then cleaned it just a bit more before spreading a salve on it.

“Breakfast is ready.”

We both jumped.

Brutus’ wife smiled as she turned, gesturing gracefully for us to follow her. Neither of us had seen her come in.

Mr. Brown looked around, seeing the result of all the morning’s earlier work, and gave me a satisfied nod:

“You learn pretty quick there, Miss Berty.”

I felt a jolt of pride as I straightened up and delivered him my best curtsy, telling him

“Why thank you kindly, Farmer Brown.”

I couldn’t help adding a slightly mocking intonation. He shook his head while rolling his eyes, and then did something I did not expect.

He offered me his arm. I accepted, glad for the comradery, and that I was at last beginning to learn some useful skills.

As we ate breakfast, I noticed Brutus observing me. He had the look of one who is trying to make up his mind about something. I had seen that look before. He was deciding what information to share with me.

Brutus exchanged a glance with his wife, then cleared his throat. We all stopped eating, and looked up at Brutus. He looked directly at me:

“I have seen the work you did today. You are a quick study, Miss Berty.” A general chuckle went around the table, “And you are also a hard worker.”

I nodded my thanks, waiting for him to continue.

“I will also admit that this is not something I had expected to see from the Quality,” his wife had looked sharply at him, and he grinned, adding, “Miss Berty.”

I smiled, and looked over at our Farmer Brown, before looking back at Brutus. I quirked an eyebrow. Brutus surely had more to say.

“Miss Berty,” he began, “I want to apologize to you, for the way I treated you yesterday.” He had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed as I nodded my acceptance. He went on, “You will know, of course, that many people of your complexion are not always friends to those of us with darker hued skin.”

I frowned, not knowing what to say. I knew that it was so. After a moment, I decided that there was really nothing I could say, and so I blinked, and nodded slowly. He looked satisfied, and drew a deep breath, as if he were about to reveal some important secret.

“I am one of the conductors in this town.”

He paused. I nodded again, grateful.

“Thank you for-”

But he held up a hand, and I fell silent.

“Our Farmer Brown here,” at this he arched an eyebrow in Mr. Brown’s direction, “has told me that you are anxious to know the whereabouts of the young child he saw traveling with you the other night.”

“Yes, do you know-”

Again, he held up his hand:

“Yes, I have news of a young child, who seems to fit the description that I have of your girl, and she is safe.”

I let out a sigh of relief that must have been heard all the way down to Mexico, and then looked at him, waiting.

He nodded, repeating, “she is safe,” and gave me a strange look, then continued, “with a trusted family, being looked after, as you are here, looking after your horse.”

He fell silent, then, his face closed. That is all I will hear, for now. I nodded, and waited to see if he had anything more to say. He dug a fork into his grits, as did all of us, finishing our breakfasts in silence. At least little Tilly she was safe. That was about all that I could ask for, right now.

After breakfast, I walked back to the barn with Mr. Brown, who was going to have a look at each of the horses from top to bottom. I was going back, without my bloomers, to the task of mucking out stalls and tidying up the barn.

After a while, as we worked, I heard him clear his throat, and looked up to see him watching me. I arched an eyebrow, waiting.

“Do you know what you plan to do,” he finally started, “once you get up North?”

Where had this question come from?

“I really haven’t had time to give it much thought,” I finally admitted.

“Why?”

“Cause you will have to,” he was taking care to speak each word, for some reason, one at a time, as if in warning, or in prophecy, “decide.”

Then he stopped and looked up at me, almost accusingly. And he waited.

“Decide?” What was he getting at?

“Decide what, I pray?” And I did pray it was not what I thought it was.

“What color you wants to be.”

The directness of it took me by surprise, but not the idea. It was, sickeningly, what I thought it would be. Again. The question of my loyalty. Of whether I would pass. For white.

“I don’t think there is a choice, for I doubt I could pass if I wanted to. We tried it already, young Tilly and I, in Maryland, and I cannot pass, it seems.”

“You could pass alright, up North,” Farmer Brown had paused, then added, “most likely, but not ‘til you gets up to New York, at least, ‘sept for one of these newcomers straight off the boat, an’ thas only if none of these slave catchers gets to ‘em fust.”

He’s right. That explained why Dr. H’s wife had believed that our ruse could succeed, but the Dr. himself had looked less hopeful. For a Northerner like herself, I was as good as white, but native Southerners prided themselves on being able to recognize a quadroon or even an octoroon on first sight.

He smiled, a bit sad looking, saying,

“I been up to New York, sho’ wish I’da stayed up there, now, but I seen how they treat people like you.”

I looked up at him:

“People like me?” I frowned. “How?”

“Like they was white, “ he said simply.

***

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 31: The Quality?

Chapter 31

We were standing outside, I guessed in the kitchen vegetable patch. A sturdily built dark-skinned man strode out to meet us. The jagged scar down one side of his face met us first. He hurled a look that could’ve killed a bear at my companion:

“What do you mean by bringing a lady of quality around here, fool?”

How on earth he could have mistaken me for a well to do white woman, especially attired in my traveling clothes as I was? I hastened to correct him, saying,

“I am not a-”

“I know what you are,” the big man had spat out, not even sparing a glance in my direction.

His words hit me in the gut.

I lowered my head instinctively at the effect of that familiar tone, the same one the Senator always used on me. Then I remembered. This man, this Brutus, or whoever he might be, was not the Senator, and I was no longer a Fancy. Never again.

Ever. I straightened my head, pulled myself up to my full height, and tried to look defiant. I gave him what I hoped would pass for a cold stare:

“What I am, or am not, sir, is of no concern. This horse, I can assure you, most certainly is.” I saw two heads swivel in my direction as I pointed down at Old Mary’s hoof.

“This is Old Mary. She is a very special horse. I do not know how, as I know nothing of horses,” I paused as Brutus rolled his eyes, “but I do know that she has what can only be called some extraordinary,” I made sure to draw out the word, for Brutus’ benefit, “sort of training.”

At the lift of the large man’s eye brows, I added, “More than that, I am not at liberty to say.”

At his scowl, I hastened to add:

“Just yet.”

“Just yet?”

At least I had his attention. He must have seen her. Old Mary could only be here in this state if she had refused to leave young Tilly, as she had done with me when I lay injured. Even if she was merely here because this was where she had been injured, it did not make sense.

Such an intelligent creature would not stay near a house, trained as she was to avoid capture. Thus, Tilly had to be here. And I must find her before they did.

As for the other problem, my “Quality” problem, I was grateful that young Tilly was dark-skinned. At least she should be spared the suspicion which generally fell upon those of us who were lighter skinned.

I could understand his suspicion, for had I not heard in secret, myself, of those many slave rebellions smothered in their cradles by the betrayal of some mulatto or other to the masters? Had I not even seen, with my own eyes, how many of my fellow light-skinned slaves treated our darker fellows, as if we were not all chained in the same misery of bondage? Yet, was it not both unfair and unwise, to judge me merely upon a glance at the tone of my skin, rather than by my deeds?

“Well then, missy,” Brutus had answered suddenly with a glare toward my companion, stifling a word from our Farmer Brown as he appeared to be opening his mouth, perhaps to make introductions, “just what can this horse of yours do?”

Brutus had asked this, and waited, as if he didn’t expect that Old Mary could do any more than walk in a straight line, an almost comical expression on his face.

“Well, for one thing, I have seen her,” I hesitated.

“Hiding.” Mr. Brown had broken in to speak on my behalf. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

“What?!”

I flinched at Brutus’ half shouted retort. Old Mary merely grunted. I shared her disapproval. Mr. Brown, on the other hand, grinned.

He seemed to enjoy this. I had to admit that I also enjoyed his mild one-upping of this so far unpleasant man. I was glad that I had not been the one to mention Old Mary’s ability to hide.

Brutus shook his head.

“No.”

Mr. Brown nodded vigorously.

“You heard me,” he’d said with a lift of both his eyebrows and a tilt of his head, back toward Old Mary.

Brutus’ eyes had followed that tilted head over to Old Mary, seeming to look at her closely, now, for the first time. Our Mr. Brown had continued, in what sounded to me very much like an amused tone of voice:

“We found her laying herself down right there on the ground all shut up inside her own little bush arbor.”

Brutus snorted, “Right. And I-”

Farmer Brown cut him off:

“This here little mare knows how to hide herself,” he said, nodding at Old Mary. Then he winked at me!

The two men exchanged a look that confirmed my suspicion. There was more than a bit of bad blood between them. Farmer Brown seemed to be enjoying it immensely. I imagined he didn’t often get the better of this arrogant Freedman.

Brutus, at last, had looked at me. I contented myself with a nod.

Brutus looked back at Old Mary.

“What else?”

“I am not sure what you mean, sir.” He rolled his eyes at me as if to say that the Quality was also an idiot, before demanding:

“What else can this cotton-picking mare do?”

Both men looked at me and crossed their arms as if they were twins. I feared they might shoot poor Old Mary on the spot.

“Well,” I hesitated, lest Brutus decide to appropriate Old Mary for himself. “I am not at liberty to speak of persons involved in her training.”

“Then I may not be at liberty to keep her here.”

That finally decided me. If I was to find little Tilly, I must have help, and I must have Old Mary.

“She will stay with an injured rider. She can also lay down beside and even slide under a rider who has fallen off.”

Brutus pursed his lips and nodded, judging the risks, and cost, of tending to Old Mary. I’d been about to add that I would be happy to help tending to Old Mary wounds, when he looked up. I held my breath.

“Come on, then.” He turned on his heel, stopped, looked back at both of us, and beckoned us to follow him.

We followed Brutus, and Old Mary followed me, limping slowly on her three good feet. I hoped she was not in too much pain.

We went to what appeared to be a good sized barn, with two horses. They looked out and began to nicker in that way that Old Mary did when she wanted to be fed. Brutus must have been coming out to feed his animals when he saw us.

I was wrong.

Brutus stopped in the middle of the barn, looking up toward a large loft overflowing with hay. He called out:

”It’s alright to come down now.”

Several faces appeared, bits of hay falling down on us. They climbed down and we made introductions while looking over Old Mary with a fine toothed comb. She took it all in stride. I however, was growing more and more anxious about young Tilly. I must ask them. Sooner or later, Farmer Brown was certain to tell them about how he had met Tilly and myself on the road.

“Has anyone seen a young girl? She fell off of Old Mary last night.”

“No, no one has seen anyone.” Brutus folded his arms, his face set.

Mr. Brown gave him a curious look.

“I was told that there were “slave movers” for “North star followers” in this town. Surely-”

“No. There are none. Of either.”

He scowled at me, and I fell silent. Something was awry. That flatly contradicted what Farmer Brown had told me. I would just have to trust Brutus. I needed help for poor Old Mary, here, and information about young Tilly.

“Come on, these animals want feeding and nursing, and then we can go in and eat.”

The children had crowded around the mare until their mother had come in from the house, ordering them to finish their chores. She helped Brutus, already tending to Old Mary. That done, she invited us to come in and eat with them.

As we ate, I worried. I needed to find Tilly. But to do that I needed Old Mary. Clearly, Old Mary would have to stay here long enough for her leg to heal. Brutus’ wife graciously accepted my offer to help clean the kitchen after breakfast. I took the opportunity to ask her about Tilly, but her response had been the same as that of her husband’s. They don’t trust me. I was a stranger, in dangerous times. There had to be a grapevine in this town. For better and for worse. For the moment, I must stay with Old Mary and learn how to care for her. I would also seek information from any and every source. I would find young Tilly.

Old Mary turned out not to be too badly injured. It was a rock caught up in what seemed to be called a Frog, a soft spongy part her hoof. They began teaching me how to clean it. A few days of rest and she should be as good as new. I also offered to help taking care of some of the barn chores, as thanks for the lessons and the feeding of Old Mary.

Brutus’s wife came out to invite me to have dinner with them. With dinner finished, we cleared and cleaned the dishes, while Brutus left to make the rounds of the property. His wife thanked me for my work in the barn and the kitchen.

“I see your hands are not used to manual labor. This balm,” she handed me a small box, “will help to soothe that raw skin.”

“I thank you kindly, Mrs.-” She had pulled me into a hug, as she nodded her head, and then informed me that I was welcome to stay with them, at least while Old Mary’s hoof healed.

I gratefully accepted the offer of hospitality, adding that I was competent with the embroidery needle, an offer which she graciously declined. It only belatedly occurred to me that a small family farm would not have use for such decorative touches when there was still much work to be done on the practical things about the place.

By the time we had these details ironed out, it was growing dark. I noticed that they seemed to be scrupulously avoiding my questions about Tilly. In fact, everyone seemed to be avoiding asking after any of my details. This makes no sense. I was brushing Old Mary for the night, and Brutus stopped short, looking surprised to see me with what I now knew to be called a curry comb.

“What, have you never seen a lady of quality, as you put it, currying a horse before, sir?”

Brutus replied with a grunt. Then he dropped a set of blankets, a chamber pot, and a water basin with a pitcher beside me. He looked up at me and said:

“The Quality here can sleep out in the barn, with her horse.”

Enough was enough. I cleared my throat:

“I would be very much obliged to you, Mr. Brutus, if you would call me Berty.”

To my delight, he had again looked surprised. His assumption that I, as a light-skinned woman, would stay quiet and mousy, was being challenged. That was good. For both of us.

“Berty, huh?”

He snorted as if this were the highest irony possible. I could have sworn, nevertheless, that I did catch just the tiniest hint of approval as he sauntered out of the barn.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia

or Ni, (fka) Shira Destinie A. Jones, of ShiraDest Publications

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 30: Free Men?

Chapter 30

Farmer Brown finally agreed to take me to the home of Brutus, insisting on making introductions himself, before heading North. I wondered if he had been a farmer, or wanted a farm of his own, one day. How he planned to get up North, he would not say.

We arrived at the home of Brutus, which indeed seemed to be nicely appointed. We crept around the back, from the woods,

“He got a back door off o’ the kitchen that he always keeps an eye on…”

I had never known any prosperous Freedmen. They were not allowed in Virginia.

We made our way toward the back door, which did indeed appear to be propped open despite the cold. I smelled the mouth-watering scents of cooking food. I also heard a familiar sound that made my heart stop. It was that odd noise that Old Mary always made when she first saw me!

My companion had heard it as well, for he lifted his head in the direction I had looked, and then swiveled about. We both stood stock still. Then, I saw the head of Old Mary peek out from a clump of bushes. She was lying down, her head near the ground. How had she managed to hide herself here, and why? Then I recalled what she had done with me, when I was injured. She must have stayed as close to little Tilly as possible. Good girl! Now I was nearly certain that young Tilly must be sheltering in this home.

I ran over, leaving Farmer Brown where he stood, and squeezed in with Old Mary. The horse was laid out on the ground, just as she had been back when I had fallen from her, with one difference. Her leg.

“Old Mary!” She flicked her head toward me as I knelt down beside her.

I stood up to lead her out, murmuring softly to her that it was safe, but she stayed on the ground for a long time. When I finally managed to coax her up, she stood, as a cat does when it has a splinter in its paw, weight on three of her legs, with the fourth hoof hovering just above the ground. This cannot be good. I bent, parting the bushes and holding them so that she could easily step out into the clearing next to the yard, and saw that she limped, favoring that leg.

She shied slightly as Farmer Brown finally came to join us. He murmured softly, putting his hand out for her to smell. That gave me the idea that she really must not be feeling well. Clearly her leg, or maybe her hoof, I did not know, was in need of attention. I had not the slightest idea what to do for her. I turned to Farmer Brown:

“Mr. Brown, can you help poor Old Mary, here?”

He cast a look all around, then looked back up at me. He shook his head.

“I don’t rightly know, but seems to me that when a horse can’t stand up, then, sorry to say, they usually gots to put it down.”

No, that definitely would not do. Old Mary, was too special. My attachment to her aside, she was not just any ordinary horse. Even I could see that. But was it safe to tell my new acquaintance? As I thought on it, I realized that he may know a Conductor or two here in the town, but I doubted that he would know about other Conductors, stations, and their secrets. That was the point, after all was it not?

Keeping everyone safe from those who would find us, like the Senator and Charles Price, required that the right hand not know what the left hand was doing. If this Brutus did not recognize Old Mary, that likely meant that he, too, was kept deliberately ignorant.

“This horse has special training. She must be saved.”

He quirked an eyebrow. Clearly, he doubted me.

I would need to work extra hard to protect Old Mary. Not only for her sake, but for Tilly’s and mine, and the entire network, as well. I believed that where Old Mary was, young Tilly was not likely to be far. But how to insist on having this horse healed, rather than put down, without giving away her secrets?

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni, fka Shira Destinie Jones

This chapter finally introduces more of the community that Willow would have found, in 1855. Many states distinguished between those born into slavery, and those born free, but still regulated under the Black Codes, in many states. Notice that North has now been redefined, to be Canada, in Willow’s mind (and do not forget that she is, by definition, an unreliable narrator, as explained earlier…), even though they are technically already up North. We do not yet know if Brutus was born free or if he was manumitted, but we do know the importance of those documents, and of being able to read them. This is why Project Do Better stresses the importance of early childhood education, starting at the earliest time, to protect the most vulnerable in society.

Nia

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 20: Separation

Chapter 20

Little Tilly was still asleep when I awoke, snuggled into the arms of my beloved Anna. Or at least, I hoped Tilly was asleep. Anna’s embrace was warm enough to keep for me as I tucked my own blanket around Tilly, who was tucked almost under the belly of Old Mary. As I turned back to lie down again, I saw that Anna was awake, and watching me. Her way of seeing everything without giving anything away no longer surprised me. Now it was one of the things that I counted on, and loved her for, so much. She held up her blanket, inviting me to snuggle next to her, and sending a rush of heat from my toes to my eyelids. I gladly wrapped my arms around her, while she did the same, and we pulled each other closer than it seemed we had ever been. We both lay still, each gazing into the face of the other. You are comely, my beloved. Then, Anna’s face changed, and from the look of contentment, it fell to one of worry. This was not a look I was accustomed to seeing on that beautifully mischievous face.

“What is troubling you, my love?”

Had I just said that? Her smile both relieved my fears, and confirmed that I had indeed just said that.

“My love,” she had repeated, before taking my hand and kissing it so tenderly that I thought my heart would soar up beyond these woods and into the heavens with delight. But then, she looked at me again, and her look was a serious one.

“We need to discuss something,” she said, while entwining her fingers through mine.

With those long fingers enlaced through mine, we could discuss anything she wanted, as far as I was concerned. But her worried look gave me pause. If something was troubling Anna, then it was a serious matter indeed. I looked into her lightly freckled face, sitting up slightly, as she did, so that I could pay full attention to her words.

“What is it, Anna?”

Then I thought of that woman holding the paper, and of how I had failed to read the posting that was clearly meant to test my reaction.

“Is it something I did?”

She took my hand in both of hers:

“No, not at all, my lovely Willow, nothing you have done.”

Then she looked somewhat abashed: “but there is something you must do, and it will be a very difficult thing, I fear,” she looked almost on the verge of tears, which I had never seen in her before, “for both of us.”

“I don’t understand, Anna, what must I do, what can I do to make you happy, whole, or as close to it as I can. Tell me what I must do, anything, and I shall, for you.”

I squeezed her hands in mine as I waited for her to answer.

“Well, you agree, do you not, that they now know without a doubt that we are all traveling together?”

I had to suppose that I’d been avoiding that thought, because I suddenly recalled pondering the very question, myself, as I lay waiting in the darkness for the clock to strike, that first hour before the key had turned in our lock, and sent all other thoughts fleeing from my head.

“Yes, I suppose they must have suspected before, and now they must be certain, if that woman has told them about all three of us.”

Anna nodded, “She most likely would have, because even little Tilly must surely have a reward for holding her while they come…”

“Yes,” I agreed. “So, they know about our ruse, and that we are coming from a Station, too, no doubt.”

I hated to think what the Senator might do if he found the home of Dr. and Mrs. H. Even up here in Maryland, abolitionists were not well liked, and in Virginia, they were downright despised.

“I hope that they are all right, the doc-”

“Shhh!” Anna hissed, startling me. I looked around in fear that someone might be stalking our shelter, but she put up a calming hand, while giving a reassuring blink. “No, I hear nothing in these woods, but you must empty your mind of that name, even of the memory of that Station.”

Then, I understood. I nodded as a tried to hold back the tears which threatened to spill out of my eyes. This was no time to weaken. Nor to make mistakes that might give away our former benefactors. And what of those whom we were intended to stay with after that?

“So, what happens now,” I asked, fearing that I already knew the answer, but not how to proceed. “We cannot go on to the next Station, can we?”

“No, we cannot. The Conductor of that Station will have already waved off any other Arrivals, as well, since our ruse is known, and possibly also how we came by our carriage. Willow, my dearest Willow…”

I waited, my stomach in my throat for her next words.

“You know that it is not safe for me to stay with you.”

“I know, but there must be some other way.”

“There is no other way.”

“There must be.” But she was shaking her head at me, and I knew that on this matter, she would say no more. Now I began to feel real fear, for I thought that I could see fear in my dear Anna’s eyes, but she took my hands again, straightened her back, and stiffened her neck, eyes clear and firm, once again, saying:

“They are now looking for us together, and it will be easy for them, and go hard on us all, should we continue on together.” She continued to give me that steady look that reminded me that I had already known this, and that this must be the way.

I had indeed known. We could not stay together on this journey. Everyone would be in greater danger of capture. So now, we must discover a way to separate our escape, and each make our own way North. One of us would have to shepherd our Tilly to another Station, and then go on alone.

And our little Tilly still slept. The child had the serene face of an angel as she slept. I almost couldn’t help thinking that if she were free, this world might just be a decent place to live in, one day. Almost, but not quite, for that angelic face of hers could get our little Tilly into the same spot I had lived in for so many long years, and I did not wish that on anyone, neither man nor beast. For no one should have to live in a cage, no matter how many of its bars were made of gold.

***

-Nia, continuing the Work, as part of my personal contribution to Phase I of Project Do Better and Words that help “civilizations heal.“

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 19: Loving

Chapter 19

He sat down at the writing desk, ready to make a new plan. After riding through the night to get here, only to the find that this stupid woman had let his Ann slip through her fool fingers, he had gone up to survey the room. It was bad enough that that woman had given them a room. His Fancy and her pickaninny had evidently made a sufficiently convincing impression upon this back country Maryland cracker come inn keeper that she had taken them, at first, for a Lady and her body servant. At least she’d had the good sense not to give them a room with a window. But letting them get away was the height of folly. Now, not only this Maryland crab woman, but also he, himself, would look the fool to any who were following this debacle in the papers. Price had been advertising for his gal, this Weems gal, thinking she had been carried off by a white man. Now, however, it was evident that this was not the case. The room those gals had stayed in for so short a time showed signs that those darkies had burnt something in the fireplace before somehow getting out of the room. He would have to interrogate the staff here, personally. It was obvious that the fool of a woman who ran the place was too stupid to be trusted, so he had installed himself in the inn keeper’s rooms, and ordered her to attend to his staff. Let Loving deal with this fool, and with Price and his boys. Posting ads in the papers. He snorted. Waiting for someone else to find and bring his property back to him. Tom foolery. Price could post in the papers and hope that someone would do his work for him, but the Senator was not a man to wait around for his quarry to come to him. He had always prided himself on his forward thinking, on his vision. Both for his Commonwealth, and for his domestic affairs. So it was time to show these fools, that climber Price along with the rest of them, how to learn from their betters. He would show them how a real gentleman hunted, as no one else seemed competent at the simple act of retrieving his property. He gestured to his personal secretary, a nervous man, always fidgeting, but at least he was a competent servant.

“Loving!”

The man darted over, pen already hovering over the bit of paper he seemed to carry everywhere with him, as though ready to take a letter at any moment. Good man, if a bit sentimental.

“Yes, Senator!”

“Loving, I want you to send word to Price. Tell him to have his boys place themselves up at the border with that damned Yankee commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and to be ready to give a show.”

That would give those fools something useful to do, start setting the trap, while his boys came up with the bait.

“A show, sir?”

The Senator rose and gave an irritated huff. Loving was an excellent secretary, but the man was entirely useless when it came to dealing with the darkies. Every time there was even the slightest correction to be given to any of them, the man had to excuse himself, as if he were some damned damsel in distress, until the whipping was over. The senator was willing to bet that the man couldn’t hold his liquor, either, but he’d honestly never seen him drink.

Rounding the desk, the Senator stepped near Loving, not wishing any prying Maryland ears to catch this: “Yes, man, a show, as usual when the darkies try to abscond, what do you think I said?!”

Loving blanched, the man’s face turning as pale as if he’d seen the ghost of his own great grandfather, and the Senator turned on his heel, disgusted with the fool’s womanish hysteria. How could the man be a real Virginian, if he even was, with such a cowardly disposition? He called over his shoulder:

“Just tell Smith to bring the gals from Robey’s and Yellow, and bring them up to meet us at that damned border.”

Why did the man look so stupid? Why was Loving was just standing there, scratching something onto his paper, an absurd look on his face.

“What is it, man? Speak.”

“Well, Senator, sir, it’s this. That border is a long line, sir-”

“Yes, man, do you not think that I know what the Mason and Dixon Line is? And so?”

“Well, sir, it’s just that we wouldn’t know where to send them, sir. How many towns are there along the border, that we should know which one to go to?”

Why could this man not speak in the normal way? By God, did this man always speak in Biblical sentences? Did he not know that the Authorized Version, the King James Bible of 1611, was a very long time ago? Still, his secretary did have a point. He would have to choose a likely town where those gals might try to cross out of the good state of Maryland. And they might still have help. Those damned abolitionists were like fleas up in Philadelphia, and if this fool’s tavern were a little farther east, that would have made sense, but these gals swung west, almost out to Frederick. Must have been trying to throw us off. So, that Price gal must have thought that no one would be looking for them this far west. Didn’t know the extent of the resources available, nor of the efforts to which he, the Senator, was willing to go. Of course not. How could any slave know the mind of her master? Even this Price gal, intelligent quadroon that she seemed to be, couldn’t possibly know. He turned back to face Loving:

“Send them to Shrewsbury.”

“Yes, Senator.”

“And send in that fool woman’s cook, right now. I wish to speak with her.”

“Yes, sir.”

He would set a trap for them, show them who was the master, make them learn who were their betters. Both of them.

***

Passing to Freedom, Chapter 18: Snow, and Knots?

Chapter 18

Little Tilly riding with Anna was a great relief, as I could barely keep my seat, grateful once again to Old Mary’s training and sensitivity. The intelligent beast not only managed to keep up with Captain, but even helped me stay balanced as we fled for our safety, if not our very lives. As I clung to pommel and mane, every muscle now began to ache as I squeezed my heels and hugged the neck of my mount, working to stay seated and hoping to be as little of a burden as possible. We stayed at this gallop for so long that I felt sure our poor horses must drop from exhaustion, the breath from Old Mary beginning to sound more like ragged gusts of wind as a hurricane moves in, than her normal breathing. Even I could tell that we must stop soon, if we did not wish to push our only means of escape to the point of over exhaustion. But I knew that I must trust Anna, and her sense of both our horses, and our pursuers. I had no idea where we were, now, but I did know that those men, and our chains, could not be far, and would certainly not tarry in their search for us.

I was beginning to seriously worry about Old Mary, breathing so hard in this cold, when at last, we began to slow, finally coming to a fast walk, still in the woods, as we approached, when I finally dared to lift my aching neck from Old Mary’s mane, what appeared to be an even more dense thicket of trees up ahead in the already heavily wooded distance. The sounds of these woods seemed dampened by a sudden start of falling snow. It would have been marvelous to behold, had we not been in mortal danger. The horses seemed to catch their breath as we regained a semblance of calm, walking through those woods toward that copse of trees, that seemed like a little haven of forest within a forest, to my great wonder. The woods still held both a fear and a fascination for me to which I felt that my house-bound eyes were never likely to grow accustomed. I worried about how we might get any rest in this cold, and that with only a few biscuits to nibble upon to help us keep warm. At least this snow would ensure that we would not lack for water, if we could risk a small fire to melt it. Maybe even make some tea, as I had scooped up even the tea leaves when I had packed that sugar cone to bring with us. Now, we would need all of the nourishment those meager rations could give us, it seemed. We had to dismount and enter one by one, squeezing both horses through the tiny space, Little Tilly leading each one at a time, while Anna and I each held a small tree aside for them to pass. I had no idea how all five of us would fit into such a cramped space, but fit, we did. Again, as when we had encountered the patrol, and that poor bear, Anna made the horses lie flat down, with Tilly and I upon each of their backs, while she formed a shelter by bending the smallest of those trees all around us, mere inches, it seemed, above our heads. I was amazed that she had been able to find saplings able to be bent together, and then made to stay fast by tying their branches together, as if interlacing them, or weaving them, even, using some rope from Captain’s saddlebags.

“You two stay down and don’t move or make a sound,” she whispered, crouched between us, “I am going to go find what to brush out our tracks, and cover us up.”

We watched as she removed her boots and stuffed a bed of pine needles into each of them before putting them back on, then picked up several fallen branches, and climbed up one of the sturdier trees at the outside of our little island of forest within the woods. Then we began to hear the sounds of something falling to the ground, first near us, then all around our little island of trees. Anna, I imagined, must have decided that there had been little enough snow by the time we arrived, either that, or there was no way to brush out the tracks we might have made while getting here without leaving more in the freshly falling snow, and was thus attempting to mask our presence with freshly fallen debris. She reappeared holding a bundle of branches and bark, which she began to interweave around us, filling in the gaps in the saplings which she had already bent around us. Soon enough, save for a central opening above left by the bent saplings, we were enclosed in a tiny room, made out of living trees. It was such a wonder to both of our eyes that Tilly and I gasped in joy and amazement as Anna pointed up, for us to behold her handiwork. There was already a thick enough carpet of fallen pine needles on the ground to provide a fairly decent floor for us, so we spread a spare blanket before unsaddling the horses and using the gear for our resting places. There was barely enough room to crawl around, so the poor horses had to remain where they had lain down, for the time being, it seemed. I had heard it said that if a horse did not stand upon its feet, even to sleep, that it would die, and I hoped that this was not true, for that idea brought me great fear for Old Mary, not to mention Captain, but I knew that Anna would do nothing that would endanger the health of our horses, for their sakes and also for our own. We fed the horses first, after giving them such water as we could, using the wash basin from her pack. She seemed to always carry such tools as to be ready for anything, which I greatly admired. We then put the basin out in the center of our little shelter, below the opening in the saplings, in the hope of catching some snow, which was now starting to fall more thickly than I had ever seen snow fall in my entire life. After doling out their ration of the feed we carried, Anna took care to brush both of the horses with a bundle of pine needles wrapped together. That done, as our mounts rested, we took some nourishment from the leftovers we had saved from that dastardly tavern, counting out the biscuits, and chipping off a bit of sugar from our sugar cone for both ourselves and the horses. How long we were to stay here was a mystery to me, and so I had no idea how much of our food we ought to save for later. I looked up at Anna, the question written in my face, to which she responded:

“Let’s eat all of it, so that we can keep warm this night, and then we shall see what to do in the morning.”

She must have caught the question in my raised eyes, for she added:

“I tossed out my old cap back there, just before we changed direction to come up here, so I think that should give us just a bit of time to rest, but not much. And I would rather not risk a fire, just yet.”

I had hardly remarked the passage of time as we fled, only knowing that it seemed to be an eternity that we rode, and it must have seemed even longer for the poor beasts that had to carry us. We had left in the wee hours of the morning, well before sunrise, and ridden for what had felt like the entire day. Now, I thought it must be around the noon meal time of day, since the sun had only just been reaching the height of about the middle of the sky when I noticed that it was beginning to cloud over, and the snow began to fall quickly thereafter. So if we were to spend the rest of this afternoon and the entire night here, with no fire, she was right, we would need to eat all that we had. But then, what would we eat after that? As I began to worry, I saw Anna fiddling with some twine, wrapping it in a complicated fashion about some sticks at the edge of our shelter. She reached her hand under the bottom of an opening in the makeshift wall, just out beyond the edge of our little shelter, and placed her contraption outside, on the ground. She then turned, dug in the saddlebags for two water flasks, handing one to each of us, and sitting back with her own, taking small sips before handing back both her own two biscuits, saying:

“Go on and eat these, too, both of you,” placing one in the hand of Little Tilly, then smiling and motioning for the child to eat it.

“I made sure to eat all of the leftovers that Lizzy had brought out for their stable hands before I came to get you,” then she favored us with her most delicious and wicked of grins as she lifted an eyebrow, “so I have had more to eat than you all got, by the looks of your room back there.”

We three had a good, if very quiet, laugh, at their expense. Then I finally took the chance to ask a vain question which I had been dying to ask:

“Did you see our smoke, did it work,” I asked, curious to know if my trick, which I had heard that the Indians still used out West, had helped at all.

“But didn’t you know, Miss Willow?”

She nodded, looking like a proud teacher whose student has excelled at the day’s lesson.

“That was exactly what brought me up to you!”

Tilly and I beamed with pride, too, as she went on to say:

“I could hear the clock striking the hour after my catnap, and I wondered what all of that smoke was, and that got me up. It was perfect timing, too. The barn hands were gone for the night before anyone went to bed, so it was just me outside, and I had already seen Lizzy’s light go out just as soon as she had brought my supper out to me, such as it was, and then I saw that old goat’s light upstairs go out just after our Tilly here” she reached out her hand to brush Tilly’s cheek, bringing a smile to those bright little eyes, while continuing, “brought me that paper, of which I could make out only one word on the page, but it was the one word that kept me watching and waiting for -”

“Oh, no, Anna, you didn’t get any sleep? It has been so long and you must be so very tired,” I cried, cutting off her words in my chagrin for her.

She held up both hands in a calming gesture:

“Oh, I made sure to cat nap, like I said, don’t you worry, my Willow tree,” and then she reached out both hands to hold my face, bringing the blood to my cheeks as I reached out to caress her hair, and then I recalled Little Tilly sitting right beside me, making my blush even hotter.

Anna shifted her weight forward enough to glide closer to me, putting her lips to my ear to whisper, “I sleep very lightly, but I sleep well, for I dream of you, my wondrous Willow.”

The thrill of ecstasy which ran through me made me forget all about Little Tilly, throwing my arms around my sweet Anna to hold her close, trying to drink in all of her essence in that very instant. It really was only an instant, in fact, for just at that moment, our Tilly reminded us of just how little she really was, by making an uncomfortable, but inevitable announcement:

“I need to use the chamberpot, please.”

Anna and I parted quickly, both of our faces feverish with embarrassment, and I dug out the chamberpot from Old Mary’s saddlebag, which was also my seat, and handed it to Tilly. As I wondered what we would do with the contents when she was done, I noticed that Anna was digging a hole with some small tool, in another spot just outside our shelter, not far from where she had set up her twine and stick contraption. When I made a face, my hands up, to ask what she was doing, she plopped her tool, which turned out to be a small shovel or gardening spade, into my left hand just as Tilly placed the chamberpot into my right, and then Anna took that from me, proceeding to tilt the vessel with both hands out, managing to tip all of the contents right into the hole she had just dug, before trading with me again. I didn’t even have time to blink before Tilly had taken the burden from my hand and placed the cover on it, wrapping it away in the saddlebag. In the meantime, Anna finished replacing the dirt she had dug up, covering the chamberpot contents in the hole with what looked like a satisfied smile on her lips. As she finished, wiped her spade with some pine needles and put it away, and peeked out at her contraption, then saw the tilt of my head as I watched her, her smile grew broader:

“This, ladies,” she looked from me to Tilly and back, “is how we trap tomorrow’s breakfast.”

As Tilly and I exchanged perplexed looks, Anna merely contented herself with packing down the snow, which by now had nearly filled our wash basin, and smiling like the cat who ate the last of the cream. The three of us snuggled together next to the horses under all of our blankets, two of us drifting off, me into a sleep filled with images of dancing stick puppets, and one sleeping with her arms around me, keeping her secret safe until morning.

***

Nia, hoping that the kids of Bright Beginnings in DC may get to learn how to build such shelters and ‘contraptions’ in order to help themselves and others understand the importance of knowing how to tie knots, find North, and keep themselves and others safe, maybe even with a little help from The Project Do Better by shiraDest Publications Fund, and the GWCF, as well as an idea or two from the first edition, always free, of the Do Better manual/manifesto…

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 17: Hunted

Chapter 17

“I am sorry, really sorry, Sir, but somehow, I do not know how they did it, but somehow, they got away, Sir.”

The sun was shining, the weather was dry, and it was still early enough in the morning to catch up with them. Ignoring the foolish woman, he had turned to his head overseer:

“Did you bring the dogs?”

“Yes, Senator, I did.”

“Good. They already know her scent, so you let those dogs loose, and you find her, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Sir, Senator, we will-”

“You find her, and bring her back to me, in one piece, you hear?”

These imbeciles were useless, but he would find his Ann. If she was with the Price gal, which was certain, now, it seemed that there would be yet another party added to this game, shortly. It seemed that the two fancies had a little pickaninny with them, and the three of them had most certainly had help, or else they had managed to steal that carriage and the horses, which he sorely doubted. His Ann was certainly not capable of such a thing, and that Price gal was just a city fancy with free issue parents, so how could she possible have pulled off something like that without help? It was these damned abolitionists, hiding here in the state of Maryland. No shelter for these heathens in my Commonwealth, by God. He would have to lodge a formal complaint with the Maryland delegation, get Price to make some inquiries. They couldn’t be too far, those damned thieves, whoever had given them that set of carriage and horses. How did those gals manage to talk their way in to this tavern, any way?

He turned back to the woman, who began to tremble visibly, as he glared at her.

“Tell me, woman, how did it come that you allowed my gal and those other two slaves into your establishment, in the first place? Was it not evident to you that they were not of a sufficiently high station to warrant the sort of hospitality to which you treated them?”

“No, sir, Senator, sir, they was, it was, they were not, I mean to say-”

“Speak, woman!”

“That is, Senator, sir, that they looked like a fine lady should ought to look, dressed nice, and smelled of lavender, what with a little body servant and all-”

“Since when have you ever seen a body servant that small, you fool? And you even have the unprecedented nerve to try to charge me for your stupidity, woman? How dare you?”

The tavern keeper cowered as he shouted at her, lowering her head, finally, starting to learn her place, and stammering something about a blanket. The foolish woman seemed to think he should pay her for having lost his Fancy.

“Not one Virginia cent!”

He raised his cane, advancing upon the woman as she backed away while uttering a steady stream of apologies. As the Senator was about to teach her a lesson she’d not soon forget, riders came up the road, one stopping to hail him:

“We found a trail, but it goes cold about a mile out. Price’s dogs led us to it, following this scent.”

The man held up a muddied driver’s cap.

“So, Price’s gal is smarter than I thought. I might just have to buy that gal, teach her her place, when this is all over.”

***

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 14: Smoke Signals?

Chapter 14

Little Tilly scampered back into the room after only half of her usual curtsy, so over-excited did she seem after speaking with Anna. She had closed the door almost silently, and crossed the room in three light bounds. She stood on her tip toes, placing her lips nearly in my ear to tell me:

“Joe says that we are to wait two hours, and then come down to the stable with all of our things, and the leftover food, in utter silence.”

I hugged little Tilly to my bosom, relieved to see that Anna’s gift for reading my mind, or perhaps it was our shared gift for thinking alike, was still intact. The long ride these past days had seemed like an eternity, hidden away in the carriage as we were, leaving our Joe to take most of the visible risk. I longed to have even a moment alone with her, but for the moment, safety was our priority. I looked about the room, seeing that Tilly had quite nearly already gathered up our affairs, and so I set about bundling all of the leftover biscuits, and even the rest of the sugar cone, into the tavern napkins, feeling only a mild fleck of guilt over stealing the owner’s linen. Seeing as how that woman was attempting to help steal our very persons, it seemed a fair trade. And Captain and Old Mary will be glad that this out of the way place is ten years behind the times. That was, unless we ourselves had greater need of the precious energy bound up in that old cone of sugar. I heard the old clock downstairs strike the hour, and wondered what we would do with ourselves as we waited for it to strike twice more. Anna certainly needed the rest, but for my part, I dared not fall asleep, afraid to risk missing the crucial second striking of the clock, in spite of how loud it seemed to my ears. How anyone got a decent night’s sleep in this tavern was beyond me. That old clock must be the pride and joy of the owner, to keep it here and risk losing customers. Then it hit me. Tilly and I must try to time our footsteps with those of the striking clock, in just under two more hours. It would be three in the morning, and those three bell tones could well cover the sounds of our closing room door, and maybe even the sound as we closed the front door, could we be ever so quick about getting down those stairs. There had to be a way to make it work. We would need to plan our exit carefully, so that I could be at the front door, with some excuse should that woman be up and about, while Tilly stayed upstairs to close our room door upon the first chime of the clock. I had had plenty of practice at tiptoeing around an old house, and was confident that I could make my way down the stairs silently before the clock began to strike. But covering the distance between our room and the outside door in the three seconds during which the clock would strike, without making a sound, was something that only our little Tilly could likely pull off. Since there was already an extra chamberpot in the room, that would not do as an excuse, for it was far too cold to expect a valuable young body servant to go outside to use the privy in the dark. Not when there was supposed to be a “negro stealer” about, in any case. The limits of being a Virginia lady now made it as difficult to steal away in the night as it had been simple to put off the tavern keeper with an authoritative word. A headache, perhaps, or my young servant being too short to search in the kitchens for some bit of potion in a cabinet, maybe? I looked over at Tilly, who was fast asleep on the bed, two bundles just within reach of each hand. This child was amazing. Thou shalt not covet, Willow, even the ability to sleep. I reminded myself to be grateful that at least one of us was able to rest. The clock was in the middle of striking the start of the second hour, as I scrambled to find some reason for being downstairs in another hour, when a knock came at the door. It had been barely audible over the resonating echo of the last chime from the clock, and I thought for a moment that I might have imagined it, until the door began to creep open. I hastily threw my shawl over Tilly and the bundles before slipping under the covers, managing to knock a pillow onto the floor beside me, hoping the intruder would mistake that pillow for Tilly, sleeping beside my bed, as a body servant ought to. We had put the candles out as soon as Tilly returned from the stables, taking care to avoid moving around the room. Our ruse seemed to have worked, but now it was too dark to see any features of the head that peered into the room, facing the bed. I took several regular deep breaths in and out, to imitate sleep, as I had practiced back in Virginia when trying to avoid the Senator’s late night attentions. The intruder appeared to be satisfied by this ruse, as the head withdrew, and the door closed as slowly and quietly as it had opened, only the barest click of the latch to be heard. Then, I heard another sound, one with which I was also familiar. A key turned in the lock, the slow scratching of metal on metal.

We’ve been locked in! I sat bolt upright in the bed, trying not to wake Tilly, while looking around the room for another door, or a window. There were none. But there was one saving grace. I knew the sound of a key being removed very well, for it was the sound that so often accompanied the voice of the Senator when he locked me into my rooms, depriving me of food for the crime of depriving him of the entire fulfillment of one of his appetites. He always took the key with him, to prevent one of the house servants from slipping me food when he was away. But the intruder tonight had left the key in the lock. Possibly to prevent us from seeing the hallway through the keyhole. But it also might allow me to persuade someone to let us out. No other means of escape was possible. With the fire still hot, even if it might have gotten little Tilly out, even the chimney was out of the question. Wait, the chimney! How far are the stables from this room, I wonder? Far enough to see the smoke from this chimney? Our fire had died down, and should be producing only a thin wisp of smoke now, barely visible, and quite normal for this time of the night. What would Anna think if she could see billowing clouds of smoke coming from only one fire in the house, at this time of night? Would she come to check, when we did not come down? Would she be able to see which room we were in? Would the key still be in the lock? No matter what the answers, I had to try. There was plenty of wood for the fire, but nothing that might produce thick smoke. I built up the fire in the fireplace, placing as many logs as would easily fit, and then waited for the top log to burn down. Maybe half an hour passed, and I heard no sounds in the rest of the tavern. Surely that woman and the help had all gone to sleep by now, safe in the knowledge that we were locked in to this room, with no way of even seeing what was going on beyond our door. I found an extra blanket, and spilled a little water from the pitcher onto it until it was just damp, but not too heavy, and then I hefted it into the fireplace, trying to hold it above the top log, but it ended up in the fire. By the time I had hauled it back out, little Tilly was awake, and helping me douse the blanket, which had begun to smolder in some spots. I put my finger to my lips, making a key turning motion with my fingers as I jerked my head toward the door, and the poor child’s face fell.

My heart nearly broke as I saw this beautiful child break down, for the first and what I hoped was the last time, in tears of desolation. Then I vowed that I would keep this child from harm, no matter what price I had to pay.

***

Children like Tilly, and those of Bright Beginnings in DC, deserve protection, love, and learning, as The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications Fund hopes to help with, via the GWCF, just a little bit, at least, so that they will not have to send any smoke signals for help, and so that they can actively contribute to the building of better solutions for all of our world. The free Project Do Better manifesto/manual offers a long term plan for discussion and building upon -Nia, fka Shira, of shiraDest pubs…

Passing to Freedom, Chapter 12: Senatorial Search

Chapter 12

“Be sure that there are no portraits of her in any of these advertisements.”

The hireling’s questioning look was met with a snort of disdain from the Senator, who lifted his head, staring hard at the man:

“Do you think I want her knowing that I am searching for her, you fool? No, let her think that I have given up the search, that it has been too long. Let her believe that she is safe, for a while. She should not be able to read, as I have taken great pains to prevent such folly, so posting this notice with only her description will allay her suspicions, and she will play into our hand.”

“What do you mean to do then, sir?”

Was it not obvious? It was clearly time to find a new odd jobs man. This fool had not even a single original thought in his head. When he clacked his tongue in irritation, the imbecile actually trembled. And a coward, to boot. After throwing him a look of utter disgust, the Senator made a gesture:

“Take these words down for an additional posting. I will pay every tavern owner and their hired hands, even to the meals and lodging, if they will hold my Fancy Gal Ann for me, wherever she may be, and double the reward if they can keep her from leaving the state of Maryland.”

“But sir, for all that money, you may as well buy yourself another Fancy, a younger one.”

The Senator lifted his walking cane, hefting it, and then pointing it with a cruel smile at his hired man’s head:

“Have you not heard me? I will have my Ann back, my Ann, and no other, whatever the price.”

***

This is the second chapter in my new historical novel, Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story, in which we hear the voice of the Senator, the antagonist, as he searches for the young woman, a particular type of slave known as a Fancy Maid, whom he considers to be his property. It is also the second chapter in Act II, our protagonist now having crossed the threshold on her own, out of the world that she has known, and into the danger of a role that, while familiar, remains unknown, to her, personally. And her performance will determine if the Senator finds her…

Nia, fka Shira, still of ShiraDest Publications

Passing to Freedom, Chapter 11: Into The Storm

Start of Act II

Chapter 11

We had just settled back in, with our Joe now as the driver, and Old Mary behind us carrying a few light wares. She was to be our getaway horse if the need should arise, which I sorely hoped would never be the case. I thought I heard a far away sound of thunder, but dared not look out the window. We had agreed that we could not be taken together, Joe and I, should the worst come to pass. So, while we traveled through the night, and it was still too dark to continue to learn my letters, too worried to sleep, I had prayed. Not that I had any real hope that the Good Lord above would hearken to my prayers for freedom. Even I was not light enough skinned for that. A clap of thunder startled me, as if to agree with the thought. The Lord who wished us to be in bondage to such men as the Senator could never truck with slaves disobeying their masters, and running, as we were, as Hagar had done. Yet, that same Lord had also shown mercy to Hagar, and soothed her pain. Had he not? That was all I felt I had a right to ask for, and so, ask, I did. I prayed that our pursuers would not find us, for well did the Lord above know how hard it had gone with us, to make us run, and how much harder it would go with us, should we be caught. I begged, in His mercy, that He light our way, as He had for the Children of Israel as they escaped their harsh bondage in Egypt, for had we three not indeed been used as harshly as those led by Moses up out of the house of the master and his whip? I prayed that if we could not be free in deed, as those born or bought free were, then at least let us become able to live free from the snares of the devil who would have us prostituted out, prizes to any white man who wanted us and was powerful enough to afford us. Finally, I had prayed that we might escape the horrors of this life entirely, should the Lord, in His favor, which was evidently not toward those of our color, see fit after all to allow our capture. For what had we three done to deserve the fate that awaited those who ran, no matter how harsh their masters had been?

As I was finishing my prayers, the storm seemed to move off. Our young Tilly looked up at me from the opposite bench, where she seemed to have slept as well as a little angel, and smiled. How this child’s mischievous little smile could shine through all of this darkness, I could not tell, but with that smile also came the rising sun, just beginning to send its first rays through the curtains. One of our stomachs also began to rumble with that rising sun, but alas, I recalled that we had eaten all that we had with us in our meager meal the night before, having had to speed away in such haste. As I began to think of some way to apologize to little Tilly for being unable to feed her anything until we could safely stop for provisions, she winked, as if already knowing my thoughts. She then produced an apple, and a small paring knife, as if by art of magic, from out of no where.

“Where did you get those, you mischievous little angel?”

“I saved them like Mr. Joe told me to, Missus,” She kipped brightly. Then, she leaned forward, and in a lower voice, as if anyone could possibly hear us above the ruckus of our carriage wheels and two horses’ hooves, she continued, “I am to always keep an apple in my pocket, and this knife tucked away in my skirts.”

She polished the apple on her chemise, and then began to cut into it. I put my hand out to stop her, and her head bobbed up toward me, a look of worry, it seemed, on her young face.

“I can do it, Miss Willow, I know how. And your dress is way to pretty to risk getting sticky with this juice.”

She nodded down toward the juice running from the cut in the apple, as she continued her work.

“No, Tilly, I am quite sure that you are able, but I want you to have that apple. I imagine that our Joe has saved one up top, as well?”

The child had stopped only for a moment, before recommencing the division of her fruit.

“Yes, Missus, Joe also has one, because his pants also have pockets. But your nice dresses don’t have pockets, so I am always to carry one for you, aaaaand…” she reached into her skirt pocket, which I had not even imagined was there, producing a second apple, “and one for me.”

The grin on her face was so impish that I had no choice but to laugh.

“Well, then, why are you cutting that one, Tilly?”

“So you won’t have to, Miss Willow. A Virginia lady couldn’t sticky-up her fingers cutting her own apple slices, of course.”

She had begun to imitate that other voice I knew so well, the voice of Anna when she was making an cutting observation that was also meant to be funny. While it was good for young Tilly to have something on her person that she could use as a weapon if need be, I couldn’t help but notice that this humor also conveniently kept the knife out of my hands. I resigned myself to playing this game, now, as it was my acting, above all, that would assure the safety of us all.

“Very well, then.”

I reached out my hand for the first slice, hoping that this ruse of ours would not end up changing me into the very thing which I detested. As she placed the first slice into my open palm, she bowed her head.

“Thank you, Tilly.”

Was the child trying to avoid seeing the tears in my eyes?

***

This is the start of Act II of my new historical novel Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story (the Act I section of this novel which we have just finished was initially, with the exception of Chapter 3, part of the short serial story series Ann & Anna, posted some years ago). This work is posted freely, with a CC non-commercial copyright, allowing reading and sharing freely, as long as no money is made or charged for this work.

Nia,

in service to Human Kind, starting with the very young people of Bright Beginnings in DC, via the GWCF‘s Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications Fund, based on the free first edition of the Do Better manifesto/manual.

Passing to Freedom, Chapter 10: All Alone in the Night

Chapter 10

I began to tremble, that old stench returning. As I looked about the room, I saw not the faces of my sweet Anna, nor the doctor and his wife, but that of little Tilly: in chains.

We were back in the Slave Gaol where my friends had been punished. The odors of sweat mingled with blood, dirt, and fear, as the Senator ordered me held and made to watch. Each slice of that leather whistling through the air brought fresh emissions of noxious gasses, the air befouled with the contents of their bowels, and mine. The blood of both friends, whipped one after the other, smeared my face so thickly that my tears ran puddles of blood to the slop covered floor. My shrieks for mercy joined those of Little Sal, bound beside me, to watch, and to learn.

No mercy came, only more blood. The smell of iron rose up so sharply that I could taste the rust. Then, the Senator drew near with a smile that turned my stomach.

“You shall have a double length bath, now, before I come to see you, My Ann.”

He’d nodded to his head overseer, turning on his heel to leave as I had begun to wretch.

A touch upon my cheek, tender as that of a Great Grandmother, brought me back to the room. The velvet hand of Little Tilly was warm as she stretched up to hold my face, like dear Anna had done so many times before.

“Miss Willow.”

That whisper broke through the tears racing down my face. I bent down to pick her up, and she touched her tiny face to my ear.

“Be strong, and of good courage, for the Lord is with us.”

As I marveled at the wisdom of this young child, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Anna had given Tilly the slightest of nods. I turned to her, little Tilly still in my arms, and raised an eyebrow.

She rewarded me with her most mischievous smile. So, then. Not only from the mouths of babes. My tears ended, I couldn’t help but return her smile. My breast filled with hope, until stayed by my bodice.

“You see, my dear Miss Willow, we can indeed accomplish this task which is set before us.”

Anna’s confidence was as bracing as a cup of tea on a cold day. Tilly seconded that thought, nodding her head so vigorously that I had to put her down. Anna drew near, pulling us both into an embrace that no family had ever bested.

“Well, my dears.”

I looked up with a start. It was Mrs. H. She stood in the doorway holding a bundle of clothing. The doctor, however, was no longer in the room. Just how long, exactly, had I been unawares? Had I fainted?

“While the doctor is seeing to the carriage, I have brought you such apparel as our Joe Wright here has requested.” She nodded to Anna, then turned to me. “We always have diverse disguises on hand that will do for young Joe and Tilly, but nothing for this Peculiar ruse of yours. I only keep one change of fine dress and stays, Willow, for special occasions.”

That word. Does she disapprove? Tilly ran over to take the bundle from her. Mrs. H. continued across the room, stopping before a large chest. When she opened it, a scent of lavender escaped, perfuming the room. She pulled out a dress such as the mistress of a plantation would wear. I gasped, finally understanding the extent of her hospitality. Just then, a familiar sound caught my ear, somewhere outside. I looked to the window, but all was darkness, and quiet.

“Did you hear me, Willow?”

I looked back, embarrassed to have missed what she was saying. Little Tilly, already beginning to play her role, responded for me:

“If you please, Missus, my mistress is very devout, and was saying a prayer just as you spoke.”

She bowed her head and dropped into that perfect curtsy as she finished, drawing a scowl from Mrs. H. I almost thought I heard the child let escape half of a giggle.

“Willow, I fear that this dress will go a little long on you, but we’ve no time to alter it.”

That dress, I knew, would not suffice on special occasions in Virginia. But for travel, it would do.

“Mrs. H. this is the loveli-”

“You need not flatter me, young Willow. I am no Virginia Lady. Let us be about our task quickly, for I hear them in the courtyard.”

We had tiptoed down the back stairs as quickly as we dared. While Mrs. H. was pinning me inside of her best dress, still smelling of lavender, Anna and Tilly had packed our precious documents. That I had passed Anna’s test seemed nothing short of a miracle, now that we must speed away so suddenly. I cursed my capricious memory, as capable of holding me in an iron grip while the smell of blood washed over me as it was of delivering those words which would safeguard our freedom.

The carriage stood waiting in the courtyard, the door open and barely visible in the darkness. The doctor himself held the reins of the two horses while little Tilly hid nearly under my skirts as our Joe ushered us in, closing the door behind her. She handed me the sheaf of documents, neatly bound in a leather pouch. My heart raced as I began to taste bile. Now I became grateful for that lavender perfuming our cramped space. All had passed so quickly and in such silence that I’d not had time to consider the consequences, should I fail. I felt my gloved fingers begin to sweat where they made contact with the leather. Wonderful little Tilly came to my rescue yet again, holding up my satchel to store away our papers. I settled in to the seat, brooding even as I tucked away the satchel next to me. Still lost in my thoughts, Anna leaned into my shoulder, whispering in my ear.

“We have saddle bags, if you wish to keep your old sewing basket.”

I nearly dropped the satchel. I clutched it to my bosom after catching it just as my hands let it slip.

“I thought that might bring you back to us. I saved it, after you left it in the wagon, in case you should need anything, except those scissors, of course.”

Her smile, even in the darkness of that carriage, carried to me. I could barely see her, but I could hear that devilish grin in her voice, and the lifted brow. I began to relax, breathing as deeply as my bodice would allow while the lavender worked its soothing balm upon me. I was glad that Mrs. H.’s dress was too large for me, as it gave me more room to breathe. How fortunate we were to have sheltered in the home of gentry, accustomed to changing various times even on a normal day. No working family, colored or white, would have had the means to accomplish this ruse. Then a problem occurred to me. I turned to whisper:

“But Anna, I’m sorry, Joe. How is it that you found my basket? I thought I had dropped it along the way when I fell from Old Mary.”

“Oh, no. I put it in my saddle bag when you first mounted her.”

“But then…”

“The bulge in your saddle bag? Only an extra blanket.”

Her voice had risen an octave at those last words. What a marvelous singing voice she must have, if I ever got a chance to hear it. We were not allowed to sing whilst in the doctor’s home, lest the neighbors hear. Thinking of Doctor H., I wondered how he would explain this outing. He must have invented a patient to see as a pretext. I could only suppose, as we were not to know any more than strictly essential for our flight. Which reminded me:

“I hope Old Mary is happy, where ever she is. I was truly sorry to have put her, and all of you, in danger.”

“Hush, now. We have spoken about this. Besides, you’ll see her again, soon.”

I turned to look at her, but she had turned her back to mine, as if to go to sleep. Little Tilly took that moment to stretch out on the opposite seat, and all was silence. The rest of my questions would just have to wait.

Our ride in the carriage, that night, seated back to back as Anna and I were, was at least sure against the winter chill. I’d laid an extra blanket over little Tilly, then snuggled back up against Anna. At some point during our ride, she had turned to cradle me in her arms as we slept. I awoke nuzzling the inside of her neck, and rose with a start, as I saw our Tilly observing me. My cheeks began to burn as I wondered how long she might have been awake.

“It’s ok, Miss Willow. Your servant Joe Wright is here to keep us safe, Missus.”

I was so relieved, I hardly knew what to say.

“Oh, Tilly, you don’t need to play our game here. We are alone.”

She shook her head most insistently:

“Joe told me that we are never to end this game, Miss Willow, until we are free up North. All the way North.”

She looked at the window, covered against the cold, and against prying eyes, and inched closer, whispering, “we never know what ears may be up against this door.”

“That is right.”

How long had Anna been awake? I’d not felt her move a muscle, but she was surely listening. How did she do that? Just then, I recalled the question which had been burning within me as we went to sleep.

“Miss, sorry, Joe, you said something last night about seeing Old Mary soon. What on this Good Lord’s earth were you talking about, pray tell?”

Anna flashed her most devilish grin. It was the one that promised shocking things to come.

“What say both of you,” she had managed to lower her voice another octave, to sound like a young boy, if not a man, “to a spot of breakfast, before I answer that question?”

“I am starving!”

I was amazed at how quietly this child could shout.

“Tilly,” I teased in my finest soprano whisper, which is not an easy thing to do, “you are always starving, Honey Child!”

We all fell to giggling as quietly as we had whispered, as we shared out the cornbread Mrs. H. had given us to breakfast upon. Even cold, that aroma was enticing. It had been all she’d had to hand, so we knew we must make do on that one meal for most of this day.

When we had each had three chews and a swallow of our meal, I looked up again at Anna, my head tilted insistently at her, as I waited for my reply.

She finally rewarded me: “Do you remember the white men who met us where we stopped with the wagon?”

I nodded.

“They were expecting to see four of us, of course.”

Of course. I still recalled the despair of that parting.

“Old Mary was meant to carry you and Little Sally, while Captain here,” she lifted her head up toward the front of the carriage, “is sturdy enough for both Miss Mary and myself. Since it was just you, they almost took Old Mary back with them, but I told them that two horses were better than one. That is why she is here again, tied up back as the spare.“

Old Mary was here! It was a pity that I had no apples or carrots for her. That thought brought to mind the memory of my Miss Mary, for some odd reason, singing one of our favorite songs. I wished I could go now, down to some peaceful river, thinking about a good way, a better way than this world’s way, to pray.

There came a knock at the carriage door, and I realized that we had not been moving for some moments. I wondered how I had managed not to notice. All was silent. Another knock came, this time in three sharp raps, followed by two light knocks. Anna nodded, and Little Tilly cracked the door open just enough to see the pair of blue eyes looking back at us, and opened it wide enough for the doctor see in.

“Joe, it is here that I must leave you all. I bid you god speed.”

I saw the barest lift of his hat just as the doctor stepped back out of view, allowing our Joe to exit the carriage. The door had clicked shut, and we’d started up again with nary a sound. Now, we were on our own, and our safety depended upon me.

I decided that this was a good time to pray.

***

End of Act I

Most of my early Readers, from three or four years ago, will remember most of the action of these past nine chapters, with the extra chapter having been added in order to give the point of view of our Antagonist, from whom these faithful early followers of the ShiraDest blog, before it also became the Project Do Better website and portal, will only have seen him mentioned from Willow’s point of view as interior monologue and memories. Now, as you may recall from Chapter Three, he starts to get his own subplot and narrative, in order to shed more light on what is going on, since Willow remains an unreliable narrator, due to her upbringing in the shadows of that mansion in The Old Dominion. In Act II, we shall see how the work begun here, of learning to read, especially, will change all of that, not only for Willow, but for many others as well. Because words really do have power.

-Nia, aka Dest. Antonia JONES, MPhil, author,

in service to the youngest and most vulnerable among us, starting with those served by Bright Beginnings in DC by The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications Fund via the GWCF, and via the ideas, always freely offered for discussion and thought, of the first edition of Project Do Better: Enough for All in Four Phases…

Injustice Delenda Est

Passing to Freedom, chapter 9: Impossible Choices

Chapter 9

Not long after beginning our lessons, Mrs. H. had noted a peculiarity about me.    While Anna was quick to learn her letters and put them together as sounds, spelling out her name and mine, I was not.    One evening, wishing to hear the story of Moses leading the Children of Israel through the Red Sea, I had asked Mrs. H. if she would read it to us.    She did so with excellent cheer, pointing to each word as she spoke it.    Not long into our reading, she was suddenly called away, and had handed me the Good Book to continue looking at it.    It was wondrous in my eyes, having always been forbidden the liberty of seeing any books, and having been closely watched for any signs of excessive curiosity.    Even my embroidery was forbidden to use any lettering.    The samplers I had been told of in the homes of white women were forbidden to my eyes, and thus I had to make due with flower and other designs taught to me by Miss Mary.    That evening, I had eagerly grasped the chance to devour these words.   

The memory of sitting there, free to drink in both the words before me and the scent of my dear Anna, brought the first joy I had ever felt:

“Shall we see what we can read now, Miss Anna?”   

I’d lowered my head just a tad, and favored her with my best coquettish regard, batting my eyelids twice for effect.    It had worked.

“Are you inviting me to try reading from the Song of Songs, Miss Willow?”   

She’d moved closer to me on the bed, her warmth spreading over me like the softest of comforters.    I blushed now to remember how I had quite nearly forgotten myself.

“Well, I do not know how we are to find the right place in this enormous Book, but I…”

She had taken my hand in hers.    I had then found myself lost for words, gazing at her lips, feeling the smooth paper in one hand, and the taper of her fingers in the other.

“Let us start at the Beginning, then, my dearest Willow.”

All I could do was nod.

Anna and I had made a game of it, seeing which words we could puzzle out for ourselves.    Imagine our surprise upon finding that looking back at the words to which Mrs. H. had pointed, I could recall each of them perfectly, even in other places in the Good Book.    Now, that strange ability, it seemed, might come to some good use.

“Mrs. H. you must put our dear Willow here to the test, if you please.”

Anna’s voice shook me from my reverie, as I realized that the good doctor’s wife was standing in our room, somehow having managed to escape my notice.    This was very odd, for I never missed the sounds, however slight, of a person approaching my doorway.    I took it as a sign that I must be coming to feel safer in this place.    Sadly, I knew that we couldn’t stay much longer.    Each day that we passed here put us all in greater danger.   

“Why of course, young Joe.    What did you have in mind?”

The doctor and his wife were always calling her Joe, now that little Tilly was here.    Perhaps preparing for the roles we must play upon departing this station.

“Well, Mrs. H, I have an inkling of an idea, but I believe that it hinges upon Miss Willow here being able to use her particular talent to recognize certain words where ever they might appear.”

We both looked at her with questions in our eyes.    Little Tilly simply smiled.    What did this young child know that we did not?

Anna looked at us, her mischievous smile mirroring that of little Tilly. They looked at each other, and Anna gave a slight nod. I was sure there had been a wink of her eye in there, too, although her head was turned away from me.

Little Tilly skipped over to the writing desk, withdrawing a particularly small but official seeming document with great care. Then, turning to face me, she folded her body into the most graceful curtsy I had ever seen from a child so young. I glanced in confusion at Anna, who merely lifted an eyebrow at me. Tilly arose from her curtsy and carried the paper to me, holding it out with her head bowed, as if I were…

“No, oh, no, Tilly. Anna -” I shook my head as my eyes began to fill with tears. I would not play the role of those from whom we had so lately escaped.

“Yes, Miss Willow, it must be this way. And you must conform.” The steady look Anna placed upon me was almost stern.

Poor Mrs. H. looked quite bewildered.

“I cannot do it.”

“You can, Miss Willow, and for all of our sake, you must succeed.”

Anna crossed the few steps separating us, which had suddenly begun to seem like a great chasm. She took my hand in both of hers, those hazel eyes looking directly into mine.

“Willow,” she whispered, “this is our best chance to get away safely, all three of us. Free.”

I’d begun to tremble so violently that I could hardly speak. This was apparently what Anna had been expecting, for she nodded once again to Tilly, who turned, now facing Mrs. H., and held out the paper to her. Mrs. H. patted the tiny hand as she took the paper and glanced at it, before looking back up.

Tilly held her hand out for the paper again, which Mrs. H. relinquished. Again, that demure approach, deep curtsy, and the paper held up to me, with her head bowed. Anna squeezed my hand, nodding toward Tilly. I felt like a small child being encouraged to eat. I reached out for the paper, hefting its weight as if it were my sewing scissors. I looked at it, waiting for the marks on the paper to resolve themselves into words. None did.

I looked up at Anna in despair, but she merely nodded again, this time winking her eye, at me! What was going on, here?

I looked back at the paper, knowing that I had missed something. It became our old game once again, as I sought for words that Mrs. H. had shown us, now not on the printed page, but on a handwritten paper. Mrs. H. had been schooling us in reading her handwritten copy of that passage through the Sea which I loved so, and we grew to love her, for that great labor.

“My hand” was the first phrase I was able to make out.

I jumped slightly, as Mrs. H. nodded her approval. She had drawn very near, reading the paper over my shoulder as I worked to puzzle out the handwritten words.

Anna nodded at me again, encouraging my return to our reading game. This challenge was far greater, but I now understood how great would be our reward. I must not fail.

“Servant!”

I looked up in time to see a rapid look pass between the two women, no longer shocking me by it’s equality. I was now too bound up in the task at hand. The final word on the paper sprang out at me, setting my teeth on edge as it came clear. The one word I would know without ever needing to be taught. My throat caught as I read out the name of that odious Dominion.

“Virginia.”

Just as I cleared my throat of that last word, Mrs. H. tilted her head, as if waiting to speak. She’d not had a moment since entering the room to make known the reason for her presence. We had just dined, and she normally busied herself downstairs at this time. She wore an expression of worry upon her face that augured nothing good.

“That is an excellent reading, Willow, in so short a time of study.”

Her words were kind, but her voice was uncertain. She looked at Anna with expectancy.

Anna merely smiled, and nodded again toward Tilly. The child inched closer to me, looked up with a wicked grin, and proclaimed:

“I am to be your Body Servant, Miss Willow.”

“Certainly not!”

Mrs. H. finally understood.

“It is the best, indeed the only, way for us to proceed, Mrs. H.” Anna lifted her head, her eyes level with those of the doctor’s wife.

My mouth must surely have fallen open, for never had I seen a Negro, slave or free, openly contradict a white person! As the two women looked sternly at one another, the doctor strode into the room.

“I fear Anna is correct. It must be so, for they must leave us. Tonight.”

***

This has been another new chapter arrangement in my third draft of what was formerly the short serial story set about Willow and Anna, called Ann & Anna, which now forms Act I of the historical novel Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story, and I found, as I rewrote these first sections and added to Act II, coming up shortly, that I needed, unfortunately, to change the known historical itinerary followed by Anna Marie Weems, which can be looked up on several different web sites, including those of the state of Maryland, the National Park Service, and several other sites which cite primary sources, as well as at least one source or two that I have not been able to validate from up in Canada, claiming to have traced descendants of Ms. Weems after she escaped to freedom up north. As many have reminded us, words, and even, or especially, stories, are crucial tools in the Work of building a more equal and safer, kinder, more empathetic world for all human beings. The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Fund makes one more small tool available to the children and parents aided by early childhood education not for profit organization Bright Beginnings in DC, through the GWCF, as part of the work of the suggested umbrella movement proposed in the free first edition of the book Project Do Better: Enough for All in Four Phases. The book is available for reading and also for editing by community organizers, always freely, in service to humanity,

Nia,

Injustice Delenda Est

Passing to Freedom, Chapter 8: Knowledge is Power

Chapter 8

During the time that we stayed in that place of respite, we always took our meals up in our room. It had a small window very high up, and thus seemed safe enough from curious glances. Though I gained steadily in strength each day, all the household, it seemed, hung on tender-hooks for my recovery. We ate simple fare, whether due to my delicate condition, or to Mrs. H.’s lack of kitchen help, I did not know. But we ate often, and the food was filling. We knew we would need it for the journey ahead.

One morning, the doctor knocked on our door. This was unusual, now that my head injury no longer needed such precise looking after. Anna normally performed this service for me, several times per day. I wasn’t sure it was always strictly necessary, but I enjoyed the closeness of her attentions. As she opened the door, the smell of an apple pie wafted in with Dr. H. He looked a bit nervous, as did the young dark-skinned girl behind him. Who was she?

He was holding some papers, which he looked at so long that I thought they must burst into flame. At last, he cleared his throat.

“I am sorry to impose a change of plans on all of us, but I have found myself presented with a situation for which I had not been entirely prepared.”

He glanced down at the child, who lowered her head even further, as if attempting to make herself invisible. Just at that moment, the doctor’s wife appeared in the doorway, stepping in and bending down to take the girl into her arms in one graceful movement.

“Don’t be afraid, Tilly. None of this is your fault. You are a very good and brave little girl.”

The woman’s whisper had somehow managed to carry all the way across the room, filling each of us with a dread that grew heavier with every passing moment. The doctor broke the silence by holding up the sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Poor Tilly, here, has come to us with a Porter from another town. Unbeknownst to him, our house was not empty, as it was scheduled to be. He brought her here from a Departure that did not go as planned elsewhere. I cannot tell you more, of course, but I could not bear to turn her away. I hope that you can make do with this situation until we find a way to resolve it.”

I looked at little Tilly, seeing how small she was, like my dear Little Sal. Before the tears could come to my eyes, I beckoned for the child, who came cautiously toward me, as if approaching a hot frying pan. I held out my hand, waiting for her to reach out, and found Anna there beside me holding both of our hands together. She was looking from me to this child as if the oddest notion had just occurred to her. I wondered what new mischief that agile mind of hers was cooking up.

“Doctor, what are those papers you’ve got there?”

He looked relieved to finally have an question to answer.

“These are your Free Papers, Joe, and your Hack License to drive up to Philadelphia. This was to have been a simpler affair, but now we have had to improvise, as Mr. D. is no longer available for you to drive him up there.”

I looked at Anna. Would she, or could she, explain who this was? So much of this affair was shrouded in deliberate mystery. I hoped to hear at least some of it brought to light.

Anna looked back at me, shaking her head ever so slightly. Now was not the time for questions. Apparently the state of things was more delicate than I had surmised.

“Well, no decisions should be made on an empty stomach. Young Tilly has helped me to prepare dinner, and there is to be pie afterward. Then, and not a moment before, we will find some manner of resolving this situation.”

The doctor’s wife had spoken, and not an objection was there to be heard. The doctor placed the sheaf of papers upon the writing desk by the bedside, nodded at both of us, and left the room, his wife having already gone down to see to dinner. The smell of pie was now being joined by that of what seemed to be a collection of roasted vegetable smells, as though it were Sunday after church.

The three of us shared a basin to wash up and dress for dinner, only just sitting in a row on the bed by the time the doctor’s wife arrived carrying a larger tray than usual. Anna and Tilly helped her arrange our place settings, while I made sure that all remained in equilibrium, seated as we were upon the bedside.

“I must return and dine downstairs with my husband, in case any curious neighbors look in, but I shall come back up shortly to collect the dishes. I do wish you all a good meal.”

We each nodded our thanks, and she gave a gracious nod in return before closing the door behind her. I looked at Anna, nodding toward little Tilly’s plate. Anna turned to the child, encouraging her to eat, but the little girl shook her head.

“Grace.”

By all the heavens. At last! I was overjoyed to finally be able to say grace without seeming to be a troublesome patient. Anna smiled, and all three of us bowed our heads. Tilly looked up at me, and I decided to give some small thanks to the good Lord for getting us here safely. Then, our hearts more at ease, we ate with less worry. It was still plain that each of us feared this new development, but things suddenly seemed just a little bit better.

After clearing about half her plate, seeming to be absorbed in her thoughts as she ate, Anna looked up at me.

“Miss Willow?”

“Yes, Miss Anna?”

“How do you feel about your reading, now?”

My heart sank. I had been sure that this question would come soon, and equally sure that I would not be up to the challenge which the question was meant to represent.

During the time I spent convalescing at the home of Dr. H., we had not been not idle. The doctor’s wife had spent every spare moment, it seemed, showing me a new eye chart, with diverse characters of the alphabet.

This served two purposes. First, in checking my vision after each meal, we could all see the progress of my recovery. Second, and most urgently, Anna and I were learning our letters. We would need to know how to read if we were to make sure our escape, for many papers and postings made mention of our evasion, and according to a certain Mr. Bacon, knowledge was power.

Little had we known how just soon the need for such power would arrive.

***

Project Do Better agrees…

Nia,

Injustice Delenda Est

Passing to Freedom, Chapter 6: Hunters with Hound Dogs, and Bears! Oh, My!!

Chapter 6

          We’d started on our way again, in spite of it being daylight. It was early morning, with the rising sun just as freshly awakened as we were. I was awake and worrying about our plan so as not to worry about little Sal and Miss Mary. Anna had agreed that there was no point in waiting, since we were only about a day’s ride to our next station. Still, I fretted, though I tried not to let it show. I did not want my companion troubled by my inconstant humors. That turned out to be a good thing, it would seem.

“Stop!”

Her urgent whisper had sent pins and needles from my belly up through my arms.

“Get your head down, quick!”

Anna had grabbed the reins out of my hands and led the way over to a large fallen tree
before I even knew she was beside me. Our horses must have been well trained, for they followed her tightly together with their heads down, so that I could hardly move at all. I flattened my body along Old Mary’s neck, feeling as if I might fall off any moment. Then Anna did a thing I had never even heard of.

“Just hold right on, and be still, like a rock.”

She clucked her tongue and patted both horses heads. To my utter amazement, we four, like the Children of Israel, fell to the ground as one man. What was more, we did so in complete silence. The sounds of a few birds, preparing for the long winter ahead, and a light breeze rustling the fallen leaves of a few trees also preparing to brave the coming cold, were all that my untrained ears could tell me. I started to raise my head to look around, but felt the lightest touch of Anna’s hand upon my arm, warning me not to move. Then I heard them.

Voices, moving through the woods, only just coming within my hearing. Yet my sweet
Anna had heard them well before, and had acted with steadier nerve than many a man would have done. How did she do that?

Then came another sound which I heard at a distance, but well enough to bring the taste of
bile to my throat.

A dog had barked.

I began to pray, as the smell of my own sweat hit me, mingled with the smell of horse and
pine needles. My face was buried between the necks of our two horses, who had somehow
managed to lay themselves down with us still mounted upon them. Not if I lived a hundred years and finally got to see a circus perform did I ever expect to see something like that again. I gave thanks for this minor miracle, and asked the Almighty for the grace to let us remain unseen and unheard by those who sought our return to bondage. I also prayed for forgiveness. I would need it, if I got to my sewing basket before those patrollers got to me.

“Stay here, and don’t move.”

What was she up to, now? I felt Anna move, silent as the grave, from off of her horse,
gliding low across the ground over to a large bush that might have had some berries on it, a few weeks ago, and scatter something, then glide back to our hiding place, almost in the blink of an eye, despite the distance she had covered. The dog barked again, closer this time, and I heard shouts, as if several men were following.

As the racket grew louder, Anna looked both ways, as if about to cross a street in the Federal City, then whispered:

“Hold on tight, Old Mary won’t let you fall.”

Before I had time to ponder those words, she had clucked her tongue and patted both horses heads again. I felt both of our mounts surging up into the air, and wrapped my fingers in Old Mary’s mane as my feet found the stirrups. With another click of her tongue, we both began to walk backwards! My stomach roiled as the shouts and barking grew closer, and we were finally able to see our pursuers. They were indeed slave patrollers, and most likely looking specifically for us.

Then, I saw another sight which I shall never forget. A black bear, which I had somehow
utterly failed to notice, was sniffing at the bush Anna had just left. As the shouts became orders to stop, directed at us, and the barking became the baying of a hound which has cornered its quarry, the bear looked at them, and stood up. Growling.

As if this were exactly what Anna had been waiting for, she gave a sharp whistle, and the
ears of both our mounts perked up to points.

“Hold on!” Anna spurred her horse, and jerked to the left.

All I’d had time for was a glance her way, as Old Mary surged forward, in time with her
companion, wheeling around so sharply that I only just managed to stay seated. I heard the sounds of a dog crying out in pain, a bear growling at the sky, and a gun shot.

I leaned over Old Mary’s neck, flattening out with her as she and our friends beside us
stretched their necks. I clung to good Old Mary’s mane for dear life, my legs wrapped around her flanks as my fingers clutched the hair of her mane, my face nearly buried in that hair whipping around mingled with mine. Over the noise of our hooves, I could hear the commotion behind us.

It sounded closer.

In my fear of the slave hunters, I had forgotten my fear of riding.

That was a grave error.

“Shoot ‘im again! Shoot ‘im!!”

As I looked back I could just make out that bear, its terrible face lifted to the sky. Then my grip on Old Mary’s mane slipped a little. I let go with my right hand, reaching down as I turned my head back, feeling for the reins. More shots rang out, and I flinched, losing the right rein I had just retrieved. I was barely managing to keep my seat, stretched over the pommel as I was.

Then I saw the log.

When I awoke, it seemed like days must have passed. Night had fallen, cold and still. The smell of pine needles and earth was mingled with a foul under-taste. Blood. I lifted my head a little, and saw lightning bugs appear just above my eyes. Wait, that couldn’t be right. It was too cold now, for lightening bugs. I tried to get up, and immediately regretted it. My aching body protested, the slightest movement producing a jolt of pain that yanked a whimper from my lips. As if in reply to that pained prayer, a sound like somebody sweeping dirt under the carpet came from beside me. Try as I might, though, I could not make my body turn over to see the source of that sound. I sighed in despair. Even that hurt.

Dear Lord, please let me go.

It was the only prayer I could make. But it was not the good Lord who answered me. Instead, I felt a familiar muzzle nudging my shoulder, just as a strange sounding bird made a double cry. I felt a shuffling against my left arm, and then the fall of four hooves stepping over me just as gently as could be, touching the ground inches away from my chilled limbs. That muzzle lowered itself back to my head, breathing into my face as I’d gotten used to Old Mary doing.

Old Mary!

That strange bird called again, closer this time, and I began to worry, alone out here in these woods. I had tried once to be still like a rock, and look at me. Instead of being like a rock, I appeared to have hit my head on one. Not exactly walking by faith. Even worse, I’d gotten Old Mary here into danger along with me. Anna would not be happy with me. But right now, that was the least of my troubles, for she was not here. In point of fact, I didn’t even know where here might be. My dear guide Anna could navigate these woods in surety, while I could not.

And now, we’d gone and gotten separated.

I heard that strange bird make it’s call again, closer still, which augured nothing good. If this was to be my end, I wanted to at least let Old Mary here get away. I tried to lift my head, and got kicked by more lightening bugs for my trouble. Never knew those bugs could kick anything, but they sure did. I tried to puff out a breath. No. That only made her come closer. I began to feel myself tremble, and even thought I smelled the stench of fear that could only come from my body. Horse sweat smelled sweeter and pure. That smell was so close I could see myself rolling up onto Old Mary’s back, my leg levitating over the saddle as if by some art of magic. The pain that exploded through my body as my head came up was no magic. Try though I did to stay quiet, a croak escaped my throat.

“Hush, now.”

I was sure I’d finally gone mad. I imagined I had heard the voice of my dear sweet Anna, whom I feverishly hoped was far away, safe from these dangers. Feeling a gentle touch upon my neck, I tried opening my eyes again, and beheld four familiar windows into the soul of the one I most feared to see: Anna was indeed there beside me, rolling me onto Old Mary, who had apparently once again done her circus trick of laying her large frame right down on the ground. This blessed creature had practically wormed herself under my body, somehow. Kneeling right beside her, in double beauty, were two images of my Anna. My dear, sweet, wonderful, and now also in danger, Anna. I tried to warn her about that strange bird, but my mouth only admitted a grimace, and then the lightening bugs had their say, forcing my eyes closed again in a nauseated haze. I felt a finger upon my lips as the earth seemed to pull my limbs down, and then, forgive me, the pain and smells all faded away again.

***

This is part of my current women’s historical WiP Passing to Freedom: Willow’s Story

a novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni,

fka Shira Destinie Jones, dedicated to the children, parents, staff, and volunteers of early childhood non-profit Bright Beginnings in DC, and the staff of the GWCF who help them, via The Project Do Better by ShiraDest Publications Fund, and the ideas freely given to all in the Do Better manual/manifesto, in the hope of building a better and more cooperative edifice for all of us.