The All-True Travels And Adventures Of Lidie Newton Part 28

Although it was Sunday, as I've said, it was widely known all over the west that the Lord approved of business going forward when there was a great deal of business to be done, and so I was perfectly able to go into another store and purchase some provisions-early apples and pears, some potatoes and carrots and hard biscuits. I also bought us each a cup. These things came to two dollars and eighty-two cents, Now I went back to the hotel. As I entered the door and mounted the stairs, I did feel a panic rise in my throat, as if, upon going to my room, I might see something horrible, but all was quiet. Lorna was sitting where I had left her, and when I pushed on the door, she peered out with one eye, then let me in. I showed her the money and food, then sat down upon the bed. I thought we might eat, but I wasn't hungry, probably from fear, and Lorna didn't take anything. In my absence, she had put the room to rights as best she could, but it would still take a deal of scrubbing to make it appealing. For a while, we didn't talk but sat there listening to the conversation and the noises that came through the walls, the door, the windows to the outside. At last, it became apparent that we might talk softly, if we went to the outer corner of the room, between the two small, dirty windows that looked out on the street, one of which had a broken pane of gla.s.s. We had to get a couple of things out of the way, and first things first, I whispered, "I can't bring myself to steal the pony and the cart."

"We ain' stealin' 'em. We gone fine a boy to brang 'em. Dere's boys dat come to de house from time to time, carrying a message or a parcel. We gone fine a boy like dat and give 'im a dollar. I reckoned dat in."

"It's going to take me a while to find one."

"Dey's boys all 'round. We cain' leave heah till afta dark, nohow."

Then I said, "Lorna, where are we going?"

"Kansas."

The very idea filled me with horror.

She said, "Dat's free soil."

"But it isn't. The law is officially just like Missouri law, or worse."

"Ma.s.sa Richard say all de abolishinists have de run of the place and have de say-so dere. He and dem others yell about it all de time."

"It's not true, and there's a war on there, too."

She stared at me, resistant.

"I was just there. I came from there. Remember? I told you that one day."

"You did, but den you say you come from over by de river, wheah I seen you before."

"I went out to Kansas with my husband, who gave you that money. We lived in Lawrence."

Now Lorna gave a big grin and whispered, "Ma.s.sa Richard say dat's de devil's own town!"

"Well, folks in Lawrence say that Missouri is the devil's own country."

"An' it is, for me. As soon as Ma.s.sa Richard and his cronies got so heat up about Lawrence, well, me and Jake, we thought dat war de place for us!"

"But it's been burned once, and my husband was shot there! You can't escape into a war that's getting fiercer and fiercer. There are all sorts of bands of men roaming about, looking for a chance to kill someone."

"Dat's de closest place."

"Maybe, but you have to listen to me. The men who shot my husband didn't stop to find out anything about him, or us. They rode up to us, took a look at us, and shot him. They shot our horse, too, for no reason. Kansas is different, even from Missouri. Nothing stops anyone there. Whatever builds up here in the east, in Kansas folks let it out. If you and I go into Kansas, a white woman and a black woman, someone on some side will stop us, because there's three types of people there-the ones who want slavery, the ones who don't want slavery, and the ones who don't want slavery or any Negroes in the state. All of them will wonder about us. All of them will think they can stop us and torment us and take us up for some reason or another. Lorna, you never see a black woman and a white woman together in Kansas."

"I cain' stay in Missouri. I'm in slavery in Missouri. I cain' do it." She went over to the chair by the door and put her face in her hands. I lay down on the dirty bed and stared at the floorboards of the room above and the rickety joists holding them up. I fell into an uneasy sleep, so exhausted that I couldn't wake, though repeatedly disturbed by half-heard sounds of boots in the hallway outside the room, boots above us, yelling and shots outside. In my dreams, I missed the peace of Day's End Plantation, because surely that quiet, whatever it boded, was better than this disquiet. Then I woke up, and I saw that Lorna, in her chair, had fallen into a doze, too. My spirits were low, and I felt a good deal of fear, but I didn't long for Day's End Plantation. That was something. I lay there, and shortly Lorna woke up. She looked over, saw that I was awake, and sat up. She took her time adjusting her clothes and the kerchief on her head, standing and even trying to use the tiny looking gla.s.s that was hanging on one wall. When she was entirely straight and neat, she went over to the corner where we had talked earlier, and so I got up and joined her there. She no longer looked fearful but appeared settled and ready. She whispered, "I see what we got to do, Missy Louisa. We got to go on de boat as missy and gal. We got to sink into de wallpaper, like, an' stay wheah we look like we belong."

"Lots of women and children and servants are moving east. We'll fit right in."

"But we got to leave dis town. We done slep' now. We got to leave as soon as de darkness come."

I nodded.

"Wheah are de pony and de cart?"

"I put them in a livery stable."

And that was the last we spoke of them. We both knew that in spite of our best intentions and greatest care, to return to the pony and the cart was to put ourselves in danger, especially as the cart was a gaily painted one, green with red striping. If we had escaped detection so far (and there was no telling if we had), we would risk it unnecessarily by drawing attention to the pony cart. And so, here was another thing I thought I wouldn't do that I did when the time came. I realized then that there was no telling what you might do if it looked like you had to do it. That was the lesson of K.T., wasn't it?

I had no bag now, so Lorna wrapped the provisions in her bundle, which itself was none too large, and she stationed herself against the door while I went out to look for the stage to Lexington. I was soon disappointed. The stage company was over-burdened with business-they were sending folks east in all sorts of vehicles, behind all sorts of draft animals. "Do you know the Missouri roads, ma'am?" said the clerk in a friendly way.

"I haven't been on them."

"Ah. Well, ma'am, they have quite a reputation, and it an't a good one. I myself feel that when we send these folks off, we are sending them into the wilderness. And I can't speak for the drivers, either. Most of them carry their kegs of highly rectified whiskey with them, within easy reach." He leaned over the desk to me. "Good deal of fighting along the way, ma'am. That's what we hear. Of course, you can go west."

"West!"

"Yes, ma'am. There's plenty of room going west to Kansas City, and you can get pa.s.sage there. You'd think the steamboats would stay away, but they are drawn to it! And the pa.s.sage is very high now. Twenty dollars or more."

"Twenty dollars! It was twelve, and before that it was eight."

"War is surely a good opportunity, ma'am."

"How much is the stage to Kansas City?"

"Ten dollars, ma'am."

"I have a gal."

"She can ride on top for eight, walk alongside and get up from time to time for four."

"She can walk alongside the stage for four dollars?"

"Yes, ma'am. The driver will allow her to get up four times for ten minutes a time, by his pocket watch."

"That's-"

"That's what the market will bear, ma'am." He gave me a cheerful smile and stuck his pencil behind his ear, probably pondering the cascade of money pouring through Independence now that would surely at least trickle in his direction.

Lorna, I have to say, was less than astonished by my report. All she said was, "Den we have to walk. You know de way out o' dis town?"

Well, I did.

Though we never spoke of it, in the back of both our minds was the knowledge that Papa would soon be looking for us, and the course of action we had chosen, to stay during daylight in Independence and then make off after dark, could easily be the wrong choice. If it had taken us half a day to get from the plantation by pony cart, it would take much less than that for Papa and his friends to gallop there on fresh horses. It all depended upon when they returned from the Harris plantation and how quickly it was revealed that I was gone, Lorna was gone with me, and the pony cart was gone with the both of us. Perhaps because we never spoke of it, it was all too easy to imagine the smoothest and quickest possible pursuit on their part, all too easy to envision that moment of looking up and seeing them, him, Papa, right before you, his little arm raised and something in his hand. A whip? A gun? All too easy to wonder what would happen then, upon discovery. And wondering that seemed to stop me in my tracks, make it impossible to move or act. But perhaps speaking about it would add fancy upon fancy, hers upon mine, mine upon hers. We didn't dare.

We were impatient for full darkness. When it came, we fixed our hair and got ourselves together and pa.s.sed out of the now crowded hotel without looking either left or right, me in front, Lorna a step or two behind, me with my head high, Lorna with hers low. I went down the stairs, my hand skimming the banister. I strode through the lower room and looked at no one who was looking at me. I went outside and down the outer steps, which numbered four. I turned left, west, and marched along. I saw that walking to Kansas City was going to be considerably harder in a skirt and light shoes than it had been in trousers and boots, but there was no help for that. We pa.s.sed men on horseback, men in wagons, men afoot. We pa.s.sed groups of men, men in twos and threes, solitary men. It seemed that all of them looked first at me and second at Lorna, and all speculated about us, but no one stopped us. We walked on, and soon enough the town gave way to countryside. Just about then, when we were alone, Lorna said, "What time do ya make it?"

I said, "I don't know. I sold the watch."

That was all we said.

I thought of how, the last time I pa.s.sed this way, I had crawled under bushes or haystacks to sleep at night and had confidently, more or less, gone my way during the day. I remembered how intent I had been upon finding Samson and Chaney. My resolve had given me the confidence to be a boy, hadn't it? To march along in broad daylight, booted, trousered, braced, behatted, full of purpose and showing it, like a man. Now we paused in the darkness and listened to noises, looked about us, caught each other's glance and looked away, dreading the very dread we might see. When others pa.s.sed us, we drew ourselves into ourselves, aiming to pa.s.s unnoticed, trying not to look as if we were ready to flee. Ladylike dignity was the key to safe pa.s.sage, as boyish self-confidence had been before. And I got tired. Lorna didn't. She said, "What's de mattah wid ya? Ya slowin' down!"

"I'm tired. It's the middle of the night."

"No, it ain'. My guess, it ain' pas' ten. We got to go quick as we ken till daylight. We ken res' den, though I ain' goin' to one o' dem hotels again! I sweah, dat place was filthy! Missy Helen couldn' have slep' a wink deah!"

"I can hardly keep awake."

"I'm jes' glad I is out in de country walkin', 'stead o' sewin' on Ma.s.sa Richard's shirts by candlelight!"

"Is Master Richard a cruel master?"

"No."

"Did he ever beat you?"

"Not so's you'd notice much. He aim for me wid his razor strap one time. He only yell a lot. He don' evah beat de boys, 'cause he ain' big enough. He buy dem off wid presents."

I laughed.

"Why you laughin'?"

"Because that's not the way the northerners think slaves live."

"Slaves live all differnt. But dey all slaves. Dey all got to do what dey is tol' to do."

"I didn't see anyone tell you what to do much at Day's End Plantation."

"Now you soun' like Ma.s.sa Richard. When I come back deah a year ago, he say, 'This place is heaven, Lorna! We all have our work to do and we do it, and then we receive our nourishment and our rest, and we rise to do our work again. It's all the same for master and servant, Lorna. The world you want to get to is a far darker place than Day's End Plantation!' " Her mimicry of Papa's intonation and way of expressing himself was perfect, and so I laughed again, but then I sobered up and said, "And so it is, Lorna. A woman I know and both of her little boys starved to death not far from me this past winter. I might have, too, but for a friend. What will you do, all alone?"

"I ain' gone be all alone. My man is buyin' hisself free."

"Couldn't he buy you free?"

"Tek 'im twelve yeah to buy hisself! In twelve yeah, I ain' gone be fit to have babies. Anyway, Ma.s.sa Richard already done tol' me dat he don' want to sell me, 'cause I is de best trained and he cain' get no one like me no more, wid de ablishinists and all. He say, 'We have to draw upon our own resources, Lorna. Not like former times!' "

"You sound just like him."

"Well, I been heahin' 'im talk since I war a youngun. Hush, now."

We quieted, and I could hear horses, more than one, trotting along. Without even thinking about it, I stepped over behind a tree, and Lorna stepped in beside me. We pressed against the tree and looked at each other, making no sound. The horses trotted by, two of them. One of the riders was saying, "... shoulda shot 'im a long time ago, but Halloran wouldn't let me, haw haw!" It was a regret I had heard often enough-Missouri and Kansas were filled with folks who, in the opinion of other folks, would have been shot long before this if better judgment had prevailed. The horses trotted away, and when we could no longer hear them, we stepped out from behind the tree and resumed walking. I was no longer sleepy. I said, "Why shouldn't you be a slave, Lorna? What if all those preachers are right, and the Lord says that Negroes are best in slavery?"

"'Cause I don' want to be, an' I know my own mine bettah dan dose preachahs know de Lawd's mine, I think."

"Does my question insult you?"

"You is ignorant and you ain' got good mannahs, but I don' caeh. I is ignorant myself. I cain' read and I cain' write nothin' but 'Lorna.' An' I ain' got good mannahs, neider, 'cause I ain' got de patience for 'em. Delia, she got good mannahs, an' look wheah she got."

"Where did she get?"

"She got her baby took from 'er an' sold. Dat's one thing."

I didn't know what to say, even though I'd read Mrs. Stowe's book. Lorna was in the mood for talking, though. She seemed a much less crusty person than she'd been at the plantation. She said, "I reckon Ma.s.sa Richard don' talk about dat much, and maybe he nevah tol' Missy Helen dat at all. You know, dey make ol' missy out to be a saint in heaven, but when it come right down to it, she waren't dat at all. She nevah barked, but she didn' mine bitin'. An' she could sell a n.i.g.g.ah quick as you please. Missy Bella is a lot like 'er, but dey nevah says dat, 'cause Missy Bella, she jes' cain' control herself. She git mad and she hit out. But ol' missy, she git jes' as mad, but den she lay in wait for ya, when you thought she ware ovah it. Dat's what happen wid Delia. She had a year-old boy wid her man, who daid now, boy name Mosie. Well, one day she done somethin' dat missy didn' like-I nevah hear what it was. Missy say, 'Delia, you have seriously displeased me today!' an' den Delia thought she forgot about it. 'Bout two months latah, missy had her a baby dat war Helen, an' she say she ain' got no milk for de new baby, cain' get none, none would come. So she tol' Ma.s.sa Richard he got to sell Mosie so Delia would nuss baby Helen, and Ma.s.sa Richard, he go 'bout wid a long face for a day or so, but in de end, ol' missy got her way, like she always did, from smilin' and makin' up to 'im, and dey done sold dat chile, dey say he war weaned, it wouldn' hurt him to go off, jes' like he war a horse or suchlike, and right den I tol' myself I ain' havin' no babies on dat place, no mattah what my man say. Well, Delia, she cry and moan about dat boy for yeahs, but when ol' missy died, she wep' for her, too, and she love Missy Helen and all, but I didn' shed no tears for ol' missy, and I always held it against Missy Helen, wheder it her fault or no. I do hold a grudge, dat's for sure."

I don't know why I found this story so shocking, as I had heard stories like this many times, but to hear it in Lorna's own voice, and to know Helen and Papa and Delia and to imagine the scenes in the very rooms of Day's End Plantation that I knew so well made it hard for me to take in. I exclaimed, "I believe you!" and Lorna looked at me and said, "Well, why shouldn' you? I is tellin' de truth. I war ten or eleven den, I guess, still a girl, but I knowed by dat time what it would be to be a woman on dat place, an' when my man come 'round, I tol' 'im dat we ain' makin' no babies for ol' missy to sell away, and anyway, he done went off to buy hisself real quick after we done got married."

"I know such things happen."

"We don' know all dat happen in slavery, an' I always thought we don' want to know. Ifn my days is good enough, an' I hate 'em, den I cain' think about de days of de others, dat is terrible bad, down Louisiana way an' dem other places."

"You are quite a philosopher, Lorna."

"Is dat so?" She sounded both skeptical and resentful, and I saw that talking about these things had made her angry. I said, "I'm sorry to be so inquisitive."

She harrumphed, and we walked on in silence.

Twice more, horses came by, once a group of three, once a group of four, and both times we found places to hide while they pa.s.sed. The men were all drunk, and not especially observant, or they might have seen our light-colored dresses or heard us rustle the leaves. It is impossible for a woman in a long skirt and a petticoat to be absolutely, or even relatively, silent. I knew we would be better off the road. But this was the only way I knew to Kansas City, and I was afraid of getting lost in the darkness. Nor did we want to appear furtive. Not escapees, but a woman and her girl, a little bit short of funds owing to high prices and romantic betrayal. That's who we were, if only we could remember to be that. We made good progress, though I had pains up my legs from the lightness of my shoes, which seemed to give way to every little stone or pebble.

After a while, I said, "Tell me more. Tell me about the last time you ran away."

"Missy Bella sent me off wid some money for de shoppin'. I war sposed to pick up some gown she done ordered. I didn' have my own money wid me deah. So she give me about fifty dollar, and she say, 'Now, don' you run off, gal,' and so I did. A n.i.g.g.e.r I knew who worked on a steamboat, he got me upriver pretty far, almost neah to your place, but den I had to git out in de night when de boat went close to the bank, and den I stuck by de river for some three, four days, till I got to dat cave deah. You cain' trust anybody in Illinois. Dat's what all de n.i.g.g.e.rs along deah say. You got to git to Wesconsin. But dat man you knew, he knew some n.i.g.g.e.rs 'long deah. Dey done said he was big in de Underground Railroad. I thought I war gone make it, but some catchers spied me when I was sleepin' and come back later wid de dogs, and dat war dat. But I don' want to talk about slavery no more. I is done wid it."

"I need to talk about something, or I'll fall asleep."

"Den you tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me about Wesconsin."

"That's north of Illinois. It's along way."

"Is dey all ablishinists up deah?"

"They voted not to carry out the Fugitive Slave Act."

"When I tol' Ma.s.sa Richard I war headed dat way, after dey caught me, he say it too d- cold for a n.i.g.g.ah up deah, and all dey got is Indians, who don' caeh about de cold."

"It is wild country."

"I don' mine de cold. I done fine las' winter. Delia and Ike say dey was dying, and Ma.s.sa Richard, he done lay in 'is bed for four days wid three quilts ovah 'im, but I didn' mine. Delia had de stove goin' in de kitchen all day and all night, and she made us eat like hogs."

"But not many white people even want to go to Wisconsin. I hear it's good in Ohio. That's where my sister had a school before she died. A school for Negro children."

"I'll go deah, den."

"But she died. The school is disbanded for now."

"But dey let her have it. I ain' nevah heard of a place wheah dey let some lady have a school for n.i.g.g.ah children before."

"You can get there by steamboat, if I take you."