Midnight Rescue (17 page)

Tears stood in Mrs. Weaver’s eyes. “You used to love our people. What has happened to change you so?”

Mr. Weaver sighed. “I never seem to be able to give you enough.”

“Enough of what?”

“Money. Fine things.”

Mrs. Weaver’s eyes looked startled. “But you never asked me. Is that what you think I want? Did I tell you that’s what I wanted?”

Then a pinched look came into her face. “I did, didn’t I? The day before Melanie was born, I compared our home with what my father had after thirty years of hard work. But when I changed, I never told you.”

Before Libby’s eyes, Mrs. Weaver’s face seemed to grow old. “I’m as guilty as you,” she told her husband. “And now, all I really want is you and our children. I want a home and the food and clothes they need. But all this—”

Mrs. Weaver stretched out her hand, taking in the furniture and paintings. “We could sell this instead of Zack. We don’t need it.”

Mr. Weaver looked around the living room. “You would sell something you painted yourself? And the furniture you brought from the South? Who would pay us what they’re really worth? The man coming tomorrow wants Zack as a companion for his son.”

With angry eyes Mrs. Weaver stared at her husband. “Zack is best friends with
our
son.”

Mr. Weaver’s voice was hard. “The boy has to go,” he said.

As if she couldn’t bear to look at her husband, Mrs. Weaver
bowed her head and covered her eyes. When the sound of weeping filled the room, Libby inched forward. Again she noticed the long full drapes at the far window. In that moment one of the drapes moved.

CHAPTER 12

W
hen Mrs. Weaver continued crying, Mr. Weaver leaned toward his wife. “There, there, Dorothy,” he muttered as if embarrassed by her tears.

For the first time Libby saw the man’s face in the mirror. Cold and angry he seemed, in spite of his words.

When Mrs. Weaver looked up, her eyes were red from crying. “We’ve taken so many wrong turns. To rob Hattie of her son would be the greatest wrong of all.”

“We don’t have any choice, Dorothy. The land I bought has to be paid for, or we’ll lose what we already have.”

“There’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“Nothing, Dorothy. Absolutely nothing. The boy goes in the morning.”

As the sound of weeping once more filled the room, Libby started to edge backward. She needed to get away before someone discovered her. But just then the long drape moved again. As Libby watched, a boy’s hand pushed aside the cloth. Then a face appeared.
Jonathan!

For a moment he waited, as though making sure that his parents looked the other way. Then he slipped out the nearby door.

Again Libby edged back. As she crept toward the front door, her feelings tumbled every which way. Without making a sound, she opened the door and stepped outside.

By the time Libby reached Paul, she was shaking with anger one minute and trembling with fear the next. Stumbling over her words, she struggled to make sense of what she was trying to say to Paul. “Jonathan knows what is going to happen to his best friend.”

In the silence that followed, Paul offered Libby a bench. As though needing time to think, he lit a lantern and set it down on another bench.

“What should we do?” Libby asked finally.

“You need to go back,” he said. “See if they want you to draw a family picture in the morning.”

“I’m supposed to draw another picture at a time like this?”

“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t,” Paul answered. “Just show them your sketch of Jonathan and see what Mr. Weaver says.”

“But, Paul—” Libby couldn’t get the terrible scene in the living room out of her mind. “I can’t go back to that room.”

“If Jordan asked you to walk into that room, would you do it?”

Libby stared at Paul. “I guess I would,” she said slowly.

“Why?”

Libby thought about it. “Because it’s Jordan’s family that’s being torn apart. But it’s more. Jordan has always known he would lead his people to freedom. From the time he was a little boy, his momma told him so. And God told Jordan too.”

“Then let’s try to get more time for Jordan,” Paul said. “We
don’t know why he’s not here. Whatever is wrong, it has to be a good reason.”

“But what about Jordan’s mother?” Libby said. “She needs to get Zack and run away tonight. We could take her.”

“Maybe,” Paul said. “But for now go and talk to the Weavers before they go to bed. Maybe Jordan will come while you’re gone.”

Libby was still filled with dread. There was something she needed to know. “When Jordan prayed with Caleb and me, he asked God for favor. What does that mean?”

“A couple of things,” Paul answered. “If you do something well, someone might like what you did. That’s human favor.”

“The way Mrs. Weaver liked my drawings.”

Paul nodded. “But when God gives favor, it’s much more than that. He blesses you, not because you earn or deserve it, but because of the way He is. God just likes to bless people. He wants to help us.”

Reaching down, Paul picked up the lantern. “Whether this flame is lit depends on something you do. You light it or don’t light it. If you do something people like, they might choose to give you favor. But God’s favor is like the sun. God does not turn off the sun. Sometimes clouds block our view of it, but the sun is still there.”

“Then we better pray for favor,” Libby said. “Both kinds of favor.”

Once more she picked up her sketch of Jonathan. In the light of the lantern, the dead fish almost looked alive. Seeing it, Libby felt better. Then she noticed the twinkle in Paul’s eyes.

“Remember, Libby. You’re a professional artist now. You’ve already sold two drawings of wild flowers and one of Randolph.”

As Libby walked toward the house, she made all the noise she could. When she reached the front door, she did not go in. Instead she knocked loudly. When Serena answered, she led Libby into the living room.

Mr. and Mrs. Weaver still sat in front of a fire that had now burned low. The redness in Mrs. Weaver’s eyes had not gone away. Yet if Libby had not heard them talking, she might not have sensed their disagreement.

“I finished the drawing of Jonathan,” Libby said, hoping she could soon be out of there.

When Mrs. Weaver took it, she held it out at arm’s length. Without speaking, she studied the sketch.

“What is it?” her husband asked.

Mrs. Weaver looked up to meet Libby’s gaze. “It’s our son Jonathan at his best—when he is happy.”

Standing up, Mr. Weaver looked over his wife’s shoulder. “At his best with a fish over his shoulder?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Weaver’s smile was soft, as if knowing that Libby understood. “You have given us more than you know,” Mrs. Weaver told her. “We want to buy this drawing from you.”

Then, as if remembering the conversation Libby had heard, Mrs. Weaver paused. “But I want to give you something better than money—something my father gave me long ago on the day I sold my first painting.”

Carefully Mrs. Weaver unclasped a bracelet from around her wrist. She handed it to Libby.

“But you can’t—” her husband began.

“Yes, I can. It is mine. Now it is Libby’s. She has reminded me of something important.”

Mrs. Weaver glanced at her husband. “We haven’t talked
about it yet,” she told Libby. “But in the morning, right after breakfast, we want you to make a drawing of our entire family. We will sit for you in front of our house. You may arrange us as you like.”

As Libby left the room, she did not dare to look at Mr. Weaver.

When Libby reached Paul again, she found that he had moved as many boxes as possible so that Libby could make a bed inside the wagon. His bedroll lay on the ground a short distance away.

When Libby showed him the bracelet, Paul looked surprised. “It’s very valuable. Take good care of it. Mrs. Weaver comes from a wealthy Southern family.”

Much as Mrs. Weaver’s kindness meant to her, Libby was more concerned about Caleb and Jordan. “Did they come while I was gone?”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t want to worry, but I feel concerned.”

“Paul—” Libby had already thought through her plan. “I think I know where Jordan’s mother sleeps. When I waited in the front hall, I looked through a door into the porch off the kitchen. I saw slaves going up a stairway there. The women looked like they work in the house.”

“It would make sense,” Paul said. “Slaves who work in the house usually do live there. But their part of the house would be separate from where the family lives.”

“And Serena and Rose?”

“Probably with Hattie. But Zack would be in a cabin out back.”

“You think I should talk to Jordan’s mother?”

“If you do, there are probably two rooms for slaves. You can’t make a mistake about which one she’s in.”

Suddenly the whole prospect of what lay ahead frightened Libby. When she crept into her bed in the wagon, she wanted to do nothing. If she waited long enough, maybe Jordan and Caleb would come.

One by one the lamps in the big house went out. Through an opening between boards in the wagon, Libby watched the house grow dark.

With it came the growing sense that she had no choice but to do something. She remembered Jordan’s words.
“If Caleb and I can’t get there, Momma will have another chance to escape.”
It would be the worst unkindness of all to not tell Hattie what was happening.