The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton (58 page)

We were impatient for full darkness. When it came, we fixed our hair and got ourselves together and passed 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 passed men on horseback, men in wagons, men afoot. We passed 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 passed 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 passed us, we drew ourselves into ourselves, aiming to pass unnoticed, trying not to look as if we were ready to flee. Ladylike dignity was the key to safe passage, 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 Massa 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 Massa 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, Massa 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 Massa 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 niggah 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’ Massa Richard he got to sell Mosie so Delia would nuss baby Helen, and Massa 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 passed. 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 nigger 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 niggers along deah say. You got to git to Wesconsin. But dat man you knew, he knew some niggers ’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’ Massa Richard I war headed dat way, after dey caught me, he say it too d— cold for a niggah 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 Massa 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 niggah children before."

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

"Oh, I ’spect you is takin’ me, den."

I said, ’’All right."

"Ifn you took me to Kansas, maybe you could get rid of me sooner."

"Yes, by us being shot. I could get rid of both of us pretty quick, I’ll bet. I won’t go back there."

"Kin I learn to read deah?"

"You can learn to read anywhere there’s something to read."

"Well, den, as Massa Richard would say, ’may I learn to read deah?’ Because I may not learn to read heah."

"Yes, you may learn to read there." Then I thought of something. "How does your husband know you’re escaping?"

"He don’! My Lawd, Missy Louisa, sometime you sound so smart, and den you say somethin’ so thick, like you haid’s made o’ wood!"

That put me in my place.

Though surely it was now the middle of the night, but I felt less exhausted than I had earlier and ready to eat, but Lorna had the provisions, and I was hesitant to say anything, until at last she sighed and remarked, "I spose we oughta eat somethin’, but I hates to stop."

"We can walk and eat."

"Cain’ do dat. Dat’s bad for you insides. Give you de cramp. Dey’s some hackberry bushes ovah dean. We kin set undah ’em."

I was grateful for that.

Now Lorna opened her bundle and laid out our apples and pears. What had looked appetizing when I purchased it looked paltry and cold in the darkness, and I sighed. Then Lorna unwrapped a cloth of her own, and I saw that she had a stack of corncakes. I said, "Where did you get those?"

"Delia made ’em for Malachi, she thought." She laughed. "She always tol’ me, ’Lorna, ifn I see you rummagin’ ’round de kitchen or de cellar, I kin read you mine!’ But she didn’."

The corncakes were light, delicious, and sweet, perfect with the apples, which were not quite ripe and very tart. I saw what else was in her bundle, too—the cup I’d bought, some squares of cloth, an apron, a pair of stockings, and a pair of shoes with wooden soles. That was all. She saw me looking but said nothing, and I turned away. After all, there was no telling how many times she had looked into my bag. After a bit, she said, "You man war a ablishinist."

"Yes, he was. He was from Massachusetts."

"Is dey all ablishinists deah, too?"

"Seems like it."

"You evah bin deah?"

"No. I’ve only ever been here, in Kansas, and in Illinois."

"My man war reared up in Georgia, den his massa bring ’im to Kentuck, wheah he larn to ride a hoss, den dey come heah, den he gone to Arkinsaw, and de las’ time I heah from him, he war in Tennessee. An’ in between deah, he done gone to Texas for some little time! An’ all I done is sit deah on Massa Richard’s place, goin’ from de quartahs to de house and back to de quartahs! I done wasted my time!"

"You went to Saint Louis."