The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton (59 page)

"Well , now, dat was a sight! Missy Bella send me out every day to do de shoppin’, and de stores deah is something’. And ain’ jes’ niggahs doin’ de shoppin’ nohow! Deah war plenty to see, I tell ya, but dat war a pestilential place, too! When de summer come on, it git so hot, like deah was fiahs burnin’, and den folks start comin’ down wid de fevah and all kind o’ sickness! You couldn’ git a breeze nohow, sometime fo’ days! Ain’ no place to live, even wid all dem stores!"

"My husband was a sailor for a long time, on the ocean. He went to the Indies. His father has a sailmaking factory."

"How long war you married?"

"About ten months."

"Dey comes and dey goes, don’t dey?"

"I didn’t get to know him very well." I longed to tell her all about him, or maybe just to talk about him freely, but I didn’t know how to start, so I held my tongue.

She spoke ruefully. "I knows Ike and Malachi bettah dan I knows my man. An’ I knows Massa Richard bettah dan I knows any of ’em, since I been watchin’ him ever since I war a chile. Too bad fo’ dat!"

We threw our apple cores under the bush, then Lorna wrapped the remainder of the food in her bundle again. She said, "Why you askin’ all dese questions? I ain’ nevah knowed a white woman who asked me so many questions." But she didn’t sound resentful this time, so I said, "My husband was an abolitionist, and I knew a lot of abolitionists in Kansas, but in spite of their sentiments against slavery, most of them hadn’t met too many slaves. I suppose I just want to learn something."

"Well, you know what? I ain’ a talker. Massa Richard always complainin’ dat you cain’ get a word out of me, and Delia thinks I is hard as a nut, and she say to me, ’Lorna, you ain’ got no heart dat I kin see.’ She say dat to me time and time again, ’cause whatever happen, I don’ say nothin’ ’bout it. But tonight my mouth is jes’ runnin’!" She smiled one of her rare smiles, and we got up and went out to the road.

Just after that, we had our biggest scare of the night, when we heard some dogs in the distance, both barking and howling. At this, Lorna stood stock-still and grabbed my arm. She whispered, "Missy! Farm dogs bark, but catchers’ dogs, dey howl! He done foun’ us!" I didn’t think he had—the dogs were far away and didn’t sound like they were getting any closer; but my thoughts didn’t matter. A cold, painful fright seized my flesh right then, so that I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe and I started to shiver. I felt that Lorna was shivering, too, right beside me. The only thing that kept me from moaning aloud was the fear of making a sound, as if the dogs in the distance were evidence of enemies all around us, close enough to touch us. I grabbed Lorna around the shoulders and pulled her to me, and then, after half a second, she grabbed me around the waist, and we stood like that, holding each other up, waiting for the inevitable, it seemed, shock of capture.

But it didn’t come. The barking and howling dogs faded away, the night sounds of rustling leaves and owls reasserted themselves, and Lorna and I stepped apart and marched on, still shaken, and also, I think, a little embarrassed that we had been so suddenly and utterly turned into cowards. After that, we didn’t talk for some time, maybe an hour or two. In fact, I rather forgot about her, as I grew dizzier and dizzier with fatigue, and more and more intent upon simply putting one foot in front of the other. Just before dawn, when we could see the beginning of a heavy, overcast day, I must have been staggering around, because Lorna pointed out a haystack and said we could sleep on the protected side, but only for a little while. It was the most dangerous thing we did, but we had good luck and slept undisturbed until well after sunup, perhaps even until eight o’clock or so. When we woke, we were much disheveled, and one thing I will always remember about that fateful day was that Lorna stood me up and brushed me down, picked the hay out of my hair and straightened my bonnet, and then carefully did the same to herself. She said, "Now, you cain’ be lookin’ like a runaway. You got to be lookin’ like a walker from dis place to dat place." She gave me a pear, and we walked on.

Well, I liked it. I liked the deception of it. When the day was well begun, there were folks all over the place, on horseback, in wagons, even in buggies. As we got farther from Independence, we got braver about who might or might not know Lorna, and certainly no one would know me. I walked with my head high, a woman with her gal. That militia fellow shouldn’t have betrayed my virtue like that! He had certainly done me a great wrong! I had believed him implicitly, because he was of good family, well spoken, and educated at, let’s say, Princeton, just like Papa. A girl such as myself, who had lost her parents, was surely unprotected in this world from the designs of scheming cads such as my erstwhile lover, and didn’t his wife and children look a sight! She was careworn, and they were bedraggled, two boys and two girls, all little ones, the children of a natural betrayer, who would betray them in the end, as well....

I smiled at my own story and raised my chin just a degree, for I had almost but not quite fallen. I had preserved myself in the end, had I not, for something better, and should I die before getting back to my relations in the east, well, I would know that I had lost nothing of real value—

"Whisht!" said Lorna, just behind my ear. I looked around, but only for a second, because Lorna said, "Don’ look!" I did glimpse a man and a woman approaching, coming down from their house on foot, and two slaves, a man and a half-grown girl, weren’t far behind them. Lorna whispered, "Turn ’round and slap me good, and do it now!"

I raised my hand and whipped around, and made such contact that Lorna’s head snapped back and her hand went straight to her cheek. Her eyes closed, but she said, "Dat war good."

I screamed, "You lost my shoes? You stupid girl! You left my shoes behind! That’s the last straw; I’m going to beat you for that! Ah!" I pretended to be surprised by the interruption, as the man and woman came up to us. I turned on them. "Can you believe this? Here we are in the middle of this godforsaken war, betrayed and abandoned, and she’s lost my other pair of shoes! How stupid can one gal be!" I took a deep breath and said, "You must tell me, are we in Kansas or in Missouri? I do believe I am lost, and I’m dreadfully afraid that if I get into Kansas by mistake, they’ll steal my girl and kill me!" I turned on Lorna. "Though don’t think that would be a loss! You are worse than useless!"

"Now, ma’am," said the man. "I kin see that your patience has been much tried here, but an’t no call for—"

"Yes," said the woman. They looked at me approvingly in spite of their remonstrations, and then the woman put her arm through mine. She said, "I saw you and your gal walking down the road here, and I said, ’I do wonder about them,’ because you know, we see just about everything around here, including niggah-stealing—"

I exclaimed, "Lord have mercy, we are in Kansas!"

"No, no, no," said the woman. "Kansas is five mile or more. You’re safe in Missouri now." And she turned me and walked me toward the house, which was no Day’s End Plantation but more of a western farmhouse. She said, "We’ve only got Delilah and Job here. He’s so old, we just take care of him, and she’s training. But back in Mississippi, before we came out here, we had ten in the field and five in the house! Our neighbor, Mr. Lazarus Jennison, he had five hundred! He was a very fine man, from an old, old family with roots in Virginia. We were close friends before we came out here. Ah, well, I miss those days. May I offer you some refreshment?"

"Thank you very much. My name is Miss Jane Horn, and this is my girl, Ila, and I really don’t want to let her out of my sight, I must say, because there’s no telling what mess she’ll get into!"

"Delilah can take her into the kitchen and find her a bite—"

"Please, ma’am! I’ve lost everything now, and I do fear—" I summoned a tear or two.

"My dear! Very well, we can sit in the kitchen with them! But how can we help you? What in the world has happened?"

And so we sat together in the kitchen, myself, Lorna, Delilah, and Mrs. May Thornton, drinking milk and eating biscuits from their breakfast, and I spun out my abandonment story, then nobly refused all aid but said we only wanted to be on our way to Kansas City, so that we could make our boat, the Kansas Star, which we knew was leaving at evening. From time to time, Lorna put her hand to her cheek and rubbed it and gave me a petulant glance, but she kept quiet. Mr. Thornton came in and went out, only saying, "Now, May, the horses are working on the farm today; don’t ask me!"

Profuse thanks managed to get us away just after noon. When we were well out into the road, I apologized to Lorna for hitting her so hard. She said, "Missies always hit hard. Massas don’ hit so hard." I took that as approval.

We were more careful now and didn’t chat at all. Lorna stayed two or three paces behind me and, as always, kept her head down. But she was tremendously strong, and the sound of her steps on the road behind me were firm and even, always pushing me onward, always reminding me that it was a long way between here and Ohio, and it wouldn’t be easy to get there. It was tempting for me to think of this escape as an adventure—no one had truly been hanged in Kansas or Missouri for slave stealing that I knew of, though getting shot was certainly a possibility, but as a woman, and an unarmed one at that, I might not get shot in the end. But we had been gone more than twenty-four hours from Day’s End Plantation, and so far, our escape seemed more like a success than a failure.

We came into Kansas City late in the afternoon. It was now almost three weeks since I had left the town, and once again it was entirely different, and different, as well, from Independence, for Kansas City was in a full state of war, with troops of men in all varieties of uniform gathered together, marching, drilling, riding madly to and fro. The sound of weapons firing, always a feature of Kansas City life, was now almost constant. I saw that we had to get to the river as quickly as possible, get on a boat, and hide out there. A year earlier, this wouldn’t have been difficult at all, as all there was to Kansas City was the levee and the bluff above it. Now the town spread out in all directions, and I couldn’t tell where the river was. Lorna and I couldn’t help being daunted by the activity and the noise. As much as we knew we had to move deliberately forward, appearing confident and even at ease with our situation, it was nearly impossible not to stop and gape, not to startle, not to glance furtively around. Any number of shouts could be directed at us, could they not? And any of those could be just a warning to get out of the way (everyone on foot was in the way), but any of them could likewise be the Recognition. Lorna had lived at Papa’s all her life, some thirty years, as I guessed. There was no telling how many guests had passed through there, gotten to know her, knew now of her escape. Nevertheless, here in Kansas City, the balance of my fears had shifted, and I was now more afraid of getting caught up in an all-out war than I was of capture. Indeed, the newspapers pasted up here and there, on fences and walls, as well as those tossed in the street, all declared, "WAR! WAR!" in giant letters. Shannon had fled, and others were fleeing. I began to wonder whether we could get on a boat, and if so, when, and what it would cost. Twenty dollars for each of us suddenly seemed cheap, if that was our only chance. Thirty would stretch us, and forty break us. Forty seemed impossible, but you could see at a glance that in Kansas City right then, all bets were off. We came to a street corner, and I turned imperiously to Lorna and barked, "The boats may be full, Ila! We need to come up with another plan in case they are!"

"Yes, missy," said Lorna, submissively.

We marched on. I brought myself to ask directions to the levee, but the man I asked said, "Ma’am, I jes’ got here myself! I don’t know up from down here! An’t it excitin’?" And he spit at my feet and rushed off, pistols thumping at his sides. We walked on. Talking itself seemed so dangerous that I could summon the courage to do it only once. After a few more minutes, Lorna muttered, "We is gone de wrong way!"

"I don’t think so."

"I does!"

She smiled as she spoke to me, trying to please me for the eyes of any and all onlookers, but her voice carried grit. She muttered, "Ask agin! It gettin’ dark."

I thought darkness would be some respite myself, but I didn’t dare argue with her. Even so, I could hardly bring myself to speak. Every man around seemed the incarnation of danger. Finally, I spotted a boy. A boy of the sort I recognized perfectly, a lounging boy with a seegar in his mouth, thirteen or fourteen, white-blond of hair and brown of face. I approached him, and he said, "Hey, ma’am."

"I need to get to the river, where the steamboats are."

"I need four bits for my supper."

I opened my reticule. The boy looked into it, idly, shamelessly. I handed him fifty cents, and he took the money in his hand and tossed it into the air. Only after catching it and depdsiting it in his pocket did he look at me again. "Everbody knows the river’s down that way, but I bet you an’t goin’ to find no boat unless you booked your passage last month, ’cause ever boat is d— full!"

"We can try."

"You go down that street ... Nah, I’ll show ya." He spun around in front of us, whipped off his hat and stuck it on his head again, then trotted off. Lorna and I trotted after him. After a moment, he looked back at me and paused. When I had caught up to him, he said, "That your gal?"

"Yes."

"She looks mad."

"She just looks that way."

"I wish I had a gal."

"You do?"

"Nah, not for me, but you kin get eight hunderd dollars for a gal in these parts. Lots of ’em have run off, that’s why."

"Where to?"

"What’s the matter with you—an’t you got no sense? The ablishinists get’em all together and run ’em off to Ioway They do that ever night! Last night alone, they got twenty-three gals and ten boys! Probably the catchers’ll only get half of ’em back."

"Who told you that?"

"Everbody knows that." He plucked the seegar out of the corner of his mouth, spit in the dust, and put the seegar back. I said, "Is the area well supplied with catchers?"