The Last Runaway (26 page)

Honor too could barely speak. “Donovan, I—Someone needs thy help.”

“Who?”

“I will show thee.”

He reached a hand down to her. “Come up.”

Honor hesitated—because of the growing baby, because she had to trust him when she didn’t, because she would have to put her arms around his waist and lean against his back and she knew what that would make her feel. But she thought of the man in the woods whom she had failed, and that made her put her foot in the stirrup, take Donovan’s hand and swing herself up.

“Where to?”

“Wieland Woods, next to the farm. But . . .” Honor did not want to tell him she was doing this secretly—though it must be apparent, else she wouldn’t be out on her own. “Please don’t ride through Faithwell or past the farm. I don’t want them to hear. We can leave the horse near the village and walk the rest of the way.”

Donovan twisted around to look at her. “There a nigger in the woods?”

“Yes.”

“You told me a month ago you weren’t gonna be tradin’ in runaways any more.”

“He strayed from Greenwich. I did not intend to get involved, but he is hurt and needs a doctor.”

Donovan snorted. “You think I’m gonna take him to a doctor?”

She did not reply. They sat on the horse, Donovan letting it take delicate side steps as it waited for its rider’s signal.

“Honor, you know I’ll turn him in. That’s what I do.”

Honor sighed. “I know. But he will die otherwise. It is better that he lives, even in slavery.”

“Why you askin’ me, anyway?”

She said nothing.

“You live in a town full o’ Quakers and you go to
me
for help? You got yourself a problem there, darlin’.”

“There is nothing wrong with Friends here. Many would do what they can to help. It is just . . . the Haymakers have had their principles compromised by circumstances. And they are influential in the community.” Without meaning to, Honor was leaning against him, the small hard bump of her belly pressing into his back. Donovan felt it and stiffened, then leaned forward so that they were not so close.

“Right,” he said at last. “Hold on.” He pulled the reins around, clicked his teeth, and set out back up the road.

* * *

He was not moving when they found him, but lay propped against a bur oak, his legs stretched out in front of him, the tin mug beside him. Donovan made Honor wait several trees away while he held his lantern briefly to the face with its rictal grimace. Honor closed her eyes but could still see the imprint of the lantern and the man’s teeth flashing in the dark.

Donovan came back to Honor and studied her stricken face. When she stepped into his arms, he said nothing, but held her and let her sob into his chest. This time he did not flinch when he felt the baby pressed against him. Honor clung to him long after she had stopped crying. Pressing her cheek against his chest, she breathed in the sharp woodfire smell of him. There was something hard there: the key to her trunk. Donovan was still wearing it around his neck.

If he asked me now, I would go west with him, she thought. For his spirit is with me.

But he did not ask. “Honor, it’s getting light,” he said at last. “You should get on home before they find out you’re gone.”

She nodded. Though it hurt to, she let go of him, wiping her face on her sleeve so that she did not have to look at him.

“You want me to bury him?”

“No. Let them see what they have done. What
we
have done.”

“You know he probably would have died anyway, even if you got him to a doctor. Smells of gangrene.”

Honor’s eyes flared. “We should have helped him. At least then he would not have died alone in the dark in the woods.”

Donovan said nothing more, but walked her to the edge of the orchard where the apple trees began. He touched her arm briefly, then disappeared back into the trees to circle around the village to his horse.

When Honor emerged from the orchard, Jack and Dorcas were crossing the yard toward the barn, carrying pails for milking. They looked confused. “Where has thee been?” Jack called, taking in her face smeared with dirt and tears, her disheveled cap, the mud on her boots and the meaty smell of horse that lingered on her. “We thought thee was in the outhouse.”

Honor ignored him. “Digger!” she called.

The dog came running from the barn, drawn by the novelty of Honor commanding him. “Go.” She pointed to the woods. “Find him.” Digger followed her finger, sniffed the air, then shot off like a fish snagged on a hook.

“Honor, what is it?”

Honor did not answer. She could not find the words to say it. Instead she turned and headed for the haymow. Little hay was left from the previous year; in a few weeks the first harvest would replenish the much-diminished stacks. There was some straw, however. Though it smelled flat and dull, Honor climbed into the pile, curled up around her belly and slept.

* * *

When she woke, her sister-in-law was sitting nearby, plaiting strands of straw. Honor looked at her but did not sit up. Of the three Haymakers, she was glad it was Dorcas who had come to find her: Jack would have upset her and Judith would have made her angry. Over the months Honor had lived at the farm, Dorcas had become more of a benign irritation.

She seemed to understand that now. Setting down the braid, she hugged her knees. “They found him. Some men have come to help bury him.” After a pause, she continued. “I do not hate thee, Honor, whatever thee may think of me. Last summer when thee helped me with the yellow jackets, I heard thee speak to the colored man, and I never told Mother or Jack, though I should have.” She stopped again. Honor did not speak.

“I want to help thee to understand the Haymakers. There is something we did not tell thee about what happened in North Carolina. I thought we ought to,” Dorcas added, for a moment lapsing into her habitual self-defense. “Jack did too, but Mother felt it was old family business that would not be important to thee. But it
is
important, for it may explain some things.” She fiddled with the straw plait. “I have not told Mother I am telling thee.”

Now Honor did sit up, and brushed the straw from her cap. She still did not speak. Something seemed to have closed her throat.

“Thee knows of the door at the side of the barn, put there in case of fire.”

Honor nodded.

“Jack took great care to have it put in.” She paused. “Mother told thee that we were fined for helping a runaway slave in North Carolina. But she did not tell thee of a far greater punishment. When Father—when he—” Dorcas pressed her lips together. “I was ten years old, Jack fifteen. Father had helped a few runaways already. One morning one appeared, and Father hid the slave in our barn. When the owner and his men came looking for him, Father said there was no one in the barn. Yes, he lied, but for the greater good. So—so the owner grabbed Father, and had his men set fire to the barn, to see what Father would do. He admitted then that the slave was hidden there. They told him to go and get the slave while they put out the fire. But when he went inside they—they pulled the bolt on the barn door so that neither Father nor the slave could get out that way.” Tears were trickling from Dorcas’s pale eyes. Honor took up one of her cold hands.

“They would not let us near the barn. Jack even fought them, which thee knows we don’t do. We thought Father and the slave might be able to get out through the trapdoor where the hay and straw are dropped down to the animals, but the smoke must have been too thick. We heard—we—we . . .”

Honor squeezed her hand so that Dorcas would not continue.

“The slave owner was not even charged with murder, since Father went willingly into the burning barn,” Dorcas began again when she had wiped away her tears. “Instead we were forced to pay a fine for the ‘destruction of property’—the death of the slave. Losing Father and the barn and the money was too much, and we came north. So thee can understand now why we do not want to become involved with runaways again.”

They sat for a time in silence. For the first time since marrying Jack, Honor felt some warmth toward her sister-in-law; she was just sorry the feeling had to come out of the telling of such a story.

Dorcas left her in the straw, to find her way back when she was ready. Honor did not know if she would ever be ready.

She had begun with a clear principle born of a lifetime of sitting in silent expectation: that all people are equal in God’s eyes, and so should not be enslaved to one another. Any system of slavery must be abolished. It had seemed simple in England; yet in Ohio that principle was chipped away at, by economic arguments, by personal circumstances, by deep-seated prejudice that Honor sensed even in Quakers. It was easy for her to picture the Negro pew at the Philadelphia Meeting House and grow indignant; but would she herself feel completely comfortable sitting next to a black person? She helped them, but she did not know them as people. Only Mrs. Reed, a little: the flowers she wore in her hat; the stew so full of onions and chilies; the improvised quilt she had made. These daily details were the things that fleshed out a person.

When an abstract principle became entangled in daily life, it lost its clarity and became compromised and weakened. Honor did not understand how this could happen, and yet it had: the Haymakers had demonstrated how easy it was to justify stepping back from principles and doing nothing. Now that she was a member of this family, she was expected to take on their history and step back as well.

Honor left the barn at dusk to walk across the yard to the house, her eyes wide and dry, her throat stopped with a feeling as if she had swallowed a ball and it had got stuck there. She felt so confused by the gap between what she thought and what was expected of her that she could not speak. Perhaps it was better not to, until she was more sure of what she wanted to say. That way her words could not be twisted and flung back at her. Silence was a powerful tool at Meeting, clearing the way to God. Perhaps now it would allow Honor to be heard.

* * *

The Haymakers did not know what to make of her silence. When Honor came back from the barn, Judith and Jack questioned her about being out all night, the smell of horse on her evidence that Donovan must be involved. When she did not speak to confirm or deny this, they took her silence for guilt. Jack raged; Judith threatened to have Honor disowned by the community, though even she knew there were no grounds for doing such a thing. Besides, their anger was intertwined with guilt over the death of the runaway.

Eventually that anger was replaced with defensive embarrassment, for they took her silence to be a judgment on them. Jack and Judith continued to defend their actions, or non-actions, their frustration increasing when they could not tell if their words had any effect on Honor. She gave them her attention whenever they spoke, looked them directly in the eye, then simply did not respond, but went back to her milking or washing or hoeing or sewing.

With her sister-in-law, however, Honor’s relationship improved. Perhaps Dorcas felt she did not have to compete any longer. She could talk as much as she liked, and did, often responding on Honor’s behalf, and calling her “sister”: “I think Honor would like more cherry pie”; “Honor and I will do the milking this evening, won’t we, sister?”; “I’m sure Honor is willing to quilt the central panel at the frolic, won’t thee, sister?” Honor let Dorcas speak for her; it was easier.

The Haymakers began to treat her as if she could not talk. They stopped asking her questions or expecting her to take part in conversations. When a new family arrived to settle in Faithwell, Jack introduced Honor by saying, “My wife has extended the silence of Meeting into her whole life.” She became the mute in the community, smiling and ducking her head when anyone said something that required a response. Jack still turned to her at night, but did not try to give her pleasure, taking only his own. As her belly grew between them, taking on the hard roundness of a pumpkin, he reached for her less and less.

In a way, she
was
mute. Her throat was so tight it was difficult to swallow, though she forced herself to eat, for the baby’s sake. She had always been quiet, but never completely silent. Now it became a relief not to speak. Her words could no longer be misunderstood—though now her silence was. And because she did not have to form thoughts into words for others, after a time Honor could stop thinking, and just be. For the first time since she was a girl she could sit in Meeting and not try to harness her impressions into thoughts she might speak aloud. Now she simply watched the sun cross the quiet room, catching dust motes kicked up by shifting Friends. She listened to the insects outside, and learned to distinguish between the chirping of the cricket, the sawing of the grasshopper, the ticking of the beetle, the buzzing of the cicada. She leaned into any breezes that passed from one window to another. She closed her eyes and breathed in the clover in the field next to the Meeting House, the first crop of hay left drying, the honeysuckle that grew around the door. Closing her mouth seemed to heighten her senses. It was a different sensation from the sinking-down feeling she’d had in past Meetings, but she began to think that it was as meaningful. God makes His presence felt in many ways, she thought.

After a time, her silence became less awkward, and Honor could sit at meals or on the porch or at Meeting and feel more content than she had when she spoke. In some profound way she knew that though it was not a conscious decision, she had stopped herself from speaking. She did not ask herself why, but accepted the silence as a gift.

* * *

Honor’s silence upset not only the Haymakers, but the wider community as well. It seemed even Quakers, with their silent Meetings and tolerance of difference, did not like the judgment of silence.

Adam Cox drew her aside after one First Day Meeting. “I will walk thee back to the farm,” he declared, leading her away from the Haymakers as Abigail watched over the head of their baby, a son they had named Elias. “I want to ask why thee has chosen to be silent, but I know thee will not answer,” he said as they made their way along the track. The mud had dried into hard, sharp ruts that made walking almost as tricky as when the mud was wet. “Jack said thee was upset by the death of the Negro. So were we all.” Caleb Wilson had organized a Meeting of Remembrance for the runaway, but no one had spoken, for no one knew him, not even his name. “But that should not make thee shun thy family and thy community.”