by the next morning’s stage mrs. bywaters sent an important letter to david fairhead, asking him to come out to back creek as soon as possible. he rode up to her gate next evening on his old grey horse. that night mrs. blake and mr. whitford, the carpenter, met at the post office to confer with him. when they were seated in the postmistress’s private parlour, where they would not be disturbed, mrs. blake revealed her bold purpose. mrs. bywaters sat by to encourage her.
to the two women the plan seemed a desperate undertaking. no negro slave had ever run away from back creek, or from hayfield, or round hill, or even from winchester. but mr. fairhead was reassuring. he told them the underground railroad was now busier than ever before. the severe fugitive slave law, passed six years ago, had by no means prevented slaves from running away. its very injustice had created new sympathizers for fugitives, and opened new avenues of escape. from as far away as louisiana, negroes were now reaching canada; the railroads and the lake steamboats helped them. if a negro once got into pennsylvania or ohio, he seldom failed to go through.
fairhead explained to mrs. blake how simple it would be to get nancy from winchester to martinsburg, and from there into pennsylvania. while she sat by, he wrote a letter to his cousin in martinsburg, who would be very glad to assist her. this letter would go off by the stage tomorrow morning.
mr. whitford said he could manage for mrs. blake as far as winchester. he had a light canvas-covered spring-wagon in which he carried coffins to distant burying-grounds. chairs for two women could be put inside under the canvas, and they could make the drive to town unseen by anyone. travelling late at night, they would reach winchester in good time to take the morning stage for martinsburg.
mrs. blake went home greatly reassured. but the hardest thing to arrange, the interview she most dreaded, was still before her.
the following night she set out for the mill by the creek road, where she would scarcely be likely to meet any of the house servants. once at the mill, she went to the north window of her father’s room. he was within, sitting at his table; not reading, but gazing moodily at the floor.
“can i come in, father?” she asked quietly.
“is that you, rachel? wait a minute.” he came out to the platform where the wagons were unloaded, took her hand, and led her through the dark passage to his room. when he closed the door he shot the bolt.
mrs. blake sat down and drew a long breath. “well, father, i’ve come over to have a talk with you. i blame myself i didn’t come before this. i reckon you know what it’s about.”
she looked to him for recognition, but he sat frowning at the floor. it tried her that he gave her no encouragement, when he certainly must know what was on her mind. she was tired, and the road round by the creek had seemed long.
“father,” she broke out indignantly, “are you going to stand by and see a good girl brought to ruin without lifting a finger?”
the miller crossed the room and shut down the open window. his face had flushed red, and so had mrs. blake’s. she went on with some heat.
“you surely know that rake mart colbert is after nancy day and night. he’ll have her, in the end. she’s a good girl, but the colbert men never let anything get away. he’ll catch her somewhere, and force her.”
her father clenched his two powerful fists. “no he won’t! it’s only by the mercy of god i haven’t strangled the life out of him before now.”
“then why don’t you do something to save her?”
he made no reply. his daughter sat watching him in astonishment. his darkly flushed face, his clenched hands gave her no clue to what was going on in his mind; struggle of some sort, certainly. she had always known him quick to act, had never seen him like this before.
“i may be overstepping my duty,” she said at last, “but i couldn’t sit with my hands folded and see what’s going on here. she’s come to me for help, and i couldn’t hold back. i’m a-going to get nancy away from here and on the road to freedom.”
he looked up now, and met her eyes with a flash in his own. “if only it were possible, rachel — ”
“well, it is possible. mr. fairhead’s offered to help me. it ain’t so hard as it seems to us out here. slaves are running away in plenty now. he’s got quaker friends that will get the girl into pennsylvania. about five miles out of martinsburg there’s a ferry will take me and nancy across the potomac. when we get across, a conveyance will meet us and carry her on from house to house. in a day and a night i can get her into safe hands.”
“and then what’s to become of her?”
“the quakers will get her somehow over into new york state an’ put her on the cars. there’s a railroad runs right up through vermont into canada, out-a reach of slave-catchers. he says the railroad men are glad to help. it’s a-going on all the time now. they hide runaway slaves in the baggage cars an’ take ’em clear through to montreal.”
“montreal? now what would a young girl like her do in a big strange city? an’ they talk nothing but french up there, i’ve heard. you must be gone crazy, rachel. there she’d come to harm, for certain. a pretty girl like her, she’d be enticed into one of them houses, like as not.” the miller wiped his forehead with his big handkerchief. the closed room was getting very hot.
“father, i can tell you there’s many folks in big cities that are a sight kinder than some folks on this farm. you know mother bears a hard hand on nancy, and has for a good while back. how the girl’s stood it, i don’t know. god forgive me, but it looks to me like she’d brought that scamp here a-purpose, an’ she’s tried right along to throw the girl in his way. she knows nancy lays unprotected out in the open hall every night, where he can sneak down to her. he’s tried it more’n once, an’ the pore thing had to run in to old washington in the wine closet, an’ he let her have his cot. another time, — ”
the miller sprang to his feet, knocking over the chair behind him. “hush, rachel, not another word! you and me can’t talk about such things. it ain’t right. what do you come telling this to me for, if you’ve fixed it up with mr. fairhead and whitford? i can’t be a party to make away with your mother’s property.”
“i come to you because we need money, a hundred dollars, to get her safe through into canada. an’ i ain’t got it. if i had, i’d turn to nobody.”
henry colbert walked slowly about the room, his eyes downcast. he was ashamed to show such irresolution before his daughter. she would think he grudged the money, maybe. the money was there, in his secretary. it made her plan possible, made it almost an accomplished fact; a loss that could never be made up to him. he had been humouring himself with the hope that, once martin was out of the way, things might be as they used to be. but every word his daughter said made him know nancy could never be the same again, could never be happy here. he must face it.
“rachel,” he said presently in his natural voice, “nothing must pass between you and me on this matter; neither words nor aught else. tomorrow night i will go to bed early, and i will leave my coat hanging on a chair by the open window here — ” he raised the north window and propped it up on its stick. “now i will walk home with you.”
“no, father, thank you. we might meet somebody. i’d sooner we weren’t seen together tonight.”
the following night mrs. blake came again to the mill by the creek road. her father’s room was dark, but the window was open. she put in her hand, took out the coat that hung on the chair-back, and felt through the pockets. from the inside pocket she took a flat package of bank-notes.
the miller, in his bed, heard her come and go. he lay still and prayed earnestly, for his daughter and for nancy. not a sparrow falleth to the ground without thy knowledge. he would never again hear that light footstep outside his door. she would go up out of egypt to a better land. maybe she would be like the morning star, this child; the last star of night. . . . she was to go out from the dark lethargy of the cared-for and irresponsible; to make her own way in this world where nobody is altogether free, and the best that can happen to you is to walk your own way and be responsible to god only. sapphira’s darkies were better cared for, better fed and better clothed, than the poor whites in the mountains. yet what ragged, shag-haired, squirrel-shooting mountain man would change places with sampson, his trusted head miller?
