in martinsburg mr. taverner, mr. fairhead’s cousin, met the stage and took mrs. blake and her companion to his house, where his wife made them very comfortable.
after dark he drove the two women out to the ferry in his buggy. he had warned the ferryman that he would be sending two friends across tonight, so the ferryman asked no questions. he said “good evening, mam,” to mrs. blake, and held out his hand to help her into the boat. nancy followed. she had never been in a boat before, never seen any stream wider than back creek.
the potomac ran strong here, leaped over ledges and boulders with a roaring sound like a waterfall. it was cold out on the river, and the churned water threw up a light spray. nancy’s winter shawl was not heavy enough to keep out the chill; mrs. blake could feel her shivering as they sat on the narrow seat. the boat swayed and swung on its wire, however carefully the ferryman used his oars to right it. once mrs. blake thought they certainly had broken loose. when they reached shallow water, the ferryman tied up his boat and helped the two women to climb up the rocks to level ground. he called: “hello,” but there was no answer.
“we got a little cabin here, where passengers waits. their folks is sometimes late comin’. you better come in an’ set down on the bench till your folks come. don’t be skeered of nothin’; i’ll be around. mr. taverner told me one of the passengers was to go back. i’ll be right around where you kin call me.”
mrs. blake and nancy sat huddled together in the damp little hut which smelled of tobacco smoke and rotting wood. a cricket was chirping sharply inside, and outside was the perpetual, agitating rush of the river, — a beautiful sound when you are not frightened, but nancy was. and mrs. blake was disappointed. so far, the journey had been swift and pleasant, but this halt was a little disturbing. she could feel the courage oozing out of the girl beside her. it might be best to say something, something practical, to divert nancy’s thoughts. she asked her to feel whether her garters were tied tight, and her money safe in her stockings. in a flash she knew she had said the wrong thing. the girl wilted altogether.
“oh, miz’ blake, please mam, take me home! i can’t go off amongst strangers. it’s too hard. let me go back an’ try to do better. i don’t mind miss sapphy scoldin’. why, she brought me up, an’ now she’s sick an’ sufferin’. look at her pore feet. i ought-a borne it better. miz’ blake, please mam, i want to go home to the mill an’ my own folks.”
“now don’t talk foolish. what about martin?”
“i kin keep out-a his way, miz’ blake. he won’t be there always. i can’t bear it to belong nowheres!”
“you’ve been a brave girl right along, an’ you mustn’t fail me now. i took a big risk to get you this far. if we went back, mother would never forgive you — nor me. it would be worse than before. these quaker folks will be kind to you, an’ you’ll be bright an’ happy, like you used to be. if you ain’t happy when you get to your journey’s end, i’ll fetch you back somehow. don’t give way, after all mr. fairhead and mr. whitford have done for you. remember, you were ready to throw yourself in the mill dam.”
“yes’m,” the girl breathed. but mrs. blake didn’t believe she had heard her at all. she couldn’t take anything in; her mind was frozen with homesickness and dread. after that they sat in silence.
the nerve-racking suspense did not go on much longer. through the rushing of the river mrs. blake thought she heard the rattle of wheels and hoofs over a stony road.
“listen, i believe they’re coming now. listen!” she hurried out of the cabin, dragging nancy after her.
an old chaise emerged from the dark wood, and the driver got out. he was a coloured man, she knew at once from his voice; a negro preacher, as it proved, and a freed man. in greeting mrs. blake he took off an old beaver hat, which he wore as the sign of his calling.
“is this miz’ blake? i’m ‘fraid i kep’ you waitin’, mam. i had some trouble on de way. de road, from williamsport on, is very bad, an’ they’s been heavy rains. de folks sent me along to drive, ‘cause reverend fairhead wrote how de gal was young an’ easy skeered. i am a minister of de gospel, well known hereabouts, an’ dey figgered she wouldn’t feel so strange wid me.”
“i’m glad you came, uncle. the girl’s lost heart a little. she’s never been away from home before, an’ she’s afraid with strangers.”
the tall black man turned to nancy and put a hand on her shoulder. “dey ain’t strangers, where you’re goin’, honey. dey calls theyselves friends, an’ dey is friends to all god’s people. you’ll be treated like dey had raised you up from a chile, an’ you’ll be passed along on yo’ way from one kind fambly to de next. dey got a letter all ‘bout you from de reverend fairhead, an’ dey all feels ‘quainted. we must be goin’ now, chile. we want to git over the line into pennsylvany as early tomorrer as we kin.” there was something solemn yet comforting in his voice, like the voice of prophecy. when he gave nancy his hand, she climbed into the chaise. he put her bag in after her, then turned to mrs. blake, still holding his hat over his chest.
“an’ you, lady, the lawd will sho’ly bless you, fo’ he said hisself: blessed is the merciful.”
he untied his team and waited a moment, but nancy never said a word; not to him, not to mrs. blake. she had stood dumb all the while the old man spoke to her, as if she were drugged; indeed she was, by the bitterest of all drugs. the preacher clucked to his horses, seeing that the girl had no word of farewell to say. but as they started off, mrs. blake called out to her:
“good-bye, nancy! we shall meet again.”
