Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad by Judith Redline Coopey Page B

bed exhausted at about eleven o’clock, satisfied that I’d given my sister a fine wedding.
    I felt let down afterwards, with nothing to distract me. I could no longer ignore my pregnancy, even if it wasn’t yet apparent to others. I didn’t regret loving Josiah, of that I was certain, but how I could do right by this child was a fearful concern. Waves of panic overwhelmed me, and I struggled with an urgency to act. Such an urge is common in times of crisis, but sometimes there’s nothing to be done but accept what is.
    Things were quiet along the Railroad for a while after Josiah’s departure, but activity picked up as the weather warmed. Jesse was more open with me about his activities, knowing he would likely need my help again. I welcomed the openness and yearned for a chance to do more.
    Ideas for moving fugitives swirled around in my brain, along with fear for Josiah and worry about my own future and that of the tiny life inside me. My resolve strengthened. I could no longer stay on the sidelines. I would do all I could for as long as I could to end this horror. I didn’t fear for my own safety, and my status as a woman could be turned to advantage.
    Just a week after Betsy’s wedding I told him, “Jesse, I want to do more than just occasional help with the railroad. I mean not just sometimes; all the time.”
    Jesse looked at me in silence. “I’ll call on you when I must, but I can’t put you in harm’s way.”
    “No, Jesse. Not just in emergencies. I want to be your full and trusted partner.”
    “Ann, this is man’s work.”
    “It is a work of deception and craftiness, and I can deceive as well as the next.”
    Jesse sat on the back step, petting our old dog, his legs stretched long in front of him. I already knew more than he wanted me to know—more than was good for either of us. He watched me, deep in thought, struggling with his sense of right. Then he relented. “All right. We’ll work together.”
    “I’m not the only one around here involved in this,” he told me. “There’s a little network of Friends and Free Negroes. Our passengers mostly come up through Cumberland, Maryland, but some come from the east, too.”
    I listened carefully, intent upon remembering all he said.
    “I have several routes I can send people on. I try to vary them, just in case. My biggest problem around here is the Hartleys. They’re onto me, but fortunately, they’re not that hard to deceive.”
    “I know. Pru always seems like she’s spying on us. She shows up at odd times, sneaks around when she thinks I don’t see her.”
    Jesse nodded. “I’ve seen her, too. The boys worry me more, out to make a nickel they don’t care how.”
    “Everyone detests them, not just the strong abolitionists. Most people’s sympathies are with the runaways.” My own contempt for the Hartleys knew no bounds.
    “Even Old Ackroyd might be more sympathetic than he looks, but he’s bound to enforce the Fugitive Slave Law. The Friends try not to hold it against him.”
    Amos and Nathaniel were coming in from the barn, so I moved to change the subject. They were with us, but only on the edge of things. They didn’t want or need to know the details.
    The runaways came alone, in pairs, or in small groups, sometimes guided by one who had made it successfully to Canada and returned South to rescue others. Most of the time they were able young people, with the strength to run and hide, sometimes for weeks without relief. But occasionally they were children, even babies, exposed to grave danger by those who loved them and were willing to risk all for freedom. Conductors gave babies paregoric to render them unconscious and, therefore, silent. A few old folks made it, too. Helped along by their children or friends, they gave their last effort for the opportunity to die in freedom. It touched my heart to see them, so afraid, so dependent on the charity of others.
    April gave way to May, and the planting began. With it came a