After repositioning his quilts, she tossed more wood into the belly of the stove, and settled into the rocker as best she could. She wearily swathed herself in her own two quilts and closed her eyes.
Noises awakened Hester only a few hours later. For a moment she had trouble comprehending her whereabouts. A loud crashing sound rendered her wholly awake and alert. Her first glance swept the cot and found it empty. Alarmed, she looked around the small space and came face to face with the man called the Black Daniel. He stood by the shelf-lined wall which concealed the entrance to the room. The crashes she heard had been made by the falling of some jars of stored vegetables and fruit. In the dark he loomed like a giant, evaluating her silently.
She could tell he was in pain, but he didn't speak. A tremor passed through her under his scrutiny and she swallowed unconsciously.
She also saw that his strength did not equal his will. He was grudgingly using the edge of the shelf to support his weakened body. His shirt was unbuttoned and the bandages Bea had wrapped around his ribs glowed white against his golden skin in the shadows thrown off by the turned-down lamp on the floor. "You shouldn't be up," she stammered.
He didn't move. His gaze held her like a fist and she couldn't ease her racing heart or the shivers rippling her skin. She began to wonder if she'd made a rash decision letting him stay.
"Who are you?" he finally asked in a voice thick with strain.
She hesitated for a second then replied, "Hester Wyatt."
"Am I still in Michigan?"
She nodded, then said, "A town called Whittaker—"
"Whittaker?!"
"Yes. This cellar is beneath my home. You've been here since a few hours past midnight."
He thought a moment more then asked, "You do the doctoring?"
"No."
Hester wondered if he'd demand to know Bea's name, but he didn't. Instead he asked, "Is there some place a man can relieve himself?"
Hester turned away. "There's a pot over there," she said in a small voice.
"Outside," he clarified.
"You can't make it outside."
"If I can't, you'll be the only one embarrassed, I assure you."
Telling herself his attitude likely stemmed from his injuries, Hester bit back a retort, and threw aside her quilts. Clad in the long-tailed shirt and red underdrawers, she walked barefoot over to the wall where he stood. It took her practiced hands only a few seconds to release the latch. When it slid free, she pushed at the shelves and they swung out into the cellar. "Up those stairs and around to the back."
She waited smugly for him to fall on his face because of the injured ankle, but he didn't. He struggled, yes, and every step he took reinforced how weak one could become after being severely beaten and stabbed. However, he made it to the top of the stairs.
However, the big plank door above his head proved him mortal. That door was heavy and a man with broken ribs could not raise it. He did try though, making Hester worry about Bea's needlework and his sanity. Looking defeated and not liking it, breathing hard from the exertion, he turned and scowled at her.
Without a word, she joined him at the top of the stairs and pushed up on the cellar's door. He grumbled something which might have been a thank you, but she couldn't be sure.
Fifteen minutes later he hadn't returned, and Hester, still standing at the foot of the stairs, cold in the early dawn air, debated what she should do. Going out and making sure he hadn't fallen head first into the privy seemed to be the appropriate choice, however she didn't want to barge in only to find nothing amiss and wholly embarrass them both. She finally decided to give him a bit more time.
He returned a few minutes later and Hester noted that although his innards probably felt a lot better, on the outside he looked nearly as pale as he had in the wagon.
"I'm going to need your assistance, Hester Wyatt," he stated from above.
Hester went to his side. She groaned when his weight came down on her shoulder. This time she heard the thank you quite clearly.
The cords in Hester's neck were tight as bow strings from the strain when they finally made it back into the small room. He eased himself back down onto the cot and she stood beside it breathing hard.
Hester left him a moment to go back and close the cellar's big door, and when she returned she found him asleep. She felt his forehead; he was warm, but not as hot as he'd been at the beginning of his stay.
Chapter 2
The Black Daniel slept on through the morning and into the afternoon, thus giving Hester time to see to the welfare of the small family. Bea came by as promised and pronounced her sleeping patient healing, but not fully recovered by any means. When Hester related the privy incident, Bea simply shook her head. "Men," she replied, as if that explained everything. Bea left soon after, warning Hester to keep him in bed. Hester thought pigs would fly first.
Mr. Wood came by after lunch. He was heading back to Ann Arbor now that the storm had passed, but he wanted to take a last look at the Daniel. As he and Hester stood talking quietly in the cellar room, Mr. Wood asked, "Are you sure you want him here?"
Hester glanced over at the man in question, lying asleep on the cot. The Black Daniel was one of the most successful conductors on the line. He needed the refuge she provided so he could recover and resume his work. "Bea says he should be well enough to travel in a week or so. I think he'll be safe enough here until then." She sensed her old friend had his doubts, but he offered no further arguments.
"Don't worry," she told him, draping an arm around his waist and giving him an affectionate squeeze. "If anything happens, I'll let Hubble know. Now you get on back to your family and I'll see you on the next trip."
He kissed her cheek, gave her a hug of his own, and was gone.
"Can he be trusted?"
Hester whirled at the unexpected question from the man on the cot. How long had he been awake and listening? "I see you're awake."
She came over and placed a palm against his forehead. His skin still felt too warm. "Yes, he can be trusted." She thought the question absolutely ridiculous considering all Mr. Wood had done for him last night. "In fact, were I you, I'd say a prayer for him."
"If you were me, you'd know I never pray."
His words struck her like a slap. He had not a whit of apology for his battered face and again Hester wondered if she'd been wise to take this man in. Surely he believed in a higher being.
"Do you think you can eat something?" she asked frostily.
"Long as I don't have to pray to get it."
Hester left without a word.
For the next two days Hester gave the Black Daniel a fairly wide berth; she saw to his medical needs and brought him meals, but his surly mood kept her at arm's length. She spent most of her time getting the guest family ready to move on. She procured winter clothing from the pastor at the church, along with a small donation of cash from the congregation. The family had decided to settle in Ontario so Hester sent word to contacts there to expect their arrival. Hester also made discreet inquiries about strangers in the area. Most of her immediate neighbors knew about Hester's conducting, either because of their friendship with her late aunt or because they had traveled on the Road themselves. They all knew whom Hester meant as strangers—slave catchers. And yes, some men had been seen as recently as yesterday in Detroit, less than thirty miles away. By the questions the strangers were asking, their dress and speech, slave catchers were all they could be. Word had it they were hunting the Black Daniel.
Hester thought about the news as she drove her two-horse team home from church service. The very idea that the Black Daniel could possibly be in the area filled the congregation with excitement. Many speculated on his whereabouts while a few publicly stated they didn't believe the Black Daniel actually existed. Hester, of course, knew differently. He existed all right, and she had yet to meet a more sullen or rude individual in all her twenty-four years.
Giving credence to her point, he lit into Hester the mo
ment she entered the room. "Where have you been?"
Having just come from church, Hester was determined not to be provoked by his temper. She set down the tray holding his evening meal on the edge of the cot. "I'm pleased you missed my company. I was at church. Today is Sunday."
He made a rude noise in reply and Hester skewered him with a look that dared him to comment further. He didn't, though she doubted his silence had anything to do with him being intimidated by her glare. He didn't impress her as the type easily intimidated by anyone— male, female, Black, or White.
He told her, "I'd appreciate knowing when I'm going to be left here alone."
He was right, she knew, so she nodded in agreement.
"Folks were talking about you at church today," she related, figuring he should know about the speculating going on.
"Why?"
"There are some slave catchers in Detroit asking if there is anyone in the area harboring runaways, and does anyone know a man called the Black Daniel?"
"And how did your churchgoing neighbors reply?"
"No, and no, despite the five-hundred-dollar reward."
"That much? That's an awful lot of silver for some Judas."
"There are no traitors in this community."
"There has to be, otherwise I wouldn't be here."
"What do you mean?"
"The catchers who ambushed me boasted of a snake being in Whittaker's garden."
Hester stared in shock. "In Whittaker's garden?! You must be mistaken. This part of the Road has operated since after the War of Independence. Everyone is highly trusted."
"Which means nothing," he pointed out. "Had it not been for a timely rescue by the Wesleyites, I'd be dead."
Hester knew of the Wesleyites. They were conductors—sons of a Kentucky slave holder and as fervently against slavery as the most dedicated abolitionist. Despite their Bible-quoting ways, they were also as unpredictable as cannons rolling loose upon the deck of a ship. They'd been known to sell their passengers then resteal them many times before bringing them on the trip north. They were also known to leave dead slave catchers in their wake. Once when Hester asked why the Road even employed the Wesleyites, her Aunt Katherine explained that the cause accepted all warriors, even those as questionable as the Wesleyites.
Putting the Wesleyites out of her mind, Hester still found it hard to believe Whittaker harbored a Judas. She knew there were individuals on the Road who would harbor a fugitive at night, then accept a bribe to betray that same fugitive when the sun rose; but not in Whittaker!
She told him, "I'm afraid the local Vigilance Committee is going to need more than the word of a boasting slave catcher to take your charge seriously."
"I take it you don't believe me."
"I believe you may have been betrayed. The injuries you sustained speak for themselves, but it wasn't done by someone from Whittaker."
"Are you saying that to protect someone, or are you truly that naive?"
After putting up with his temper and surliness for the past few days, Hester held onto what was left of her patience and said, "I am risking prison sheltering you. How dare you call me naive. Your lack of manners and gratitude could make me turn you in just to get you out of my home. Have a pleasant meal. I'll return in the morning for the tray." She spun on her heel and left.
Picking up his fork the Black Daniel shook his head at her stubborn refusal to entertain his theory. He wondered if she lived alone. He hadn't seen anyone else on the premises, but that meant little. If her man was a part of the Road, he could be anywhere. He had noticed her hands, however. Indigo. He'd only seen hands stained like hers a few times. He'd be willing to bet she'd been a slave in the Sea Islands of South Carolina where he knew the few existing indigo plantations operated. Working the plants to extract the dye turned the palms and backs of the hands of the slaves permanently indigo.
Judging by the way she spoke and carried herself, she'd been free some time, though; either that or she'd been educated down south, a scenario he found unlikely due to the deep rich darkness of her skin. Educated slaves had a tendency to be mulatto like himself.
She was feeding him well, though: hominy, eggs, and fat biscuits rolling in butter had been the morning meal. Plump roast chicken anchored tonight's tray and the honeyed yams accompanying it all but melted in his mouth. He hadn't tasted such well-prepared fare since his last stint in New Orleans, but attempting to chew solid food around his loosened teeth made for very slow going. He forced himself to keep eating, knowing he'd recover much faster if he could manage to get it all down.
He finished his meal and lay back drained. He cursed his lack of strength. He wanted to question Hester about the area, but all his body craved was slumber. He fought it off as long as he could, then surrendered. A few seconds later, he slid into sleep.
The local women of the Detroit Ladies Abolition Circle met every third Sunday of the month. The sites of the local meeting usually rotated between the homes of those on the board and tonight would be Hester's turn. The group, founded ten years ago by Hester's aunt, had grown to almost one hundred and fifty members; some women from as far away as Toledo and Amherstburg, Ontario, attended the annual summer convention.
The rumors of slave catchers in the area resulted in a smaller than usual turnout—only nine of the twenty local women ventured out, but the meeting went well. Reports were given on the upcoming Christmas bazaar to be held in conjunction with the church, the state of the organization's financial needs, and the never-ending search for shelter and clothing for runaways.
The meeting lasted a little over an hour, and when it was over nobody wanted to stay for dessert and tea. With slave catchers rumored to be in the area, all felt it best not to tarry. A few of the women had risked the wrath of their husbands by attending the circle's meeting and had promised to return home as soon as it ended. No one wanted to be stopped on the way home tonight.
But as they moved to adjourn, a deafening blast of knocks pounded against the front door. Everyone froze. The thundering continued. Hester moved quickly to the lace curtains, and she saw that outside were eight mounted men. "It appears we have guests."
They'd rehearsed for emergency circumstances many times and all knew their roles. They quickly gathered up the ledgers and all other incriminating materials concerning their circle, placed them in the designated strongbox, and shoved it into the hidey-hole built into the fireplace. Others hurriedly retrieved and distributed the sewing always positioned nearby. Hester put on her gloves.
The pounding continued as Hester looked back. Her friends nodded that they were ready and she opened the door.
"Bout damn time!"
Hester did not know the short, black-toothed man glaring angrily at her. Beneath the light cast onto the porch he appeared ghoulish. He wore a long coat stained with dirt that appeared age old. The filth in the coat matched the dirt on his skin and the stench of him in the night's breeze blew strongly.
She did know the man at his side. "Good evening, Sheriff Lawson."
"Evening, Miss Hester. Sorry to disturb you. This here is Ezra Shoe."
"Mr. Shoe."
Shoe looked her up and down like a buyer would a woman on the block, then smiled a smile so vile, Hester had to force herself to hold his gaze.
"You got a man, gal?" he asked, showing the blackened teeth and gums once again. "Cos if you don't, me and my friends been riding a long time, we could sure use a little bit of comfort, if you take my meanin'."
Hester took his meaning and wished him taken straight to hell. She turned to the sheriff and felt salved by his obvious anger. "Hester, this man wants to search your house."
"Why?"
"Thinks somebody around here is transporting runaways."
"Slaves?"
"Slaves. He's got a writ from some court down south for a man called the Black Daniel."
Hester hid the sudden rise in her heartbeat. She asked quizzically, "The Black Daniel? And he is?"
"A slave-stealing
bastard is what he is," Shoe interjected, spitting a stream of nastiness on her porch. The dark eyes taunted her ferally. "And I plan on searching every nigger house in this state until I find him."
The slur slid from his lips easily and without apology. Hester stood in her doorway tight-lipped beneath her outward mask of calm. By law, she could not challenge the writ. She stepped back and let them enter.
Shoe wanted to bring in the other riders and their baying dogs to help with the search, but the sheriff refused. "They're not tracking mud all over this woman's home."
Shoe protested, but Lawson, a lifelong friend of Hester's Aunt Katherine, remained firm.
The women seated around the front parlor were offered a sincere apology from the lawman for the interruption of their evening, but he explained it was his duty. They nodded their understanding and went back to their needles.
Shoe looked around at the fine furnishings, then whistled appreciatively before asking, "Some white man give you this house, gal?"
Hester answered calmly, "No. My great uncles built this house."
The thunderstruck look on his face almost compensated her for having to endure his noxious presence in her home.
He looked to the sheriff. Lawson's answering nod confirmed her story. Shoe then turned back to Hester and stared as if she possessed three heads.
She explained, "My great-grandfather received this land as payment for fighting in the War for Independence, Mr. Shoe."
"Gal, you been drinkin'?! They didn't let no niggers fight in that war." He began to laugh. "You hear that, Sheriff? This gal claims she got relatives fought in the war. I heard being up North sometimes makes their kind go crazy in the head cos of the cold, but this the first time I known it to be true." He guffawed again.
Lawson had had enough. "Let's get this search over with, Shoe."