Chapter Twenty
Missouri, September 1854
A sod hut dug into a hillside, front and side walls made of bricks laid in double rows. No windows; one door, barred from the outside. To the right of the hut, a comfortable-looking, two-story house, porch empty, windows dark, chimney producing only the thin smoke of a banked fire. To the left, a large field of dry corn that hisses every time the wind sweeps through the stalks.
This is definitely the Hawkins’ place. Zachariah Amandson described it right down to the last detail as he sat in Trout’s Hotel drinking lemonade, whispering to William, and looking up nervously every once in a while to make sure he wasn’t being overheard.
Amandson is a free black who is able to pass for white. This allows him to travel through Missouri unchallenged. For over two years, he has had a small business that consists of mending pots and pans and gluing broken china back together. One of the most important links in the local Underground Railroad, he rides from farm to farm, noting which farmers own slaves and where those slaves are kept when their masters are asleep. When the conditions are right, he draws the slaves aside, speaks to them, tells them who he is, and offers to help them escape.
When people think of the Underground Railroad, they usually assume it’s being run by Quakers, New England abolitionists, free-thinkers, and the like; but free blacks and former slaves are the heart and soul of the railroad. Some five hundred former slaves travel to the South each year to bring out those still in bondage. Without men like Amandson, William and his companions would be going in blind tonight.
Slinging the bag of drugged meat over his shoulder, William walks into the corn, grateful for the rustling that covers the sound of his footsteps. The wind is blowing away from him, which is fortunate because Amandson warned that Hawkins keeps four of the most vicious dogs in Missouri. They’re part wolf, raised to attack and kill. The last slave who tried to escape from this place had his throat torn out.
Sure enough, the moment William steps out of the corn, the dogs charge toward him, barking like the hounds of hell. Tearing open the mouth of the bag, he throws them the meat, praying they’ll stop to gobble it down. Then he turns and runs for the creek. Dashing into the water, he keeps on running. Hawkins’s dogs aren’t blood-hounds, they’re probably going to be too busy with the meat to bother coming after him, and if they do, the water should wash away his scent, but there’s always a chance they’ll decide to hunt him down.
When he figures he’s run far enough, he grabs an overhanging limb, pulls himself up into a tree, and sits there, gasping for breath. His heart is beating so fast he can feel it pounding against his ribs, his stomach is churning, and the inside of his mouth is dry. He’s ridden into Missouri on four previous occasions and never felt so much as a prickle of fear. It’s an odd sensation, like coming back to life, and it’s all due to Carrie.
When he left Brazil, convinced she was dead, he changed. He’d always been a cautious man, but losing her brought out something wild in him that was both useful and extremely dangerous. For the better part of a year, he didn’t care if he lived or died. He was willing to take risks other men were reluctant to take—risks perhaps no man with a wife and children to go home to would take. As a result, he’s earned a reputation for bravery he doesn’t deserve. It wasn’t brave to be unable to feel fear. It was a kind of insanity brought on by grief. But now he has something to lose.
Gradually his breathing slows, and his heart begins to beat normally. Looking toward Hawkins’s farm, he sees that someone has lighted a lamp in an upstairs bedroom of the main house. A few moments later, a man and a woman walk out onto the front porch. The woman wears a cotton nightgown and holds a lantern. The man, presumably Hawkins, wears long underwear and holds a shotgun.
Hawkins yells something, but William can’t make out the words. Maybe he’s demanding to know who’s out there, maybe he’s cursing the dogs for waking him. It’s probably a little of both, because suddenly he lifts the shotgun and fires into the corn. Then he calls the dogs to him and gives each a hard kick.
The dogs grovel at his feet and follow him docilely to the sod hut where Hawkins checks the bar on the door to make sure it’s still firmly in place. Again he yells. No doubt he’s making sure the slaves are inside, but if they reply, their voices don’t carry to where William is sitting.
After walking around the place and peering into every corner, Hawkins returns to the house, and he and his wife go back inside. The lantern light traces their progress up the stairs and into the bedroom. For a minute or two the light goes on shining before they blow it out.
After that, there’s nothing to do but wait. Climbing down from the tree, William settles on a pile of dry leaves and tries to make himself comfortable. It’s a chilly night with a hint of rain in the air. He wishes he knew exactly how long it will take for the opium to do its work, but you never can tell with animals. A veterinarian once told him about being called to a circus to extract a decayed tusk from an elephant. The vet said he had calculated how much opium it would take to sedate a man, and then multiplied by the weight of the elephant. The tusk came out successfully, but the elephant slept for three days. The circus owner had been so upset, he’d challenged the vet to a duel.
William sits for the better part of an hour listening intently. Finally, he rises to his feet and walks back toward the farm. He’s out of meat and if Hawkins’s dogs are still awake, he’s going to be in serious trouble.
Stepping out of the corn, he freezes in place and waits for the barking to begin, but the only sound he hears is the dry stalks rattling behind him. Keeping to the shadows, he makes his way toward the sod hut. Just before he reaches it, he comes on one of the dogs stretched out full-length, fast asleep. It’s a nasty-looking beast with a large head and powerful shoulders, but its pelt is a beautiful grayish white that looks silver in the starlight.
Giving the dog a wide berth, William walks up to the door of the hut and draws back the bar. When the door swings open, the slaves are waiting for him. They’re taking nothing with them except some thin blankets and the clothes on their backs, most likely because they have nothing else to take.
“By the strength of hand, the Lord brought us out of Egypt,” William whispers.
“Out from the house of bondage,” one of the slaves replies.
Signals successfully exchanged, they shake hands all around, and William leads them away from Hawkins’s farm toward the woods where horses and armed men are waiting to conduct them to Kansas and freedom.