Nathaniel fought with the mare as she snorted and backed away from the churning water. The falling snow lightened the darkness enough to see the flooded creek rushing over its banks, already rising to the mare’s knees. The bridge ahead looked to be solid, had they reached it. Sleet and snow stung his face. The wind roared through the sycamores, and water thundered at the bridge.
Mr. Wall and the wagon must be just ahead of him. If they’d wrecked, perhaps he could help them out and soothe his own soul, troubled as it was over this brutal trade. Wagner had made it sound like easy money, and Nathaniel had wanted to save for a farm of his own, make a fresh start in Indiana, somewhere other than the Friends’ settlement. His relatives who’d moved up here would no doubt disown him, once they realized all the bad things he’d done since losing Pa and Ma.
He tightened his legs around the horse, urged her toward the bridge. She took a few reluctant steps. The icy water had risen to her belly and soaked through Nathaniel’s boots. She reached the end of the bridge, stopped again, pawed at the swirling water. The current shoved her sideways; she lurched and stumbled to regain her footing. She put her head down for a moment then flung it up.
Nathaniel took a deep breath. “Come on, Brandy!”
A voice swirled on the wind, shouting, “Bridge out!”
Nathaniel looked over his shoulder but saw no one. “Mr. Wall?”
No answer. Must have been the wind in the trees or his imagination.
The mare tried to turn back, but Nathaniel made her face the bridge. He wouldn’t rest until he knew what had happened to the other travelers. He hated to resort to spurs but touched her with them.
Brandy flung up her head, almost rearing, and then leaped forward into the surging water. She landed with a huge splash but lost her footing. Nathaniel gave her her head and knotted his hands in her mane as she struggled to stay on her feet. The horse fell. The icy water took his breath away. They slammed into the railing of the bridge. The mare crushed Nathaniel’s knee into the side. With a crack, the post, rails, and floor gave way.
Nathaniel and his mare fell over the side into the flood.
Brandy would break his back or both legs, pin him under the water—not even a chance to pray. The horse’s body slammed him deeper into the rushing water, which filled his nose and mouth, tore at his clothes. Trapped. The struggling horse’s weight crushed him. Debris battered him. He had to breathe, had to get clear of the horse, anything to get his head above water and get some air. The flooded steam carried him away into darkness.
Pounding at the door surprised Deborah. She set down her candle and turned around.
Friend Coffin strode to the door. “Yes? Who’s there?”
“A Friend…with friends.”
At the password, Friend Coffin flung open the door. “Come in, neighbors. Come to the fire.”
Pa lurched in, carrying a soaked and unconscious young man in his arms.
Deborah stared at them. “Pa, what happened?”
“I had doubts about the bridge and pulled off. This man rode right past us and tried to cross, but didn’t make it.” The runaways behind him slammed the door, latched it, and then stood shivering.
“He might have passed away,” Pa said. In a heavy voice he added, “I tried to warn him, but it was too late.”
Friend Coffin picked up the slave hunter’s wrist and felt it. “Still alive.”
“Bring him to the fire,” Cousin Katy said. “Deborah, he needs dry clothes and blankets.”
Deborah hurried through the house and trotted up the curving front staircase. On the landing at the top of the stairs, she found the door that led to the attic. She opened it with a quiet click so as to not wake the girls or Grandmother Coffin. Working by feel, she located folded clothes on the attic steps. They were ice cold. Poor man. He would freeze for sure unless they let these warm up. She couldn’t believe she had a shred of sympathy for that evildoer.
The commotion must have awakened the children, who rustled around in their bedroom. “Deborah? Who is here?” Little Catherine, the youngest, murmured.
“One of the slave hunters.”
The girl gasped.
“He might not live the night,” Deborah said. He was so alive, proud, and boastful just an hour or so ago. Where was his soul now? She shivered.
As she returned to the dining room, her father paused at the side door. “I’m going to fetch the doctor,” he said.
Friend Coffin and two young black men worked over the drowned man. They’d pulled off his wet coat and waterlogged boots. Deborah handed them blankets.
One man shook his head. “I still think we should’ve just left him. Won’t lie to you.”
The other one paused for a moment. “I know, Chance, but I think the Lord would have wanted us to try.”
The slave hunter coughed, making an awful noise. Was he dying, right there in front of them? What if he faced God with the blood of runaway slaves on his hands? Could the Lord save even one such as him?
She put more wood on the fire; it flared and illuminated the stranger’s condition.
His paper-white face was smeared with mud, his halfopened eyes glassy, and his lips blue. He might be near her age or a few years older. Wet hair was thick and dark as an otter pelt. A full beard hid the angles of his jaw and cheekbones. Asleep or unconscious, he appeared harmless. Only the Lord knew the extent of his evil deeds.
She crossed her arms.
Cousin Katy put her hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “Thee seems troubled.”
She breathed deeply and let it out. “I am wondering. … Would the Lord redeem even someone like him?”
Cousin Katy gasped. She put her hand over her heart and stared at Deborah.
Friend Coffin glanced up from the fireside. “Tell us thy mind, Deborah.”
The slave hunter’s conscience must be seared as hard and black as coal. “Perhaps drowning is the Lord’s judgment on him for his evil ways—and should he recover, he knows all about thy affairs.”
Friend Coffin shook his head. “I’m sure the Lord would want to redeem this man, but will he accept the Lord’s grace? If he lives. We should pray that the Lord’s good, acceptable, and perfect will comes to pass in this young man’s life.” He stood and gazed into Deborah’s eyes. “In all of our lives.”
She looked down at the clean clothes she’d wadded into a ball. She nodded as she smoothed out the linsey-woolsey shirt and pants and hung them over the fire screen. “I’ll take his wet clothes if I may.”
Someone pounded at the door then opened it. “I brought the doctor,” Pa said, stamping snow from his feet.
Friend Hiatt followed Pa. His brow furrowed at the sight of the injured man.
Deborah took their coats and hats then put the stranger’s dripping clothes in a basket. His riding coat alone would have weighed him down. Pounds and pounds of wool soaked with water and mud made her arm ache.
The doctor got down on the floor by the victim. “Yes, yes, keep him warm.” He looked up at Friend Coffin for a moment while assembling his stethoscope, a wooden trumpet-shaped instrument. “We could write an article for the medical journals about reviving patients from exposure, Friends.”
“Yes indeed.”
He went to work, leaning over the patient and listening. He nodded. “Wonder of wonders. Heart is still beating.” He shook his head. “A great deal of fluid in the lungs.” He used his thumb to gently raise one eyelid. “Ah. The pupil still contracts. Good sign. Friend Coffin, he needs a warm bed as soon as one can be prepared. Hot water bottles, too. Does anyone know if the horse trampled him? There is something amiss with his knee.”
“It’s anyone’s guess,” one of the runaways said. “Didn’t see the horse after they fell.”
Deborah shivered. That beautiful mare had been swept away in the flood? And the man nearly drowned. No matter who suffered that end, it would’ve been cold and terrifying.
Pa took her arm. “These fellows and I want to try to cross the creek again. I expect we can cross south of town. Out of our way, but we can make it over.”
Cousin Katy looked troubled. “Thee’s welcome to spend the night.”
Deborah hoped Pa and the others would stay here. Traveling by the morning light would be so much safer. She added up how many that would be for breakfast: Levi and Cousin Katy Coffin, their three girls, Grandmother Coffin, herself, Pa, two fugitives, and the slave hunter, if he survived. Eleven for breakfast. Cornmeal mush would work out the best.
Pa shook his head. “I have too much to do at the farm. I appreciate the offer though.”
Deborah put down the clothes basket and leaned against him for a moment. “Thee has had quite a trip. Take care. Give my love to Mama.”
He nodded, putting one arm around her. “I know thee likes working here. Just now is the first time thee has seemed troubled.”
Deborah sighed. “I’ve been exercised over the wisdom of helping such a one,” she admitted, nodding toward the slave catcher.
Trust Pa to simplify it. “God’s will is that none should perish, but repent and live.”
Deborah gazed at the young bounty hunter’s face. Could someone like that repent?