1
One Monday in June of 1877 Lily was a bit later than usual in arriving at Hazel’s as she and Sophie had been up most of the night sitting with Bricky who was down with the mumps and having a bad time of it. Sophie said she was too tired and too hot to come so Lily walked on by herself. As she went past Stumpy’s and waved to Cap Whittle on his bridge, she felt a deep unease inside, and quickened her pace. Violet had not been well, Winnie was thought to have got herself pregnant again and was very depressed – there was something waiting for her in the yellow and purple house at the top of the rise, of that she was certain. She leaned on the newel-post, her head woozy, her breath staccato. I’m just tired, she thought, and went in.
Everyone was listening so intently to the newcomer that Lily was able to slip unnoticed into her usual chair in the corner by the south-east window, and note with relief that both Violet and Winnie were hanging on each word being spoken by the tall, silver-haired man. He was like no other Negro she had ever seen – with his gold-rimmed spectacles, his trim business suit, white shirt and cravat, his patent leather shoes and the pearl-knobbed cane he leaned on from time to time for rhetorical effect. His voice was baritone, beautifully cadenced, and urban to the last vowel. He was a sixty-year-old American gentleman – whose skin had been accidentally charcoaled. Lily caught the very end of what had obviously been a detailed story of hairbreadth escape and considerable pathos. You could hear the whisper of Hazel’s taffeta all the way across the room. A single gold tear rolled down the right cheek of Shadrack Lincoln who was seated, or kneeling, at the feet of the stranger and peering up with adoration and awe.
Winnie leaned over and spoke into Lily’s ear: “He’s Mr. Abraham Jackson, from Philadelphia.” And, Lily learned later, come to the County in search of the long-lost cousin of a friend in Pennsylvania who turned out to be their own Shadrack Lincoln. The story, just completed, had been one of a series Mr. Jackson had been urged to tell about his days on the Underground Railroad.
“Those were exciting days and they were dreadful days. But of course even now we have much work to do. Many of the committees we formed then are still in operation, but instead of helping people to escape to freedom, we’re involved in a variety of Negro causes, including this one – searching for missing relatives and trying to put back together families who were so cruelly broken up by the heinous institution of slavery. We’re also helping many of the people who fled here to Canada without wives, children or parents to resettle back in their home counties if they wish to.” He glanced at Shadrack.
“Tell us more about the Railroad, Mr. Jackson,” Hazel said, as if she were coaxing a reluctant diva towards an encore. “Did you ever get up as far as Canada?” She looked about for support and got it. Betsy filled his cup with alacrity for they all knew he had to catch the late-afternoon express for London.
“I worked out of Philadelphia. I worked for Stephen Smith, a wealthy lumberman of my own race who financed much of the local operation, which was centred around Mr. William Still, whom you’ve heard about. I was supposed to be an agent for the lumber company, but my travels in Pennsylvania were really designed to keep supplies and money flowing to key points along the line. We were the principal relay station on the main route from the Carolinas over what we called the Great Black Way of the Appalachians and thence on to Ohio. And no, I never did get to Canada myself, but naturally I heard detailed accounts of the bravery and dedication of Canadians, and a number of them came to work for us on the American side. In fact, it was through the Partridge family in Moore Township that we were able to get a line on the whereabouts of Shadrack here. Many of the old railroaders continue to help us out in any way they can. I talked with Harry Partridge before I came up to Sarnia, and we reminisced about the old days. In particular we talked about the Canadians who’d served the cause so well back in the ‘fifties when the Fugitive Slave Law made it a very dangerous business. You may already have heard of the exploits of Bill Shepherd, Harold Flint, Michael Corcoran –”
“Quick, get the smellin’ salts, Vi,” Hazel cried, holding Lily in her arms.
Here in the Alley, no questions were asked; Hazel had given them her own sitting room where the curtains, carpet and plush chairs combined to soften voices and accentuate intimacy. Abraham Jackson sat no more than a yard from Lily and delivered his soliloquy in a hushed, umber, elegiac tone, as if the theme itself might overwhelm the solitary listener or crush the fragility of the words themselves.
“I knew your father long before I met him; he was an early organizer of the Railroad at the Michigan-Canadian border-crossing, one of the most dangerous spots on the line because after the Fugitive Slave Law the bounty-hunters concentrated on these crossing-points, and they didn’t care who they killed to get their quarry. I heard of your father’s courage from the great Harriet Tubman herself. So when he came over to our side of the border in 1851, he had many influential friends to help him. I met him that fall in William Still’s living room in Philadelphia. We never asked him much about why he had to leave Canada, but I could see that he was suffering a great deal as a consequence. Later on he confided to me that he had, in a vengeful rage, accidentally killed a man who had committed some crime against his family. He feared there was a warrant out for his arrest. Only a few years ago did I learn that there never had been any such warrant. Nevertheless, the Lord saw fit to bring him to us, and we were grateful. Your father became the most important person in the human chain of ties, rails, siding and way-stations that made up the Underground Road to Freedom during those grim years before the War. His job was to pick up refugees along the edges of the Carolinas and direct them or lead them himself over the Appalachian Way, with bounty-hunters and bears and renegade outlaw bands all looking for the same helpless prey. Twice he was shot, frost-bitten many times, cut his way out of a southern jail before a lynch mob could take its revenge – he was a legend among the Negros and Abolitionists everywhere. He was a man possessed, a man with a mission.” He paused as if to let that much sink in, but Lily’s querying, avid eyes urged him on.
“I met him often at Still’s house during our many strategy sessions, and it was there that I saw him for the last time in March of ’fifty-eight, almost twenty years ago. I remember ever detail of that evening because all the important people on the Railroad were there to meet and listen to another legendary figure of the day – John Brown, Old Brown of Ottawatomie. He was there with his son, John Jr., looking for money and for recruits. That night he got both. I tried to talk your father out of it, but like so many others, he too had glimpsed the apocalyptic blaze in Old Brown’s eye, and I guess he felt the same frustrations that Brown did after a decade of danger, miniscule hopes, senseless death and no sign of victory anywhere they looked, only the trickle of lives they had redeemed with such expense of body and spirit, while the principal evil festered and gloated on every side. They were ready to chance Armageddon, to drive the money-changers from the temple with a single, sacrificial blow; they were willing to use their bodies like sword-blades and ultimately as fodder for gibbets and the poles of crucifixion. We never saw him again.”
He paused, swallowed thickly and continued. “He died at Harper’s Ferry in the blood and horror of that wonderful débâcle. His name is not recorded among the official twenty-two, but his bravery there is well-known among the people he died trying to liberate. He was guarding the Potomac Bridge with Oliver Brown and others when the militia arrived and drove them off. Apparently your father refused to retreat and was shot on the bridge. Before the local troops, slavering for blood and souvenirs, could reach him, he jumped or fell into the river below, where the current swept him gently towards the sea. The Virginia guardsmen stood on the bridge and used his body for target practice till it drifted out of their range of interest. However, when the Federal Marines went looking for it later that evening, it was gone, spirited off by a group of free Negroes who carried it upstream to Chambersburg where they buried it secretly in their churchyard. It’s still there under a plain white stone marked simply: ‘Mr. Corcoran’. Every year hundreds and hundreds of people – black and white – slip quietly into the shade of that little cemetery to pay their respects.”
Lily was about to speak but sensed there was more.
“Your father came back to Canada once. I learned this from Harriet Tubman, who told me about it only a few weeks before my trip up here. He had been present at the famous Constitutional Convention John Brown held in Chatham in April of 1858. Still afraid of being apprehended by the Canadian authorities, he dyed his hair black, shaved his beard and sneaked into the province for the two key days of the Convention. However, he told Brown he had to take part of a day to ride north to visit his sister and daughter in Port Sarnia. She recalled this because she said she had rarely seen him so agitated. When he got back late on the Friday, she took special pains to talk with him about the trip, and he told her – in a calm, sad voice – that he had found his sister’s farm easily enough, had walked up the lane till he heard voices in the garden beside the cottage, and then stopped. The two women, he said, were in the garden, working and humming and seemingly content despite the Black Frost that had ravaged both our countries that spring. He told Harriet that he watched them for a long time, hoping that they might glance up and see him and force him to come out of his cover, but they didn’t, and he found he couldn’t speak, and then he left.”
“After a while Lily said, “Did he ever talk about us?”
“Ah yes, Mrs. Marshall, all the time. He told me once that as soon as his mission was ended, he planned to go back and bring his daughter to live with him in the States. That thought was on his mind constantly.”
From the sadness of his smile Lily knew he was lying.
2
When Lily came around the bend towards her house, her thoughts were so roiled that she almost bumped into the woman standing patiently by the front stoop. A white glove shot out.
“I’m Miss Stockton,” announced a voice crisp but distant. “Bradley’s teacher.”
“How do you do,” Lily said in a tone she herself didn’t recognize.
“May I come in?”
Lily stood by the door, puzzled.
“I’d like to discuss your son’s future with you,” Miss Stockton said, avoiding the railing as she lurched up beside her host.
Inside, Lily became aware of the lunch dishes piled in a basin where the flies were noisily congregating. The dank odour of wet sheets and soda drifted and adhered.
“I’ll get a fire goin’ for some tea.”
“Thank you, no. I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes uptown.”
“Please sit down, then.”
Miss Stockton’s reserve came close to failing her as she searched about for a safe place to deposit her petal-pink, delicately flounced dress. She decided the middle cushion of the chesterfield was the least lethal of the available sites and perched on its edge like a fledgling on a wire. Lily sat opposite her on the easy chair and waited.
“You may not be aware of it, Mrs. Marshall, but your son is the brightest pupil I have seen in five years of teaching, here and in Toronto. Inspector Whitecastle was here last week and fully corroborated my own intuitions.”
“He’s a real good reader,” Lily said to be helpful.
Miss Stockton flashed an ambiguous smile and continued. “What I’m saying in practical terms is that your son will undoubtedly score highly on all of the papers of his Entrance Examination next week. He will be eligible to go to the high school in Sarnia, and it is my considered opinion that he will be a first-class candidate for the University of Toronto, in whatever field he chooses.”
Lily appeared to be absorbing this revelation.
“You have thought about sending Bradley to high school?”
“He’s been askin’ me about it, yes.”
“Good, good. With the extra coaching I’ve been giving him in the evenings this month – I do hope you don’t mind his being away from home too much –” and here she chanced a more searching appraisal of the second-hand ambience of the room: the blotched window-glass, the marauding flies, the absence of a study or desk, the pathetic little titled bookcase in one corner. “But I fully expect him to get straight A’s.” Lily gave no sign of being overwhelmed by this news. “The main reason I’ve come is to discuss a very delicate matter, and since I’ve always been a straightforward person, I’ll get directly to the point. While there are no tuition fees for the high school, Bradley will have to buy his own books, mathematical instruments and supplies. He will have to take the trolley to Sarnia every day. He –”
“He’ll need some money,” Lily said.
“Precisely, Mrs. Marshall, how quickly you see my point. He’ll also need, how shall I word it, a more fashionable kind of clothing – not to show off, mind you, or get a swelled head, I certainly couldn’t approve of that – but just so he won’t stand out for the wrong reasons or be picked on by city pupils who can, you know, sometimes be quite cruel in these matters.”
“I been puttin’ money aside all along,” Lily said.
“Splendid. And since we’re obviously seeing eye-to-eye on these critical matters, may I make one final suggestion. If you can see your way clear – perhaps not the first year since Bradley’s just thirteen – but by the second year or so, you might consider letting him board at one of the many fine homes near the school.”
Lily’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“That way he won’t have to spend an hour a day on the trolley, and more important, he’d be able to use the school library after hours or the public library down the street, and –” she aimed her pity towards the cubicle where the boys slept, “– of course he could have a quiet room of his own in which to study. My purpose today, Mrs. Marshall, has been to relay Inspector Whitecastle’s enthusiasm for, and my own endorsement of, Bradley’s genius to you in order to make these decisions more comfortable for you to consider.”
Lily showed her visitor out.
Miss Stockton suddenly turned on the stoop and said in her own cabbagetown cadence: “You’re gonna let him go, aren’t you?”
Lily nodded, and touched her reassuringly on the arm.
Back inside the warm room, Lily felt woozy and sat down at the kitchen table. Must be the heat, she thought. Robbie clumped in from the back shed. “No supper?” he said.
“You seen Brad?”
“Yeah, he’s up at Redmond’s fussin’ over that Potts’ girl. They were stuffin’ their faces with chocolate the last I saw of ’em.”
“Miss Stockton, his teacher, was just here. I thought he’d be home to find out what was goin’ on.”
Robbie went over to the tinder-box. “He knows, all right,” he said bitterly. “But he won’t come home till dark.”
“Why not?”
“He’s ashamed to.”