Boston
1856
Harriet jumped to her feet, pressing her napkin to her mouth. This was the portion she did not want to hear. She did not want to hear about blood and deaths. She looked at William; he rose to his feet.
There was no anger on his face; instead he seemed troubled by her alarm. “Would you like to stop now? We don’t have to go on.”
Harriet could not speak. Her chest heaving, she worked to hold back the tears. She did not like to think of bloodshed or war, not even for a worthy cause.
She looked at William. She did not like to think of the man that she was conversing with as a murderer. She did not want to think of him covered in blood.
Harriet turned and walked toward the window. So many had already lost their lives—she did not want to believe that the only path to liberty was a crimson-stained one.
England had managed to abolish slavery without bloodshed. Something must be done here. Someone, someone must be found who might turn the country from the bloody path down which it seemed headed.
Behind her, distress in his voice, William spoke. “I mean you no harm. We can stop now.” His concern sounded sincere.
Harriet Tubman, Henry Bibb, Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, and so many nameless, faceless others—they had all faced so much more and there was no turning away for them. She didn’t have to live it; she had only to hear the story.
Harriet dabbed her face and then, taking a deep breath, she turned and began walking back to the small table. “Courage today or carnage tomorrow,” she said.