JAKE ENTERED Martha’s life when she was just six years old. Until then, she had been a happy-go-lucky little girl without a worry in the world. Her parents’ love and care embraced her every day, and even her natural shyness often fell by the wayside as they shared their joy of life with her. October was her special month. The hot Connecticut summer was over, and in its place came cool, crisp days, fluffy white clouds, and the spectacular red, orange, and yellow autumn leaves that fell off the trees by the end of the month. Martha loved to jump into the huge mounds her papa raked just for her. She would then throw the colorful shapes up into the air with both arms swirling around to make leaf storms.
Best of all, Martha looked forward to the harvesting of the huge orange pumpkins that grew inch by inch all summer and early fall until even her strong papa could hardly lift them. She always laughed as he struggled and made loud groans.
“Mahthah, Mahthah,” he would say in that New England accent he told her came from growing up in Maine. “Help me!”
“Papa, I can’t,” she would respond, jumping up and down. “I’m too little.”
“That may be so,” he would answer. “But not for long.”
Then he would wrestle the huge orange orbs into the wagon, saying, “This pumpkin weighs more than our barn.”
And Martha would always giggle and say, “Papa, you’re lying, and you told me never, ever to lie. That it is a bad thing to do.”
“So it is, my wise daughter,” he would answer as they headed home so her mama could use the fleshy pulp for pies, breads, and puddings.
Martha also loved picking apples off the trees in the family’s small orchard. Her papa would lift her up so she could pick the biggest, reddest piece of fruit, which she ate right away, the juice dribbling down her chin. Life could not be better.
But October 1846 was different. Everything about it was wrong. Instead of the cool weather she looked forward to, the air was warm and muggy, and most of the leaves were still green or just turning brown when they fell like lead to the ground. In bleak fog or drizzle, she trudged the quarter mile to school until one day her papa took pity on her and started providing rides on horseback. With a sigh, Martha gazed around her world that had gone from beautiful blues, greens, reds, and yellows to browns and grays.
The evening of October 11 was even stranger than all the others, for although it was hot and humid, her mama was frantically building a huge fire in the parlor hearth while her papa created an enormous pile of logs. In between their hurried labor, each kept casting an eye on the dirt road leading from the main thoroughfare to their small farmhouse. After an hour of squirming and pulling at her dress trying to get some air, Martha took her angry stand, the one with her hands on her hips and her right foot tapping, and complained, “Why are you making a fire? It’s so hot already!”
“Martha Bartlett, do not pout and ask questions right now,” her mama panted as she hurried about. Martha could see perspiration streaming down her flushed red cheeks, flattening the blonde curls that usually crowded out from her lace cap onto her face. Her confusion grew stronger when her mama gave her an order that simply did not make sense. “Go bring in some more wood for me. Thee can carry the lighter pieces, canst thee? Meanwhile, I shall go fetch the boiling water. We shall need it soon.”
“Why?” Martha queried in exasperation.
Her mama continued to rush about. “Not now, Martha. Just do what I ask of thee.”
“But, Mama . . .”
“Go.”
Martha looked at her papa for an answer, but he remained silent as he piled one log on top of another.
“Just do as your mama asks,” he insisted. And so, shrugging her shoulders, she did.
Huffing and puffing, Martha lugged several cut-up tree branches into the parlor. After she dropped them with an exaggerated groan near the hearth, her mama instructed her to go upstairs to her room.
“But why, Mama? It’s only seven o’clock.”
“Because I said so, child. And,” she added firmly, “close thy door and do not come out until morning. Look at some of thy books that bring thee so much pleasure, or play with thy doll.”
Martha nodded but persisted in staring at the fire, the large kettle of boiling water, and her parents scurrying around and constantly glancing out the window.
“Go!” her parents commanded in unison.
Martha grudgingly took the lard-oil lamp her mama handed her and left the room. She had expected this evening to be like most others when, after her papa said goodnight to his last customer and closed up his woodshop, she and her parents sat peacefully in the parlor. Her papa read aloud from his abolitionist newspaper, The Liberator, while her mama sewed or knitted and Martha played with her dolls or toys. Martha liked to hear her parents’ conversations. Occasionally, she asked a question about what slavery was like or about the anti-slavery activists her parents spoke about with reverence, but most times, she just listened and learned.
Some evenings her papa put his own reading aside to entertain her with children’s stories from The Slave’s Friend. “Papa,” she might urge, “read me the one about Joggy and Lorina.” And he would read the next installment of the story of the two African children brought to New York on a slave ship and then saved by the captain and a kind lady.
But that October night, when everything seemed upside-down and no one wanted her around, she decided to pay particularly close attention to what her parents were saying and doing, even though that meant misbehaving by spying and eavesdropping. She just had to know what was going on.
Reluctantly, Martha climbed the steep, creaky wooden staircase up to her room on the second floor of the old house that her great-great grandparents had built. She had never met any of her ancestors, who had all died before she was born, but every time she climbed the stairs, she looked at their likenesses in the frames on the wall.
“Hello, grandfathers Isaac and Jacob,” she would say, or “Hello, grandmothers Deborah and Leah.” Talking always eased the somewhat difficult ascent for her short, chubby legs. Oh how she wished for the day she would be taller.
She reached her room and, by habit, paused to glance across the narrow landing at her parents’ bedroom and then at the ladder leading up to a trapdoor to the attic. Martha hated to go up there. It was so cold in the winter, so hot in the summer. Even though her mama cleaned it every day or so, it always felt dusty to her.
Still, even at her young age, Martha understood the importance of that attic room, which on a regular basis hid a runaway slave for a day, sometimes two. The slaves appeared and disappeared very quickly on their hard journey from the South to the North, even as far as Canada. Martha’s farm was just one stop on the Underground Railroad and her parents just one pair of “stationmasters” who received their “packages” before sending them “up the line” to the next “station.”
Although Martha’s papa and mama did not ask anything of her in this secret and dangerous work, she was perfectly aware of a refugee’s presence every time the attic floorboards creaked. Sometimes, when she peeked out her door when no one was watching, she caught a glimpse of a scared-looking black person being hustled up the ladder or her mama carrying food on her way to check on them.
Martha was proud of being raised in an abolitionist home, but she was far too young to completely understand what the Underground Railroad was or how it worked. Her heart told her, though, that if her parents participated in it, then it must be a good thing—a brave thing. And she looked forward to the day when she would be old enough to help her parents free the slaves. But she also knew how important it was to keep the Underground Railroad a secret. That was the hard part because she was by nature curious and could not help asking questions.
That night, when Martha walked into her cozy room and quietly closed the heavy door, she was most careful to leave it open just a little crack. Since runaways usually came late at night when the house was dark and everyone in the surrounding area asleep, it made sense that some other major event was taking place. And she wanted to know what it was. She sat down on her narrow bed, the one that her papa had made just for her with his very own hands, but she was too restless to look at her books or play.
In the end, she got up, moved her child-sized cane chair close to the small window next to her chest of drawers, and climbed onto it. By standing on her tippy toes, she could just make out her family’s fields, now dark and empty of the harvested corn, pumpkins, and vegetables. But try as she might, she could not twist her head enough to see the dirt road and front of the house where she had just heard the sound of horses’ hooves and of wagon wheels pulling up to the door.
Martha clambered down from the chair, almost knocking it over, rushed to her door, and carefully peered out toward the downstairs entrance, which faced the steps. From the dark emerged her uncle Jonah and sixteen-year-old cousin Ned with a thin bent-over figure between them.
“Shut thy door, Martha,” came her mama’s voice. “Now!”
Martha jumped back from the door as if struck by lightning, still leaving that teeny crack open. She turned down her lamp so no one would spot her from the darkness of the hallway and remained absolutely quiet. Leaning with her ear pressed against the doorjamb, she heard her aunt Edith say, “Come quickly, Sarah. She’s almost ready.”
The furtive whispers downstairs increased Martha’s curiosity. Cousin Ned had once shown her how they hid runaways in the false bottom of their hay wagon that was then covered with straw. He and Uncle Jonah traveled the fifteen miles from their home southwest of Liberty Falls to hers, delivered their “package,” and immediately drove away into the night. Martha could not remember a time, however, when her papa’s twin sister, her aunt Edith, accompanied them. And what was “she,” whoever “she” was, almost ready for? Try as she might, Martha could not make out all the words the adults were saying.
“. . . need . . . take her . . . attic . . . the slave catchers . . . on her trail . . .” whispered her papa.
“. . . don’t know . . . can make it, Micah,” countered Aunt Edith.
“. . . no choice . . . all of our safety . . . especially hers . . . help your papa . . . take the lamps . . . attic trapdoor . . . carry . . . hot water. Meanwhile, your mama and your aunt . . . come right up.”
The next thing Martha heard was the two men bumping into the dark walls as they jostled the poor groaning woman up the steep stairs. As they passed Martha’s door, she peeked out and realized this was a girl, not a woman at all. She was tall and beautiful with long, wavy black hair and the palest skin Martha had ever seen, and she looked no older than her cousin Ned.
Martha was shocked by how ragged and dirty the girl’s dress was. Her thin shoes had such big holes in them that they could hardly stay on her feet. Yet, she had a delicate red silk embroidered shawl around her shoulders that she gripped tightly across her chest in her clenched fingers. Martha wondered where she had obtained such a beautiful thing.
For a brief second the girl turned her head, her almond-shaped hazel eyes catching Martha’s own brown ones gleaming from the shadows. She attempted a smile but instead grimaced as another wave of pain grabbed her and she knotted up her face and lowered her head. It was then, when Martha’s papa and uncle shifted their positions, that she saw the girl’s huge belly and immediately understood she was having a baby. But she could not figure out why she was here. Could white people be slaves?
The next moment, Martha’s uncle hustled up the ladder. He placed his arms under the girl’s armpits and lifted her straight up. Martha’s papa quickly followed with his arms around her legs. They were both trying very hard not to jar her, causing her even more agony. In the blink of an eye they were gone, with the other three hurrying after them.
For hours, days it seemed to Martha, she heard only sounds—creaking floorboards, groans, hustling feet, and whispering voices. Then one loud scream followed by silence.
Time stood still, and Martha could no longer contain her curiosity. She ran out of her room and toward the attic. As she neared the foot of the ladder, she heard the small, feeble cry of a baby and her mama’s clear voice: “He is alive, but very tiny and weak. I do not know if he will survive.”
“But this poor girl,” Aunt Edith sighed. “What will we do with her body?”
Martha’s papa offered in such a low voice that she could hardly hear him, “I have some coffins in the workshop. We can use one of them to take her over to the town cemetery and bury her there. But we must move quickly.”
“It’s too sad,” Aunt Edith added. “We don’t even have a name to place on her grave. She never said it, and none of us asked.”
“Even if we knew,” commented Uncle Jonah dryly, “we couldn’t use it, for even that might give us and this poor baby away. What are we going to do with him?”
Martha’s mama said softly, “We’ll decide that later. First, we must wrap her body in a sheet. It pains me that we have no time to wash and prepare her properly for burial. Edith and I will just clean her up a bit while thee, Micah and Jonah, prepare the coffin. Meanwhile, Edith, we must also warm up some diluted milk and water. The babe is sure to wake up shortly.”
Martha sprang into action. Scurrying back to her room, again leaving the door open just a crack, she jumped into bed and pulled her quilt up to her neck. She was very careful not to allow the soft material to cover her ears.
“Let’s go,” put in her papa, and down they came in a rush to get to the wood workshop behind the house. After a short while, the men returned.
“We’ve placed the coffin in the hay wagon. Let’s hasten to secure her in it, so we can be off to the burial ground,” her papa said.
Although they moved as quietly as possible, Martha heard the two strong but tired men carry the slave girl’s body down the ladder and prepare to descend the stairs to the first floor.
“Micah,” Martha heard her mama whisper, “be sure to say a few words over her grave and to pray for some minutes.”
Right next to her door, her papa answered, “I shall do the best I can, Sarah, but time is short, and there’s a storm brewing, one of those big ones from the South. The wind is picking up something fearsome. We need to dig the grave and disappear before daylight. It could take us a good four or five hours to finish up, and the morning light will come up long before six. Besides that, who knows when the rains will begin. For now, snuff out the candles, bank the fire, and darken the house.”
“God be with you,” put in Aunt Edith.
Martha heard the men quickly leave, then silence for several moments as the two women lingered on the stairwell right outside her door. She, meanwhile, pretended to be asleep, opening her mouth and letting out, perhaps a bit too loudly, her habitual brief snorts.
“Oh, my goodness, Edith,” her mama whispered in a hoarse voice. “Martha’s door has been open a crack. I hope the curious little thing did not witness all of this.” Opening her eyes just a slit, Martha saw her peek in at her. “She seems sound asleep, but I worry.”
“Don’t think about it now, Sarah,” Aunt Edith soothed her. “If she did see something, you’ll find a way to explain it, I’m sure. You already know the little dear heart has seen runaways here, but she holds her tongue well.”
Martha’s chest swelled with pride as her mama responded, “Thee speaks true. She is a real blessing, my little Martha is. But, come, Edith. Let us clean up everything and put the house to sleep.”
By this time, Martha was so exhausted that after grabbing hold of her rag doll she fell into a deep sleep. Hours later, she awoke startled as she heard the sound of horses galloping up the road to the farmhouse. It was already daylight, but the house was quiet. Outside there was a strong wind blowing and sheets of rain were pounding on the rooftop and against Martha’s windowpanes. While she struggled to untangle herself from her blankets, her mama rushed in holding a little bundle in the colorful shawl Martha recognized as the slave girl’s.
“Martha, there are slave catchers rushing up our road. Do not ask questions now, but I need thee to hide this little baby. Put him in thy doll’s cradle and pretend thee is rocking thy doll and singing to her.”
“But, Mama,” Martha asked, terrified by the request, “what if he cries?”
“He will not, for I have given him just a small amount of laudanum to keep him quiet.”
Martha had heard her parents say that some runaways did that so infants would not cry on the journey and expose them to recapture. But she also knew that laudanum was some kind of dangerous medicine. Her mama had some for emergencies, but she told Martha never, never to touch it because it could make someone sleep forever if they took too much. She sure hoped that would not happen to this very tiny infant.
Although her mama was in a hurry, the always-curious Martha could not help asking, “Is this a slave baby, Mama?”
“No. His mama was indeed a slave, but he was born here in a free state. So by our laws he is free. But I am afraid the slave catchers will see things in a different light. They will say he is a slave because his mama was one. But I will explain it all to thee later.”
As she placed the baby in the little doll’s cradle, she added, “Thy papa is out in the fields bringing the cows and sheep in before the storm gets worse, so I must face these evil men myself.” She then left, softly closing the door behind her.
Martha sat down on the floor and looked at the sleeping newborn. He fascinated her, just like the baby calves she once saw in the barn. Or maybe the little chicks. But he was a human version, a doll-like person. No wonder her mama believed Martha’s toy cradle was a good place to hide him.
Under the tiny knitted hat her mama had placed on his head, Martha could see black curly hair. She recognized the hat as her very own when she was a babe, and it made her feel a kinship with this little soul. His face, so tiny with a little snub nose, had long fuzzy sideburns on each side and even a little mustache that made Martha giggle. To her surprise, his skin was a very light tan, almost the same shade as her own. For a brief moment, he opened his unfocused almond-shaped gray eyes half-way. Then he slowly lowered his lids and drifted back to sleep.
A loud banging on the front door quickly brought Martha out of her reverie. With a pounding heart, she muttered, “The slave catchers.” She had never seen one, but she imagined them to be very tall, strong, and armed with guns. Would they hurt her mama?
“What is it that thee wants?” Martha heard her mama’s stern New England voice ask.
“We’re looking for a female runaway slave. Young. Pretty. Light skinned, and big with child. You seen or heard of her?”
Martha could not see these men, but their voices and unfamiliar accents sounded as frightening as she had imagined. To keep calm, she prayed hard that they would not enter the house.
While she held her breath and remained absolutely still, a strange noise reached her ears. Looking down into the cradle, she saw the baby’s lips all puckered up and moving, sucking in air. What if those awful men downstairs heard him? Not knowing what to do, Martha stuck her pinky finger into his mouth. She then began rocking the cradle and humming in as soft and calming a way as she could. He quieted, happily sucked away, and sank into a deeper sleep. Martha dared not move her hand even though she felt like a huge squishy whirlpool was going to drag the whole thing further into his mouth and down his throat.
Downstairs Martha’s mama coldly responded to the slave owners’ henchmen, “I have not encountered such a woman. Now excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Well,” a deep voice threatened, “we know this is hostile territory to us hardworking slave catchers, ma’am, so we’ll be watching. And we may very well be back after this storm blows over. Just to take a look around, you understand.”
“And that is illegal here, and I shall call a constable.”
Martha jumped as she heard her mama slam the door.
“Good day to you, too,” they laughed loudly as they galloped away, leaving their ugly spirit tossing about on the wind gusts.
As soon as the sound of their horses’ hooves disappeared, Martha’s mama rushed up the stairs and into her room. Martha smiled at her, and her mama gave a hearty laugh.
“Thee has saved the day, my darling Martha.”
“But, Mama,” Martha answered despondently, “you lied. You told those men you hadn’t seen such a person. But I saw her.” She pressed on although her mama had given her a look mixed with concern and aggravation, “Do people on the Underground Railroad have to lie? Because you told me never to say anything that’s not true.”
Martha’s mama moved over to the window and gazed out, sorrow written all over her face.
“Thee speaks true, Martha. Lying is sinful. But sometimes we must do things to fight against an evil such as slavery. So, in this case—to save this child—I have lied,” she answered. With that confession, she returned to the cradle and pulled Martha’s pinky out of the baby’s mouth, causing a loud pop. “Now, let us get this child some nourishment.”
“What will happen to him, Mama?”
“Thee knows he is motherless, Martha. And thee can see how tiny and helpless he is. How would thee feel if we kept him and raised him as thy brother?”
Martha jumped up and down with glee. “Oh, yes, please, Mama. It would be so nice to have a little brother.”
Her mama smiled as she picked up the baby and cradled him lovingly in her arms.
“Yes, thy father and I agree. His skin is light enough to pass as thy brother and his hair is dark like thine as well. We shall just tell everyone that we agreed to raise him for our poor recently widowed cousin Nora in Torrington, who died in childbirth. What does thee think?”
Martha hesitated. “But you don’t have a cousin Nora, do you, Mama?”
“No,” she sighed as Martha caught her in another lie.
Feeling bad for her mama, Martha quickly added, “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Mama. I’ve always wanted a brother. But what’ll we call him?”
“Thy papa and I think we should call him Jacob after thy grandfather who passed away the year thee was born.”
“Jacob,” she whispered. “Jake or Jakey, maybe.”
“But no one, Martha,” she added, “no one, not even Jacob, must ever know the true story of what happened here tonight. Does thee understand?”
“Yes, Mama. But is that a lie, too?”
“It is not a lie if thee does not say anything. And it will be necessary to lie if it means keeping him with us and from those who would see him as a piece of property.”
“Who’s that?”
“Slave catchers and slave owners. This baby will grow into a fine young man. And fine young slaves can be sold for a good price.”
Martha looked at the baby with tears in her eyes. “Will he turn black, Mama? And then the slave catchers will come and take him?”
“No, Martha. Slaves are sometimes dark and sometimes light. It depends on their parents and grandparents and even further back. This boy and his mother obviously have many white ancestors. I doubt he will be much darker than he is now.”
Martha was totally confused, but she did not know how to ask more questions. Maybe when she was older, she would be able to understand about skin color, but not now. So she simply said, “I understand, Mama.”
Her mama rushed to change the subject. “Tomorrow, I will take the babe and go to stay with Aunt Edith and Uncle Jonah for a week or so. Thy father will tell his customers that I have gone to Torrington to tend to Nora’s funeral. The town gossips will spread the word so that when I return home everyone will accept Jacob as Nora’s orphan. Thee will stay here and help thy father as much as thee can. Yes?”
“Yes, Mama. But you’ll come back soon, won’t you?”
“As soon as things have quieted down. Now, get dressed. There is no school today because of the storm, but I will need thy help to pack and to take care of the child.”
And so Martha got up, did her few morning chores, and helped her mama prepare for her journey. All the while she felt conflicted about everything that had happened. A baby, she thought, a little baby to love and be a sister to. But it was all a lie and that worried Martha. What would happen if one day one little lie escaped? Would others follow? And what then?