North of Albany, New York
December 1863
Viola’s mother was in the other room, putting the children to bed. The newcomers had been fed quickly, then taken to the cellar. Lane, watching through the crack in the door from the other room, had seen Viola move the eating table, pull back the rug, and pull open a door in the floor. With a lighted candle, the couple had made their way down the ladder into the cellar. Once the door was closed and the table and rug replaced, Viola had fetched Lane from the other room and seated him before the fire. They sat beside each other in identical handcrafted wooden chairs. A long silence ensued, both staring into the fire. Finally, Viola spoke.
“You can’t ever mention what you saw tonight. To anyone. It would mean my arrest and my children would probably starve to death. And it would disrupt something very important.”
Lane considered. “You’re hiding runaway slaves.”
“I’m helping human beings achieve the freedom that all God’s children deserve.”
“You’re part of a network?”
“You ever hear of the Underground Railroad?”
“No. Is it in Albany?”
“It’s here. This is it. People like Sarah and Michael slip away from their masters, and a long line of people like me help them make their way north, to Canada.”
Lane had heard of such a thing, in Boston. Churches were involved. Not his church. “Sarah and Michael are the people in the cellar?”
“Yes.”
“What does this have to do with selling potatoes to the British, and the Union soldier who visited last week?”
“Nothing. The British don’t know anything about this. The Union soldiers neither. I have other business with them. Information.”
“With both sides, is it? I don’t understand. On the one hand, you’re helping slaves escape. On the other hand, you’re feeding the British Army, which helps the Southern cause. If they win the war, slavery will continue in the southern states. I don’t understand which side you’re on.”
“You don’t need to understand. And as for contradictions, what about you? I thought the Irish hated the British. You seem to have a lot to say to General Burgoyne.”
“It’s complicated. But I want the same thing for my people that you want for yours. Freedom.”
“You’re comparing your people to my people? You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure, my people have been virtual slaves for seven hundred years. They stole our land, and now we pay them rent for the right to make a miserable living off it. They exclude us from the professions. Make it difficult to educate our children. We’re second-class citizens in our own country.”
Viola stared at Lane, her hands gripping the seat of her chair, and her eyes blazing like the fire. “Virtual slaves? You left Ireland. Was that against the law? Can they hunt you down and whip you for that, and make you go back?”
“No, but—”
“It’s hard to educate your children? Is it illegal to teach them to read and write?”
“No.”
“Can one landlord sell your children to another landlord?”
“No. All I was saying is that I’m also working to free my people. I wasn’t saying that the circumstances were the same.”
“Working to free your people? By conspiring with the British?”
How much should he tell her? Lane was about to speak when Viola’s mother came out of the other room and quietly closed the door.
“They’re asleep.” She looked at her daughter and at Lane, then at the fire, which was burning down. “I’ll go to the barn and get some firewood.” She opened the door and stepped outside, but was back in an instant, shutting and locking the door.
“What is it?”
“Blue soldiers.”
“How many?”
A pause. “Maybe a million. Looks like they’re setting up camp.”