~ The Walk Home ~

by

Wanda C. Keesey

The coach seat she bought was for one. Hattie was not permitted under any circumstances, or for any amount of money, to ride inside the carriage. She had to ride on top with the luggage.

“She is a valuable piece of property. I can’t take the chance of losing her, or having her injured,” Sara had argued, frustrated that she could not voice her objections louder.

“That would be a problem, Ma’am, but it’s not ours. She will not ride inside. If you like, you can find other means.”

“You know there are no other means.” The railroad bridge was washed out at Harper’s Ferry, making the stagecoach leg necessary. “What are the arrangements on the train? Must she hang from the window ledge?”

“Lady, I’m doing the best I can. The train has a car for slaves. She’ll be happier with her own kind anyway. Now do you want the tickets or not? There’s others waiting.”

“What choice do I have? How much did you say?”

“That’s three dollars for you and four bits for your girl on the coach, and two dollars and four bits for you and two bits for the girl on the train. That’s a total of six dollars and seventy-five cents.” He stamped the tickets and slid them toward the grate. He waited for his money, his fingers resting on the brown pieces of paper.

“It’s six dollars and twenty-five cents, and you should be ashamed for trying to overcharge a widow.” Sara put the coins on the counter and snatched the tickets from the agent.

The smirk on his unshaved face didn’t do anything to lessen Sara’s anger.

Turning to leave, she wanted to shout to the others in the room to watch their purses, but she knew her feeble voice wouldn’t carry beyond the man nearest her.

~ * ~

The heat and stench inside the moving carriage threatened to smother Sara. She pushed the flapping curtain aside, but there was no relief in the swirling road dust. She allowed the curtain to drop and cover the small opening.

Sweat tickled between her breasts and down her back, adding to her general discomfort.

“I’ve never seen it this hot in October,” she said, her husky voice just above a whisper.

The Reverend Geller, one of two men traveling with Sara, leaned nearer. “Indeed, it is hot for the turn of season. But perhaps we should be grateful that we are not troubled by the dangers of ice and snow.”

“Thank you, Reverend Geller. You do have a way of putting everything in perspective. But still, I find the heat and dust distressing after my accident.” Sara coughed into her handkerchief.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Benning, of course you do. Please have a sip of my water. It may not be cool, but it will wash the dust from your throat.” The leather pouch appeared from the carpetbag on the seat between them. She had given their small water pouch to Hattie.

Sara gratefully accepted the offer. Lifting her veil, carefully, she kept her scarred face hidden, and took a sip of the stale water. Her throat was raw, and the water was soothing. Her head was pounding in time with the beat of the horses’ hooves. The pains in her body and head had started on the first leg of the trip to Harper’s Ferry, and the intensity grew as the journey stretched on.

When they reached Fredericksburg they would board a train to Richmond. Sara felt a shiver creep through her, radiating from her stomach outward. Doubt and fear of the unknown shook her resolve. She imagined Edward sitting next to her, urging her to go on. She took another sip of the tepid water.

Will I be able to avenge Edward and Teddy? Will Hattie find Charles?

Sara tried not to feel the emptiness, but she thought often of her husband and son and the life she had lost. She carried Edward’s watch in her watch pocket and her son’s folding knife in a pouch sewn to her waistband with the money she and Hattie had been paid for their land. She could see Edward in the face of the watch and feel his warmth when she held it. She heard Teddy’s laughter when she felt the knife press against her thigh. The weight of her treasures was a constant reminder of her lost family.

Moisture dripped from the damp water bag as Sara held it to her lips again. Over the top of the bag she watched the only other passenger on the coach, a spirits drummer. When he was awake, Mead Miller regaled his companions with his knowledge of the products he sold up and down the coast, and the stories he told. Luckily Mr. Miller slept most of the time. His stories caused Sara to wonder if she and Hattie were doing the right thing. It was Mr. Miller’s opinion that the South would leave the Union. These States would form their own country.

Handing the leather pouch back, Sara said, “Thank you, Reverend, that bit of water did soothe some of the soreness.” She wondered if he would offer the same relief to Hattie, and knew he wouldn’t. Hiding her bitterness at the prevailing attitude toward the colored, Sara asked, “When do you think we will arrive in Fredericksburg?”

“Very soon, my dear. No more than an hour. Why don’t you try to sleep? The time will go faster.”

“Thank you, I will.” Sara put her head back, arranged her hat and veil for comfort and folded her hands over her reticule. The small beaded bag rested atop the pouch of money hidden under her skirts.

She knew the money was safe, but what about Hattie?

Fifteen

Hattie’s hands ached from gripping the high luggage rail and ropes that kept the baggage in place. She’d pushed herself down as far as she could among the trunks and bags on top of the coach. But no matter what she did, she was tossed by every jarring bump and twist of the coach.

She ducked every time the whip sailed over her head on its threatening sweeps to spur the horses over the uneven ground.

In spite of the hot sun, Hattie draped her shawl over her head to avoid the clotting dust that swirled in the dry air. Her eyes closed.

Hattie dreamed she was with Charles. They were riding in a wagon, heading home after the yearly trip to trade furs for a new pig. It was hotter than usual, and the dust was nearly unbearable. Why were they traveling so fast?

A sharp, jarring impact and the snap of the whip woke Hattie. I have to stay awake. If I’m thrown off, I’ll never find Charles.

She braced her legs and released one hand at a time, flexing her fingers and allowing them to relax before regripping the rail.

She didn’t know how much longer she could hang on. Her hands and legs were numb. She sat backward to ward off the worst of the dust, but still felt its sting in her eyes.

I have to remember why I’m here. She closed her eyes again and saw Charles’ smile, felt his strong arms and loving tenderness. She would endure hell itself to have him back.

“I’m so sorry, Sara,” she said, her words lost in the noise of the rattling coach. I’ve allowed her to enter into the land of slavery and ruthless men. Guilt and relief were constant reminders. “There’s just isn’t any other way.”

Slaves and even free coloreds couldn’t travel alone in the South. A freeman had to have papers from a sponsor. Charles and Hattie had been free for many years and had no sponsors. I couldn’t sell the property that we had lived on, but Sara could. I wouldn’t be able to search for Charles, and if I found him, I wouldn’t be able to buy his freedom, but Sara can.

Hattie thanked God a hundred times a day for giving her a friend like Sara. She would find a way to repay her special friend.

The rope pulled through Hattie’s hand, burning her palm as a trunk swung hard when the coach cornered a sharp curve. The heavy trunk squeezed her against a battered crate. The ropes strained, but held. She fought for room to breathe.

As the road straightened, Hattie took assessment of her injuries. Bruises, a rope burn, and skinned knuckles, but she was still in one piece and still atop the coach.

“I’m coming, Charles, I’m coming,” she whispered.