Blue Honor

Beginnings I. - Part 2

The night spread darkly over the sky. During a fierce storm, three figures ambled across a cattle field. Among them they carried a fourth person, wrapped tight in a wet blanket. In the distance a three-story house, gray in the dark, stood with inviting windows aglow.

                "A farm," a woman said from beneath a leaky brimmed hat. "Come on." She waved for them to follow.

                The mismatched pair who carried the fourth put down their bundle and prevented the woman from moving on.

                "What is it?" she asked.

                "Are you mad?" the smaller of the men asked. He had a distinctly foreign accent, British. "Yur gonna get us caught."

                "It's a place to get outta the rain," she declared, placing her chubby fists on her hips. "What ya afraid of? This's Vermont."

                The smaller man stepped over to her and the tall one checked on the fourth. He pulled the wet blanket back to reveal the face of a dark-skinned woman. Her eyes remained tightly closed, but her head rolled back and forth to find relief from the rain. Her dry lips parted, but her speech was incoherent. The man bent over her and placed a brown hand to her forehead. His stony face twisted with displeasure. He flipped the blanket back over her face and joined the pair arguing on the hillside.

                "Her fever's worse," he said. His words prevented a fist fight.

                The pair stepped back, wary of each other. The third was concerned, likely for his well-being in the hands of these two who lacked a consensus on their efforts. In silence, they stood in the rain. The sound pounded out reason.

                "We have ta leave 'er. She's dead fur sure. But, if not, there's a farm, and, God willin', they'll take her in," the woman said.

                "Zekiel," a voice breathed from the blankets.

                "We can still get ya outta here," she said to the taller man.

                "She's not dead. We don't know what those folks are about," the tall man rasped.

                "We've gotta get ya cross the border, mate," the Brit said. "Bounty hunters'll catch us for sure if we wait 'ere—I doubt the people in the mansion'd care."

                Silence.

                "C'mon." The woman trudged off, making the choice for him.

                The men scrutinized each other.

                "Dodgy business, mate," the Brit said. "But, we've still got you to worry our hides."

                The Brit grabbed the tall man's arm to urge him along, but the tall man faltered. The runaway slave's face displayed his dilemma. His eyes went from the woman on the ground to the house. He had to go if he wanted his freedom.

                One reluctant step after another and the runaway hurried through the rain, disappearing in the night without his guides.

                "If I don't go—that'll be me lying dead there next."

***

                Upon the morning of the next day, Evan arrived with his mother as promised. His father drove away with the rest of the clan, taking them to town for the morning. Reluctant to approach, the remaining Howells stood on the sodden Conrad lawn, staring at the front door. The carriage had gone, so there was no backing out. Supported on his strong arm, Evan helped his mother dodge the puddles.