Chapter 3
From the Diary of Martha Smith
November 16, 1863
Nothing prepares you for walking all night in the frigid north. Thousands of stars spackle the night sky, and I crave their heat. I imagine them dropping out of the sky to warm me. My belly is big and pregnant and heavier every day. Everything I eat goes to it. The rest of me is skin and bones—tender sticks.
The most difficult part of the journey, besides the baby and the fear and the darkness, is the trust you have to have for the ones who guide you. It is not as though we come from a world where we learned how to trust.
Tonight, we took a boat across a frothing ocean. It was my first time on the water like that, and I wept quietly throughout the entire trip. I do not know how to swim. Neither does Virgil nor my sister Jane. If we tipped over, we were doomed. By the grace of God, we made it. And now we are here.
From a distance, the house looks massive—three stories along the water with a wraparound porch. A single lantern hung near the door, beaming its orange warmth. This is always our indicator. Here is someplace safe. As we neared it, the worst pain I’ve ever felt shot through my lower belly and across my back, and I fell to my knees. The pain left as quickly as it came. When I regained consciousness, I found Jane and Virgil on either side of me. Their eyes were wide with concern. They were worried about me but also about getting to the house before the sun rose.
It occurred to me that I’d wanted to flee because of the baby. But because of the baby, I might not make it all the way to Canada. To freedom.
Virgil half carried me to the door, where we were immediately ushered inside and brought downstairs. Everything was frantic. Another spasm of pain crept toward me. I could feel it, so I didn’t focus too hard on the faces or whispered names. It was always this way when we were received. We were taken in and shoved in a room somewhere so that if someone had followed, they wouldn’t be able to find us. This particular room is hidden behind a thick wooden wall that has a sort of trapdoor that allows entry and exit. I assume you can’t really see it from the outside. I hope you can’t.
That’s what I mean about trust. You have to trust that people have arranged a safe house for you. That it’s safe enough. But nothing is ever safe on the road.
Virgil doesn’t want to believe I’m fully in labor. I write this between contractions. When the pain comes, I put a rag in my mouth and heave through the pain. I cannot make a sound. If we’re too loud, there’s a risk the people upstairs will throw us out. They can’t risk it. There’s no telling who’s followed us from the South or what kind of demons have come to drag us back home.
I know I’ll need help soon. I know the baby will scream and cry and put is all in danger. But I can’t help but feel a strange shimmer of hope. My baby will be born in a free world. My baby will not be a slave.