Chapter 11
From the Diary of Martha Smith
December 11, 1883
Mrs. Sheridan caught me writing this morning. The look in her eyes said she didn’t think any slaves could read or write. She had the good sense not to say so. She brought more supplies for the baby: medicine, clothes, blankets. The basement room has become nearly cozy despite the damp air. She also brought a delicacy for me: a Christmas biscuit. The recipe runs in the Sheridan family.
I asked her when she married Mr. Sheridan. She said she was eighteen years old. She had her first baby at nineteen, and all the others before the age of twenty-five. She said her body ran itself ragged. As we spoke, I accidentally showed the palm of my right hand, where the scar goes all the way across. She was pale. I knew she wanted to know what had happened, but I didn’t want to tell her.
The baby is healthier and fatter every day. It’s hard to believe we almost lost her. Mrs. Sheridan thinks I should give her a name soon. I realized I’ve been so frightened for her life and for mine that I haven’t considered it.
A few ideas: Mary. Nadia. Esther, after my mother. Jane, after my sister.
I wonder how far Jane and Virgil have gotten. I wonder if they really will find a way to send word back. I wouldn’t dare travel with a baby in the winter, but Mr. Sheridan says I can stay until spring or as long as I need.
December 14, 1883
Late last night, the basement door burst open. I woke up with a start, sure that they’d come for me. That I was being captured and dragged back to Georgia.
Two other ex-slaves walked into the basement room. One of them carried a twentysomething ex-slave whose leg was bandaged but bleeding through. He laid him on the bed that had once been Jane’s as Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan hurried in to nurse his wound. I was too scared to ask what had happened. The injured young man shook violently and sweated all over the mattress. It didn’t take long before he passed away. It was infected, Mrs. Sheridan said.
The young man was shot as they’d made a getaway to the boat that would take them to the island. Somehow they’d made it this far. But he’d been unlucky enough to die in my basement.
The morale was low. Mr. Sheridan took the body somewhere and left me here with the men the deceased had left behind. After a very long silence, one of them said they were from Virginia. They were brothers, or at least they all had the same mother. I recognized the weight of what they’d lost and cried with them.
After a time, they told me they planned to head farther north tomorrow. They wouldn’t stop for anything. They invited me to go with them and said they would protect me and the baby. But I resisted. I feel a comfort in my little room beneath the earth. The baby and I are regaining our strength. And I still hold out hope that Jane and Virgil will contact me here when the time comes.
December 25, 1883
I was allowed upstairs for two minutes.
It’s Christmas Day, and the Sheridans have celebrated accordingly. They decorated a big tree with tinsel and candles and cooked a big meal. I could smell the yams and turkey from the basement, and my mouth watered.
Mrs. Sheridan wanted to show me how her children had all fallen asleep by the roaring fire in front of the Christmas tree. She’d spent so much time with my baby, and it was time that I see hers. It was true they looked adorable, snuggled up together beneath blankets, overstuffed with turkey. Mrs. Sheridan gave me a big platter of food to take downstairs with me, and I ate it slowly, trying to save it as long as I could.
I decided to name my baby Mary, after Jesus’s mother. It is truly because of him that I have found my way to these people. It is because of him that I am safe.