Chapter 18
From the Diary of Martha Smith
April 1, 1864
Mrs. Sheridan just shared a wonderful truth with me. The island—this island—has a name. And that name is my name. It’s Martha. Martha’s Vineyard. Truly, this made me laugh for so long and so hard that I thought the slave owners in the South would hear me and send their dogs after me. But when I calmed down, it was just me, Mrs. Sheridan, and baby Mary in the basement. It was just us, same as it usually is, on this island that has borne my name for longer than I’ve been alive. A lot longer.
It’s hard to believe so much time has gone by. I can smell the difference; I can practically hear the trees and flowers and grass growing outside, stretching up to what must be the bluest of blue skies. Mrs. Sheridan keeps saying we need to find a way to get me and the baby out there; that it’s not good for a baby to be cooped up inside her whole life. But we both know it’s too risky. In fact, in order to protect me, Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan stopped accepting new escapers. They don’t put the lantern out anymore. I feel complicated about this. But we have to keep the baby safe.
April 3, 1864
I had another dream about Virgil and Jane. They were safe in Canada, and they knew they needed to reach out to me. But when Jane sat down to write a letter, she remembered she didn’t know how to write. There was no way to contact me. She wept.
I woke up in the basement in a cold sweat. The baby was crying, and I did my best to calm her even as I cried, too. I try to remember what it’s like to feel the sun on your cheeks and the grass between your toes. I try to remember what it’s like to have Virgil’s strong arms around me. But all of that is fading.
May 2, 1864
It was the most beautiful night of my life.
After darkness blanketed the island, Mrs. Sheridan came downstairs, opened the trapdoor, and said, “Martha, won’t you please join us for dinner?” I thought maybe it was a trap. I was terrified. But Mrs. Sheridan’s face was as warm and inviting as ever. And I thought at that moment that if I spend another second in this basement, I’ll die. So I followed her.
To my surprise, all the Sheridan children were seated at the table: Randolph and Henry and Anna and Nadia. They peered at me curiously—the way white children do to colored people—but they weren’t unkind. There was a plate already made up for me at the table. They asked me to sit.
The dinner was the best of my life. I tried to hold myself back from eating it all at once. There were carrots and mushrooms; there was fish with mustard sauce; there were mashed potatoes. When I scraped my plate clean, Mrs. Sheridan put more food on it. I couldn’t believe it. Tears spilled from my eyes.
Mr. Sheridan told his children about the “tremendous hardship” I’d been through, and that I was safe with them. He explained how important it was never to tell anyone about me. I flinched with fear. How could you trust children with such an enormous secret? But they took it to heart and nodded along and crossed their hearts. They spoke of God as though they could feel him in the room with us. For the first time in a while, I felt him, too.
May 11, 1864
Tonight was the first time I was allowed outside. I put Mary on a blanket beneath the sprawling starry sky and listened to the wind rush through the trees and the waves crash on the shore. I was quiet for nearly an hour before Mrs. Sheridan interrupted my thoughts. She asked me if I thought often of my sister and husband. I said yes, every day. I asked her if she thought the war would ever end. She said, “I never imagined a nation could hate itself so much so early in its life.” It wasn’t really an answer. And I told her I didn’t feel a part of “our nation” at all. “You’ll be in Canada soon enough,” she said. She sounded sad. I wonder if she doesn’t want me to go. I want to ask her about her life outside of this house and if she has friends. But as far as I know, I’m the only person she ever talks to besides her husband and children. She’s my entire world.
May 22, 1864
Tonight, the eldest boy, Randolph, came downstairs to give me dinner and water. This was strange. I’ve come to look forward to my evening conversations with Mrs. Sheridan. I asked Randolph if his mother was all right. He said she was sick in bed. I pray she feels better soon.
May 23, 1864
Randolph again brought me lunch and dinner. He played with the baby for a little while, and I pestered him for information about his mother. But he doesn’t know anything.
May 25, 1864
I still haven’t seen Mrs. Sheridan. I hear footsteps overhead, making the floorboards creak. The footsteps are not the children’s nor Mr. Sheridan’s. They’re unfamiliar. It can’t be someone here to get me. It can’t be. Then again, we haven’t been careful lately. I’ve been at the table. I’ve been outside.
May 24, 1864 – Later
Mr. Sheridan just came downstairs. He looked weary and sweaty and under-slept. He handed me my dinner and sat quietly on the bed opposite until he got up the nerve to tell me what was going on. I stared at him without touching my food. I needed to know what was going on.
“She’s got the fever,” he explained.
I knew what he meant. The fever is Scarlet Fever. It’s one of the deadliest. One year, it took out more than fifty slaves at the plantation. The fact that I was untouched has always made me feel both parts lucky and guilty. It was said I would never get it. That I was immune. But I know better than to believe everything doctors say.
I thought about telling Mr. Sheridan this but decided it wouldn’t help.
“I have to send the children away for a while,” he explained. “Just until she gets better.”
The air between us stretched thin. I think we both know she won’t get better. I can see it in Mr. Sheridan’s eyes.
Now I sit alone in the darkness as Mary sleeps on. I’m thinking about Mrs. Sheridan upstairs—my only friend in the world—suffering. I want to go to her bedside. I want to tend to her. But there’s no way to know if my “immunity” is real. I will not get sick. I will not leave my baby alone in this world.
May 31, 1864
The illness was not long. It took Mrs. Sheridan just as swiftly as it came. The house above me is empty and echoing, and nobody has brought me food in nearly twenty-four hours. I cannot blame them. I can only imagine what they have to deal with—burying a mother and a wife, sanitizing the house of the illness so that the children can return, putting on a brave face to the community, and all the while, maintaining the secrecy of my hiding place.
It was Mr. Sheridan who came downstairs to tell me. “She’s gone.” But he couldn’t manage much more than that before hobbling back upstairs. I’ve been left to stew alone in my thoughts and ache with missing my friend.
The worst of it is my selfish fear that Mr. Sheridan will throw me out now that it’s warm and he has so much to deal with here. I still haven’t heard from Jane or Virgil. I fear that, even if they wrote a letter, the letter was lost in the chaos of the past few weeks. Maybe they think I’m dead by now. Maybe they think all is lost.
June 1, 1864
It was Randolph who brought me dinner tonight. I thanked him and cried for him.
June 3, 1864
I still do not know the state of my future. Mentally, I’m preparing to leave again. I prepare for the fear of crossing that surging water and heading into the unknown. I am sure I will not survive.
It seems this godforsaken war will never end.