Free Stand the Storm by Breena Clarke Page B

just to the right of the doorway. A woman who was nearly as wide as she was tall, Missus Chester placed a quilt on the windowsill. First she spread the cloth and shook it as if to rustle crumbs. The woman never raised her eyes up to look around. She made a careful fold in the cover to leave the full pattern clearly visible.
    Mary’s eyes fastened on the yellow at the center instead of the red carbuncle of the quilt. She could not so clearly distinguish much else of the pattern in the lowering light. But she did see the yellow center and knew it was the all-clear signal.
    Still Mary waited for the sun to go down completely. The moment came. When she heard from the birds that call out the oncoming darkness, the running girl went to the back door of the house and scratched her fingers on its wooden planks. Missus appeared at the door and Mary removed her cap and bowed her head. Her body shivered and she feared the woman might hear that every bone within her body was clicking and clacking against its neighbor.
    “Praise the Lord who has brought you,” the woman said softly but earnestly as she opened the door. Conscious of what shadows and silhouettes and slivers of light can remain to be seen from a lighted doorway, the Chesters were careful with their lanterns.
    “Come in,” the woman said, and drew Mary into the room.
    The woman held her lantern low so that Mary saw little of her face until she was well in the room and the door had been closed behind her.
    Though not tall, Mary stood a head over Emily Chester, who might have been taken for a child if not for her womanly bosom.
    Emily Chester was solicitous of Mary and immediately urged the girl off her feet. She seemed unsurprised at Mary’s soft face, revealed when she doffed her hat. The woman brought her guest to a seat near the warm fire.
    The Chester home was a small, sweet haven that served only to shelter and hold sway against the elements. It was a plainly furnished and sparsely decorated edifice that would never cause envious tongues to wag. There were only necessaries for work and simple comforts about the rooms. A spinning wheel and a weaving loom shared the small living room with four plain, straight-backed chairs and two stools.
    Emily Chester brought a bowl of stew, a spoon, and a chunk of bread to the chair in which she’d installed Mary. As the white woman approached her, Mary leaped to her feet, then tottered a bit before collapsing back in the chair.
    “Now, now, young one,” Emily Chester cooed. “Rest and eat and settle your nerves. I shan’t eat you. I have had my evening stew.”
    Matthew Chester joined his wife in her chuckling. He emerged from a darkened inside room as a man of typical height and breadth for his line of work. Matthew Chester did most of his business selling barrels to a local brewer of ale. This happy circumstance yielded his living wage and the perquisite of an ale belly.
    Matthew Chester’s workshop was a large structure appended to the barn. In the workshop, Chester had constructed a particular barrel that he used to transport those who must travel under cover.
    Kind as he was, Matthew Chester insisted that Mary leave at dusk of the next day. His establishment was a way station only. It was not safe to tarry.
    In a large barrel generally used for great stores of flour or rice or such, Chester had fashioned handles and a small platform upon which one traveling inside of the barrel might rest. Unlike the barrels made for his trade, this one had nearly invisible seams to allow air to reach inside. Also, there were holes whose bungs could be removed for more air and to see out. In this way, Matthew and Emily had transported former bondpersons out of the county and over the roads to the next stop on their journey. Some were frightened of the barrel and balked at being shut up. It was then that Missus Chester would implore and assure and swear that many had reached the free territory through hiding in this barrel.
    “As God is