Free Redfield Farm: A Novel of the Underground Railroad by Judith Redline Coopey Page B

makes the hurt more.”
    “That’ll pass. Most folks too busy with their own cares to bother much about yours.
    I sat back on my knees and looked at him. “You’re very perceptive.”
    “Perceptive? What that mean?”
    “It means you understand things without being told. You read what’s inside of people.”
    “Oh. You surprised?”
    “A little. I’m still trying to puzzle you out.”
    “Puzzle me?”
    “You’re so intelligent—so dignified, and yet your race isn’t known for . . . ”
    His expression darkened again. “Not by whites. Slaves have they code ’bout how to act ’round white folk. We don’t show ourselfs. No sense in that. They jus’ get suspicious. Gets you watched, whipped or sold. Black folks carry their dignity inside. Save it for each other.”
    “But you’ve shown me your dignity.”
    “I trust you.”
    I turned and settled in with my back against his chest. The awkward intimacy satisfied a hunger, even as my brain struggled with inhibition. “Tell me more about your life.”
    “Not much to tell. A slave’s life goes on—one day about like the last. I love horses, and Massa see I have a way with them. So he give me responsibility for his horses. I train ’em, break ’em, breed ’em, tend ’em when they sick. I make Massa plenty of money breeding and training horses.” His speech quickened with pride.
    “That’s what my brother Ben does. He and Elias are partners.” Elias again.
    “I live in the first cabin on the row, closest to the big house with cook ’til I was twenty. Cook, she thump me on the head with a wooden spoon, I get out of line. Massa not nice to me, but not mean either. Missus full of hate, and I know why. It’s not my fault, but I can’t help her. I just stay out of her way.” I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.
    “The girls nice enough. They like to ride, and I keep their horses for them. Groom ’em. Exercise ’em. Massa trust me to pick out good horses for them.” He propped his cheek on the palm of his hand.
    “Massa give me quarters in the stable. Three rooms. Nicer than most slave quarters. Some of them jealous. They know I Massa’s son, but talk is, I ain’t the only one. I don’t know about that. Massa, he never tell no slave nothing.”
    “What was his name?”
    “Frederick Colton.”
    “That’s your name, too, you know.”
    “I guess so. Folks say a free man got to have two names, so I guess I’m Josiah Colton.”
    “When did you get married?”
    “You mean jump the broom? Two year ago. Lettie, she beautiful. Make a man’s loins weak, she so beautiful. I sorry to leave her — long for her every night. Maybe never see her again.” He lifted his hand from his knee and brushed away a tear.
    There it was again—intimacy I’d never shared with another man. The deep emotion—hurt, anguish, longing, only shared willingly with a loved one.
    The awareness frightened me. Abruptly, I stood and moved toward the door, left him sitting on the floor. “I’d better see to dinner. The family’ll be home soon.”
    I hurried down the back stairs to the kitchen, pulled on my boots, and went around to the root cellar for potatoes, carrots and an onion. The cold air on my face wakened me as from a dream, and I breathed so deeply it hurt my lungs. Back in the kitchen, I pared the vegetables for a meat pie, made pastry and rolled it out. I shredded the meat, mixed the vegetables, and added a few spices, covered it with the pastry, and set the dish to bake.
    I worked with supreme effort to keep my thoughts away from the man upstairs. All the while I wrestled with my old angels—anger, jealousy, hatred—and some new ones: fear, desire, lust.

Chapter 8
     

1855
     
    A fter dinner, the men retired to the parlor, where a roaring fire warmed the room and those above it. Betsy and I cleaned up the kitchen and talked about the weather. A storm was coming, bright as the morning had been. As we wiped the dishes, I questioned Betsy about