Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads Read online

  “No! Do as you’s tol’ chile,” she would mouth.

  Before long, Lettie noticed that whenever Mattie hung up a new quilt, she would spread it out on the far side fence for only a couple of days, then take it down and carefully store it under her bed. Two months later, there would be a replacement quilt, showcased on the very same fence. On these occasions, Mattie became purposeful; none of the children were allowed to sidetrack her. Month after month passed and as she watched her older cousin, Lettie sensed something significant was happening.

  “Keep quiltin,’ chile,” Mattie mouthed. “Yo work’s so beautiful. Now I wan’ you t’mek a sampler quilt wid dif’rent blocks. It’s impoten’ you put dem in dis order.” She scribbled some patterns on paper for Lettie, but once Lettie got going, Mattie crushed the papers, tossed them into the fireplace, then together they watched the flames bend and twist each pattern until the fireplace was filled with gray, chalky ashes.

  ‘Why are you destroying the pattern, Mattie?’ Lettie wrote on her chalkboard.

  Mattie eyed her shrewdly. Then, “Sit down, ‘chile. It’s time for you t’ know. Yo quilts gonna hep us git free.” She chuckled at Lettie’s puzzled look. “Each quilt you done fo’ me give notice t’ someone ‘bout what deys s’posed to do to ‘scape. ‘Member dat Monkey Wrench Quilt yo done?”

  Entranced, Lettie plopped down on a nearby stool.

  “Well, dat quilt hep save Mannah, her husband, and two o’ her chil’en. ‘Cause of dat quilt, dey know’d dey’s s’pose to pack deys tools, and git tings they needs fo’ der trip up North. I done a quilt call’d Wagon Wheel, ‘member? You sed somethin’ ‘bout it to me. Well, I put dat one on da fence, too, and den dey know’d dey was goin’ ta hide in a wagon ‘n ‘scape.”

  “Yer Flyin’ Geese quilt wid the dark triangles facin’ west,” she continued, “tol’ Mannah ta go West fust. Each square on dat quilt show’d the dif’rent fiel’s she had ta go past ta git off da plantation. ‘Member, I says t’make da other squares in special order: first yella, den white, den brown, ‘member? Well, dat’s ‘cause Mannah would have ta go fust past da corn fiel’, den the cotton fiel’, den that fiel’ up da road that’s fallow dis last year. Yo’ understan, chile?”

  Lettie nodded slowly. Everything was beginning to make sense. All those whispered conversations, stopped short when she happened by, then the disappearance of Mannah and her family—all planned!

  She was anxious to learn more, but Mattie was adamant. “We do more tomorro’, chile. Tonight yo’ rest. You needs all yo’ thinkin’ for da mornin’.” She kissed her accomplice, worrying this venture might prove too heavy a burden for such a young girl. But in very short order, Lettie understood The Code so well, she would catch things that even Mattie had missed. In fact, word soon spread that the teenager, just like a second-in-command, should also be consulted whenever escape plans were being hatched.

  She also discovered that none of this would have ever come to pass had her father, Park, not accompanied Master John to town two and a half years earlier. It was then that the slave managed to smuggle out a topographical map of their entire region, and while Master John met with some business associates, Park conducted his own meeting with another slave behind the crumbling blacksmith building. The two men didn’t dare speak; their Massahs were too immediate, but they did grin, shuffle their feet, and display ignorant expressions for the plantation owners, as they drew maps and deciphered codes in the dirt with their toes.

  Having become well versed in this system, Lettie promptly memorized the maps Park had drawn from his own memory before destroying them in the cabin fireplace. Then, painstakingly embroidering the identical boundary lines on the next few quilts she pieced, she chose inconspicuous areas, like surrounding a wagon wheel, or outlining an Ohio Star, indicating Ohio’s various safe houses.

  Slaves continued to disappear from the plantation and by 1830, at least twenty slaves had vanished. Master John didn’t seem concerned. He was relieved to simply make it each day without feeling too wretched, a fact he managed to keep hidden from Margaret and the rest of his family. But all the slaves knew. They had watched his health slowly deteriorate, noticed how he gripped onto the banisters, his knuckles turning white, and how it was taking longer and longer for him to rise from his dining room seat. Margaret and his children appeared oblivious to everything; to Beulah, his physical well-being was vital for all their future. If Master John died what would become of them? And what would become of Lettie?

  In 1831, all hell broke loose. Nat Turner, an educated, yet disgruntled slave had had enough, and together with a band of seventy-five other slaves, slaughtered fifty-seven white men, women, and children during a bloodthirsty night of revenge. Although he was apprehended, the ever-present fear of insurrection, already fine-tuned in the minds of Southern white slave owners, now blossomed into a blanket of paranoia.

  “John, I think it is abominable that this Turner fellow carried out such an evil deed! Why, I think every one of them should be hanged!”

  “My dear you make too much of these things,” John protested. “We don’t know the particulars. Perhaps there were circumstances that…”

  “Circumstances, my foot! Honestly, John, I just don’t understand you at all, and frankly, I never have!” With a toss of her hand, she quickly dismissed her husband.

  John, clutching onto the spiraled banister, grunted up the staircase to his bedroom. At the top, his hand missed the hand-carved newel on the top baluster, and before he could adjust his hold, he tumbled backwards, flipping around in the air like one of his cats and finally landing at the bottom of the steps in a twisted heap, motionless.

  Beulah, Park, and Margaret flew over to him. “John! John! Do you hear me? Answer me! Answer me!” Margaret bent over his body, screaming at her dead husband while the two slaves nervously looked over at each other, shaking their heads.

  Margaret proved to be everything Beulah had feared. With her husband gone, her power turned boundless. “That girl should be taught a few things or two!” she snapped, ordering Mattie to triple Lettie’s chores on top of supposedly toiling in the fields. Once, in a fit of rage, she even swatted at the slave’s legs with a riding crop as the girl was hauling a bucket of water out of their well. At that moment, Lettie turned to face her mistress, her chocolate eyes darkened with defiance. Margaret gasped and stepped back, staring at the iron-willed girl, her crop down at her side.

  Indeed, at twenty, Lettie was already a force to be reckoned with. Mattie had placed her cousin in charge and soon, people were bypassing the seasoned seamstress and reporting directly to the talented girl. She thrived on this new responsibility, never complaining if she had to stay up late, sewing by candlelight, in order to finish her ‘Freedom’ Quilts; too many people needed her.

  “What terrible workmanship this quilt has! Nothing like my quilts, I must say!” Margaret gloated, examining the odd embroidery pattern on one of the code quilts suspended over a nearby fence one afternoon. “Well, that only goes to show how careless and ignorant these people actually are!” she proclaimed, reveling in her supremacy.

  “Now where is that little cripple?” she continued, glancing toward the fields, unaware that Lettie had already ducked down out of sight in the cabin.

  She was about to search for Mattie when her son Charles came panting down the path after her.

  “Mother, Mother! I have wonderful news! The great Jonathan Brimford from Canada has expressed an interest in visiting our plantation! Isn’t that grand?” Stopping short of his mother, Charles tried to catch his breath, his doughy chest heaving, his face like ripening cherries.

  “That’s all very well, my dear, but who is Jonathan Brimford I’d like to know?” Margaret sniffed.

  “Why, one of the world’s greatest ornithologists, that’s all, mother. Don’t you read anything ?”

  “Of course, well, of course,” Margaret lied. “But why is he visiting us, pray tell?”

  “Because he intends on studyi
ng all the various birds, or aves as he calls them, on our plantation. Then, upon his return, he shall write about them in one of his scientific journals or some such thing. He’s quite well known, Mother. He might even mention you in his article!” The two smiled at one another and hurrying back up the stone path to the house, discussed preparations for their imminent guest.

  Jonathan Brimford conceded to two passions in his life. On his travels to various pockets around the world, he would always marvel at not only the beauty of all bird species, his primary passion, but at all the charming ladies he had encountered as well.

  But it was his third passion that he had camouflaged with the same agility of the Northern Cardinals he loved so much. Being Canadian, the American concept of slavery was to him, unfathomable. Indeed, each time he heard of some horrific act being committed towards the slaves down in his neighboring country, his blood would boil. His friends and acquaintances, scoffing at the primitive nature of all U. S. citizens, conversed on the subject as if they were talking about an errant child refusing to eat his dinner. However, Jonathan took these things far more seriously and as time passed, recognized that perhaps it was time to take a stand.

  Oddly enough, a brilliant idea occurred to him one night as he lay in bed reading. In a paragraph written in The American Field Guide Book of Birds, it stated, “…one of the best places to research the North American bird is in the southern United States. There, along with the various wilderness areas, are large plantations, congested with all manner of species…”

  Four weeks later, he was on a train headed for South Carolina. Listening to the rhythmic clatter of wheels, Jonathan took a deep breath before settling down to work in his private compartment. Extracting several state maps from his tan leather suitcase, he quickly leafed through them, murmuring each name as they appeared: Georgia, Alabama, Missouri, Virginia, and Arkansas. Finally, coming to South Carolina, he carefully separated that map from the others.

  Next, taking out a ledger and pen, he started drawing four columns on one of the entry sheets. On top of the left column, he penned the word, “STATE”; on top of the second column, he wrote down the words, “PLACES TO VISIT”; over the third column, he copied the word, “SAFE?” and finally, on the top of the fourth and final column, he wrote the word, “NUMBER.”

  He shifted through another pile of papers, picking up one entitled, “PLANTATIONS AND ESTATES.” On that sheet, he underlined several names including White Birches, which he also circled, along with a little check mark. Finally, he began filling in more names under his first three columns along with their corresponding numbers.

  Satisfied, he leaned back for a few minutes to rest. If his system went as planned, he would at last be able to sleep well at night, knowing he had done his part to free as many human beings as possible.

  At White Birches, sleep escaped Margaret entirely. Having such a distinguished guest in her house the next day was certainly exhilarating, albeit nerve-wracking. In an effort to calm herself, she coveted hourly sips of her dead husband’s thirty-year-old brandy, yet her heart still fluttered, her hands twitched uncontrollably. What she really needed was a tangible release. Suddenly, gripping her riding crop in her right hand, she charged down to the slave quarters to root out Lettie.

  Just seeing the young slave standing in front of the cabins washing a quilt, she blurted out, “You! Always you! What right have you to be given so much? You’re nothing but a deaf and dumb cripple!” Clenching her riding crop even tighter, she raised it up high to strike Lettie, but the slave did the unthinkable. Raising her own arm instinctively she caught her mistress’ crop in mid-air, blocking the blow.

  Years of a pampered lifestyle was no contest for someone with a history of heavy chores. Margaret dropped the crop, gasping for breath.

  “You—you! I’m going to sell you, make no mistake about that!” Reaching down, she scooped up the riding crop, and bustled up to her house before anyone could witness her tears of humiliation.

  Lettie could only assume this final scene was her signal to go. That night, frenetic nightmares of wild horses bearing down on her filtered in and out of her unconsciousness and in the morning, although the air had chilled, she jolted awake, doused in sweat.

  The first thing Margaret did upon waking was grin. After all these years, finally, here was her chance to not only flaunt her plantation to a person of some repute, but to possibly receive some worldwide recognition as well. She wanted something to show for all the years she had spent married to a man for whom she had no respect. Giggling, she felt like a sixteen-year-old, about to attend her first debutante ball.

  “Why, Mr. Brimford, I do declare! They never told me you were such a handsome gentleman!” Margaret batted her eyes and lapsed into her best Southern Belle posture.

  As he was about to be shepherded up the lavish staircase to one of the guest rooms in the East Wing, the scientist rapidly assessed whether or not there were any slaves nearby, perhaps hovering in doorways or polishing the marquetry floor just inside the library. It would become crucial whom he could trust. But it was during the six-course dinner that first night that Jonathan sensed how easy a mark the family truly was, and as he consumed their fine, southern food, his disdain grew as great as his excitement about launching his plan.

  He set out the following morning, notebook in hand and a wave to the Beauregards, claiming that it would be best for him to be alone for the next couple of days in order to better observe all their bird species. They nodded their heads in fervent agreement. Yes, yes, of course, they chattered in unison.

  Their property stretched for miles, and at first he took his time, jotting down names of real birds and even some imaginary ones, just to fill up paper. But by afternoon, he commenced his project in earnest. The first stop was one of the fields, where the rhythmic sounds of the tireless cotton pickers resonated like quiet machines. Flick, flick, flick, shwoosh. Flick, flick, flick, shwoosh they went, as they culled, then emptied newly picked Upland cotton into large sacks tied around their waists.

  “I say, who is the lead man?” Jonathan asked the first slave he encountered, Mattie’s oldest son Tom.

  “I guess de overseer, de boss man,” Tom replied.

  “No, I mean, who is the best picker here, the one the others look up to?”

  Now what was this white man getting at? Tom paused a second before answering. “I guess dat’d be me. I’s de best picker dey got.”

  “I see. May I talk privately with you?”

  The slave nervously glanced up at the house. “I don’ know, sah. I could git in powerful trouble!” Beads of sweat were congealing on his brow.

  “I shall take full responsibility,” Jonathan promised, realizing that trying to get the slaves to trust an unknown white stranger might prove more difficult than he had originally thought.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then from out of nowhere, the Canadian started reciting a traditional Mendes poem, one of the few African dialects he had learned when visiting Africa several years before on a business trip.

  “Who is you and why is you here?” Tom finally asked.

  “Believe it or not, I’ve come to help you. You see, being from Canada I don’t believe in slavery. So I am here to help get as many of you as possible to the North and to freedom.”

  Tom stood still, eyes down. “You’d better talk to Lettie. She da one who knowd all ‘bout helpin’ others. She deaf ‘n writes her words, but she can read lips. She smart. She da one.” He pointed to the barn.

  That night Lettie went to bed, totally drained. The two hours she had spent with Mr. Brimford behind the barn had been crammed with safe house code numbers, detailed maps of the surrounding areas, and specific Underground Railroad routes. Yet as exhausted as she was, at first sleep evaded her, and when it finally did pull her into a grateful unconsciousness, on some level she was still all too aware that her entire future lay scribbled on two lowly scraps of paper, well-hidden in a cigar box under the mattress of her bed.

/>   In the midst of all his planning, Jonathan recognized yet another important task ahead of him—throwing Margaret off-scent. “I have to say, Madam,” he cooed, “that not only do you have one of the loveliest plantations I have ever had the good fortune to visit, I’ve rarely encountered such a charming mistress-in-charge.” He took his time enunciating ‘charming,’ caressing the word with a pseudo Southern drawl, his deep voice velvetized.

  “Why, Mr. Brimford how you do run on! I declare, that is the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long, long time,” Margaret gurgled, her cheeks matching her handheld rose-colored fan she had begun flapping six inches from her face.

  He had her. The rest of the trip would definitely go his way if he could only keep her intoxicated each evening with this kind of Southern banter she so obviously craved.

  The next day, he met with Lettie one last time, making sure she had begun memorizing those codes, and asking her which slave was going to be the first to try their getaway. She looked away, then scribbled on the slate, ‘I will be the first. If I don’t go now, Miz M will sell me.’

  Jonathan nodded, turning toward her face so she could read his lips. “Then show the others, so after you, they can go, too. I’m going into town with Miss Margaret in two days. That will be your time to go. Just follow my code numbers for the safe houses. They will lead you into Ohio. But I must warn you, ships arriving down here are currently being questioned, so it really isn’t safe to travel by boat.”

  A couple of days later, as Jonathan gallantly assisted Margaret onto her plush carriage seat, out of the corner of his eye he spotted an old, heavy wooden wagon, piled high with processed cotton, rambling up the road two hundred yards ahead of them. Instantly, he quickened his pace—the wagon and carriage must not cross paths.

  “As you can see, sir, we are a viable exporter of cotton,” Margaret boasted as he tried settling down next to her wide-topped bonnet and bulky hoop-shirted outfit.