The wagon jarred to a halt. Voices outside carried through the canvas to the anxious ears of its cargo. Was it an agent of the railroad or authority? The cart lurched forward once again. The sound of the draught horse’s hooves clopping along the dirt road and pebbles skittering aside was still audible in the fraught quiet. The concealed passengers did not dare to breathe easy. Not until they were well on their way and a good distance from the village was it safe. Then they might loosen the muscles and lungs which remained in a state of apprehension.

Abram looked around. A fellow fugitive, and the only woman in the cart, sat in front of him. Her tight curls were tied back with a piece of cloth. He could see the many lines and creases on what would have been, in a different time, a youthful face. She was cradling her son tightly in her arms as if he were a baby. He could not have been a day under thirteen. The protectiveness of her grasp made Abram yearn for his wife. He remembered the way she too would cradle his head on her chest as they fell asleep at night, the mud walls of their past home providing what little cool had been available in the stifling heat. The way his hand caressed the skin stretched tight over her stomach, feeling how her navel had begun to push out over the past months. His hands full of joy, he would fall into the dreamlands of their future. Abram was brought harshly back to reality as he stared into the dark eyes of the woman across from him, old beyond their years. He winced as he shifted on the splintered wooden bench clattering beneath him.

Every part of him was stiff, suffering from the long hours he had spent toiling in the fields of the south. The time between the end of work and the dawn of a new day offering nothing but a repeat of the day before, seemed irrelevant. What sleep he had got on the stone floors crammed with other bodies, suffering the pains of slavery, had been restless and woven with memories of the past. The self-inflicted gashes on his thighs had begun to heal. Acts of resistance were not unusual among the slaves. The sick bays brought the possibility of escape. However his efforts had only landed him back in the fields with painful injuries to his thighs, along with fresh welts on his shoulders and back. But there was hope. He, among many others fugitives and escapees, were now travelling on the Underground Railroad. He had made sacrifices, but the long days without food and the trading of his few possessions had been worth it. The arduous journey along the railroad was insignificant. If he could cross the Canadian border and become a free man, well… nothing else would matter.

The wagon halted abruptly. Its cargo tensed, wide-eyed and nervous. Two knocks on the wooden barrier between the front and back compartments signalled that it was time to get off. Abram and the others moved cautiously through the slit in the canvas and were ushered out into the moonlight by their conductor, who whispered instructions. They were to split into smaller groups. Protection came not in numbers but with distance. If they scattered from this point and one group was caught, the rest would be safe. There were many traders looking for escapees to sell back to the south. Since the fugitive slave law had been enforced there were federal agents scouring these areas. Being so close to the border they could not risk recapture. Abram looked for the woman; an urge to protect her had risen in him. He placed an arm around her shoulders in an effort to usher her in towards the group. She started violently and yanked herself away, pulling her son with her. Abram backed off. He understood her reaction. It was hard to trust. He was in a group with her, her son and the conductor. After murmuring further instructions to the groups, the conductor joined the three and they started off on foot. Abram was sure he would never see any of the others again. He made a silent prayer for their safety.

They travelled in silence, the conductor glancing skywards, directed north by the stars, until the sun began to glimpse over the horizon. The surrounding land was bathed in a resplendent orange light woven with streaks of red and gold reminding Abram of the cotton thread scarf his wife used to tie around her head. The conductor gestured them to halt, placed a finger to his lips and surveyed their surroundings. Turning to their left he bade them silently to follow him, creeping slowly. There was a rustling ahead and they edged out into a clearing with a small stone house in the centre, yet another station. A pile of wood stood on the right and a patch of ground covered in seed where at least ten clucking chickens fed. An old man looked up, a new stationmaster, his hand still in the seed pot, he nodded. He had wispy white hair and small sunken brown eyes through which he looked upon his intruders. His skin was tanned and leathery like a hide that had been left in the sun for too long. The conductor approached and the two men spoke quietly. After being ushered inside, they sat around a cracked wooden table eating a loaf of bread, their first food in days. After a silence filled only with the sounds of ravenous chewing and gulping, the stationmaster spoke. His voice was startlingly loud as he told them they could only stay until nightfall. It was not safe to linger here for too long. Until then, there was a downstairs cellar for the men and a room off the kitchen where the woman could rest. Refusing to be separated from her son, she hurried him into the bedroom and closed the door. Abram and the conductor went down through a trap door into a cold cellar filled with old wagon wheels and barrels full of grain. On the floor were a pile of blankets; they covered themselves and without a word, fell into sleep.

Almost immediately they were woken by shouts and screams from above. A loud scuffling and a crash that sounded as if the table had been knocked over penetrated the floorboards.  Abram ran up the stairs and went to open the trap door but the conductor grabbed his arm to restrain him. They locked eyes, the conductor silently willed Abram not to go up there. He understood that it was not safe but felt useless, cowardly for remaining hidden. Raising the trapdoor less then an inch, he peered out. His view was partially blocked by a tanned forearm and hand, bleeding from the knuckles, which he guessed belonged to the stationmaster lying unconscious on the floor. Abram’s gut wrenched. This man who had gave them selfless care lay damaged and frail before him. Abram prayed he was not dead. Looking past him, he was shocked at the scene. The small house was in disarray and there were two men, thick-necked and wearing belts laden with weapons. A raid. A scream came from the other side of the room. Through the bedroom door he could see the feet of another trader and on the floor lay the clothes and garments of the woman. Through her cries and pleas came a sobbing, in the corner hunched over and rocking backwards and forwards crouched her son. Bleeding from the temple and moaning into his arms the boy dared not look up. Glancing around at the conductor, Abram saw that his face was turned away and glistening with tears. He looked up and saw Abram’s distraught expression but shook his head. There was nothing they could do. They could not get caught. He lowered the trap door and they sat in desolate silence on the stone steps.

Abram was numb. He had seen this kind of cruelty before. It was common in the south and perhaps worse than the action itself was its acceptance. They sat in silence, listening to the ravages of the traders above. Eventually the heavy footsteps left, dragging another pair with them, and the door slam shut. They waited; listening intently to be sure it was safe. Venturing up into the kitchen they surveyed the wreckage. The conductor examined the old man, lying frail on the floor and bowed his head. Taking Abram gently by the arm he gestured that it was time to leave. It was not safe here. They walked out into the sunlight, paused on the doorstep and with a final look behind them, stepped forward. Without a word Abram followed the conductor northwards. To his left the sun soaked the sky orange and to his right the shadow of a crescent moon was reflected in its light. Moving on he focused on the only hope that remained: freedom.