It was the afternoon of Henry’s second day aboard as we approached our literal “jumping off point” – for we were to jump off the boat onto the towpath near the bridge when no one would be looking. Ideally, the hoggee and his team would be on the other side of the bridge where he could not see us, and there would be no other boats in sight.

Our baggage would go with the main party. We would only carry the broas and dried sausage Ines gave us to eat along the way.

The Motts and Douglasses had tried to convince me to leave Sandy with them, but she was my charge, and I could not leave her in other hands, no matter how trustworthy.

I would wear my male garb. A young woman, a colored man and a child walking alone would surely be suspicious. Two young men with a young girl tagging along would be much less so. As I removed my tongs from my carpet bag, I saw the Derringers I had given Anne. I knew she had been reluctant to take them, but had not expected to see them again. I decided they might be of use to Henry.

“I ain’t carrying no guns! I get catched with dem, an’ I get hanged! Maybe worse – skinned alive!”

“I am sorry. I was not thinking.”

“Your heart is in de right place, but sometimes you don’ know nutin’ girl!”

“You are right. … How about a knife?”

“You a regular armory, girl! … Maybe a knife be alright.”

I gave him my Sheffield and showed him how to open it.

“Ain’t that the damnest thing. Where’d you git dis?”

“It is a long story. I will tell you along the way.”

When the time came, Sandy was afraid to jump, so I went first and Henry threw her to me. We immediately scampered into the brush by the towpath. Once the packet was out of sight, we crossed the bridge and walked briskly down a wide country lane surrounded by prosperous farms. The lane was bordered by field stones and weedy shrubs, so we were mostly obscured from sight.

As we walked, Henry and I exchanged tales, finding a bond in our common experience of flight and evasion. Henry had escaped from a farm in Virginia, using the gourd to find the North Star, which guided him. When he got to Lancaster, Pennsylvania he ran into abolitionists who helped him North on what they called the “underground railroad” – which was a succession of helpers and refuges along the route to freedom.

Eventually, they concealed him on a freight barge making its way to Erie. All had been well until the slave catchers we had encountered boarded it, and he jumped into the canal -- even though he could not swim. Luckily, the canal is only four feet deep. After that he was on his own and hid until our boat had run into the shore as we were changing teams.

In return, I told him an edited version of my story, leaving out that Sandy had been born a boy. Occasionally, he would be impressed by my experiences – which only embarrassed me as they were nothing compared to his own.

After half an hour, the lane became mere wheel ruts and trampled vegetation – with an occasional stump where trees had stood too close to allow the passage of a wagon. There was no chance of our being seen – only a chance of the trace fading into non-existence. The day was hot, so we paused by a small stream to refresh ourselves and eat before proceeding.

Several hundred yards further we heard men shouting. We worked our way through the woods until we spied a ramshackled cabin surrounded by a weedy corn field. The two patter rollers who had boarded our boat were arguing with a farmer holding a shotgun. They had both drawn their pistols. In the doorway behind the farmer cowered a colored girl about Matilde’s age.

“Giver her to us, you cocksucker, or you’re a dead man!”

“Fuck you both!” The farmer lifted his shot gun to his shoulder.

The man he aimed at shot one of his pistols, hitting the farmer between the eyes, but not before he fired.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I got a leg full of buckshot, Brad.”

“Yeah, but the girl is ours. … Come here, bitch!

The girl, visibly shaking, came slowly forward.

Brad pushed her down and lifted her skirt. It was too much for Henry. He ran forward screaming. The wounded man aimed his other pistol. I found my Colt already in my hand and fired, striking the man in the left shoulder. He turned to shot me and I fired two more times – missing once and shooting him through the heart the second time.

“Stay down, Sandy!” I ran forward.

Henry was already on the rapist – his arm wrapped around the man’s neck. The man was reaching for his own pistol. I had two more shots, but the rapist was between Henry and the girl – so I couldn’t shoot. His gun was out. He was trying to point it at Henry. I heard a sharp crack – and the man went limp.

“Jus’ like wringing the neck of a chicken,” said Henry with satisfaction.

I looked at the man I had shot – and also felt no remorse. Was this how Karl and the Sergeant felt after a battle in Mexico? I was not sure. Our battle had lasted only thirty seconds, theirs hours.

Henry pulled the dead rapist off the girl and helped her up. She was crying and shaking. He wrapped her in his arms, comforting her.

“What’s your name? Are you alright?”

“Becky. … I’s been b-better.”

“Is that your husband?” I nodded toward the dead farmer.

“No, de son of Satan catched me like these two wanted – to have his way with me.”

Sandy appeared at my side. “You did good, Miss – again. I want to be like you when I grow up.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Henry and I discussed hiding the bodies, but could see no point. The farm was off the road and Becky said they never had visitors – that was how she had been held captive. None of them deserved a Christian burial. We consider throwing them in the privy pit, but it was too much trouble. So we decided to let the animals have them.

While I sat on the porch and changed the cylinder of my Patterson, Henry and Becky went into the cabin to collect her pitifully few things. Then, we were on our way.

Like Henry, Becky had escaped. She had been a house servant and came north as a maid for her master’s daughter. A freed woman in Philadelphia told her where to jump (at the same bridge as us) and to go to Seneca Falls for help. She was hiking down the trace when the farmer, who had been driving his wagon north, caught her. That was about 3 months ago. Now, she was pregnant.

We all walked on for another two hours when the trace started looking more like a lane again. It was almost dark when the town came in sight. I stopped to consult the map Mr. Mott had made, and spotted the Stanton house. Then, we waited until dark.

I told Henry and Becky to stay hidden while I made sure it was safe. There was a sliver of moon, so Sandy and I had no trouble getting to the door. I could hear voices inside. I knocked and shortly a lady radiating confidence came to the door.

“Mrs. Stanton?”

“Yes.”

“I am Nancy Winston and I have two bundles for you.”

“Thank God you are safe! … Two bundles you say?”

“Yes, we picked up one on the way.”

“I’ll have my husband help you stow the bundles.”