I nod, because I understand that feeling. Sometimes it can feel like the unknown is worse than the hardships you’re enduring. Didn’t I stay at Miss Preston’s, thinking there was a pot of gold at the end of that rainbow? The beatings, the lies, I endured it all because I thought that my pain and suffering would be repaid. But now, knowing what I know, I should’ve run back to Rose Hill the first chance I got. If I had, maybe there’d still be a Rose Hill in Haller County, Kentucky.
Daniel Redfern scrubs his hand over his face and continues his tale. “The Redferns were the kind of people who thought they were making the world a better place. That they were doing the right thing. Nothing could stop them, not the kids who ran away or even the kids who died of simple things, like fevers and lung infections. No matter what happened, they carried on, dogged in their faith and their beliefs.”
This is getting worse by the minute. “Are you comparing me to the people who took you from your home and tortured you?”
That gets a laugh out of him, the sound rich and deep. “No, Jane, listen. You’re so damn impatient you won’t even listen to the lesson long enough to properly ignore it.”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Okay, fine.”
He nods and continues. “The Redferns had a daughter, their own flesh and blood, and she insisted on coming to combat classes with the rest of us. Betsy always looked out of place—her pale skin unmistakable in the drill line, working just as hard as anyone. She didn’t even have to be there, but she was, because she thought everyone should do their part to fight the dead. Because it was the right thing to do.
“The first time the school sent my class out to clear a field, Betsy was with us. There were dozens of shamblers; it turns out, the farmer who’d engaged the Redferns to bring us out there and clear his field had lied about the size of the cadre. In the fight, Betsy got bit. She didn’t tell anyone at first, just kept putting down the dead. But soon it was clear that there were too few of us, that we would be overrun, and that’s when Betsy sent us all back to fortify the farm’s fences and rearm ourselves while she covered our escape. She knew she was done for, so she kept fighting until she turned.”
I stare at Redfern, waiting for more, but that appears to be the end of the story. “I don’t get it. She saved your lives.”
“But she shouldn’t have been there in the first place. She died because, rather than stay in her place, she decided it was up to her to try to make things right, to make them fair. Betsy was convinced that she could fix the world, show by example that it shouldn’t just be the Indian and the Negro out killing the dead, that it was a job for everyone.”
I sniff, because it seems to me that Redfern should be thanking his lucky stars some well-meaning white girl saved him rather than using her to prove his point about . . . what? I’m not sure what his argument is exactly.
“Betsy was a hero,” I say.
“Exactly,” Redfern says, nodding. “Heroes die. But survivors live to tell the story. When the dead got to be too much for us to handle, most of those fools wanted to keep fighting, because that’s what we’d been taught. I was one of the first to cut and run. I knew what the score was. The things you’re taught are only useful if they keep you alive.”
I shake my head. “Daniel, I think you must have a very lonely life if the only person you care about saving is yourself.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m still alive, and most of Baltimore isn’t.”
His words wake a little voice that I’ve tried to ignore for a very long time. It’s the part of me that wonders what my life would be like right now if Jackson hadn’t asked me to go find his sister. The truth is, my momma would probably agree with the whole of what Daniel Redfern is saying. She was always quick to offer a helping hand to other folks, but never so much as to put our family at risk.
“It’s the American way,” she would say, watching from the porch as another family took up residence at Rose Hill. “You help as much as you can—but no more. You don’t think those founding fathers wrote all those pretty words about independence just to help the poor, do you? The books are right there in the library, Jane. They did it because they didn’t want to pay taxes, to have some king tell them the price of tea. And for that, they went to war, and hundreds of people died. If that ain’t capitalism, I don’t know what is.”
I love my momma, and I surely trust her more than I do any founding fathers I’ve never met. But I have to believe there’s more to life than just surviving.
“So, then, how is it a man who runs at the first sign of a threat to his own well-being ends up sheriff of Nicodemus?” I ask.
Daniel Redfern grimaces. “Sometimes, Jane, you do things because you don’t have a choice.”
And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.
—Matthew 8:26
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 18
Notes on the Follies of Science
Sue and I follow Miss Duncan as she wends her way through Nicodemus, leaving the more settled part of town for the animal pens and well-laid-out gardens. The stink of manure is a harsh greeting but it also makes me glad to know that there are some resources here inside of town. The plots of land we pass are well tended, and even though no one is minding the gardens as we pass, it is clear they will feed us for at least another couple of days.
“Might I ask just what it is you think Miss Duncan is about?” I say, adjusting my hat so that at least a bit of my face is shaded by the narrow brim. I am not vain, but with this much sun I am going to have a plethora of freckles running rampant on my nose, and that is bothersome.
“I don’t know. She’s been acting strangely ever since she took up with Sheriff Redfern.”
I frown. “Do you mean romantically?”
Sue gives me an incredulous look but does not slow her stride. “How else would I mean? They were all sorts of cozy on the trip out here, and they’ve spent an awful lot of time off on their own since arriving here. Ruthie even says she saw them kissing once, so if they ain’t romantic then they’re at least sinning something fierce.”
“Well, I think that is lovely,” I say.
Sue snorts a half laugh. “I didn’t say it wasn’t. But Redfern is a councilman, and he used to be Mayor Carr’s man as well. I don’t trust him, and neither should you.”
Sue is right, of course, but I say nothing and just follow along. We have come to the far edge of Nicodemus, and here the houses are smaller and more run-down than on the main road. Most are little more than shacks and look a stiff breeze away from collapsing in on themselves.
“This is where the white folks from Summerland stay,” Sue says, glancing at the open doorway of a house. A pale face stares back at us from the gloom. “Frankly, I ain’t quite sure how you and Jane survived there.”
“It was a trial,” I murmur. This part of town makes me uneasy. We quicken our pace.
Sue suddenly halts, and I skid, barely avoiding running into her back. She ducks behind the side of a stable, pulling me along as well. Just up ahead, a line of white folks shout angrily, their words unintelligible as they talk over one another. Miss Duncan strides up to them.