Train Comin’ on the Low Road

Content warning: non-explicit references to meditated sexual predation, slavery

Leland was stirring sugar into his morning coffee when Bessy brought in a few letters. As he sorted through them, he was surprised to find one addressed to James, his personal valet. Who would be writing to an illiterate slave? 

He called for a letter opener and slowly cut open the letter addressed to James. As he did so, Leland’s eyes surreptitiously lifted to James’s sister, whose back was turned to him as she cleared a few things from the table. His spoon clinked circles in the ceramic mug as he darted glances between the odd mail and the dark-skinned girl serving breakfast to his family. 

At a clatter, Leland’s eyes flicked to his wife Elizabeth, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was glaring at Bessy, who had bumped a pitcher of milk against a bowl as she set it down. 

“Don’t you chip those things, Bessy. They were my grandmother’s,” Elizabeth scolded. “And Leland, stop that stirring and drink your coffee. Put that letter down. You can take care of it after you’ve finished eating with us.”

Leland did as his wife ordered, dutifully eating the biscuits and gravy, bacon, and eggs spread on dishes across the table. All the while, his gaze strayed to Bessy unbidden. Once, he thought he caught Elizabeth scowling at him, but he wasn’t sure.

After breakfast, Leland repaired to his study, where he settled back in his chair and lit a cigar before reading the letter addressed to James. 

Dear son, hello. I hope you’re well. 

Your mother got sick, but she ain’t sick no more, she is better. 

The carts I help make are selling good, and I am good at repairing broke ones. I earn good pay. 

The workshop owner told me there is a train heading south, I hope there’s room for cargo on it. 

Your mother says for you to remember her favorite bird, the woodpecker up too late. 

He read through it several times, but was unable to find anything untoward. It was from James’s manumitted father, who lived farther north. Leland knew James’s father to be as illiterate as his son, so the former slave must have dictated to someone who was willing to write a message for him. 

The plantation owner decided that the letter would be harmless for James to hear, and called for him.

“There’s a letter came today addressed to you,” he informed James, fanning the paper back and forth. With the words came puffs of cigar smoke. 

The ethereal tendrils drifted and wavered in the sunbeams spilling through the study windows, mixing with the dust motes wafting through the stuffy air. The strong light slashed across the slave’s face and lit his deep, hooded eyes in a way Leland found uncanny, but he observed no change in James’s expression, and continued. “I’ll read it to you, if you like.”

James bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, sir. I would appreciate it.” The scent of gardenias and honeysuckle coming in through the open window was overpowered by the burning smell of the tobacco. 

Throughout the brief reading, Leland continually peered over the edge of the page. All he saw on James’s face was attentiveness, which, Leland supposed, was to be expected, since James could not read the letter to himself again later. 

“I’m glad to hear that your mother is recovered, James,” Leland said. “Tell me, what’s this about a train with space for cargo? Is your father sending you something?” 

James shook his head. “Not that I know of, Mr. Davis.” 

Leland considered the answer. 

James cleared his itching throat, and Leland’s eyes snapped up. “What is it, boy?” 

“Nothing, sir,” James answered, wishing a breeze would stir the air and disperse the gathering smoke. 

—~

Late in the evening, James left the Davis house, going out the back door in the kitchen. Until shortly before sunrise, he would be unneeded by Leland, and was therefore free to rest. But he would not be taking his rest quite yet. 

James knocked on the door of one of the rough-hewn cabins behind the Davis house. Smoke was spiraling from the chimney, though it was indistinct against the gathering dusk. 

The door opened, and James was silently beckoned inside. The cabin’s single room was dimly lit by the fire on the little hearth, and woodsmoke fogged the air. A large, black iron kettle sat upside down in the middle of the dirt floor; superstition promised no unwanted listener would hear what was said in the overturned and empty pot’s presence. 

The children present were told not to make trouble or noise, and were sent outdoors to play. Then began the meeting.

James joined the circle of people crouching around the pot. “My father sent me a letter, and Davis read it to me,” he informed the group. “Papa said there was a train coming south, and he hoped there would be space for cargo.” 

Murmured conversation broke out.

“The letter also said to listen for the woodpecker up too late.” 

More murmuring. 

“If the train does come, we need to get your sister Bess on it,” Rose, the cook, said. “Mr. Davis has his eyes on her all the time, and I don’t know how much longer it will only be his eyes.”

“That’s what I was hoping for,” James said, nodding.

“She needs to go,” Rose repeated. “But how’ll she get away before someone wants her and can’t find her? If it’s not the master watchin’ her like a chicken hawk, it’s the master’s wife scoldin’ her and tellin’ her to clean somethin’.”

“It’ll be best if it’s a time when Mr. Davis is gone,” counseled Jethro, a field hand. “Mrs. Davis doesn’t pay as close attention as he does, especially if she goes visiting, like she usually does when he’s away.”

—~

Leland rode up his tree-lined driveway at an easy walk, James following behind on another horse—a little Morgan, not a Tennessee walker like his own. He was looking forward to an iced tea and some pie on the porch.

Elizabeth came running out of the house before he’d reached the steps, her skirts caught up above her ankles, her face a mask of anger. “That girl’s gone,” she barked. 

Leland reined in his horse. “What are you talking about, Elizabeth?”

“That Bessy,” she snapped. “Can’t find her. She’s disappeared, and no one knows where she’s gone to.”

No one bothered to look at James, whose eyes had flashed with happiness for just a moment. Veiling his emotions, his face once again became an unreadable mask.