Master Levi had been a good man as White men went, as guards on a work crew went, as men carrying weapons and the authority to use them went. Gideon couldn’t look him in the eyes. He felt he was betraying his friends, but there was nothing he could do for them. He hit Levi on the side of the head with the sharp rock he had slipped into his jacket pocket that morning.
Without a sound Levi fell to the side. Blood gushed from a jagged cut at his temple. Gideon squatted down and leaned over to see if he was still breathing. He hadn’t wanted to kill him, just knock him out. Crouching, he looked around. No one.
Master Levi had come with him into the deep brush after Gideon had doubled over complaining of cramps and loose bowels. It was his long-planned scheme as his best chance to escape. The next part was to run. Now he had to go, and go fast, before others noticed. He checked the sun again, just beginning to set in the west, low in the winter sky. He ran northeast through the deep woods, across the frozen earth and clumps of melting snow. He had a thin ragged jacket for warmth and old, ill-fitting boots on his feet. His shoulder ached where he had a perpetual pain from taking up the axe again only one day after he had dislocated it. He knew they’d be after him soon. He was afraid, but he was going.
After running a good distance, Gideon saw an immense rock jutting sideways out of the ground; he decided to hide under it until nightfall. He had a fear of wild animals – boar, fox, snakes, bears – but he knew he had to keep his courage in this crowded and fierce landscape. For a few moments he had a panicked desire for the cabin deep in the forest where he and the other men slept. He heard footsteps. Was it a man or an animal? He jumped up to run and slipped on a patch of frosty dead leaves. He bumped his head against the rock and had to choke back a cry of pain. About twenty feet away an elegant buck walked by, stepping carefully over the uneven ground. Gideon sat down and exhaled the breath he’d been holding.
Dusk was falling fast so he decided to move on. He got up and looked around, listening. All he could see were the trunks of trees, low limbs, and undergrowth with haphazard boulders among them. The only sound was a light rustling of pine needles in the tops of the evergreens. He jogged onward and downward; he knew the north side of the mountain sloped down to the river. He would have to wait until complete darkness to fix his course by the stars. He found a thicket, probably a deer’s shelter, and crawled inside. He’d wait another hour or so.
The forest at night was deathly quiet. It distressed him to be alone in the dark – and the silence. All his life he had lived in cabins shared with other boys and men, had heard the sound of work going on, axes against timber, long saws pulled back and forth across thick trunks, the rumblings and complaints of oxen and mules, soft singing voices in the evening, snoring and snorting sounds at night. He hugged himself against the cold, put his hands under his armpits, wiggled his frozen toes in the worn leather boots.
After a while, the moon rose, a small white sphere far off in the heavens. Gideon crept out of his cover and looked up between the dark, spiky spires. Moving among the age-old evergreens, the stars above were sharp points of light, the air cold and clean and scented by the forest. Where there was an opening in the treetops, he found the North Star and followed it.
Gideon walked on, shivering in the cold, afraid of everything: of men following him, of animals disturbed in their sleep, of going in the wrong direction, of his entire future. Tears sprouted in his eyes and he shook his head and coughed. A family of raccoons strutted from behind copsewood; he stopped in his tracks, holding his breath, listening. If anyone was hunting him in this black night, he didn’t think they were anywhere nearby – the little critters were confident, at home, not scurrying away from an intrusion. Getting his bearings again, he moved on. The forest was thinning and he could feel a cold wind coming through. He thought he smelled the river.
He walked from one standard to the next, following deer trails, or maybe old Shawnee hunting routes, moving steadily down hill. His feet were freezing and sore. He was sure he had blisters but didn’t want to check; it would be worse to inspect them and then try to put his boots on again. There was nothing he could do about any of it, not his aching shoulder, his frigid hands, or his throbbing feet. At least his legs were holding out.
Now it was more stumps than trees, more grass and shrub. The slope was still steep but in the distance he saw the moon reflected on black water. The river. The River Jordan. And on the other side, the soft glimmer of a few lights in the town. A Negro man lived there. He would take Gideon in. From then on, Gideon didn’t know what would happen, but he had heard tales. At least he wouldn’t be chopping down wooden beasts the rest of his life with no choice of where he laid his head or how much he got to eat.
He stood behind a giant oak near the riverbank. That was Ohio across the water. There should be a boat tied up at a small dock nearby. Keeping within the camouflage of his forest home, he walked up and down until he saw a rickety wood platform sticking out over the water. He looked around, then walked to the water’s edge and quickly dropped down the bank next to the dock. He saw the boat tied up loosely, drifting in the current. Gideon couldn’t swim. He waded into the water and shinnied up the piling to the top of the dock. Wrapping his arms around the post, he took hold of the rope that held the boat, pulling it closer in. He tied the rope around his waist and jumped back into the water where he believed he could still touch the bottom. He pulled the boat toward him and threw himself over the top. The oars were locked in place, the blades waiting in the hull.
Gideon had never rowed a boat, but he’d seen it done. He knew he should face the square end and row in the opposite direction. He floundered for a while, not keeping rhythm with his strokes, slapping the water with one oar, then the other. He must have been pulling harder on his left – his strong shoulder; he was rowing in a wide circle. Good Lord, help me.
God heard his prayer. After a few more inefficient strokes, Gideon got the oars moving together and the boat pointing in the right direction. The dock on the opposite side accommodated a raft big enough for horses and passengers with a roofed seating area in the middle of it. Gideon had been told to make sure he tied up the rowboat after he came across; it was meant to be used by other escaping slaves in the coming weeks or months.
He ducked as he let the small boat glide into the dark space under the dock. It was almost dawn. Keeping still, he listened for the sound of men starting work. He wrapped the line around a pole, jumped into the water and stayed pressed against the riverbank until he could claw his way through the mud to the top. He flipped his body onto the muddy grass, but stayed flat. He was soaked and shivering; his legs were trembling. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. Heavy clouds covered the sky, moving swiftly across the face of the waning moon. Gideon was thankful for a few more minutes of darkness.
From his prone position, he saw a man walking on the wide road that led from the town to the dock. He wasn’t carrying a gun. Probably worked on the ferry. Gideon thought, Should I get up and be seen for what I am, a filthy, wet, tired and terrified Negro escaped from across the river? Should I wait until the man gets here and tells me to stand up, identify myself, state my business? Or should I crawl like a dog and ask for mercy? He was frozen to the spot.
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