Never Too Late by Michael Phillips

lucky to have such a young woman as cook, and had no idea that he would not have her for much longer.
    Seffie bided her time, listened, and waited. Patience and bravery grew side by side within her. Still she said little. A year went by, then two, then three. No one knew what Seffie was thinking or what opportunity she was patiently waiting for. She went about her duties, and, as much as a slave could be said to enjoy what she did, Seffie found satisfaction in making people happy by cooking delicious food for them to enjoy.
    Occasionally strangers came and were hidden in the slave quarters, and then in a day or two were gone again.They had no idea how closely Seffie was paying attention. But she missed nothing. She knew that such nighttime appearances by slaves on the run had to do with the railroad, and that all the strangers who appeared were moving in the same direction—north.
    Another four or five years went by before her own chance arrived. By then she was a young woman in her midtwenties, large but strong, keen-eyed, intelligent, and more determined than ever to make good on her promise to herself and the memory of Mose.
    Then came a night when there was a stirring in the slave village. Her years of patience were at last rewarded. She got wind of the news by overhearing whispers in the dark from across the room. Two sisters who also worked in the kitchen shared her sleeping quarters in the big house. One was the wife of a field worker. She had been out late with her husband, and now crept into bed in the darkness beside her sister. Both women assumed Seffie to be asleep.
    â€œ. . . two men, a mother, an’ a chil’ dis time . . .” the one whispered.
    â€œLaws almighty, where dey put ’em?”
    â€œIn da cabins . . . overseer, he ain’t been down dere in days.”
    â€œ. . . how long?”
    â€œDey got here yesterday . . . wuz plumb starvin’, dey wuz. Dey’s okay ter move on now.”
    â€œWhere dey boun’?”
    â€œDon’ know . . . Alabama, Carolinas maybe . . . jes’ norf, dat’s all I know.”
    â€œ. . . gone already?”
    â€œ. . . waitin’ till da dark er da moon, till massa’s ol’houn’ dogs is asleep. Den Uncle Fred’ll take ’em ober da hill where dey’ll meet somebody called a conducter, whatever dat is, who’ll take ’em ter da nex’ station.”
    â€œSoun’s fearsome ter me.”
    â€œHit don’ go too good fo runaways dat git derselfs caught, dat’s a fac’.”
    Wide awake on her pad on the floor, Seffie strained to hear every word. Ten minutes later, when snoring from the bed told her that the two sisters were sound asleep, she rose quietly from the floor, hastily grabbed the few things she thought she would need, the few extra clothes she could carry. Then noiselessly she slipped from the room, passing through the kitchen for a few necessary foodstuffs, and then out of the house into the damp air. The night was black and cold. As predicted, the hounds were asleep, but one could never trust that, for a hound’s nose never slept.
    She glanced about to make sure of her bearings, then crept across the lawn and made for the slave village. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but she would wait near Uncle Fred’s little shanty to see what might happen.
    She sat down on the cold ground—patience and bravery now both rewarding themselves—and waited.
    She had just begun to doze an hour and a half later when she heard movement. On the quietest of feet, Uncle Fred emerged into the night. Two men and a woman carrying a child followed. Not a single word was spoken. They made not a sound. A hound dog could have been asleep at their feet and remained still unless their scent betrayed them.
    Seffie watched from her vantage point behind a treetwenty feet away. Within seconds they had disappeared behind the cabin and were making their way with