Never Too Late by Michael Phillips Page A

careful steps toward the woods opposite the cotton field.
    She rose . . . and followed.
    She kept far enough back that, in the moonless sky, even with the few backward glances Uncle Fred and his small troop took, they were unaware they were being pursued by the most unlikely of fugitives. They reached the woods, crossed through it with Uncle Fred leading the way in near total blackness, and came to a fork in the road. He took it to the right where it led steeply upward for a mile or two east, then down for another mile, until they came to a wooden platform at the river’s edge.
    Uncle Fred gathered his small band together, pulled out flints, and lit his lantern.
    â€œHere’s where I leab you,” he said. “You’ll meet yo conducter yonder on da udder side. Hit’s mighty wide across dere. But dat cable’ll git you ’cross effen you jes’ keep haulin’.—Now, stan’ away . . . I’s gwine gib a signal ’cross dere. We don’t want no bounty hunters waitin’ fo you ober yonder.”
    He held up his lantern, then hid the light with his coat, and repeated the signal three times. Far across the way, a tiny light could be seen, then disappeared, then reappeared four times in succession.
    â€œDat’s him, all right,” said Uncle Fred. “Dat’s yo conducter. He’ll take you ter da nex’ station, where you’s be safe fo a coupla days. So git on dat dere skiff an’ start pullin’ yo’selves across. You ain’t free yet, but you’s one step closer, I reckon.”
    The two men and the woman with the child followedthe light of Uncle Fred’s lantern toward the rickety makeshift barge. It did not look or feel safe, but this railroad was built on trust, and at this stage of their journey they did not ask questions.
    Suddenly a fifth passenger stepped out of the night and stepped aboard, tilting the barge precariously downward on one end for a moment or two.
    â€œSeffie!” exclaimed Uncle Fred. “What’n tarnashun!”
    â€œI follered you, Uncle Fred,” said Seffie. “I’m goin’ too.”
    â€œYou can’t go. I sent word ahead fo three passengers an’ a chil’.”
    â€œDey ain’t gwine mind one more.”
    â€œYou’s mo like two mo, Seffie!”
    â€œDat may be. But I’s goin’, or else I’s blabbin’, an’ none er you wants dat.”
    â€œIt’s too far. You cud neber keep up.”
    â€œEffen I don’t keep up, den dey kin leab me behind. But I ain’t goin’ back. An’ I reckon I kin keep up wiff dis chil’. An’ I’m thinkin’, missy,” she added to the other young woman, “dat maybe I could be some help ter you wiff da young’un.”
    The nod and smile on the young mother’s face said that she was only too glad to have another woman along.
    â€œLaws almighty, Seffie,” persisted Uncle Fred. “What’s I gwine say?”
    â€œYou ain’t gwine say nuthin’, dat’s what, ’cause as I understan’ dis here railroad, no one knows nuthin’ ’bout it anyway. So you jes’ git back ter da plantashun an’ me an’ dese folks’ll be jes’ fine.”
    Still muttering to himself in disbelief, Uncle Fredreleased the latch on the barge as the two men began to pull on the cable. The two women and child sat down in the middle as the barge began to ease out from the shore across the slow black current.
    Within minutes Uncle Fred was on his way back to his bed with more secrets than he had expected to have to keep, while five runaway black slaves drifted in the night across the Pearl River into Mississippi.
    â€œMy name’s Seffie,” said Seffie when they were settled and on their way. “Dat ain’t my whole name but dat what folk’s been callin’ me longer’n I kin remember. I ain’t got much wiff me