Somewhere near the invisible line between Kansas territory and Missouri, a rancher made a choice that would change his lonely farm into the center of one of the most shocking events in American frontier history.
What started as a small act of kindness, giving water to a desperate runaway, ended with his land surrounded by 300 people, each holding secrets that could break everything the country believed about itself.
The local police buried the story so deep that no official paper exists.
Yet whispers of what happened in those 48 hours have lasted for over a 150 years.
Tonight you will hear the full story put together from private letters, taken journals, and words that were never meant to be heard.
Before we go on with the story of the rancher who faced an impossible choice at the edge of the wild, I need to ask you something.
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stories that have been hidden, forgotten, or erased on purpose.
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Now, let’s go back to that morning when everything changed.
The spring of 1008, 157 found Thomas Harland working hard to keep his 160 acre claim in the borderlands where Kansas met western Missouri.
The land itself seemed like it didn’t want people there with rocky dirt that broke tools, winters that killed animals, and summers that baked the ground until it was harder than brick.
Harland had come west three years before from Ohio, pulled by promises of cheap land and freedom from the angry arguments over slavery that had turned his hometown into a place of fighting and violence.
He was a small man, barely 5 and 1/2 ft tall, with a thin body that looked tough rather than strong.
At 32, his face already had deep lines around his eyes from squinting against the bright prairie sun.
He had picked this specific spot exactly because it was far away, nearly 18 mi from the nearest town, a messy group of buildings that hopefully called itself Zepha Crossing.
His closest neighbor was the Gaines family 7 mi to the northeast, and even they only visited twice a year.
Harland was not running from the police or fleeing money he owed.
He was running from complications.
The slavery issue had torn his family apart.
His father was strongly against slavery, while his uncle believed in state rights above everything else.
Their fights had grown so hateful that his mother had stopped having Sunday dinners.
Harland wanted no part of any of it.
He had chosen to stay out of it, chosen silence, and chosen the kind of loneliness where a man could work his land without having to pick a side on anything other than when to plant seeds and when to harvest crops.
His farm was made of a one room cabin built partly into a hill for warmth, a shed that worked as a barn, a cellar for food, and a well he dug himself over two months of backbreaking work.
He kept four chickens, two pigs, and a mule named Constance, who seemed to like being alone just as much as he did.
The quiet suited him.
days would pass without him speaking out loud except to the animals.
The morning of May 13th started like any other day.
Harland got up before the sun, fed the animals, and checked his small vegetable garden, where little green shoots of corn and beans were just starting to poke out of the dirt.
The spring had been wetter than normal, which meant the creek running along the south edge of his land was high and fast.
its banks full of muddy water.
He had spent the day before fixing the rough bridge he had built, worried that the whole thing might wash away.
Around the middle of the morning, as he was fixing a piece of fence that the pigs had broken, he noticed something strange on the western horizon.
A shape was moving slowly across the open grass.
This by itself was not totally weird.
Sometimes travelers passed through, usually heading west toward the new towns, sometimes east toward Missouri.
What made him stop was the size of the shape and the strange stumbling way it moved.
As the shape got closer over the next hour, Harland realized with a mix of interest and worry that he was watching a woman of amazing size, not heavy, but tall, very, almost impossibly tall.
Even from far away, he could see that she stood head and shoulders above any normal person.
She moved like someone who had used up all their energy, with every step taking visible effort.
She was coming straight toward his farm.
Harlon stood frozen at his fence, hammer in hand, watching her come closer.
In that moment, he knew right away what she was, even before he could see the details.
The borderlands were a path for runaways, though most had the sense to travel at night and avoid lonely farms.
This woman was moving in the bright daylight, which meant she was either desperate, lost, or both.
As she came within a 100 yards, he could see her better.
She was truly huge.
He would later guess her height at nearly 7 ft, though fear and surprise might have made his guess bigger.
Her dress, if you could still call it that, was little more than rags held together by hope and movement.
Her feet were bare and bleeding, leaving small, dark spots on the dry grass.
Her skin was so dark it seemed to soak up the sunlight, and her face had a look of such strong will that it was almost scary.
She stopped at the edge of his land, swaying a little, and their eyes met across the space.
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Holland’s mind raced through his choices.
He could pretend he hadn’t seen her, go back into his cabin, and let her pass.
He could shoot a warning shot to drive her away from his land.
He could ride to Zea crossing and tell the part, “Time sheriff, who also ran the store, or he could admit she was a human being.
” water,” she said, and her voice carried across the space between them very clearly.
It was not a question, not a begging, just a statement of what she needed to stay alive.
Harland found himself walking toward his well before he had really made the decision.
His hands shook as he worked the rope, pulling up the bucket.
She came closer slowly, every step careful, and he could hear her breathing rough and heavy, the sound of someone who had been running for days.
When she reached the well, she didn’t grab the cup he offered.
Instead, she waited, her eyes locked on his face as if testing if this was some kind of trap.
Finally, she took the cup, drank a lot, then drank again and again.
She emptied the bucket twice before stepping back.
“Thank you,” she said, and there was something in her voice that made Harlon’s skin feel strange.
“Not exactly thanks, more like admitting a debt that would be paid back one way or another.
You should keep moving,” he said quietly, surprised at how steady his own voice was.
Before dark, they watched the roads at night, but not the open country.
She looked at him for a long moment, and he had the weird feeling of being tested, judged, and found okay, or perhaps useful.
“My name is Delilah,” she said.
“I won’t forget this.” Then she turned and walked south toward the creek and the thick line of trees that marked its path.
Holland watched until she disappeared into the trees, then went back to his fence work with hands that wouldn’t quite stop shaking.
He told himself that was the end of it.
One small act of kindness in a world that seemed to have very little of it.
He would never see her again, and in a few weeks he would wonder if he had imagined the whole thing.
But as the sun began to go down that evening, as he was locking up the chickens for the night, he noticed something that made his blood run cold.
There were footprints around his cabin.
Many footprints, far too many, and they were fresh.
Harland didn’t sleep that night.
He sat in his cabin with his father’s old gun across his knees, watching the dark outside his single window.
Every sound made him jump, the wind moving through the grass, an owl calling from the trees, the pigs moving in their shed.
But under those normal night sounds, he thought he heard something else.
Movement.
Many things moving.
Morning came slowly, the darkness fading away to show a sight that would be burned into Holland’s memory for the rest of his life.
They surrounded his land in a loose circle that went out perhaps a 100 yardd from his cabin in all directions, men, women, children.
He counted fast, losing track, starting over 202, 150, 30und, maybe more.
All of them darks ginned.
All of them dressed in the remains of slave clothes or rough replacements made from whatever they had managed to steal or find during their run north.
But it was their silence that scared him most.
Three hundred people should make noise, talking, crying, arguing.
These people stood in total silence, watching his cabin with looks that ranged from desperate hope to something harder, more dangerous.
They didn’t move forward.
They didn’t move back.
They simply waited.
In the center of the group, towering over everyone else, stood Delilah.
In the morning light, she looked even more impressive than she had the day before.
Her height gave her a look that seemed almost like a story from the Bible that his mother used to read.
She raised one arm, pointing right at Holland’s cabin, and the motion felt heavy with meaning.
Holland pushed open his cabin door, the hinges squeaking loudly.
The sound seemed terribly loud in the deep silence.
He stepped outside, gun in hand, but pointed at the ground, and the hundreds of eyes following his movement made his skin crawl.
“What do you want?” he called out, his voice breaking on the last word.
“Dilah took three steps forward.
Even just three steps with her long legs brought her much closer.
“You gave me water,” she said.
“You gave me mercy when you could have turned me in.
collected whatever money they are offering for my return.
That tells me something about who you are.
I just gave you water,” Harlon said, hearing the fear in his own voice.
“That is all.
I can’t.
I am not part of any railroad.
I don’t have supplies.
I can’t help you.
We are not asking you to help us move on, Delilah said, and something in her tone made Harlon’s stomach tighten.
We are asking you to help us stay.
The words hung in the air.
Impossible.
Crazy.
Three hundred people couldn’t simply stay in the middle of the Kansas prairie.
They would be seen for miles.
Slave catchers searched these lands all the time.
Sometimes legal police enforcing the law.
Sometimes freelance hunters looking for money, sometimes owners themselves chasing their property across state lines.
That is insane, Harland said.
You would be caught in days, hours maybe.
The patrols, the patrols don’t come out here, Delilah interrupted.
You chose this land because it is lonely.
No roads nearby, no towns.
The kind of place where a man can disappear if he wants to.
The kind of place where three hundred people might disappear too if they are careful.
A woman stepped forward from the group older perhaps 50 with gray in her hair and scars on her arms that showed a lifetime of hard work.
We have been traveling for 6 weeks, she said, her voice surprisingly strong.
It started as 12 families who escaped from three different farms in northern Missouri.
Others joined us along the way.
Every farm we passed, every work gang we saw, people slipped away in the night and followed.
We didn’t plan to become so many.
It just happened.
A man spoke up, young, maybe 20, with burns on his neck that looked like someone had put out cigars on his skin.
We can’t cross into free territory like this.
To many of us, the police would stop us at any checkpoint, legal or not.
But out here in the empty spaces, if we can just wait until the active hunting dies down, what makes you think I won’t turn you in? Harland asked.
Though even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t.
He should.
The law made it a federal crime to hide runaways.
He could be fined dollar one zero 000 more money than he would see in 10 lifetimes or put in jail.
His land could be taken.
His name would be ruined.
But he wouldn’t turn them in.
Delilah seemed to see this in his face.
Because you are a man who left civilization to escape hard choices, she said softly.
But hard choices find us anyway, don’t they? And when they do, we find out what we really are.
The sun climbed higher, and still the three hundreds stood in their silent circle.
Harland could see children among them now, babies being held, toddlers holding onto their mother’s dresses, older children with eyes that had seen too much.
An old man leaning heavily on a walking stick.
A pregnant woman, her belly big with the promise of life that would be born into either freedom or chains, depending on what happened in the next few days.
How long? Harland finally asked.
How long would you need to stay? Delilah’s look didn’t change, but something shifted in how she stood.
relief perhaps or the letting go of tension she had been holding since she first came to his well.
There is a guide coming through in two weeks.
Moses they call her.
She has a route that can handle large groups but she only comes through this area twice a year.
We missed her last trip by 3 days.
She is our only chance to move this many people safely.
2 weeks, 14 days of hiding.
Three, 100 people in the middle of open grass where a single patrol could mean disaster for everyone.
There are caves, Harland heard himself say about a mile south along the creek.
“The banks are high there, lots of bushes.
In the spring flood two years ago, I explored them.
large rooms, some going back pretty deep into the hill.
It is not comfortable, but we are not looking for comfortable.
The older woman said, “We are looking for invisible.” And so it began, the strangest, scariest two weeks of Thomas Harland’s life.
A time that would test everything he believed about himself and show he had room for both bravery and horror.
he had never imagined having.
The job of hiding three hundred people turned out to be much harder than Harland had thought during that first quick offer.
The caves he had mentioned could hold perhaps a hundred at most, and only if people were willing to pack in tight to suffer darkness and wetness, and the sound of the creek rushing past just outside.
The rest would need to spread out through the heavy bushes along the water, making simple shelters from branches and whatever cloth they could spare.
But before any of that could happen, they needed to remove signs of their presence.
Delila proved herself a natural boss.
She split the group into work teams with calm skill.
One team focused on smoothing out the grass where hundreds of feet had stepped on it, using branches to comb the prairie back into something looking like its natural state.
Another group collected every scrap of proof that people had passed through, dropped rags, lost buttons, anything that might catch a patrol’s eye.
Harland watched them work with a mix of wonder and growing fear.
These people moved with the skilled speed of those who had spent their entire lives working under a boss, following orders, doing impossible tasks, because the other choice was punishment.
But now they were working for themselves for their own survival.
And the difference showed in how hard they worked.
The young man with the cigar burns on his neck introduced himself as Nathan.
He had been owned by a tobacco farmer in Clay County, Missouri, trained as a metal worker, but rented out to various farms and businesses.
My owner liked to remind me who controlled my body, he said quietly, touching the scars.
Used me as an ashtray when he was drinking.
Told me I should be grateful.
He could have sold me south to the cotton fields where they worked men to death in 5 years.
He had escaped on a dark night in late March, killing the dogs his owner had sent after him with his own hands.
I didn’t want to do it.
He said those dogs didn’t choose their masters any more than I did.
But it was them or me and I chose me.
The older woman’s name was Ruth, and she had been a slave on a hemp farm in Lafayette County.
She had given birth to 11 children, watched eight of them sold away before they reached age 10.
The three who remained had escaped with her along with her husband Samuel, who had lost three fingers on his left hand to a corn machine accident that his owner had refused to get fixed properly.
The wounds had healed badly, leaving him with a claw-like hand that he used with surprising skill.
Every person had a story.
Every story contained cruelty that made Harland feel sick.
A woman named Charity had been bred like an animal, forced to have children for five different men, her owner picking them to improve the stock.
A man called simply Big James had scars across his whole back from whipping so bad they had shown bone.
A teenage girl named Sarah had burned marks in the shape of her owner’s initials burned into her shoulder.
But it was Delilah’s story that truly shook Harland to his core.
She had been born on a farm in Kentucky, daughter of a woman who had been tall herself, nearly 6 feet, and a father who had been picked specifically for his size and strength.
“They bred us like horses,” she said flatly, sitting by Harlland’s fire the second night, looking for the biggest, strongest workers.
“My mother gave birth to four children.
I was the only one who lived past age five.
The others just grew too fast.
Their hearts couldn’t keep up with their bodies.
By age 14, Delilah had reached 6 ft tall.
By 16, she had topped 6 and 1/2 ft.
Her owner had been happy at first, seeing her as proof that his breeding plan worked.
He had hired her out to other farms for breeding, forcing her to have children with men picked for their size and strength.
“I had seven pregnancies,” she said, staring into the fire.
“Six children born.
Only two lived past being babies.
My body was too big to properly feed them while I was still forced to work full days in the fields.
My last baby, a boy, died in my arms 3 days after birth.
Just stopped breathing.
And I felt something break inside me that day.
Something that told me I would rather die than continue living as property.
She had been planning her escape for 2 years, carefully building a reputation for being slow and obedient while secretly hiding food, studying the patrol paths, and learning which other slaves might be willing to run if given the chance.
When she had finally ran, 12 people had come with her.
By the time she reached Harlland’s land, that 12 had grown to three hundred.
a rolling wave of people collecting desperate souls as it moved.
I didn’t set out to lead anyone, she said.
But when you are 7t tall and you are the one who is walking in front, people assume you know where you are going.
So I started acting like I did.
The days developed a scary routine.
Before dawn, Harland would check the surrounding area, climbing to a high point where he could see for miles in every direction.
If the horizon was clear, he would signal the hidden people, a white cloth hung from a specific fence post, that it was safe to come out for a few hours to stretch cramped legs, to take care of bathroom needs in a more dignified way than the caves allowed, to let the children run and release s of their energy, but everyone remained constantly alert for danger.
Nathan had organized watch teams that switched every two hours.
Young men with good eyesight who put themselves at key points with orders to give warning at the first sign of riders.
The signal was simple but worked well.
A morning dove call, specific and clear.
Food became the big worry.
Harlon’s supplies couldn’t possibly feed 300 people for 2 weeks.
He killed both pigs and the chickens too, though he was sad to lose his eggs.
Several of the men went out at night to hunt, taking terrible risks, but returning with rabbits, wild turkeys, even a small deer.
The women organized careful sharing, making sure the children and old people ate first, then nursing mothers, then everyone else.
Water was less of a problem thanks to the creek.
Though Harland worried constantly about the risk of sickness from so many people drinking from the same source.
Ruth, who knew a lot about medicine plants, organized teams to collect herbs and roots she could use to treat the sicknesses that began to show up.
A child got a terrible cough that wouldn’t stop.
An old man’s leg wound from the trip got infected and Ruth worked for 3 days to save the leg.
Finally succeeding through some mix of plants and prayer, Harland found himself drawn into their group despite his wish to be alone, he had spent 3 years avoiding being around people, and now he was surrounded by hundreds of people whose lives depended on his silence and help.
It should have been too much.
Instead, he found himself sitting around their carefully hidden fires at night, listening to their stories, sharing his own smaller experiences.
The children were both the greatest joy and the deepest source of worry.
Despite their situation, they found ways to play, making games from nothing, laughing in ways that scared the adults who constantly had to quiet them.
One little girl, maybe four years old, stuck to Harland, following him around during the safe hours, asking endless questions about his mule, his cabin, the prairie itself.
Her name was Lily, and she had been born into slavery in Missouri, just like her parents.
She had no idea of freedom, didn’t understand what they were running toward, only that everyone seemed scared and hopeful at the same time.
When Holland asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, she looked at him with confusion, as if the question made no sense.
“I will be what my master tells me to be,” she said simply, and Harland had to turn away before she could see the tears in his eyes.
One week passed, then 10 days.
The constant stress began to wear on everyone.
People got angry easily.
Arguments broke out over small things, the sharing of food, who got space in the cave, whether children should be allowed to play outside the shelters, even during safe hours.
Delilah settled most fights with a mix of common sense and pure physical size.
When she said a matter was settled, people generally accepted it.
But on the 11th night, something happened that nearly destroyed everything they had built.
The patrol came from the east, following the creek bed in a direction Harland hadn’t expected.
Four riders moving slowly through the dark, clearly searching for something specific.
Nathan spotted them first and gave the dove call, and 300 people melted into the land with practice speed that showed generations of learning how to become invisible.
Harland stood by his cabin, forcing himself to breathe normally.
As the riders came closer, he recognized one of them, a man named Cobb, who ran a shipping business out of Zea Crossing and made extra money by hunting runaways.
The others were strangers, hardf faced men with guns across their saddles and the look of people who made cruelty their job.
Evening Cobb called out, stopping his horse about 20 yards from Harlland’s door.
Didn’t expect to find anyone living way out here.
You knew 3 years, Harlon said, keeping his voice flat.
Homestead claim.
Haven’t gotten around to filing all the proper papers yet, but the land is mine by right of work.
Cobb nodded slowly, his eyes looking over Harland’s land with uncomfortable focus.
You seen any colored folks come through here.
Large group maybe.
We are tracking a bunch of runaways, probably 50 or so.
Got word they were heading west toward the territory.
They thought they were hunting 50 people, not three 100.
Someone’s information was badly old, which meant the full size of the escape hadn’t been reported yet.
Probably because the various owners hadn’t yet compared notes, hadn’t realized their individual losses were part of a much larger group leaving.
Haven’t seen anyone.
Harland said, “Like you said, I am pretty isolated out here.
Don’t get many visitors.” One of the other riders, a man with a scarred face and cold eyes, moved his horse forward.
Mind if we take a look around just to be sure? This was the moment Harland had feared since the whole thing began.
If they searched well, they would find signs impossible not to.
With 300 people living within a mile circle, stepped on grass, hidden paths to the creek, signs of fires, waste, the simple wear and tear that many humans surely left on a landscape.
I do mind actually, Holland said, and saw Cobb’s eyes get narrow.
This is my property, legally claimed, and I have got rights.
You have no power to search without a good reason, and me telling you I haven’t seen anyone should be enough.
That is an interesting position to take,” the scarred man said softly.
“For someone with nothing to hide.
It is the position any free man should take,” Harland replied when faced with people trying to break his property rights.
“We fought a revolution over this kind of thing, if I remember right.” Cobb held up a hand, stopping whatever his friend had been about to say.
Now, let’s all stay calm here.
Mr.
Harland, Thomas Harland.
Mr.
Harland, we are just doing our jobs.
The Fugitive Slave Act makes it a federal crime to harbor runaways.
We have legal power to search any place we have reasonable suspicion.
And what is your reasonable suspicion based on that I happen to live in the general direction some slaves might have traveled? By that logic you could search every property between here and Canada.
The tension stretched out.
Four armed men facing one man with a gun he deliberately left inside his cabin to avoid looking threatening.
Harland could feel sweat running down his back despite the cool night air.
If they decided to search anyway, he had no way to stop them.
He could grab his gun, try to hold them off, but that would just prove their suspicions and bring more men with more guns.
Somewhere in the dark behind him, three hundred people waited in silence, their lives hanging on this conversation.
I will make you a deal, Cobb finally said.
You let us water our horses at your well.
Maybe rest here for a bit and we will consider your help.
Noted.
Might be worth something later if questions come up about this area.
It was a test.
Harland realized they wanted to stay long enough to watch to see if he showed signs of nervousness.
If anyone tried to slip away in the dark, thinking the coast was clear.
If he refused, he would look suspicious.
If he agreed, he would have to keep perfect calm while they watched for any crack in his mask.
Well is over there, Harlon said, pointing.
Water is cold and clean.
Help yourselves.
The next hour was the longest of Harland’s life.
The riders watered their horses slowly, all the while studying his land with eyes that missed nothing.
Harland forced himself to go about normal business, checking on his mule, adjusting some tools in the shed, even starting a fire and making coffee which he felt he had to offer the men, though the thought of sharing anything with them made his skin crawl.
They talked among themselves in low voices, occasionally asking Harland casual questions that felt anything but casual.
How long had he been alone out here? Where had he come from before? Did he keep up with politics? What did he think about Kansas joining the Union as a free state versus a slave state? Harland gave careful neutral answers, playing the role of a man who purposefully removed himself from such arguments.
It wasn’t difficult.
It was who he had actually tried to be before three.
100 desperate souls had made staying out of it impossible.
Finally, after what felt like days, but was probably only 60 or 70 minutes, Cobb stood and stretched.
Well, Mr.
Harland, we appreciate your kindness.
If you do happen to see any colored folks come through, there is good money in reporting them.
Rewards range from $1.
50 to$13.
100 depending on the person.
That is a lot more than most men see in a year out here.
I will keep that in mind, Harland said evenly.
They got on their horses, and for one terrible moment the scarred man turned his horse toward the south, toward the creek where the caves and shelters lay hidden in the dark.
Harlon’s heart beat so hard he was certain they could hear it.
But then Cobb called out this way, Davis, let’s check that town we passed yesterday, and the scarred man turned his horse around to follow.
Harland watched them ride east until they disappeared into the dark, then stood for another 30 minutes, making sure they weren’t circling back.
Only when he was certain they were truly gone, did he give the all clear signal.
Three short whistles like a bird.
The dove call came back almost right away, and gradually, carefully, the hidden people began to come out.
Delilah was the first to reach him, moving with surprising quiet for someone so large.
That was too close, she said quietly.
They thought they were tracking 50 people, Holland said, which means whatever is happening is bigger than individual owners chasing their property.
The different escapes haven’t been connected yet, but they will be.
And when they are, when they are, we need to be gone.
Delilah finished.
How much longer until your guide arrives? 3 days, Harlon said.
If she stays on schedule, if she hasn’t been caught or delayed, if Delilah repeated, and the word carried the weight of every doubt they faced.
But the close call with the patrol had shaken something loose in the group’s fragile unity.
That night, as people tried to settle back into their hiding places, Harland overheard bits of worried conversations.
Some people wanted to split up, arguing that a group this large was impossible to hide and would be easier to manage as smaller groups.
Others insisted that staying together was their only strength, that separating would leave individuals open to being picked off.
one by one.
The argument came to a head the following morning when a man named Josiah stood up during one of the brief open periods and spoke to Delilah directly.
“You brought us here,” he said, his voice carrying across the gathered group.
“You told us this was the way to freedom, but every day we stay in one place is another day we risk being caught.
I say we should move on, take our chances heading west on our own.
Delilah looked at him with a face that gave nothing away.
And where exactly would you go? Kansas territory has free state supporters, Josiah argued.
Lawrence Topeka, places where people against slavery would hide us.
Kansas territory also has pro-slavery raiders who would turn us in for the money.
Ruth cut in bleeding Kansas they call it because both sides have been killing each other for 2 years over whether it will be slave or free.
You think we would be safe walking into that safer than sitting here waiting to be found.
Josiah shot back.
We have come this far together.
Nathan said quietly.
300 people all the way from Missouri.
That has to mean something.
We split up now.
We lose our greatest strength.
What strength? Josiah demanded.
We are just a big target.
The bigger the group, the easier to spot.
The bigger the group, the harder to capture, Big James said in a deep voice.
He stood up, his massive body making even Delilah look almost normal, sized in comparison.
You ever tried to control a crowd of angry people? I have worked on a farm where they tried to break up a gathering of 50 souls who wanted better food.
Took them 20 armed guards and they still barely managed it.
Now imagine what 300 people could do if we decided to stop running and start fighting.
The suggestion hung in the air, dangerous and tempting.
Harland saw it move through the crowd, the possibility of fighting back, of turning and facing their chasers rather than continuing to hide.
It scared him, not because he thought it was wrong, but because he could see how easily fear and desperation could turn into violence.
No, Delilah said firmly, we didn’t come all this way to become what they have made us out to be violent, wild, dangerous.
We survive by being smarter, not by fighting battles we can’t win.
But we could win, Josiah insisted.
Three hundred of us against however many slave catchers they send.
We have numbers.
Numbers aren’t enough, Ruth said quietly.
They have guns training the law on their side.
We fight, we die.
Maybe we take some of them with us, but we still die.
And even if by some miracle we won, then what? We would be runaways and killers.
Every authority in the territory would be hunting us.
Is that the freedom you want? The tension in the group was thick.
And Harland realized with growing alarm that they were standing on the edge of breaking apart.
If the group split, if people started leaving in different directions, it would only be a matter of time before someone was caught.
And once captured, they would be questioned, hurt, probably made to tell where the others were hiding.
Three more days, Harland heard himself say, and everyone turned to look at him.
He had been so careful to stay on the edge of their talks, to not put himself into their decisions.
But he couldn’t stay silent.
Now the guide is due in 3 days.
If she doesn’t come, then you make your choices.
But give it three more days.
You have made it this far.
Don’t fall apart when you are so close.
Delilah gave him a look of something that might have been thanks or might have been planning.
The man has a point.
We have survived 11 days.
We can survive three more.
The group eventually went back to their hiding places, but the argument had left cracks in the togetherness that had carried them this far.
Harland could feel it.
The way people stayed in smaller groups now, the suspicious looks, the whispered talks that stopped when others approached.
That night, as he lay in his cabin, staring at the ceiling, Harland tried to calculate how many laws he had already broken.
Harboring fugitive slaves was a federal crime carrying a dollar one zero zero fine providing material support, food, shelter, hell added to the crime.
If authorities discovered what he had done, he could be put in jail, his land taken, his name destroyed.
And yet when he thought about turning them in, about collecting the rewards that would make him rich beyond his dreams, the idea filled him with such self.
Hate that he physically couldn’t think about it.
He had come west to escape hard choices.
Instead, he had found the hardest choice of all, whether to save his own safety or risk everything for people he had never met before.
As the sun came up on day 12, Holland had his answer.
He had already made his choice whether he had consciously admitted it or not.
The moment he had given Delila water, he had committed himself to this path.
All that remained was seeing it through to whatever end awaited them.
Day 12 brought news that sent waves of barely held panic through the hidden people.
One of the scouts, a young man named Isaac, who had put himself on the high ground to the north, came running back to the camp in broad daylight, breaking every rule about remaining hidden during sunup hours.
Riders, he gasped out, at least 20 of them, maybe more, coming from the east, spread out in a line like they are sweeping the territory.
20 riders meant a planned search party, not just a random patrol.
It meant someone had put together enough clues to know a large group was in the area, even if they didn’t know the exact numbers.
Delilah’s face went absolutely still.
How far? Maybe 3 mi, moving slow, checking every ditch in creek bed.
How long until they reach us? 2 hours? maybe three if they stay thorough.
The words sent the community into controlled chaos.
People began gathering their few things, preparing to run deeper into the land.
But Ruth held up a hand, her voice cutting through the rising panic.
Wait, she said, “Think about this.
3 mi.
That is not enough time to pack up and move 300 people without leaving a trail a blind man could follow.
We run now in daylight, scattered and panicked.
We might as well paint signs pointing to where we have gone.
So, what do you suggest? Josiah demanded.
We just sit here and wait to be caught.
I suggest we make them think there is nothing here to find, Ruth replied.
She turned to Harland.
Your property? How normal does it look right now? Harland thought quickly.
I killed my animals for food.
That is unusual.
And my supplies are basically gone.
If they search my cabin, then we make sure they don’t.
Big James said.
We give them something else to look at.
A reason to keep moving.
Nathan’s eyes lit up.
A fake trail.
We plant signs of a group heading west away from here.
Fresh trail.
Maybe some dropped items.
Enough to make them think they are still behind their target.
It might work, Delilah said slowly.
If we can make it look real enough.
The next hour saw the most desperate act Harland had ever seen.
A group of 20 volunteers led by Nathan set out to make a false trail heading northwest.
They moved purposefully, stepping on grass, breaking branches, even leaving a few items that looked like they had been dropped in a hurry.
A torn shirt, a crude wooden toy, a tin cup.
Meanwhile, everyone else worked to remove any trace of their presence.
The fires were put out and scattered.
Waste was buried deeper.
The paths to and from the creek were carefully hidden.
People retreated into the caves and the deepest bushes, packing in so tightly that Harland could hardly believe three hundred souls could fit in such a small space.
Harland himself worked frantically to restore his cabin and land to something looking like before they arrived.
He couldn’t replace his animals, but he could at least clean up the butchering area, spread out the remaining supplies to make it look like he had been living normally rather than feeding a small army.
With 30 minutes to spare before the estimated arrival of the search party, everything that could be done was done.
The people were hidden.
The false trail was made.
Harland’s land looked as close to normal as they could manage.
Harland forced himself to do routine tasks as if this were any other day.
He worked on his fence, the same fence he had been fixing when Delilah first appeared.
If anyone was watching from a distance, they would see a man going about his business, not someone hiding hundreds of runaways.
The riders appeared on the eastern horizon right on schedule.
Harland counted them carefully.
23 men, all armed, moving in a straight line that suggested military experience.
Several wore the kind of hard, worn clothes that marked them as professional slave catchers.
Others had the look of local men hired for the hunt, farmers and merchants who saw easy money in capturing human beings.
Leading them was a man Harland didn’t recognize at first, tall, thin, with gray hair and a face that looked like it had been cut from stone.
He rode with the confidence of someone used to power, and when he raised his hand to stop the line about a hundred yards from Harland’s cabin, the other riders stopped instantly.
He moved his horse forward, approaching alone.
As he drew closer, Harland felt his stomach drop.
He recognized the man now, Colonel Martin Grayson, a former army officer who had made a fortune in the slave trade.
After leaving the army, Holland had seen his name in newspapers, always connected with big captures or stopping slave revolts.
This wasn’t just a search party.
This was a manhunt led by someone who treated it as war.
You, the owner of this land, Grayson’s voice was short.
Military precise.
Thomas Harland.
This is my farm.
Colonel Martin Grayson.
I am leading a federal operation to recover stolen property.
We have reliable information that a large group of runaway slaves passed through this area within the past 2 weeks.
What can you tell me about that? Harland kept his voice steady, already answered these questions for a patrol that came through a few days ago.
Haven’t seen any large groups.
Haven’t seen anyone at all except you.
Grayson’s eyes narrowed.
What patrol? Man named Cobb out of Zepha Crossing.
three others with him.
Cobb Grayson said the name like it tasted bad.
Local bounty hunter, not part of my group.
He got off his horse, and Harland noticed how he moved simply.
Every motion had a purpose.
This was a man who had spent his life in situations where wasted effort could mean death.
I am going to be direct with you, Mr.
Holland.
We are not tracking a small group anymore.
We have connected at least nine separate escape incidents from three different counties in Missouri.
We are looking at somewhere between 20 and300 missing slaves representing a total value of over dollar 100.
That is more than just property loss.
That is fighting with money 2 to300.
They knew or at least they suspected that is a lot of people Harland said carefully.
Hard to imagine hiding that many in open country like this.
Exactly what I thought, Grayson said, until I started tracing the route.
They are staying off the main paths, avoiding towns, moving through the empty spaces.
Your land is exactly the kind of empty space they would seek out.
Isolated, no neighbors, perfect place to rest and regroup.
It is also perfect for someone who wants to be left alone, Harland countered.
Which is why I am here.
I came west to escape politics and arguments.
Finding myself in the middle of one wasn’t part of the plan.
Grayson studied him for a long moment.
You mind if I search your land? I would prefer you didn’t.
That is not a no.
It is an expression of my rights as a landowner.
Holland said, “You want to search? Show me a paper signed by a federal judge.
The Fugitive Slave Act gives me power.
To search when you have probable cause,” Harland interrupted.
“My saying, I haven’t seen anyone isn’t probable cause.” “It is the opposite of probable cause.” Behind Grayson, the line of riders had been spreading out, and Holland realized with cold certainty that this conversation was partly a distraction.
They were placing themselves to search whether he agreed or not.
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Let’s discover together what happens next.
Grayson seemed to come to a decision.
Here is what is going to happen.
Mr.
Holland, my men are going to do a thorough search of this area.
You can cooperate and possibly earn yourself some kindness if questions arise later, or you can get in the way and guarantee that you will face federal charges.
Your choice.
Before Harland could respond, one of the riders called out, “Conel, fresh trail here heading northwest.” Grayson’s attention snapped toward the voice, “Show me.” They rode toward the false trail Nathan’s group had made, and Harland forced himself to stay calm, to keep working on his fence, as if the outcome of this search didn’t decide the fate of three hundred human beings.
He could see several riders getting off their horses, studying the ground, pointing out details to Grayson.
The conversation carried across the distance, pieces reaching Holland’s ears, definitely recent, at least 20, maybe 30 in this group, heading toward the Kansas River Valley.
One of Grayson’s lieutenants rode back to the main group.
Colonel’s orders.
We are following this trail.
Looks like they have only got a few hours lead on us.
The relief that flooded through Holland was so strong it left him dizzy.
They were taking the bait.
They were leaving.
But then Grayson himself rode back and something in his look made Holland’s relief disappear.
I am leaving half my men here.
Grayson said quietly.
To search this land thoroughly while I follow that trail because something doesn’t sit right with me, Mr.
Harland.
A trail that convenient appearing exactly when we show up that feels staged.
I wouldn’t know anything about that, Harlon said, his mouth dry.
I am sure you wouldn’t.
Grayson turned to speak to the men he was leaving behind.
Search every building, every shed, every cave, and ditch within 2 mi.
If you find proof of recent large scale living, send a rider to catch up with my group.
If this land is clean, you can join us on the trail.” He kicked his horse, and 12 riders followed him northwest.
But 11 remained, spreading out across Harland’s land with guns ready and eyes that missed nothing.
The search began step by step.
They started with Holland’s cabin, tearing through his few things, checking under floorboards, examining every corner.
They moved to the shed, then began working their way south toward the creek, toward the caves.
Harland stood frozen, calculating distances and time.
The caves were perhaps 20 minutes walk at a normal pace.
The searchers were being thorough, which would slow them down, but not by much.
An hour, maybe, possibly two, if they were extremely careful.
He had to warn the hidden people somehow, had to give them a chance to scatter deeper into the land before the searchers reached them.
But how could he do that without showing he knew where they were? The answer came from a surprising source.
One of the searchers, a younger man who didn’t have the hard edge of the professional slave catchers, approached Holland as the others began moving toward the creek.
“This must be difficult for you,” the man said, having your land invaded like this.
“It is not pleasant,” Harland agreed carefully.
“I am Joseph Brennan.
I own a dry goods store in Missouri.
Got hired for this because they needed numbers.
To be honest, I am not comfortable with the whole thing.
These are people we are chasing, not animals.
Harlon studied him, trying to determine if this was some kind of test.
Then why are you here? Because the law is the law, Brennan said.
But his voice lacked belief.
and because my business depends on staying in good standing with the local authorities.
Sometimes you do things you are not proud of because the other choice is worse.
I understand that, Holland said quietly.
Brennan looked toward the creek where the other searchers were beginning to spread out.
If there were people hiding in those caves, they would hear us coming from pretty far off.
The way voices carry along the water, the sound of horses, men talking, they would have warning enough to slip away deeper into the land before we found any proof.
He said it casually as if making a comment about nothing important.
But his eyes met Harlland’s with clear meaning.
I imagine that is true, Harland said carefully.
Sound does carry along the creek, especially if someone was to say, “Fire a gunshot signal.” They were hunting that would carry a long way.
Give anyone in the area plenty of warning to clear out.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“I should probably check my property line to the west.” Holland said slowly, “Make sure none of your people accidentally cross onto my neighbor’s land and cause a whole other argument.” “That sounds wise,” Brennan agreed.
“And if you happen to spot any game while you were riding your land, well, a man has got to eat.” Harland saddled Constance and rode west at a slow pace, visible to anyone watching.
When he had gone far enough that a shot wouldn’t seem to be aimed at the searchers, he raised his gun and fired into the air.
The sound echoed across the prairie, rolling toward the creek where 300 people waited in darkness.
A sound that meant danger, a sound that meant run.
He fired twice more, spacing the shots to make it seem like he was tracking game.
Then he turned Constance and rode back toward his cabin, his heart beating so hard he could feel it in his throat.
By the time he returned, the searchers had reached the caves.
He could see them entering, torches held high, voices calling out as they explored the rooms.
He forced himself to breathe normally to show no reaction.
They came out an hour later frustrated but empty handed nothing.
One of them reported some signs of animals living in there but no proof of people.
Check the bushes along the creek.
Another ordered.
They could be hiding in the brush.
They searched until dark, finding only traces that could have meant anything.
A broken branch, some stepped on grass, ordinary signs of wildlife.
No people, no clear proof of three hundred souls having sheltered there for nearly two weeks.
As night fell, the searchers finally gave up and prepared to ride out to join Grayson’s group on the trail.
Before leaving, their leader, Alard, faced man named Webb, stopped his horse next to where Harland stood.
You are either the luckiest man in Kansas territory,” Webb said quietly, or the smartest.
“Either way, this isn’t over.
When they figure out the trail is a fake, they will be back, and next time they won’t be as polite about searching.” Then they were gone, riding into the dark, and Harland was alone on his land for the first time in 12 days.
He waited an hour to be certain they were truly gone.
Then he walked to the creek in the dark and gave the allclear signal.
Nothing happened.
He waited, called out softly.
Still nothing.
It took him another hour of searching before he finally found them.
They had scattered into the deepest parts of the land, hiding one by one or in small family groups, spreading out so widely that no search party could possibly find them all.
Slowly, carefully, they gathered again.
Not at the caves, those were too dangerous now, but in a dozen different spots along several miles of creek.
The community that had been three, hundreds strong, was now broken into smaller groups that could move alone if needed.
Harland found Delilah with a group of about 40 people sheltering in a particularly thick patch of bushes.
The warning shot, she said.
That was you.
He nodded.
You saved us again.
Someone helped.
Harlon said, thinking of Brennan’s careful words.
Not everyone hunting you believes in what they are doing.
But they are doing it anyway, Delilah said, which makes them just as dangerous as the true believers.
She was right, and Holland knew it.
Good intentions from men like Brennan didn’t change the fact that they would still capture and return human beings to slavery if given the chance.
One more day, he said.
The guide is due tomorrow night.
You just have to hold on for one more day.
But even as he said it, Harland wondered if one more day would be enough.
Grayson would realize the trail was false soon enough, and when he did, he would be back with even more men and even more determination to find his stolen property.
The end was coming, and Harland had no idea if any of them would survive it.
The 13th day dawned gray and cold, with clouds moving in from the west that promised rain by evening.
Holland watched the weather with mixed feelings.
Rain would help hide the people’s presence, washing away scent trails and covering sounds, but it would also make travel harder, turning the prairie into sucking mud that would slow any escape attempt.
He had spent the night riding between the scattered groups, carrying messages from Delilah, trying to keep the broken community connected.
They were stretched along almost 3 mi of creek now broken into Yune.
It’s small enough to hide effectively, but large enough to provide mutual protection.
The original plan of staying together until the guide arrived had been dropped.
Now they would gather only at the last moment when it was time to move if the guide actually came.
Holland had been turning that doubt over in his mind constantly.
He had never met this Moses that Delilah spoke of with such respect.
Didn’t know her real name, her ways, whether she was even still alive.
For all he knew, she had been captured weeks ago, and Delilah’s faith in her arrival was built on nothing but desperate hope.
Around noon, as dark clouds continued to build in the west, Nathan arrived at Harland’s cabin, running fast.
“They are back,” he gasped out.
Grayson and his men coming from the northwest.
“They must have figured out the trail was a fake.
How many?” All of them.
And they have picked up more.
I counted at least 30 riders, maybe more.
30 armed men against three 100 unarmed people, most of them women and children.
It wouldn’t even be a fight.
It would be a roundup.
We need to scatter, Harlon said.
Get as far from here as possible before they arrive.
Too late for that, Nathan replied.
They are less than a mile out, moving fast.
They will see anyone trying to run across open prairie.
Harlon’s mind raced through options, rejecting each one as quickly as it formed.
They couldn’t hide.
Grayson would search every inch of the land this time.
They couldn’t run.
Not in daylight with riders who could move 10 times faster.
They couldn’t fight.
Actually, maybe they could.
The thought emerged fully formed, terrible, and strong.
300 people cornered and desperate, facing men who saw them as property rather than human beings.
It would be suicide for most of them, but for some it might create enough chaos and confusion to allow escape.
Delilah must have been thinking along similar lines.
She appeared from the direction of the creek, moving with that distinct long walk that covered ground faster than seemed possible.
Big James and Ruth were with her along with about 50 others.
We can’t all escape, she said without introduction.
Not from 30 armed riders, but some of us might if we create a distraction.
What kind of distraction? Harland asked, though he already knew the answer.
The kind where some of us stand and fight while others run.
That is murder, Harland said.
They will cut down anyone who resists.
They are going to capture us anyway.
Big James said.
This way at least some of us go free.
The children, the pregnant women, the old people who couldn’t survive being dragged back in chains.
The math was brutal but undeniable.
Sacrifice the strong to save the weak.
The old resistance math that enslaved people had been forced to calculate for generations.
There might be another way, a voice said, and they all turned to see Joseph Brennan standing at the edge of Harland’s land.
The store owner, who had given Harland the warning the previous day, he was alone, having apparently separated from the main search party.
What are you doing here? Harland demanded.
Trying to stop a massacre, Brennan replied.
Colonel Grayson is convinced you are harboring the runaways, Mr.
Harland.
He is planning to make an example, burn your property, have you arrested for federal crimes, and conduct a search so thorough that a field mouse couldn’t escape detection.
So, you came to warn us before participating in our capture.
Delilah’s voice dripped with hate.
I came to offer an alternative, Brennan said.
I have a wagon, large one, designed for moving freight.
It is hidden about 2 mi south of here.
I also have contacts in Lawrence who will provide shelter, no questions asked.
Why would you help us? Ruth asked suspiciously.
Brennan was quiet for a long moment.
Because my sister was married to a free black man in Illinois.
They had two children.
Three years ago, she and her family were kidnapped by slave catchers who claimed her husband was a runaway and her children were therefore property.
It was a lie.
He had free papers going back two generations.
But by the time the legal system sorted it out, my sister was dead from abuse she suffered on the farm they had been sold to, and her children had disappeared into the slave markets of New Orleans.
He met their eyes, each in turn.
The law failed my family.
I won’t be part of the same system failing anyone else if I can prevent it.
One wagon can’t move three, 100 people, Nathan pointed out.
No, Brennan agreed.
But it can move 50, maybe 60 if people pack tight.
The ones who would be easiest to identify and recapture, children, women, anyone who stands out.
The rest of you would need to scatter and take your chances on foot.
It wasn’t a perfect solution.
It wasn’t even a good solution, but it was better than anything else available.
Delilah looked at Harland.
What do you think? I think we are out of time to debate options, Harland said, pointing to the eastern horizon where dust was rising from approaching riders.
Grayson is almost here.
The next 30 minutes were controlled chaos.
Delilah and Ruth organized the children, identifying those young enough to need help and old enough to stay quiet under stress.
Pregnant women, nursing mothers, the elderly and sick, anyone who would slow a group on foot or be easily identified and recaptured.
Brennan led them south to where his wagon waited.
a massive freight hauler with false sides that created hidden spaces.
The children were loaded first, packed in tightly, warned that any sound could mean death for everyone.
Then the women and elderly, filling every available space until 63 people had been hidden in a wagon that looked from the outside to be carrying nothing but ordinary freight.
There is a checkpoint on the road to Lawrence, Brennan said quietly.
Federal marshals enforcing the Fugitive Slave Act.
I will get you past it.
I have papers and a reputation as a reliable trader, but after that you are on your own.
Thank you, Delilah said simply.
Whatever your reasons, thank you.
Brennan nodded, climbed onto the wagon seat, and set off south at a pace that looked casual but covered ground quickly.
Within minutes, the wagon had disappeared over the horizon.
That left approximately two 140 people who would need to scatter on foot and hope that darkness and determination would be enough to see them through.
Holland found himself standing with the group that had chosen to stay and fight if necessary to buy time for the others.
About 30 men along with Delilah and a handful of women who had refused to take shelter in the wagon.
They were armed with rocks, with improvised clubs made from tree branches, with farm tools they had collected during their journey against 30 men with rifles.
They would last perhaps minutes, but minutes might be enough.
Grayson’s riders appeared on the eastern horizon at a full gallop.
Clearly past the point of pretending this was anything other than a manhunt.
They rode straight toward Harland’s land, and Harland could see Grayson at their head, his face set in lines of grim determination.
The colonel stopped his horse 50 yard from where Harlon stood.
The 30 fighters lined up behind him.
Grayson’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of so many black faces openly visible, no longer hiding.
So Grayson said quietly, “Here we are at last.
Here we are,” Harland agreed.
“That is a lot of property you are harboring, Mister Harland.
By my account, you are looking at violations of the Fugitive Slave Act sufficient to put you in prison for the rest of your natural life.
These aren’t property, Harland said.
They are people, and I am not harboring them.
They are free to come and go as they please.
Grayson’s look didn’t change, but something shifted in how he stood.
You understand? I have to take them into custody.
You understand? We are not going to let that happen without a fight.
You are outnumbered and outgunned.
True, Delilah said, stepping forward.
But you are not rounding up cattle, Colonel.
You are trying to capture human beings who would rather die than go back.
So the question becomes, how many of us are you willing to kill to enforce a law that treats people like property? It was a calculated risk.
Dead slaves had no value.
Grayson’s clients wanted their property returned alive and able to work.
Mass killing would defeat the entire purpose of the recovery operation while creating a public relations nightmare that would echo through the increasingly angry debate over slavery’s future.
Grayson seemed to recognize the trap.
I don’t want violence.
Then leave, Harland said.
Turn around and ride away.
Let these people be.
You know I can’t do that.
Can’t or won’t.
Thunder rumbled in the west and the first drops of rain began to fall.
The weather was turning right on schedule.
In another hour the prairie would be soaked.
Seeing would drop and tracking would become nearly impossible.
I am going to give you one chance.
Grayson said, “You all surrender peacefully, return to your lawful owners, and I guarantee no one will be harmed in the process.
You resist, and my men have authorization to use whatever force necessary to affect the capture.” “Your force against our desperation,” Big James said, “Let’s see how that math works out.” The rain began falling harder.
Holland could see Grayson calculating, weighing his options.
A fight here would be bloody and public with witnesses who could testify to too much force.
It would complicate the legal proceedings might even create sympathy for the fugitives among the increasingly powerful anti slavery movement.
But if Grayson left empty handed, his reputation would be destroyed.
He would be seen as the military officer who had let three hundred slaves slip through his fingers.
The standoff stretched out, rain falling steadily now, turning the ground to mud.
The riders shifted uncomfortably in their saddles, guns ready, but pointed skyward.
The fighters stood their ground, armed with desperation and improvised weapons, ready to die if necessary.
And then from the south, a voice called out strong, clear, cutting through the sound of falling rain.
Y’all having a party out here and didn’t invite me.
I am hurt.
Everyone turned.
A woman stood on the horizon, small and thin, maybe five feet tall, dressed in clothes that could have belonged to either a man or woman.
She was black, middle-aged, with a face that suggested she had seen everything the world had to throw at her, and remained singularly unimpressed.
Moses, Delilah, breathed.
The woman, the famous leader whose arrival they had been waiting for, walked forward with the kind of confidence that suggested she owned every inch of ground she walked on.
She carried a gun with the ease of someone who knew exactly how to use it, and something in her eyes made even Colonel Grayson pause.
Harriet Tubman Grayson said slowly.
There is a reward for your capture that would make me rich.
There have been rewards for my capture for years, she replied.
Yet here I stand, free as the day I was born, curious how that works.
She looked past him to the gathered fugitives.
You’re ready to move.
I got a route cleared, safe houses waiting, and about 6 hours of good darkness once this storm settles in, but we need to leave now.
You are not taking anyone anywhere, Grayson said.
But there was uncertainty in his voice now.
You going to stop me? Tubman asked.
You and your 30 riders against me and my reputation.
Because I guarantee you, Colonel, the moment you shoot me, you become the man who killed Harriet Tubman.
Your name goes down in history alongside the worst villains of this whole ugly business.
Is that really how you want to be remembered? The rain fell harder, and in the distance thunder rolled across the prairie.
Grayson sat on his horse, clearly torn between duty and self, protection, between the law and the growing awareness that history was shifting beneath his feet.
Finally, he spoke, “I can’t just let you walk away with 300 people, two 140,” Tubman corrected.
“The rest already gone.
Safe by now, I would bet.
And you are not letting me do anything, Colonel.
I am doing it whether you like it or not.
Only question is whether you are going to make this violent or whether you are going to tell your clients that the group scattered before you could affect capture.
One version makes you a monster.
The other just makes you a man who got outsmarted.
Your choice.
The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of rain hitting the ground.
Every person there seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for Grayson’s decision.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but clear.
There are rules more important than ownership laws.
I may not agree with you, Miss Tubman, but I won’t be the man who starts a war today.
He turned to his writers.
Mount up.
These people scattered before we could establish positive identification.
We returned to Missouri and report accordingly.
Some of his men looked like they wanted to object, but Grayson’s authority held.
They turned their horses and rode east back toward Missouri and the lives they had left to hunt human beings.
Tubman watched them go, then turned to the gathered fugitives.
Well, you coming or you want to stand in the rain all day, admiring the view.
The journey north took 6 days, moving only at night, sheltering in safe houses and hidden camps that Tubman found with the confidence of someone who had made this run dozens of times before.
The group that had started as 12, escaping together, grown to three, hundred through desperate gathering and scattered under pressure, now reformed into a community of shared purpose.
Harland traveled with them, at least for the first 3 days.
He told himself he was just seeing them to safety, making sure they reached free territory before turning back.
But he knew he was lying to himself.
There was no turning back, not to his isolated farm, not to the life of deliberate neutrality he had built.
On the third night, as they sheltered in a barn owned by Quaker abolitionists in northeastern Kansas territory, Delilah found him sitting alone, staring at nothing.
“You are thinking about your land,” she said.
“I am thinking about everything I have lost,” he admitted.
and
