For Papa was unshakeable despite the danger. When he circled back to mark our progress, he rode alongside our carriage, pointing out the beautiful natural settings. “We’ll remember this as a grand adventure one day,” he said. And though Mama’s lips tightened at the assertion, I drew strength from Papa’s bravery.
But Mama grew paler each time he took us off the main roads, leading us into thick woods where we crossed streams and ramshackle bridges that didn’t seem as if they could possibly bear our weight. If our wheels broke through the planks, we were in danger of going down into the water with our carriage, horses and all.
We were afraid to cross, but our terror of what lay behind us was even greater.
Finally, when we reached the dark green rush of Rockfish River, Mama said she could go no farther. Since the death of her infant a few weeks before, she’d been sick in body and heart. Now she appeared ready to swoon. Worried for her, I dampened a kerchief using water from our carved wooden canteen then gently dabbed at her cheeks and forehead. “All will be well, Mama. Just like Papa said.”
With a weary smile, she tucked strands of ginger behind my ear. “I know, child.”
Finally, we came upon a small cabin in the woods. I peered out of the carriage window as Papa knocked at the door and explained our situation. The owner scowled. “No room for you here, Gov’ner.” The man said the last word contemptuously, spitting tobacco juice into the carpet of fallen leaves and pine needles surrounding his shack. “If the king wants you strung up, he’ll have you strung up, and I won’t risk harboring fugitives.”
I gasped, certain Papa would dress down the crude frontiersman for speaking to him this way, but instead, Papa calmly said, “I beg of you only take in my wife and daughters. I won’t stay. It’s near nightfall and—”
The man abruptly slammed the wooden door in my father’s face.
“Tories,” Mr. Short muttered like a curse.
Papa said nothing though his jaw was clenched as he mounted Caractacus again. Where could we go now, trapped on this side of the river without shelter? With sunset nearing and a river too treacherous to cross, we’d be forced to sleep the night in these woods where bears prowled and British soldiers might ambush us.
Papa insisted we keep riding, and at length, we came upon a tavern, Joplin’s Ordinary. There Papa bought food and supplies, and asked for help fording the river. Mr. Joplin himself offered to guide us to shelter beyond the river, but Papa hesitated, as if the words of the angry frontiersman were still ringing in his ears. “There’s no need to risk yourself further, Mr. Joplin.”
But Mr. Joplin insisted. “You’re of too much consequence to the country to risk your capture, Mr. Jefferson.”
As these words echoed in the forest, Papa might’ve lifted his head with pride. Instead, his eyes fell to the reins in his hands, as if burdened by them. And the words sank into me with an unaccountable weight.
When I think back, perhaps I should remember with bitterness the man who turned us away and who didn’t care if the king strung up my papa. But I prefer to remember the way our other neighbors helped us—the dangers they faced for our sake—because it fills me with pride in my countrymen. And because it reminds me that I’m justified in honoring them and their cause even through deeds that might otherwise deserve censure.
It was a Virginia militiaman who took us in that night after Mr. Joplin guided us across the river. Gravely, the militiaman told Papa that he worried important state papers and prisoners had fallen into the hands of the British. I tried to listen, but with my mother’s warmth and softness beside me on the straw-stuffed mattress, the voices faded to a low hum. And with the faint scent of my mother’s lavender water as I buried my nose against her shoulder, I lost the battle against sleep.
The next morning, awakened by the crow of a rooster, I tried to remember where I was. The important thing, I supposed, was that there’d been another dawn, and Papa hadn’t yet been caught by the British. We were on the road again before the glow of sunrise, making our way farther into the countryside. And good thing, too, because we would later learn that Tarleton’s dragoons were pursuing us, knifing open feather beds, breaking mirrors, and setting fire to homes along the way, hoping to make someone give Papa up.
When we stopped at Mr. Rose’s house, slaves hurried out of their cabins to fetch water for our horses. Inside, the smell of warm bread nearly dizzied me and tempted me to forget the danger. We’re safe. The thought brought more comfort than the food. For who would find us here, hidden in the mountains? Papa must’ve felt it was safe here, too, because as he cleared his plate he asked if his wife and children might lodge with the Rose family until he returned.
My stomach fell, and I lifted my gaze from the bread I’d been stuffing into my mouth. Mama froze beside me and gripped the edge of the table. Frowning, Mr. Rose said, “You can’t be thinking of going back, Mr. Jefferson.”