Mama and the Shadow People

I was just about the age of my granddaughter now riding out a summer sickness in my feather-stuffed mattress in the guest bedroom when I started sharing with her the stories I remember from the Civil War times in my family. Her small features and giant blue eyes looked up at me imploringly as I entered the room with another cool drink of water and a pitcher of more to help her get through this warm spring afternoon.

"Can you stay with me a bit and tell me a story?" she implored, her voice still raspy from the sore throat and those eyes…. Well, they made it way too difficult to turn her down.

"Yes, my dear one," I answered her as I sat down beside her on the bed and rested my back against a pillow I propped up to the brass of the headboard.

"These old bones could use a bit of propping up, and can’t think of a better time spent than with my beautiful granddaughter, Jessica," I told her as I draped one arm around her slender shoulders and was amazed at just how comfortable I felt there beside her.

"Oh, thank you Grandy. I love you so," came her response, "and you’ll never be old, or your bones, either. You’ll forever be my beautiful Grandy."

"Your sweet words make me feel like it just might be so," I smiled at her. I smiled although it embarrassed me somewhat. "What do you have in mind, Jessica?" I asked her as I kissed the top of her light brown hair.

"Oh, tell me some more about your own Mama, the one my Mama named me after… your Mama Jessica."

"Well, my dear you do know me well. And you know how much I love to tell stories of my Mama. You know, I think you are the age I was when I leaned just what my sweet mama was doing during the Civil War here in Southwest Indiana where so many folk thought none of the doings would ever touch our lives. I found that to be incredibly wrong, at least for my own family. And on this particular day, my mama let me become a part of it all."

"How Grandy?? You were just a girl if you were my age, ‘cause I’m only thirteen you know. I’m a long way from being big enough to do much of anything!"

"You are very right, my dear, but I was a very snoopy and curious 13-year-old, and I guess Mama was just afraid of what might happen to me if she didn’t take me into her confidence. And what she was about to involve me in would mean I’d have to keep my lips sealed shut and not share it with anyone, not even my younger brothers and sisters. But I shall share it with you now, my love."

Our story starts back in 1863, and you’re very right, I was only just 13 years old at the time. My mama was left at home with all five of her children, and until Mama explained it to me, I was very angry at my papa for taking off and leaving us alone like that. We had seen fire from rebel troops from across the river, firing on the big cotton mill in the small town of Cannelton about five miles up the river from us. Everyone living along the shores of the Ohio River was very shaken by this happening, but life must go on, and so we did just that.

It was always busy living on a working farm, and ours was much like the others around us. We farmed mostly for our own use, but we raised chickens and a few head of hogs and cattle, so corn was an important part of our crops. With Papa gone, we children had to share his burden. Being early spring, we had to get the two field horses hooked up to our plow to work the fields. This was a daunting job for a woman and four children, but as we worked Mama always said Papa was doing important work so we needed to do out part.

Papa was a preacher and often he traveled to do a revival or to help start up a new church. It seemed funny to us that Mama seldom told us where his travels took him, or why the folks at the church were always asking.

We had people in our state next door, as you well know, in Kentucky, and sometimes I wondered if that was where he was headed with a wagon-load of supplies. I also wondered where the lumber came from, and how on earth he managed to fill a wagon with it. We never had much cash money and I was beginning to see why.

One evening after the smaller ones had gone to bed, Mama called me into the living room and patted the sofa next to her for me to come sit down with her.

"Susan, honey, I am going to share some important things with you and ask you for your help. With the spring planting time ahead and your Papa gone for who knows how long, I need you to know what we are doing. It’s important, Susie, and I have to ask you not to talk to anyone about what I’m telling you," my mama said, and the intensity of her tone caused me to shake my head in agreement. I would agree to about anything my sweet mama would ask of me.

"I’ve heard you and the youngsters talk about how resentful you feel toward your papa for always being gone from home, but I have to tell you he is about the most important work in all the world. Susan, he is aiding escaping slaves from the south, and it’s dangerous work. Now that the war has been going for so long, it is even hard for him to get to Kentucky to my brother’s place. Thank the Lord he shares our mission."

My curiosity was getting the best of me, and I couldn’t imagine just what the work they were doing would involve, but it sure did make me even more afraid for my papa.

"Susan, honey, have you ever heard of the Underground Railroad? It is so secretive I rather doubt it."

"No, Mama. You mean there is a railroad that is underground? How can that be? Where does it go? Who rides on something like that? It sounds so spooky."

"No, dear, it isn’t a read railroad with tracks and trains like we know them. But there are stations along its way, and sometimes they are actually underground."

"How come you need a station if there is no railroad track?" I asked, my eyes getting bigger with curiosity.

"Susan, do you recall a song your papa always sings called, ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’?"

"Oh yes, Mama, I like that hymn, and I like to sing in with Papa. How I love his deep voice, and when he sings it, seems like it is so special to him. I thought I even saw tears one time when he was singing," I replied.

"How well I know, Susan, how well I know," she replied. Your papa is one of the most incredible people I’ve known. And that is a very special song. Your papa is what we call a conductor on the Underground Railroad. You know that wagon? Well, my brother helped him to convert it to a special wagon. It has a false bottom in it, and the wood that he takes with him is also special. Down through the center of it is a hollow part that just can accommodate a person. He has to stop in Kentucky and pick up this piece, and my brother keeps it hidden in a big haystack so it can’t be easily found. With so many Confederate troops making their way into Kentucky, it is really turning into dangerous work for the two of them. But let me get back to the song and explain something about it to you."

"Yes Mama," I replied, wondering what she could mean.

In Mama’s lovely voice she began to sing,

"Swing low, sweet chariot,

coming for to carry me home,

swing low, sweet chariot,

coming for to carry me home.

Well, daughter, the sweet chariot is the conductor coming to start runaway slaves on their journey. Swing low means they are coming south to aid the runaways. Some come from the North, like your Papa, but there are also many living in danger in the South. My own parents living on their plantation are actually conductors, too. One day I’ll try to explain that to you."

"Sing me some more, Mama," I implored.

"I looked over Jordan

and what did I see,

coming for to carry me home?

A band of angels coming after me,

Coming for to carry me home."

Did you have any idea our own Ohio River was called the River Jordan?" Mama asked.

"You mean like in the Bible?" I implored.

"Oh yes, and the band of angels is the network of conductors and stations on the way to the Ohio River. There was a time when it was safe for runaways to just get across the river to be free, but alas, no more. The Fugitive Slave Law put a stop to that, and put anyone aiding the slaves in even more danger," Mama said in her most serious voice.

Mama’s voice became even more serious as she continued, "Yes, the Fugitive Slave Law made it even harder for those trying to secure the lives of slaves as free persons. It made it against the law to aid a fugitive slave, even in areas where slavery was not legal, like here in Indiana. That’s why your mama and papa had to tighten up their security even more. And that’s the reason absolute secrets have to be kept." With that said, Mama laid her finger on her closed lips, then on mine.

I remember how my heart started to race, and the pure fear I felt when as we sat there pledging secrecy there came a tiny, almost indiscernible, rap at the front door. I saw the fire in my mama’s eyes as she took my hand and led me to the front door.

"Now my child," she whispered, "you are about to see the important work, and how you are now a part of it."

My mama opened the front door just a tiny crack. We both peered out the open space into the moonlit night shining its light onto our front porch. And there in the shadows, barely seeable at all, stood a figure all covered in a black blanket from head to toe. He turned his face imploringly upward to my mama and whispered, "Now over Jordan."

Mama whispered back in a soft and comforting voice, "Yes, my son, you are over the Jordan. And we shall get you to safety as fast as we can."

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"And now, my darling Jessica," I whispered to my granddaughter, "we shall have to save another story for a time when the house isn’t about to be filled with hungry men from the field."

I kissed each of my granddaughter’s eyes and rose to leave her room.

"Thank you, Grandy," she said in her quiet voice, so much like my own Mama’s, "thank you for sharing with me. I'll try to wait and be patient until you can tell me more!"

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