The door to Toby’s room was open, the night-light on. Sarah sat on the end of the sleeping boy’s bed. Sam said in a quiet voice, “They’re gone.”
“Who are they?” Sarah whispered back.
“Long’s Legionnaires. Two of them.”
“Oh, Sam…”
“They said they were conducting some kind of survey. I told them to come to my office tomorrow.”
“Sam—”
“I’m going to the cellar,” he said curtly. “I’ll be up in a bit. And Sarah… that was a damn close thing. I hope you know just how damn close it was.”
His frightened wife just nodded, not saying a word.
He went through the open door to the cellar, walked down a few steps, then switched on the light. The basement snapped into view, and there, behind the hanging sheet, he could make out a shape.
“Hey there,” he called, descending the rest of the stairs. “You okay?”
A hand came up to draw the blanket aside, and Sam stopped. The man was a Negro, huge, with penetrating eyes and… hard to put a finger on it, but a presence.
“Hello, and thank you for your help,” the man said. His voice was deep and unexpectedly cultured. Sam came closer, tried not to stare. In this part of the world, one didn’t see too many Negroes.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”
“No. I’m told that my travels will continue in just a few hours, and by tomorrow evening, I should be in Montreal.”
Just a few seconds earlier, Sam had been ready to dislike the man who was putting his family in jeopardy, but that feeling was now—inexplicably—gone. He said, “I hope it works out all right.”
The visitor laughed, a full sound that echoed in the old root cellar. “Ironic, isn’t it, that I should find myself here. My own father was a slave on a plantation in North Carolina. He had high hopes for me, he did, and now here I am, a hunted man on a new Underground Railroad. I was in Britain for a while, working before the Nazis invaded, and I came back here, hoping to continue the fight. And look where I am. Alone, hunted, just like my daddy, like a fugitive slave from the last century, on the run from the South. All because of that man in the White House.”
Sam looked at the man closely. Damn, he looked familiar. Hadn’t he seen him in a newsreel or a newspaper? He wanted to ask but didn’t want to pry. “You take care. I’ve got to go back upstairs to my wife and boy.” He held out his hand to the Negro. “Sam. Sam Miller.”
The man shook his hand warmly. “Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Paul. Paul Robeson.”
The name was familiar, but it was time to go.
“Good luck, Paul.”
“Thank you, Sam. I appreciate that.”
Sam left the man and went back upstairs.
Sarah was in bed, the radio off, and he changed into his pajamas and slid under the sheets. Sarah gently touched his chest, and he rolled to her. “Close. We were that close to being arrested and sent away. Do you understand, Sarah?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I promise, Sam. He’s the very last one.”
“It’s too late,” he said. “Somebody knows, somewhere, that there’s an Underground Railroad station here. And I don’t mean the marshal. He was just giving me hints earlier. This is much more serious.”
“How can you tell?” she asked softly.
“Because those two Long’s Legionnaires, they saw an open door, and they knew it led into the cellar. They know, Sarah, they already know. At some point, the hammer’s going to fall hard.”
He kept silent for a bit, and then she pressed against him, perhaps frightened more by his silence than the threat the two uniformed men at their door presented. He kissed her cheek, her lips, and she said, “Sam… thanks for keeping them out, for standing up for us.”
“My wife… my little revolutionary… we’re in this together, okay? No matter what. You and me and Toby. The three of us. Always.”
“Yes, Sam. Thank you. The three of us. Always.”
He fell asleep with her sweet scent all about him.
PART THREE
Eyes Only
Report from Party Field Officer H. LeClerc:
On the evening of 04 May ’43, I beg to report that while conducting loyalty check and survey operations on Grayson Street in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, me and fellow Party Field Officer T. Carruthers encountered Party member Sam Miller. Miller refused to answer our questions. Miller refused to allow us entry into his home. Based on our earlier instructions, we were therefore unable to gain entry into his home at this time and perform further loyalty check investigations of the residence.
In light of Miller’s response and lack of cooperation, I recommend the future detention of Miller and family to determine the status of Miller and his home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sam got up early, his sleep restless and churning with bad dreams he couldn’t recall. He threw on some clothes without waking Sarah, then went downstairs. The cellar was empty. He took a breath, tore down the sheet, and folded up the cot, tossing the blanket to the floor. With cot and sheet in hand, he climbed a short set of stairs to the cellar bulkhead, which he shouldered open. Outside, it was cold and raw, the thin lawn glittering with frost. It was high tide. He moved to the hedge separating his yard from the Piscataqua River and, in one heave, tossed the cot and the sheet into the river.
He stood there, chest heaving, and then he went back into the house.
Maybe it was the exhilaration of having made it through the night without a Black Maria rolling up in the driveway, but breakfast that morning was full of smiles and laughter. Even Toby got into the act, finding a straw and blowing bubbles in his orange juice, announcing to his parents that these were “Florida farts” because orange juice came from Florida. Despite Sam’s bad dreams, the sight of Sarah smiling and making their morning meal cheered him. A couple of times he patted her bottom as he squeezed past her in the kitchen, and she laughingly retaliated by squeezing him back, though in a much more sensitive area that made him yelp and made her grin.
After the dishes were cleared and Toby had gone to his room, Sam spotted a paper bag by the stove. He looked in and saw a couple of old shirts and a pair of pants that had been torn but were now repaired by needle and thread.
He looked up at Sarah. “Another clothing run?”
She wiped her hands on a washcloth. “Yes, during our lunch break. A few of us from the school department are going over to the hobo camp.”
He closed up the bag. “Good. Just don’t go there alone. And I’m glad you’re doing it in the middle of the day.”
Sarah put the cloth down. “And that’s it, Sam. Just this… what we can do.”
He went over to her, kissed her, and held her tight. “Before day’s end, some folks who don’t have anything to wear will be in better shape, thanks to you. Just be careful, all right?”
She tugged at his ear. “I heard you twice the first time, Inspector. Now get going and stop cheating the taxpayers.”
Sam drove out alone to work, passing a horse-drawn wagon from one of the local dairies, detouring his way to Pierce Island, going over the wooden bridge. He found the dirt parking lot empty. He stepped out, maneuvered around the broken glass from some shattered beer bottles, saw a flaccid piece of rubber draped over a rock.