Steal Away Home Page 11

  At Disneyland, while they were waiting to get into the Haunted Mansion, Dana stupidly said, “I hope it’s worth all this standing in line in the boiling sun,” to which Tonie (who weighed in at about 185 loosely assembled pounds) crumbled to her feet and wailed, “I’m melting! I’m melting!”

  People dashed to her rescue, including a guy who said, “Let me through, I’m a veterinarian,” but Dana reassured them. “Don’t worry, she’s just the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Next year,” Dana’s mother muttered on the way back to the airport, “we go to someplace more fun, like the Black Hole of Calcutta or the Bermuda Triangle.”

  On the plane, Dana reread Millicent Weaver’s journal.

  September 11, 1856—Our afternoons are pleasant, but there’s a nip in the air in the mornings. I suppose the winter they warn us of will inevitably descend. Well, perhaps the harsh weather will keep Caleb home with us more, and the “traffic” through here less.

  September 16, 1856—Caleb is off in Westport on constitution business again, but with the help of God, he’s been able to free young Solomon from the clutches of that unscrupulous man in southern Missouri. Poor Solomon stumbled into our house last night, looking more like a crazed animal than a human being. Someone had mistaken him for a wolf, I surmise, and shot him. The bullet passed right through the upper flesh of his arm and left a ghastly wound. Oh, dear Lord. He’d walked the whole way for nine nights, with no shoes, sleeping in haylofts when he dared, but mostly in open ditches. All that time he spoke to no one, for fear he’d be sent back, even with legal papers in his hand.

  Millicent Weaver’s words and the echoes of the past seemed more real to Dana than the otherworldly voices that floated above the engines’ roar. A baby’s wailing from somewhere in the back of the plane was stifled with a bottle, and Millicent continued her whispers across the century.

  September 17, 1856—Miz Lizbet tends to Solomon, though he sleeps and sleeps. She bathes him like a baby and applies fresh poultices of purple prairie clover to his arm. I sent James after Dr. Olney, but Miz Lizbet was peeved and stopped him, saying, “I don’t want that fool in here.” Solomon’s eyes fluttered open, and he said, “Dr. Olney’s a good man, Miz Lizbet,” and then he drifted off again. Miz Lizbet believes that tomorrow Solomon will be strong enough to send on home, for which I’m grateful, because Caleb’s due home by suppertime, and Miz Lizbet must be getting on with her work elsewhere.

  I believe she’s sweet on Solomon.

  Dana’s mother slept through the whole plane ride. Being on her good behavior for a week with the in-laws always wore her out, but only spurred Dana’s father into great productivity. From San Francisco to Denver, he scribbled notes for a paper he’d be giving at the end of the summer. Somewhere over the neat grid of western Kansas, he noticed what Dana was reading. The historian in him kicked in: “Is that the diary?”

  “I guess it’s time,” she said, and she turned it over to him.

  He pulled out the folding magnifying glass a good historian always carries, and he turned to page one.

  The first ones have been here, and if Thou hast been with them, they are well on their way to Canada… .

  Dana’s father read to the very end of the journal, just before the twenty blank pages.

  November 20, 1856—The letter from Mother was twelve days getting here. I pray Thou hast watched over Father through these days, and that Thou hast preserved his strength until Rebecca and I reach Boston. These are troubling times. My heart breaks to think that I might never get back here to Caleb and James. Therefore, I am leaving this diary with Lizbet, as it is her story more than mine.

  He gave the journal back to Dana. “A treasure,” he said simply.

  “Can I make copies?”

  “No, electronic copying isn’t good for old documents. I guess you know that next week is the first of July.”

  “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I’m giving it to Dr. Baxi.”

  “I’m not sure I could give the journal up,” her father said quietly. “Especially now that I know James Weaver as a twelve-year-old. In all the stuff going on about the house, I guess you never heard the name of the architect. James Baylor Weaver designed Wolcott Castle.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE

  All Alone

  November 1856

  “Oh mercy, here comes Mr. Weaver,” Ma cried, and Miz Lizbet snatched up her shawl and ran up the stairs. At the top she called down, “Will he be all right?” She meant Solomon, who sat in Pa’s chair, pasty and pale, with a lap robe about his knees.

  “Well, I reckon I can take care of one Solomon,” Ma said crossly. “Now thee must get up there, and for heaven’s sake, don’t utter a peep while Mr. Weaver’s in the house. Rebecca!” Ma warned, fixing her with a stern scowl.

  “Yes, Ma, I know.”

  “Solomon Jefferson, I needn’t say anything to thee?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And James?”

  James stashed away a sketch of a building that reached toward the sky. It would be higher than anything in Boston. “No, Ma. I’ve got good at lying.”

  “Not lying, exactly.”

  “Well, what would thee call it, Ma?”

  “I’d call it doing God’s will, James. Now hush.” She tidied her hair in the looking glass and threw the door open just as Pa came up the porch steps. “Welcome home, Mr. Weaver.”

  Rebecca flew toward Pa, while James held back in a more manly fashion, but it sure was good to have Pa home.

  After a minute, Ma stepped aside so Pa could see into the room.

  “Is this Solomon? Well, fancy!” He went over to shake Solomon’s hand.

  “Mind, he’s got a bad arm,” Ma whispered. So Pa just smiled and said, “It’s good to have thee back.”

  “Thank you, sir. Without you—”

  “Thunder come back with thee?”

  “No sir,” he said, hanging his head.

  “Small price to pay,” Ma snapped, “for the piece of work that is a man.”

  “They’ve been looking after me a couple days, Mr. Weaver. I’ll be heading over to Olneys’ tomorrow.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” Ma said.

  And then, as though he’d waited over in the old soddy out back until Pa was home, U.S. Marshal Fain loomed in the doorway. A smile spread across his craggy face as soon as he spotted Solomon. “Evening Mr. Weaver, Mrs. Weaver.” He tipped his hat so all of them would notice the marshal’s badge pinned to it. “I’m investigating a report that there’s been some illegal Nigras hiding out—”

  “In my house?” Pa asked.

  “Well, nearby. Who’s this?”

  Solomon jumped to his feet, and Pa stepped back to put his arm around him.

  “This is Solomon Jefferson, a free man. He works as a groomsman for Dr. Olney.”

  “Um hm. You wouldn’t happen to have papers proving that, would you?”

  “I do, sir.” Solomon pulled some papers out of a leather pouch under the lap robe. He held the papers out, but the marshal wouldn’t take them directly from him.

  Finally, Ma snapped the papers out of Solomon’s hands and waved them under the marshal’s nose. “Does thee need me to read them to thee?”

  “I can read good enough.” He looked up with mean eyes like hard coffee beans. “Folks say there’s a lot of mysterious comings and goings here, Miz Weaver.”

  Rebecca sidled over to James, who held her hand good and tight.

  “Now listen here, Marshal,” Pa said. “I am a man sworn to uphold the law. Like you,” he said, but the irony was lost on Marshal Fain.

  “Oh yes sir, Mr. Weaver, and it’s also a matter of public record that you defended one Barnaby Watts, an abolitionist in clear disregard for the law of the land.”

  “There were legal grounds.”

  “And it’s also a matter of public record that it’s against the law to aid and abet Nigras when they’re running off from their masters who legally and morally have dominion.”
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  “The moral argument would be lost on thee, Mr. Fain.”

  Then Ma stepped forward, all sweetness and light. “Marshal, thee sees this man Solomon Jefferson. Does it follow that we might be hiding other Negroes if we’ve got Mr. Jefferson out here in plain sight?”

  “I’m only saying, Miz Weaver—”

  “Because gladly would I step aside and let thee search my house if thee suspects anything of the sort.”

  “Ma!” Rebecca cried.

  “Has thee not made thy bed, child?”

  James squeezed Rebecca’s hand until he was afraid he’d crack a finger. “Ouch,” she mumbled.

  “Miz Weaver, I won’t search your house.”

  “Not without a warrant, thee won’t,” Pa said.

  “But it’s mighty curious, Mr. Weaver, how you’re scouting all around Kansas Territory defending lawbreaking abolitionists, writing a constitution which the president of the U-nited States himself says is illegal, that you’re taking darkies away from their rightful masters”—he glared at Solomon—“and then you’re saying you’re a man of the law. Seems like you’re blowing smoke out of two different chimneys, if you ask me.”

  “Good evening, Marshal Fain.” Pa’s words chilled the room.

  “I believe we’ll light a fire,” Ma said, and she busied herself with kindling. “James, fetch us three sturdy logs. Thee can walk the marshal down to the road on thy way.”

  “No need,” Marshal Fain said, turning on his heels. But then he said, “Nearly forgot. I’ve brought the missus out a letter from Boston. Hope it’s not bad news.”

  • • •

  “What is it, Millicent?” Pa said.

  “My father. He’s suffered a stroke.” Ma held the letter to her heart.

  “What’s a stroke, Ma?” Rebecca asked.

  “Something snaps in the brain, child, leaves a man unable to walk sometimes, or talk. Oh Lord, Caleb, I must get to Boston.”

  James couldn’t imagine Grampa Baylor felled by anything, and certainly not reduced to a helpless stalk of a man. He remembered old Mr. Dunworthy in Boston, his body crooked to the left, just staring into empty air under a shade tree near Faneuil Hall. “Will Grampa’s face be all twisted up, Ma?”

  Pa was scanning the letter now. “No way to tell from what thy grandmother’s written. Yes, Millicent, thee and Rebecca must leave at first light. It will be many days’ travel, and best done before the truly cold weather sets in.”

  “It’s nearly the end of November,” Ma said, her voice childlike with unaccustomed fear. “We might not be back by Christmas.”

  But Pa was all business. “I can take thee by wagon to Leavenworth, where thee can get the stagecoach.”

  “We’re going back to Boston!” Rebecca squealed.

  Ma hushed her with the shake of a finger. “But what will become of thee, and of James?”

  “We’re perfectly capable of looking after ourselves, Mrs. Weaver.” Pa sounded so sure, but James wondered if they could get along. Neither one of them had ever cooked an egg, much less a whole chicken. And what if some of Miz Lizbet’s people came through? And Christmas without Rebecca or Ma was unthinkable.

  “I’ll be glad to stay and give ’em a hand,” Solomon offered.

  “We’ll call upon thee if we need thee, sir, but I suspect, what with the typhoid fever going around, Dr. Olney will need thee worse.”

  • • •

  James waved until he could no longer see the wagon, and when he went back to the house it seemed like an empty cave without Ma and Pa and Rebecca. Now that Pa was gone, to and from Leavenworth, Miz Lizbet came downstairs. “It’s getting cold up there,” she said. She wore her heavy buffalo cape and carried a patchwork bag.

  “You’re leaving, too?”

  “It wouldn’t be proper for me to stay here alone with you, Mr. James Weaver.”

  “Nothing’s proper anymore. I don’t remember the last time things were proper.”

  “Well, but I’ve got business to attend to.”

  “You can’t bring them here while Pa’s around, you know.”

  “It’ll soon be too cold for them to travel. I’m heading over to Kentucky, to get some folks ready to steal away in the spring. You won’t see me for a long time, Mr. James Weaver, unless they run me off and I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  And then it was like when Will Bowers left and he had nothing to say. “Go in peace, friend,” he mumbled.

  She slid past James. “And next time you see that rascal Solomon, you tell him not to go getting married, hear?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX

  Hog Slaughter

  November and December 1856

  In his whole life—and he’d be thirteen just after the first of the year—he’d never had such bad food as what he cooked for himself and Pa. His flapjacks were leather patches, and his chicken dribbled a thin stream of pinkish juices, and the lumps in his cornmeal mush were as hard as hailstones. Pa tried not to complain, but James noticed that Pa was pulling his belt a notch tighter.

  And then Jeremy came around with the news that it was time to slaughter a few hogs for the winter table. “We’re doing our own two, and one for you and one for Olneys’, since you Friends are too lily-livered to do it yourselves. Come on.”

  There wasn’t anybody to tell he was leaving, so James just took off down the road, with Jeremy babbling about the hog slaughtering. “Once they’re dead as a tree stump, we’ll boil ’em to loosen the bristles so we can scrape the hide clean. Doesn’t tickle, that way.”

  “I’m not one bit sure I’m going to like this,” James said, hurrying along beside Jeremy. And yet, he was excited at the prospect of doing something so masculinely Kansas.

  “Oh, you’re going to have a picnic. I remember back to my first hog butchering; my pa and I never did have such a good time as that ever again.”

  They jumped a fence and cut through Barkens’ yard. “So then, after the hide’s clean, we hang the carcass from a big, thick limb, peel off the hide, gut the thing. There’s hardly no waste to a hog. The liver’s good, the lungs, the kidneys, the brains. Pigs have got big brains.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “You like pork sausage?”

  “Sure.”

  Well, Jeremy ruined sausage for him. “It’s stuffed into the gut of the hog, you know. We yank out the intestines and scrape ’em, wash ’em good, and fill ’em up with all manner of good savory chopped-up pig meat and spices. Um-um!”

  What with the food he’d been cooking, and dead-hog talk, James was pretty sure he’d never eat again.

  “First thing, we save those good spareribs and backbone. Best eating on the hog. And later on, we’ll salt down the shoulders and hams and cure ’em, then we’ll hang ’em in the smokehouse for ever and a day, and by Christmas you’ll have the tastiest ham you ever put your mouth to.”

  Well, he sure did love ham, all salty-sweet, lying on a plate next to some hot spiced apples… . Maybe this butchering business wouldn’t be so bad after all, if it resulted in a fat, pink, juicy Christmas ham.

  They jumped the last fence into Macons’ place. “Here goes!” Jeremy said, as if he were diving off a cliff.

  James hunkered up to sit on the fence for a good view of the whole thing, but Jeremy wouldn’t hear of it. “Maybe you ain’t gonna kill ’em, but you can sure as the devil help us round ’em up.”

  With Mr. Macon’s help, they chased the four fat porkers out of the barn into a small pen. The hogs looked like they knew what was coming, just like a turkey knows it’ll be the guest of honor at dinner soon. So those hogs squealed and caterwauled. James tried to grab one, but it slithered right out of his hands. He was surprised to feel how bristly the hide was—not soft and smooth like a horse.

  “Grab one and hang on to him,” Mr. Macon yelled, and finally, after about a dozen slip-throughs, James straddled a hog and grabbed its two front legs, the only white parts on the whole black critter. Then, before the hog knew what hit i
t, Jeremy came down on its head with the handle of an axe. James felt the hog sink out from under his legs.

  “Hold his head up,” Jeremy commanded, as the butcher knife caught the sun and blinded James while Mr. Macon slit the hog’s throat. Blood muddied the ground. James backed away, his stomach heaving.

  “Grab another one, James.”

  But James just kept taking another step back, and another, as Jeremy said to his pa, “What did I do?”

  “Aw, nothing, son, there’s just different ways of being.”

  “Bet he’ll smack his lips over the spareribs, though.”

  “Come on, son, we got plenty work to do before we lose the sunlight.”

  “One man short,” Jeremy muttered.

  As James slid his leg back over the fence, he suddenly remembered the Hindu man he’d met back in Boston, the only person he ever knew who wasn’t a Christian. His skin was nearly as dark as the Negroes’ out here. Now, why did he think of that man, all of a sudden, when he’d not given the Hindu a moment’s thought in a year’s time? And then it hit him—the Hindu was a vegetarian.

  • • •

  After everybody had slaughtered their hogs and here and there a calf, it seemed the typhoid fever spread like grass fire.

  “Unsanitary conditions,” Dr. Olney said. “Unsanitary meat, unsanitary cooking, unsanitary human hygiene. Sure it’s going to spread. Spread like wildfire. Spread like a vicious rumor.”

  “This isn’t the time to talk about such things,” said Mrs. Olney, who was trying to hurry them through First Day dinner because her baby was wailing with hunger and clutching at Mrs. Olney’s chest right there at the dinner table.

  But James was in no hurry to finish this dinner. Real home-cooked food—bread warm from the oven, crusty and brown, but soft as cake inside; sweet potato and pumpkin pie, the color of his own hair; and chicken that wasn’t raw a—veritable feast! He ate like he was Moses, starving in the desert for forty days. When he couldn’t swallow another bite, and even Pa had to loosen his belt, and the baby could be heard slurping at Mrs. Olney, over in the corner, James went outside to help Solomon groom the horses.