Soon Be Free Page 4

  Ma only pretended to consider this, then quickly came up with her own plan. “Solomon can easily pass as thy caretaker, but it is thee who must be in disguise.”

  “Thee doesn’t mean to dress me as a woman?” James said with a groan.

  “The Bible frowns upon such a thing.”

  “But thee asked it of the Negroes all the time, fancying them up in Quaker women’s gowns and hoods and all.”

  “For their safety, James.”

  “Ma, I can’t sleep!” Rebecca shouted from upstairs. “It’s too cold.”

  Ma went to the bottom of the stairs and answered in her normal voice. Ma never raised her voice, which made James want to yell like a banshee. “Take the comforter from James’s bed, child. He’ll be needing to get used to discomfiting conditions.”

  James heard Rebecca scurry across the floor to his room and back. He’d be wearing his overcoat to bed until he set out on his trip. Then an idea struck him: “Tell her, Pa. How can I go to Kentucky? I’ll miss so much school.” It was a feeble effort, he knew, for Ma had always put more stock in home-school than in those classes with Miss Malone a few months out of the year.

  “The boy rightly raises a point, Mrs. Weaver.”

  Ma ignored him. “Oh, gracious, I nearly forgot thy presents, James. Thee must have presents on thy birthday, son.” Ma dug deep into a carpetbag she’d tucked under the table. “Ah, here.” She handed him a bundle of books tied with white wool.

  The first was Mitchell’s Primary Geography. James flipped it open to the page marked with a slip of Grandma Baylor’s creamy stationery, and he read, “ ‘Kentucky is noted for its caves… .’ ”

  “Thee meant all along for me to go to Kentucky?” James asked.

  “How could I? I didn’t know we’d lost Miss Elizabeth. It’s mere coincidence. Look what else is in the pile, son.”

  He turned over a book called Walden, by Henry David Thoreau. James fluttered the densely printed pages. As far as he could see, their only use would be as a fan in the summertime.

  “Does thee dismiss Thoreau so easily? He’s a man comfortable with silence.”

  And she knows I’m not, James thought.

  “Mrs. Weaver, has thee come back a changeling?” Pa said. “Mr. Thoreau is not Moses, and Walden is surely not the Bible.” The words seemed gentle enough, but James smelled anger in the room, thick as smoke.

  “And thee’d profit from reading a chapter or two thyself, Mr. Weaver. However, this book I’ve brought James has valuable things to say to us in modern times such as we live in. Thoreau implores us to live deliberately, not potluck.”

  Oh, mercy, here it comes. James half listened while he examined the other two books she’d handed him. Why, each had his name engraved in gold leaf on the puffy black leather binding. Inside were miles of beautiful blank pages.

  Back at the stove, Ma stirred that sarsaparilla into a whirlwind. “It’s time thee had proper sketchbooks if thee’s to be a builder of great buildings.”

  His heart flew: page after page begging to be filled with his drawings!

  “Oh, I’d almost forgotten.” Ma laid the wooden spoon across the kettle and rummaged around in the carpetbag again. She pulled out a stack of pencils tied like a miniature cord of wood. “Does thee notice anything odd about these writing implements, James?”

  Each had a pink stub at the end. He popped one in his mouth. It tasted of salt and stubborn rubber. “Could use a little flavor.”

  “It’s not to eat, son. It’s called an eraser, to scratch out what thee doesn’t want on the page. Watch.” Ma drew a squiggle on the first page of his sketchbook. Spoiled it! But then she rubbed that eraser over the mark, and it was gone. “Thy grandfather bought these in Boston for thee before—”

  James swallowed a lump. “Well, of course before. He couldn’t buy them after he was dead, Ma.”

  Ma studied his face a moment. “Thee takes death so lightly. I suppose that’s youth.”

  How little she knew. Grandpa Baylor’s death was like a gaping, jagged hole in his heart. He’d begun to sketch Grandpa Baylor’s study in Boston until he’d realized that he no longer remembered the details of that room where he’d spent so much of his growing-up time. He remembered the books that lined the walls, and the maps rolled in the corner, standing like smokestacks, but little else. Well, no matter. He’d invent the room the way he saw it forming in his mind’s eye.

  Then their good friend, the free black man, Solomon Jefferson, arrived. One glance, and James knew Solomon had seen a ghost, or worse.

  Solomon tipped his hat to Ma, not even pretending it was good to have her back after so many months. “Mr. Weaver, I got to have a word with you.”

  Pa put down the boot and looked nervously at Ma. She quickly got up and ran the wooden paddle through the sarsaparilla again, rattling that kettle all she could to give Pa and Solomon some privacy. She didn’t miss a word, though, James could tell. As for him, he and Pa and Solomon had been a threesome all through the bitter winter, so he had a perfect right to listen in.

  Solomon worked his fingers around the rim of his hat as he spoke low. “Dr. Olney, he just got a wire from his friend in Washington. Sent me over to tell you the news, Mr. Weaver.” James saw him trying to miss Pa’s eyes, which were searching for the news in Solomon’s sad face.

  “Say it outright, Solomon.”

  “Well, sir, the Supreme Court made their decision in the Dred Scott case.”

  Pa took up the fireplace poker, squeezing it tight enough to draw sap from it. “And what was the decision, sir?”

  “Court said no Negro slave or descendant of one is a citizen of the United States.”

  Ma spun around, flicking sarsaparilla like gold dust. “Solomon Jefferson, thee’s a free man and a citizen of a free territory.”

  “Yes, Miz Weaver, but that’s not good enough, starting today. And now the Supreme Court says Congress has no right to stop slavery in the territories. I don’t mean any disrespect, ma’am, but that includes Kansas Territory.”

  “Oh, piffle!” Ma said, brandishing that wooden paddle like a sword, not that Ma would ever take up a weapon. “Tell them, Mr. Weaver, thee’s the legal expert here.” But before Pa could say a word, Ma continued, “It’s not been three years since Congress passed the Kansas-Nebraska Act granting us the right to vote whether we’ll be Free State or slave. Why, there’s not three God-fearing legitimate voters in all of Kansas Territory who’d vote for anything but freedom for all its citizens.”

  Pa led Ma to her rocker and directed Solomon to the bench nearby. He stood, stoking the dwindling fire. James knew they were in for a long siege on this one.

  “Mrs. Weaver,” Pa began, then eased up. “Millicent, dear, thee knows I’ve studied this case for the eleven years it’s been working its way through the courts.” He turned around to face Ma, and she nodded. “Today’s decision renders the Kansas-Nebraska Act good as dead. Missouri Compromise, too. Am I right, Solomon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The news Solomon brings us is this.” Pa stood tall and straight, drawing on his most lawyerly voice. “While the courts have held to the principle of once free, always free, today’s decision now means once a slave, always a slave.”

  James felt the tension seep into the kitchen like river sand streaming back into a hole.

  “Well, then, Mr. Weaver,” Ma said, biting the corner of her lip, “one thing’s clear. James and Solomon must be on their way.”

  “Ma’am?” Solomon asked.

  “After First Day, at dawn on Monday morning, on thy way to Kentucky.”

  “Pa!”

  Pa put his arm around James and drew Solomon to him as well. “I believe it’s the right thing to do, given this unsavory turn of events.”

  Ma’s eyes flew from James to Pa, and her lip quivered just a bit. “Mr. Weaver,” she said gently, “thee must explain the mission to Solomon. I’ve unpacking to attend to upstairs.” Ma started for the stairs but just couldn’t resi
st telling them all what to do. “I’ve thought on this, James, and prayed a good bit. Listen up, son. Thee shall go disguised as a feebleminded child returning to the plantation after doctoring in St. Louis. Solomon shall be thy caretaker.”

  “Truth be known, Miz Weaver, Lizbet had in mind for me to go after her folks in Kentucky, and I promised her. Miz Pru Biggers, her mother, she’s been expecting Lizbet to come for her since winter. Sick as Lizbet was, with her head spinning like a whirligig, she propped herself up on a pillow and drew me this map.” Solomon reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. “She told me just how to go; I wrote it all down like she said it.” He spread the papers out for Ma and Pa to look at, and James craned his neck to get a peek as well. “Ever since we lost her, lost Lizbet, Miz Weaver, I’ve just been chewing on how to keep her promise.”

  Ma fidgeted, obviously touched by Solomon’s words. Her voice hoarse, she said, “Well, then, it’s settled.” And it was done so easily, without so much as a nod of agreement from James. Had thirteen-year-olds no word in their own fate?

  “Mr. Weaver?” Ma gave Pa a pleading look. “Has thee anything more to add?”

  “I believe I said my piece earlier, Mrs. Weaver, both against and for thy scheme.” James held his breath, his last hope. Pa rubbed his hands together until they screeched, while Solomon stood up with his hat over his heart. Pa’s deep sigh rang like a bell in his throat, and he said, “Tomorrow I will draw up legal papers. Bogus papers, I might remind thee.”

  Ma nodded. “Thee is doing God’s will. So, Solomon, thee must tell us about the Olneys. That baby would be nearly walking by now.”

  Halfheartedly Solomon delivered news of the Olneys and the other Quaker families as James swayed in Pa’s rocker, erasing every mark in Grandpa Baylor’s room that didn’t belong on the page. In three days he’d be on the road, and who knew what danger lurked around the bends of the mighty Missouri River? He might never draw a room or a building again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HOUND DOG PJ’S

  The lovebirds, Mattie and Raymond Berk, were out to lunch, so I offered to make up their room.

  Mom knelt in the recently invaded closet. Winter coats muffled her words: “Why, Dana Shannon, I’m stunned by your burst of responsibility.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, the hyperresponsible one.” The lockbox at the top of the stairs jangled as I rummaged around for the spare key.

  The Berks’ room looked like a battlefield. The down comforter with the patchwork duvet was in a heap on the floor, and the sheets were all loose and lumpy, as if a hamster had burrowed under them. Raymond’s hound dog pj’s lay on the floor beside some white socks that were accordioned. I kicked the ripe socks under the bed. Hershey’s Kisses foil and Juicy Fruit gum wrappers were scattered like buckshot around the room.

  On the floor next to the bed was a suitcase bursting with items: socks and underwear, Mattie’s knitting, in a crinkly JCPenney bag, a red plaid blouse …

  “Dana? You in there?” I jumped to my feet just as Mom pushed the door open with her elbows. “These are the extra sheets that match the drapes in this room. Boy, what swine! There’s something odd about these people, honey, you get that feeling?”

  I shrugged. “They seem as normal as most adults.”

  “That’s not saying much. Need some help?”

  “I can handle it, Mom.” I smiled and backed Mom toward the door, trying to act like I wasn’t rushing her out so I could tear into the Berks’ most private possessions. Once Mom was on her way downstairs, I locked the door as silently as I could and returned to the jumbled suitcase.

  … a tacky white macramé belt, the navy slacks and football-shoulder magenta sweater, and an industrial-size bag of still more Hershey’s Kisses, these in the gold wrappers, with almonds.

  At the bottom of the pile was a thick manila envelope, fastened with one of those figure-eight string deals. It isn’t my business, I reminded myself, but I opened the envelope, anyway. Inside were reproductions of old Kansas maps and color copies of pages from some coffee-table architecture book—all James Weaver buildings. There was Wolcott Castle, with its beautiful pink awnings and balconies and turrets. Also, there were pictures of a livestock exchange in Abilene and an African Methodist Episcopal church in Fort Scott.

  Under them all was a bulky paper folded into eighths. The fold lines were well worn. I spread the paper out on the bed.

  It was a blueprint of our house!

  Chapter Fourteen

  March 1857

  A SURPRISE PASSENGER

  A grapevine sweetened the crisp spring air. Pa held the reins tight on Buttermilk, who was anxious to be trotting James and Solomon off to their first stop. Ma, Rebecca, and the Olneys all stood on the porch waving them good-bye.

  “Go with God, friends,” Dr. Olney said. His red face puffed up over his ruffled collar. “Thee’s in His hands. Yes, the Lord will keep a watchful eye on thee. Thee need never fear, for the Almighty shall guide thee.” James saw Mrs. Olney elbow her husband to stop the rain of words pouring from him. “Well, madam,” he said, wrinkling his brow. “A little benediction can’t hurt. A blessing. A prayer. A fare-thee-well.”

  Pa said, “We’d best leave now if they’re to make the coach to Kansas City.”

  Solomon was already in the wagon, and James climbed in beside the basket trunk that sat on the seat between them. He’d watched Ma and Mrs. Olney fill it with extra clothes for the fugitives, blankets, pillows, maps, and all sorts of food: fried prairie chicken, chicory coffee, pickled globe apples, sticks of maple sugar candy, hardtack, and a jar of fresh milk that, with all the shaking along the way, would churn itself into butter. Just the thought made the juices in James’s stomach churn and clot.

  Ma came to the wagon and spoke to Solomon. “Thee take care of the boy, hear? And trust him. He’s not a pioneer, but he’s a good and smart boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know what James can do. Don’t you worry, Miz Weaver.”

  “I suppose thee would know,” Ma said, “what with the typhoid and all. Well.” She tucked a blanket around James’s knees. “Be strong, son.” Her eyes were screwed to the size of nail heads, as if loosening them meant a tear might escape.

  Rebecca clung to Ma’s skirt, wailing for both of them. “What if I don’t ever see James again? What if he’s eaten by wolves? What if Indians catch him? There’s Indians out there, not as nice as our own Delawares.”

  Ma clapped her hand over Rebecca’s mouth. “Say farewell to thy brother and to Solomon,” she commanded, then added under her breath, “or say nothing at all.”

  “Bye,” Rebecca whined, waving the tips of her fingers.

  “Remember all that I’ve told thee, son.”

  “Yes, Ma.” She’d written dozens of details on his mind, and he knew he’d forget them all at the border of Missouri when things heated up.

  Pa waved the reins, and just before Buttermilk took off, here came Will Bowers hobbling on his one leg and crutch. “Hey, wait up.”

  Ma asked, “Will, has thee come to say good-bye to thy friend?”

  Will leaned on his crutch and doffed his hat. “No, ma’am. I’m going with him.”

  “Thee is not!” James protested. Why had he ever mentioned it to Will?

  Will tossed his bag smack on James’s feet, and he hopped into the wagon with amazing agility. He’d still not said a word to James, but to Ma he said, “Way I figure it, Mrs. Weaver, James will be a lamb in the jungle without I’m there to see him through.”

  James kicked the rucksack away and fumed; a smile played on Solomon’s lips, until Will finished his thoughts: “And I reckon Solomon can use a hand that’s had some fighting experience. From what I’ve seen of James and Solomon, neither one’s likely to hold up against a real enemy.”

  The wagon was a two-seater, plus one for Pa, plus the basket trunk, so Will ripped the blanket away and dropped to the floor between James’s and Solomon’s feet. He pulled his half-leg into
place since it seemed not to get the message from his brain on its own.

  Pa held the reins tight again and leaned back. “Will, thee’s sure thee wants to do this?”

  “Sure as locusts, sir.”

  Ma had a different concern. “Will Bowers, this is not a merry adventure. This is a sacred mission. Thee must not compromise the safety of Miss Elizabeth Charles’s Negroes who have dreamed all winter of making free.”

  “Ma’am, all due respect, I’ve been with John Brown over in Pottawatomie, and there’s no man on God’s earth with his eye more fixed on ending slavery.”

  James saw Ma’s lips twist. She didn’t approve of using the Lord’s name in vain, and she surely didn’t approve of John Brown. She’d grant that he was a rebel for the right cause, just as she was, but he used the wrong means. He hadn’t a qualm about wielding guns and knives and even a broadax. Ma pulled in air and gave Will one of her looks that bored to the heart of you, sure as an awl. “Guard thy inclinations, son.” She stepped away from the wagon and smiled thinly. “Caleb, be sure thee’s back in time for dinner. It shall be lonesome around our table tonight.”

  Pa snapped the reins and gave Buttermilk the signal. “Watch our dust, Mrs. Weaver.”

  “Never mind. I’ll watch for thy return, that’s what. Oh, and Mr. Weaver, don’t drive that horse as if thee were in a chariot race.”

  • • •

  Pa delivered them to the stagecoach just on time. Solomon fixed himself on the bench across from James and Will. The papers that proved he was a free man were in a leather pouch clutched to his chest.

  Pa handed James an identical pouch. “In here are legal papers proving that Solomon is a slave owned by me, and also passes entitling a slave of his description to travel.”

  “Pa!”

  “Hush, son. Thee doesn’t know what lies ahead on thy journey, and Solomon is prepared for this. One day thee might have to prove that he’s free, and another day thee might need to be a young master and Solomon thy loyal servant.”