Freedom's Call Page 10
“Well, I’m not so sure I’m your guy. What are you up to?” Brady held his breath as his brow pinched tight together.
“I’m runnin’ away.” Samuel squeezed his eyes shut as he leaned back.
Brady popped his leery head up above the crate to double-check for unwanted strangers. Now what?
He chewed on his inner cheek, then finally stammered, “Oh, of course. I should have guessed.” He edged in farther and kneeled between the crates as Samuel moved back. Brady craned his neck. “Is Malcolm with you?”
“No, he’s got good work. Besides, he’s got a girl too.” He smiled, revealing a chipped tooth.
How could Samuel smile right now? Brady frowned. “Is your master after you?”
“Yes suh. I saw him get on the boat.” Samuel’s eyes blinked rapidly.
“Criminy.” Brady had no choice now. He squared his shoulders and took a deeper breath, already feeling lightheaded from the shallow ones he’d been taking. “We’ve got to hide you better till we get to Cairo. You’ve got to get off there.”
“Cairo? Why’s that?”
”Switch boats. You want to get to Ohio, not Louisiana.”
“You can say that again! The land of liberty.” Samuel looked off into the distance, his eyes gleaming.
“First, we’ve got to figure out something—a better place for you to hide.” And if anyone knew these boats, Brady was the one. He rubbed his suddenly throbbing temples. “There’s a closet up on the main cabin deck. Where they keep the brooms, mops, and supplies. That should work. Cleaning is all done for the day. You should be safe there. Tell me, what’s your owner look like?”
“Tall, thin, kinda old. Gray hair, but not much left on top.”
“OK, I’m going to see if the way is clear. Wait here till I come back and get you. I hope he’s not like a lot of other men wearing a hat today.”
About five minutes later, Brady returned with a large box.
“Here.” He passed it to Samuel. “You carry this and follow me. You need to look like you’re working for me. Don’t worry—it’s not too heavy.”
“Yes suh. Whatever you say.”
They marched up the stairs to the cabin level, then inconspicuously headed aft by the wheelhouse where Brady opened a closet door.
“Stay inside here until we get to Cairo. That’s three more stops. Pay attention and listen. I’ll try to come back and check on you then. Here, I’ll take that box back with me. Doesn’t look like you have much room in there.” He swooped it from Samuel’s arms. “One other thing. When it’s time to get off the boat, be careful. Chances are your owner will be watching by the end of the gangplank.”
Samuel stepped into the closet, and Brady closed the door behind him.
* * * * *
Samuel didn’t much care for dark closets, especially if you were stuck inside one. For one thing, they were just too dark. Far better to be able to see the friends you were cozying up to. For another, they were crowded. On this occasion, he had to make company with mops, brooms, dustpans, and pails. Of course, that was really only in his imagination—he couldn’t actually see them. No room to lie down, or even sit, for that matter. But the worst part was the odors. How is it the stuff that’s supposed to clean is the stuff that has such a strong smell?
He hoped Brady had given him good instructions. Get off at the third stop. And now, after two stops, Samuel anxiously awaited the third. He could feel a slowing down of the vibration driving the paddlewheels rhythmic churn. This must be the stop coming up.
The closet door sprang open, and the sudden flash of outside light blinded him. All he could see was the outline of a short boy. After a few seconds, the boy’s features became clearer. Slightly plump, he was a young white teen with a round face and short-shorn brown hair. His eyes bulged, and he took a step back—probably scared to see Samuel’s big white eyes popping out from the dark.
“Don’t be ’fraid, boy,” Samuel said, taking a wary half-step out of the closet. “I’m just hidin’. I won’t hurt you. I’m Samuel. What’s your name?”
“David,” came out softly. The boy’s wary eyes seemed distant and unfocused.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be leavin’ right quick. This must be Cairo, right?”
“No,” he said after a slight delay while shaking his head.
“No? Then what stop is this?” Samuel scratched his cheek.
“Wood,” the boy mouthed slowly.
“Ah.” Samuel nodded. “I got it. Are we stoppin’ for wood?”
David nodded his head up and down but said nothing more.
“Didn’t we get loaded up with wood in the last big town?” Samuel asked with an uncertain tone.
“Pine.” His eyes looked distant.
“Pine? What’s you talkin’ about, boy? Help me out here.”
“Burns too fast.” A gleam sparked in the boy’s blue eyes.
“Oh, I think I’m followin’ you now. When we picked up wood the last time, it was pine, and that burns too fast. We need hardwood now. Is that it?”
David’s head bobbed up and down with a big smile. He then reached for a mop and pail and set them outside the door. Turning around again facing Samuel, he put his hand on Samuel’s chest and pushed him farther back into the closet.
David shut the door. The walls of total darkness closed in on Samuel again. He yelled out through the door, “Thank you, David. You’s just like me—a child of God too.”
Chapter 17
Brady peered out at the great brooding river stretching wide before him. The morning’s heavy dampness had given way to a much lighter afternoon. His heart felt lighter, as well. Stops at Chester and Cape Girardeau and one more for wood had been short. Now he anxiously awaited the Cairo stop and transfer to another steamboat. He made his way to the closet where Samuel was hiding. He knocked softly on the door. No response.
Opening the door, he found nothing but brooms and mops. No Samuel! Brady hurried to the larboard side where he could view the gangplank being lowered on the level beneath him.
One of the first people off was a tall elderly man with a balding head—he must be Samuel’s owner. But what had happened to the young man with the chipped tooth?
* * * * *
Brady kept trying to push the thought of Samuel away. He would board the Randolph and look forward to its departure up the Ohio River early in the morning.
Before dawn broke, he awoke with an urge to check out the main level storage. After all, this was most definitely a trip to secure a printing press for Mr. Lovejoy, not a dash to liberty by someone he barely knew. According to the schedule, this boat would turn around and carry the press for the return leg from Cincinnati. Brady now walked among the skids. Just as the day before, a low voice hailed him from between the crates.
Brady turned and whispered, “Samuel, is that you?”
“Yes suh, Brady. Followed you from a distance.”
“How did you get off the other boat? I saw your owner watching for you.”
“I ain’t good at much. But I kin swim! Waited till dark to dive off the other side a the boat.”
“Well, good for you. No wonder your clothes still look damp.”
“Can’t ’magine my master chasin’ me more.” A playful grin spread across his face.
“How’s that?”
“I just ain’t worth that much to him!”
* * * * *
Disembarking back toward home with the press from Cincinnati went smoothly. The wooden crate, surrounded by others on the Randolph’s main deck, was totally inconspicuous.
Once underway, Brady headed up to get better views of the marvelous river, figuring the crate was only at risk during port stops. He now pondered the steps to the pilothouse. Should I march right up to say hello? He could act as if he were right at home there and make astute comments about the river, re
ading the current, offering intelligent conversation with the man in charge.
When he poked his head through the door, a young man, looking even a few years younger than him, was doing that very thing, not letting the interruption stop him.
Brady listened for a moment until the pilot finally turned and asked, “Can we help you? This is a private area, you know.”
“Oh, just saying hello,” Brady mumbled as his spirits sank low, and he hurried to leave, tripping on the step down.
* * * * *
During the stops at Louisville, Henderson, and now Cairo, Brady had sat atop the press crate with his musket in hand. The only attention he got was stares from several deckhands. One finally stopped to talk.
“Must be somethin’ special,” the middle-aged black man queried, no doubt hoping Brady would be in a talkative mood.
“Yes, it is,” Brady responded. “I’m here to make sure nothing happens to it.”
“Where’s it going to?” He raised curly eyebrows.
“Alton, Illinois.”
The man lifted his head higher and looked around. “I see. Won’t you tell a fella what’s inside? Makes me curious.”
“All right. I guess it won’t hurt telling you. It’s a printing press.”
“What’s it for?”
“Prints newspapers.”
“Oh, I can’t read, so I wouldn’t much care about it. Why’d anyone want to hurt it? What would they do to it, anyway?”
“People might want to throw it in the river. Presses have landed in the water before. Those people don’t like what the newspaper says, and that’s their foolish way to object. But it’s meant to help people like you.”
“Ya don’t say! And the folks who want to throw it in the water—they’s the people who can read? Blazes!”
“Well, I’d say a lot of them can’t read newsprint, either. But they sure can read emotions on the faces of a rowdy crowd getting worked up all around them.”
* * * * *
As deckhands secured the Randolph’s moorings upon arrival in St. Louis, Brady took his vigilant spot atop the crate. Of all the towns, this one most worried him. Surely, some malcontents were still around from Mr. Lovejoy’s days at the St. Louis Observer.
A great commotion could be heard a ways off as many people disembarked via the boarding ramp on the starboard side. Moments later, others came on board. Brady felt a bit isolated until three men approached.
“What are you doing guarding that crate, bud?” one asked as he drew closer.
Brady gripped the stock of his musket tighter.
“Wouldn’t happen to be a printing press headed to Alton, would it? Let me see the writin’ on the side.” The man came closer, then circled around it.
Brady’s eyes widened, but he kept them focused on the men in front of him.
“None of your business,” he replied.
Then a sudden blow to his head from behind knocked him dizzy. Two of the men each grabbed an arm and yanked him off the crate, his musket flying.
Brady went crashing to the floor. He tried to get back up on a knee but a swift kick of a boot to his stomach left him breathless. His lungs gasped for air.
“Don’t beat him up too bad, Bill. He’s not much more than a kid.”
“A kid whose thinking is way off kilter. Seems to me that head needs a good straightening out, if you ask me.” He kicked at Brady’s head, his boot coming away shining wet, blood on its tip. A continuous barrage of swinging legs and boots struck him. Brady feared his head would explode.
“Enough, Bill!” one of the others yelled, trying to pull him off.
Another kick, and once more. All went dark.
* * * * *
Charlotte sat with Mr. Lovejoy in the hospital room where Brady was kept. He lay still with his eyes closed. She blew her nose in her handkerchief, wishing that it would somehow take away the antiseptic smell as well. She stood up to pace but soon found herself collapsed back in her chair, her heartbeat now throbbing. Why did I wait so long? Now it took an event like this to reconnect them.
“I don’t understand why he’s still unconscious.” She stared at Mr. Lovejoy. “If we can believe the report, it’s been almost twenty-four hours since those thugs laid into him.”
“Yeah, they really must have hit his head hard. But he’s a tough fellow—resilient. He’ll come around.” His nervous clearing of his throat did not inspire confidence.
She released a deep sigh as she reached to smooth Brady’s bedspread, the warmth seeping through from his body reassuring. “Right now I’m really feeling bad about how things fell apart between Brady and me.”
Mr. Lovejoy moved closer, sitting down right beside her. “I must admit, I never took the time to talk to you about it. Do you care to tell me?”
She cast an appreciative smile back to him. That was so typical of Mr. Lovejoy—always concerned about others. “To answer your question, I guess there was a moment when I thought his heart wasn’t really into freeing us black people.”
“I know he was always very fond of you—that’s for sure.” He patted her on the knee.
“Yeah, I have felt that, no doubt. But he was never at ease around any of my friends or even my mama.” She lowered her head and closed her eyes, remembering him squeezing out of her mama’s hug.
“Maybe as a younger boy, he just never really had any black people in his life.”
“Could be. Or might be because he keeps blaming Sandford for his mother’s death. But that was so long ago.”
“Well, maybe he’s changing, and it just takes time. Looks like he’s willing to put more than his heart and soul into our cause. Now we see he’s even thrown his body into it. Just look what he’s gone through.” He released a heavy sigh.
Chapter 18
The blurry visages of the two people staring at him were becoming clearer. His question, “Where am I?” prompted a response from Mr. Lovejoy.
“The hospital in St. Louis.”
“You look a bit rough,” Charlotte added with a half-smile while standing next to the bed and leaning over him. Brady hoped the smile part was because she was happy to see someone she still cared about.
“Your head looks like a big apple bruised all over,” she continued, then chuckled. “No way would I take you home from the market.”
“How did you find me?” He tried to sit up, but the pain in his stomach said no.
“Well, when the press didn’t show up, we figured we’d better come down and look for you. Managed to just catch a steamboat coming this way.”
“And the press?”
“I think you know.” His boss touched Brady’s arm, a sad glint in his eyes. “Another one in the river.” His voice trailed off, his eyebrows pinching together.
Brady wanted his own eyes to go back out of focus. Oh, how he wished he didn’t have to see the pain covering Mr. Lovejoy’s face!
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve let you down.” His voice trembled slightly as he turned away, for the first time noticing other patients lying in beds across the room, scant light from a side window leaving some in shadows.
“Not all your fault, Brady. I’ve underestimated the resolve of the people we’re up against. It all just makes me more determined. We’ll get another press up to Alton one way or another.”
A nurse came in and shoved a thermometer into Brady’s mouth, then checked a bandage over his eye. A moment later, she said, “Temp is coming down near normal.”
“Nurse, may I talk with you outside?” Mr. Lovejoy asked.
Once they had left, Charlotte spoke up. “It’s been a long time, Brady.”
“Yeah, since I last had any sort of connection with you.” He took in a deep breath. “So, tell me. If you found that bruised apple in your satchel, would you throw it out?”
“Of course not. There’d be plenty of
good apple underneath.”
Brady’s eyes welled up.
She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I might be kinda hard on myself for not taking better care of it, though.”
“That can apply to lots of things besides apples,” he replied. “It’s too bad more people don’t think about what’s underneath the surface.”
“You don’t have to tell me that!” She remained quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, Brady,” she continued. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I know you care more about me and my people than I gave you credit. I do realize for you it’s more than just freedom of the press.”
“I always hoped there was a future for you and me.” His searching eyes focused on hers.
“I know there was a time we had something special.” She pushed his bangs off to the side. A narrow shaft of light revealed a shiny dampness around her eyes.
Mr. Lovejoy returned to the room. “Good news,” he said. “The nurse asked the doctor when you could get released. Does tomorrow sound soon enough?”
“Terrific,” replied Charlotte, somehow beating Brady’s words echoing the same thoughts.
“I hope I can walk out of here,” he added with a snicker.
“I’m hoping you’ll consider returning to Alton.” Mr. Lovejoy placed a hand on Brady’s sheet-covered knee, and as he stood there, the weight and warmth of his touch and words pulsed so far past the bruises. “The battle has a ways to go yet. God definitely needs a warrior with us like you, Brady. Please come back and join us.”
* * * * *
Nationally, Mr. Lovejoy was obtaining increased popularity and stature. Local resistance to the Observer, however, remained strong. He went to his financial backers and offered to resign, but when a consensus opinion could not be reached, he remained editor. As a means of covering the cost of a new press, he made an appeal, through the help of the Alton Telegraph, to subscribers and others for financial help. The fifteen hundred dollars he needed soon came in, and he ordered another press.
“I’m going to need your help again, Brady,” Mr. Lovejoy said upon arriving at the office one morning. “But this time, I won’t ask you to be a guard—just be a watchman. Be vigilant on the boat so you can pull in others as needed. I’ve enlisted the help of a pilot named Carson, who previously had years of experience in law enforcement. On this end, I’ve convinced Mayor Krum to assign a constable to get the press from the boat, once at the wharf, to the safety of a locked warehouse.”