Freedom's Call Page 3

  The man dashed off.

  “Stop,” Brady yelled as he tried to pursue but tripped over some of the logs. He positioned his arms underneath him and shoved himself upright just as the dark figure jumped aboard one of the scows, now empty of its load. The man scrambled to untie the securing rope. Grabbing a long pole, he pushed the scow into the current.

  Brady grimaced and threw up his arms in disgust as the small raft-like boat was soon moving well downriver. What to do?

  He grabbed the larboard railing and leaned over toward the other scow, tied directly to where the steamboat’s gangplank would rest. It was now almost unloaded, with a young boy helping another man. Brady hurried closer to the man on board, waving to get his attention. “I’ve got three dollars for you if you’ll help me catch the other scow.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” Brady could hardly hear him as the boy’s dog barked nonstop beside him. “I’m responsible for that scow too,” the man yelled. “My brother here was poling that one.” With a beefy arm, he wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving grimy brown strands of hair stuck to his forehead. “But you help me. We must first finish unloading this last stack.”

  Brady jumped on board, loaded his arms up, and then deposited the logs by the furnace. The three, with the dog, were soon in hot pursuit of the first scow.

  “I only got two poles. You’re bigger than my brother. Take this one on the right side.”

  Brady grabbed the long pole and pushed until striking the soft sandy river bottom. The pole bowed as he muscled it back. Then he lifted and pushed again. Then again. He hoped the young boy wasn’t thinking he could do it better. At least Brady could sense they were making good headway as he admired the flowing water that swirled around the pole and glistened in the sun. The other scow was still within sight, and that’s what mattered.

  “So you know that guy?” the man yelled over. One cheek bulged as he moved a wad of tobacco in his mouth.

  “He’s responsible for my mother’s death.” Brady’s lips flattened. “I want to bring him in so justice can be served.”

  “He’s angling toward the west shore. Looks like he wants to escape into the woods.” The man spit a brown stream of tobacco into the river.

  “I don’t blame him,” Brady responded. “He must feel like a sitting duck in the middle of the river.”

  The young brother sat petting his dog, now quiet. The boy’s face gleamed with the excitement of the chase.

  “With the two of us poling, we’re catchin’ up, but it won’t be in time,” the man said as he pushed his gray hat down, its brim caught in the brisk wind. “Is he a runaway slave?”

  “Suspect so, but not sure,” Brady winced with a grimace.

  Their scow pulled up to the Louisiana side of the Mississippi about ten minutes behind Sandford. A thought popped into Brady’s head, and he rotated slowly to face the boy.

  “Say, that dog of yours. Is he the kind that can follow a scent?”

  The boy shook his head. “No, Alfie here isn’t one of them bloodhounds, if that’s what you mean.”

  Brady frowned, then paid the other man and jumped off, the first step of his boot sliding off a rock into the water. No worries. Wet feet weren’t a problem.

  Thick woods with heavy underbrush loomed before him. The squawking of a gull high above overlapped the steady washing of the reed-filled shore by the flowing waters. Maybe Sandford was just hunkering down, remaining quiet in the underbrush. Brady drew his pistol. He must leave a message that he meant business. He fired a shot up into the air.

  Silence followed the blast. Echoing stillness filled the air. A whippoorwill’s weak call finally interrupted the quiet. Brady took a few steps into the dense earthy underbrush, then inhaled a deep breath of the hot sticky air. He leaned over with his hands on his knees. How daunting this task before him would be! He waved at the bugs buzzing around his head. How could he track a strong determined man through the thicket—a man fleeing what he feared was life-threatening danger?

  He kicked at the bushy tangle by his feet. This was the deep woods—not the flowing river. It was waiting to swallow the unsuspecting hunter. Today he must not be swallowed.

  * * * * *

  Sandford’s long strides thrashing inland through the underbrush stilled. The shot’s blast reverberated in his ears. Lord, so this is what it’s like to be a fugitive slave? Pushing aside a gauntlet of sumac and pokeberry branches, he pressed on toward a taller stand of cedar trees. With fewer branches clinging to his thighs, he’d make better progress.

  Soon he reached a clearing. When his momentum brought him out into the sunlight, his feet skidded. I must stay out of sight. He sprinted back toward the comforting cedar shadows, then stopped to catch his breath. Above his own heavy breathing, the trickle of a stream nearby came through. Perhaps following the stream would bring him to another river and lead him to a town. A frog croaking by the steam interrupted his thoughts. Must be telling him to go for it. Hearing no other noise behind him, he took comfort in knowing that, at least for this moment, he’d rendered a sense of defeat into his pursuer.

  Chapter 5

  St. Louis

  Charlotte felt like she’d been here before, even though Mr. Lovejoy’s office was in a brand-new location. A pile of work papers waited in one corner of his desktop. A larger stack of newspapers occupied another. Elsewhere, a thin film of dust had begun to settle. In the air, a faint scent of ink lingered. But most importantly, the man she so admired sat behind the desk—the man who had returned from divinity school to start up another newspaper.

  “I would be most grateful if you could join me here, Charlotte. I so valued your contributions at the Times. You are a great person to have around to greet people and do miscellaneous office chores.” Elijah Lovejoy leaned back in the chair behind his wooden desk, oblivious to anything on top of it. His bright-eyed face seemed most welcoming today.

  “I appreciate your trust in me, sir.” With one hand, she massaged the tingle running up the back of her neck. With her other, she brushed some lint from her lap. “But what all will you be writing ’bout with the Observer?”

  “Religion and morality. My investors think St. Louis needs a new moral voice. I’m anxious to get started.”

  “Sounds like that might work.” She flattened her hands on the beat-up desk before her. The pay would be minimal, but anything these days was most welcome. Pressing her fingertips to the wood’s scars, she peered down at her faded blue dress as she rose. A few threads already dangled from a sleeve.

  * * * * *

  Brady put Robinson Crusoe on the bed where he lay as his father entered the room. When he came in with such a serious look, it was time to give him full attention.

  “Son, we need to talk.” He sat down in a side chair as his hand made a pass at flattening some deep furrows across his forehead. In his other hand, he held a newspaper.

  “It’s been over a year now since your dear mother died. Now I know you loved her deeply, but you’ve shown no inclination to get past that accident. You went on a wild chase for the guy—that got you nowhere. Let me tell you, the world has moved on. You’ve got to stop moping in your room. You gave up on school. Well, our finances are strained. The least you could do is get a job.”

  Brady bit his lip as a pain welled up in the back of his throat. He sat up on the bed and looked his father straight in the eye. “Father, you know I’ve tried. But every time I apply for a cub pilot position, I either get rejected or I just never hear back. People are well aware of what happened with the Tecumseh.”

  “Yes, it’s unfortunate.” His father rolled the newspaper into a log, frowning at it, his head shaking. Then a deep exhale deflated his chest. “It’s fine to hold onto a dream, but there’s a point where you have to move on.”

  Brady crossed his arms in front of his chest, now tightening. He wasn’t a sluggard. He must defend his character
. “Well, you know, when I have to be one, I’m a hard worker.”

  “Yes, no doubt. You really worked hard this fall helping me get the crops out of the field. But that’s expected—you’re a part of this family. Those chores are over with now.” His father flicked the newspaper against his knee. “There’s an ad in here for a position that might fit you. Apprentice at the St. Louis Observer.”

  “Apprentice?” Brady gritted his teeth, then spewed out, “I don’t know anything about printing.”

  “Well, it says job duties include proofreading. You always did so well with English in school. And you’re a detail person, to boot.”

  He slammed his hand down on the bed. “Cooped up in an office all day? Father, that’s not me. I want adventure.”

  “You’ve managed to be cooped up in this bedroom all this time.”

  Ouch. Brady winced. His old man had a point.

  “Sometimes we have to make do. You can always keep your eye out for a cub pilot spot. Your uncle Raymond up in Alton has started supplying wood to the steamboats. He may have some connections. Look into this, please, for me.” His father held out the newspaper.

  Brady grimaced and snatched the newspaper from his hand.

  * * * * *

  When a young man came through the door, Charlotte looked up from the box of type she was rearranging in alphabetic order.

  “Can I help you?” she asked with a friendly smile.

  He stepped forward, brushing his shaggy light-brown hair to the side. His piercing blue eyes met hers. “I’m here about the apprentice job advertised in the paper.”

  “What is your name?” She set down a handful of letters gently on her desk.

  “Brady Scott.”

  She eased her chair back. “I’ll check if Mr. Lovejoy is available.” Halfway to his office, she glanced back to see if the young man’s blue eyes were following her. They were, indeed.

  Once Mr. Lovejoy consented to the interview, she directed Brady to his office. His shirttail hung out from his pants, and mud crusted the heals of his boots. He appeared a bit messy for someone seeking a job. But his wide smile revealing bright white teeth was so enchanting—surely anyone would overlook his outward appearance.

  After about twenty minutes, Mr. Lovejoy brought the young man out and introduced him as their new employee. “Brady Scott, meet Charlotte Jones.”

  “My pleasure,” he said. As he extended his arm to shake, his broad shoulders stood out on his otherwise thin, medium height frame. His handshake was firm, his hands a bit rough.

  “Brady will be helping out back in the shop setting up the press, but his primary duty will be as a final check on everything written. I gave him a bit of a test in my office, and he came through with flying colors. He’ll be starting next Monday.” Mr. Lovejoy’s tongue darted across his lips.

  “It will be nice to have some more help around here.” She batted her eyelashes as he said his goodbyes and stepped sprightly out the door.

  * * * * *

  Sandford took one last look at the harbor, then rubbed his eyes and released a heavy sigh. He was deeply depressed that his owner, Mr. Young, had hired him out to a Mr. Walker, a slave trader transporting slaves to New Orleans for sale. Sandford deemed him a “soul driver,” as they were called by fellow slaves.

  While in Natchez, Sandford was ordered to watch for the arrival of a connecting steamboat. Since a friend named Lewis worked in a store at the wharf, he headed there. Not finding him inside, Sandford checked the adjoining warehouse. There he found Lewis, his arms tied up high to a beam, dangling with his toes barely touching the floor.

  “What’s happened to you?” Sandford rushed forward and rested his hand to steady the man’s back.

  “Oh, Sandford, it’s you. This is payback, my friend. I made one last visit to my wife without gettin’ the OK.” He swallowed hard.

  “What? Where is she?”

  “Six miles down the road.” He gasped for breath. “Sold to someone else.”

  “And this is what you get for it? Unbelievable!”

  “No, there’s more. Fifty lashes too.” He moaned, and his eyes closed.

  A man, who appeared to be Lewis’s owner, came into the room. Approaching with a grimace and flaring nostrils, he blurted out, “Just what do you think you’re doing here, boy?”

  He struck Sandford atop the head with his cane, drawing blood, and instantly, memories of being beat about the head while working as an apprentice for Mr. Lovejoy rushed in.

  * * * * *

  Headed for New Orleans aboard the Carlton, Sandford struggled to avert his gaze from the Spanish moss along the shoreline. He must instead watch over the suffering humanity behind him. He was responsible for sixteen slaves, both male and female. They were chained two by two on the boat’s first level in an area secluded from other passengers. He positioned a stool before one man and instructed him to kneel before him. Sandford opened a straight blade, sat on the stool, and grasped the slave’s face to give him a shave.

  “This won’t do,” Sandford remarked when finished. “Boss said if there’s still gray whiskers showing, I’ve got to hide them.” He opened a container filled with black pitch-type paste and smeared it over the man’s gray stubble. Then wiped him clean with a towel. “There—that’s better. Now, how old are you?”

  “Best I know, fifty-four.” The man rubbed his cheeks. “But maybe you scraped some years off.”

  Sandford closed his eyes and breathed in slowly as his chest tightened. How could the man have a sense of humor under these conditions? The deep breaths didn’t help ease the hurt squeezing at his chest, so he refocused on the man before him. “Boss says if anybody asks, you’re forty-two.”

  “Yes suh.” The man nodded.

  Once in port, after ensuring all the slaves were dressed properly, Sandford brought them to a pen where prospective buyers could review them. One of the hardest parts for him was encouraging them to look happy.

  He raised his arm and yelled out for their attention. “Listen, all of you. If you can sing, I want you to sing nice and loud. Don’t worry about how it sounds. Or if you can dance, you must go out and dance. Jump around and look like you’re happy, any way you can do it.”

  Seeing tears in the eyes of those pretending to be something they were not brought tears to Sandford’s eyes. He gripped the wire pen so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms.

  But the worst part was the heartbreak of seeing them sold to a multitude of interested buyers. Only God knew what sort of life lay ahead for them.

  Chapter 6

  Brady sat shivering at a desk in the Observer office early in January. Ever since the accident, he was always reluctant to throw another log into the stove. His task for the morning was to review copy for the following day’s newspaper. An article titled “The Missionary Enterprise” intrigued him.

  “So, Charlotte, have you ever been on a mission trip? Elijah has written about it here.”

  “No, I have not. But someday I hope to.” She pushed a file drawer closed.

  “This second paragraph seems unclear, though. Here, you read it.” He held a paper out toward her. “Tell me what you think.”

  Charlotte squirmed in her chair and rubbed the back of her neck. “Oh, well . . . I’m not a good one to ask, Brady. I have enough of a challenge keeping the files straight alphabetically.”

  “No problem. I’ll take care of it.” He leaned back with his hands behind his head. “So, I never asked you about your Christmas. I hope it was better than mine.”

  “Spent a nice peaceful one with my mother and auntie at home. What happened at your place?”

  “It’s not what happened. It’s what didn’t. It’s the second year now without my mother. I miss her more than I can put into words.” He tried to direct his thoughts back to the good things about that fateful day—breakfast with both his proud
parents, climbing the steps to the sun-drenched pilothouse, his firm grip on the wheel. But then those visions were soon taken over by the horror on peoples’ faces, the leaping flames, and bodies floating in the water.

  Charlotte interrupted his wandering mind. “You never told me how she died.”

  “Boiler explosion on a steamboat. This guy kept stoking the fire when the boiler was low on water. Don’t know what was going through his head.”

  “That’s sad. So you can’t get past it?”

  “Nope. I keep getting these little reminders. All the ‘’cause it’s you’ sayings of my mom’s keep running through my head.”

  “ ‘’Cause it’s you?’ What do you mean?” Her head tilted to the side. He so adored the twinkle in her eyes when she was inquisitive.

  “Like ‘you’re sure to inspire ’cause it’s you I admire,’ ” he continued.

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed.

  “You see it all goes back to some hearing problems I had early on as a young boy. I had trouble distinguishing some words. She’d come up with these phrases with similar words so I would learn to tell them apart. I’d spend hours every week repeating phrases back to her.”

  “Interesting. So now you’re better with your hearing?”

  “Much.”

  “You always seem to listen carefully to what I have to say.”

  “I try.” He bit down on his bottom lip as they pondered in silence.

  Charlotte stared over at him until his eyes locked on hers. “Well, any way you look at it, no way a guy should lose his mother as a teenager. I’ve had to get past not having a father in my life.”