Freedom's Call Page 4

  “That’s got to be just as bad. How old were you?”

  “Just a baby. I have no memories of him.” Her voice sounded flat and detached. “The sad part is I don’t know what I’ve missed.”

  * * * * *

  Several hours later, Brady found himself watching the grandfather clock up against the office’s far wall. Charlotte had disappeared for the last hour, but now as the clock struck four, she came bounding through the door from the shop.

  “I’d much rather be doing that than office chores,” she said with a smile as she retrieved her coat.

  “And what is that?” He gathered up some papers on his desk.

  “My sewing. I plant myself at a table at the shop’s far corner.” She tossed her hair back and put her hat on.

  “Sewing?” He buttoned his coat and stepped out together with her into the cold winter air.

  “Yes, Mr. Lovejoy has let me set up a table. He’s happy to provide the space so I can pursue my sewing on my own time. It’s a nice little setup.” She nodded her approval.

  “I see. Now you’re headed home?” He peered out at a most unwelcome slosh-filled road.

  “Yes.” Her eyes lit up as Brady approached his horse tied to a rail. “I didn’t know you had your horse here.”

  “Well, it’s my father’s. With the cold, he’s letting me save some time getting to work.”

  “Lucky you.” She approached the horse and ran her hand down his long head as Brady mounted. “What’s his name?” Her stare focused on the horse’s big brown eyes.

  “Patches. He’s got plenty of blotches of brown and white.” He patted the horse’s hindquarter.

  “What a beautiful-looking animal. Kind of flimsy bridle you’ve got for him though.”

  “Yeah, the other one broke. Had to throw this together with some rope.” Brady sat quietly in his saddle. “I’ve an idea. I could help you get home if you like. You could hop up behind me.”

  She looked down with a heavy sigh and scuffled her shoes in the slush.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You don’t know where I live.” She shook her head. “It’s way over the east side.” A hint of anticipation sparkled in her eyes when she finally lifted her face.

  “That’s OK. I don’t mind. Really,” he said with a crisp nod, her dark eyes mesmerizing him. A few seconds ago, they had been transporting her back to her home. Now they gazed up in warm appreciation. Long eyelashes and curly bangs framed them from above, while thin lips widening into a smile with dimpled cheeks framed them from below.

  “Well, all right. Let’s give it a try,” she said, and he reached for her hand as she put one foot in the stirrup, then swung her up behind him.

  “There we go.” He savored the warm embrace of her arms wrapped around his waist. They headed out, forging ahead through a January cold that now didn’t seem so bad.

  As they clopped along, he felt fortunate to be riding so high, hardly noticing some slushy snow down below. Charlotte pointed the way. With his flimsy rope bridle, he had to double his efforts with the reins. After an extended period of quiet, he asked, “So, what is it with all the sewing?”

  “Oh, that’s something I’ve always had an interest in. Mama has taught me. As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to become a seamstress.”

  “It’s great Mr. Lovejoy has let you set up a table in back. Sure wish I had a way to keep chasing my dream.”

  “And what is that?” She pressed her head around to the side, her cheek touching his, making for a warm tingling.

  “Well, I can tell you it’s not proofreading articles and setting up presses.” He gave Patches a healthy kick.

  “What is it, then?” She squeezed her arms tighter around his waist.

  “I want to be a pilot on a steamboat. I’ve been a cub pilot off and on for over a year. Just waiting for another opportunity.”

  “You mean if the chance came up, you’d drop everything?”

  “In a second.” He pictured himself cranking the wheel full starboard, the stern of the boat swinging around just as he had planned.

  But his reverie soon turned to reality. Buildings near them now stood in stark disrepair. Roofs were missing shingles, their facades revealing splintered wood crying out for paint. Broken steps no doubt made visitors feel most unwelcome.

  “I’m just another block farther down,” Charlotte said. “My mama should be home from work by now. You’re welcome to come in and meet her.”

  “N-no, that’s all right. S-some other time,” he stuttered. “My father’s probably wondering where I’m at.”

  * * * * *

  When Charlotte entered the office the following morning, she found Brady already there reading a book.

  “Good morning,” she said, then waited for him to lift his head.

  “Yes, indeed. It is a fine morning.” His eyes glistened as he pushed a bookmark into place and closed the book cover. “I brought something for you.” He held the book up. “I thought maybe we could read it together.” His probing eyes landed squarely on hers.

  “Oh, really?” She hoped her voice didn’t sound too anxious. But her shoulders slumped as she pressed her lips tight.

  “It’s something I really need to work on. I know that.” Her heart skipped a beat. Inwardly, she rejoiced in knowing her well-being was important to Brady. She hung her coat up on a pole and returned to look at the book. She opened Robinson Crusoe slowly, the spine crackling a bit beneath her touch, and felt a hollowness in her chest. So many of the words were unrecognizable.

  “I don’t know, Brady.” She sighed heavily, then took a deep breath trying to fill that hollow spot. “I appreciate you want to help me. But just when will we have time for this?”

  “Before our start here, early each morning. I could pick you up with my horse each day and bring you back home after work.”

  “Well, if I have any extra time, I’d rather be sewing in the back.” She rubbed her forearms.

  “Couldn’t that wait? Save that for afternoons after work. Do both!” His dimple appeared.

  Still frowning, she let the book close on those scarily big words and turned her gaze to his kind face. “So you’d make extra time both before and after work? Just for me?”

  “Yes, not a problem.” He leaned in with a gleam in his eye.

  How dear he was! A strange warmth heated her cheeks. “That’s generous of you. But I wish I felt better about the reading.”

  “That’s exactly why we need to do it. Plus, it’s a wonderful story you’ll enjoy.”

  Chapter 7

  As the wintry months of January and February dragged on, Charlotte felt blessed indeed to have Brady offer her horseback rides to and from work. They often used their time together to talk about the story the author Daniel Defoe laid out in Robinson Crusoe. Her reading improved. When she asked Brady about certain words, he usually knew their meanings. Other times, they talked about current happenings in the community.

  “I sure am glad my mama and auntie can teach me about the Bible,” she said as the rising sun warmed them one Monday morning. “They’ve been trying to set up a Sunday Bible school for a number of young people at our church, but they’ve run into nothing but grief.”

  “How’s that?” Brady prompted his horse with a kick to speed up his gait.

  “My friend, Malcolm, his brother, and all of their friends—they’re still slaves—not freed like me and mama.”

  “They’re still coming to church, right?” With the road now more slush-filled, the pleasing clip-clop of hooves was more like slip-slop.

  “Oh yes. But some have been fighting against teaching them ’bout the Bible. We heard there was even an editorial in Mr. Lovejoy’s old newspaper, the Times, saying slaves shouldn’t be taught religion.”

  “Really?” Brady tipped his head back, a frown pinching his lips tight a
nd furrowing his brow. “I’ll bet Mr. Lovejoy wouldn’t be happy to hear that. You should tell him. He’d probably come back with an editorial of his own in the Observer.”

  Later that day, when Charlotte discussed it with Mr. Lovejoy, he said he thought denying religious freedom was monstrous and horrible. He went on to say the paper’s attitude was shameful.

  “But you’re not for abolishing slavery altogether?” She had to ask for clarification.

  “No, the country isn’t ready for that yet.” Mr. Lovejoy stabbed a pointer finger against his desk to emphasize his words. “But they have souls as precious as those of their master.”

  “I feel so sorry for Malcolm,” Charlotte told Brady on their way home from work. “He so wants to learn.”

  “Maybe that’s where you’ll have to step in, Char.” Brady twisted slightly in the saddle to look back at her. “Who is this Malcolm, anyway? You’ll have to introduce me.” He released an uneasy chuckle.

  “He’s been a dear friend. We’ve practically grown up together. He works as a tanner in his master’s livery stable farther east by the river.”

  “I see. Maybe he could make me a new bridle? This rope one is about to fall apart.” Brady held up the reins and shook his head.

  “He’ll do just about anything for me if I ask him. He’s just a very special guy.”

  * * * * *

  Winter’s dreary cloud-covered days passed slowly. As spring approached and the sun warmed the air for more hours, peoples’ spirits rose as well. Before the workday was to begin, Charlotte sat in the printing office reading Robinson Crusoe while Brady organized some papers to review.

  “I’ve got some bad news.” His low voice broke the silence and blunted her spirit.

  She placed her finger on the word she’d just read and gave a half-chuckle. “You’d better break it to me, but be gentle.”

  “Nothing serious. Father just told me he needs the horse to help plant the crops. I won’t be able to pick you up anymore.”

  “Oh well—that’s not the end of the world. It does mean, though, more time walking and less time reading.”

  Brady stood up and stepped toward her, his eyes appearing to search for her spot in the book.

  “Are you enjoying the book?” His upturned face seemed to beg for a positive response.

  “Yes, but I must admit, some of the words are still a challenge.” She shuffled her feet, scraping the soles of her shoes on the gritty floor. “I find it interesting that Robinson Crusoe is now a slave in the story. We’ll see how he likes it.”

  “Slavery is indeed a part of the story. It was certainly well entrenched back almost two hundred years ago.”

  Charlotte remained quiet a moment, her finger pressing so hard against the page it bent backward painfully. She loosened the tension in her touch and released a long breath. “So does your father need you to help him plant the crops?”

  “Yes, I’m going to have to ask Mr. Lovejoy for some time off.” He bit his bottom lip.

  “I overheard him talking about the poor state of our finances. Sounds like that wouldn’t be a problem.” She thumbed through the book’s front pages. “Say, did you ever notice the note at the beginning?”

  “Yeah, the one to a William? I hold him responsible for my mother’s death.” He averted his gaze. “I’ve felt like ripping the page right out.”

  “But it’s part of this book’s story, isn’t it? Books take on their own stories depending on who has read them and how it has impacted their lives.”

  Brady sat quietly. “You’ve got a point. I tell you, Charlotte, you may not be well educated, but you’re perceptive well beyond your years. Since you’re taking all that into consideration, I just wish this book had a better story behind it.”

  “What do you make of the person who signed it? Parish L.” Her brow furrowed.

  “Can’t tell you anything about it.” He shrugged.

  * * * * *

  Sandford knew his mother was on the boat docked in front of him—one destined for New Orleans, so why wasn’t he rushing on board? Wouldn’t each moment with her be ever so precious? He also knew those moments might be his last. Facing that reality wrenched his heart. Will I ever see her again?

  He was drowning in guilt. In an ill-fated dash for freedom, he had tried to bring his mama with him in his last escape attempt. Yes, she slowed him down, but he couldn’t leave her behind. And now both were recaptured, with different masters, and their fates would bring far-reaching separation. He would stay near, as a steamboat steward. She would go far, as a fieldworker on a distant plantation in the Deep South.

  He finally approached her as she remained chained on the boat, one of many about to sail for New Orleans.

  “I blame myself, Mama, for all this. Trying to escape was my idea.” He lowered his head close to hers, his eyebrows pinching together. As her downcast face rose to meet his and her lips flattened, a slight whimper of anguish came from deep within. It was multiplied a thousand times over in his own heart. Her shoulders now jerked as she tried to raise her hands, but sadly, they were bound tight.

  “I know, Mama, you’d caress my cheeks if you could, just like when I was a little one. I am so, so sorry it all ended up this way.” He lightly stroked her wet face with two large fingers, dwarfing her sullen cheek.

  “My dear son. You are not to blame for my being here. You have done nothing more nor less than your duty. Do not, I pray you, weep for me. I cannot last long upon a cotton plantation. I feel my heavenly Master will soon call me home, and then I shall be out of the slaveholders’ hands.”

  She looked up, creases forming across her forehead as her owner approached. She whispered into Sandford’s ear. “My child, we must soon part to meet no more this side of the grave. You have always said that you would not die a slave—that you would be a free man. Now try to get your liberty! You will soon have none to look after but yourself.”

  Her owner came up to Sandford and kicked him with his boot.

  “Leave this instant!” he shouted.

  As Sandford left, his mother gave one last shriek. “God be with you!”

  The words echoed in his head.

  * * * * *

  On a Sunday afternoon in April, along the shores of the Mississippi just south of St. Louis, Charlotte pranced ahead of Brady. She dipped her hand into the flowing river. “Brr . . . it’s still ice cold. The bright sun lulls you into thinking it’d be warmer.”

  “Well, I dare you to take your shoes off and wade in,” he replied as he strolled along, the reins of their horse in his hand, walking behind. With his other hand, he flung a stone out skipping along the water’s surface.

  “No way, I’m not taking your challenge.” She pinched her shoulders together.

  Brady pulled the horse ahead. “We’re just about to the spot. See that big rock along the shoreline? That’s where I’d sit and watch the steamboats go by after school—that’s if I had all my chores done.”

  “When was all that?”

  “Oh, it all started when I was about ten.”

  “Then let’s stop and see what goes by. I’ll break out the crackers and cheese.” She steadied Patches and reached for the satchel draped over the saddle horn.

  As they sat on a blanket draping the rock, a barge loaded with cut wood passed before them, heading slowly north against the strong current.

  “You’d leave your job with Mr. Lovejoy to work on one of those?” She nipped a corner of her cracker.

  “Not a barge. But yes, I’d leave in a flash to work as a cub pilot on a steamboat. That’s if somebody would have me.” He grabbed a nearby stick.

  “That explosion incident still haunts you?”

  “It always comes up when I’m asked about my experience.” He snapped the stick in two. “Well, at least I have my uncle with his ears tuned to any mention of an opening. He s
ells wood to the steamboat operators.”

  A sternwheeler came around the bend heading downstream.

  “Wow!” Brady exclaimed. “Look at that beauty glide along so effortlessly. Those smokestacks, don’t they look magnificent with their billowy smoke drifting away? What I would give to be piloting her. Although, truth be told,” he snickered, “I’d prefer a sidewheeler—they’re more maneuverable.”

  “Seems like it would be fun at first.” She crumbled a bit of cheese atop a cracker and closed another over it. “But wouldn’t it get routine?”

  “You’ve got to have a heart for adventure. Around every bend is a new vista. Seems around every bend there’s a new story too. Sometimes I feel like the river is actually talking to me. One time, it will be the voice of some pilot I’ve worked with. Another time, it’s the birds squawking, telling their story. I can’t help but think about the river’s soul—how it is ever-changing. The water never stays the same—it’s always new, even though all the outward landmarks may be the same.”

  “It’s kind of like with new water comes new opportunities, right?” She gazed out into the distance.

  “You bet.” He put his arm around her shoulder and felt a rush as he pulled her tight. No doubt, Charlotte was starting to capture his heart. She was so charming, with an even-tempered personality. She was curious, willing to learn, yet already so perceptive. He turned to explore her piercing dark eyes. In the bright sun, they were especially alluring beacons on an undoubtedly beautiful face.

  A young couple strolled by dressed in their best Sunday attire. The man held a small umbrella over his lady, shielding her face from the sun’s bright rays. He looked toward Brady and Charlotte together, releasing a mocking, shaming whistle while shaking his head. After a few more strides of staring, the lady cried out with a scolding voice, “How inappropriate!”

  As if chiding from adults wasn’t enough, some small sticks began to descend from the sky, striking them on the tops of their heads. The sticks’ source was not readily apparent, but Brady soon determined they came from behind a nearby lilac bush, showing its spring buds.

  “This has got to stop,” he demanded while jumping up from the rock they’d been resting on. He ran over behind the bush and gave chase as two young boys took off giggling. His legs, however, feeling heavy, were too accustomed to desk duty and unworthy of the challenge.