Freedom's Call Page 5

  Chapter 8

  Cody Cuthbert’s ma slammed the kitchen cupboard door, rattling its splintered frame.

  “Don’t you take that chicken yet, Jeb Cuthbert,” she warned his pa as she scurried to the stove, a scowl on her face. “It’s still half raw,” she bellowed with her nose turned up.

  “Enough of yer fussin’, Sally. It’ll be fine for the dogs. I’m in a hurry. You took too long pluckin’ them feathers. Long as we can pull the meat off the bones. Now drain off that water so we can get at the meat.”

  Ma poured off water into the rust-crusted steel sink, then got a plate from the cupboard. She plopped the carcass on the plate and tried to pull off strips of meat. When that didn’t work, she grabbed a knife.

  “You realize we gotta make dinner out of this too? Never heard of dogs getting fed before people,” she muttered while shaking her head. She shoved the plate with meat on it at pa, who right off headed outside. He returned with a small pail in his hand, the plate covering its top.

  Cody strode over to look under the plate. “Glad you’re not feeding that to me,” he said while making a choking noise in his throat.

  “Zeke and Buddy, they’ll love it.” Pa shoved a wad of tobacco into his mouth. “They don’t care how pink it is. You heard yer ma. She can cook what’s left some more.” He grabbed two leashes from a nail in the wall, and Cody followed him out the door.

  “Do you reckon Buddy’s going to be a fast learner, Pa?” Cody grabbed for the pail’s handle.

  “I ’spect so. If he’s half as good as Zeke was, he’ll have earned his keep. Zeke, for a bloodhound, he’s getting purty old. Who knows, he may just sit this one out.”

  A few steps from the door, they were greeted by the two dogs, tails wagging and mouths yapping. Not even a late afternoon May sun could brighten up Zeke’s gray hair, in contrast to Buddy’s reddish brown.

  “Pay attention now, Cody. Guard that pail. Don’t let them get their snoots in there.” Pa attached the dogs’ leashes. “Now take off your shoes and give me the socks.”

  “I only got one sock on, Pa.”

  “All right—just give me that one, then. Now, I’m goin’ to start out with Zeke to show Buddy how a good dog does it. Gotta be able to chase down them runaway slaves.” He leaned his head back with a smile and sang out, “Fetch, find, found. I’m a lovin’ my hounds,” while shoving Cody’s sock into Zeke’s nose.

  “I’m holdin’ the dogs here, Cody, while you take the pail with you. Go hide way over yonder past the wheelbarrow behind them pine trees. When Zeke finds you, I want you to give him a nice piece a chicken for a reward. Got it?” He spit out the side of his mouth as if there were no two ways about it.

  Barefoot Cody trudged with the pail toward the trees. Passing the wheelbarrow leaning on its side, he gazed down at the broken wheel sitting crooked on its axle. Had been like that for over a year.

  After a few minutes, he heard his pa cry out, “You all set? I’m sendin’ him.”

  Moments later Zeke was pushing his nose into Cody’s hand. Cody reached into the bucket for a couple of choice pieces of chicken. Zeke gulped them down in seconds, and then pa called Zeke back.

  “OK, right quick I’m goin’ to send Buddy.”

  But Cody waited longer than expected.

  “No, not that squirrel! Go see Cody! Go see Cody!” came his pa’s yell. While waiting, Cody peered into the bucket. His nine-year-old’s curiosity was not to be denied. He soon had both hands deep into the chicken, comparing the texture of the still-pink white versus dark meats.

  Buddy finally came charging around the corner of the pine trees and found Cody. He clamped down on both the chicken and Cody’s hand.

  “Aaargh!” Cody screamed out. “Pa, he’s got my hand and won’t let go. Help! Pa . . . help!”

  His pa came running. “Can’t you get nothin’ right, boy?” he said while trying to pry Buddy’s jaws loose from Cody’s hand. “What did you do? Tease him with it?” he muttered, a scowl darkening his face and pulling down his bushy eyebrows.

  “No, Pa. I didn’t do nothin’.” Cody held his hurting hand up with the other, looking at a small wound.

  “We’ve got some work to do with this one yet.” Pa pointed to Buddy. With his boot, he took a half-hearted swipe at the dog’s ribcage, then scowled at Cody. “What’s a’matter with your hand? Don’t be fussin’ over a tiny spot of yer blood.” Pa grabbed the pail. Cody trotted after him, with Buddy by his side sniffing his hand as they walked back toward the house. Pa was in a different world, chanting, “Fetch, find, found. I’m a lovin’ my hounds.”

  * * * * *

  As the year 1833 wound to a close, God put Brady on the steamboat Chester on the Ohio River. It had Brady pinching himself. He now had the opportunity to corner Enoch Price, owner and captain of the boat, about a cub pilot job. True, Elijah Lovejoy had sent him to Cincinnati to listen to an abolitionist named Theodore Weld, but that job opportunity wasn’t what had his blood pumping on this chilly afternoon.

  “Who are you?” came the gruff greeting after Brady knocked on a door in the officers’ quarters later that afternoon. The man continued to button his dressy shirt.

  “Brady Scott, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, Captain Price, sir, but I was inquiring about a cub pilot position.”

  “How’d you find me?” His eyes narrowed and squinted.

  “Well, my experience has made me quite aware of the layout of exquisite vessels such as this, sir.”

  “Is that so?” A smile formed on Mr. Price’s round and ruddy face. “My pilot did say something about a possible spot a couple weeks ago.” He paused in thought while he worked to insert a cufflink in his sleeve cuff, perhaps in preparation for a night on the town. He looked Brady up and down. “I like your determination. We’re in port another day, so meet me here tomorrow afternoon at 3:00 p.m. sharp. We’ll sit down with Pilot Jenkins.”

  “On New Year’s Day, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I expect Jenkins will have a clear head by then.” He turned with a chuckle and closed his door.

  * * * * *

  At the appointed time the following day, Brady sat with both gentlemen in the captain’s stateroom. Brady put a hand down to steady his twitching knee. He felt cramped with the three of them all together in a small, albeit well-kept, room. Mr. Price’s husky frame overshadowed his tiny metal desk as he sat behind it.

  “So, you were saying, Brady,” the pilot inquired while leaning back in his chair, “you’ve plied the waters of the lower Mississippi. Tell me, on the first major bend north of Natchez, what’s the unusual thing a pilot needs to watch for?”

  “Well, there’s a sandbar, sir, that seems to disappear, but then when you least expect it, there it is again.”

  A knock on the cabin door interrupted them. A black steward holding a tray with hot tea entered, a white serving cloth draped over his arm. Dressed in dark pants with a server’s vest, he poured three cups of tea and walked back to the door to depart. Brady did not get a direct view of his face, but his sideburns appeared vaguely familiar.

  “Thank you, that will be all,” the captain said to the steward. “There are many passengers disembarking today, so please help them with their luggage.”

  “Yes sir,” the steward responded, closing the door behind him.

  For the next half hour, Jenkins quizzed Brady about his experiences and knowledge of the Mississippi River. Captain Price returned to his desk, seemingly to attend to other matters. Jenkins was leaning back in his chair with a contented smile when someone banged on the door and burst right in.

  “Captain!” a man blurted out with shortened breath. “You won’t believe this. Sandford has taken off. I saw him lug some passenger’s big trunk on shore. Then, in the midst of the crowd, he just turned and took off for the woods. He didn’t come back.”

  “What? I can’t belie
ve it! Seemed to be a good man. I just bought him last October.” He cast his eyes down, his head shaking. “We always take a risk when we come to free territory, but I sure didn’t expect Sandford to take off.”

  “Sandford, you say?” Brady almost leapt from his chair. “I thought he looked familiar. I was a cub pilot on the Tecumseh with him. Got grounded on a sandbar. He stoked the fire, and it blew up. My mother was just one of many who died . . . ” His voice trailed off.

  “Oh . . . ” Jenkins jaw dropped, and the room became dead silent as Brady’s shoulders slumped.

  What have I done? Brady closed his eyes, wincing his defeat. Blurting out all those details! What must be going through their minds now? An overwhelming heaviness pushed him even farther down into his chair. He rubbed his temples while closing his teary eyes. Deep within, his chest trembled. Tales of being blacklisted were no longer just tales—they were coming true. Then the conversation swirling around him came back into focus.

  “I must get this man back.” The captain slammed his fist on his desk. “Who has any ideas?”

  “You need to send somebody after him, sir,” Jenkins said.

  “A bounty hunter?”

  “I’m afraid so. It will cost you some money, depending on what you think he’s worth to you.”

  As if reminded he was still there, the captain waved a hand. “Oh, Brady. This new matter has come up. We have some other candidates we’re considering. That will be all for today.”

  Brady had sunk so low in his chair, he felt glued to it. He couldn’t move. Images of that fateful day filled his head—suffocating steam, burning staterooms, and fleeting, fear-struck faces. Worst of all, his mother’s rigid body lying on a cold church basement floor. He couldn’t say a thing—anger choked his throat. Now there was no doubt. Sandford had cost him in two ways—not only was his mother gone, but also his dreams of piloting a steamboat were gone as well.

  Seemingly oblivious that Brady had not yet departed, the captain continued, “I’m willing to pay good money just to get him back. Do you know someone in this business, Jenkins?”

  “There’s a man right here in Cincinnati with a reputation—Cuthbert I think his name is.” As the bearer of this relevant information, Jenkins seemed to be bouncing on his toes. “He uses bloodhounds. We’ll have to find something with Sandford’s scent.” His eyes scanned the room. “His serving towel over there should work. Do you want me to try to locate Cuthbert?”

  “I assume that means he brings him back alive, right?” The captain’s lips pressed together in a slight grimace.

  “That’s always the plan going in.” Jenkins wrinkled his nose. “But you are aware, Captain, according to, I believe Section 32 of the law, if he resists capture with a counterassault, it’s legal to kill him.”

  “Heaven forbid. I hope that doesn’t happen.” He shook his head and looked to the ceiling. “Anyway,” he resumed, “I’ve got one hundred seventy-five I’m willing to pay. Go find that Cuthbert guy who’s got the bloodhounds.”

  “Make that two hundred,” Brady piped in. “I’ve got twenty-five to add to the pot.”

  Chapter 9

  The following evening, Brady sat in a daze in the back row of the church whose name he had already forgotten. This is why he had come to Ohio. Mr. Lovejoy wanted him to hear Theodore Weld lecture, so the Observer could feature him in an article. Weld traveled farther west than any other champions of the day promoting abolition.

  Brady tried hard to push out flashes from the previous day—how had he actually been in the same room as the man whose deeds he felt compelled to avenge. Sandford, now a fugitive slave.

  Before him at the lectern stood a man in simple attire, but with a powerful voice. Claiming he had a direct responsibility to God rather than some church or organization, Weld noted he felt most comfortable in his “John the Baptist” attire.

  He spoke of mounting stories of the maltreatment and deaths of slaves. One such story involved a slave in New Orleans accused of stealing meat who was driven into a harbor by a mob and ended up drowning. Other stories depicted the sale and separation of children from their mothers.

  But more than the cruelty and maltreatment, Weld was concerned about their freedom. Slavery destroyed their humanity—he even called it a “death stab” to their souls.

  For the entire evening, Weld’s flowing oratory soared. Some in the audience thrust their fists to the sky, their cheeks shining. Brady felt his own pulse jump. But others jeered with clenched jaws, their angry eyes bulging with disapproval.

  * * * * *

  A day later, hunkering deep in the woods by some sumac bushes, Sandford munched on several crackers he’d brought. He thought well of himself for having at the last minute carried along some provisions, as well as a tinderbox for making fires. But when icy shudders persisted in running up his spine, he regretted not bringing an overcoat.

  A thin veil of snow covered most of the trees and their branches but melted underfoot, leaving slippery mud. And since the sun had long set and darkness enveloped him, he felt confident in heading out. Tonight the sky was quite clear. Finding the North Star shouldn’t be a problem. He followed a path and cautiously stepped onto the main road. His eyes on the sky, he soon found the bright star that would lead him to Cleveland. From there, perhaps Buffalo. Then Canada and freedom. Sandford repeated the word out loud. Who cared if he was a fugitive slave? He was on his own on a journey to freedom. Hallelujah!

  The clatter of a horse-drawn carriage approaching from behind startled him. He hurried to the cover of the woods. Dare not risk meeting anyone, much less talking to them. As he crouched, the wind carried a wolf’s distant howl. At least it sounded like a wolf.

  The carriage passed, and when it was well beyond the view provided by the half moon, he resumed his journey. And so he continued mile after mile, often blowing in his hands to warm them. When he slipped on the icy surface of the hard-packed roadway, the energy exerted regaining his balance helped him feel warmer.

  After what he figured must be over a dozen miles, he came across a farm not far from the road. The dim early morning light revealed a barn bleached gray from years of exposure. Behind it, farther back on a hill stood a two-story clapboard-sided house facing a stretch of road to the south.

  With the morning about to break, he’d best find shelter again rather than brave the daily activity of a gaggle of folks whose trustworthiness was unknown. Hopefully, he could spend the daytime hours sleeping in the barn’s upper loft, the soft hay providing a pleasant respite from the poking of sharp branches in the woods.

  He creaked open the back door, and the smell of a place where barnyard animals called home was welcoming. But a familiar odor was not enough to make him comfortable. He was still a trespasser in someone else’s barn. How often had black trespassers been shot without question? His thoughts were interrupted by a woman coming around the corner with a lantern in one hand, a rifle in the other.

  “What you doing, mister?” Her voice, stern and unwavering, carried in the clear morning air.

  “Oh, you startled me, ma’am! I-I mean no harm. I was just hoping to find a quiet place to sleep.” He peered down at the short woman. The lantern light shone upon her heavily wrinkled face with sunken cheeks and highlighted the frizz around gray hair pulled back and tied.

  “Well, breaking in ain’t the way to do it, boy. Where you from?”

  “Cincy. I’m on my way to see my sister in Cleveland.”

  Hoisting the lantern higher, she scanned him from head to foot. “Fancy pants and a vest?” A sneer spread across her face. “Don’t see them on the likes of a person of your sort.”

  “Oh yes. I work as a steward on a steamboat. No time to change before I left. My sister came down sick real sudden.”

  “Well, you seem to talk OK.” She paused. “I s’pose yer hungry too. I got some leftover oatmeal in the kitchen if you want it.�
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  “Yes, I’m very hungry. Much obliged.” Sandford felt uneasy about the strange woman, but like a puppy obeying its master, he followed her to the kitchen. Dim morning light from a small frosted window did little to brighten up the large space.

  “Set yerself down there.” She pointed to a square wooden table with four chairs. She put the rifle down only long enough to dish up some mush from a pot on the stove. The old lady deposited the bowl with a spoon and napkin on the table. She looked back at another plate on the counter. “Well, ain’t you a lucky son of a gun this morning. Just happen to have a leftover sausage looking pretty lonely over there on the counter.” She moved the plate to the table. “Coffee?”

  “Yes ma’am. I’d love a cup. Thank you.”

  As she poured the coffee, she said, “I have to go upstairs a minute. I’m going to trust you to stay in your seat and not move. Ya know, these ears of mine can still hear real good. They can pick up the slightest screech of a chair. Don’t even think about movin’ that chair out, not even an inch. Got that?”

  She grabbed both the lantern and rifle and headed upstairs. Sandford stared at the sausage. Cravings from his stomach growled loud and long. But no, he’d need something later. He wrapped it in the napkin and tucked it in his pocket. He leaned back, feeling safe from the winter winds, whose shrill shrieking through the window cracks would rise and then fall silent. Then the footfall of the lady’s imminent return startled him.

  “Where’s your husband?” he blurted out as she stepped back into the kitchen.

  “None of your business,” came her steely reply as she gripped the rifle tighter. Sandford’s eyes escaped the penetration of hers by focusing on the few remaining bites in his bowl.

  “That were good, weren’t it? I do pride myself on my cookin’.” The first smile he’d seen from her flashed across her face. “More coffee?”