Freedom's Call Page 6

  She retrieved the pot as well as a cup for herself. As she poured, she asked, “So, what boat you been a steward on?” Then she sat in a chair across from him, cup of coffee in hand.

  “The Chester out of New Orleans.”

  “That a sidewheeler?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “My husband and I took a boat to N’Orleans once—seems like ages ago. I think it was called the Tecumseh.”

  Sandford’s face froze.

  “I know that boat. I once worked it,” he confessed. His head shook back and forth in regretful musing.

  “Bet your time was special.”

  Sandford remained quiet.

  She swirled the coffee in her cup, gripping the pink and white china in both hands. “Being a steward . . . that must be purty easy.”

  “To be honest, some days I feel like I’m just some fellow Friday working for Robinson Crusoe.”

  “Some what?”

  “Never mind.” He stared vacantly off into the distance.

  “Easier than workin’ the fields, right?” She took a big swig of coffee.

  “You bet. I’ve done both.” Images of his mother and sister flashed into his head. “Yeah, that’s what I fear my mama and sister are doing right now—way down South somewhere.”

  “Bet they work hard as any man.” She slowly eased back her chair, as if foreshadowing a new topic. “What else you done?”

  “Well, I’ve prepared other slaves and herded them into pens at the ports to be sold.”

  “Other slaves?” She paused. “That’s kinda strange.” A smirk twisted those wrinkles across her face. “A slave herding other slaves? Interesting—”

  “What?” Sandford jerked his head up, exploring her eyes.

  “Yer one of them what they call fugitive slaves, ain’t you?”

  Sandford fidgeted and dropped his spoon, but didn’t answer.

  “I knowed it!”

  His face froze in a grimace as he pushed his chair hard from the table with a screech he was sure was louder than any the woman ever heard. But then came quiet. In the distance, barking of dogs punctuated the thick silence. Sandford leapt to his feet, anger choking his throat as coffee spilled all over the table.

  “Yer the second one this month I seen pass through,” she crowed with a whine.

  He lunged toward the door.

  “No sense rushing out. Cuthbert will be here right quick. Me and guns don’t work so good together, but me and him do.” A smile crinkled her face. “He knows to make a beeline for the house when I put a lantern in the window upstairs.”

  Sandford bolted into the cold mist of the early January morning. Behind him, the old lady stood in the doorway yelling, “Fetch, find, found. He’s a lovin’ his hounds.”

  Shivering seized his body. Was it from the cold or the yowling of her voice that howled as bad as the dogs?

  Chapter 10

  Having returned to the Observer office, Brady sat with Mr. Lovejoy and Char, telling them about Theodore Weld’s lecture. With animated arms, he punctuated his description of the abolitionist’s talk. “For such a simple-looking man, he sure had soaring oratory filled with passion.”

  “I expect you took copious notes, Brady.” Mr. Lovejoy tapped his desktop, the sound thudding through the room.

  “Yes sir.” Brady crossed his arms.

  “Because I want you to write the article’s first draft. Then I’ll review it and add my own touches.”

  “All right. Just so you know, I may not be able to replicate Mr. Weld’s passion.”

  Mr. Lovejoy’s finger stilled. “And why’s that?”

  “Well, I’m more of a neutral observer. I’m still formulating my thoughts on all this.”

  At his comment, Charlotte frowned, then turned away.

  “Just write it. We’re supposed to be objective. If need be, I’ll add the passion. I’m good at that.” He smirked. “Can you have something by tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Sure, you can count on it.”

  “Well, I’ve got plenty of other work to do, so I’ll be in my office with the door closed.”

  As their boss left, Charlotte remained staring at Brady.

  “What?” he finally asked.

  “I can’t believe you.” Her lips pressed tight.

  “You know I want all blacks to have more rights and to be treated well,” Brady said. “I just don’t know how we get there.”

  Charlotte rubbed the back of her neck.

  “You won’t believe how a black man has ruined my life, Char. I ran into this fellow who was a steward on the steamboat I took to Cincinnati. I was interviewing to become a cub pilot for Captain Price, and he messed it all up. My dreams are dashed once again!”

  “That’s a shame. Does Mr. Lovejoy know you were looking for a new job?”

  “No. My heart has always been with the steamboat. He and you both know that, but I didn’t tell him. The opportunity just presented itself. After all, I’m just an apprentice here.”

  A gentleman came through the front door and approached Charlotte’s desk.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Owen Lovejoy. Is Parrish available?”

  “Parrish?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “I’m Parrish’s brother. That’s what we call him within the family. Is Elijah available? I’ve brought him a roll and just wanted to visit a short time.”

  “Well, good to meet you, sir. I’m Charlotte, and that’s Brady over there. I know he’s quite busy, but I imagine he can make time for his brother. I’ll check.” A few moments later, she waved Owen to Mr. Lovejoy’s office, then disappeared into a back room.

  She returned with the copy of Robinson Crusoe and a broad smile. “You won’t believe what I figured out about this book.” She waved it in the air over her head.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Lovejoy signed it.”

  “No! How can that be?”

  “Look for yourself.” She opened to the inscription.

  “It’s signed ‘Parrish L.’ We now know who Parrish is.”

  “Really! Can’t believe it.” He grabbed the book from her hands. “Amazing. So this book was signed by Mr. Lovejoy, but who is this William he gave it to?”

  “We’ll have to ask him directly.” She looked back at his office. “But only after Owen Lovejoy leaves.”

  Once Mr. Lovejoy was free, they both charged into his office. He sat with a smirk on his face, his tongue contentedly tracing his lips after his last bite of sweet roll. Brady blurted out, “Sorry to bother you, sir, but do you remember this book I saved from the Tecumseh disaster? Looks like it has your signature in it—Parrish L.”

  “No! Let me see that.” Mr. Lovejoy snatched the book and fumbled to find the spot in the first few pages. “You’re right. This is the one I gave to William. Unbelievable.”

  “Who’s William?” Charlotte queried.

  Brady reached for a chair and sank into it. Charlotte remained standing, her arms crossed. Mr. Lovejoy went on to explain that William was Sandford’s given name, but it had been taken away from him by an early owner. While he served as an apprentice with Mr. Lovejoy and Charlotte at the St. Louis Times, the book became a useful tool to help him learn to read and write. Mr. Lovejoy had signed it “Parrish,” using his second name, to match using a different name for Sandford, namely William. The two had laughed about it at the time—both using an alias.

  “Sandford was a real gem. I was so fond of him,” Charlotte mused with gleaming eyes. She related to Brady how Sandford had been the most wonderful person to work with. But after a fight with some local boys and a beating by one of their parents, he’d been forced to leave to recuperate.

  “I do not know his whereabouts. But I sure wish I did,” she lamented as a grim twist overtook her mouth.

  In a daze, Brad
y let his chin lower to his chest. His shoulders drooped as his arms fell over the armrests, lifeless.

  “Brady, are you all right?” Mr. Lovejoy half-rose from his chair.

  “Incredible,” Brady muttered. “I think I’ve recently run into that guy.” He exhaled loudly as he shook his head.

  “Where’s he at? Tell us!” Charlotte beseeched, her eyes brightening as she leaned over Brady.

  “I wish I could.” He buried his head in his hands.

  * * * * *

  Sandford’s chest heaved as he came to a staggering stop. The tree trunks surrounding him were of great comfort. Like good friends, they would guard him, keeping the howling hounds away.

  Wouldn’t they?

  His heart fluttered. Of course not. But what now? It would take more than a few minutes to recover from the relentless running. His weary legs finally said enough, and he slumped to the ground. He rubbed his numb hands and blew into them with what little breath he could summon. Icy sweat trickled down his ribcage.

  Would it be best to stay in friendly confines or go back to the road? Shafts of the sun’s rays were now finding their way into the woods. Sweat beaded like morning dew on his forehead. His eyelids felt heavy. Was it from eyelashes crusted over with frost, or was he just that tired? This was the time he was supposed to be sleeping. No, he couldn’t stay here. He must find another barn—one where a friendly owner wouldn’t cater to the likes of a bounty hunter with bloodhounds chomping at the bit.

  He staggered to his feet and trudged on past the trees through the high brush. If he should die in trying to become a free man, so be it. One hour of virtuous liberty was worth an eternity of bondage.

  One thing was for sure. He must resist thoughts of feeling sorry for himself. Visions of his mother and sister slaving in the fields took over. How were their bodies holding up? Were their backs bearing red stripes from a whip when bodies couldn’t keep up? Oh, how in his solitude he missed them—now so far away. He said a prayer.

  The dog yapping carried by the wind became louder. He wasn’t moving fast enough. He pushed the briars and bramble aside with renewed vigor. Back to the road, he must go. Finding his way there was the only answer. But each stride felt more wobbly as his legs were weak and he teetered on numb feet.

  The shadows gave way to a brightness. Following the light, he sensed a clearing. Could the roadway be just ahead? Yes, there it was. Praise God. Would this be his path to safety?

  The rhythm of clomping hooves in the wind told him a rider would soon be upon him. He looked back at the bend in the road. No sign of them yet. Should he dart back into the woods? No. Soon the rider appeared, and the rhythm continued unabated. The rider passed without a word.

  After what seemed like two miles down the road, Sandford came upon a man working on his fence. In the distance behind him stood a red barn with a white farmhouse, a row of stately trees protecting its west side.

  He had no choice. He must risk talking to the man. “Kind sir, I am a steamboat steward who has fallen into hard times. I am freezing and tired. Could you see it in your heart to let me sleep a few hours in your barn?”

  The man did not respond immediately but finished tightening the barbed wire around a post. He then set his tool down and cast a look to the sky before staring into Sandford’s eyes.

  “I sense you are a good man. You sound like one, anyway. I don’t want to know anything about your background. Yes, you can stay in the barn, but if I find you’ve stolen something, I’ll come after you. Understand?”

  “Bless you, sir. Mister . . . ?”

  “Riggins.”

  “Believe me, don’t worry about the stealing.” The last thing I want is another person chasing me.

  * * * * *

  Sandford had hoped the inside of the barn would be warmer. But getting out of the wind was a most welcome benefit, even though it meant trading fresh air for musty barn air. His eyes darted from one corner to another, trying to identify objects, but they were all shrouded in darkness. A single window high up in the back of the loft was the only source of light. Could he muster the strength to climb up there? Imagining the soft hay that must await him above, he strode toward the ladder.

  As he looked down to find the first rung, a narrow shaft of light caught something familiar in a wooden box behind the ladder. He had seen his father use them. An animal trap, taking a winter hiatus, collected dust in the box. Thinking nothing further, he took a few steps up the ladder. Then he heard the very muffled howl of the hounds in the distance. Wait—it’s either me or them, is it not? He stepped back down and pulled the trap from the box, studying in particular its release mechanism. But what to use for the bait?

  The faint smell of the sausage he had put in his pocket wafted up into his nostrils. No, he needed it for later. How could he forgo the sustenance of that piece of meat on a hunch some hound dog might be attracted to the trap?

  He pulled the sausage out of his pocket and opened the napkin around it. How could something so dried and shriveled look so appetizing? For a few anxious moments he froze with indecision. Then he returned it to his pocket. But five seconds later, he dug it out once again. He took a bite and attached the remaining piece to the trap.

  Sandford positioned the trap just inside the front door. With new energy, he mounted the ladder to the loft to find a spot in the hay. How sweet would the smell be, and how soft would the hay feel under his weary head.

  Sometime later, a pounding of nails around the front door awakened him from his brief sleep. What was happening? Was Riggins securing the door so he couldn’t get out? Had he outsmarted him with his own kind of trap? Who would get there first, the bounty hunter with his dogs, or the local lawman?

  Chapter 11

  Brady was in no mood to be spending their day off making this little journey. He had to admit, though, it felt good to have Char right behind him, her arms clutching his belly, as they rode atop Patches on their way into the country.

  The gentle clomping of the mare’s hooves on the hard-packed roadway and the warmth from the sun high above brought some peace, but not enough to settle his troubled mind.

  “If Malcolm did anywhere near the job he did on this bridle, I’ll be so pleased,” Charlotte offered.

  “We can only imagine,” Brady mumbled.

  “I’ve decided this is the thing I want you to spend your money on. That was so generous of you to offer to buy me a really special gift for my birthday.”

  “What? Wait. Why didn’t you say something earlier? I don’t have much money with me.”

  “That’s all right. I’m sure Malcolm’s boss won’t mind if you pay him later. They’ve been good family friends for a long time. I can’t wait for you to meet Malcolm.”

  As they entered the shop, Malcolm peered up from his workbench. He set down his tool, stood, and walked over to greet them; his bright smile framed by a handsome black face.

  “Malcolm, I’d like you to meet my good friend, Brady.”

  Malcolm extended his arm to shake, but Brady looked down.

  “I’ve heard a lot about your talent,” Brady mumbled as he searched the floor with his eyes.

  “Thanks. Let me show you what I’ve made for Miss Charlotte here.” He yelled out, “Samuel, will you bring the saddle over here, please?” Samuel picked up the saddle near a far wall and carried it over.

  “This is my older brother, Samuel,” Malcolm said. Brady nodded as the young man handed Charlotte the saddle, his smile revealing a chipped tooth.

  “Oh my, Malcolm, it’s beautiful! What a rich color. See, Brady, this is small enough to fit behind yours, and it’s English style without a horn. This was Malcolm’s idea.” Charlotte’s face radiated as she stepped over to pat Malcolm on the back, drawing a modest chuckle from him.

  “Very nice, Malcolm,” Brady said. “You’ve obviously pleased Charlotte.” Brady turned to Samue
l. “Your brother seems to know what he’s doing, doesn’t he, Samuel?”

  “No doubt ’bout it. Wish I could do that!” Samuel beamed.

  “How much do we owe you?” Brady asked Malcolm.

  “Boss said it should run about fifteen dollars.”

  Brady’s heart rumbled deep. The twenty-five dollars his father had given him from his mother’s savings was long gone. He dreaded thinking about in whose pocket that money now resided.

  * * * * *

  That he would lay awake tossing and turning didn’t surprise Brady. Two years was not a long time to forget something as traumatic as the explosion and his mother’s death. But why did this fellow Sandford or William—whatever his name was—play such a central role in his life? He’d never forget him. Nor could he forgive him. But by all accounts, he was not an evil fellow. He didn’t deserve to die. Brady shuddered thinking how easily he had handed over a significant sum—twenty-five dollars to help fund some bounty hunter’s relentless pursuit. Money that was once earmarked for Charlotte.

  It was better to think of something less upsetting, like watching the shoreline of the river glide by and reading the river with a head full of experience. There was nothing like hearing the steamboat’s whistle or the pilot call out, “Stop the starboard wheel. Bring her around.” How rewarding it was to feel the stern come around right where she was expected to. Order on the river was supposed to happen, not chaos. That’s what life on the Mississippi was all about. Bringing order to an ever-changing vista. Would he ever be in that pilothouse again?

  * * * * *

  Riggins finished pounding in the last of the nails securing his barn door. No doubt, he felt sympathetic to the stranger’s plight. This was a free state. Slave or not, the man didn’t deserve to be chased down like an animal. He gathered up his toolbox, remaining nails, and boards, and took one final look as far as he could see. The light wind carried a faint howling. Off to the west, where the view of the long road going by his place ended with a bend, there was no sign yet of the dogs.