Freedom's Call Read online

  Meanwhile, he’d sit in a rocking chair on his porch and do something worthwhile—a good opportunity to sharpen his tools. But before starting, he’d secure his shotgun and have it at the ready. Who knew what was about to happen?

  About a half hour later, a haggard-looking man with a floppy hat and four-day beard approached his porch, a piece of towel dangling from his belt. The man’s dog pulled at its leash, his howling making talking difficult. The air grew menacing.

  “What’s your business?” Riggins yelled out.

  “Quiet now, Buddy. Time to quit your yapping.” The man tried to hush his dog with a sharp yank on the leash, a rifle in his other hand. “I’m chasin’ down a fugitive slave. Gonna bring him back to his master.” He spit off to the side, a toothpick somehow still twitching at the other side of his mouth.

  “Well, I’ll be.” Riggins dropped his file and tool into their box and lifted his shotgun to his lap. “So, where’s your other hounds? Heard more than this one all morning.” He rocked back slightly in his chair.

  “Sad story. Had to leave him by the side of the road a ways back.” The man shook his head. “Couldn’t keep up. His time was done.” He tilted his head back. “Fetch, find, found. I’m a lovin’ my hounds,” he sang out. His dog strained toward the barn. “So, you seen a slave hereabouts? Buddy’s saying he’s real close.”

  “Can’t say as I have, but then we are a free state, so I don’t pay attention. I’ve had some theft of late. Had no choice but to nail shut the barn door.” The creaking boards under his rocking chair revealed another spot in need of nails, but not today.

  “Is that so? You wouldn’t mind if I looked around, would ya?”

  “Well, it is my private property, ya know. Maybe I don’t want you a meddlin’ in my stuff.” His hand clutched his shotgun tighter.

  The man’s eyebrows lifted as a sneer formed across his grizzled face. He raised his hat and scratched his head. “Ya don’t say. Well, I’m not a bettin’ man.” He spit, and the toothpick twitched. “But I am willing to bet you won’t risk your life over me just takin’ a gander in that barn over yonder.”

  The rocking chair stopped. After an extended silence, Riggins concluded the man was right. No sense taking risks.

  “Well, I s’pose it don’t hurt for you to take a look. But I ain’t helpin’ you. If yer that determined, you’ll have to break in yerself.” He resumed rocking. “I’m staying out of it.”

  The man stormed toward the barn, echoing his apparent favorite refrain with a sing-song rhythm: “Fetch, find, found. I’m a lovin’ my hounds.” After a moment, he yelled back, “Ya got a crowbar?”

  “Inside the barn,” Riggins answered while turning away with a smirk.

  During the next half hour, Riggins figured he’d never heard as many curse words fly out of a man’s mouth.

  * * * * *

  “It’s so much more comfortable to have a saddle back here, Brady.” Charlotte gave Brady a gentle squeeze on his shoulders from behind. They were on their way to her house after a full day at the newspaper.

  “Good thing Mr. Sinclair said I can pay him a few dollars each month.”

  “Mama’s going to be so happy to have you fix that wobbly table leg. In fact, she insists you stay for dinner.”

  “I suppose,” he mumbled. “I did tell my father I’d be late.” He gave Patches a kick, and the horse responded with a faster gait.

  Soon they arrived at the small brown house. The wooden stoop creaked as they stepped up through the front door. Another thing to add to Brady’s list, Charlotte thought.

  Mama hurried over to give Brady a big hug. He looked like a small wiener lost in an oversized bun, hoping to get squeezed out.

  “What’s the matter, Brady? Don’t you like a little lovin’ from my mama?”

  Brady responded only with a hard swallow, averted eyes, and a half-smile.

  “So good to see you again, Brady,” Rosetta proclaimed with a big grin as she took a stride back. “Charlotte has nothing but good things to say about you. Hope you can fix this table.” She gestured with a heavy hand laid atop the table, and it wobbled mightily.

  “I’ll do my best. I brought my hand drill and some extra screws, but I’m no cabinet maker.” An almost too-quick smile flashed, then disappeared.

  “No worries,” Rosetta said. “Just so it’s sturdy and you’re done by dinner time. Wouldn’t want all my fine fixin’s to end up on the floor, would we?” A heavy laugh escaped from deep within her.

  “Oh, Mama. Don’t put any pressure on him. So, anyway, what sort of fine fixin’s are you fixin’ to make?”

  “Chitlins with collard greens. Then I already baked a sweet potato pie settin’ on the counter over there.”

  “Mmm. Oh, Mama. I can’t wait. God only knows how much I Iove that.”

  “Anything for my sweet child and her good friend.” She removed a lid from a pan and stirred.

  “Well, Mrs. Jones, pie sounds wonderful. The sooner I get your table fixed, the sooner we’ll all get a piece. Char, will you please help me turn it over on the floor?” His lips pressed together.

  Once Brady got started with the table, Charlotte joined her mother to help prepare dinner.

  “Mama, you wouldn’t believe the article Brady wrote for Mr. Lovejoy,” she whispered into her mother’s ear. “About some of the ridiculous laws our people been suffering with over all these years.”

  “Is that right?” her mama said loud enough for Brady’s ears to perk up, as he was rather close by.

  “I was braggin’ about you, Brady.” Charlotte turned to him with a big smile.

  * * * * *

  No sooner had they sat down to eat, Mrs. Jones asked Brady about the laws impacting her people.

  Brady looked down at his plate, glad he could talk a moment and not dig right in. He couldn’t decide which looked less appealing. For sure, neither aroma was winning him over.

  “If we lived in Virginia, for example, Charlotte here, even as a free colored person, would be subject to twenty lashes if she went to a school to learn to read or write,” Brady said. “She and I have been working together on that.” He ventured a small bite of the collard greens and chewed cautiously.

  “Here in Missouri,” Charlotte piped in, “somebody like Malcolm, if he disobeyed his boss, could be thrown in jail for as long as his boss felt necessary.”

  Mrs. Jones just shook her head back and forth. It kept shaking as she lowered her eyes to Brady’s plate.

  “Land sakes, boy. You must not like my cookin’.”

  With a slight squirm, Brady looked down at the chitlins he had pushed off to one side. “Sorry, Mrs. Jones. I’m not all that hungry today.” After a few moments of probing eyes from both Mrs. Jones and Charlotte, he admitted he wasn’t used to this kind of food.

  “Mama.” Charlotte tapped her mother’s hand, drawing her frowning attention. “On a more cheerful note, I have some exciting news about Mr. Lovejoy. He’s getting married!” she squealed.

  “Oh, when?” Brady sat up straighter.

  “April. Can’t come soon enough!”

  “What’s her name?” asked Mrs. Jones, her eyes sparkling.

  Charlotte’s face radiated. “Celia Ann.”

  “Oh, that’s a pretty name,” came her throaty note of approval.

  “First, he finishes seminary. Now he plans to get married. Sounds like he’s got his life pointed in a positive direction,” Brady added.

  “Yeah, if only the newspaper was doing better,” Charlotte mumbled. “With little advertising, he says we’re losing money each month. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep us on.”

  “I liked it better when you were talking about the wedding, Char.” Brady leaned back in his chair, the thought of food having escaped his mind, to his great joy.

  Chapter 12

  Not until m
idday on his sixth day of travels did Sandford realize a long time had passed since he heard the howling. Leaving his sausage on the trap he had spotted in Riggins’s barn must have done the trick. If only his jump from the upper window had not resulted in a sore ankle that slowed him down. And now a heavy cold rain drenched him. He became a walking icicle and could go no farther. Fortunately, he found another barn in which to take shelter. But for that and the providence of God, he figured he’d have frozen to death. He prayed that God would also provide some friendly soul to rescue him. By nighttime, he had dried out enough and gathered the strength to forge on.

  But his stride now seemed shorter. His legs numb, he could not discern a difference from the feel of his movements. Nor, looking down, could he detect it visually in the dim starlight. But he knew it. Each step, indeed, was getting shorter—more precious and dear.

  Along the road, a horse-drawn buggy approached. He ducked back into the woods. Soon thereafter, a man on horseback appeared. I must be getting closer to where more people live. Sandford started to call out, only to have his voice fade, overtaken by doubt and fear. But now, when an elderly man leading a white horse approached, he had another sense—this time warming his heart. The man wore a distinguished hat and long overcoat. He must be the person I’ve been hoping for.

  “Are you a slave?” His voice was like an angel’s, floating in on ice crystals, melting with grace.

  “Well, er, I am sick. Do you know anyone who could help me?” Sandford’s face tightened.

  “But are you a slave?” Truth—that’s no doubt what the man’s eyes searched for from beneath his broad-brimmed hat.

  “Yes sir. I am.” There, I have said it. A pain lingered in the back of his throat. “Can you please help me?”

  “What is your name?”

  What name shall I use? “William is the name given me by my mama, but since a child, everyone’s called me Sandford.”

  “All right, William. Let me tell you what I’m going to do. I want to go home and get my covered carriage. Wait right here. I’ll be back.”

  After the man departed, William paced at the edge of the woods. Could this man be trusted? Would he return with the authorities to arrest him and whisk him away? Dashing his hopes for freedom? I would rather die than go back to slavery!

  After over an hour of fretting, William watched the buggy slowly pull up. He tentatively stepped inside, settled into his seat, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back. They were underway, together. What had been a constant tremble to his hands now eased.

  “What’s your last name?” the man asked.

  “I don’t have one I use, sir.” He thought about how he’d rather be called Friday than take the name of one of his masters.

  Upon arrival at the man’s house, William hesitated to go in, but couldn’t say no to the entreaties of the man’s wife. As he sat by the fire while the lady prepared some food, his feet burned with revitalized circulation. He could not help but think of the passage from Matthew in the Bible that said: “For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in.” Jesus had finished by saying, “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me” (Matt. 25:35–40).

  William was summoned to the table and sat dumbfounded when he realized a white woman was actually serving a black man. He worried that he might not be polite enough, then found his head slowly shaking in disbelief. At first he could not eat, but after a while, he was able to reacquaint his stomach with the benefits of nutrition.

  The old man raised the question of his last name. “William,” he said, clearing his throat. “My name is Wells Brown. What shall we call you?” He leaned in, bright-eyed.

  “Well, sir, since you are the first person in a long time to befriend me, I’ll give you the privilege of picking a name. I do, however, insist on retaining my birth name, William.”

  “I’m happy to name you after me then.” The man’s face beamed.

  “I like the sound of William Wells Brown.” William took a deep satisfied breath. “So be it.”

  He ended up staying with the Browns about a fortnight. They made him some clothes and bought him a new pair of boots. Upon leaving, he reflected on how kind they had been, how they had treated him as if he were their own child. He hoped he would run into others as nice on his way to Canada.

  I am a free man now! His pulse raced, and he felt a lightness in his chest like never before. If only his mother, sister, and friends could experience such a feeling as well.

  Chapter 13

  Summer 1834

  Late on a quiet July afternoon, bold shafts of light shone through the newspaper office window. Brady sat at his desk reviewing a copy for the next day’s newspaper. Charlotte was in the back working at her sewing table.

  A middle-aged lady with a bonnet and voluminous skirt sashayed through the front door. Marching right up to Brady, she demanded, “Where’s Charlotte?” as she collapsed her sun parasol brusquely.

  “She’s still in the back, ma’am. Should be done pretty soon. May I ask what this is about?”

  “Word around town is she has some new gadget she sews with. I must see it.”

  “Well, why don’t I go ask her if she has some time to visit with you?” He offered a pleasant smile.

  “Ask her? No, I’ll go right to her, myself.” Her eyebrows drew closer.

  “But ma’am, if you don’t know where you’re going, you might soil that pretty dress of yours. Printing is done back there with a lot of black ink. Heaven forbid if you got some on you.”

  “I can take care of my dress just fine, thank you.” She reached down to adjust it at the waist. “Just tell me where to go.” She forced a parting smile.

  “Go through that door, veer right, and head to the far corner.” He pinched his lips together to stop a heavy sigh. “She has a table there.”

  * * * * *

  Charlotte raised her head up from reviewing her customer list. The woman approaching looked like she belonged at a parade, not the back of a workshop.

  “Charlotte Jones?” The woman deposited her parasol on the desk.

  Charlotte cautiously answered, “Yes ma’am. And you are?”

  “Francis Dithers. I hear tell you have some sort of machine that sews. Is that true?”

  “Yes ma’am. It’s over there on the side table. Mr. Lovejoy got it for me. I just put it away for the day.”

  Mrs. Dithers’ brow furrowed.

  “Otherwise, I’d show you how it works. I was just going over my customer list here.”

  “Let me see that.” Mrs. Dithers snatched the list from her hand. “I’m a seamstress too, if that’s what you call yourself. You better not have any of my customers on your list.” She held the list close to a lantern on the table and perused down.

  “Well, I’ll be!” She gave a gasp. “Mrs. Bixby is here . . . and there’s Mrs. Riley. Oh no! Denise Witherspoon—she’s a good friend of mine.” She slammed the list back on the table. “I should say she was a good friend of mine.” She stomped her foot and looked away.

  “I’m sorry to upset you, Mrs. Dithers, but I ask you to think about it a minute. There are times when a machine like this can save a person both time and money.” Charlotte nodded affirmatively trying to sway Mrs. Dithers’ feelings.

  “How’s that? Nothing can compare with the artistry and quality of my hand stitching. I take great pride in it.” The woman held her chin high, followed by a heavy sigh.

  “That may be true, but on many occasions, time is what matters. I can charge my customers less this way.” Charlotte tried to offer a conciliatory smile.

  “Fiddlesticks! I’ll take hand craftsmanship over a machine any day. You must stop stealing my customers! Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Mr
s. Dithers. Sometimes we just have to change along with how the world is changing. We may not all like it, but it usually benefits most of us in the end.” Charlotte figured that pretty much said it all. This was all minor compared to other changes that needed acceptance.

  “Well, I, for one, do not like it.” Mrs. Dithers grabbed her parasol, turned with a huff, and stormed out. “Not one bit!” was her parting remark.

  * * * * *

  As Brady sat in the newspaper office awaiting the arrival of Mr. Lovejoy from an out-of-town trip, he fretted over his latest copy of the story. The happenings of the previous day had been so monumental that his retelling, even though based on first-hand accounts, couldn’t do the event justice.

  Mr. Lovejoy stormed through the door. “I never knew human beings could still be so barbaric,” he said, his eyes wet and swollen. He clutched at his collar to loosen it. “Burning another human being at the stake? This isn’t the dark ages!”

  “I know,” Brady said. “I got sick just listening to people retell what happened. I’ve tried to recapture it in this draft of an article.” He banged his knuckles on the copy laying on his desk.

  “I just passed by the site, and people told me that afterward, boys were throwing stones at the remaining skull, trying to see who could break it first.”

  Brady shuddered, thinking back to the days when he was such a stone thrower, not too unlike these boys. Shame. Nothing but haunting shame ravaged me from within. There was no other way to think about it. He slumped deep down into his chair.

  “Let me see what you’ve written.” Mr. Lovejoy gazed around the room, then reached for the copy. “Where’s Charlotte?”

  “When I stopped by to pick her up, she said she was so upset she couldn’t come to work today.”

  After several minutes of reading while still standing, Mr. Lovejoy tossed the copy back onto Brady’s desk. “This needs more passion. I’ll have to work on it. I’ve got plenty of that now.” He stomped to the window and gazed out. “Do we know anything more about the circumstances? How did McIntosh’s killing the police officer come about?”