Freedom's Call Page 9

  “Yes, this is Cave-in-Rock. They’re all up in there. Come with me.” Her eyes pleaded.

  Watching his steps through the rocky terrain, Brady followed, occasionally looking up to admire the huge cliff set back along the shoreline. Carved into the cliff was indeed an imposing cave. He approached an opening about fifty feet both height and width. Ledges on each side, however, restricted entry. When he stepped inside after the woman, his eyes had a hard time adjusting to the darkness.

  The front of the cave was spacious and open. Brady imagined some bats flitting about in the far reaches overhead. The lady led him farther in where some others were talking. Their voices hushed as Brady approached.

  A burly man strode forward and greeted him. “Hello, welcome.” He stroked his bearded chin, then extended his hand to shake, and Brady obliged. “This is our family,” he added with a sweeping gesture of his arm. “Call me Jack.”

  The flickering light of a couple lanterns revealed several men’s intense eyes glaring back at him. Another took a swig from his liquor bottle. There must have been eight of them, with no other women or children. A distinct stench seemingly trapped in the cave forever filled his nostrils.

  “So, who are you?” The words seemed to harden beneath Jack’s steely stare.

  “Brady.” He offered a slight smile. “Brady Scott.”

  “What’s you got with you?” Jack spit down in front of Brady’s boots.

  “What do you mean? On my scow out there?” He motioned toward the river. A couple of fellows stepped to the cave entrance, guarding against any fast exit.

  “Yeah, I need you to list everything.” Jack’s jaw protruded as his eyes latched onto Brady’s.

  “Well, I’ve got mostly wood, but also eight sacks of cornmeal.” Brady’s shoulders tightened.

  “That’s all?” The width of Jack’s grin seemed to match his level of disbelief.

  “Oh, also a case of dried beef.”

  “Hmmm. Sounds pretty tasty.” He licked his lips.

  “Listen, I can’t share much of it. It’s committed to a steamboat—the Cumberland.”

  “Well, ain’t that nice. I hate to disappoint all them steamer folks, but what if I was to tell you I need it? I need it all.”

  “What do you mean?” Brady brought a shaky hand to his forehead. “You’re not telling me you’d just take it, are you?”

  “I said I need it all. Oh, but not the wood. Got plenty a that.” Jack rested his hand on the hilt of a long knife sheathed on his belt. His fingers continued to massage the nub.

  “Are you saying you’re g-going to st-steal it?” Brady’s voice stammered.

  “Oh no. I’ll pay you for it. I ain’t no thief. Let’s see, eight bags of cornmeal and a case a beef. I’d say that’s worth about fifteen dollars.” He lifted his chin high.

  Fifteen? At least that was better than stealing. Brady ran a hand through his hair. “But I paid over twenty.”

  “Ain’t that a shame? Fifteen dollars it is.” He drew from his pocket a ten-dollar bill and some coins.

  Brady turned to the woman who ensnared him in this trap. No sign of compassion softened her face. A smirk took hold as she looked away.

  * * * * *

  Hours later, Brady caught up with the Cumberland. Jim and Carl worked to tie the scow firmly to the side of the steamboat while it was still in motion. A strong breeze made the task more difficult as it kicked up some choppy waters.

  “Glad to see you again, Frank,” Brady shouted out.

  “Where you been, Brady?” Frank the deck leadman yelled back. “We were gettin’ mighty low on wood.”

  “Sorry, I got held up. I’ve got plenty of wood for you here.” Brady slid his pole out of the way below the far gunwale, as Jim and Carl started unloading. “No food, though.”

  “What? No food? Captain already told me he’s been a tastin’ that beef.”

  “Well, I guess he’ll be disappointed, won’t he? I couldn’t help it. Had to sell it along with the cornmeal to a gang along the way.” Brady stepped up on to the steamboat.

  “That’s a shame.” Frank shook his head. “So how much do we owe you for all the wood?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “I got only a fifty and some smaller bills. Was expectin’ to pay for a lot of food too.”

  “I’ve got some change.” Brady yanked the fifteen dollars he’d received from Jack out of his pocket and handed it over.

  Frank was about to pocket it but then stopped—something must have caught his eye. He took a moment to examine the ten-dollar bill and coins, then moved closer to a nearby lantern.

  “Woo-eee, Brady. You must have stopped at Cave-in-Rock. I hate to tell you this, but I’m ’fraid you been snookered.” He winced, his nose wrinkling.

  “What? What are you talking about? You must be pulling my leg . . . ” Brady twisted away with a cringe.

  “Nope. Sorry, but this money is counterfeit. I can’t accept it.”

  “Let me see it.” He snatched the money out of Frank’s hands.

  “Most people ’round these parts knows all ’bout them river pirates back there in the cave. People stay wide and clear of it.”

  “Wouldn’t you know I’m the one person who didn’t know that.” He sighed. “’Course, I’m new to these parts.” Brady shook his head. “I’ll have to make change with my private stash.” He pulled some bills from behind his sock. He then returned to the scow and slumped back into his seat.

  “Sorry to be bringin’ you the bad news.” Frank paused to count his money again, then resumed. “Well, maybe I can make up for it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Pilot Tillman wants to talk to you about an opening as a cub pilot.” His lips parted to make room for a slow smile.

  “I’ll say you’ve made up for it!” Brady jumped back up on board the steamboat and spun around to his helpers. “Wait for me here, boys.”

  The waters calmed for the first time that day. The sun, now low in the sky, cast an orange glow out upon the newly serene surface.

  Chapter 15

  A week later, as the Cumberland came upon the first major point north of Memphis, prospective cub pilot Brady asked Pilot Tillman how he wanted to approach it. The late afternoon sun glistened off gently rippling waters ahead. No other boats were in the vicinity. “That’s up to you, son. That’s why we’re going through this little exercise.” He scratched the grizzly gray whiskers covering his chin. “I want to see what you know and how much of a gambler you are.” A slight giggle escaped through the gap of a missing tooth.

  Brady had been along this part of the great Mississippi a few times before, and there was a reef projecting out from the point. Late summer meant lower water levels. Should he go extra wide to show he was careful, or tight to show how much he really knew about the river? He wanted to demonstrate what he really knew. With a steady grip, he turned the wheel starboard and several moments later announced, “I figure we’re at about eight feet here, sir.”

  Pilot Tillman gave him a condescending look. “We’ll see.” He tugged on the sounding bell rope and poked his head out the pilothouse window looking for a black-faced deckhand.

  “Hey, darkie,” he yelled out. “Go get me a depth reading off the stick. And make it snappy!”

  Soon a shout out of “eight and one half” came back from the deckhand.

  Pilot Tillman rotated to Brady. “Pretty good, son. Off by half a foot.” He grinned. “Shoot, I’ll give you that. I’m impressed. You just might work out, after all.” He yawned and returned to his stool as Brady continued to steer.

  After about ten minutes, Brady glanced over to see Pilot Tillman’s eyes half closed. He’d better make conversation. “So how long did you say until your retirement, sir?”

  Pilot Tillman’s head jerked up. “What’s that?” He rubbed his eyes.


  “Your retirement, sir. How long do you have to go?”

  “Ten months from last Tuesday. I’m a countin’ the days.” He smiled, then slid out his watch. “Dod, dern it!” he blurted out. “Late again.”

  Heaven forbid. Brady double-checked his river surroundings. Had he been going too slow? No, Steven’s Point was just ahead on the starboard side.

  “Just can’t count on those monkeys,” Pilot Tillman said while stomping his foot.

  “What’s the matter, sir?” Brady moved uneasily on his feet, his head darting back to the pilot.

  “My coffee. That blamed steward of ours s’posed to bring me my coffee at four thirty sharp. He’s six minutes late!”

  Just then, the steward popped his head through the pilothouse door, carrying a tray.

  “Blazes, boy. Where you been? I knew you couldn’t be out pickin’ cotton!” Tillman sniggered.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The steward handed over a cup to Pilot Tillman and offered one to Brady, who declined.

  “Phew.” Pilot Tillman spit out his first gulp. “Cold, cold as an Eskimo’s big toe.”

  “Sorry, sir. Thought Miss Sally had turned on the burner.” His chin dipped down.

  “Horsefeathers! ’Tween the two of yous, can’t you figure out if the burner’s been turned on?”

  “I’ll hustle it right back, sir. Make sure it gets nice and hot. Don’t you worry, sir.”

  As the steward left, Pilot Tillman shook his head with a cringe.

  “Them people,” he said, then banged his hand against a side panel. “You can’t count on them to figure nothin’ out,” he added in a low voice, swallowing hard.

  Brady scowled, turning his head away. No doubt, after fifteen minutes of the man’s rants, he had the pilot figured out.

  “Pilot Tillman.” He pushed out a deep breath. “I can’t just stand here and listen to the way you talk to your black help. It’s disgusting, and I can’t be a part of it. I’ve got to get off this boat.”

  The window of the pilothouse door rattled as he slammed it shut behind him.

  * * * * *

  “Good to have you home, son. I’ve missed you—with your mother gone, and then you at your uncle’s all that time. I was feeling pretty lonely.”

  Brady gazed up at his father. “Well, ending up at home is about the only thing that makes sense after all the messes I’ve been in. I can’t believe it. I’m a failure as a newspaper abolitionist. I lost a whole load of food to river pirates. Then I finally get a chance at my dream job, and it’s with a fellow who looks down on black people. No way could I work ten months with that guy!”

  “Sounds to me like you need to spend more time with your God figuring out who you really are.”

  Brady cocked his head and swallowed. His father always had a way of grounding the discussion. “You’re probably right, Father.”

  “Then in your spare time, you can help me get the crops out of the field.” He spun to leave, chuckling to himself with an affirming nod. “We both benefit!”

  One thing about his father—the closer he got to the black soil, whether in thought or deed, the more nuggets of wisdom he could unearth.

  Chapter 16

  Months later, Brady set the broom against the storeroom wall in the general store near his father’s home in St. Louis. He emptied the dustpan into the garbage bin. Before him, a stack of burlap bags of sugar and flour waited to be emptied into their display containers.

  As if he didn’t get enough dust sweeping the floor, filling the containers would leave more in the air. He’d had enough of the dust! He shuffled out of the storeroom.

  Mr. Reese met him halfway. The old man’s bushy gray eyebrows arched high over his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “When you’re done filling those containers, could you sweep the floor, Brady?”

  “Oh, I just did, Mr. Reese.” He pounded a fist against his thigh.

  Mr. Reese removed his glasses and wiped them with his apron hem. “Well, my eyesight may be failing me, but how is it I can still see dirt in the corners?”

  “Guess I must have missed some spots, sir.” Brady’s gaze darted from the near corner, past some balance scales on a back counter, to a far corner.

  Mr. Reese frowned and shook his head, then placed his hands on his hips. “Your heart is just not in this anymore, is it?”

  Brady released a heavy sigh. “Maybe that’s it, sir. I can tell you where my head’s at, though. It’s filled with dust.”

  “For the first month, it was a whole different story. You did a great job. Maybe you need to find something to do outdoors. Didn’t you say your uncle had a spot open up in the wood supply business? Taking care of all those steamboats?”

  “Yeah, I’ve had experiences on those scows before. Didn’t end up well. Once my head is clear, though, maybe I’ll have a fresh perspective.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.

  * * * * *

  Brady lay restless in bed that night. No sooner had he found peace with one thought, another darted into his head. His mind eventually wandered to the Robinson Crusoe book he so admired. He envisioned the scene late in the story when Crusoe dreamed about a man descending from a great black cloud like a bright flame of fire. He was carrying a spear. Crusoe was terrified and feared for his life.

  Crusoe awoke from his frightening dream and became introspective, examining his life. He realized how sin had been such a part of his entire life and how helpless he was without God. Brady became introspective about his own life. Was not it the same in so many ways? Did not each sin need reconciliation? There were many--chasing after a black fugitive, offering money to a bounty hunter, leaving Mr. Lovejoy in the midst of his battle, leaving Charlotte in limbo.

  And so it had been for Saul in the Bible, as he became the apostle Paul on the road to Damascus. Once the persecutor of Christians, Paul became a champion of spreading the light.

  After a long night, Brady woke up the next morning surprisingly refreshed. He sprang out of bed.

  * * * * *

  Late that afternoon, Brady’s father walked through the front door, perusing their mail. He paused at a slim white envelope. “There’s one here for you, Brady. From that Elijah Lovejoy fellow.”

  Brady snatched it from his father’s hand and ripped it open.

  “I suppose he wants you back.” His father poured two glasses of lemonade. They sat together at the kitchen table as Brady eagerly read the letter.

  “You’re right, Father. He’s got a special project for me if I’ll accept. Seems business is good and circulation is up.” He read further. “Listen to this. He would like me to go to Cincinnati to personally escort a press back to Alton.” Brady paused to whisper the two words personally escort back to himself. My, they have a nice ring. A rush of warmth filled his head.

  “I can’t imagine you wanting to interrupt your exciting life here just to do that!” His father took a large swig of his drink and brusquely banged the glass back to the table.

  Brady stood and began to pace. “Just think. I’d be the one responsible for the safe passage of that fine piece of machinery.” He imagined sitting atop the crate at each port, his musket at the ready, his eyes ever vigilant toward any mischievous behavior.

  But then his imagination carried him back to another vision—sitting high atop a rock along the river with Char, vigilant toward life along the river—a hawk squawking above, the whistle of an oncoming steamboat, the swish of the water tumbling off its churning paddlewheels. And what of Char? He’d better focus on reading the rest of the letter.

  “Mr. Lovejoy says Char has been spending a lot of time at their house watching after little Edward Payson. His wife, Celia Ann, has remained strong, despite a number of health problems.” He read on. “But Char’s sewing business has been going well when she has the time.”

  “That’s nice. So when does Mr. Lovej
oy want you to go on your little adventure?”

  “Next week.” Brady swilled the rest of his lemonade—downing it in one gulp.

  * * * * *

  On the steamboat leaving St. Louis, Brady knew that this part of his trip on the Mississippi River would be short-lived. In Cairo, he’d have to change boats for another heading up the Ohio River. As he gazed out over the railing of the main cabin level, he reacquainted himself with the landmarks. Foster’s Point, coming up on the starboard side, had a sheer drop-off just past the point. The boat would be safe hugging the shoreline. He looked forward to see if the pilot would do just that.

  He was also anxious to plan where to situate the press. Even though it would be coming back on a different boat, they were enough alike that he could make plans. Once the boat had hugged the cliff along Foster’s Point, bringing a smile to his face, he headed down.

  The main deck had an odd mixture of freight. On the larboard side, a pen held four noisy pigs, no doubt on their way to a slaughterhouse downstream. Their raucous squealing as he strode by told him they were disappointed he was not bringing food. Across from the pen were several crates. He imagined the press crate would look something like them, with roughhewn boards protecting unknown contents, visible only through cracks between the slats.

  An open space in the distance seemed to be an ideal spot as it provided a good vantage point to view oncoming troublemakers.

  Walking toward that spot, Brady passed other skids, then jolted back a step as a head poked out between two of them.

  “Psst, Brady.” The head appeared to be vaguely familiar, but Brady couldn’t identify him.

  “It’s me, Samuel. Remember? Malcolm’s brother.”

  Brady caught his breath and did a quick scan of his surroundings. Seeing no one else nearby, he bent between the crates, out of sight.

  “Yeah, now I remember. What are you doing here?”

  While no immediate answer came, his heart beat faster. Am I being drawn into another fugitive slave fiasco?

  His raspy voice finally responded, “I’m a hopin’ I can trust you.”