Sycamore Promises Page 15

  “My friends.”

  “My friends . . . please.” The murmur subsided. “We have agreed to resolve this dispute peaceably. Your representatives and I will pursue all available legal remedies to secure your rights in this matter. I urge you to entrust the dispute to our care and disperse peacefully to your homes.”

  They began to drift away, wagging tongues and shaking heads.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sumner said.

  He descended the hall steps and remounted his horse.

  Franklin, Missouri

  July 15, 1856

  Atchison sat in a rocking chair on the broad porch fronting his palatial home. He sipped a cool glass of lemonade. He’d forsaken his coat and loosened his cravat against the summer heat. He used a small fan to encourage a cooling breeze. A rider appeared on the road beyond the white fences and lawns spilling down the slope of his estate. The rider wheeled in at the gate. Now who might this be?

  Captain Henry Clay Pate drew rein and stepped down. He climbed the porch.

  “Captain Pate.” Atchison smiled. “I’m pleased to see you’ve been released.”

  “My thanks for Governor Shannon’s intervention. I’m sure you had a hand in it.”

  “His authority to call on the army is useful in certain matters. Have a seat. Care for some lemonade?”

  “Anything to staunch this heat.”

  “Joachim!”

  He appeared in the doorway. “Suh?”

  “A glass for Captain Pate.”

  “Yes, suh.” He disappeared.

  “But now to unfinished business,” Atchison said.

  “I thought we might get back to that.”

  “The Browns continue to agitate against our cause in Kansas. The old man must be stopped.”

  “I consider it my duty to complete the work we were denied at Black Jack.”

  “Splendid. I thought you might.”

  Joachim appeared with a chilled glass, set it at Pate’s elbow, and withdrew.

  “Now tell me of your plans. How do you propose to root out that particular nest of vipers?”

  Pate took a swallow. “I should think we might draw them out with a surprise advance on Osawatomie.”

  “Two birds with one stone as it were. The Browns and another breeding ground of free-state sedition.”

  “Exactly.”

  “When do you propose to strike?”

  “Need to reassemble my command . . . see them properly equipped and trained. Perhaps by fall.”

  “So long as that? You’re talking experienced men. Assembly and training can’t take as long as that.”

  “Properly equipped requires horses, weapons, powder, and ball.”

  “You mean properly equipped requires money.”

  “It does.”

  “Step into my study, and I shall write you a draft good for a result next month.”

  “As you wish, Senator.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  * * *

  Osawatomie, Kansas

  August 25, 1856

  Frederick Brown waited anxiously in the misty light of an early summer morning. The Colt Dragoon stuffed in his waistband testified to the gravity of the situation. With father and brothers away, the best he could do was send word to James Montgomery and pray his Jayhawkers arrived in time. He paced, his attention riveted on the road to the south shrouded in morning mist. He heard it first. Horses galloping toward him in some number. Could it be the Missouri men already? He looked for the nearest place to take cover. Horses and riders resolved out of the fog, shadows at first. He watched them pound up the road. He reached for the Colt. Then he saw it—Jayhawk signature red flannel. He began to relax.

  Montgomery raised a gauntleted hand to signal a halt as the Jayhawkers drew rein.

  “What’s the trouble?” The preacher leaped down from his horse. Droplets glistened on his black beard and cheeks.

  “Border ruffians is comin’. They’s fixin’ to sack the town out a’ revenge for Black Jack Springs.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Not rightly sure. Southeast, I reckon.”

  “How strong in number?”

  Franklin shrugged and ran his gaze over Montgomery’s men. “Ain’t one of them armies like hit Lawrence, though, I’m toldt more’n a hundred. You surprise ’em you might make a fair fight of it.”

  “I’m not interested in fighting fair. I’m interested in winning. Come on, boys. With luck, we can cut ’em off at Middle Creek.”

  Middle Creek

  The scout returned at mid-morning, his horse lathered by thick summer heat.

  “Pate’s brigade be ridin’ toward Middle Creek.”

  “How many?”

  “By the look of it don’t count more’n seventy.”

  Montgomery nodded. “Then we strike on their flank.”

  The scout led the way south. The column swung east, bearing down on Pate’s column. The Missouri men opened fire on sight.

  “Give ’em the Almighty’s hell fire!” Montgomery spurred to a charge.

  The Jayhawkers bore down on Pate’s column, pistols and carbines blazing a powder smoke trail the like of a highballing locomotive. Pate’s advance broke in the confused flurry of mounted combat. Montgomery’s onslaught sent the Missouri men spinning in a melee of spooked horses and thrown riders dashing for cover. The Jayhawk charge overran the Missourians, scattering border ruffians like chickens in a barnyard.

  Montgomery wheeled his men and charged again. The de-horsed fell. Those who could, rode to safety in every direction. The raiding party dissipated and disappeared.

  Frederick Brown watched them go with a smile. They’d put the devil to flight as righteous justice should prevail. Father would be pleased.

  Montgomery reformed his column and rode west.

  Franklin, Missouri

  August 27, 1856

  Pate tethered his horse and climbed the porch steps. He crossed to the imposing double entry and rapped the ornate brass knocker. The old black man, Joachim, opened the door.

  “Senatah Atchison be s’pectin’ you, suh. This way.”

  Of course he is. He sent for me. Pate followed the old man’s shuffle down the corridor.

  “Captain Pate,” he announced at the library door.

  Atchison summoned him to his desk with a wave.

  Pate took a seat.

  “Damn poor return on my investment wouldn’t you say, Captain?”

  “Yes, sir. No one is more disappointed than I.”

  “I should think not. A second defeat at the hands of that rabble leaves one to wonder about your fitness for command. What the hell happened?”

  “Somehow they found out we were coming with enough time to organize opposition.”

  “Opposition that surprised you in the field. The question still remains: what is to be done about Brown and his miscreant spawn?”

  “I am re-forming my men. They believe they’ve routed us.”

  “They have routed you twice.”

  “With this last, I should think their guard will come down if we strike again swiftly.”

  “When?”

  “Two days’ time.”

  “Third time charm, is it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “See to it.”

  Osawatomie, Kansas

  August 30, 1856

  With the Missourians routed at Middle Creek, Fredrick Brown relaxed. He should have remained vigilant. Four days later a second band of ruffian raiders swept out of the south to sack the town. Free-state townsfolk resistance melted in a blaze of powder flash, smoke, ball, and burning buildings. Frederick Brown stood tall. Colt in hand he met the charge, taking a fatal bullet in the chest.

  Sycamore

  September, 1856

  Miriam clenched her jaw, her eyes shut tight against feeble candle glow in the very dugout bed in which she’d midwifed Clare the previous year. She’d attended birth pain. She knew what to expect. Not really. Clare sat at her side, holding he
r hand, the pains and pleasures of Elizabeth’s birth brought back in the moment. Miriam’s breath came in ragged gasps as a pain subsided. Clare wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. A new wave clutched at her belly and back.

  “They’re coming faster,” Clare said. “It won’t be long now.”

  “She takin’ her own sweet time by my account.”

  “She? You think it’s a girl.”

  “I know it. Agh!”

  “Hang on, girl.”

  She did.

  “I never heard of such a thing,” Clare said.

  “Knowin’ it?”

  She nodded.

  “I know lots a things.”

  “Things like what?”

  “Things I just know when I’s right. Like marryin’ Caleb. Like runnin’ away when we did. Like stoppin’ here when we did.”

  “I’m glad you knew that one.”

  “Oh, oh!” Eyes clamped shut, features contorted.

  Clare moved the lamp. “I believe it’s time. You can push with the next one.”

  Miriam furrowed her brow, eyes closed, jaw bunched in knots, cheeks puffed. A sweat slicked vein bulged over the bridge of her nose. Guttural sound—part growl, part grunt—escaped clenched teeth, and then it was gone.

  “Why, it’s a beautiful girl!”

  “Ahhh.” Miriam sank back in the sweat-soaked bedding. “See, I knew.”

  “Since you knew, you must have a name in mind.”

  She smiled, exhausted. “Rebecca.”

  October

  Fields, crops, a house, and babies. New purpose spread out around her. The fields grew rich, golden, and ripe with offspring. Gathered, the crop would give rest to the land for the long slumber of another season. The tree spread her red-gold blanket along the creek bank. Chill nip bit the breeze arranging her cover over the ground. The sun drifted west and south as the days grew shorter. Quiet, cold slumber beckoned.

  Backbreaking long days up before the sun and fighting to use the last of its rays—that’s the harvest. Micah and Caleb divided their time between cutting, raking, and loading bundles on the wagon. Clare and Miriam took their turns at bundling the cuttings and minding the little ones. They cut, bundled, and loaded until a wagon was full. That made for a break while Micah and Caleb drove the wagon down to the riverbank to unload. The harvest gathered there, awaiting the river barge that would take the crop to the grist mill in Kansas City. So passed fall harvest days, morning to midday to cool, crisp evening. Day after day. Field by field.

  They’d taken the first wagon load from field three to the river. Clare and Miriam took the girls to the house to prepare lunch. Micah and Caleb were driving the empty wagon up from the river when an arrow struck the buckboard dash with a quavering thunk. Both men stared at the arrow wide-eyed for an instant before war whoops called them back to their peril. They leaped down from the wagon, abandoning it in the yard as they raced to the house. Caleb followed Micah as he bounded up the porch step amid arrows falling like silent bolts in their wake.

  Inside, Micah grabbed the carbine and tossed it to Caleb. He crouched in the doorway, rifle ready, as the war party flashed through the trees. Micah drew the Colt Dragoon from its holster on a peg by the door, silently cursing his foolishness at not having taken weapons to the fields while giving thanks for the fact they hadn’t been caught in the open with the women and girls. He handed Caleb powder and shot.

  “Here they come. It looks like they mean to circle us. Cover the back, but hold your fire unless they try to rush us. I’ll come runin’ if I hear a shot.”

  Caleb dashed to the back of house as an arrow struck the door frame.

  Micah leveled the Colt at the lead warrior and fired. The Arapaho swept by, a second brave, then a third. Another pulled his pony up to leap on Sampson’s back in an attempt to drive off with their mules. Micah’s shot pitched him off the mule as the remainder of the war party circled the house. The carbine exploded behind him. He ran to the back of the house.

  “Take the front and reload.”

  Caleb ran off at a crouch. Micah took his position beside the shattered kitchen window. A baby cried from the bedroom. The war party raced by with no further attempt to breach the house. He ran back to the front door.

  “You reloaded?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “Take the back then.”

  Something heavy hit the roof. Something that ran. Micah looked up at the sound. It offered no target, only the uneasy sense of an unseen threat. Three shots left. He’d never have time to reload.

  The bright, clear call of a bugle split the tension.

  “Halleluiah!” Caleb shouted. “The Lord done sent us a band a’ angels wearin’ blue coats!”

  The Arapaho broke off the attack, racing away to the south as fast as they’d come.

  The brave on the roof dropped to the ground and ran to collect his pony. His body jerked, pitched, and toppled to the ground under a hail of cavalry bullets.

  The troop drew to a halt as Micah and Caleb stepped out on the porch.

  “Lieutenant James E. B. Stuart, G Company 1st Cavalry out of Fort Leavenworth at your service, sir. Is everyone all right?”

  “We are, sir, and in your debt.”

  “Then we shall see the heathen think twice before returning this way. My compliments.” He doffed his plumed hat and spurred away in pursuit of the war party.

  Clare, Miriam, and the girls peeked out of the bedroom.

  Tension drained out of the men.

  “They’re gone,” Micah said.

  Thorne tucked up his cloak against a cutting wind. Gray, rumpled cloud scudded downriver. He watched from the ridge as they loaded the last of the harvest on the barge that would take it to the grist mill. It was a fine crop that would provide a worthy return on the season . . . profit that should have been his.

  The barge cast off, poled into the current, and turned downstream. Mason stood on the deck and waved to the black man they called Caleb. He returned the wave, climbed aboard the wagon, and wheeled the mule team to the climb up the ridge.

  The black man was something of a curiosity to Thorne. Was he a freed man hired hand or runaway slave? The latter might hold the prospect of opportunity. With Mason away it seemed a good time to find out his answer. He eased the black down the slope.

  “Gee there, Sampson.” Caleb slapped lines. The dark rider, Titus Thorne, drew rein, blocking his path.

  “Fine looking crop you harvested this season.”

  “Yes, sir. Mighty fine.”

  “Your master must be pleased.”

  Caleb turned cautious at the comment. “Micah ain’t my master.”

  “You’re a freed man then.”

  Caleb nodded.

  “Does he pay you a fair wage? I can always use a good man. Of course, I’d need to check your papers first.”

  “Micah and I is partners.”

  “Partners is it? Well, that is a matter of a different color.”

  “It is, Mr. Thorne. Good day to you.” Caleb clucked to the team.

  Partner and uppity, too. Thorne knit his brows. Partner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  * * *

  Kansas City

  October 1856

  Micah trudged up the wharf from the dock to the mill intent on consigning their crop with the miller. He noticed a portly man in a baggy suit and bowler hat, standing in the yard beside some sort of an odd looking machine. He gave it no thought.

  “Micah.” The miller extended his hand. “I saw the barge pull in. Looks like a fine crop this year.”

  “It is that.” Micah smiled. “I’m mighty glad it’s in, too.”

  “Harvest can be backbreaking with a crop that size. Do you hire help?”

  “Caleb and I do most of it ourselves, though we’ve had to hire help to bring in fields three and four. I hate to do it for the expense, but you have to get it out of the field when it’s time.”

  “I understand. We should have it threshed in a week’s t
ime. We can settle up then. Market rate for the bushel, same as last year.”

  “I’ll be back then.”

  “Say, while you’re here you may want to talk to that drummer outside.”

  “You mean the fellow with the funny lookin’ sledge? What for?”

  “That’s no sledge he’s sellin’. They call it the McCormick Reaper. It’s a harvesting machine.”

  “I recall reading something about that. Does it work?”

  “Seems to. Talk to him.”

  “Much obliged. See you next week.”

  Micah stepped into the yard. The man wiped his shiny, red face and bald pate with a handkerchief. He replaced his bowler with a smile. “Kirby Delabrough, sir, may I be of service?” He extended a pudgy hand.

  “Micah Mason.” He eyed the ungainly contraption.

  “This here machine is the latest in industrial farming, the McCormick Reaper.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Step right around here and I’ll show you.”

  The drummer led the way toward what must be taken for the front of the thing.

  “You hitch your team here. They pull the reaper through your field. That turns this wheel here. The wheel gathers wheat to these blades down here. That’s where you get your cutting. The wheat comes off this platform ready for raking and binding.”

  “And all that works?”

  “Sure does. With a good team, you should expect to cut twelve acres a day. How does that compare with what you do now?”

  Micah shrugged. “Two of us, three to four acres.”

  “Makes for long days, don’t it?”

  “It does. How much does this thing cost?”

  “One hundred-twenty dollars.”

  Micah shook his head. “Too expensive.”

  “Tell you what we can do. You put thirty dollars down, and we’ll sell you the reaper. You can pay the balance off at thirty-five dollars a year for the next three years. If you’re hiring hands to help you bring in the harvest, this machine will more than pay for itself.”