Sycamore Promises Read online

  Miriam grabbed Rebecca by the hand and ran from the root cellar across the yard to the shadowy shelter of the trees along the creek bank.

  Hidden in the trees north of the barn, Micah watched the torch carrying rider. He leveled his Colt and fired, diving away from the muzzle flash to the base of a nearby oak. The raider returned fire, harmlessly chewing bark from the tree where he’d taken his shot. A throaty shotgun blast boomed south of the barn. Caleb. I hope. Micah crept forward, firing two quick shots. A second shotgun blast sent the raiders scrambling in disarray. They collected their horses and wheeled away toward the road.

  “Caleb, is that you?”

  “It is.”

  Micah dashed out of the trees into the glow of the burning barn. “Can we save the stock?”

  “We can try.”

  Micah threw the barn door open. Heat and smoke drove him back. Flames ate at the far wall, climbing toward the loft and its hay.

  Miriam gazed at the barn ablaze through the trees. She held a trembling Rebecca against her skirt. Shots popped bright flashes in dark places. Horses pranced, their riders caught specter-like in firelight. Torches arced through the air trailing showers of sparks.

  “Where’s Papa? Is he all right?”

  “Shush, child. Your papa be fine.”

  “Sure he will.”

  The man was on her in an instant, pinning her arms in a viselike grip. Rebecca screamed. Miriam twisted in a desperate attempt to free herself. The man laughed sour whiskey breath.

  “You’ll fetch a fine reward for this night’s work—contraband and maybe a bit of sport before we find your rightful master. Now shut that child up lest I do it for ye.”

  “That’s Rebecca!” Caleb turned and raced south toward the sound. One shot left, best make it enough.

  Micah plunged into the heat and smoke in the barn. He untied the cow and chased the terrified animal out the door into the corral.

  Sampson brayed, wide-eyed, rearing and kicking in the stall nearest the flame. Micah opened the stall door and grasped Sampson’s halter. The mule dug his front hooves into the dirt, too terrified to budge. Micah dropped his suspenders from his shoulders and pulled his nightshirt over his head. He wrapped it around Sampson’s eyes.

  “Easy, big fella. Come along now.” He got a tentative step for his trouble, then another and another. He led the mule to the corral and released him to join the cow.

  Miriam struggled in her captor’s grasp. He cuffed her across the side of the head. Rebecca screamed again. The man reached for his pistol. With her child threatened, Miriam summoned an unknown reserve of strength. She twisted toward her captor and slammed her forehead against the bridge of his nose. Bone splintered gouts of blood. His grip slipped. She drove a knee into his groin. He gasped foul breath and doubled over, losing his grip. She tore herself away, grabbed Rebecca, and, blinded by tears, ran in the direction of the barn.

  Caleb burst from the trees. “Are you all right?”

  “He’s there!” she pointed.

  The man staggered to his feet, gun in hand. The shotgun blast lifted him off the ground and slammed him into a tree, his chest reduced to a bloody maw.

  They stood together, bathed in firelight, watching the barn burn to the ground. Sampson, Delilah, and the cow cowered at the far end of the corral safe from the flames.

  “Why?” Clare sobbed.

  “It be us,” Caleb said. “We be nothin’ but trouble. Time we move on.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Clare said.

  “Where we gonna live them bushwhackers ain’t gonna burn down?” Miriam said.

  “You’ll live in the dugout ’til we get this barn and your house rebuilt,” Micah said.

  “We? You got a crop to put in the ground,” Caleb said.

  “You’re wrong. We got a crop to put in the ground.”

  Caleb shook his head. “How we gonna do both?”

  “With help.”

  “Who’s gonna help a black man besides you?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Two Days Later

  Thorne drew rein on the road. Smoke still rose from parts of the burned-out cabin and barn. The Mason house still stood. Herd complained he’d lost some men. The sodbusters gave them a fight. Somehow, they’d managed to save the stock, and there they were, plowing a field, the very thing he’d hoped to stop. Herd and his men did damage, but was it enough? He’d paid good money to force Mason into a sale. It was time to ride in and find out if he’d succeeded. He wheeled the black up the lane to the house and swung south to the field. Mason drew the mule to a halt.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thorne.”

  “Mason.” He stepped down. The black man stood by with a sack full of seed.

  “I heard about your loss. Thought I might come by to see if there is anything I might do to help.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “I see you managed to save your house and the stock.”

  “We did. The plow and reaper, too. Luckily so, and luckier still no one was hurt.”

  “ ’Cept a few of them bushwhackers,” Caleb said.

  “You think it was Missouri men then.”

  “Had to be. No one but slavers would have call to attack us.”

  “I suppose that’s true. These are dangerous times. If I was you, I’d be concerned they’ll be back to take retribution for the men you killed.”

  “Did I say we killed anyone?”

  “No. I . . . ah . . . just thought, from what your man there said.”

  “He’s not my man. He’s my partner.”

  “Well, let’s get to the point. You’ve suffered a terrible loss here. You may still be at risk. I’ve expressed my interest in this land in the past; I’m still interested. With the house still standing for an improvement, I’m prepared to offer you seventy-five cents an acre. It’s a fair price, generous really, and enough to buy you a fresh start somewhere safer.”

  “Our loss is your gain. Is that it?”

  “Misfortune has a way of bringing about generosity.”

  “Mr. Thorne, you’ve expressed interest in this land before. I’ve told you I’m not interested in selling before. I’m still not interested. How about you, Caleb?”

  “Me, neither.”

  “There you have it, Mr. Thorne. Thank you for your generous offer.”

  “Mason, you talk like this man has a say over your property.”

  “He does.”

  “How so? A black man cannot own property. This parcel is deeded to you.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “The records are public.”

  “We share crop.”

  “You share crop.”

  “We do.”

  “I see. Then I wish you both better fortune for the future. Good day.”

  He mounted his horse and picked up a trot back to the road.

  “Persistent feller, ain’t he?” Caleb said.

  “It seems so. Makes you wonder if them bushwhackers had some other reason to raid us.”

  “You think he’d stoop so low?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a man accustomed to getting what he wants. Sometimes that makes a man ruthless. We best be on our guard.”

  Her boughs weighed down with a heavy heart from the pain of scorched scars. So much good built, now destroyed. Still she felt the presence of the spirit. Grit, determination, purposeful resolve. Some good might yet rise from these ashes. The yoke of evil driven back for a time. Time to rebuild. Time to plant. Time to grow. Dark clouds pass from time to time. They do pass when the sun shines once more.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  * * *

  Sycamore

  June, 1860

  They arrived by wagon, buckboard, and on horseback on a sunny summer morning. Twelve, then twenty-five, fifty by midday—able-bodied men come to rebuild what was lost. Jayhawkers led by James Lane and Doc Jennison. They came with lumber and tools and womenfolk to feed the crew. They raised the barn and fram
ed a new cabin. Caleb and Miriam stood in awe and disbelief.

  “I told you, you’d see,” Micah said.

  “If I didn’t see this with my own eyes I never would a’ believed it. All these white folks helpin’ a black man.”

  “Good people. Some of us are, you know.”

  “I knowed that. I just ain’t never seen so many in one place afore.”

  They turned to the sound of an approaching horse. James Lane rode up to the cabin building site and stepped down.

  “I see the barn’s raised.”

  “It is,” Micah said. “All thanks to you and Doc and your men.”

  “We Kansans need to stick together. We can’t let those bushwhackers get away with this sort of thing.”

  “Even for a black man,” Caleb said.

  “Even for a black man.”

  “I’m so much obliged, Mr. Lane.”

  “You’ll have your chance to do your share, both of you.”

  “How can we help?” Micah said.

  “Join the Jayhawkers. Ride with my men. This fight won’t be over until one side or the other wins. Right’s on our side. The men who did this to you stand on immoral ground. We mean to take that ground, blood soaked if it must be so.”

  “Count on me,” Micah said.

  Lane lifted a brow to Caleb.

  “You want a black man, too?”

  “Who better to rise to our cause than one who has been wronged by the enemy? You fought with Stewart at Wakarusa Creek I hear.”

  He nodded.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, we make it our mission to free slaves when the opportunity presents itself. As their numbers grow, they will fight with us.”

  “Then count on me, too.”

  “Good.”

  July, 1860

  Dear Ma and Pa,

  It is with a sad heart that I write to tell you the misfortunes of the slavery conflict have come home to our Sycamore. Early this spring we were attacked in the night without provocation. I can gratefully report that no one of our families was hurt. The raiders, we must assume Missourians, burned Caleb and Miriam’s cabin and our barn before Micah and Caleb were able to run them off.

  Caleb and Miriam believe the attack was owed to their presence here. It took considerable effort to persuade them Micah and I would have no part in their leaving. Coming on the eve of spring planting as the attack did, I cannot help but wonder if the intent was to run us all off our land. If that be the case, I am proud to say they failed in their purpose. Micah and Caleb were able to plant our fields in spite of the loss.

  Then last month, the most amazing thing happened. Friends and neighbors from Lawrence and beyond came to our aid. They rebuilt Caleb and Miriam’s cabin along with our barn. The outpouring of community purpose was truly heartwarming. Miriam could not believe white folks would show such kindness to colored people.

  So, we return to peaceful pursuits, conscious of the cloud which lingers over this community. One wonders where it must end.

  Clare

  Wakarusa Creek

  October, 1860

  Little of the Stewart compound had changed since Quantrill’s last visit, save the place seemed devoid of Negroes. The infernal railway’s work again. Reverend Stewart greeted him returning to the house from the barn.

  “William, what a pleasant surprise. Welcome.”

  He stepped down and extended his hand. “Reverend, I hope I find you in good health and circumstance.”

  “My health is fine. There is always room to improve circumstance, if that’s what you have on your mind.”

  “Straight to business, is it?”

  “Nonsense, my boy. Time for that over a cup of hot cider beside a warm fire.”

  “The perfect antidote to a blustery day on the trail.”

  “Come in then.”

  They drew up chairs by a fragrant, crackling fire with cups of hot buttered cider.

  “Now what brings you all the way down here at the onset of autumn?”

  “Missouri hospitality.”

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

  “The last time we spoke, you said Missouri had grown inhospitable to you. I wonder if it might be less so by now.”

  “It may. What have you in mind?”

  “The Morgan Walker prize has yet to be taken.”

  “Jennison turned you down then.”

  “He expressed interest, but interest and action are two different things.”

  “So you turn to an old man of action to assist in your enterprise.”

  “Exactly.”

  “As I recall, we discussed stock, gold, and a rather large number of contraband slaves.”

  “Thirty by last count.”

  “I recall tempering temptation with judgment at the time. Times change.”

  “They do.”

  “Hmm. They do indeed.”

  Franklin, Missouri

  November 11, 1860

  David Atchison poured a steaming cup of morning coffee by the gray light of a frosted parlor window. He collected his copy of the Missouri Democrat and retreated to a chair by the fire. The headlines screamed.

  Lincoln Edges Crowded Field

  Democrat Disarray Spells Defeat

  Republican Abraham Lincoln survived his electoral battle with a deeply divided Democrat field to win the presidency by a narrow margin. With the Democrats unable to achieve party unity around a position on slavery, the party splintered along regional lines over territorial rights of popular sovereignty favored in the north by candidate Stephen A. Douglas, and steadfast support for slavery in the south as advanced by Vice President John C. Breckenridge. Southern support further divided over positions taken by John Bell and the constitutional Union party. Bell’s moderates sought to preserve the union and harden states’ rights as favored by the majority. The divisions spelled disaster for the party and cast the future of the union into doubt.

  While Republicans claim victory, they do so by the narrowest of margins. When the final vote tallies are recorded, the margin should be no more than forty percent of the popular vote. Mr. Lincoln will come to office a minority president on a platform rejected by nearly two-thirds of American voters. What remains in doubt is how the outcome will be received in the south. At very least, the future of slavery hinges on the controversial premises of the Supreme Court’s decision in the matter of Dred Scott and the uncertain popular sovereignty provisions of the Kansas-Nebraska Act. That risk can only be exacerbated by Republican support for building a rail route to the Pacific, the likely central routing for which is certain to breed a progression of free states and an end to the effective balance of power in the Senate. The political strength of the abolitionist wing of the Republican party is yet to be seen, asserting its influence on the new administration. Minority or no, the Republican platform favors a legislative reversal of the Supreme Court decision. That decision was warmly received in the south for its strengthening of slaveholder rights. Should the abolitionists have their way with the law, slaveholder rights would be weakened. States that do not affirm the right to hold slaves for their own citizens may no longer be obliged to recognize the sovereign right conferred by another state. By any estimation, the outcome of this election hangs a dark cloud over the future of slaveholding in the nation as constituted. With such ominous signs in the heavens, a storm cloud of uncertainty must hang over the union itself.

  Atchison set the paper aside, sipping his coffee to a smoky crackle and warm glow. The election foretold dangerous times. Douglas had proven no match for Lincoln when stripped of Democrat support in the south. The south was further divided over allegiance to the union. Secession had been little more than a whisper up to now. Things were changed by the outcome of this election, changes that in time must be felt in fundamental ways. The gangly lawyer from Illinois was embarking on a perilous journey if he sought to fashion a policy bridge over this raging torrent of division. He couldn’t possibly preserve a union so hopelessly divided. The die
was cast. It was now no more than a matter of time.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  * * *

  Jackson County, Missouri

  December 10, 1860

  Sun dazzling a light cover of snow did little to warm a chill winter day. Quantrill rode at the head of a horse-drawn wagon loaded with five Stewart men. Two rode the driver’s box. Three wrapped in blankets huddled in the wagon bed. The county pike meandered east toward the Morgan Walker farm. Quantrill called a halt at midday in a wooded thicket a mile west of the Walker farm.

  “You boys hole up here. I’ll ride in for a social call to get the lay of the place for tonight.”

  The men climbed down from the wagon and scattered among the trees.

  “No fires,” Quantrill said. “I’ll be back before evening.” He picked up a lope down the road. A mile east he passed the Morgan Walker place and continued on to the neighboring spread. He jogged up the drive to Andrew Walker’s place, Morgan’s son. He drew rein and stepped down.

  Andrew emerged from the barn in back of the house, wiping his hands on a smithy’s apron. “William, what brings you out this way?” He extended a hand.

  “I come as a friend,” he said with a smile.

  “Come on in. We’ll take the chill off with a cup of coffee.” Andrew led the way up the porch to the house. Coffee warmed on the stove. He poured two cups and carried them to a rough-cut parlor table.

  Quantrill warmed his hands on the cup. “I come with a warning and at some personal risk. If I help you, I shall need your protection in return.”

  “Warning of what?”

  “Stewart men plan to raid your father’s farm.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The reverend knows of our acquaintance. He asked my assistance.”

  “Hanging around those Jayhawkers was bound to lead you to trouble sooner or later.”

  “I suppose you might see it that way. The facts are, I’ve managed to enjoy some society on both sides of the border.”