Sycamore Promises Read online

  “Not yet, but you and I both know we are in position to make prudent investments when the time comes.”

  Sumner washed down the oyster with claret. Douglas refilled his glass.

  “Yes, I suppose we are.”

  “Now, the way to advance our cause, if I might return our politics to the table, is for you to draw the northern boundary to our upcoming debate so that we might strike our bargain for the central route.”

  “And you believe such a proposal would bring your southern delegation to compromise.”

  “I do. Both proposals are regionally biased. Both sides admit the railroad must be built. Popular sovereignty was enacted to bridge regional differences. A central route through Kansas and Nebraska is perfectly suited to strike such a balance.”

  “As always, Stephen, the devil is in the details.”

  “So is the money, Senator. A central route is a perfectly reasonable compromise.”

  “Once again, Stephen, you prove the shrewd, ever clever bastard.”

  The waiter arrived, carrying platters sizzling with steak.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  * * *

  Jackson County, Missouri

  Former Senator David Rice Atchison drew on his cigar, waiting for Morgan Walker to greet his guests. Walker selected his lavishly appointed personal library to hold the meeting Atchison had requested. Senator Douglas successfully engineered his popular sovereignty compromise to obtain passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act. As always, the devil was in the details, and this devil’s details could not be left to chance. Atchison hurried home following passage to personally attend to the vital matter at hand.

  Boot heels on the polished foyer beyond the library double entry announced the arrival of Walker and his guests.

  “Senator, I believe you know Ruben Wright.”

  “Indeed. Ruben, good to see you, and thank you for coming.”

  “May I present Sheriff Sam Jones and Franklin Coleman?” Walker said. “Gentlemen, Senator Atchison.” They shook hands. “Please, have a seat. Hannibal, brandy and cigars.”

  A white-haired black man in a starched jacket circulated among the men with a silver tray laden with cigars and crystal brandy snifters. With the guests served, he shuffled out.

  Walker lifted his glass. “Senator, you have our undivided attention.”

  “Gentlemen, let me first thank Morgan for hosting this meeting tonight and thank you all for coming. A matter vital to your interests is about to be decided by the voters of Kansas. As you are aware, I supported passage of the Kansas-Nebraska Act for the inclusion of its popular sovereignty provision. I did so with some reservation. That provision of the law will determine whether those territories enter the union as slave or free-soil states. Control of the Senate hangs in the balance, and with it the future of our slaveholding rights. We all know northern interests, particularly radical Republicans, exhibit growing hostility to our rightful practice. Abolitionist influence in the northeast has organized something they call the New England Emigrant Aid Society to finance and foster the emigration of free-state minded men to the Kansas Territory. For the moment, they remain fairly confined to the Lawrence area, but more are on the way to spread the contagion of their views. Given the opportunity, it is certain they would abolish our property rights.” He paused for a draw on his cigar to let the import of his words settle upon them. “We must make a meaningful response to the threat they pose.”

  A murmur of concern rippled through those assembled.

  “What do you propose, David?” Walker said.

  “Organize a resistance to counter the abolitionists. I propose we form a society dedicated to the preservation of our rights in Missouri.”

  “Our rights in Missouri are secure,” Coleman said. “Kansas is the problem.”

  “Indeed it is. If Kansas enters the Union as a free state, the balance of power in the Senate will be brought to the side of their sentiment. We must not allow that to happen.”

  “But how?”

  “As we speak, Kansas is preparing to bring the right to hold slaves to a vote. We cannot allow the northern abolitionist sentiment that runs rampant in Lawrence to determine the outcome of that election.”

  “Certainly we all agree with that, Senator,” Walker said. “But what is to be done about it?”

  “It is up to us to make sure enough votes are cast to win victory for our rights.”

  “We’re Missouri men. We’re not even eligible to vote in a Kansas election.”

  “We’re Missouri men only so long as we stay in Missouri.”

  “Are you suggesting that we cross the border and vote as Kansans?”

  “I am. And to do so in sufficient number to elect a legislature sympathetic to our cause.”

  “But isn’t that illegal?” Coleman said.

  “Only if you’re caught,” Sheriff Jones said.

  Atchison smiled. “Precisely.”

  The room broke into a babble of conversation. Atchison let them have their say while they digested his message.

  “Gentlemen . . . Gentlemen! Please. All of you assembled here this evening are leaders in your respective communities. You can organize the effort. You can spread the word. You can set forces in motion certain to secure our victory. I propose we drink to the south and the advance of our state’s rights in Kansas.”

  “Hannibal! Refill our glasses.”

  Lawrence, Kansas

  March 30, 1855

  A March lion roared out of the northwest on a blustery, chill wind. Mud ruts stood stiff in the street, patched here and there by traces of dirt-stained snow. Wagons, buckboards, and saddle mounts clogged Massachusetts Street, making for unusual congestion considering the size of the community. Micah drew rein and stepped down at the Eldridge House rail. He tethered Sampson at the end of a long line of sleepy eyed, hip-shot horses. People moved in and out of the hotel front entrance at a brisk pace, anxious, it seemed, to do their business and get on to warmer pursuits. In this case, their business was to cast a vote for the territorial legislators who would decide the future of slavery in Kansas. It was election day, an important election at that, but the crowd—where did all these people come from?

  He joined the line waiting in turn to enter the hotel, now serving as a temporary polling place. He hunched inside his coat against the wind. They hadn’t been in Lawrence long enough to know that many people, and, apart from occasional shopping trips to town, they couldn’t be expected to know many. Still, the size of the crowd, with so many unfamiliar faces, struck him as unusual.

  The line crept across the boardwalk. He entered the hotel sheltered from the wind. The lobby spread out with tables to serve as polling stations. Micah picked up his ballot from the county clerk with a nod. He marked his X’s for the free-soil delegation represented largely by candidates of the new Republican party. He folded his ballot, returned it to the clerk, and started for the door.

  “Micah.”

  He turned to Salmon Brown. He extended his hand. “Salmon . . . we heard you were in the area. Where have you settled?”

  “We’ve established a compound we call Brown’s Station near Osawatomie. And you?”

  “We’ve claimed a farm five miles southwest of town. You’ll have to come by some time.”

  “How’s Clare?”

  “She’s doing well, thank you. We’re expecting in a few weeks.”

  “My, my, Kansas must agree with you two. I trust you had no further difficulty along the rest of your journey here.”

  “No trouble after your timely aid. Has your father arrived as yet?”

  “Not yet. He’s attending to matters in the east. I expect he will be along directly after this.”

  “After the election?”

  “Yes. I fear we are not going to approve of the outcome.”

  “Why is that? Free-soil sentiment runs strong in Kansas.”

  “It does, but not in Missouri.”

  “Missouri? Missouri men have no part in this elect
ion.”

  “I’ve been here since the polls opened, along with Mr. James Lane and a few others. We’re keeping an eye on things. I, for one, don’t like what I see.”

  “You think Missouri men account for the large voter turnout.”

  “I do. Mr. Lane challenged one or two earlier this morning. They became belligerent and called him a damn northern abolitionist. Their sentiments were plain to behold.”

  “Who is James Lane?”

  “That gentleman over there.”

  He lifted his chin toward a tall man with wild, wind-blown hair standing by the county clerk’s table. Micah hadn’t paid him much mind when he picked up his ballot. He had a grimly set, square jaw with lively eyes that flicked over the crowd and up and down the voters claiming their ballots. “Is he here in some official capacity?”

  “Only so far as free-soil men look to him as a leader. He’s been building to a boil all morning. We know what’s happening; if we could prove it, we’d stop it.”

  “You there.” Lane pointed an accusing finger at a man claiming a ballot. “What’s your name?”

  “Franklin Coleman, not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “You’re voting in a Kansas election, Mr. Coleman. That makes it my business.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “James Lane.”

  “Never heard of you.”

  “You will. Where you from, Mr. Coleman?”

  “East Kansas.”

  “Missouri’s east of Kansas.”

  “East Kansas,” he repeated.

  The next man in line spoke up. “You’re a Missouri-man. Ain’t never seen you before in these parts.”

  “And who might you be?”

  “Charles Dow. I’m a Kansan, and you’re not. Your Kansas is east of the Missouri border.”

  “The hell it is. I got as much right to vote in this election as any of you. What makes you so all fired righteous? You’re nothing but a damned abolitionist.”

  “Well, we know where you stand,” Lane said. “You cross that line back to Missouri, Mr. Coleman, you’ll pay for this.”

  “Is that a threat, Mr. Lane?”

  “It’s a promise, Mr. Coleman.”

  Osawatomie, Kansas Territory

  April, 1855

  Fire crackled softly on the hearth. Warm light danced across the cabin’s dirt floor. Salmon folded the Free State Herald and handed the paper to his brother, Frederick. Young Owen eyed his older brother expectantly across the wooden table.

  “They stole the election,” Salmon said. “You could see them Missouri men a mile off. You just couldn’t prove it ’til they counted the votes.”

  “What’s to be done about it?” Owen said.

  “James Lane says there’s going to be a fight.”

  “Father said as much before we left Hudson,” Frederick said, tossing the paper on the table. “We had best send for him. He’ll know what to do.”

  “I will write him this evening.” Salmon scratched his beard. “If there’s to be a fight, we’ll need more than Father. We’ll need guns; we’ll need powder and ball.”

  “Father has wealthy, sympathetic friends in the northeast,” Frederick said. “Be sure you tell him what we need. He may be able to send help even before he arrives.”

  Salmon nodded solemnly. “Much depends on what we do next.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  * * *

  Washington City

  Capitol Hill

  “Senator Sumner to see you, sir.”

  Douglas massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Bright morning light fresh with the promise of spring did little to lighten the mood. He’d been expecting this since the first reports of election results came in by wire from Kansas.

  “Show him in, Robert.”

  Charles Sumner crossed the office floor with the purposeful stride of an angry man.

  “Charles.”

  “Save the amenities, Stephen. What have you and your Democrat colleagues done?”

  “I assure you, Charles, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Tell that to my caucus. ‘Deal with the devil and what do you expect,’ they tell me and rightfully so, it would appear. Popular sovereignty, my ass. I look like a fool for allowing your people to steal that election.”

  “I didn’t do that, and neither did you.”

  “We allowed it to happen with your ill-considered ‘perfectly reasonable’ nonsense.”

  “One election certainly doesn’t invalidate the law.”

  “It does for me. It may not change the law, but there is one thing that election will do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You can kiss your Pacific railroad good-bye. That’s what it will do.”

  “Now, now, don’t be hasty. The Pacific railroad must be built. Remember what’s at stake. The national interest must be served to be sure, along with a feather or two for the home nest. The positions from which we might draw our compromise are still in place.”

  “You might like to think so, but I have news for you. That Kansas election will serve only to embolden your southern Democrat colleagues. They will hold firm on the war department recommendation for a southern route. That has no more chance of passing my caucus than a snowflake passing through Hades. Face it, Stephen, you’ve made a mess of this, prospects for personal fortune notwithstanding.”

  Sumner turned on his heel and stormed out.

  The White House

  Warm sun bathed the south lawn. The scents of spring flowers and new grass floated on a gentle breeze. President Franklin Pierce stood on a crushed stone path admiring the flower beds while soaking up relief from memories of chill, gray winter days. Stone crunched on the path behind him, announcing his guest.

  “Good morning, Mr. President. Escaping the confines of your office?”

  “Good morning, Jefferson. As a matter of fact, I am. Thank you for indulging me out here.”

  “On a day such as this, the pleasure is all mine. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Walk along with me. I’ve a matter or two I’d like to discuss.” Pierce led the way along the path at a leisurely pace. He paused. “Smell the lilacs. They are absolutely glorious when they bloom. Pity they last such a short time. Most good things do.”

  “This wouldn’t be about your re-nomination, would it?”

  Pierce cocked an eye. “Very perceptive, Jefferson.”

  “Not really. You’ll need the support of the southern caucus. You assume I can influence them.”

  “That’s it, in part.”

  “There’s more then?”

  Pierce clasped his hands behind his back and continued up the path. “Gaining southern support will benefit if our recently enacted popular sovereignty law works to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  “Everyone’s?”

  “Everyone who counts for the purposes of this discussion.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ve had our first success with the vote in Kansas. Now it is up to us to see the will of the people followed through.”

  “Not everyone was happy with the outcome of that election. Accusations of vote fraud have been widespread and strident in Kansas, not to mention the rest of the north.”

  “Yes . . . well, there’s not much we can do about northern abolitionists. There is somewhat more we can do out in Kansas. That’s the other matter on which I need your counsel. I intend to appoint Wilson Shannon as Kansas’s territorial governor.”

  “Shannon is a good man, a reliable Democrat with known southern sympathies. I should think my southern colleagues would look favorably on such an appointment.”

  “It’s more than the matter of his appointment. We must ensure he succeeds in establishing Kansas as a slave state. Our friends out there faced more than token free-soil opposition. If those interests oppose him in carrying out his mission, we may need to assist him with federal resources.”

  “You mean troops?”

  “If n
eed be.”

  “I don’t have to tell you, Mr. President, using federal troops in a matter of domestic jurisdiction is constitutionally dicey.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Jefferson. On the other hand, Kansas is too important to our cause to risk failure.”

  The cause being our re-nomination. “I see that, sir.”

  “I’ve chosen my man Shannon. Now, who have you to offer me, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Bull Sumner.”

  “Sumner? There’s a name not certain to inspire confidence. He’s not related to that abolitionist senator from Massachusetts, is he?”

  “Actually I believe he is, but don’t let that trouble you. Colonel Edwin ‘Bull’ Sumner commands the 1st Cavalry at Fort Leavenworth. He’s a fine officer. He’ll accept his orders and do his duty, regardless of any personal feelings he may harbor on the matter.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Of that I am sure, Mr. President. It is only the prospect of ordering federal troops to a domestic police action that gives me pause.”

  “So you’ve said. I think our lilac blooms may outlast the cherry trees this spring. Don’t you agree?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  Sycamore

  April, 1855

  Gray clouds hung thick with morning mist. Micah watched as Caleb guided Sampson down the field, cutting an even furrow. The man had a knack for it. Micah followed along, sowing what would be the first crop from their first field. His mind traced back over all they’d accomplished since Caleb and Miriam arrived that dark night the previous fall. They’d finished the sod house and dug a second smaller one along with building a lean-to and corral for the mules. Over the winter, they cleared this field of brush and grass as the weather permitted. He’d traded the wagon for a smaller buckboard they used to clear fieldstone in preparation for planting. The stone they gathered would one day find a place in the house they planned to build on the creek bank.

  Miriam came out to the field at midday with a lunch basket. She stood at the end of the row they worked until they neared the end.