Sycamore Promises Page 9

  “Time for lunch.” She smiled.

  Caleb drew Sampson to a halt and wiped his forehead on a red bandanna. “What you got there, girl?”

  “Ham sandwiches, pickles, sweet tea, and canned peaches for dessert.”

  “Um-um. That sounds mighty good. You go on and lay that out while I take this mule to water.” He unhitched the mule and led him to the creek while Micah finished seeding the row.

  “Where’s Clare?”

  “I told her to lie down and rest a bit. That baby gettin’ heavy for her to carry around all day. It won’t be long now. With all this plowin’ and plantin’ don’t forget your stock needs.”

  “Stock needs?”

  “You need a milk cow. Sooner or later that baby comin’ gonna need more than mama’s milk.”

  Micah and Caleb settled down to lunch under the shade of a tree at the end of the field. Morning cloud cleared off to a bright, sunny day.

  “When you finish, just leave the basket,” Miriam said, returning to the house. “I’ll come back to fetch it later.”

  The men nodded around mouths full.

  “I reckon we finish this field by evenin’. What be next?”

  Micah glanced south. “We start clearin’ the next field.”

  “How many fields you figure?”

  “Eight, by the time we finish. We won’t get crop in all of them this year. Maybe this one and the next. If the weather’s good, we should have all eight in crop by next spring.”

  “That’ll make for a powerful lot of wheat.”

  Micah smiled. “Cash crop, cash money. That’s how we get paid.”

  How we get paid. “I likes the sound of that.”

  Fields carved in rows, planted in seed. Seed nourished as a mother sustains her unborn child. Sycamore fluttered spring leaves with new purpose. Life on her land served more than the seasons. The work satisfied. Promise swelled in a woman’s belly. Another conceived fertilized seed deep in her furrows.

  May, 1855

  Lamplight flickered on the sod-house wall. Dark shadow surrounded an island of light, encircling the bed. The air hung heavy and still. Miriam poured water from a kettle, heating on the hearth.

  “Ah! Ahhh!” Clare’s breath came hard, ragged. The pain passed, closer this time.

  Miriam picked up the lamp to more closely inspect her progress. “Won’t be long now. Hurts bad, don’t it?”

  Clare nodded, her eyes clenched tight.

  Miriam replaced the lamp and took her hand. “I wisht there was somethin’ more I could do for you. Babies and the good Lord takes their own sweet time by and by.”

  Clare lifted an eyelid, her voice a raspy whisper. “There on the table. The Bible . . . perhaps you could read some. The word of God is a comfort.”

  “I’s sorry, Miss Clare. I . . . I cain’t read. We never was taught. Massa Morgan Walker say readin’ don’t do no good ’cept cause us negrahs uppity ideas.”

  Clare squeezed her hand. “We shall put that to right . . . Agh, ah!”

  Miriam wet a towel in warm water to clean up a bit of blood. “It looks like that baby be along right quick now. You really think I can learn to read?”

  “I’m . . . sure of it. You have the ability. You must be given . . . the opportunity.”

  “Now, push, Miss Clare. There. Now, harder. There, there. There she is. It’s a girl!”

  “It’s a girl.” Clare sank back to sweat-soaked bedclothes, listening to the song of her daughter’s sweet wail.

  The baby suckled contentedly at Clare’s breast. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, undiminished by a fitful night’s sleep. Miriam sat at her bedside just beyond the circle of candlelight from the nightstand.

  “What will you name her?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “That be a pretty name.”

  “Elizabeth was John the Baptist’s mother.”

  “Miriam is a Bible name they told me. I don’t know the story.”

  “Miriam was Moses’s sister. First Exodus, as I recall. You should read the story.”

  She shook her head. “Remember, Miss Clare. I cain’t read.”

  “I remember. I mean we should start your reading lessons with First Exodus. Here, I think she’s done. She’s gone to sleep. Put her in her cradle and bring me the Bible.”

  Miriam took little Elizabeth and laid her in her cradle. She brought Clare the Bible. Clare patted the bedside.

  “Sit here.” She thumbed well-worn pages. “Yes, here it is. Exodus 15:20.” She ran her finger over the words as she read.

  “And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances.”

  “What is a prophetess?”

  “A prophet speaks God’s word. Some prophets foretell the future. A prophetess is a woman prophet.”

  “Miriam was a prophet?”

  “She was; and she was a leader. All the women followed her with timbrels and dancing.”

  “That’s what the words say?”

  “That’s what they say. That one’s your name.” She tapped the word Miriam. “It’s spelled M-I-R-I-A-M. We’ll start with the alphabet.”

  “Afabit?”

  “The A, B, C’s. You make words with letters that combine to make sounds. Once you know the letters and sounds, you can read anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything. You’ll see.”

  Lawrence

  June 1855

  They commandeered the Eldridge House dining room. It had sufficient seating to accommodate their purpose. The bar remained open. James Lane sat at a corner table with two like-minded men, James Montgomery and Charles “Doc” Jennison. Like Lane, both were staunch free-soil men. All three knew the slavery issue would not be resolved without a fight. Tall and lean, of rugged conformation, Jennison was ruthless by nature with a mean streak that granted no quarter. Montgomery, a former school teacher and Methodist minister, took moral high ground where slavery was concerned—a position more common to abolitionists than purely pragmatic free-soil men. His followers regarded him a fearless though principled leader given to moral restraint that little troubled a man like Jennison. Charles Robinson held the floor.

  “We’ve no choice but to organize our opposition to the fraudulent usurpation of power by pro-slavery Missouri men. They must not be allowed to subvert the rightful will of Kansans in a matter as morally vital as the holding of slaves. I ask you to join me now in forming a Free State party to put forward a slate of legislative candidates to recall and replace those intent on forming a legislature in Lecompton.”

  “Here, here!” The assembly pounded the table in accord.

  “And with no less than you, Charles, to lead it!” cried a man near the door to another thunderous round of approval.

  Lane rose at his seat. “Let me second that, Charles; but before I do, a word if I might?”

  Robinson nodded. “Please, James. The floor is yours.”

  “We can organize our opposition party as Charles proposes. We can—and we should—pursue our electoral recourse. But let us not delude ourselves in that. Our neighbors to the east and those among us who think as they do will resist our opposition and not just at the ballot box. Know the stakes, gentlemen; our opponents do. If we succeed, they will meet our opposition with force. We stand here today committed to peaceful purpose. But mark my word, those who resort to stealing elections will not stop at peaceful discourse. As we act here today, we are committing to a course that may lead to violence and bloodshed. Do not doubt me. Act accordingly. And, now, I second Charles Robinson to lead the Kansas Free State party, and may God have mercy on us all.”

  He took his seat to stunned silence. Somewhere someone clapped a tabletop. First two, then three, grew to a roar. “Here, here!”

  They shuffled out of Eldridge House in small groups talking among themselves, variously assessing prospects for the enterprise they’d set in motion.


  Lane, Jennison, and Montgomery lingered at their table. “I’ve received a telegram from Brother Brown by way of his son,” Lane said. “He tells Salmon we should expect our first shipment from Reverend Beecher any day now. The shipments will be crated as canned tomatoes and farm implements. Salmon interprets that to mean small arms and perhaps cannon. Once they arrive, we shall be equipped to arm a militia. Those who listened today will be ready to join us. Spread the word quietly. We must keep these preparations discreet lest the border men take similar measures.”

  “How will we distribute the arms?” Jennison asked.

  “When they arrive, we’ll store them here in Eldridge House. I’ll put out the word to the two of you. You can instruct your recruits to come in and claim their ‘Beecher’s Bibles’ at times we shall appoint. We should have our men armed before our new party mounts an effective political opposition.”

  The wagons arrived two weeks later. Lane and two of his men unloaded the shipment to the Eldridge House storeroom. “Farm implements” included Sharp’s carbines, Model 1842 .54 caliber smooth-bore muskets, and a light cannon. “Canned goods” included Model 1848 .44 caliber cap and ball Colt Dragoons.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  * * *

  Sycamore

  June, 1855

  Dear Ma and Pa,

  The joyous news can wait no longer. You have a beautiful new granddaughter, Elizabeth. She was born last month. With Miriam’s help we came through it fine. Some say she looks like me, but I see Micah’s eyes in her. She is a good baby. Fusses when she’s hungry, satisfied when she’s not.

  Micah and Caleb got our crop in the ground this spring. Our growing season is well under way. The fields wave green-gold in the sun. They promise a fruitful harvest, a proper house in due time, and, dare I say it, a stove. Sycamore truly abounds in God’s beauty and blessings.

  You have undoubtedly read news accounts of our territorial election. Missouri men saw fit to tamper with our ballot, producing an election of dubious result. By nefarious means they managed to elect a pro-slavery legislature representative of few people living in Kansas. Micah says the community leaders in Lawrence are already calling for a second and this time fair election. How they mean to prevent a repeat of the last outcome is unclear to me. Who will say which legislature truly represents Kansas? I can’t say. I only pray the outcome is not to be decided by violent means, though we hear blood strong sentiment on both sides of the issue.

  I must close now as Elizabeth is calling for her lunch. In that, I am the only one to satisfy her.

  Clare

  August 1855

  The rider, clad in a black frock coat and broad-brimmed pancake hat, drew rein on the road east of the creek. Golden wheat fields glimmered in heat waves beyond the trees lining the creek bank. They’d be ready for harvest in another month or so. The crop would fetch a fair price. The Masons’ might indeed hold their claim. Thorne scowled in frustration. How had he let such choice acreage slip through his fingers? Careless, just plain careless. He made out young Mason in the field furthest south, accompanied by a black man. Curious that . . . he smoothed his moustache. He’d taken Mason for an abolitionist. Could he be keeping a slave? No. More likely harboring a runaway. Hmm, if that were true, something might be made of it.

  She came up from the sod house, carrying a bucket to draw water from the creek. She bent to fill the bucket. A gentle breeze ruffled the skirt about her hips. Thorne shifted in his saddle. Fine figure of a woman. Mason had that, too. The land and the woman goaded him. She paused at the creek bank to look his way. Spotted, he gave a casual wave and rode on.

  October, 1855

  New life came forth in spring to suckle at a mother’s breast, sprinkled in rooting rain. It grew tall and green the long summer through, ripening a golden grain in the long last of summer sun. Cut and gathered, threshed and carried, she grew drowsy with her labors, awaiting her coming rest.

  Crisp autumn air swirled through sunlit golden-orange sycamore leaves, fluttering above the creek banks, or falling to its surface to be swept along in ripples to the river. Caleb spotted Micah returning from town astride Sampson. He smiled at the milk cow plodding along in tow. He glanced at the sun. Time enough to do a little hunting.

  Micah drew rein and stepped down. He handed Caleb the lead to a brown-eyed Guernsey.

  “She right pretty, this one.”

  Micah smiled. “Mostly she’ll do for Elizabeth’s needs.”

  “Along with a bit of butter maybe?”

  “Along with a bit of butter, I reckon.” Micah smiled. Caleb’s thoughts never strayed too far from his stomach. “She gives us good reason to finish that pole barn before the snow flies.”

  “We still goin’ huntin’?”

  “You put her and Sampson up while I get my musket.”

  They set off across the harvested fields, the musket cradled in Micah’s left forearm.

  “What we huntin’ for?” Caleb said.

  “Deer would be a good choice. Buffalo if we get lucky. Either way, we can jerk a supply in for the winter.”

  Caleb lifted his chin to the musket. “You pretty good with that thing?”

  “Grew up shootin’ squirrel with a piece uglier than this. I expect I can hit a deer or a buffalo. How about you?”

  “I didn’t never shoot nothin’. Guns ain’t for us folks, you know.”

  “Oh, that. Well, then, we best teach you how to shoot. No tellin’ when we might have to defend this place.”

  “What about that?” He directed his gaze to the Colt Dragoon in the holster at Micah’s hip.

  “We’ll start with the long gun. Pistols take a bit more work.”

  Caleb smiled. His big white grin crossed the fields they’d cut and baled the last three weeks. The land, delivered of its fruits, stretched out at rest beneath the warmth of a golden October sky. They shipped the crop by flatboat down river to the grist mill at Kansas City. They got a good price for it, too. This winter promised a sight more comfort than last.

  Open country lay beyond the wheat fields to the west, broad rolling plains awash in browned prairie grass. Here and there tree stands marked the likelihood of a stream. Micah angled northwest toward the river.

  “We’ll find us a grove of trees to cover in. If we get a good spot we may see game come down to the river to water.”

  They found a likely spot among a grove of cottonwoods. Trail sign west of the stand said deer passed nearby heading down to the river. They settled in among the trees to watch and wait.

  “How long you figure we have to wait?”

  Micah shrugged. “Hard to say. That’s the thing about huntin’. This should be a good spot, though. We know they pass this way. That west breeze keeps us downwind of ’em.”

  “Downwind?”

  “The west wind blows our scent away from the trail so they don’t smell us and spook. Now, the first thing you need to know about shooting is how to load your gun. Watch.” He stood and drew a brass tube from his pocket. “This is your powder measure. You want to use the same amount of powder for each shot.” He took the powder horn slung over his shoulder and pulled the quill stopper with his teeth. He poured powder into the tube and replaced the quill in the horn. “Now you pour the charge into the muzzle.” He stood the musket on its butt plate and poured the charge into the muzzle. He drew a small oilcloth patch from a pouch at his belt. He spread it over the bore and placed a lead bullet in the center. He pushed patch and ball into the barrel, drew the ramrod from the rifle stock, and smoothly rammed the load down the barrel. “See here?” He held his thumbnail to a band etched in the rod. “When the rod seats the bullet to this position, you know it is seated properly to the charge.”

  Caleb nodded.

  Micah raised the musket. “Watch this procedure carefully. You cock the hammer to this position and fit this cap to the nipple here. See?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “That primes the charge. Now hold the hammer and squeeze the trigger until t
he hammer releases. Lower the hammer gently, release the trigger, and set the hammer at half-cock; now the rifle is ready. You can cock and fire it when game presents the opportunity. Do you think you can do that?”

  He knit his brow in thought. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll get to show me once we’ve had a shot.”

  They settled in to wait. Time passed. Caleb dozed.

  “Look there.” Micah nudged him.

  A small herd of brown shaggy buffalo trotted over a rise off to the south. At the scent of water, they picked up a trot down a gentle draw toward the river. Micah rose to a knee, watching them come.

  “The lead cow is the matriarch. See the young bull trailing behind? That’s the one I mean to take.” The herd drew closer and passed. Micah leveled aim at the straggler bull. He pictured the shoulder just behind the bobbing head. Exhale. Squeeze. The musket charged a plume of blue smoke. The bull bellowed, stumbled, and went down. The herd bolted to the river.

  “That good shootin’, Massa Micah.”

  Micah handed Caleb the musket, powder tube, and powder horn. “Reload this and you’ll be shootin’ just as good in no time.”

  It took a reminder or two, but Caleb managed to reload the musket, correctly using the ramrod to confirm the load. Micah stopped him short of priming the cap, but made him demonstrate manipulating hammer and trigger to the half-cock positon.

  “Well done.”

  Caleb grinned. “How we gonna get that bull back to the house?”

  “You go hitch up the wagon and drive on out here. I’ll keep watch on our kill so scavengers don’t spoil it.”

  Caleb set off for the farm through the trees. He ambled across the field, prairie grass rising to his knees. He’d gone no more than a hundred yards when an Indian hunting party, tracking the buffalo, rode over the rise to the south. They spotted him and swung to the attack.

  Micah hadn’t expected to encounter a hunting party. He’d been told Arapaho sometimes hunted these plains, though this was his first encounter with them. He counted six, magnificently mounted on three paints, a white, a palomino, and a roan. Each brave was clad in buckskin and feathers and armed with bow and lance. They would ride down Caleb in short order; he had no time to think. They didn’t know he was here. He primed the musket and shouldered it to full cock. He pictured the lead warrior on a sturdy paint, exhaled slowly, and squeezed.