“No. That’s enough. Come on back to bed.” Mercy lay down beside him, keeping a foot of space between them. “I wish I could hold you,” he said wistfully.
“I wish you could, too, but we’ll have to wait. I’m just so grateful that your wounds are healing and you haven’t been out of your head with a fever.” She moved her bare foot over to his good leg and rubbed the bottom of her foot caressingly over his instep.
“I kind of remember Lenny pouring that Baxter whiskey on me. It hurt so damn bad, I thought he was trying to kill me. It must have done some good.” He found her hand and held it against the flat plain of his stomach.
“Are you wishing you were going with Papa in the morning?” She moved her head to place her cheek against his upper arm.
“It’s hard knowing that they’re going and I have to stay here.”
“I know it is, darling.”
“I feel bad about Turley. He was a good man. I wish I knew who it was that struck him down. When I’m on my feet, I aim to find out.” His voice vibrated angrily.
Her lips hovered over his, whispering, “Go back to sleep, darling. There’s nothing you can do now that’s more important than getting well.”
“I know, but I can’t help thinking about it.”
“All this time I thought you were thinking about me,” she teased, dotting her words with gentle kisses.
“I do think about you, sweetheart, and our night together. . . .”
“I was awfully dumb!”
“If you’d have been anything else, I would have beat you!”
“Did you really tell Papa I was as dumb as a cow?”
“I don’t . . . remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Ouch!” he whispered when she yanked at the hair on his chest. “What did you do that for?”
“That was for not remembering that you didn’t say it.”
* * *
Liberty Quill lay curled against her husband’s side, her head pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder. She had been awake for the better half of an hour. Farr would be stirring soon. During this time her thoughts had spanned the years. Tomorrow her husband would go to the Crenshaw mansion in the southern part of the state to get George, the son of their friends, George Washington, the big black man, and his Shawnee wife, Sugar Tree. That Hammond Perry was still seeking vengeance against her and Farr was incredible. Yet, ironically, he was the reason Liberty, her father, and her Sister had come to the Illinois Territory so many years ago.
Hammond Perry, the brother of Liberty’s first husband, gentle, kind Jubal Perry, who had died on their way out from New York State, had despised Liberty the moment he set eyes on her. Jubal had been old, but he had married Liberty to save her from the clutches of a man who would have abused her. At times Liberty felt wicked for being glad that Jubal had not lived to learn that his brother was a mean and vicious man. Even then, Hammond had been jealous of Farr’s influence with Governor Bradford and Zachary Taylor. After his brother’s widow married Farrway Quill, he had become consistently more brazen in his attempts to seek revenge, for he believed Farr was responsible for the deterioration of his military career.
“What are you thinking about, love?” Farr’s hand began to stroke her arm.
“How did you know I was awake?”
“I’d not be a very observant man if I slept with a woman every night for twenty years and did not recognize her breathing when she was awake.”
“Nineteen years. And there was that two weeks while you were in that prison at Fort Knox that we didn’t sleep together.”
Farr chuckled and wrapped her in his arms. “Libby, Libby. I wonder if Hammond Perry knows that if not for him, I’d not have known the happiness of having you for my wife.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t occurred to him. Oh, Farr, I know you must go, but I’ll worry until you get back.”
“It isn’t a dangerous mission. Perry wouldn’t dare to attack me in front of witnesses.”
“No, the chinless little sneak is too much of a coward! His way would be to ambush you like he did Daniel. He should have been shot long ago for a mad dog!”
“Are you getting your temper up, Mrs. Quill? Save some of that passion for your husband and give him some sweet loving to take with him tomorrow.” He pulled at her gown and spoke with his lips against her mouth.
“I wonder if we’ll ever get too old for this?”
“I won’t! And if you do, I’ll just throw you away and get myself a younger woman.”
“Ha! You’re getting to be like all the rest of the politicians, Farr Quill. You’re believing your own lies!”
The arms around her tightened. He kissed her quickly. “When I get back, I’m going to have to take you in hand, Mrs. Quill. You’re getting pretty dad-burned lippy.”
* * *
With the early-morning start, Farr and his party were able to ride fifty miles before they bedded down for the night at a farm that was used as a way station for the Underground Railroad. Edward Ashton had been a tremendous help in getting fresh horses, knowing the out-of-the-way shortcuts and finding a place for them to sleep for a few hours. They left the farm two hours before dawn, and as the sun was coming up over the lush green forest to the east, they came out onto a plateau where they could see Hickory Hill, the end of their journey.
John Crenshaw’s mansion was set high on a windswept hill near the village of Equality in Gallatin County. It was only a night’s ride from the Ohio River. From the outside the house appeared to be of pseudo–Greek revival design with upper and lower verandas, supported by massive columns extending the width of the house. Double doors and four floor-length windows opened onto the upper, as well as the lower, verandas. The peak of the roof was squared. On the third floor, centered above the large doors, was a single window with small side panes. Not readily apparent was the carriageway that actually entered the house through the large double doors on the north. The immense three-storied house with its massive columns was truly a symbol of the pride of ownership. It had taken the builder from Ohio four years to complete it, using skilled workers and only the finest of materials.
Farrway Quill and his party gathered on their horses behind a screen of cedars and studied the mansion and the terrain around it. Edward Ashton told them as much as he knew about John Crenshaw and the house.
“I have been told that carriages come into the house at night. The slaves are hurried up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor, where there’s a large hallway flanked on either side by narrow doorways leading into small cell-like rooms. There are seven of these rooms on the east and five on the west. All contain double-tiered bunks. The slaves remain in the cells until time for their disposal.
“Does he bring all the slaves to his house?” Farr asked. “I see that he has plenty of outbuildings.”
“All perfectly innocent servants’ quarters,” Edward said. “Only the slaves who are here illegally are brought inside the house. He uses the females for breeding purposes. A pregnant female, or one who already has a child, will bring several hundred dollars more on the southern market than a single slave. He’s got a black stud, a giant of a man they call Uncle Bob, in a cell on the third floor. He services the females they steal from here in Illinois, and other states where slavery is illegal.”
“I suppose the people who work in the salt mines have quarters there.”
“Such as they are. The workers are leased from plantation owners in the South and are here in the state legally. Crenshaw owns three of the nine furnaces in the state used to reduce salt water to crystals, the mill on the north fork of the Saline river, and thirty thousand acres of land.”
Farr whistled through his teeth. “He’s more powerful than anyone in Vandalia knows. It may be that no one has taken the trouble to find out.”
“Another story I’ve heard is that a passageway runs from the house to the creek over yonder. The Negro-nappers bring people up the Ohio by boat, transfer them to a smaller craft on t
he Saline River, and come up the creek at night and into the house through the passageway.”
“The mon be a real sonofabitch!” Gavin exclaimed. “He be gettin’ rich on them poor souls.”
“And we can’t touch him . . . yet,” Farr said softly. “We’ll get George, if he’s there. After that we’ll have to work through the courts.”
“This is a good time to call,” Edward said. “Crenshaw is usually driven to the mines after breakfast. You’ll catch him before he leaves.”
“Where will you be, Ashton?”
“I’ll watch from here. If you come out with George, I’ll go on about my business. If not, take the river road; I’ll catch up to you and we’ll see what else we can do.”
Farr extended his hand. “We’re grateful for your help. If we don’t see you again, let us know if ever there’s anything we can do to help you in your work.”
“Having the mill on the Wabash as a station for our railroad helps lot. See what you can get done at the State House.”
“I will. This has certainly opened my eyes to what’s going on down here.”
* * *
Farr, flanked by Gavin and Mike, rode up the drive to Hickory Hill. As they approached, a colored man in gleaming white pants and shirt came out onto the veranda. As they neared, he motioned with his hand, and another Negro hurried out to stand in the drive that circled the house so that the riders were forced to stop at the hitch rail.
“Welcome to Hickory Hill, gentlemen.” The whiteclad house servant stood on the steps grinning broadly. “C’mon up on the veranda out of the sun.”
Farr, Gavin, and Mike dismounted and tied their horses to the rail. Farr looked directly at the Negro who had come out to take the horses. The man looked down at his bare feet and refused to look at him. The house servant, however, looked him in the eyes, and Farr was sure his smile of welcome was a practiced one.
“I want to see Mr. Crenshaw.”
“Yessah. Who shall I say is callin’, sah?”
“Farrway Quill, Illinois State Representative.”
“Yessah. Come in. Come right on in. I tell Mistah Crenshaw you is here.” The man moved silently down the carpeted hall and disappeared through a doorway.
The house was every bit as elegant on the inside as it was on the outside. The ceilings were all twelve feet high, and the walls were papered with a gold-leaf design. The furnishings were finer than those at Grouseland, the Georgian-style home of the Governor of Indiana. The chandeliers were crystal, the carpets imported from India. The place was as quiet as a tomb, except for a few muffled sounds that could be heard coming from a distant part of the house.
“Pretty fancy place,” Mike murmured to Gavin.
“Aye. Too quiet to suit me.”
The servant came back, still smiling. “Mistah Crenshaw say come back to his office, sah. The gentlemen wait here.”
“The gentlemen come with me,” Farr said, smiling, then added when a look of fright crossed the servant’s face, “I’ll tell Mr. Crenshaw it was my idea so you’ll not bear the brunt of his displeasure.”
“But, sah, Mistah Crenshaw say—”
“Lead the way, or we’ll find him ourselves.”
“Yessah.”
When Farr walked into the room, the heavyset man swiveled around in his chair and looked at him from beneath bushy brows. His hair was combed into a peak on the top of his head, and the face that wore a frown was framed with short whiskers.
“Mr. Crenshaw,” Farr said, walking over and extending his hand. “Farrway Quill.”
The man shook his hand. “You will have to pardon me for not rising to meet you. I have a slight disability.”
“Understandable. Your man insisted that my associates wait in the foyer. They are here at my insistence. We, too, are in business, and I thought it would be good for them to meet a successful businessman such as yourself.” Without waiting for him to answer, Farr introduced Gavin and Mike.
Gavin and Mike stepped forward and shook the hand Crenshaw offered, backed away, and sat down when Crenshaw waved them to a seat.
“You’re a busy man. My own time is limited, so I’ll come right to the point of this visit. A Negro boy who is rather a pet of my wife has wandered down this way. I rather suspect he thought to find work in your mines. My wife has invested time and money in the boy. He paints pictures, and she has the notion to have him paint one on the wall of our parlor. You know how women are. They can get a bug in their bonnet and make your life miserable.”
Crenshaw chuckled, but the frown didn’t leave his face. Farr had never seen a man frowning and laughing at the same time.
“Women are fanciful creatures. What do you want from me, Mr. Quill?”
“I’m wanting to know if you have a boy here by the name of George. He’s fairly light-skinned, educated, speaks well. His mother was Shawnee, and he usually wears his hair braided, Indian-fashion.”
Crenshaw twisted his mouth as if he were thinking. Finally he said, “No. We’ve no one here by the name of George. A few times we have caught runaways and held them for their masters across the river. But we’ve not had one here who fits that description, or one who calls himself George.”
Farr didn’t speak for a long moment. He knew his silence was wearing on Crenshaw, so he remained silent for a while longer. Crenshaw swung around in his chair and fiddled with something on his desk, swung back around with his hands clapped together, his thumbs circling each other nervously. It was obvious the man was not going to prolong the conversation with chitchat.
Farr got to his feet. “Well, I guess that’s that. We thank you for your time, Crenshaw. I was just thinking it would be a good thing for some of the members of the legislature to come down and see your fine operation before it’s time to renew the leases on the public lands. You have a beautiful home here. It might be a good idea if you issued invitations for them to spend some time here.”
“I’ll give it some thought.” Crenshaw’s snapping lips reminded Farr of the jaws of a turtle.
“Good morning.” Farr strode out the door, followed by Mike and Gavin. They were met by the servant, not smiling now, who led them to the door.
“Good day to ya, sah.”
After the door was closed firmly behind them, Farr motioned Mike and Gavin to follow him into the yard. Farr walked over to a rosebush and bent to examine the buds. He began to whistle a loud, shrill birdcall. He picked off a leaf and held it up for Mike and Gavin to see. The birdcall came from his pursed lips again. Gavin stooped to pick up some of the mulch around the rosebush, held it to his finger. All were playing for time and straining their ears.
Finally a faint sound reached them. Farr whistled again. Waited. The echo came back again.
“Where is he?” Farr hissed, and walked slowly toward the horses.
The faint birdcall came again.
“He be back of the house.” Gavin stood by his horse. “What to do now?”
“You and Mike wait here.”
Farr sprang up the veranda steps and, without knocking, opened the door and walked in. Long strides took him toward Crenshaw’s office. The servant was pushing the man out into the hallway.
“Crenshaw!” Farr’s voice was as sharp as the crack of a whip.
“What do you want? What do you mean coming back into my house unannounced?”
“My boy, George, is here. Come out onto the veranda.” Farr strode ahead and held open the door. The servant pushed the chair over to the veranda railing. “Listen,” Farr commanded. He cupped his hand around his mouth and whistled the birdcall, loud and shrill.
Faintly the call was answered.
“What the hell am I supposed to be listening for?” Crenshaw asked. “All I hear is a bird.”
“That’s no bird. That’s George. His father and I used that birdcall to keep track of each other when we were boys. He taught it to his son; I taught it to mine.”
“It could be a bird!” Crenshaw insisted, his face growing red with anger.
/> “Not a night bird, Crenshaw!” Farr gritted angrily. “I want that boy. Send your man to get him, or we’ll shoot out every window in this house, and you might just accidentally get in the way of one of those shots!”
“There is no one here by that name! Now get off my land. Representative or not, this is my property.”
“My advice to you is cooperate. I want the man who answered that call, regardless of what his name is. I warn you, Crenshaw, I fight dirty.” Farr called out to Mike and Gavin, “If he doesn’t give the order to get that boy by the time I count to three, start shooting. Shoot through the front door, Gavin, and hit that chandelier that came from Italy.”
“I’ll ruin you!” Crenshaw shouted.
“One . . . two . . .”
“All right, I’ll have the boy go get him. We have a runaway locked in the shed behind the house. He’s to go back to his owner in Kentucky. Get him!” he snarled to the servant.
Farr whistled the birdcall again. The answer came back.
“That boy better still be whistling after your man gets there, or you’ll be whistling from a new hole in your throat.”
“Don’t you threaten me, you backwoods . . . dolt! I could buy and sell you a hundred times. We’ll see who carries weight in this state. I bring in enough revenue every year to pay for that damn courthouse.”
The servant came back around the house with a man heavily shackled, his arms tied behind him. At first glance Farr felt his heart sink. The braids, so strongly a part of George’s identity, were gone. Shoeless and ragged, he could take only small hopping steps.
“Mistah Farr!” The cry was a weak whimper.
“Good God! George!” Farr hurried to him, pushed the servant away, and folded George in his arms. He held the sobbing boy. “God damn you, Crenshaw,” Farr said over George’s head. “I ought to kill you!”
“Mistah Farr, Mistah Farr . . .” It was all George could say.
Gavin poked the servant with the end of his gun. “Get them irons off him.”
Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] Page 33
