Bethany sat huddled under a blanket in front of the campfire. There were too many coming to fit inside the new sod building.
It was twilight, and usually Kansas sunsets were a wonder to her. She loved watching the flaming hues ebb and drift across the sky like floating gauze. In Kentucky, the setting sun had been obscured by the trees. Tonight, she was too troubled to enjoy the colors. She looked up when Teddy came toward the fire.
“Looks like we got the best seats,” he said. He threw a couple more cottonwood branches on the fire.
“They’ll all be here plenty soon enough,” Bethany said. “It’s going to be a reach to come up with the words to get these folks to have anything to do with whites.”
Teddy looked at her sharply. “Can’t say as I blame us.”
“I know we came here to get away from them. I get along with them better than most of our people. You do, too. But most folks here would rather die than have anything to do with them at all.”
“White folks is a fact of life.”
“I know that, Teddy, but I don’t know how to make our people understand. If we don’t move forward, if we don’t have money to buy seed and tools and get new horses, the white folks in this county will never see us as real people. As human beings.”
“No guarantee of that anyway. That they gonna see us as human beings.”
“No. No guarantees. We’re probably going to be dealing with people out to lie to us or trick us. It’s going to take all our wits just to keep from getting fleeced. Just like back home.” Bethany smiled, stood up, and brushed her hands against her skirts. The people of Nicodemus were drifting toward the fire. When they all gathered, she took a deep breath, then walked to the front.
“Teddy and I asked you all to meet here tonight to see what we’re going to have to do to bring in some money. Before now, all we’ve talked about is how to stay alive. Now we’ve got to figure out how to make it up to the next level or we’re going to get crushed by white men here, same as we were in the South.”
“You wants better,” said Patricia Towaday. “Just you.” She had worked in the fields all her life. She no longer had to worry about beatings or the threat of being sold off. Nicodemus was heaven.
“You wants the glass windows and the fancy books. You wants to start a school and take up fancy white ways.” Patricia looked around, then quieted at the lack of approval.
“Yes, I want all that. Others here want that for their children also. But it’s not a matter of wanting books and glass.” Bethany’s voice was steady, but her stomach was aflutter. As she talked, several of the men nodded their heads.
Teddy said firmly, “She right. Right as rain. Can’t just stand still. Won’t work to tread water. We’ve got to sink or swim.”
“What you have in mind?” Jim Black asked.
“I want us to start getting some of the white folks’ money,” said Bethany, “so we can start making this into a real town.”
“Didn’t come here to be no servant. Or a slave,” said Patricia.
“I didn’t either,” said Bethany quickly. “None of us did.” She told them about her idea for flyers. “Let’s put our heads together and figure out what we can do for hire that white folks are going to want.”
“There’s a crying need for good blacksmiths around here,” said Jim Black.
“And I’ll bet people need seamstresses.” Bethany nodded toward Dolly. “I know they are going to need doctoring and babies delivered. But remember, we can’t trade goods or services. We need cash money. We’ve proved we can stay alive. Now let’s build a town.”
“There’s not a real hotel in this county,” said Silas Brown. “No place for folks to eat. Potroff House ain’t nothing. Just a flea bag big enough for the king flea himself. Let’s start a hotel with real food.”
“Wouldn’t that be something now,” Teddy said, “if the only decent café and hotel in the whole county was put up by ex-slaves?”
“You’re getting the idea,” Bethany said. “And when you bring in some real cash money, I’m asking you to put twenty percent in a fund for the promotion of Nicodemus.”
“Twenty percent of nothing ain’t hard to come up with,” Lu-Anne Brown said.
“Won’t be twenty percent of nothing for long,” Bethany said.
“We don’t have a sod cutter,” said Jim Black. “Can’t start no hotel anyway this time of year. Ground is too froze for plowing. The hotel’s out until spring.”
“No it’s not,” said Henry Partridge. He pointed toward their community building and waved his claw hand. “I hereby declare this place Hotel Nicodemus. Guess I’ve learned how to do some things from those lying sons-a-bitches who brought us here. This here is everything else. Might as well call it a hotel, too.”
John More was the first to laugh. Then it spread.
“Well, why not?” Bethany said. “Why not? It’s sure better than Hotel Potroff.”
“I’ll make a sign,” said Jim. “Hotel Nicodemus.”
“I’ll cook if someone comes,” said LuAnne Brown.
“That’s thinking. That’s the kind of thinking I want us to do,” Bethany said gleefully.
Millbrook was little more than a gleam in a speculator’s eye. Millbrook was composed of a few hastily built dugouts and a tiny sod building that sold a few essentials. There was the start of a livery stable and a surprisingly good corral used by all the residents. Millbrook consisted of twenty-five people. But they had a paper and a second-hand printing press.
Norvin Meissner, editor of the Millbrook Wildhorse, was a sometime lawyer and full-time abolitionist. He had one suit of dress clothes. His daily dress alternated between two shirts and two pairs of pants that he washed himself.
He was of medium height with mild, blue eyes. He had muttonchop sideburns after the manner of Van Buren, although the style had long passed. A cheerfully wrong-headed man, he naturally and honestly veered toward the most controversial side of any argument.
He had tried a wife, but found the practical side of married life too confining. He wanted to spend his days in the world of ideas, and his wife wanted him to make a living. So they had parted—she with great bitterness. He had barely noticed her leaving and was greatly surprised when one day he noticed the small stash of food she had prepared in advance was gone, and so was she. He cared enough to check, but was greatly relieved when he found she had returned to her parents, and he was free to return unhampered to his books.
When Teddy Sommers came across the prairie riding his old mule, Norvin thought he was seeing a wee, brown ghost. Like many transplanted Yankees, he had had very little personal contact with “people of color,” as he delicately referred to them.
Teddy climbed off his mule, and Meissner immediately rushed forward to take the reins and tie them to the post himself.
“Let me do that,” he gushed. “Are you from Nicodemus? I’ve heard about your town. You do our little community honor. Come in, come in.”
Teddy immediately recognized Meissner’s eagerness to please a member of the Negro race. The man was a cousin to the editors who referred to Indians as the Noble Savage without knowing nary a one.
Teddy smiled broadly. “Name’s Teddy Sommers, and I is come to see if you is agreeable to printing something. ’Course, we expect to pay cash. Just inquiring right now.” He handed Meissner the sample copy of Bethany’s hand-lettered flyer.
“Of course. Do come in, come in. I have coffee. Real coffee. May I offer you a cup of coffee, sir?”
“Well, now, I sure enough would like a cup of coffee. That sure do sound agreeable.”
Teddy stood straight as a sentry and puffed out his scrawny chest. He tugged on his vest, newly mended for the trip. Dolly had shortened his straggly old pants and brushed and patched his jacket. Puttin’ on de massa was second nature to him anyway, and Meissner was like putty.
The editor steered Teddy to the best, and in fact the only, chair, then carefully poured coffee into a tin cup. He perched on top of a barr
el and watched anxiously as Teddy took a small sip.
“This is fine brew, Mr. Meissner. Right fine. Good as I ever had.” It was the second time in his life he had tasted coffee.
Meissner read the list of services Teddy offered. “You have a midwife?” he asked in astonishment. “Does she do other kinds of doctoring?”
“She’s a wonder,” said Teddy. “Just a gem.”
“And a blacksmith? You have a blacksmith?”
“The best.” Teddy grinned. “A lot of my people is the best at what they do. White folks make us learn it right.”
“I knew about your town, of course, but I had no idea there was such a splendid accumulation of talent. Of course I intend to write an article about your settlement.”
Somewhere in the conversation, Teddy forgot Meissner was white. Forgot all thoughts of using him. He was no longer “putting on de massa.” He could not recall another time in his life when he had forgotten he was a black man and the other person was white.
Meissner came to Nicodemus the very next day. Teddy introduced him to Bethany, to Jim Black and Henry Partridge.
The editor could hardly contain his excitement. Everything Sommers had said about the town was real. Most of what Meissner wrote about Millbrook wasn’t exactly the truth. But everything Sommers had told him about Nicodemus was.
The Millbrook Wildhorse was desperate for news of any kind. No one paid for subscriptions, and there was rarely money available to pay for advertisements. Meissner’s paper was sponsored by a town company, as were all the other papers on the prairie. He had just barely set up shop and was preparing to give Wade City a run for the money. While it was unthinkable that a black town would be a contender for the county seat, Meissner quickly realized he needed to get on the good side of this group of people. If for no other reason than to get their vote for Millbrook.
Teddy rode back over to Millbrook a week later to pick up the edition of the paper that contained information about Nicodemus. He whooped when he saw the headline.
New Town of Negro Immigrants
Galvanizes the County
The illustrious citizens of Nicodemus bring a level of skill and industry unrivaled in this county and, indeed, in Kansas. Never has this editor had the privilege of reporting such a contribution to the quality of industry and civilization on the prairie. They have a blacksmith whose skills are second to none, and, by the grace of God, this county now has available Miss Bethany Herbert, who possesses formidable skills as a midwife.
The intrepid Miss Herbert was tutored by her mother and grandmother before the war and assisted white doctors at some of the finest plantations. People in this area would be well advised to keep her abilities in mind.
Meissner went on to praise Teddy’s abilities as a carpenter, then raved about the quality and convenience of the hotel and the outstanding food he had eaten. He went on in that vein so extravagantly that Bethany and Teddy just shook their heads with wonder. Meissner had advertised their talents far better than the planned flyer. Now they could channel their money into a circular to attract more blacks.
The next week, a homesteader came to their town and asked Jim Black to repair a wagon wheel. While he waited, he bought a meal at the new café and hotel. He paid LuAnne Brown cash for the meal and then paid Jim Black for the wagon wheel. Between them, they made five dollars.
That evening both of them went to Bethany and handed her twenty percent. She solemnly recorded their names in a book. “You’ll get this back in a year,” she promised, “at six percent interest. Just like a bank would pay.”
The next morning, she made the long walk over to Millbrook, clutching the precious accumulated dollar.
“I want to order some handbills,” she announced to Norvin Meissner. “How much would they cost, please?”
“How many?”
“About one hundred fifty.”
He swallowed. That was a bunch. Back East it would be a decent-sized print job. Here it was enormous. And expensive. “I’d have to order in paper. I don’t keep that much on hand.” It seemed indelicate to bring up the subject of money, but he would need some to get the project started.
“We can pay,” Bethany said softly. “Would a dollar down get you started?”
“Just barely.” When he agreed to come here, he hadn’t realized there weren’t any people around to read his paper. No one to read it, and no one to buy it. His job was to start a town, but he didn’t understand how hard it would be. They were giving away land, for Christ’s sake. You would think folks would just come pouring in. Instead they sent scouts who went back with bleak reports of little water and no trees. The only chance any settlement had to survive was by getting the county seat and attracting a railroad.
“What do you want it to say?” he asked.
“We want other colored folks to come to Nicodemus. We want them to know we’ll help them get started out here.”
Meissner’s face brightened. Thunderstruck, he knew how he could help the blacks. The town company sponsoring him would put up money for this handbill in a heartbeat if it brought in enough colored people to swing the vote.
“I can do this. And I’ll be glad to write everything up for you.”
“I’m going to write it up.”
“Oh, Miss, there’s an art to this. An art, I tell you.”
“There’s not going to be any ‘art’ or exaggerations or lies. Nothing made up at all.” Bethany’s gaze was stern. “The handbills we send down South are going to be the truth. God’s own truth, that’s all. No lies.”
“I wasn’t suggesting lies.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying that I want to help you get it just right.”
“I understand that. We want black folks to know what they will find, and what they will need to get by. Didn’t it set better with you, Mr. Meissner, when you could see what we said about our services was true?”
Chagrined, he nodded. It had set better. In fact, he had been surprised when he saw there actually was a hotel and café and blacksmith shop. He was pleased when Marvin Schump stopped by after Jim Black repaired his wagon wheel and told him what a good job the man had done. It gave the impression that Meissner was a man of integrity and people could trust his word. What the woman was proposing just might work. He was weary of the fury of people coming to Kansas, cussing him out for his lying ways, then turning right around to go back.
“We don’t have to lie about Kansas,” Bethany said. “There’s lots of good things you can say about this state.”
“Yes, a few good things. I’m from Ohio. Doesn’t necessarily mean better, but different. Just different.”
She smiled. “Yes, you mean better. I think we both know that. How do you think we feel, Mr. Meissner? We’re all from Kentucky. Trees, water. Reasonable people and reasonable weather. We were used to better, too. But we’re still not going to lie.”
“All right,” he said. “All right. We’ll do it your way, Miss Herbert.”
“Naturally I’ll be interested in any ideas you might have,” she said sweetly. “I’m sure you’re a better writer than I am.”
“We’ll work together.”
They spent an hour drawing up the handbill and getting the copy just right. He noticed her hungry eyes quickly reading the titles of the books he had stacked in the corner. He came close to offering to loan one but backed out. What if she didn’t return it or something happened to it? Reading material was incredibly precious. Besides, all he had was classics, and he was sure they were too hard for her.
“We are going to start a school right away. Just as soon as we can,” she said.
Incredulous, he was slow in responding. “What will you use for books?”
“I won’t need books at the beginning,” she said, with a quick bright smile. “Or paper, either. Until we get some money coming in, we’ll have to make do in other ways. As soon as it’s spring, I can teach the children their letters on the ground and their numbers, too, for that matter. They wou
ld have to be a little farther along anyway to need books right now.”
Again, she glanced at the stack in the corner.
“Would you like to borrow one of my books?” he asked impulsively. “For your own, ah, examination?”
He was embarrassed by her naked gratitude, her quick tears. She rushed over to the pile. To his amazement, she reached for Plutarch.
“He’s still my favorite,” she said. “Plutarch taught me what liberty of one’s soul could and should be.”
“Yes.” He was tongue-tied. There was no standard for talking with this woman. No example, no protocol. A Negress and an ex-slave to boot. It was unusual enough that they had spent the better part of an afternoon alone together and that he had lost all consciousness of her race and sex as they composed the flyer.
Then his eager intellectual bent took over. His love of ideas. “Well, Plutarch wasn’t the first. Hardly the first to advance such thoughts.”
“But he was the best,” Bethany responded. “The first to set it down clearly so that ordinary citizens could know such principles.”
“Madam, he was not,” Meissner replied with delight. In his time on the prairie, he had not found one single person with whom he could discuss books. To think that his first opportunity was coming from a black woman who was an ex-slave. They happily fell to quarrelling, and when Bethany started off he called her back.
Her beautiful face was lighted by the setting sun, the slim volume of Plutarch clutched to her breast as she stood in the bluestem grass.
“Yes?” she said softly, suddenly shy.
“I was wondering. I have some extra ruined paper. Discards and misprints. It doesn’t actually cost me anything. It’s provided to me by the backers of the Millbrook Town Company. Would you like some for your school? For days when the weather is bad and you can’t take your students outside.”
Rather than accepting his offer immediately as he had expected her to do, she stood looking at him for the longest time. When she did speak, her words were simple, grave, and unadorned. Cautious, almost.
“Thank you, Mr. Meissner. I would surely appreciate that. Thank you for your kindness. But I do not want to be beholden to you. Please put a value on the paper, and we will pay you for it.”
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