Blood of Pioneers

by Michelle Isenhoff

  ~

  It didn’t take long to arrange a money order. They left the post office with a receipt in hand and a lighter step. The farm was secure.

  As they passed the land office, Joel pulled away. “I want to step in here a moment. I have a hunch.”

  The building was a plain board square, drafty, and heated with an iron stove. A middle-aged man sat behind an untidy desk. “Can I help you?”

  Joel stepped up. “Yes, I’d like some information on land fraud, please.”

  “Going into business for yourself, son?” the man asked with a wry grin.

  Joel grimaced. “No sir.”

  “Well, I don’t see too much of it hereabouts. Used to. But Michigan is filling up like a bucket left outside on a rainy day, and most crooks find these parts too much bother for too little profit. But out west where there is so much unclaimed land, or up in the northern forests, now that’s another story. What with million-acre railroad grants and the new homesteading law, seems like someone comes up with another scam every day.”

  Joel thought about that a moment. “Have you ever heard of Mercurial Landholdings?”

  The man raised one eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, that name came to my attention very recently. Heard some complaints from homesteaders out near where the Grand Rapids and Indiana rail line is supposed to go through. Why? You have a run-in with them?”

  “You could say that.” Joel explained what happened.

  He gave them a sympathetic smile. “Same story I’ve heard. Lawson’s a small-timer, a con man, really. Not much I can do except put out a warning.”

  “I figured as much.” Joel looked at Hannah, who just wanted to put the whole thing behind them.

  “Let’s go home, Joel.”

  Outside, Joel pulled a few coins from his pocket. “I have a little money left over. How about lunch at the Allegan House and a ride home on the stage? I’ll ride Rounder.”

  His words matched Hannah’s thoughts exactly, and nothing had ever sounded so good.

  Chapter 17

  The house smelled of popped corn and the little evergreen tree standing in the front window. Christmas had come and gone a week ago, but Justin had insisted on cutting and dragging the tree home that morning—by himself.

  Doctor Graves had finally given the okay, and Maddy and Justin flooded back into the quiet house, filling it with energy, arguments, and laughter. Hannah hadn’t realized how people brought life to the rooms until she lived and worked in them alone. They gathered now around the tree, draping it with homemade garlands while Mama sat watching from her rocking chair, hardly coughing at all.

  Hannah was filled with a contentment the late holiday couldn’t fully account for. The end of the year had passed, 1863 had begun, and she couldn’t know what it would bring. Her father and brother were still away fighting, and the war hung uncertainty over the whole nation. But her family had strength and resilience in their blood. They were tucked snugly in the house they had built, on land they still owned, and there was nowhere else on earth Hannah wanted to be.

  “Mama?” Justin broke into her thoughts. “Will God be mad that we’re not celebrating on his birthday?”

  Mama’s eyes sparkled, but before she could answer they heard stomping on the step outside the door.

  Mama’s face suddenly paled. “That sounds like—”

  “Pa!” they all yelled as the door pushed open.

  He looked thin and haggard, but he was home.

  Uncertainty seized Hannah, holding her back as her siblings rushed him at the door. She rubbed her hands against her skirt. Would Pa truly want to see her?

  Pa grabbed each of his children up in a bear hug. Then he turned to Mama, holding out an envelope. “My discharge papers.”

  Mama’s tears fell then. “Glory be!” And she stumbled into his embrace.

  After a moment, Pa pulled away and glanced around. “Where’s Hannah?”

  She stepped forward shyly. “Here, Pa.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for, girl?”

  Her hesitancy dropped away, and she threw herself in her father’s arms. He hugged her tightly, and the tears she had bound so carefully broke free and galloped down her cheeks. “I missed you, Peanut.”

  Her face pressed against the rough fabric of his uniform. “I missed you too, Pa!”

  He let her go and spread out his hands, encompassing the house and the barn and the fields. “You don’t know how good it feels to come home!”

  Hannah met Joel’s eyes and they exchanged a secret smile. She did know. And she also knew that, war or no war, the Wallace family was going to weather 1863 just fine.

  ****

  An appeal to my readers…

  It’s tough for an independently published author to gain recognition without the support of a publishing house. It’s even more difficult to earn the respect of the literary community when so many indies produce substandard work.

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  Educators

  Would you like to see my books in Renaissance Learning’s Accelerated Reader program? Because I am not traditionally published, I cannot place my books there. BUT YOU CAN. Simply fill out the request form on the Renaissance Learning website. I’ve supplied all the information they ask for here, by book, so you can copy and paste it into their form.

  Bonus Short

  The Close of a Long Family Mystery

  1864

  Jefferson Jones (son of Ezra Jones and cousin to Malachi Watson) features in the final Divided Decade title, Beneath the Slashings.

  “Jefferson, did you hear Governor Blair is raising up a Colored regiment downstate?”

  My partner, a hard-living Irishman from Pittsburg, and I alternated swings on a giant white pine. My heart thrummed at his words. “You’re sure of that, O’Malley?”

  “Heard it from Mac. His last food shipment was packed in old newspapers. They’re calling it the First Michigan Colored.”

  Ever since Emancipation, the war had become my own. Reason would say that a man whose family tree had been bludgeoned by slavery would make an ideal soldier, but time and again Colored volunteers had been turned away by the government. O’Malley’s news lit a fire in my blood. I knew the risk—the glamor of war had long since blown away like powder smoke, but the principal behind it remained. I burned to see the task of freedom carried out.

  O’Malley grinned, his teeth stained by his passion for smoking tobacco. “Guess enough white men finally died for Uncle Sam to take you fellows seriously. You joining up?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “The boss man won’t be happy. Can’t make quota with everyone off soldering.”

  “Does Mac have any more details?”

  O’Malley shrugged. “Go get the article from him before he uses it to cook biscuits.”

  A few days before Christmas, I collected my pay and headed for home. My parents lived in a snug little shack near Allegan. I hitched a ride as far as Grand Rapids, but it took me two days to walk the last forty-five miles. I swung open the barn door sometime before midnight Christmas Eve.

  Lantern light awoke me the next morning. “Jefferson?” Pa gasped. “What are you doin’ here? You ill?”

  “Morning, Pa.” I grinned ruefully, fighting off the effects of sleep. “I was going to surprise you.”

  “You did.” He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling like the shifting of rock. “You sho’ly did.” But his laughter had an undercurrent of concern. A lumberjack never left camp until the spring thaw. “Let me feed ol’ Jack den we’ll spring you on yo’ mama.”

  I don’t know how a heart can feel as soft and warm as a feather pillow and as heavy as lead shot all at the same time, but that�
��s just how I felt walking in my parent’s door that morning. “Merry Christmas, Mama.”

  She nearly dropped the plate of cornbread she was carrying. “Lan’ sakes, child! Let me look at you!” I was in her arms one breath later.

  That was a fine day. The snow fell outside in big white flakes while we sipped Pa’s hot cider before the fire. Mama whipped up mashed potatoes, dried apple pie, and a home-cured ham that left me feeling a mite sorry for the fellas left in camp. Even the Christmas story got read proper that year, seeing I was the only one who could read. It was the kind of holiday that stacks up against even the best of memories. But I couldn’t put off my news forever.

  “Mama, Pa.” A look of expectation crossed their faces. I think they already knew. “I’ve decided to take my place in the Union army.”

  Pa slapped a hand on my thigh. “I’m right proud of you, son. If I was ten years younger, I’d be signin’ my name right next to yo’s.”

  I figured Pa would react that way. He’d always been as steady as an old plow horse. But I was unprepared for Mama’s response. Her face grew grave. “Be careful, Jefferson. You goin’ to a dark land.”

  “I know, Mama. You and Pa have told me stories.”

  “You can’t know ’less you been dare. You gunna see things that break yo’ heart.”

  I’d never known slavery. I’d been a passenger in my mama’s belly when she and Pa fled north. “I’ll do everything I can to change that.”

  She grinned then. “I’m gunna worry ’bout you every day, but I’d be sore pleased if you chose otherwise.”

  I smiled back at her. “I have a few weeks before we rendezvous in Detroit.”

  At the mention of that city, Pa and Mama shared a glance that changed the atmosphere of the room. Pa cleared his throat. “Will you be lookin’ when you get there?”

  “Course I will, Pa.”

  He nodded, his eyes gone off somewhere far away. “Maybe this time.”

  Mama touched his arm. “Don’ get yo’ hopes up too high, Ezra. Maybe she didn’t come.”

  “She came,” he countered. “Julia—she came.”

  It ate Pa up something awful knowing that he’d had to leave his sister behind in Georgia all those years ago. They planned to meet in Detroit, but Pa had never been able to find her. He’d been waiting more than twenty years.

  “I’ll turn over every stone, Pa. I promise.”

  “I know you will, son.” He leaned back heavily in his chair, massaging the ache in one knee. “Jefferson, I’ve a mind to hear the Exodus story if you’s willing.” And so we celebrated both Christmas and Passover that afternoon.

  The days flew by. The routine I’d grown up with was an easy one to fall back into. Milking the cow, chopping firewood, feeding the chickens, lifting some of the burden off my parents’ aging shoulders. It was light work compared to the woods, and it ended much too quickly.

  When it came time to say good-bye, Mama found her tears. Pa stood stoically at her side, one arm around her shoulders. I couldn’t help thinking how weary they looked, how fragile. I had plenty of time to regret our parting on the long walk to Kalamazoo. In that city, I spend the little money I had kept for myself to buy railway passage. I slept most of the way to Detroit.

  The city’s sheer size amazed me, with its endless skyline and crowded streets. There were so many people! How did I even begin to look for one woman? It was like searching for a coin on the Lake Huron shoreline. I stood before the railway station in a haze of bewilderment, much preferring the toil and dangers of a lumber camp.

  I caught the eye of a pleasant-faced man with a mop of brown curls. He sat in the front of a bob sleigh marked “River Street Inn,” obviously waiting for patrons. “Excuse me, sir,” I hailed. “Can you tell me the way to the nearest Colored congregation?”

  “I’ll do one better. Climb in and I’ll drop you off. It’s hardly out of my way.”

  “Bless you, sir,” I replied and climbed into the seat beside him. Twenty minutes later I alighted at the door of St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church. Waving to the hotel man, I entered the church with hope leaping like frogs in my belly.

  An elderly janitor answered my question with a regretful shake of his head. “I’m sorry, son. There is no Julia Watson in attendance at St. Matthews. You can try the Methodists.”

  He gave me detailed directions but with all my detours and wrong turns, finding the church took the better part of an hour. Locating someone to whom I could pose my question took considerably longer. Two hours passed before a choir director opened the church for an evening practice. By then my stomach was rumbling and my hands and feet had grown painfully cold.

  Unfortunately, the director didn’t know my aunt either. I bowed under the weight of my disappointment. “Are there any other congregations I can try?”

  The fellow smiled sympathetically. “There’s still the Baptists. You’re in luck. Mrs. Johnson will be along in a few minutes. She was a regular member until last winter when she moved in with her son and joined our congregation. If your aunt attended Second Baptist in the last twenty-six years, Mrs. Johnson will know.”

  I fidgeted like a child awaiting the close of a school day.

  Mrs. Johnson was a diminutive woman with the presence of a field commander. Her glare most certainly kept Methodist children on the straight and narrow. “Julia Watson? Of course I know Julia Watson. Fine, strong Christian woman. Raised up a son all by herself. What business do you have with her?”

  My heart began a joyous racing. “She’s my aunt.”

  The woman’s face split into a mask of happy wrinkles. “Her brother Ezra’s child?”

  “Yes!”

  “Brother Danford, go stop my son! He’s got to drive this child across town!”

  Moments later I was settled in a small cutter. Mrs. Johnson had given her son very emphatic directions, and we moved through the snow at a good clip. My pulse kept time with the horses’ hooves. What was my aunt like? Why had she raised her son alone? Would I meet him, too? I wished my father could have been there with me.

  We pulled up before a two-story structure with a sign in the front yard that read “River Street Inn.” I glanced at it a second time. “You’re sure this is the place?” I asked the driver.

  “Shore is. Mrs. Watson runs the kitchen for Mr. Milford.”

  A black woman appeared on the hotel’s front porch just then and began sweeping snow from the walk. The driver nudged me and smiled. “Go on.”

  I approached the woman cautiously. “Julia Watson?”

  She turned around. “Yes?” Then her eyes got huge and her hands flew to her mouth. “Ezra!”

  I shook my head. “I’m his son, Jefferson.”

  The broom clattered to the ground. With her embrace, my family closed the cover on a long family mystery.

  Historical Note

  I have attempted to recreate the history of Wayland as accurately as possible. I’ve taken the liberty of using some actual names from old records, including the doctor, schoolteacher, shopkeepers, and tradesmen, though all personalities and descriptions are completely fictionalized. Most notable of these is Mr. Nelson Chambers, who was the first settler within the town limits. He built the Wayland House in 1855. The town was first known as Chamber’s Corners, though I chose to call it by its modern name. Also, Mr. Norton Briggs was postmaster and toll collector for years. My apologies if these liberties have offended any descendants. Mr. Lawson, the Wallaces, Mr. Covington, and the Carvers are all fictional.

  The Toll Road’s arrival in 1854 spurred Wayland’s growth. The town as I have described it is based on an 1861 plat map and embellished with guesswork. But it changed and grew so rapidly, with businesses relocating along the Plank Road, that it scarcely looks like the next map drawn only a few years later, which closely resembles the town of today.

  The land conflict featured in this story never happened, although speculators often did precede the railroads. The Grand Rapids and Indiana line finally reached Wayland in
1870.

  Fever and ague (ague means chills) was the most common complaint of homesteaders. Now known as malaria, it was spread by mosquitoes. These regular shakes and fever were a part of life for all settlers of America’s frontiers until swamplands were drained and the disease died out.

  The Michigan 17th Infantry was one of the state’s finest. I have accurately portrayed its formation and distinguished service. Company D did, in fact, include over thirty men from Wayland and surrounding townships, over 40 percent of whom were killed or wounded in the battles I have described.

  The Civil War raged from April 12, 1861 until April 9, 1865. It left 620,000 men dead, a number that exceeds the combined deaths of all America’s other wars, and created an untold number of widows and orphans. Countless others lived with diseases and injuries sustained during the war. The final outcome settled the issue of states’ rights and put an end to the evil of slavery, but these tragic totals leave me questioning how a nation as great as ours had to resort to fighting. Like Hannah and Mr. Carver and Mr. Covington, I wonder if there could have been a better way.

  About the Divided Decade Collection

  As a teacher, I wrote the Divided Decade Collection with the classroom in mind. I wanted to show the impact of the war on one region—my home state of Michigan—so I created three separate, loosely-related stories that illustrate three important Michigan roles.

  Though Michigan never hosted a battle, it played an important role in the events surrounding the Civil War. Strongly pro-abolition, several of her counties were active in the Underground Railroad, with seven documented routes to freedom and as many as 200 safe houses. The Michigan home front was also vital to the war effort, supplying food, materials and support for the Northern Cause. And after the war, Michigan’s vast forests lured many who were looking for a new start. This collection spans the years surrounding the war and travels from city, to farm, to wilderness. Each book can be used as a stand-alone novel in the classroom.