Jack sat up, captivated by the power of Andrew’s words.
But Andrew didn’t continue. He simply sighed. “In many ways it’s worse now than it ever was. The debates have certainly stirred things up.”
“Debates?”
“You don’t know? Where have you been, lad? I thought everyone knew about the Douglas-Lincoln debates.”
Jack thought of the snippet of conversation he’d heard in the hotel lobby that afternoon. “Oh, yeah. But why is everyone so upset about a debate between Abraham Lincoln and that other guy? Or is it because Lincoln is president and—”
“President Lincoln!” Reverend Andrew bellowed. “I hardly think he’s likely to ever become president. Not now. Not after taking such a hard stand on slavery. I’m all for him, of course, but I can’t imagine the majority of other people are. Douglas will probably win because of his confounded stand on states’ rights.”
Jack shook his head. None of it made sense to him, and he said so.
Reverend Andrew leaned back and spoke patiently. “Senator Stephen Douglas and Abraham Lincoln recently conducted a series of debates about the issue of slavery. It is Lincoln’s intention to be the next Republican senator from Illinois. You see, he caused quite a stir earlier in the year when he made a speech at the Republican convention. He said that a ‘house divided against itself cannot stand…. I believe this government cannot endure permanently half slave and half free.’ I’ll never forget those words—an echo of the very sentiments of Christ.” He paused for a moment in reverent silence.
Jack took another bite of his beef. It was tough and stringy.
Reverend Andrew continued. “Douglas, a Democrat, argued that democracy itself was at stake if states—and the new territories in the West—aren’t allowed to decide the issue of slavery for themselves. He was quite eloquent. So was Lincoln. And by the end of the debates, Lincoln laid his cards on the table. He turned the subject of slavery from a political issue to a moral one. He has appealed to the whole nation to reject slavery as an institution.”
“And he’s right!” Jack said.
“He is indeed,” Andrew said soberly. “And though the nation may not accept his message, I certainly do. Which is why I won’t let those slave hunters get away with taking Clarence, Eveline, and your friend. I’ve never lost a runaway. I’m not about to lose any now.”
Jack bit into a potato. He was surprised by how plain it tasted but didn’t want to offend Andrew by saying so. “But how will we get them back?”
“Ah! I have a very clever plan, if I may say so myself,” the reverend said with a smile.
“What are we going to do?”
Andrew frowned. “We? I’m sorry, lad, but it’s a bit too risky for you to help out.”
“But Matt is my friend. I have to be allowed to help!” Jack exclaimed, nearly spilling his glass of water.
Reverend Andrew rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment. “An assistant would be helpful. But I need you to tell me who your parents are so I can speak to them about it.”
Jack grimaced. “I can tell you who my parents are, but you won’t be able to find them.”
“Won’t I?”
“No, sir.” Jack poked at the last of the potato with his fork as he tried to decide how to tell Reverend Andrew the truth. He realized that he couldn’t. The truth sounded ridiculous, even to his own mind. Who would believe that he had been transported from the future by a machine called the Imagination Station that some inventor named Whit had created? Jack sure wouldn’t.
“Are you an orphan?” the reverend asked gently.
Jack mused on the question. In a way, he and Matt were orphans since, technically speaking, their parents hadn’t even been born yet. “Something like that,” Jack replied noncommittally.
“Then I’ll assume you have nowhere to stay tonight.”
“No, sir. I don’t.”
“You do now. I have a guest room for just such occasions. It has a feather bed—not straw. I believe you’ll find it comfortable. I’ll put some fresh water in your washbasin so you can clean up before you go to sleep.” The reverend stood up as a signal that it was time to call it a night.
“But…what about the plan?” Jack asked as he also stood up.
“In due course, lad,” Andrew said. “We’ll have plenty of time on the train journey to Huntsville to talk it through.”
“Huntsville?”
“It’s in Alabama. I’m sure that’s where the slave hunters are taking Clarence and Eveline.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because it’s where Clarence’s master lives.” Reverend Andrew began clearing up the dishes. “Now, if you need anything at all, simply let me know.”
Jack hesitated for a moment. The reverend looked at him quizzically. Jack cleared his throat. “Well…I was wondering where the bathroom is.”
“There’s one on the second floor. But it’s terribly late to order a bath,” Andrew said.
“Actually, I don’t need to order a bath. I need to use the bathroom.”
Reverend Andrew look at him perplexed.
“You know, the bathroom? The toilet?”
Suddenly the reverend’s face lit up. “Oh, I see! The necessary! You want to use the chamber pot!”
Jack shrugged. “Whatever you call it.”
“Certainly! Why did you have to ask? It’s where you would expect it to be.”
Jack shuffled uneasily. “And…uh…where would I expect it to be?”
“Under your bed, of course,” Andrew said, giving Jack an odd look. “Now, go on, first door on the left. Make yourself at home.”
“Right,” Jack muttered as he walked down the small hallway. “Make myself at home.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AT DAWN THE NEXT MORNING, Matt, Clarence, and Eveline were thrown into the back of the wagon by Hank and Sonny. Still tied up, they bounced along the dirt roads that led them four hours later to an old cabin somewhere along the Mississippi River. A toothless old woman leered at them as Boss paid her to hire a flatboat. They haggled over the price, but there was a playfulness to it that made Matt think the two were old friends. Matt suspected that Boss and the old woman had done business to transport slaves many times before.
Sonny slapped the reins, and the horse drew the wagon down a potholed path to a small dock on the river. The sound of the rippling water normally would have brought Matt pleasure. Today, it filled him with fear. He knew that once they were away from shore, Jack would never be able to find him.
Hank gruffly pushed the three of them off of the wagon and guided them to a large, raft-like boat at the end of the dock. It was the flatboat, or “ark.” Matt didn’t have to guess about how it got its name. The flatboat had a shelter in the center for passengers or cargo. Matt considered jumping over the side, but he realized he wouldn’t get very far (except to the bottom of the river) with his hands tied.
Hank shoved them into the cabin of the boat. “Get down there next to those crates,” he barked. The three prisoners obliged, sitting down in what looked like a mixture of straw, dirt, and seeping river water.
Another man appeared—scowling and shriveled beneath a sailor’s cap. He spat a wad of tobacco into the corner. “I’m captain of this vessel,” he announced, “and I don’t want to hear a word out of any of you. No shouting, no talking, no singing. Not a peep. Can’t stand the sound of you.” He spat again.
“But I have to go to the bathroom,” Matt said.
The captain looked at him a moment as if he needed to translate the words. Then he frowned. “I don’t care!” He stomped out and slammed the small door behind him.
The cabin had windows, but they were closed off by hinged boards. The air was sickly cold with a smell that reminded Matt of a backed-up sewer. He looked helplessly at Clarence and Eveline, wondering if they were as scared as he was. If they were, they didn’t show it. Clarence leaned back against the crate and closed his eyes. Eveline simply drew her knees up under her chin
and rocked back and forth.
Matt felt something nudge against his foot. He looked down in time to see a large, gray rat scamper by. He screamed.
They spent three days on the boat. Or was it four? Matt couldn’t be certain. The boarded-up portholes of the cabin kept daylight to a minimum, and Matt couldn’t tell anymore. A storm that turned the day into night threw his internal clock completely off.
They were a tiny vessel on a large river of mud and monstrous logs with tangled roots that stuck out like matted hair. Sometimes the flatboat would bump into the floating trees with a hard thump. Matt was certain that sooner or later, they’d hit something that would send them to the bottom.
Except when they were allowed out of the cabin for exercise and a meal of water, bread, or a suspicious-looking fish concoction, Matt’s routine was to lie on the floor, kick at the rats, scratch at the fleas, and pray that somehow, some way, Jack or Mr. Whittaker would rescue him. A couple of times he tried to talk to Clarence and Eveline, but they shook their heads. “Those slave hunters’ll whip you something awful,” Clarence dared to whisper. “Just keep your mouth shut.”
Once in a while he heard the splash and patter of a steamboat’s paddle-wheel. The captain almost always hailed somebody on the riverboat—maybe the captain or a crewman—who’d respond with a quick toot of a whistle. It gave Matt hope. There are people out there, he remembered. Somebody will rescue me.
One afternoon when they’d all gathered on deck to eat, a steamboat passed by. Matt stared at it open-mouthed. It was like a long, trim palace on the water with two fanciful chimneys, a large, glass-encased pilothouse, and vast decks with people milling around happily behind white, ornate railings. The paddle-wheels were enclosed in painted coverings that depicted a scene taken from the river itself: a wide expanse of water with a shoreline of thick forests and, in the center, a lonely, green island. Matt watched the people on deck and wished that one might look at him. He prayed that somehow he could let them know he wasn’t a slave and didn’t belong on this awful boat. It took every ounce of strength and willpower to keep from shouting at the top of his lungs for help. But he knew if he did that, Boss would do more than just backhand him.
Late that night, Matt was awakened by the frantic clamoring of a distant bell followed by a loud explosion. His heart pounded furiously as he heard people screaming. Something terrible had happened, he knew. The slave hunters stomped around the deck of the flatboat, shouting to each other. The captain commanded them to help him get the boat away. They must have succeeded, since the night drifted back to the river’s normal sounds of water and frogs singing on the shore.
The next morning, Hank told them that a riverboat had collided with a massive collection of river debris—trees, roots, and mud—and blown up. When Matt reacted with shock, Hank laughed at him. “Guess you don’t know much about riverboats, do you, boy? They blow up all the time.”
The hours and minutes drifted by endlessly, like the river they rode upon. Forever, Matt thought as he slipped into despair again. I’ll be trapped here forever. He thought of his parents and brother and sister who must be worried about him. Maybe they had even called the police by now. Would they think to look in Whit’s workroom? Did the machine have some way of letting Whit know that two boys had gone inside and turned it on? Matt turned these questions over and over in his mind. But he didn’t know the answers.
Early one morning, Clarence sat up and muttered, “Must be Columbus.”
Matt also sat up, wondering why Clarence mentioned the explorer’s name until he heard the noise. Actually, it was a mixture of noises: horses’ hooves on stone, rolling wagon wheels, shouts of hellos, barks of commands, a clanging bell, splashing water, wood banging upon wood —it was the noise of activity. Matt crawled expectantly onto his knees as the captain brought the boat to a halt by thumping it against a landing dock. Sonny threw open the cabin door and told the three prisoners to come out on deck.
“Columbus, Kentucky,” the captain called out, as if it were his duty to announce to the people on board where they were.
“We know, you old fool,” Boss replied. “Now drop us off and be on your way.” He sounded harsh, but then he clasped the captain’s hand affectionately in his and thanked him for the service.
Matt glanced around. The town sat on a flat and marshy stretch of land circled by sickly-looking trees. Half-houses were built along the dock area next to square buildings with shops. The streets bustled with merchants, customers, and travelers. Clerks sat in wooden chairs, tilted back against the wall, snoozing under their hats until a customer brought them awake. Pigs made feasts of watermelon rinds near the porches. Freight piles and skids littered the crumbling, stone wharf.
Again, Boss had made arrangements for another wagon and two horses to be brought to the boat. The three prisoners were put straight onto the wagon and, with a loud “Yah!” from Hank, taken away. No one around the busy dock seemed to notice that a man and two kids were tied up like animals. Sadly, Matt noticed that other blacks were doing the majority of work, lugging freight on and off the boats in chains, wearing rags.
Don’t fret. You’ll get used to it. That’s what Eveline had said. Matt clenched his teeth and fought the resignation that wanted to lay claim to his heart. This nightmare would end, he knew. Somehow it would end.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE OLD WAGON RATTLED along the rutted roads across the southwestern tip of Kentucky, with its low plains and thick forests of oak and hickory. Their travel in the wagon was painfully slow compared to the speed of the cars Matt was used to. He began to wish that they’d just hurry up and get to where they were going—anything had to be better than the tediousness of the journey itself.
As they drove deeper into slave territory, Boss, Hank, and Sonny seemed to relax. They joked more often with each other and even made an effort to make Matt, Clarence, and Eveline more comfortable by throwing fresh hay in the back of the wagon. The food didn’t improve— Hank was a lousy cook—and Matt was never really sure of what they were eating. Mostly stew, he figured, with contents he couldn’t identify.
No matter how friendly things seemed, however, the ropes stayed securely bound on their wrists and ankles, and one of the slave hunters was always nearby to make sure they didn’t escape. Matt couldn’t forget the casual way Boss had backhanded him. He was black and, for that reason alone, was a slave. He was a piece of cargo that they were taking somewhere to sell like an animal. If they had to beat him to keep him in line, so be it. Fortunately, Matt was careful not to give them any reason to hit him again. But that didn’t erase the painful memory—the burning shame—of being struck at all.
They cut across the black-bottomed land of western Tennessee, over gentle slopes, along river swamps, and through endless woods of trees shorn of their red and yellow leaves. They glided past the fertile fields that, in their time, yielded lilies, orchids, wild rice, tobacco, corn, and the all-powerful cotton. They reached a town called Paris—“Named after Paris, France,” Hank offered—where they got caught in a traffic jam of cows and pigs being brought in to market. Matt hoped that this was the end of their trip. It wasn’t. After giving the horses a rest and picking up supplies, they continued southeast to Danville, where they crossed the Tennessee River.
From the river, the land gave way to rolling bluegrass country and rich plateaus. Oaks and cedars rose high, their barely clothed limbs stretching up to the blue sky. Somewhere along the road, they stopped for the night and Sonny announced that it was his intention one day to marry a girl from this part of Tennessee. “If I ever settle down, I’m settling right here,” he said. “I’m gonna get me some Tennessee land and raise some Tennessee horses and cure some Tennessee ham with Tennessee hickory and—”
“What in tarnation are you talking about?” Boss growled. “You’re from Baltimore!”
Sonny shook his head mournfully. “I know it. But I should’ve been born in Tennessee.”
The next day they reached the Natc
hez Trace, where Hank felt duty-bound to inform his “ignorant passengers” about its importance. “It’s one of the first roads ever done by the government. Goes all the way from Natchez, Mississippi, to Nashville, Tennessee. I saw a gunfight in Natchez once.”
“Nobody cares,” Boss said sleepily from under his hat.
Hank glanced around at their expressions and realized it was probably true. He settled back into a sulky silence.
One Sunday morning, nearly 12 days after they had left Odyssey, the hills of northern Alabama yielded to a valley where Huntsville sat waiting under the early sun. Matt noticed that Clarence began to get edgy, his eyes growing wide and dangerously wild as they got nearer to their destination. Eveline nestled closer to her father.
“What’s wrong?” Matt whispered.
Clarence simply stared straight ahead and ignored the question.
“Eveline,” Matt whispered again.
She slipped from her father’s arms and leaned over to Matt. “No telling what Master Ramsay will do to us for running away.”
Matt felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner.
Hank laughed from the buckboard seat at the front of the wagon. “Well, now, I guess this is your Judgment Day—eh, Clarence?”
Boss, who had been on a horse ahead, whistled for Sonny to pick up their speed and follow him. Still north of town, they suddenly turned left onto a smaller road. A canopy of tree branches formed a natural tunnel that led to a large, white, two-storied mansion with pillars along the front, tall windows, and large balconies. Matt was reminded of a famous old film called Gone with the Wind.
They drove around to the right of the house and followed a smaller path that took them into a compound of stables, workhouses, shacks, and, farther beyond toward the fields, a cluster of log houses.
“That’s where we live,” Eveline said, with a catch in her throat.
Point of No Return Page 14
