by Marian Wells
Treasure Quest Books
Out of the Crucible
Marian Wells
© 1988 by Marian Wells
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Ebook edition created 2012
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—with the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg.
eISBN 978-1-4412-6245-5
Preface
Just before the Civil War in the United States, tensions between the North and the South had stretched rubber-band tight. The agony of slavery snapped the band.
In the South the economy of the cotton plantations depended upon the institution of slavery for existence. In the North the people were divided in uncertainty. The strong voices of the abolitionists grated against the apathy of the unconcerned. Meanwhile, political voices in Washington, garnered from both sections of the country, argued themselves closer to the dividing line. War was inevitable, not only because of strong self-interest, but because there seemed to be no other way to settle differences.
But war affects more than governing bodies. It tears apart people’s lives in a way that cannot be healed. For Amy and Daniel Gerrett, as well as for their friends and loved ones, war brings new struggles and difficult challenges to their values and beliefs.
The year is 1862. For nearly a year the Civil War has been fought in the southeast. In Colorado and New Mexico, for some, the threat seems too distant to talk about. For others—those loyal citizens from the southern states, war is already an immediate and personal trauma. Many young miners must leave the West to go home and fight a war on their own soil.
By March of 1862 the war unexpectedly creeps close to Colorado Territory. Since late 1861 the Texas Rangers have been pushing their way into New Mexico Territory. By the early months of ’62, alarming news reaches Colorado Territory. Fortunately, Governor Gilpin has recruited a volunteer army. The Pikes Peakers are ready to defend their gold and their land. Under the direction of Colonel Slough and Major Chivington, the volunteers head into New Mexico Territory to fight the battle of Glorieta Pass, which sealed the fate of the Confederate Army in the West.
Daniel and Amy Gerrett never realized how easy it would be for a Methodist Episcopal Church clergyman and his wife to end up in the middle of such a war. But Eli and Amelia Randolph, Amy’s father and mother, have gone to New Mexico Territory. As Amy and Daniel set out to find them, they find themselves thrust into the middle of war—personal conflict as well as political.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
Books by Marian Wells
Back Cover
Chapter 1
“Just what I expected.” Matthew Thomas shoved his broad-brimmed hat back on his head. The dark-skinned man riding beside him in the Oberlin town square edged his horse close and waited. Matthew threw him a glance and added, “A college town with all the trimmings. See the campus over yonder in the trees? Look at the church. Even it fits the image—white frame with a belfry and a cross.” The black man nodded silently.
“William, let’s find something to eat and then drop this message at the office of Samuel Ward.”
“The honorable Samuel, friend of the slaves.” William’s eyes shone with pride as he nodded, “Yes, sir, only a step away from being a slave himself, and now he’s set on freeing us all.”
“William, hush your talk. These trees might have ears.”
“You have no need to remind us,” William shuddered. “No man just escaped forgets the whip. No takin’ chances here with the law.” He glanced at Matthew. “Still might slip over to Canada. Least when my Mattie comes, I will.”
The man paused, then turned troubled eyes in Matthew’s direction. “I hear something, Matt. This college town may not be as nice as you think. I hear a crowd comin’. They’re rumbling like upset bees.”
Matthew cocked his head. Listening to the clamor of baying hounds, the shouts and cries of a mob, he said, “We’ll know in a minute; they’re coming fast.” He looked at the man’s fearful expression. “William, don’t wait. Head up behind the college. If you can’t take the mare into the trees, drop her and get out of town. Could be students having a good time, but no sense taking chances.”
William shook his head. “‘Round here, these students don’t have that kind of a good time. Too serious, those hounds.” With one more quick glance, William headed down the street.
The crowd appeared. Matthew narrowed his eyes and watched. They were coming upwind. Making himself relax, he held his mount steady. “Easy, old girl. They’ll not catch a scent here, so William is safe for now.” The mare continued to fight the bridle, rolling her eyes at the baying hounds.
Settling back in the saddle, Matthew studied the mob. “Without a doubt there’s two distinct groups,” he muttered. He continued to speak in soothing tones, “You needn’t give away the game. They’ll never guess you to be an abolitionist horse at heart if you’ll just settle down and act like a gentleman’s mount.”
The mob split and settled around him. He eyed the red-faced men. The ones with the hounds were grim-lipped and hard-eyed. The ones with the shiny sheriff badges were sullen, shrinking into their collars, away from the others.
Matthew’s heart went out to them. He had guessed their story. It had been repeated over and over across the northern states—lawmen forced to comply with a law they detested.
As he waited, Matthew muttered, “So it’s old John Calhoun’s Fugitive Slave Act, just as I guessed.”
As the group approached, he studied the faces of men sworn to cooperate by allowing these hunters to reclaim runaway slaves for their masters.
Turning to look at the crowd just beyond the square, Matthew’s eyes quickly picked out the dark faces in the midst of the youths. They were freed slaves mingling with the students. Close to them, he saw plain-faced, determined women marching along behind their menfolk.
Beyond them was another group. Matthew spotted black suits and rough workmen’s garb; but it was the expressions on the faces that nearly made him chuckle with glee. They were angry. He turned back to the men with the dogs.
“Let me guess,” he drawled. “You’ve come here with neat papers describing a man who wants freedom more than life.”
“A nigger, a slave, not a man.”
A low growl rose from the crowd. Matthew said, “Bounty hunters. Looking for human flesh to sell beyond the river.”
“They call it the Fugitive Slave Act, mister.” The voice came from the middle of the crowd. “I don’t know who you are, but don’t sidle up with the likes of them. Around here we don’t go with the Act. Freedom for all mankind in Oberlin, Ohio!”
The cheer became a chant. As the men with the dogs slipped away, the men with the badges moved forward. “Go back to your homes.” Their voices became braver. “It’s no trouble we want. Law and order will be preserved. And the law says a man is entitled to his property. We can’t buck the law.”
“But we can!” the chant came. “Tell us the name of the man, and we’ll see he’s safe.”
A man wearing a black frock coat stepped up on the edge of the watering trough and waved his arms. Matthew recognized the lawyer he had come to see. Slipping off his mare, he tied her to the hitching post and started toward the crowd.
Samuel Ward was saying, “Quiet! We’re acting like hoodlums, and on top of that, those bounty hunters have slipped away. We’ve got to keep them under surveillance. You men spread out, and make it quick.”
Abruptly he stopped and turned at the sound of a horse coming fast. They watched the youth riding hard as he came into the square. Circling his horse in front of Ward, he cried, “Oh, Mr. Ward. There’s men with hounds and guns. They have John Price on a horse. I saw them riding fast for Wellington.”
“Wellington!” The crowd took up the cry. “They got him! They’ll ship him over the river. They’ll stick him on the train and send him home.”
A heavy voice rose above the crowd. “The next train heading south leaves at nine o’clock tonight. Let’s go after him. ’Tis no time for legal matters. You lawyers go home; we’ll handle this. Men, get your horses!”
Matthew elbowed his way toward Ward. “Samuel! I’ve a packet here for you from Duncan.”
The harried man turned. “Where are all you Underground Railroad men when we need you?”
Matthew handed him the packet. “Seems to me you’re doing fine.”
“One of these days there’s going to be a battle. Not one little gunshot; every rifle is coming out, and there’ll be war.”
Matthew hesitated. “Are you talking about Oberlin or the whole country?”
Ward faced him soberly. “I was thinking about people—the deaths, the destruction. But you can’t measure the cost of freedom. I suppose it’s bound to happen. What I want to know is, where will it end?”
Matthew headed out of town, back the way he came. He was still mulling over the man’s question and measuring it against his own hurt when he heard the shouts and thundering hooves behind him. The riders swooped down on him. “Freedom—ride for John’s freedom.”
For the one moment he hesitated, and at that moment his memory threw out the pictures, one by one. He saw Harriet Tubman’s face, ebony black and stern, heard her voice ringing in his ears: “Death is better than slavery.”
An old picture from out of his childhood showed a black woman lying in the dirt, her hands and feet spiked to the ground. She writhed while the bullwhip laid wet red slashes across her naked back. Matthew winced. That old picture refused to dim with age.
He saw the auction block: black arms reaching toward black arms, and being pulled away. He saw a tiny face with sorrowful eyes and swelling bruises.
Matthew dug in his heels. He reached Wellington on the tag end of the crowd. He could see the train waiting at the station, puffing slow clouds of steam into the air. The riders were pouring down the street. “The hotel!” came the shout. “They’re holding him there.”
He wheeled his horse down the street to join the crowd. On the top story, behind a lighted window, Matthew saw black arms and a glistening face pressed against the glass.
“Let my people go, let my people go.” The chant changed to a song. “‘My Lord’s writing all the time, Oh, He sees all you do, He hears all you say. My Lord’s writing all the time.’”
“Give us a hand.” The murmur came in Matthew’s ear. He turned and followed the man around the building, through the bushes.
“‘My Lord’s writing all the time …’” The words faded away, but the rhythm throbbed in the air.
In the thick woods behind the hotel, he faced the dark shadows, heard the murmured voice again, “Our men are chasing the bounty hunters across the river. There’s one guard upstairs stuck in front of that door. He has a mean look besides a gun. He doesn’t know, but he’s a-guarding an empty trap.”
“I saw—” Matthew began.
Firm fingers pressed. “He’s a free man. In the dark those people don’t know. Neither does his guard. John’s over here. Ward said you’d escort him to the promised land.”
Dark shadows moved, Matthew heard a gentle nicker; then a warm, dark hand reached for him. Emotion flooded through Matthew’s voice. “My friend, come along; you’re safe now. At least as long as I’m alive, you’re safe. Here we come, promised land.”
A week later Matthew returned from Canada. Picking up his horse in Oberlin, he rode back the way he came. When he crossed the Pennsylvania line, he headed down to the farm on the shore of the Ohio River. It was late afternoon when he dropped his mount at the stable. Shouldering his pack he headed for the wharf. And all the time he kept his eyes carefully turned away from the big house up the hill.
“Matthew, Matthew Thomas! Wait for me.” He turned to watch the woman striding purposefully toward him. Her long calico skirt twisted around her ankles as she cut through the stubble of the cornfield. When she stopped in front of him, her flashing blue eyes were on a level with his.
Giving her a twisted grin, he said, “Well, I can guess who you’ve been talking to.”
He watched her shove at hair the color of corn silk as she said, “You’re right. I’ve just been talking to your wife.”
“Amelia, I’ll tell you for the last time, keep yourself out of the quarrel. I’ve made up my mind, and I’ll brook no interference from you.”
“Matthew, you can’t be serious! People don’t just tear apart lives with so little reason.”
“Amelia, cut it out! You’ve stuck your nose in my affairs just one time too many.”
“For the sake of all that’s holy, Matthew—”
He laughed cynically. “You’re a fine one to be talking about holiness. Amelia, you’d make a mighty poor Sunday-school teacher. I don’t feel any need to listen to your arguments. What’s done is done.”
He saw the defeat in her eyes as she whispered, “Don’t be a fool; don’t throw your life away—as I did.” He could see she was waiting for a response. He gave her a twisted grin. With a sigh she asked, “What will you do?”
“It’s home for me.” He swung the sailor’s bag over his shoulder and said, “I’ve played this game for too long. I’m going home to act out the part of my father’s son. Does that answer your question?”
“Making all of this a lie, a sham. Matthew, what a step down you are taking! You’ve been moving slaves over the Underground Railroad; that’s a life-or-death situation even for a white man. Now you say you’re going back to the plantation, back to watch these people live out their lives in bondage.”
He wiped his hand across his face, suddenly bone-weary. “You may say that, but you’ve little idea of what’s going on in my heart. I feel as if I’m being torn into two different men.” His voice had brooded over the words; now he looked directly at her and said, “I’ll never forget this place, but—”
Following him down to the wharf, she gave a nod at the riverboat anchored in the middle of the channel. “Sweet Chariot,” she mocked, “comin’ for to carry me home.”
Without a backward glance, he stepped into the rowboat and pushed off. Dipping the oars into the river, he headed toward the steamboat waiting beyond the sand bar. The sun caught fire from the brass nameplate on the dark polished wood. “Golden Awl,” he murmured, “the caboose on the Underground Railroa
d. Are you surrounded by angels, or will this trip mean the end for you? But God help me! My stomach will take no more. I’ve seen the last slave chained and mutilated. Maybe home will blot the memories.”
Matthew pulled himself up the rope ladder and faced Clancy. “You skipper this trip?”
“Aye. Duncan’s gone north.” Mike Clancy looked over the boat railing. “Stewart will be taking the rowboat back. All your gear aboard?”
Matthew faced the question in the man’s eyes and hesitated. “Yes,” he said slowly, “and I guess you’ve heard of the trouble. I won’t be coming back with you.”
Mike tipped his cap and turned. “Gotta go build up a head of steam if we get outta here tonight.” He added, “Way things have been going lately, it’ll be the Lord’s grace if any of us make it back.”
Matthew paused to look out over the river, and to the house up the hill. He could see light in the windows. With a sigh he forced himself to look west. The clouds had been mounting all afternoon; it was no wonder this September evening darkness fell abruptly.
The moon was but a hazy circle in the sky. With one last glance up the hill, Matthew carried his gear to the small cabin in the bow of the riverboat.
Back on deck he went to help Clancy. The man looked at him. “So you’re going home?”
“Back the way I came. Clancy, I’m going home for good. I don’t suppose you’ll understand this. See, a person can get twisted in his thinking until nothing seems right.”
The man slanted a shrewd glance at him. “Too many doin’ your thinking for you? Been there myself. I guess a man’s got to own his thoughts. Matters not how good or bad; they gotta be his property.”
Matthew turned and leaned over the rail, watching the foggy moon rise over the Ohio River. “For better or worse, this decision is mine,” he muttered to himself. “And I will have to live with it forever.”
Chapter 2
The cheval mirror caught the bright Mississippi sun, throwing a bar of intensified light at the marble fireplace and bits of crystal lined along the cherry wood mantel. Struggling into the brocade jacket, Matthew stepped up to the mirror to adjust his cummerbund. He heard the timid tap on the door, and called, “That you, Coly? Come.”
