Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  A powerfully built black man climbed down from the wagon box. He held out his hand to a handsome young woman and a young girl of perhaps four or five. All three were shabbily dressed in ill-fitting clothes likely given them as they made their way north on the so called underground railroad. These would be numbered among the fortunate who managed to escape the trackers empowered to apprehend them by the punitive Fugitive Slave Law.

  Brown handed the lamp to his son and set off for the house.

  Sunday

  Buggies and wagons scattered about the sun-soaked yard of the little white church. Hobbled teams cropped grass or slept hip shot in their traces. Bees danced across patches of spring flowers in a pleasant counterpoint to the fat, black flies buzzing fresh horse and mule droppings. A lark took up a melody to the fading organ chords of the final hymn.

  Inside, the small congregation sat in muted golden glow, spilling through windows lining both sides of the church. The wooden pews smelled a mixture of wood polish and beeswax. The parson raised his arms as the strains of the final hymn died away.

  “Please be seated. Elder Brown has requested a moment to address you before we adjourn our service this day.”

  Micah and Clare settled into the pews with the rest of the congregation.

  Elder Brown rose from the front pew. His family filled the first row and much of the second. He ascended to the pulpit resplendent in black frock coat and starched Sunday shirt. Flashing dark eyes gathered the congregation up to him.

  “Brothers and sisters, I come before you today with a heavy heart. I am grieved by the scourge of slavery that oppresses our land. You know I have committed myself and my family to the extermination of this plague Satan works in our midst. He and those possessed by him enslave our Negro brothers and sisters. He condemns them to servile existence, as beasts of burden. Satan and those who practice his abomination buy and sell our fellow men and women like chattel. They beat them and subject them to all manner of degradation. They tear families asunder. Fathers separated from the mothers of their children. Children torn from their mother’s breast.

  “For too long now these sinful depredations have continued a dark stain on the soul of this nation. This moral abomination must be brought to an end by whatever means may be required. If it be by blood, let it be blood. If it be by fire, then let it be fire. If it be by God’s righteous wrath, let it be God’s everlasting condemnation. For our part, my sons and I can no longer stand idly by. It is time to heed God’s call. It is time to mount righteous action.

  “In the coming days, I fear we face yet another outbreak of this blight on our society. Westward expansion will follow the route yet to be chosen for a Pacific railway. Even now the dark fingers of Satan’s minions plot the spread of this vile leprosy in the name of the nation’s westward destiny. If we are indeed a God-fearing people, we cannot allow this. We cannot permit this to happen. My sons and I will not permit it to happen. We will stop it by whatever means may be required. If it be by fire, let us kindle the blaze. If it be by blood, let it be by our blood. If it be by God’s righteous wrath, let us be the instrument of His fury. We will be victorious or die in the trying. So be it! So help me God.”

  His fire slacked to an ember, he returned to his seat. No one moved for a time. Then slowly, quietly, the church emptied from the rear pews. The light, sociable mood that accompanied departure from service most Sundays was eerily absent this day. Families departed in silence to their carriages and wagons for a thoughtful ride home.

  Micah helped Clare up to the buggy seat. He unfastened the tie-down and hefted the weight into the back bed. He climbed up beside her and clucked to the bay. He wheeled out the churchyard and up the dirt road toward home.

  “Do you think it will come to that?” Clare said.

  “Come to what?”

  “Blood and fire.”

  “I suspect so. Brother Brown has strong sentiments for abolition. I expect we could have attended services in a similar church in the south and heard an equally strident defense of their way of life.”

  “But it is morally wrong. You believe that, Micah, I know you do.”

  “I do. I’m only saying there are blood and fire on both sides. The cause Brother Brown advances will not be easily settled.”

  They drove in silence for a time.

  “Brother Brown’s views on slavery are well known,” Micah said. “I was little surprised by what he said today. But he did say one thing that spoke to me.”

  She lifted her chin, her bonnet shading her eyes.

  “They will build the Pacific railroad to lead the way west. When they do, that is where a man might make a future for his family.”

  “The route is yet to be chosen. Who would know where to go?”

  “All the signs favor a central route. If Brother Brown is right and the fight will be about slavery, then the route will go west from Missouri. The wagon routes west did. Missouri is the northernmost slave state. The western plains are well suited for farming. A man might stake out his claim and let the expansion come to him.”

  “It’s such a long way. What if the expansion doesn’t come?”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him. “It will, my dear. It is . . . destiny.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  Jackson County, Missouri

  April, 1854

  The overseer mounted on a smart bay horse led them down a dusty country road. Barefoot slaves padded along behind in file followed by the underboss mounted on a gray gelding. Songbirds lifted melody to the hum of insects already busy at first light. Cool early morning slowly warmed, absorbing the coming heat of the day.

  At planting and harvest times the massas pooled their slaves to make shorter work of the chores. Today Massa Ruben sent his crew to Massa Morgan Walker’s farm to finish the spring planting. Caleb walked along with the rest, distinguished only by being among the taller more solidly made men in the party. He wore an ill-fitting, plaid shirt and tattered overalls suspended by a single shoulder strap. A male of twenty-two, according to plantation records, he’d been born to be a field hand. He had broad shoulders and long strapping muscles forged of hard labor. A mat of close cropped, black curls framed finely carved features with wide-set, dark eyes lidded in long lashes that spoke to a gentle heart. Early spring morning, heavy with the promise of a warm day, gave his brow a sheen of polished ebony. Redding, the overseer, considered him a docile, willing worker. The practiced demeanor pleased Caleb, though he ruled the simmer within by firm resolve.

  A short while later they turned up a new road, passing under an arch that marked the Morgan Walker property. The road climbed a low rise past planted fields and gardens toward an imposing white house, standing watch over Massa Walker’s holdings. They passed by the house, barns, and slave quarters beyond on the way to the north section they would plant this day.

  The Morgan Walker slaves were already at work, plowing, planting, raking, and sprinkling new sowings with their first taste of water. A pair of sturdy mules stood harnessed to a plow, awaiting the new arrivals. Redding wasted no time. He nodded to his counterpart.

  “Caleb, take the plow and keep them furrows straight.” He called others to shoulder heavy burlap sacks filled with seed. Younger boys and those less hardy were given rakes and watering cans. The filled watering cans made heavy lifting for those unused to it but were sure to build the strength for heavier labor in seasons yet to come.

  Caleb gathered the mule team lines, set the plow blade, and clucked the team off up the fence row. He’d schooled himself on managing mules. It was a worthwhile skill. Master the cut of a straight furrow and you had a skill for a job where mules worked for a man. He fancied that poetry over the work crew strung out behind him, men working like mules for the man on a horse with a whip.

  To be fair, Redding seldom resorted to the whip. Massa Ruben frowned on the abuse of valuable property, though beatings were not unheard of. Like that time Muddy Rivers run off. Th
ey sent the slave catcher Jacob Herd after him. That man was one mean son of a rabid bitch dog. They brought Ole Muddy back. Massa Ruben said make an example of him. Redding stretched him out on a hitch rack. He made them all watch while he laid on with that black snake ’til Muddy Rivers run red in his own blood. Redding cleaned the wounds with a bucket of brine. That’s when Ole Muddy passed out. No one watching that day had run off since.

  He’d finished his fourth row when she came with the water bucket. Planting, harvesting, Sunday church socials, weddings and such . . . you got to know folks. He remembered this one growing up. She handed him a dipper of water with eyes so soft and brown he wondered if they even had a bottom. He stopped to take notice. She’d surely grown up all of a sudden since last harvest. She stood a head shorter than he, though she filled out a faded, gingham dress in fine form. An earthy beauty poured out of creamed coffee skin, black, curly hair tied up in a red bandanna, and high cheekbones to go with them eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  “Miriam.”

  “Miriam?”

  “My name. You was fixin’ to ask me my name.”

  “Was I now?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Caleb.”

  “I know. I asked when you was about my age.”

  “What age is that?”

  “Eighteen, this summer.”

  “Caleb!” Redding said. “Quit your lollygaggin’. That field ain’t gonna plow itself. You got a whole crew waitin’ on you.”

  He smiled. Her eyes smiled back.

  The sun rode high onto lunch time. Caleb unhitched the mules and drove them down to the creek to water. By the time he came back, most of the crews had scattered to shady spots to take their lunch. He was the last in the food line. The girl, Miriam, fixed his plate.

  “Has you had your lunch?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why don’t you fix yourself a plate and join me by that tree over yonder?”

  She looked around. The overseers were all gone up to the big house to take their meal. She smiled.

  “That’d be real polite.” She filled a plate and followed him along the fence line to the shade of a stately oak. They settled side by side.

  “So, Miriam, eighteen this summer, they treats you all right here?”

  She shrugged. “So far mostly.”

  “You don’t sound so sure. I hear Massa Morgan’s a good man.” He took a bite of ham sandwich.

  “He is. It’s the son worries me.”

  “The son—why?”

  “He looks at me.”

  He chuckled. “Why that’s no surprise. I s’pect a lot a’ boys look at you.”

  “Some may look, but they ain’t doin’ nothin’ less I says so. That one wants his daddy to make me a house slave.”

  “House slaves get a pretty good life.”

  “Not like that. Not with him. Not for me.”

  “You do have your opinions, girl. So what’s to be done about it?”

  She munched a pickle. “I thought maybe if I was to jump the broom, he’d lose interest in a married woman.”

  “Well you’s old enough for that. You must have some prospects on a place this size.”

  “None that comes up to my standards.”

  “There go them opinions again.”

  She cast a sidelong glance with a merry glint peeking from inside. “Now, if a fella like you was to suggest such a thing, any girl with a lick a’ sense wouldn’t think twice.”

  “What? Did I just hear you propose to a man you don’t even know?”

  “Oh, I know you. I been watchin’ you since I was old enough to know why.”

  “If that’s not the craziest thing I ever heard, I don’t know what is.”

  “You don’t like me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then you do like me.”

  “I didn’t say that, either. I got blood in my veins is all I said.”

  “Well, you should like me.”

  “Oh, should I. Now why would that be?”

  “On account a’ it wouldn’t be right.”

  “What wouldn’t be right?”

  “You jumpin’ the broom with a woman you didn’t like.”

  “There you go again, girl, jumpin’ to that broom with your opinions.”

  “Ain’t no opinion. It’s settled.”

  “How’s what settled? Other than maybe you been out in the sun too long. Even if I was to like you some, we don’t even belong to the same massa.”

  She grinned. “See, you do like me.”

  “Likin’s got nothing to do with it. Who’s gonna sell who? Your Massa Morgan’s son got a fancy for you? My massa thinks I plow a straight furrow?”

  “We’ll figure it out. I sees it written in the stars. You just have to think about it.”

  She stood, collected his plate, and set off for the serving tables.

  Just think about it. Miriam, eighteen this summer, jumpin’ the broom. Written in stars, no less. My, my, she do cut a fine figure walkin’ that way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  Hudson, Ohio

  April, 1854

  Hudson awakened slowly on a sunny spring Saturday morning. Micah made it into town early walking the dirt road from the family farm. Now that they’d made the decision to make a life in the west, they had much to do in the coming days. They put their small savings into outfitting the trip. He had a long list. He could only hope the money would cover it.

  Jethro Hardy’s blacksmith shop and livery stood at the west end of town. Hudson may be lingering over morning coffee, but Jethro was hard at work at his forge.

  “Mornin’, Jethro.”

  The barrel-chested smithy in a scorched, stained leather apron smiled through a bush of black whiskers. He extended a meaty, calloused hand. “Micah, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m interested in that old Conestoga freighter you’ve got out back. Is she serviceable, and if she is, is she for sale?”

  The smithy chuckled. “In my business, everything’s for sale. Is she serviceable? That depends on what you have in mind for her.”

  “Clare and I are moving west.”

  Jethro scratched his beard. “Just the two of you, usual provisions, and some household items . . . I expect she’d handle that as long as you’re not plannin’ to haul any pianos, anvils, or organs.”

  Micah chuckled. “Nope, none of that.”

  “Come on, we’ll have a look at her.”

  He led the way around to the back of the shop. The derelict old wagon stood parked in the shade of a gnarled oak. The bows arched over the wagon bed without a canvas cover like skeleton ribs. Micah walked around her. The box springs and wheel rims were rusted, though they appeared to be sound. He hefted the tongue and examined it for rot. It, too, appeared sound.

  “The wheels will need greasing, and I expect she’ll need fresh tar to water tighten her,” Jethro said.

  “What do you want for her?”

  He scratched his chin again. “She’d run three hundred new.”

  Micah winced. That would take most of a third of the money they had for the whole outfit.

  Jethro read his expression. “You’re gonna need stock to pull her and harness for the stock. I got a matched pair of mules that’d do a good job for you. Handle your plowin’ once you get where you’re goin’, too. Tell you what I’ll do: you take care of the grease and the tar, and I’ll let you have her as she sits with the mules and harness for two hundred fifty dollars. I’ll even throw in her old canvas cover. Needs some patchin’, but she’ll do.”

  Micah brightened. “Let’s have a look at them mules.”

  The matched pair were five-year-old buckskins, a jack and a jenny. Micah spent the morning greasing the wheels. By early afternoon he had the team hitched for the drive up the street to the Hudson Mercantile Emporium. He climbed into the box, waved to Jethro, and clucked to the team. The old schooner rocked up the street without much complaint.
He hauled lines at the mercantile, set the brake, and climbed down with his list. He checked the items he needed to buy against those the family might stake them to.

  No one was happy about their decision to leave home, especially Ma. Pa saw the practicality of it. The family farm had all it could do to provide for the mouths it already fed. His brothers had yet to grow into their own families, and the girls would soon enough marry off to their own. He climbed the boardwalk and stepped into the welcoming smells of coffee, smoked meat, burlap, and coal oil.

  “Afternoon, Micah.” Marlin Fitzweiler, the proprietor, smiled from behind the counter. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I’ve got an order to fill.”

  Marlin glanced out the front window at the wagon. “That mean what I think it means?”

  Micah nodded. “Clare and me are movin’ west.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, though these days a body can surely understand why. I suspect it’s a rather large order.”

  “It is.” He slid the list across the counter.

  “Might take a day or two to fill all of this.”

  “I thought as much. I’ve got some work to do on the wagon. How about if I come back for it next Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday should be fine.”

  The arrival of the wagon brought reality to their leaving. Conversation around the family supper table that evening was noticeably subdued. They’d quietly assembled the hard goods needed for the journey. That had gone more or less unnoticed. Now they had a place to load it. That would begin as soon as the wagon bed was sealed.

  “Pass the potatoes,” Pa said. “That’s a fine pair of mules Jethro sold you, son. They’ll get you wherever you want to go. Let’s hope that wagon is as serviceable.”

  “It’s sound, Pa. Maybe not pretty, but she’s sound. She’ll get us as far as we need to go.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Northwest of Missouri, eight or nine hundred miles I reckon.”

  “They say the land out there makes for good farming,” Pa said.