by Paul Colt
Micah scratched his chin. “It might at that. I need to come back next week to settle with the mill. Can you show us how it works then?”
“Show us?”
“My partner and me.”
“Sure . . . sure. I’ll arrange for a team and a field to cut. Take this leaflet along to show him. It’s got a drawing and all the particulars explained.”
Micah nodded.
Sycamore
“A harvesting machine?” Caleb said around a mouthful of roast buffalo.
Micah passed the leaflet across the Sunday supper table.
Caleb studied it and passed it to Miriam.
“Must cost a fright,” Miriam said.
“It’s not cheap, but I think it can pay for itself.”
“How so?”
“That machine with a good team can cut twelve acres a day. At that rate, we can harvest all four fields in two weeks. We still have to rake and bind, but I believe the two of us can harvest our whole crop in a month.”
“We don’t have to hire no help,” Caleb said.
“That’s right.”
“So how much do it cost?”
“More than we can afford all at once, but if we put down thirty dollars, we can pay the balance over the next three crops at thirty-five dollars a year. We can pay for it in shares.”
“What you think, Miriam?” Caleb said.
“It’s a lot of money. After them three crops, though, seems like we come out ahead.”
“That’s the way I got it figured,” Micah said.
Caleb nodded. “Let’s go into Kansas City next week and have us a look at this magical machine.”
Kansas City
A Week Later
A brisk wind blew out of the northwest, chasing cotton-ball clouds across a bright blue sky. Micah and Caleb stood side by side, watching the reaper glide along behind a sturdy matched pair of bay horses. Neat rows of cut wheat ready for raking spilled out behind.
Kirby Delabrough looked on curious. He hadn’t expected the black man and wasn’t sure what to make of it. They seemed to be partners as Mason suggested. Most unusual, really.
“Isn’t she everything I said she’d be?” Delabrough said.
Both men nodded.
“What do you think, Caleb?” Micah said.
“Just like you said.”
“Is it worth it to your share?”
“Uhum.”
“I believe we are ready to proceed, Mr. Delabrough.”
“Step over to the carriage. I have the papers we need right here. That’ll be thirty dollars.”
Micah counted the money as Caleb continued to watch the reaper, far away in some thought.
“Sign here.”
Micah dipped the offered pen in an ink pot and signed on the carriage seat. He handed the pen to Caleb, who made his mark.
“Very well, gentlemen. Congratulations. You are now the proud owners of a McCormick Reaper. Your reaper will be delivered in time for spring planting.”
Caleb glanced over his shoulder. “You mean that thing do planting, too?”
The drummer smiled. “Not yet.”
“You ’spose they could make one of them pick cotton?”
“One never knows what the inventor’s mind might bring forth. Why do you ask?”
“You got a machine like that to do the work of twenty men, it wouldn’t pay to even feed slaves.”
Delabrough and Micah exchanged surprised glances.
CHAPTER THIRTY
* * *
Lawrence
March, 1857
Eldridge House rose defiant from the ashes of the Jones raid. The lobby and a few rooms reopened, affording small shelter from a freezing rain. Micah ducked into the dimly lit lobby, littered with building materials making their way to the work crews rebuilding the upper floors. A cheery fire danced in the lobby fireplace. James Lane, Charles Robinson, and a handful of prominent free-state men clustered around the fire, intent in conversation. Micah crossed the lobby, curious.
“You’re a lawyer, James,” Robinson said. “How do you read the Supreme Court’s finding in the Scott case?”
Lane shook his head. “I’m not sure juris prudence much enters into the majority opinion as rendered by Justice Taney. The rambling rhetoric of a self-serving southern Democrat better suits the contorted logic of his opinion than any finding rooted in the constitutional principles intended to guide the court in such matters. Justice Taney, along with his six southern colleagues, holds that Mr. Scott has no rights of federal citizenship by virtue of the color of his skin, state or territorial law to the contrary notwithstanding. He asserts on behalf of the majority that Congress exceeded its authority in permitting states to determine the matter of slavery by popular sovereignty. He goes on to claim the federal government has a constitutional obligation to protect slaveholder rights, thereby establishing the right to hold slaves in perpetuity. I must say, though, that is no more than my reading of the opinion. I am at a loss to follow the legal precedents to his argument, let alone any citable constitutional provision.”
“So we are then to believe that Mr. Scott, who lived as a free man, has no rights of citizenship including rights to own property or vote. Are we also to conclude the Kansas-Nebraska act is now void, and slavery is the law of the land?”
“That’s my reading of it, Charles,” Lane said.
The crowd burst into a babble of incredulous conversation. Micah couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He excused his way through the crowd in the direction of the fire, pausing at Lane’s elbow.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lane. I only just came in and heard your explanation. What case is this?”
“Micah, good to see you. A rather bad bit of finding by the United States Supreme Court, I’m afraid. The case involved a civil suit brought by a former slave, a man named Dred Scott. He brought suit against a New York man named Sanford. The suit asserted Mr. Scott’s freedom for having lived in a free state for some years. The court majority seized on the circumstances of the case to hand down a rather sweeping decision in favor of slaveholding.”
“What does that mean for the freed man who owns a section of my land?”
“That would be up to a court to decide, should anyone challenge his rights of ownership. If you ask my opinion, based on this finding I would expect a court would invalidate his claim.”
“Thank you, sir.” Injustice warmed his blood quicker than fire. He re-crossed the lobby and stormed out to cold rain. He lifted Sampson’s tether and climbed to the buckboard seat. He wheeled away home, his thoughts coming furiously. What to do?
Sycamore
They gathered in the parlor. Micah recounted all he’d heard in Lawrence as best he could.
“What we gonna do now?” Miriam spoke for all of them.
“Seems like them justices made law,” Caleb said.
“Law maybe, not justice,” Clare said.
Micah met Caleb’s eye. “Law’s been broken before.”
“What’s to break? We don’t own the land.”
“Yes, you do.”
“The law says . . . ”
“No. I say. The law is wrong, Caleb. It can’t stay that way. Somehow, someway, someday it has to change.”
“Maybe so; but we be here right now.”
“So, here’s what we’re gonna do. The claim is still in my name. We sold you the section, but we’ve never recorded the sale. For now, it’s a good thing we didn’t. I sold you that section for a dollar. I’ll give you your dollar back, and I’ll hold the section for you until the law gets made right. Until that happens, we go about our business just like we always have. You work my land for a share, and I work your land for a share. That’s what counts. Folks will be none the wiser.”
“What if somebody find out?”
Micah looked from Clare to Miriam to Caleb. “Who’s gonna say a word? We got to trust each other, Caleb.”
Caleb bobbed his head in agreement. Titus Thorne and his black horse intru
ded at the back of his mind.
“Trust you, Micah Mason? I do. Never thought I’d say that to a white man, but after all we been through . . . ” He nodded. “I do trust you.”
Micah pulled a tattered dollar out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Miriam.
“Just for safe keepin’ until you give it back.”
Lecompton
September, 1857
Thorne jogged Rogue along Elmore Street at midday. White puffball clouds drifted east on a blue palette sky accompanied by a pleasant breeze. Ahead the whitewashed, two-story, clapboard Constitution Hall stood sentinel above the road on the side of a hill. He checked his mount to a walk, wheeled into the hitch rack, and stepped down.
He climbed the stairs to the territorial land office located on the first floor. The land office clerk, an officious scarecrow in a slack, black suit and starched collar, appeared dark and featureless in the dim glow of a large window. Thorne approached the counter separating clientele from a desk cluttered with piles of important looking documents. The clerk peered over the top of his spectacles at Thorne’s approach. Annoyed by the interruption, he unfolded himself from his chair to greet his visitor.
“May I help . . . Mr.?” A prominent Adam’s apple bobbed over his loose paper collar.
“Thorne, Titus Thorne. I’d like to protest a claim.”
The clerk lifted his brows over the tall, handsome stranger. A protest . . . most unusual.
“What parcel and what grounds?”
“Four sections, south of the river five miles west of Lawrence.”
“And the grounds?”
“I believe the claim is jointly held by one Micah Mason and a black man known only as Caleb. By recent finding of the United States Supreme Court, the black man lacks the constitutional right to own property. Joint tenancy of a white man not withstanding I believe the court’s decision invalidates the claim.”
The clerk scratched a lean, lined chin. “You’ll need a court to set aside such a claim, of course, but I believe you speak of the Dred Scott decision. It would seem to render such a claim . . . awkward.”
“Could you verify the registration so that I have the proper information to file suit?”
The clerk shuffled to a dusty cabinet at the back wall next to the window. A shower of dust mites billowed in a shaft of window light at the drawer opening. He fumbled through the records, pausing at one before drawing it into the light. He held it up, squinted, and turned to the counter.
“I believe this is the parcel you describe, Mr. Thorne, but you must be mistaken. This parcel is registered to one Micah Mason. It makes no mention of any joint tenant.”
“May I see that?”
The clerk returned to the counter and handed him the record card.
Damn. What the hell is going on here?
“I see. Perhaps they’ve yet to file notice of their partnership interest.”
“Well, if they apply, I shouldn’t think the request would be granted in light of the court’s decision, at least not on the authority of this office.”
Thorne laid the card on the counter. “Thank you for your assistance.” He started for the door, jaw clenched in frustration. As he reached the stairway to the second floor the sound of angry voices drifted out of the legislative chamber above. The constitutional convention was in session. Curiosity tugged at his sleeve. He climbed the stairs.
A great room occupied the whole of the second floor. Serving as district courtroom most times, it now hosted the territorial constitutional convention. The delegates here were charged to draft a territorial constitution under which Kansas might petition for admission to the union. Pro-slavery representatives chosen in the disputed territorial election dominated the body, with but a handful of free-state Kansans headed by Charles Robinson. As he slid into the gallery back row he recognized Robinson’s familiar figure at the podium. He gestured to the chair using a sheaf of paper clenched in his fist for emphasis.
“You call this a constitution? This is nothing more than the practice of slavery codified in immoral law. By itself it is a disgrace. The fact this body proposes to adopt it on behalf of the people of Kansas is nothing short of criminal.”
He shook the document at the seated legislators. “Most of you owe your seats in this body not to the people of Kansas but to the scallywag Missouri men who crossed our border to steal our deliberation of this issue. You cast your votes in fraudulent fashion. You committed fraud by your election, and now you would add to those crimes by perpetuating the morally repugnant and vile practice of slavery.”
“Mr. Chairman!” The speaker, David Atchison, stood off to the side at the front of the spectator gallery, a dark silhouette in muted light. “Mr. Chairman, how much longer must we listen to these fallacious and reckless allegations? This body has a constitution before it. Exercise your authority and proceed.”
“Here, here,” someone called from the legislators’ seats. “I move we call the question!”
“Second!” someone else shouted.
Robinson turned on Atchison. “Senator, if I may demean the office by addressing you so. You, sir, have no standing here. You are a Missouri man. Your part here is only to assure the fraud you instigated is seen to its final perpetration.”
The chairman’s gavel cracked like a pistol shot. “Yield the floor, Mr. Robinson. We have a motion to call the question and a second. All in favor?”
The pro-slavery delegates roared “Aye!”
“Opposed?”
“Nay,” cried a smattering of free-state delegates.
“The question is called. For approval of the Lecompton constitution as presented.”
“Aye!” the majority shouted.
“The ayes have it.” The chair cracked his gavel.
“Nay!” Robinson resounded across the chamber. “Nay, I say, nay! So long as I have breath in these bones I say nay!” He led his free-state delegation out of the chamber.
Thorne shook his head. Noble defeat? Nay, only defeat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
* * *
Washington City
February, 1858
Senator Douglas trimmed the desk lamp as early evening shadows crept across the office floor. He stepped to the sideboard and poured whiskey from a cut-glass decanter into a matching glass. He glanced out the window at street lamps winking to light across the capital. Horse drawn carriages moved among the shadows as Washington made its way home to supper. He selected a cigar, scratched a match to sulfur flash, and puffed his smoke to light. He sat in an oversize wing chair at his desk side, his diminutive frame fairly disappearing in comfort. He took a swallow of his drink. Quiet contemplation gave his thoughts to matters at hand.
Buchanan had bollocks, you had to give him that. While Pierce preferred to dither in half measures, Buchanan set a new tone with his partisan agenda. His proposed legislation would admit Kansas to the Union as a slave state based on ratification of the Lecompton constitution. The proposal fed red meat to his southern caucus. The question was, what to do about it? The moment Buchanan put forward his proposal, he’d felt pressure from his Democrat colleagues to support the bill. The southern caucus had no reservations about the checkered provenance of the legislature that adopted the Kansas territorial constitution. Douglas’s personal ambition handed him a testy stake in the matter.
He let the whiskey warm his belly. He’d challenge that awk-ward bumpkin of a country lawyer to a series of debates sure to elevate his stature as a presidential candidate. Favoring free soil for economic reasons stopped well short of abolitionist equality. Such a position would resonate with the mood of the electorate north of the Mason-Dixon line far more than Lincoln’s strident abolitionism. He’d mop the floor with the reedy-voiced scarecrow. That was reasonable. But now Buchanan had stuck him with this damnable piece of legislation. If he opposed it, he risked losing the south. If he backed it, he’d lose in the north even among moderate Democrats.
He drew o
n his cigar and let a veil of smoke color his thinking. Might there be some way to tangle the bill procedurally so as to avoid having to take a tough vote? Appealing as that notion might be, newly elected presidents enjoyed a honeymoon of sentiment that would be hard to overcome. No, the bill would come to a vote, a vote he did not relish. He might hold enough of the south with a states’ rights position on slavery; but that came straight back to the damned Lecompton constitution. The odor of scandal permeated election of that legislative body and, so, fouled the aroma of the president’s bill. One could scarcely endorse it without tainting oneself by association.
He swirled amber liquid in lamplight and drained the glass. His best chance of winning the White House started with opposing the admission of Kansas under the fraudulent cloud hanging over the territorial legislature that produced the Lecompton constitution. He’d paint Lincoln as a radical abolitionist and hope his moderate southern sympathies drew enough favor in the south to win a bitterly divided electorate. He might even argue that the Dred Scott decision secured the future of slavery, making the Kansas admission moot. But that was a conversation best had behind closed doors.
He flicked a long white ash into a crystal tray on his desk. He held up his glass, considering the last amber droplets spinning a rainbow of reflected color. Few things in politics ever are as they appear. Time for another.
Lawrence
April, 1858
Lane, Montgomery, and Jennison met in the rebuilt Eldridge House storeroom. A steady rain spattered the loading platform planks outside. Gray light filtered through the windows, rendering the men seated on crates in somber shadows.
“The territorial legislature adopted the Lecompton constitution, but Robinson convinced the governor to put it to a vote,” Lane said.
“How’d he manage that?” Montgomery asked.
“He convinced the governor that the border violence is owed to election fraud. If they ram that constitution down the people’s throats, the violence will only increase. So, we’re gonna have another election in August overseen by federal troops this time.”
