by Paul Colt
“What of the woman? Do you know what became of her?”
“We don’t have her, though I suspect we could find her.”
“Then perhaps we might strike a bargain. I risk speaking for Ruben, but let’s say five hundred for the pair? Two hundred now and the balance when you bring me the woman.”
Herd scratched his chin. “In gold?”
“In gold.”
Gold. Quantrill savored the sound. He never batted an eye.
Sweat from heat and exertion poured into his eyes and dampened his shirt. The day had worn past noon. How much longer before Herd returned? He had to make something happen soon, or he’d find himself back in bondage if he survived the punishment to be meted out after all these years. The ropes binding him proved stout. He’d rubbed his wrists slick with blood. Even that would not free him.
“Don’t move!” Someone shouted beyond the wagon box.
“Drop your guns. Up with your hands.”
Horses splashed across the stream.
“Where is he?”
“Where is Caleb?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Caleb recognized Micah’s voice. He banged his boots on the wagon bed.
“Noisy cargo you got over there.”
Someone grabbed the tarp and pulled it back.
Micah.
“Caleb!” He climbed into the box and untied the gag.
“You a sight.” He choked on the words.
“Easy. Get me some water over here.” He drew his knife and cut the ropes from wrists and ankles. Jennison rode up beside the wagon box with a canteen he handed to Caleb.
“Take it slow. You all right?”
Caleb nodded. “I is now.” He sat up. His two captors stood surrounded by heavily armed men.
“James, I suggest we make short work of this,” Jennison said.
“Do as you think best, Doc,” Lane said.
“You men are charged with abduction and assault. You are to be judged by a jury of your peers. How do you plead?”
“Plead? We ain’t got nothin’ to plead for. That man’s a contraband fugitive.”
“Not in Kansas.”
“Fugitive slave laws cross that border.”
“Gentlemen of the jury, how do you find?”
“Guilty!” the Jayhawkers cried as one.
“Then you are hereby sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.”
They loped down the road to the creek as the sun began its westerly descent. The wagon stood parked as they left it. Little remained to the day. In the morning, they’d deliver the package to Walker and set about the business of returning to Sycamore for the woman. The first indication that something might be amiss struck Herd as they drew closer. Where are they?
They found the wagon empty. No sign of his men. Quantrill spotted movement among the trees. Shadows moving on a gentle breeze. He nudged Herd. His eyes pointed up. Purple, distorted, and still save for the gentle sway. Each body bore a scrap of paper pinned to its chest.
“Cut ’em down,” Herd ordered.
Quantrill drove the wagon into position and lowered the bodies into the bed.
Herd tore off one note and read, “Slave catchers not welcome in Kansas.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
* * *
Sycamore
May, 1859
Sunday, Caleb and Miriam took their turn at hosting supper. The neighbors had taken to sharing their main Sunday meal, alternating preparation and hosting chores. Micah and Caleb sat on the porch enjoying a bright spring day while watching the girls at play. Miriam bustled about the kitchen preparing cornbread, bucket beans, and her specialty, a thick, rich turtle soup. Clare assisted where she could.
“There’s a meeting tonight in Lawrence. I believe we should go,” Clare said.
“Meeting? What for?”
“It’s a meeting of the Moneka Women’s Rights Association.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a group of women working to see that women’s rights are included in the Kansas constitution.”
“What sort of rights?”
“The right to vote. The right to own property. Probably some more I don’t know about yet.”
“Them rights is for white folks.”
“Some people think that. Some people don’t think any woman deserves those rights. One thing is sure: we aren’t gonna change anything unless we try.”
“Maybe so for you white ladies. You go draggin’ the likes of me along, you only gonna make your problems worse.”
“Now you listen here, Miriam. That’s what you said about learning to read. Well you did, and the world didn’t come to an end. The vote is nothing more than your right to express an opinion and have it count. The United States Constitution guarantees the right to free speech. A vote is nothing more than official free speech.”
“Free speech is for free folk. My folk ain’t free. Didn’t they tell Dred Scott he wasn’t free? As I read it, he ain’t free to own property, neither.”
“That don’t make it right. Laws are made, and laws can be changed. You just have to do something about it. Now are you coming with me or not?”
“You sure about this?”
“I am.”
“You’re the teacher.”
“Absolutely not, Miriam,” Caleb said. “Pass the beans. You ladies ain’t driving into Lawrence an’ drivin’ home alone at night with them bushwhackin’ Missouri mens be roamin’ around.”
“Caleb’s right. It’s too dangerous,” Micah said.
“Fiddle-faddle! This meeting is too important for us not to go. Right, Miriam?”
“Right.”
“What make it so important?” Caleb said.
“Women’s rights,” Miriam said.
“What rights?”
“The right to vote. The right to own property, to name two,” Clare said.
Caleb shook his head at Miriam. “Girl, them’s white folks’ rights.”
“I’m a woman.”
“A black woman.”
“I told Clare that, but she says denyin’ folks the free speech of a vote don’t make it right. Nothin’ gonna change unless we change it.”
“I’ll tell you what changes. You show up at that meetin’, and a whole lot of trouble is what changes.”
“Nothin’ good come easy. That’s why I’m goin’ to that meeting tonight. Now, pass the cornbread.”
Caleb threw up his hands and passed her the bread. “What we gonna do with these two?”
Micah winked. “You stay with the girls. I’ll ride shotgun for these two crusaders out to change the world.”
Lawrence
They set the Eldridge House dining room in rows of chairs to accommodate the meeting. The room was full when Clare and Miriam arrived. The president of the Ladies Aid Society introduced the speaker, Clarina Nichols, editor of an abolitionist newspaper and a representative of the Moneka Women’s Rights Association. A slight woman with long features of sober expression and severe bearing rose to address the assembly.
“Ladies, we gather here tonight to discuss the cause of women’s rights. But more than that, we are here in the cause of equality.” Her eyes roamed over the crowd, coming to rest on Clare and Miriam, standing at the back of the room.
“Ladies, we have two chairs here in the front. Please take a seat.”
All eyes turned as they made their way toward the front of the room. A muted gasp rippled through the collective audience. Clare only imagined the room went chill. They found seats in the front row, nodded thanks to the speaker, and sat down.
A stir of petticoats from the back of the room suggested that some in the audience might be showing their displeasure by leaving. The speaker responded with practiced poise.
“The evils of inequality take many forms. We shall never defeat any of them, ladies, unless we stand together.”
Those few moved by social mores quietly returned to their seats.
“Our
quest begins by seeking franchise with the vote. It is our just voice in governance. It will not be won easily—radical reform seldom is. But we shall win our rights, for freedom and morality are with us. The vote begins the battle, followed closely by the property rights of married women. A woman and her children must never lose their home because of the loss of husband or father. We also have maternal rights to assert on behalf of our children and the schools in which they are educated.” She paused, allowing the import of her words to fill the room.
“I have here with me tonight petitions advocating the basic rights of women. I ask all of you to affix your signatures thereto as a means to join the battle. By signing, you give your support to the Moneka Women’s Rights Association, which shall use your authority to raise our collective voices where they can be heard to good effect. We shall gain a seat at the constitutional convention to be held this summer in Wyandotte. We may not win the whole of our cause, though we shall endeavor to that end. We can hope for some of it. But we must engage all of it with persistence. We must never waver from our holy cause until we take our rightful place in equal society with men. Now, please come forward and sign your support for this work.”
She sat at a table, greeting each woman who signed. The line stretched to the back of the room. Clare was among the first to reach the table. She signed Clare Mason. Miriam stood at her side. Clarina Nichols caught her eye.
“Will you sign, dear?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Do you write?”
“I do.”
She wrote Miriam
“Do you have a surname, Miriam?”
She shook her head.
“Then make a mark for your friend to witness.”
She squared her shoulders. “Lord only knows what Caleb will say, but I do now.”
“Do what?”
“Has a last name.” She wrote Madison. Miriam Madison.
“Why ‘Madison’?” Clare said.
“Mr. Madison wrote the Bill of Rights.”
“So he did,” Clarina said.
They left, passing a long line of approving nods.
Sycamore
“Madison. You signed ‘Miriam Madison.’ Where’d you get that from?”
“From a book.”
“From a book. We ain’t got no Madison kin.”
“We do now. We got you, me, Rebecca, and any Madisons as come after us.”
“I don’t know. Somehow it just don’t seem right.”
“But it is right. That’s the point. Mr. James Madison wrote the Bill of Rights to the Constitution just like I signed us on to our rights.”
“Signin’ don’t make it so.”
“It does when we win.”
“Don’t nothin’ never keep you in your place?”
“Why should it? You wouldn’t know me if it did.”
“I guess I better then.”
“Better then what?”
“Has you teach me how to sign ‘Caleb Madison’.”
Wyandotte, Kansas
July, 1859
The courtroom was spare of opulence. Sunlight reflected on wood floor. Simple furnishing sufficed. The delegates sat at tables arranged in a semicircle around a raised podium and desk to accommodate the needs of the chairman. Additional chairs were set in rows behind the delegates to accommodate the press and invited guests. A solitary gray lady sat knitting in the front row of the guest gallery, her presence haloed in window light.
James Lane approached the chair where Charles Robinson was seated, preparing to call the day’s proceedings to order.
“Who is that woman? She comes here each day to sit and knit.”
“She does more than knit, of that I can assure you. She listens until we adjourn for recess; then she plies her purpose. You simply haven’t yet had the pleasure.”
“But who is she?”
“Clarina Nichols. She represents the Moneka Women’s Rights Association.”
“What in hell is that?”
“That, my friend, is the voice of near a thousand women of this territory who seek to assert women’s rights.”
“Women’s rights—what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the right to vote, the right to own property, and that’s only the beginning.”
Lane scowled over his shoulder at the woman sculpted in domesticity. “That’s nonsense. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“Don’t be too quick to dismiss it, James. There is sympathetic sentiment in this assembly. We’ve seen the outcome of elections where we lacked a majority of right thinking people. One way to secure our interests is to enlarge the franchise to vote.”
“With women?”
“Possibly.”
“Risky business, I say. Give them the vote, and it won’t stop there. You hear them nattering against demon rum; are you ready for that?”
“Of course not. I’m merely saying don’t underestimate the power of pie.”
“Now it’s pie. What the devil are you talking about, Charles?”
“Pie. Every name on those petitions is signed by a woman who feeds husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons every day. Do not underestimate the power of that little lady back there with her ball of yarn. Her cause speaks with a powerful voice at near every supper table in Kansas.”
Lane shook his head and set his jaw. “I’ve language to propose on the matter of the franchise. Permit me to introduce it at the appropriate time.”
“As you wish, James.”
The chamber turned warm toward late morning. Delegates fidgeted, some at growling stomachs anticipating lunch. Robinson rapped his gavel, restoring order to the proceedings.
“The chair recognizes the honorable James Lane.”
Lane stepped to the podium to address the delegates, respected men of the territory all, though Democrats among them remained favorably disposed to slavery. He fully expected all could agree on this proposal, with possible exception of the gray lady quietly knitting in the first row of the gallery.
“Fellow delegates, I introduce for your consideration the following language for inclusion in the draft constitution.” He read, “The franchise shall extend to all white males having attained their majority.”
“Second!” someone said.
“We have a motion and a second. Discussion?” Robinson said.
“I would amend,” another said. “The franchise shall extend to all white persons having attained their majority.”
“We have a motion to amend. Is there support?”
“Aye!”
The debate joined, dragging through to the noon recess. “Gentlemen, the hour of our luncheon recess has arrived. I call this body into recess until two o’clock.” Robinson rang down his gavel.
Lane stood at his desk to gather his papers. A light touch at his elbow begged attention.
“Mr. Lane, a word if I might, sir.”
He’d half expected this. “Of course, madam.”
“We’ve not been introduced.” She offered her hand. “Clarina Nichols, of the Moneka Women’s Rights Association.”
“My pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“I beg your indulgence to consider the amendment to your franchise language and perhaps even to further amend it.”
Lane smiled. Timid did not enter into this woman’s concept of femininity. “You know, of course, that amendment would have the effect of extending the franchise to women.”
“Of course I do. You must know that’s why I’m here. And here with the petition support of nearly a thousand women who are citizens of this territory.”
“Do you seriously believe there is sufficient support in this body to uphold such an action?”
“Perhaps not yet, but with the support of a leader such as yourself, anything might be possible.”
Flattery. The woman had a flair for politics. You had to give her that. “Madam, you flatter me; but I seriously doubt this body has the appetite for so radical a departure from tradition.”
<
br /> “But don’t you see that in time they must. It is our constitutional right.”
“That interpretation escapes me. While we are indulging this discussion, you mentioned something further to the amendment. What might that be?”
“Only that the franchise might be extended to persons who have achieved their majority.”
He laughed. “You would then by the stroke of a pen, enfranchise the Indian and the Black man along with their betters?”
“I would.”
“Madam, your time and talents would be better spent putting up preserves for the winter rather than advocating for such foolish notions.”
“The only thing foolish about such a proposal, Mr. Lane, is the blindness of those who fail to see right where there is wrong.”
“Right from wrong is it, or idealistic folly from common sense? Now, if you please, I bid you good day, madam.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
* * *
Lawrence
September, 1859
Clare and Miriam arrived early enough to claim seats without having to make the long march to the front of the room. The constitutional congress ended without gaining women the vote, though some accommodations were made. Tonight, they would hear what Clarina Nichols had to say on the draft constitution and the state of their cause.
The Eldridge House dining room filled slowly toward the appointed hour. The president of the Ladies Aid Society called the assembly to order and introduced Clarina. She took the podium and let her eyes wander the group, pausing to nod to Miriam.
“Good evening, ladies. When last here, I reminded you we might not win the full measure of our cause; and so we did not. We failed to win co-equal status with men under the law. Our efforts, however, were not totally in vain.
“Firstly, with your support and the weight of our numbers, we secured a seat at the proceedings. A seat we were able to use to vigorously advance your views on those matters central to our cause. While we fell short of equality, we were able to achieve some standing for women under the law as wives and as mothers. You should all take satisfaction in that.
