by Paul Colt
“Now, by provisions of the constitution we have a right to own our husband’s property should the need arise. The right, while regrettably limited to white women, is a start from which we should all take heart. We further achieved a voice in our children’s education. We did not win the franchise to vote in all elections, but we did win the right to vote in matters of school governance. That voice, too, is a start from which to further advance our cause.
“So, we now come to the matter of ratification. The sober fact, ladies, is that our hard fought gains are not assured. The Congress itself divided over adoption of this constitution. It divided over the issue of slavery. The constitution as proposed is a partisan document divided by morality. Republicans and free-soil Democrats signed in approval. Slavery’s proponents refused to approve a free-state document. It is up to our menfolk to decide the fate of the constitution in next month’s election. Here, we must once again defer the franchise to husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons. While we may lack the vote, we do not want for influence where these matters are concerned. I urge you all: exert your influence in your homes and your churches. Secure approval of the Wyandotte constitution for our future and that of our children.”
The room broke out in thunderous applause as the women of Kansas took to their feet. On October fourth, the Wyandotte constitution was approved by a wide margin.
Sycamore
November 1859
The wagon lumbered across a sienna sea of winter prairie grass like a giant beetle. A rumpled, woolen sky rippled east on a cutting, chill wind. Micah held the lines behind a team of twitching ears. Caleb rode the wagon box, carbine ready. With the harvest in, meat and fuel for the winter claimed their attention. Roaming buffalo herds catered to both needs. Firewood was precious scarce on the plains. Buffalo chips provided fuel for the fire and cook stove. Buffalo and deer provided meat that could be dried or frozen this time of year. Hunting trips ranged west along the river, where herds might make their way down to water. Micah drew the team to a stop on a ridge overlooking the river valley below.
“There.” He pointed. “See where the grass is trampled down the ridge to the river?”
Caleb nodded.
“I’m guessin’ we’ll find chips along there and down along the riverbank.”
“Let’s get to gatherin’, then. We be good at it. Last month we gather wheat. This month we turn to shit.”
“To put a fine point on it.”
“Ain’t nothin’ fine ’bout that point.”
“Keep you warm in the winter.”
“It do that.”
“Then be grateful.”
“Grateful? Grateful for shit. So be it.”
Micah clucked to the team. He drove the wagon to the center of the trampled field and turned downslope before drawing a halt. He set the brake and hopped down. Shovels in hand they fanned out on either side of the wagon, gathering dried chips they loaded into the wagon box. They worked their way down the ridge to the valley below, gradually filling the wagon box. Micah noticed it first. A faint tremor in the ground.
“Caleb! You feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“The ground.” The tremble grew stronger.
“They’s comin’.”
“I believe they are.”
They took cover behind the wagon as the first shaggy brown heads bobbed over the crest of the valley wall, trotting downslope to the river. On they came, raising a dun dust cloud over their backs as the herd fanned out in greater number. The leaders reached the riverbank and waded in to drink. Others slowed behind them, browsing prairie grass as they made their way to the river.
The herd spread along the riverbank, spilling toward them. Caleb handed Micah the carbine.
“You takes the first shot. Makes sure we get one.”
“They make a fine target.”
“So do a barn. You takes the shot.”
Micah shouldered the rifle, selected a big bull, and took aim. The carbine bucked a charge of blue powder smoke. The bull staggered, bellowed, and fell to its knees. The herd retreated away from their fallen brother without giving up the plenty of water and graze. Micah handed Caleb the rifle.
“Your shot.”
He reloaded. “They ain’t so close as they was.”
“You’re the one who said I should take the first shot.”
“Don’t make this shot no easier.” He dropped aim on a yearling and fired. The animal squealed, wheeled, and ran from its wounded shoulder, spooking the herd nearby. “Damn!”
“Reload.”
“I can’t make a shot that long.”
“Then we make it shorter. Reload and follow me.”
Micah led the way across the valley floor to the fallen bull. They crept up behind the warm carcass. “Now you got a shot.”
Caleb picked out a good-sized cow, took careful aim, and squeezed. Smoke bloomed. The cow fell. The herd retreated up the river valley. Caleb smiled.
Micah clapped him on the shoulder. “I told you, they make a fine target. Come on. We can’t carry any more than that. We got some butcherin’ to do. We’ll head home in the morning.”
Sycamore
December 15, 1859
The fire snapped and popped, sending sparks up the chimney, flavoring the parlor with savory cooking smells and pleasant, smoky scent. Clare and Miriam bustled about the stove and pantry preparing Sunday dinner. The girls played quietly in Elizabeth’s room. Micah folded his copy of the Lawrence Republican.
“They hung him.”
“Hung who?” Caleb said.
“Brother Brown.”
“Over all that ruckus at Harper’s Ferry?”
“Yeah.” Micah shook his head. “According to the paper, the raid on the armory was a failure, but the notoriety he got for his cause may have secured moral victory.”
“Hangin’ be a moral victory?”
“According to the charges at his trial, he planned to free the slaves in Virginia by arming them and leading an insurrection against their masters. The plan failed when the slaves refused to rally to his side.”
“He should a’ knowed better.”
“Why?”
“No black man gonna follow a white man agin’ his massa. The minute the white man remember he’s white, them Negroes be good as dead and dead in a bad way. So where do he get moral victory out a’that?”
“He said plenty at his trial and while he waited for his execution. He made his purpose God’s sacred duty to right the wrong that is slavery. He stood by what he did with no regrets. He lit an abolitionist fire under God-fearin’ folk in the north. He carried it off all the way to the gallows. Folks say they never seen a hanging like it. He never flinched. Marched up them steps calm as a man headed for Sunday services.”
“Some ways he was.”
“He’s dead and gone, but the fuss he stirred up ain’t nowhere near over. Folks in the south is nervous over what might come of it. They got the Democrats all riled up to blame all the abolitionist free-state talk on Republicans.”
“You think them upstart Republicans might do somethin’?”
“I don’t know. Democrats pretty well run things. The Republican party is new and not very strong yet. They’re right about Republicans favoring free soil and abolition. Seems like Brother Brown put the fear of God in ’em.”
“Den maybe the Good Lord be welcomin’ him home.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
* * *
Sycamore
New Year’s, 1860
It snowed New Year’s Eve. Clare and Miriam trudged through blowing snow down to the dugout house. Once the house and cabin were built, they’d turned the dugout into a combination root cellar and frozen meat store. Inside Clare struck a lucifer and lit a lamp. Dressed deer and buffalo carcasses hung from the rafters. Dried, salted, canned, and pickled meat, vegetables, and fruit were stored on rows of shelves. They’d saved a fat goose, taken in late fall, to celebrate the New Year. Miriam took it down from a hook.
<
br /> “You think a bird this size will thaw out by morning?” Her words went up in wisps of steam.
“He should. We’ll cook him slow most of the day. He’ll be just fine by supper time. How about some of these sweet potatoes?”
“Don’t never have to ask Caleb twice ’bout them. I’ll take some a these dried apples and boil ’em up to a pie for dessert.”
“Then I’ll bake the corn bread.”
“My mouth’s hungry already.”
Clare huffed out the lamp. They climbed the bluff path into the teeth of the storm and hurried off to the warm comforts of home.
The storm raged outside the Mason home. Inside a cheery fire crackled, warming the hearth. The girls played, quiet mostly with their dolls in a back bedroom. Clare and Miriam cleared up the last of the supper dishes. Micah retrieved a bundle from beside the door.
“I got somehin’ for you. Didn’t get here in time for Christmas, but now is as good a time as any for you to have it.”
“What’s this?” Caleb said.
“Open it.”
He took out his pocket knife and cut the twine binding the long, heavy package. The cloth sacking fell away, revealing a beautiful long gun. “I ain’t never seen a gun like this afore.”
“It’s a Colt revolving smoothbore shotgun.”
“Revolving?”
“Like a pistol with five shotgun loads.”
“My, my.”
“I figure this is the perfect gun for you.”
“You figure I might hit somethin’ with this?”
“I do. Here, let me show you.” Micah took a second sack down from a peg beside the door. “You’ll see once we load it.”
Caleb watched as Micah measured powder and poured the charge into one of the chambers. He held up a ball.
“This here is .75 caliber.” He dropped it into the chamber. Next, he counted out five smaller balls. “These are buckshot.” He fed them into the chamber. “When you fire, all that shot spreads as it travels to your target. Now you got six chances to hit something, not just one.”
“I like that.” Caleb grinned.
“Thought you might. Next, we need to keep all that lead where it belongs.” He took a square of corn husk and packed it in the chamber with a ramrod hinged to the barrel. “Now, you try.”
Caleb loaded the next chamber with a little help. By the time he finished the fifth chamber, he had the procedure mastered.
“This next part is real important,” Micah said. He opened a tin, axle grease by the smell of it, and filled each of the chambers to the top. “The grease keeps the powder in the one chamber from catching a charge from the chamber bein’ fired. That’s called a chain fire. You don’t want no part of that. If it happens, the closest thing to get hit might be you.”
Caleb nodded.
“This here’s the last step.” He held up a cap. “Fit this over the nipple at the back of the chamber like you do with the carbine, and this baby’s ready to fire. Best not to add the cap until you mean to use it.”
Micah handed over the shot, powder, corn patches, grease, and caps. “There’s this little bit more.” He handed Caleb a smaller wooden box. Inside was a tray of smaller balls and paper cartridges. “These cost more, but they’re handy in a fight. The balls are .31 caliber pistol balls. Each chamber holds three. The cartridges get you powder and patch in one so you can reload faster in a fight.”
“Let’s hope we don’t need ’em for that.”
“We can hope, Caleb. We can hope, but we live in violent times. We’re best off prepared. Now, you figure you can shoot that thing?”
He grinned and shouldered the gun, sighting along the barrel.
“Not that way. Hold it here.” Micah moved Caleb’s off-trigger hand from under the barrel to a position under the trigger guard.
“That don’t feel natural.”
“It’s not. Ever notice the powder burn that comes off the cylinder when I fire my pistol?”
Caleb winced. “Ouch.”
“Ouch is right.”
North Ferry Crossing
March, 1860
Cold rain took over at midday. Thorne wished he’d chosen a different day for this errand. No good to be had for it now but to see it through like it is. The black Rogue slogged his way up stiff muddy ruts not yet given up of their frost. Thorne drew rein at the tavern rail and splashed down in a puddle. He tied off a rein and stomped mud from his boots on the boardwalk. Inside the dimly lit, smoky tavern, he shook rain off his hat and cloak, allowing his eyes to adjust to guttering lamplight. He spotted Herd at his usual table, the stub of a pipe clenched in his jaw, with Quantrill at his elbow. Good. Quantrill could be counted upon to favor his purpose. He crossed the room.
“Titus,” Herd said. “Nasty day to be out and about. What brings you by here?”
“For a start, whiskey to rid my bones of this chill.”
“Have a seat. You know William.”
“I do.” He nodded to Quantrill.
The bartender appeared with a glass. Herd poured. Thorne tossed it off for a refill. He let the whiskey burn warm his inwards.
“That’s better.”
“Now we got the chill put by, what brings you up here?” Herd said.
Thorne glanced around, making sure no one was in earshot. “The Mason place.”
“Not that again. It didn’t work out too well for me and my men last time.”
“I’m not after the darky this time. Hear me out.”
“Air’s free.”
“I want Mason burned out. I’ll make it worth your while. As I recall, you got a five-hundred-dollar offer from Morgan Walker for return of those two runaway slaves. I’ll give you five hundred to burn ’em out. Make it look like bushwhacker work. If you get the two of them in the bargain, you stand to make a thousand dollars.”
“Hmm. What you got against Mason?”
“I want his land. By rights it should have been mine all along. He just beat me to the land office.”
“When do you want this done?”
“Before his crop goes into the ground. If he can’t plant, he’ll have to give it up sooner or later.”
Herd lifted a questioning brow to Quantrill.
“A thousand dollars would cover some lean times about now.”
“Half now, half when the job’s done,” Herd said.
Thorne reached for his wallet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
* * *
Sycamore
One Week Later
Caleb bolted awake to the sound of shattered glass.
“What’s that?” Miriam stared, eyes wide-white.
“Trouble. Get Rebecca.” He grabbed his shotgun at the bedroom door. A blazing brand rolled along the floor, spreading devastation across the wood until it crashed against the rough-cut dining table in a shower of sparks. Flames climbed the curtains on either side of the shattered window. Horses’ hooves and shouts sounded beyond the cabin door. Miriam appeared at his side with a sleepy-eyed Rebecca. Choking smoke began to fill the parlor.
“Take the child to the root cellar and stay there until I tell you what to do next.”
“What about the smoke?”
“You can open the cellar door a crack, but only a crack. That’s our best way out of this. Now go.” He crossed to the front door and opened it a crack. Muzzle flash and ball from mounted silhouettes bathed in firelight bit the door frame. Caleb dropped to one knee, brought up the shotgun, and kicked open the door. He sighted on the nearest raider and cut loose a charge behind a powder flare and plume of blue smoke. The man screamed and pitched from the saddle, dead before he hit the ground. Caleb rolled away from the door before the smoke cleared as a volley of ball answered his challenge. He scrambled to the back door as flames followed the ceiling beams toward the back of the cabin. He pulled up the trap door in the kitchen floor and descended short steps to the dark root cellar below.
“I’s scared, Pa,” a small voice said.
“Hush, chi
le. We be fine.”
Clare and Micah awakened as one.
“What was that?” Clare said.
“Gunshots.” Micah pulled on his britches, hitched up the suspenders, and grabbed his pistol belt off a peg beside the bedroom door. He strapped on the holster and started for the front door.
“You take Elizabeth, get down, and stay down.” He paused at the door. Gunshots and shouting sounded to the south toward Caleb and Miriam’s cabin. Flames danced through the trees beyond the barn. Good God. He dashed out the door. He no more than stepped off the porch when he saw them. Riders on the wagon road, heading toward the barn, torches bobbing in dark shadow. Micah froze. Two riders peeled away toward the barn. Others loped down the tree-lined lane toward him. They mean to burn us out, too.
He clambered back into the shadow of the porch and let the lead rider turn up the drive to the house. Crouching in darkness he let the dark figure close. He leveled the heavy Colt on the oncoming silhouette. The pistol bloom burst white orange in the dark. The rider’s horse bolted. The wounded raider dropped his torch and toppled from the saddle, landing on the flaming brand. His coat afire, he rolled on the ground, shrieking at the flames like a rabid animal. Micah took aim at the flame and fired. The man jerked still, shrouded in burning wool.
The second rider pulled his horse up short. He fired wildly, wheeled his horse, and galloped back up the road toward the barn.
Smoke seeped through the trap door into the root cellar. Heat began to rise. They couldn’t stay here much longer. Caleb lifted the outside cellar door. A muzzle flashed in the trees off to the north in the direction of the barn. The ball whined overhead. Caleb shouldered his shotgun and followed the shooter’s powder smoke with a charge. A horse reared, silhouetted among the trees. The rider wheeled his mount and retreated toward the barn through tree trunks and branches painted in orange light, shadow, and smoke.
“Take the chile and hide in them trees yonder by the creek.”
“What you gonna do?”
“Try an’ save the stock.”
“They’s stock.”
“They’s most what we got left. Now you get on, girl, before this cabin fall down on our head.” He dashed off through the trees to the barn.
