by Lois Ruby
“Ain’t that stepping a little outta bounds?” The man who’d appointed himself leader stood nose-to-nose with Solomon, until Sabetha pushed him aside with the back of her hand and said, “This isn’t your business, Jacob. Anybody ask you, you’ve seen and heard none of this. The rest of y’all best be blind, deaf, and dumb, too, hear?” She crooked her hand behind her, and a tall, lanky man with skin as dark as midnight stepped out of the crowd. His shoulders were rolled forward, and he carried a red rubber ball that he nervously passed, one hand on top of the other. Beside him was a girl who looked to be about ten.
Sabetha said, “This is Homer, and my girl, Callie. Me and Homer and Callie and Miz Pru are a family.” Then she muttered, “Not one of ’em’s my kin, except the girl.” She stared defiantly at Solomon. “We’re all set to go, four of us, just like Lizbet promised. One goes, we all go, hear?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ERNIE’S BAIT SHOP
The three of us went to Kansas City—Jeep, Mike, and I. Mike’s brother Howie drove like a maniac, and he definitely needed to change the prescription on his glasses. If we die on the road, my parents will kill me, I thought.
Was Howie reading my mind? Squinting in the rearview mirror, he said, “I’m surprised your parents let you out of your cell for this trip.”
“I didn’t exactly tell them we were going all the way to Kansas City.” I had the map spread out across my knees and was trying to make sense of all these suburbs and exits.
“Just don’t swallow fire, and we’ll be okay,” Jeep warned me. “Hey, Howie, what did Mike have to pay you for this ride?” Howie never does anything for free. He’s the kind of guy who’d charge an old lady for helping her across the street.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Mike said. He was riding shotgun in Howie’s rattletrap Toyota. Most of the stuffing is out of the seat, and the gutted radio hangs by wires. The carpeting in the backrest looks like it’s been through a shredder.
“Nice car,” Jeep muttered.
Howie changed lanes for no apparent reason. “No, I’d like to answer it, Mike. It shows how desperate you are in front of your little buddies.” He beeped his clown-nose horn as he swerved around a motorcycle. “I’m getting half his allowance for the next six weeks.”
“You’re tough,” said Jeep. His fingertips were six shades lighter than his fingers as he pressed his hand into the roof of the car to keep from being tossed around.
“I look at it this way.” Beep-beep. “In another eighteen months, Mike will have his learner’s permit and he’ll be unleashed on the public roads, so I’ve got to turn a profit while I can.”
“Our exit’s coming up.”
“Which exit, Dana? I’ve got to cut in front of a truck, and those suckers don’t stop on a dime.”
“Slow down. Slow down!” I yelled. “Oops, you missed the exit.”
Howie let loose of a few words that would cost me fifty cents each if they had escaped my lips in the presence of my parents. I was already three dollars in debt to them for similar blips.
At the next exit Howie spun a U-turn that reversed polarity, and we were heading back in the right direction. About ten minutes later we pulled up in front of a misshapen building that had curling shake shingles pocked with bird droppings. The windows were crossed out by large wooden Xs nailed over them, and a faded sign hung lopsided over the barred door.
Ernie’s Bait Shop sat right at the junction of the Kansas River and the Missouri River, but it looked as if it hadn’t been open for business since the days of manual typewriters.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
March 1857
WICKED WICKER
The big problem was, how were they going to get Callie out in the middle of the night? Even though Sabetha was a house servant, at nine o’clock she was sent down to the quarters, where she slept with Miz Pru. Homer, who was Miz Pru’s son, was mentally slow and needed looking after, so he unfurled his bedroll each night in Miz Pru’s cabin as well. But Callie slept in the big house, curled up at the foot of Miss Amelia Bullock’s bed. Miss Amelia was seven years old and scared of every creak of the house and every cry of the wind. Bad dreams chased her through most nights, and when she stirred, Callie, like a vigilant watchdog, sat up and reassured her that everything was just the way it was supposed to be. Callie had told James, “I sure don’t sleep long, but I sleep real often.”
So, how were they to get Callie out when they were ready to make their escape come Tuesday night when the moon was barely a slice in the night sky?
Solomon had a daring plan, which he worked out with Sabetha. That evening James cleaned up as sharp as he could and presented himself at Mr. Bufford Bullock’s front door. William, a light-skinned butler, showed James into Mr. Bullock’s back parlor, not the front one for distinguished guests. William said, “Mr. Bullock, sir, this here’s young Mr. James Weaver wants to talk to you, sir.”
James and Mr. Bullock nodded to each other. Mrs. Bullock’s chair was back-to-back with her husband’s so they could share a lamp, and she read through spectacles perched on the end of her arrow-sharp nose. She had her hair done up on top of her head, with chopsticks crisscrossed through her bun.
James glanced up at Sabetha, stationed along one wall sewing and pretending she’d never seen James once in her life.
This was the most beautiful room James had ever been in. The walls were burnished walnut, grain matched perfectly, and one wall was filled with books from the floor to the ceiling. The books were stacked every which way, as if people actually read them. When James followed the rainbows on the wall, he looked up to a crystal chandelier that dazzled him with its prisms of dancing light.
“Young James, what can I do for you?” Mr. Bullock put down the thick tome he’d been reading. Tufts of gray hair at each cheek only made his bald head and apple-red cheeks all the more absurd. His eyes were the color of well water, and now they fell on James. “Young James?”
Sabetha pulled her sewing up to her face and glared at him over the top of it. James swallowed dry spit. “Sir, I’m on my way to New Orleans. Thee, uh, the reason is I’ve been to a doctor in St. Louis. I get terrible headaches, sir, make me see double until I think my head’s going to explode.”
“I presume the doctor helped you?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He gave me a powder to take, and I’ve been well since.”
“I declare,” Mrs. Bullock said in her tinkly voice. “I guess the New Orleans doctors haven’t cottoned to that cure yet.”
Mr. Bullock looked annoyed at his wife’s interruption, and he asked, “You’re not traveling all alone, are you, son?”
James saw Sabetha’s warning, but he made a snap decision because it didn’t figure that a rich New Orleans landowner would let his boy travel four hundred miles alone. “Oh, no, sir. My father sent one of our slaves with me, a trusted servant named S-Simon.”
“And where is this Simon now, son?”
“Well, sir, he’s taking bed and board with some distant kinfolk down in the quarters. They’ve given him a pallet on the floor.”
“Southern hospitality. Very good,” Mrs. Bullock said, “and you’ll stay with us, James Weaver.”
“Oh, I couldn’t impose, ma’am.”
“Nonsense. A refined gentleman such as yourself doesn’t travel by night like darkies on the run.” She folded her glasses and stuck them in a hidden pocket on her lap. “Sabetha, see about arranging a room for young Mr. Weaver, and have the kitchen people bring him out some refreshment. Cold lemonade, James, wouldn’t that be just the nicest little treat?”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am. I believe I can taste it already.” And he could. It seemed like eons since he’d had anything so fresh and cold and sweet and tart as lemonade. Just the thought made the sides of his neck prickle with anticipation.
The Bullocks had fallen right into the scheme! “Well, sir, I’ll just direct Simon to bring in my things.”
“No need, son. William will take care of eve
rything.” Sabetha returned with the tray of lemonade, and with the parlor door open, James heard the men grunting in the hall as they carried in a huge wicker basket filled with hay and stones.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Bullock tapped her mouth delicately to hide a yawn. “I do believe it’s time to turn in.”
James jumped to his feet. “Oh, yes, ma’am, a day of traveling takes the wind right out of me.” He nodded to Mr. Bullock and followed Mrs. Bullock upstairs, where she pointed out his room and the nearest water closet and detoured to her daughter’s bedroom. “Before I go to bed, I always listen at her chest to be sure the sweet thing’s breathing. She’s such a fragile little flower, don’t you know.”
James also knew Callie would be curled at the foot of the bed, eyes closed, waiting.
Once Mrs. Bullock was behind her own closed door, Sabetha appeared out of nowhere, hissing last-minute instructions to James before she left for her cabin. “Callie’s ready. Miz Pru and Homer and me, we’ve got our traveling needs all packed up. Homer’s saying good-bye to the dogs. That could take half the night,” she muttered.
Mrs. Bullock poked her head out of her room at the end of the hall, and Sabetha darted into James’s room. “You need anything, James, just ring, heah? There’s servants answer the bell anytime, night or day.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bullock,” James called back.
Behind him, Sabetha whispered harshly, “You know what to say if they catch you. Don’t you mess this up, Northern Boy.”
• • •
The next time Miss Amelia woke up, Callie gave her one of Miz Pru’s healing teas, made of gander root and gallweed, and Miss Amelia sank into a sleep that wouldn’t lift until dinnertime next day, if then. The doctor would be called, and in all the confusion maybe no one would attend to the disruption in the household.
Once Miss Amelia was snoring, Callie tapped on James’s door. “She’s out like a drunken soldier.” Solomon came out of the closet, which was now stuffed full of hay and stones. He pulled the emptied wicker basket behind him, and Callie climbed in. Her eyes were tough, but her voice was pleading: “I ain’t got much flesh on my bones. Don’t you be bouncing me around like I’m nothing but an old tire.”
They started down the stairs with the basket. Callie was a lot heavier than she looked standing upright. Not much flesh? Then she must have had mighty heavy bones. James noticed the light in the back parlor, which meant they dared not go out the back way as planned. They tiptoed through the front hall, where the floorboards creaked their alarm.
Mr. Bullock came out of the parlor. “Where you going with that traveling basket, young James?”
No need to introduce Solomon. James knew he’d be invisible to Mr. Bullock. “I figure on getting an early start tomorrow morning, sir, so’s I can make New Orleans by dark. I thought while my man Simon was handy, we’d just get my trunk outside so we wouldn’t have to disturb anybody in the morning bustle. It’ll be all right out here on the porch, I reckon.”
“I expect. You sure don’t travel light, son.” Mr. Bullock worked the clasp of the basket. “What have you got in here, half my stone quarry?” He started to lift the lid!
James let out a bloodcurdling howl. “Oh, my headache’s come back something fearsome.” He grabbed both sides of his head and rocked it, his eyes wide and wild, his lips quivering. “Owie-yowie-yow! I’m good as dead, oh, help me, Lord!”
Mr. Bullock dropped the lid of the basket and led James to the front parlor, where he lowered him onto a puffy brocade settee. He pulled a bell cord, and William appeared. “Get young Mr. James a cool, wet cloth, William.”
James kept his face twisted as if the pain were doing him in. He let his eyes flutter helplessly as he moaned and groaned, ever louder, while Solomon slid the basket out the front door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
TONGANOXIE
Jeep and I peered in the window while Mike circled the building and Howie stayed in the car munching Chee-tos and reading Pat Conroy’s The Lords of Discipline. Mike said he’d been reading it for two years and about ten thousand bags of Chee-tos.
“I don’t see much in there, do you, Jeep?”
“Just some rusty hooks and a few lures and bobs. A lot of dead stuff on the floor. The birds have found heaven, that’s for sure.”
Suddenly something moved, and we heard a shriek: “Ernie! Ernie!”
“Who’s that?”
Jeep cupped his eyes against the glare of the window. “Hey, it’s a parrot.”
“Ernie! Ernie!” the bird squawked, flying from one light fixture to another. His wings were a neon green, and a tuft of orange bisected his eyes.
“Looks like a punk rocker,” said Jeep. “He’s staring at us like we’re his lunch.”
“But he’s lively. Somebody’s been feeding him.” The parrot was three times the size of Firebird and much noisier, screeching and cackling in sounds Firebird hadn’t discovered yet.
Then a piece of the floor rose up, and a man’s head poked out of the hole. He grew taller as he climbed the hidden stairs under the trapdoor. The parrot went berserk.
“Ernie! Ernie! Lover boy! Lover boy!” He fluttered over and landed on the man’s head, with his beak pecking at one eyebrow.
“Must be feeding time at the zoo,” Jeep said.
“And it must be Ernie. Duck, before he sees us.”
We squatted out of sight and heard Ernie talking, as if that parrot were his best friend and deaf. “Come here, Tonganoxie,” he bellowed. “Here pretty-pretty bird. That’s my boy.”
I darted up for a quick peek. I recognized Ernie. “Jeep,” I whispered, “it’s the man who was prowling around my yard.”
The bird was perched on Ernie’s thumb, and they were nose-to-beak. “You’ve got to see this, Jeep. They’re kissing.”
Jeep popped up. “Oh, gross. Wait till Sally hears about this.”
We crouched down again, and when we dared to peek once more, Ernie had vanished and the bird was right at the window.
Mike scared us to death coming up right behind us. “I’ve made a full-circle inspection of the building. Everything’s padlocked, and all the locks are rusted. Nobody’s been in or out of here in ages.”
“Except the guy inside,” Jeep said.
“Ernie. I guess he lives under the shop.” I gazed down the road at a shack that slouched against the sky about thirty feet away. “That’s some tunnel from here to there. Maybe this was a stop on the Underground Railroad. Tunnels, trapdoors—it fits the picture.”
Jeep agreed. “Hey, Mike, another thing that couldn’t possibly be in the bait shop is the parrot that’s inside. Ernie’s in love with him. Wanna see him? His name’s Tonganoxie.”
“That’s a weird name for a bird,” Mike said. “I’ve heard it somewhere before.”
I knew a town by that name. “We drove through it last summer. There’s a big old statue of Chief Tonganoxie in the center of the town, and that’s about all there is to the place.”
“Chief of what?” Jeep asked.
I caught my breath. “You know what, guys? He was a Delaware Indian chief right around Miz Lizbet’s time.”
“And those Berk people had an old Delaware book, right? Bingo.” Jeep ran his hand over his shaved head, which sounded rough as sandpaper. “I say let’s start fitting the pieces together.”
“And I say let’s get Howie in gear again and look for more pieces at the Berks’ house.”
“Wait a minute,” Mike said. “We’re not going to break in.”
“No, of course not!” I protested, wondering if I could use my Blockbuster Video card to trip the lock on their door.
We took one more peek in the window. Tonganoxie’s licorice-dot eyes stared right at us.
Mike shuddered. “The bird gives me the creeps.”
Tonganoxie’s beak opened: “Pretty-pretty bird!”
“Oh, shut up,” Mike growled.
Chapter Thirty
March 1857
THE CRUN
CH OF FOOTSTEPS
Midnight. Escape night. James and Will waited at the end of the road for the first sign of someone’s head above the hedges. A few advance-guard crickets chirped farewell wishes, but the night held an eerie stillness. Every footstep would be detected.
Worms crawled around in James’s belly. He took a deep breath to quiet them, while Will tapped the earth with his crutch.
“What’s taking them so long, James? Gol, half the night’s gone.”
Then here came Homer, pulling Miz Pru along with him. She looked all misshapen and spiky, loose parts barely held together by a rope cinching her waist.
“Mama Pru done got hemp stalks and turkey feathers stuffed all ’bout her,” Homer whispered. “Somebody shoot her, it don’t go through. My idea,” Homer boasted. “I ain’t stupid, no, suh.”
“Itches like wool underdrawers,” Miz Pru grumbled.
Callie came out next, quiet as a rabbit in the bush. She asked, “Is this gonna work? We really gonna be free tomorrow?”
“It’ll take a few weeks,” Will explained. “The first couple hours of daylight will be the most dangerous. Are you brave, girl?”
“Brave as any one-legged boy,” she huffed.
In a few minutes Sabetha was out. “You’re all standing here like it’s the county fair. Be going!”
“As soon as Solomon comes,” James said, but Will was already leading the others through a path he’d scouted deeper into the forest.
At last Solomon appeared. “I had to argue with that stubborn Jacob, tell him he couldn’t come this time because we’ve already got a whole army marching with us. He’s got to cover for us back there.” Solomon had the jitters.
“You all right?” James asked, as much to settle the worms in his own stomach as to ask after Solomon.
“Been better,” he said.
The seven met in the dark of the forest for last-minute instructions. Calmer now, Solomon said, “There’s no light but the moonlight. We can’t light fires because they draw attention. Another thing: We can’t travel like a pack of wolves.”
