Fletcher was so busy avoiding logs that he paid no attention. Beads of perspiration broke out on his lips as he steered so close to the shore that Libby feared they would run aground.
As the first log bumped against the hull, Libby’s stomach tightened. From where she stood, Libby heard only a soft thud, but she knew the impact could be much worse than it sounded.
Then came another thud and another. Desperately Fletcher worked to keep from bearing down on the remaining sections of the raft. Desperately he worked to keep from striking the men trying to steer the broken segments toward shore.
When at last Libby felt the difference in thuds, she breathed deeply. Now she could see what was happening. The Christina had slowed enough so the logs began drifting downstream, away from them.
On the wheel Fletcher flexed the fingers of his hands, then tightened them again. As the Christina drew close to one of the larger segments, he leaned out the window to listen.
Far below Captain Norstad stood on the forward deck. He called to one of the men. “Want some help?”
Instantly the anger in the man’s face disappeared. Libby knew the anger was for the other steamboat, and she felt the same way. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder if she would be too late for the peddler in Keokuk.
“Thank you, sir!” the Red Shirt called back. “Any help you’d like to give.”
“Let’s round up the big sections first,” Captain Norstad called. “At least you’ll save some of the logs.”
Starting with the large broken segment closest to them, Fletcher steered the Christina, gently nudging the edge of the raft with the bow. As that part of the raft rode the water toward another segment of logs, men reached out, grabbing hold. Working quickly, they bound the two segments together.
Careful to not come too close, Fletcher guided the Christina slowly ahead. Wherever the pilot could reach a section of logs with the bow, he did. When the largest sections were rounded up, the Red Shirts made them fast along the shore.
Some of the individual logs had drifted against the riverbank, catching on trees. Other logs had escaped downstream. Libby had no doubt that without the Christina’s help the man responsible for the raft would have lost thousands of dollars. Even so, his loss would be great.
When at last the Christina had done all she could, Fletcher waved to the men.
“A million thank-yous!” a Red Shirt called out. A cheer went up from the rest of them.
Before long Captain Norstad entered the Christina’s pilothouse. “Good work!” he said, clapping Fletcher on the shoulder.
Libby felt proud of both Fletcher and Pa. They had done the best they could in a bad situation. But on her way down the stairs, Libby thought about Caleb and Jordan again. Jordan’s plan would fall apart if their timing wasn’t right.
When she reached the large main cabin, Libby stared at the clock. It was even worse than she feared. What if the peddler doesn’t wait? What if he thinks no one is coming?
Carrying only a small bag on her back, Libby left the Christina at Keokuk, Iowa. Pa walked beside her up the steep hill to the marketplace. There, in the center of town, Pa tipped his head toward a peddler’s wagon.
The wagon was eight or ten feet long. The high sides and covered top were large enough to protect the great number of boxes, drawers, and shelves that held whatever the peddler wanted to sell. On the almost flat top were more wooden boxes. Buckets, brooms, and all kinds of farming tools hung wherever possible.
The peddler stood next to his wagon, talking with whoever came by. But he gave no sign that he had seen Libby or her father.
Captain Norstad kept walking, passing by on the other side of the street as if the wagon was of no interest to him. Half a block farther on, Pa said, “The peddler is well known in this area. People like him. Most of them don’t know he also works for the Underground Railroad.”
When Libby glanced back she saw the peddler putting away his wares. She and Pa were at least a block away when the peddler climbed up to the seat at the front of the wagon.
At the next corner Captain Norstad turned. Two blocks beyond that, on a quiet, treelined street, Libby was surprised to see the peddler’s wagon had gone around them on another street, then stopped. “God go with you, Libby,” Pa said softly as they drew near to the wagon. “Be careful, won’t you?”
Half scared and half excited, Libby nodded. After talking with Gran, it wasn’t hard for her to guess how hard this must be for Pa.
“I’ll be very careful,” she said. “We’ll do our best to meet you in Burlington four days from now.”
The man waiting on the high wooden seat had a long gray beard and gray hair that hung down over the collar of his coat. Reins in hand, he seemed ready to leave on a moment’s notice.
“Paul, this is my daughter,” Pa said softly.
“I’ll take good care of her, Captain,” the man promised.
As Libby climbed up to the high seat, the man lifted his hat toward Pa. Beneath bushy eyebrows, his eyes were sharp and alert. “The Lord bless and keep you, Captain.”
When Paul called “Giddyup!” to the horses, Libby twisted around to look back. The place where she sat was under an overhang to protect the driver in all kinds of weather. Through a small square opening in the end of the wagon, she watched Pa disappear in the distance. Until then Libby hadn’t realized how hard it would be to leave him. But she had the feeling that Pa and the peddler had been friends for a long time.
“Did you have trouble?” Paul asked as he and Libby passed out of town.
“A raft broke loose. Logs scattered all over the river. Pa needed to stop and help.”
“Did the logs hurt the Christina?”
Libby shook her head. “But it could have been really bad.”
“I was told to look for Caleb and a fugitive,” Paul said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Libby grinned. “I wasn’t expecting me either.”
She explained about the escaped prisoner and the need for a change in plans. When she told Paul about Jordan’s plan for a midnight rescue, Paul said, “I’ve been to the Weaver farm often.”
After a time Paul asked about Caleb. “Is he all right?”
“As far as I know, Caleb is safe.” In spite of their differences, Libby liked and admired him. Her voice grew soft with even the mention of his name.
As though sensing the change in Libby’s voice, Paul glanced her way. “We’ve made lots of trips together, Caleb and I.”
“Do you know him well?” Libby asked. She wanted to learn everything she could about Caleb.
Paul smiled. “I know him the way a man knows a man, instead of the way a man knows a boy. Caleb grew up too fast. But he’s earned the respect of everyone who knows him.”
Strange, Libby thought. She had always felt that Caleb seemed older than his age. But every now and then something else broke through—the fourteen-year-old boy that was there, after all. The boy who teased her and knew how to have a good time.
Then a tight knot formed around Libby’s heart. Once she had felt sure that Caleb liked her. Now she didn’t feel sure about anything. Caleb knows how I failed. He didn’t want me along.
When Libby described the place where Caleb wanted to meet, Paul said, “I know exactly where he means. If all goes well, we can still be there by one o’clock or so.”
For a while Paul followed the red arrows painted on trees to mark the way. When the road led them close to a good-sized river, Libby learned it was the Des Moines. The wide stream flowed at a southeast angle to join the Mississippi River below Keokuk. Libby knew that every creek and river they needed to cross would be a barrier on their way back from northeastern Missouri.
Soon Paul began telling Libby about his life as a peddler—how he wandered up and down the often muddy roads in all kinds of weather. All through the spring, summer, and autumn, he sought out people who needed what he wanted to sell. Only in winter did he stay home to protect his horses from trying to get through deep snow.
“And you, Libby?” Paul’s long gray beard rose and fell in the breeze. He wanted to hear about her life on the Christina.
To her own surprise, Libby soon felt comfortable with Paul. After the dangerous things that had happened on the boat, she welcomed this peaceful time. Whenever Libby tried to think ahead, her stomach knotted with nervousness.
At St. Francisville Paul got down and led the horses onto a ferry. When the wagon rolled off the ferry on the other side of the Des Moines River, he said, “We’re in Missouri now.”
In the flat bottomland next to the river, the soil looked black and good. As the land became more hilly, Libby and Paul rode past great stretches of timber.
“It’s hard work,” Paul said, and Libby wondered what he meant. He stretched out his hand to the woods.
“Oak, maple, and walnut trees. Cottonwood and birch along the streams. It’s God’s country, but hard work to clear. Lots of southern people settled here—owners bringing their slaves along. Down south slaves were used to gentler ways—picking cotton instead of clearing land. It gives them an extra reason for running.”
Gentler ways. Libby thought about Paul’s words. To her the land was beautiful. She liked the tall trees, the road leading up a hill, then sharply down. She liked the valleys, the deep ravines, the yellow buttercups along the creeks. But she didn’t have to cut down the trees, clear out the stumps, and plant a crop.
Now Libby could barely see enough. Wherever she looked, there were wild flowers under the trees. Paul told her their names—violets and sweet William, boy britches and May apples.
Like the budding of flowers after a long winter, hope stirred within Libby. Would this be springtime for Jordan’s family? Maybe—just maybe, I can do something to help them after all.
But then Paul stopped the horses in front of a large poster nailed to a tree. The top line of letters was large enough for people to read as they passed by.
Negroes for Sale
When Paul climbed down from the wagon, Libby followed him. In smaller letters, she read the rest of the notice:
A WOMAN,
who is a fine cook,
washer and ironer,
having been raised to that business.
Also, one boy, eight years old,
an eleven-year-old girl, trained for housework,
and a young child, sound and healthy.
As though she could not believe what she read, Libby felt sick inside. “The description fits them perfectly. That’s Jordan’s mother and Serena and Zack and little Rose!”
Libby stared at the owner’s name on the bottom of the poster. “Jordan knew something was wrong. Something worse than usual, I mean.”
Tears rose in Libby’s throat. Unable to face the poster, she turned away. When she climbed back into the wagon, her tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
“What if Jordan’s family is sold before he gets there?” Libby asked as Paul drove on. “Jordan will never find them again!”
“Would they go with us if we get there in time?”
“I doubt it,” Libby answered. “Jordan said his mother won’t trust just anyone. She’s heard too many stories about runaway slaves who get caught. She and Jordan have an agreement between them that he’ll come back to help her.”
“Maybe Jordan and Caleb are ahead of us now.” Paul clucked to the horses and slapped the reins across their backs.
After a time Paul slowed the horses. “We’re almost there,” he said.
Looking ahead, Libby saw a creek. Before reaching it, Paul turned the horses off the road. In a wide space between trees, he drove into the woods. When he stopped, Libby could still see the road, but they were somewhat hidden from whoever might drive by.
Unhitching the horses, Paul led them down to water. As they drank, he took out a pocket watch. “We’re right on time, and this is where we’re supposed to meet.”
When the horses finished drinking, he led them to a place where they could graze.
Libby climbed down from the wagon and sat with her back against the trunk of a tree. As an hour slipped away, Libby grew more and more anxious. Where are you, Caleb? she wanted to cry out. Has something happened to you and Jordan?
The questions kept going around and around in her mind. In her mind’s eye she could still see the man Jordan rescued from the water. The man Libby believed to be the Stillwater prisoner. With each passing minute she felt more upset. It’s my fault. I should have found Caleb and Jordan. I should have warned them. It did little good to tell herself that she had done her best.
Then Libby realized what she was doing—slipping into her old way of thinking. She remembered Gran’s words. “Being a Christian doesn’t mean that all your problems are gone. It means that you have Jesus to help you in everything you face.”
Opening the bag she carried on her back, Libby took out her drawing paper and pencils. Under the trees were the waxy white flowers Paul called May apples, and Libby sketched them quickly.
A short distance away, where the sun shone between the trees, Libby found violets.
“Don’t go too far,” Paul called to her. “The Fox River outlaws hide out around here.”
“The Fox River outlaws?”
“Bands of thieves. They’ve got a lot of good hiding places in these woods. That’s why I keep a close watch on the horses. There have been so many horses stolen in this area that a man by the name of David McKee finally said ‘Enough is enough!’ He formed the Anti-Horse Thief Association.”
“So now, in the midst of an impossible rescue, we have to watch out for horse thieves?”
Paul grinned. “Don’t you worry. We’ll make it through.”
By the time Libby finished drawing the violets, she found that even Paul had grown restless. “Caleb and Jordan are over two hours late,” he said.
By now it was almost three o’clock. When Paul took food from the wagon, Libby unwrapped one of the sandwiches Gran had given her. Libby felt sure the bread and cheese were as good as usual. But Libby’s scared feelings turned the sandwich into something dry and tasteless.
As they finished eating, she heard a splashing sound from the creek. Moments later a boy of about eight appeared. Over his shoulder he carried a fishing pole with one small fish on the line.
“Jonathan!” Paul exclaimed. “How are you doing?”
The boy grinned at him. “So you’re back. I thought it was time. My ma and sis will be right glad to see you. All winter long they’ve been making lists of what to buy.”
“I expect so,” Paul said. But he did not move from the stump where he sat.
“What are you waiting for?” Jonathan asked. Walking around the wagon, he peered at every side, though Paul had opened only one of the doors.
“I wish Zack was here to see you,” Jonathan said as he finished his inspection of the wagon.
“Zack?” Paul asked. According to Jordan, Zack was about eight years old.
“Me and Zack have a secret meeting place,” Jonathan answered. “He’s an honorary member of my club—the only boy I know who doesn’t tell me I’m fat.”
When Paul’s gaze met Libby’s, she guessed what he was thinking. Zack isn’t sold yet.
A shadow passed over Jonathan’s face. “Pa says Zack is old enough to work in the fields now. All day long he’s hoeing corn and carrying water. It ain’t any fun when he’s not here.”
Jonathan leaned his pole against a tree and sat down. “No more fishing for Zack, except on Sundays. Ma says Sundays is meant for boys to sit quiet and still. But Zack’s ma lets him fish as soon as he comes from church. She says it’s the only day of the week Zack can fish, and the good Lord made fishing for boys.”
Soon Jonathan looked restless again. “Yesterday Pa said he needs to see you, Mr. Martin. Needs some new tools, I guess. I’ll run tell him you’re here.” Standing up, Jonathan grabbed
his pole and was off.
“No, wait,” Paul called after him. “We’ll rest a bit more and come later.”
But Jonathan was already headed for the road and the bridge across the creek. Before he slipped out of sight, he called to them. “I’m the fastest runner there is!”
“What do we do now?” Libby asked, the dread within her growing.
“We’ll water our horses as long as we possibly can,” Paul said. “But I wish Caleb would come. There are a lot of slave catchers who know what he’s up to.”
“Along the Iowa border?” Libby asked.
“In that whole area he has to cross,” Paul told her. “Caleb is one of our best conductors. He’s had to take a lot of risks and hasn’t lost a passenger yet. But today I keep thinking about his grandmother.”
Gran. She too knew the risks for Caleb. What would happen to Caleb if he was caught? But for Jordan it would be even worse. If he’s sent back to that cruel slave trader who owns him, Jordan will lose more than his freedom. Riggs might even beat him to death.
And Jordan’s family. What would happen to them?
Much sooner than Paul and Libby wanted, Jonathan was back, shouting at them from across the creek.
“Pa says to come right away. He needs to see you now. Says he has to talk with a big important man tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 11
Family Spy
Turning, Jonathan headed back into the trees. His legs flew, as though he wanted to see the excitement when Paul arrived. But the peddler took his time about hitching up his horses.
Soon after Libby and Paul returned to the road, the horses brought them to a bridge made from heavy logs thrown down across the creek. As they passed beyond the wooded area, Libby looked across an open field. A tall, stately home stood on a rise.
“What a beautiful house!” Libby exclaimed.
The main part of the house was built of red brick. The front porch had tall white pillars that extended upward to another porch on the second floor. On this side of the house and toward the back were two more even larger upper and lower porches. An open stairway led between them.
Midnight Rescue Page 9
