Soon Be Free (24 page)

• • •

Months passed. Miz Pru put some meat on her bones, and Homer weaned his first litter of German shepherds. Callie became the best customer of the new Lawrence lending library, the first one in Kansas.

“Thee must stop calling me ‘Mr. James,' ” he told Callie one day. “Thee's not anybody's servant.”

“Well, I thought you'd never say it!” Callie stamped her foot like she always used to. Only now she had dainty girlish shoes with a satin bow that tied at the top of each foot. Every time James saw them, he thought about those gingham napkins Homer had tied over Callie's feet so she'd not stick to the ice on the Ohio River.

Solomon kept working with Dr. Olney and turned into a kind of doctor himself, using a combination of Dr. Olney's remedies and Miz Pru's concoctions to treat most of the black people in Lawrence. “I ain't had to give up my art,” Miz Pru said. “Just moved it north.”

James filled up his sketchbook, and his proudest accomplishment was the set of drawings for the house Solomon built for Sabetha. The drawings
looked
just right, although James would never tell anybody that he was disappointed with the way the house turned out, boxy and graceless, like a barn with too many windows. Was it possible that he still had a few things to learn about the steps between the drawing of a house and the moving in?

In August, Lawrence celebrated its third birthday as a bona fide town. Miss Malone asked everyone to bring a piece of Lawrence history to school. Jeremy Macon brought his Sharps rifle. Just about every family, except James's, of course, had one of these Beecher Bibles smuggled into Lawrence to
fight uprisings with the proslavers. Jeremy's family had had the very first one in Lawrence.

Flint Morrison brought a magnifying glass that his father had ground. “My pa's the first oculist ever been here in Lawrence,” he boasted. “Without my pa, nobody'd see where they were going and they'd be walking right into the river, I reckon.”

James wondered what Will would have brought. Maybe the bullet that made him lose his leg in the battle that would keep Kansas Territory a free state.

He, James, took his prized sketchbook to school. Jeremy whooped over an exterior drawing of Solomon and Sabetha's house. “Whoa, don't it look just like the real thing! Hey, can you draw a pitcher of me, hunh?” Jeremy mugged for the portrait. Flint grabbed the sketchbook away from Jeremy and flipped through the pages, stopping here and there to run his magnifying glass over different parts. He seemed fascinated by the whole thing, until James thought Flint might be interested in architecture like he was. Maybe the two of them would build houses all over Douglas County. Maybe they could do it without cutting down a single tree. Houses of native limestone quarried nearby, or of cinnamon-red bricks that stacked neatly and locked tight at the corners. Houses nestled in the trees, so pert and perfect that you'd just stand there peeking through the
trees and staring at those houses until night fell. Could you build a house right
around
a tree, letting it grow through the roof?

Meanwhile, the other six people in class passed their treasures around for everyone else to fuss over.

At the end of the day, James asked Flint Morrison to Sunday supper. He knew Flint had no mother to turn out a rabbit stew and a gooseberry pie like Ma did. Flint needed a friend, and so did James. A new friend wouldn't replace Will, but he could make the ache more tolerable.

Flint Morrison came to supper just twice before the fall leaves started turning, and then he sprang some big news. “Guess what, James Weaver. Me and my pa's moving to Leavenworth first of next week.”

“New job for thy father, Flint?”

The boy's eyes grew soft as cotton. “New life altogether, James. My pa's getting hitched to a widow who ain't too ugly, and before long, we're gonna be rich. We done found us a pirate treasure trove!”

• • •

The first of April 1858, again by moonlight, James paced off twenty boot-lengths from the back door and began digging for the cowhide roll that held the Delaware Indian treaty. He'd resolved to dig it up and read it every year on this anniversary until—true to his solemn word—he'd unearth it for the last
time and see to its delivery into the hands of the Delaware people.

He dug and dug, his chest thumping with the effort and a sudden fear that grabbed his heart as he realized the truth:

The treaty was gone. Stolen.

Poor squawky Firebird was banished to my room upstairs because, with all those people jammed into our parlor, he'd have a nervous breakdown and peck off half his feathers.

“So, are you and Mike a couple now?” asked Sally as she stuffed a cheesy Triscuit cracker in her mouth. It was hard to hear her over the crush of voices, but her tone of disapproval came through clearly.

Our bed-and-breakfast was so popular now that we were booked through the following football season, and all because of the Delaware treaty business. I could just imagine lining up cots end-to-end down the hall in the spring, when Mattie and Raymond came to trial.

“I mean, Ahn and I were just wondering, since you never have any time for us because you're goo-gooing over Mike.”

I looked across the room at poor Mike, who was practically pinned against the mantel by Mr. Donnelly, the man from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Mr. Donnelly was carefully avoiding Chief
Louis Ketchum, from the Delaware Tribal Council in Oklahoma. Chief Ketchum held a framed copy of the long-lost treaty, the original being safely locked away in a vault in Bartlesville.

Mr. Donnelly wore a tie bursting with pink and purple zinnias. They looked like they might pop right off the tie and suffocate him. I could see his lips rolling and flapping, overflowing with words. He could jam a whole paragraph into the normal pause between a question and an answer.

Mike kept reaching round the guy for handfuls of Spanish peanuts. I noticed a few things about Mike from this distance, too. One, his cute dimples deepened when he chewed, and he was chewing like mad to keep from choking Mr. Donnelly with his own zinnia tie. And two, Mike chewed with his mouth open. Peanut paste in the braces wasn't my idea of wildly romantic.

“We're just friends,” I told Sally. “Don't worry, he's still available.”

“Worry? I prefer someone of the
human
species. Anyway, I thought he liked Celina, that blond cheerleader with the skirts that barely cover her butt.”

The TV station set up blinding lights. Several reporters stuck microphones in Mr. Donnelly's face, and that was Mike's exit cue. He dashed over to us. “Lock me in a cell with that guy for two days and I'd confess to poisoning my own grandmother.”

Sally laughed. “You'd poison your grandmother, anyway. Where's Ahn?”

“At the courthouse with her brother Nho,” I replied. “He's becoming a U.S. citizen today.”

Jeep arrived with his two little brothers in tow. “They heard there was free food,” he said sheepishly. Calvin and Luther headed right for the sweets table, and Jeep grabbed a peanut-butter ball as Luther sailed by him with a towering plate of chocolate goodies. Jeep jerked his head toward the man with zinnias hanging from his neck. “This is the guy who's going to solve all the Indian problems, hunh?”

“Right,” Mike agreed. “If he doesn't talk them to death first. That's the Delaware chief over there, Jeep, next to his mother and Faith Cloud.”

I reminded the boys, “Delaware come through the mother's line, you know.”

“Weird,” Jeep said.

“Male chauvinist,” I hissed.

We heard Mr. Donnelly blathering on to the camera, and it reminded me of the Charlie Brown specials where the kids talk normally but all the adults drone in the background: wah-wha-wha-WHA-wah-wah.

The TV lights clicked off, and the room temperature dropped about ten degrees. The white gauzy curtains billowed in the breeze from the open windows. Then the camera and lights shifted to Chief Ketchum.

Alone in the crowd, Mr. Donnelly looked around for another victim.

“Oh no, he's coming this way!” Sally cried. We all turned our backs to the approaching Mouth, but Calvin tugged at Jeep's T-shirt. “Hey, this guy wants to talk to you.” We all spun around and plastered smiles on our faces.

“Young people, I do admire your spunk,” Mr. Donnelly said. “I haven't had a chance to congratulate you kids. Wha-wha-wah. Valiant work, setting things right. Blather-blather. For these Native Americans after some one hundred forty years of unmitigated injustice. Wha-wha-blah-blah. Negotiations with the Kansas descendants. Of course, they're not a
recognized
tribe, but we'll do what we can. Gwak-gwak-gwak. I'm spending an hour or two tomorrow with your friend Faith Cloud over there next to our brother, Chief Ketchum. Blooey-blooey-blah.”

I tuned out about every fourth word, like somebody whose hearing aid shorts out.

“Proud and noble history. Righting the wrongs. Our brother the chief reminds me his people are rightfully called the Lenni Lenape within their own circles. We all have our own names for ourselves, isn't that so. Wha-wha-blah-blooey-gwak.”

And then something caught my ear. I know, that sounds like I slammed a car door on my head, but you know what I mean. Mr. Donnelly said, “I understand James Baylor Weaver lived in this
house. I saw the sign by the front door. I'm trained to observe details such as this. I do so admire his work, especially that monumental Kentucky House he designed in Washington.”

“Kentucky House?” I asked.

“Why, yes. It's grand. Native stone quarried in Kentucky and carried in by barge. Diplomats from half the countries on this globe and their entire entourages stay at Kentucky House. Magnificent piece of architecture. Timeless.” He pulled at the tight knot of his zinnias to free his flabby neck. “And then, this lost treaty business on top of all that talent. Quite a remarkable story turned up in our investigation. I don't suppose you young folks would care to hear it,” he said, leading thirsty horses right to the trough.

“Homer Biggers, thee is the kindest man I know,” James said as he lifted a mug of Ma's hot cider.

Homer looked down at his feet, apparently embarrassed by James's remark.

“That's my boy,” boasted Miz Pru.

“Careful thee isn't too proud,” Ma cautioned, but her eyes danced.

James looked around at the whole family assembled at Solomon's house for Homer's fortieth birthday party—Sabetha and Solomon and their baby, Elizabeth; Miz Pru and Callie; Rebecca, Ma, Pa, and himself.

In another few months, James would be going back to Boston to start his studies as an architect, and he was already missing these kindly people.

He took a swallow of the cider, which burned his throat, but it was the kind of hurt that felt good.

Solomon's knee was Elizabeth's rocking horse, and the baby giggled as Solomon said, “Folks, we all know Brother Homer wouldn't be celebrating this birthday, none of us would, hadn't been for young James.”

“Uh-huh. You bought our freedom, boy,” Miz Pru agreed, and her words startled James because she couldn't know what had really happened. None of them knew, except Ma and Pa, the terrible price that was paid for their freedom by the Indians, and then there was Will Bowers blown to bits, and his ma grieving so, even three years later.

As usual, Callie read his thoughts. She said, “I'm awful sorry about that one-legged boy, James. He wasn't half a coward.”

James nodded, remembering Will scouting on ahead with his empty leg swinging through clearings in the woods. And then he wondered if he could ever forgive himself for what he'd done to the Delaware people. He and Pa had talked to Chief Fall Leaf about the treaty, and everybody was hunting for the treaty, but the land couldn't be safely in the hands of the Delaware until it was found. “At least everyone knows it exists,” Pa had reassured James. “They'll find it one day, and everything will be set right. I've offered them my legal services.”

Ma had studied the situation in silent prayer for the longest time, and finally she'd told James, “Thee dealt honorably with a dishonorable man. As my father used to say—”

“A man's word is like a mountain.”

“Why, yes, thee remembers!” She'd reached over and patted his arm, which was about as affectionate as Ma ever got in public. “I believe thee did
the right thing, James Weaver. Thy grandfather would be proud of thee.”

Her blessing had eased James considerably.

“Well, get on with the merrymaking,” Miz Pru muttered. “Supper ready yet, Sabetha? Our bellies are howling, and I smell Miz Weaver's sweet potato pie clear to my bones.”

“I'm setting it on the table now,” Sabetha said.

As the bowls of steaming food came to the table, James raised his mug of cider again in tribute to the sweet man whose birthday they were celebrating. “Homer, I've known thee for three years now. Thee saved our skins many times. I know thee to be a good, kind human being.”

Homer rolled his blue ball up and down his arm. “No, suh.
Thee
be, suh. Me, I'm jes' good with dawgs.”

At Mr. Donnelly's tease about a
remarkable story,
Sally and Mike and Jeep and I all sprang to attention, like a bunch of jack-in-the-boxes.

“Story?” Mike asked.

“Oh, yes, it's fully documented,” Mr. Donnelly continued. “Eyewitness account. Told to an Indian agent many years after the unfortunate incident occurred. But who am I talking to? You young people probably know the story better than I do.” He taunted us with these bite-size nibs of information, just begging to be coaxed for more. And we were dying for more.