Soon Be Free (6 page)

Under them all was a bulky paper folded into eighths. The fold lines were well worn. I spread the paper out on the bed.

It was a blueprint of our house!

A grapevine sweetened the crisp spring air. Pa held the reins tight on Buttermilk, who was anxious to be trotting James and Solomon off to their first stop. Ma, Rebecca, and the Olneys all stood on the porch waving them good-bye.

“Go with God, friends,” Dr. Olney said. His red face puffed up over his ruffled collar. “Thee's in His hands. Yes, the Lord will keep a watchful eye on thee. Thee need never fear, for the Almighty shall guide thee.” James saw Mrs. Olney elbow her husband to stop the rain of words pouring from him. “Well, madam,” he said, wrinkling his brow. “A little benediction can't hurt. A blessing. A prayer. A fare-thee-well.”

Pa said, “We'd best leave now if they're to make the coach to Kansas City.”

Solomon was already in the wagon, and James climbed in beside the basket trunk that sat on the seat between them. He'd watched Ma and Mrs. Olney fill it with extra clothes for the fugitives, blankets, pillows, maps, and all sorts of food: fried
prairie chicken, chicory coffee, pickled globe apples, sticks of maple sugar candy, hardtack, and a jar of fresh milk that, with all the shaking along the way, would churn itself into butter. Just the thought made the juices in James's stomach churn and clot.

Ma came to the wagon and spoke to Solomon. “Thee take care of the boy, hear? And trust him. He's not a pioneer, but he's a good and smart boy.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know what James can do. Don't you worry, Miz Weaver.”

“I suppose thee would know,” Ma said, “what with the typhoid and all. Well.” She tucked a blanket around James's knees. “Be strong, son.” Her eyes were screwed to the size of nail heads, as if loosening them meant a tear might escape.

Rebecca clung to Ma's skirt, wailing for both of them. “What if I don't ever see James again? What if he's eaten by wolves? What if Indians catch him? There's Indians out there, not as nice as our own Delawares.”

Ma clapped her hand over Rebecca's mouth. “Say farewell to thy brother and to Solomon,” she commanded, then added under her breath, “or say nothing at all.”

“Bye,” Rebecca whined, waving the tips of her fingers.

“Remember all that I've told thee, son.”

“Yes, Ma.” She'd written dozens of details on his mind, and he knew he'd forget them all at the
border of Missouri when things heated up.

Pa waved the reins, and just before Buttermilk took off, here came Will Bowers hobbling on his one leg and crutch. “Hey, wait up.”

Ma asked, “Will, has thee come to say good-bye to thy friend?”

Will leaned on his crutch and doffed his hat. “No, ma'am. I'm going with him.”

“Thee is not!” James protested. Why had he ever mentioned it to Will?

Will tossed his bag smack on James's feet, and he hopped into the wagon with amazing agility. He'd still not said a word to James, but to Ma he said, “Way I figure it, Mrs. Weaver, James will be a lamb in the jungle without I'm there to see him through.”

James kicked the rucksack away and fumed; a smile played on Solomon's lips, until Will finished his thoughts: “And I reckon Solomon can use a hand that's had some fighting experience. From what I've seen of James and Solomon, neither one's likely to hold up against a real enemy.”

The wagon was a two-seater, plus one for Pa, plus the basket trunk, so Will ripped the blanket away and dropped to the floor between James's and Solomon's feet. He pulled his half-leg into place since it seemed not to get the message from his brain on its own.

Pa held the reins tight again and leaned back.
“Will, thee's sure thee wants to do this?”

“Sure as locusts, sir.”

Ma had a different concern. “Will Bowers, this is not a merry adventure. This is a sacred mission. Thee must not compromise the safety of Miss Elizabeth Charles's Negroes who have dreamed all winter of making free.”

“Ma'am, all due respect, I've been with John Brown over in Pottawatomie, and there's no man on God's earth with his eye more fixed on ending slavery.”

James saw Ma's lips twist. She didn't approve of using the Lord's name in vain, and she
surely
didn't approve of John Brown. She'd grant that he was a rebel for the right cause, just as she was, but he used the wrong means. He hadn't a qualm about wielding guns and knives and even a broadax. Ma pulled in air and gave Will one of her looks that bored to the heart of you, sure as an awl. “Guard thy inclinations, son.” She stepped away from the wagon and smiled thinly. “Caleb, be sure thee's back in time for dinner. It shall be lonesome around our table tonight.”

Pa snapped the reins and gave Buttermilk the signal. “Watch our dust, Mrs. Weaver.”

“Never mind. I'll watch for thy return, that's what. Oh, and Mr. Weaver, don't drive that horse as if thee were in a chariot race.”

• • •

Pa delivered them to the stagecoach just on time. Solomon fixed himself on the bench across from James and Will. The papers that proved he was a free man were in a leather pouch clutched to his chest.

Pa handed James an identical pouch. “In here are legal papers proving that Solomon is a slave owned by me, and also passes entitling a slave of his description to travel.”

“Pa!”

“Hush, son. Thee doesn't know what lies ahead on thy journey, and Solomon is prepared for this. One day thee might have to prove that he's free, and another day thee might need to be a young master and Solomon thy loyal servant.”

“We'll handle it, Mr. Weaver,” Will said.

Pa nodded, but looked right past Will. “Does thee understand, son? James?”

“Yes, sir,” James said with a sigh.

Pa pressed fifty dollars into his hand and gave Solomon fifty dollars as well, but Solomon protested. “Dr. Olney staked me, sir.”

“Would thee decline money borrowed from Mrs. Weaver's cookie jar? She'd not let me back in the house, friend.”

Solomon smiled and tucked the money in his black coat pocket.

There was a great rustle and cascading of skirts as a lady tried to hoist herself up into the coach. The driver actually had to shove her from behind.

“Fresh man!” she squealed. Her skirt, with hoop and bustle, just about filled what was left of the space. “Oh, I see the cabin's occupied.” Then she spied Solomon. “Well! My daddy didn't rear me to ride with the likes of
him.”

“Madam,” Pa began, but Solomon slung his pouch over his shoulder and said, “I'm just settling the boy in, ma'am. Don't mind me. I'll be riding up with the driver.”

James had no wish to travel with this rude woman, but Solomon had climbed onto the seat next to the driver, who was calling for departure, and now Pa was firing a volley of last-minute instructions:

“Be careful. Don't talk to anybody unless thee knows they're trustworthy. Heed Solomon's advice, but use thy own head. Send thy mother letters as often as possible. She'll be worrying, son. Take care, Will. Thee might write thy mother, as well.”

Pa shook their hands and tipped his hat to the lady. He dropped one foot behind him onto the step of the coach and said, “James, mind thee isn't drawing pictures when thee needs to be alert.” Gravely, he added, “Son, thee will need to be very alert.” He stepped down and slammed the door shut.

James lurched forward as the coach took off. The bench was plenty wide enough for him and Will both, but he didn't dare look at Will because they'd both burst out laughing at the woman across
from them with her grin that cracked her thick makeup. James smiled at her. Her eyes flared, and she kept that grin fixed on James until he thought he'd spit.
Doesn't she ever have to blink?
He glanced at Will, who was already dozing, and at the red velvet walls and the black leather seats, but there wasn't much to study in this small coach since
she
took up most of it.

“What's happened to your friend's leg?” she whispered.

“Lost it,” James said simply. No point in giving her the grisly details.

“Rather careless of him, wasn't it? You seem like a nice enough boy. Going back to school in Philadelphia? One can't possibly learn letters and numbers out here in the wilds.”

“No, ma'am. I'm headed for St. Louis to see a doctor. Him, too.”

She looked at James sharply, a handkerchief pressed to her painted lips. “Surely you're not sick. You look positively hale and ready to tame a stallion.”

James took off his hat and tapped his temple. “It's in here, ma'am.” He made his eyes wide and wild and pulled his hair into spikes like short wheat stalks. “I'm stark-raving mad!”

“Oooh,” she gasped. “Wouldn't you just know it. I'm to ride all day to Kansas City, thirty-five countless miles, over these primitive pioneer ruts,
with a lunatic, a cripple, and a darky. I ought never to have left Philadelphia. God preserve.”

James bared his teeth, which were none too straight and were a little scary even on a good day. He watched her shrink into a corner of her bench, with her hoop standing straight up.

Sure now that she wouldn't talk him to death, he took out his sketchbook and one of those amazing eraser pencils and began to draw the countryside streaming past him. Will snored.

Odd little symbols like suture tracks dotted the blueprint of our house. I really wanted to slip that blueprint right out of the room. But they'd find out soon enough and have a fit, and I'd be in capital Trouble with my parents, so I put all the papers back and refastened the envelope. Sliding it under the clothes, I felt something that was fat and squishy—a small book packed in thick Bubble Wrap. Who could resist? I popped a couple of those bubbles while I argued with myself, but I lost the argument and ended up unwrapping an old book called
Delaware: Land and People.
Bits of sparkly brown dye from the binding came off in my hand as I opened the book. Its yellowed pages had hairline tears. The book had to be at least a hundred years old, although there was no copyright date on the title page.

Now, why would the Berks be carrying an old book about Delaware? Did they plan to pawn it or sell it to an antique dealer? I carefully turned page after page, corners crumbling to powder in my fingers. If I wasn't careful, the book would end up filling a mayonnaise jar. It fell open in the middle for a
glossy picture of the author, Samuel Straightfeather, in full Indian dress. He was surrounded by a bevy of white men wearing old-fashioned business suits and bowlers. The caption read, S
TRAIGHTFEATHER PLEADS FOR HIS PEOPLE'S LAND AMONG
P
RESIDENT
B
UCHANAN'S AGENTS.
L
AWRENCE
, K
ANSAS,
M
ARCH
1857.

Not Delaware, the state; Delaware, the
Indians!
But what were they to the Berks—kin? I tried to reconstruct the Berks' faces in my mind, scanning for signs of a square jaw or high-colored skin or sleek black hair. No, they seemed like they could be my relatives, not Samuel Straightfeather's.

But obviously this book was important to them. What did it have to do with their prowling around our house? Were they actually on Indian business and not James Weaver business? What kind?

There was a key in the lock, and the doorknob was turning. I stuffed the book back into the suitcase, but there wasn't time to slip it into the Bubble Wrap. Just as the door swung open, I yanked the sheets off the bed like one of those tricks where you whip off the tablecloth and leave all the dishes and glasses in place.

“What are you doing in here?” Mr. Berk asked. His harsh voice rocked me back on my heels.

“Just tidying up,” I sweetly replied, but my heart was pounding.

Mr. Berk put on his exaggerated limp for my
benefit. “Listen, just leave the fresh sheets and towels. Me and the missus will take care of it ourselves.”

“But it's part of the bed-and-breakfast service; it's our pleasure—”

“Yeah, well, my pleasure is to take a long, hot shower to clear out my sinuses and go back to bed. I'm coming down with it.” He stepped forward and coughed directly in my face. “Sorry.”

I glanced at the suitcase. The book was showing. I dropped to the floor. My left hand stuffed the book back under the magenta sweater, and my right closed over something stiff and clammy under the bed. Holding my breath, I said, “Oh, look, your socks, Mr. Berk.”

Close call! I didn't breathe again until I could take a refreshing whiff of the potpourri on the hall table.

As soon as I could get away, I'd go to the library and read up on the Delaware Indians. Kiowa I knew about, and Pawnee and Shawnee and Apache, but I couldn't remember one single thing about the Delaware.

But I should know about them, because James did, and he and I had some weird, coppery-wire link that stretched from his century to mine.

What did the Delaware Indians have to do with James Weaver?

The coach bounced along the rutted road for about half an hour, until James thought his brains were sloshing around inside his head. Across from Will and him, Miss Farrell, the lady, was green, even with all that makeup. Her jowls flapped in the jarring rhythm of the coach.

All day like this,
James thought, and then disaster—or was it luck?—befell them. The four-horse team refused the urging of the driver to bypass a mighty pothole, and they tore straight ahead into it. James felt the soft earth suck them in until the two right wheels were up to the hub in mud and the horses on that side were up to their flanks. James was practically lying on his right side, Will smashed against him, while Miss Farrell jammed one hefty boot across the bench to brace herself.