The Fiddler's Secret (10 page)

Caleb started over to help, but Franz set his belongings on a crate and hurried forward. Taking the child's hand, he led her safely across.

Other immigrants streamed forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Libby caught a quick movement. Then the crowd shifted, and Libby saw Franz again.

“Tank you, tank you,” the woman said as she reached the levee.

“You'll be fine now?” he asked. “You have someone to meet you?”

“Yah, my husband, he meet me here.” The woman pointed to the piece of paper pinned to her coat. It read
St. Paul, Minnesota Territory
. “My husband, he come here to work, save money to bring us to America.” She touched the blond hair of the youngest child. “This one he has never seen.”

Franz wished the woman well and hurried back across the gangplank to the
Christina
. When he reached the crate where he had left his violin and carpetbag, his smile disappeared. Suddenly he cried out. “My violin! It is gone!”

As Libby whirled around, a tall man slipped through the door into the cargo room.

“Caleb!” Libby called, and the two tore after the man. In the dimly lit area they raced between piles of freight, following the sound of running footsteps.

Before long the footsteps stopped. Libby and Caleb stopped to listen. From one side of the boat, Libby heard a door close.

Caleb leaped into action. Libby followed him through the cargo area to the engine room. On the far side Caleb flung open the door. When he and Libby came out on the side deck, it was empty.

Together they raced along the deck back toward the front of the boat. When Caleb rounded the corner, he stopped so suddenly that Libby crashed into him. Together they scanned the crowd of immigrants still waiting to leave. Not one person moved quickly, as though trying to flee.

Caleb frowned. “Whoever that thief is, he's mighty bold.”

“Did you see his face?” Libby asked.

Neither of them had managed to get a good look. Angry
at his failure to catch the man, Caleb pounded his fist against his hand.

To Libby's relief Annika was no longer talking to Oliver White. He still stood next to his trunk, waiting for the crowded front deck to clear. Looking concerned, he asked, “Did you find anything?”

Caleb shook his head. Moving between the deckers, he and Libby made their way over to Franz.

“Where is it?” he asked. “Where is my violin?”

CHAPTER 8

I
t is my work!” the fiddler cried. “The way I earn my living. But it is more!”

Growing more frantic by the minute, Mr. Kadosa ran his fingers through his hair. “From one father to the next my violin has come. Now I teach it to my son. It is—” He paused to think of the word. “It is great value.”

“Very valuable,” Caleb said.

Suddenly the fiddler broke into a language Libby didn't recognize. Just as suddenly he broke off to speak in English. “I come to America because people said it is the land of opportunity. I say it is the land of thieves!”

“Oh no!” Libby exclaimed. “Because one man steals doesn't mean everyone steals. When one person does something wrong, it doesn't mean everyone will treat you that way!”

Libby thought of the cruel slave catchers who wanted the reward on Jordan's head. Yet a slave owner's wife had tried to protect Jordan's family.

“Even if a whole group of people is unkind, it doesn't mean everyone in our country is unkind,” Libby went on. “No matter where you go—north, east, south, west—there are good people.”

His eyes filled with pain, the fiddler shook his head. “Wherever I go people ask me how long I have played the violin. I can't remember. I was the age of my son when I stood on a chair to play. And now it is gone. All gone!”

“Maybe not,” Caleb said. “We need to go to the police.”

“The police?” The fiddler's eyes filled with fear. “Nein! Not the police!”

For a moment Caleb stood there thinking. “In America the police are friends to good people,” he said. “The police will help us.”

The fiddler shook his head. “Nein, nein, nein!”

“The police will help us find your violin.”

“Nein, nein, nein!”

“We're wasting time,” Caleb answered. “We need to catch the thief at once. Come with us to the police. You don't have to go in. I'll talk to them.”

Still looking uneasy, Franz followed Caleb across the levee. When they reached the police station, the fiddler waited outside with Libby.

Soon Caleb returned. “I did my best,” he told Franz. “But I don't know if they'll find your violin.”

From the police station they walked to the
Pioneer and Democrat
newspaper office. There they found someone working late. Caleb helped the fiddler place an ad offering a reward for the return of his violin.

“We can't do any more tonight,” Caleb told the fiddler as they started back to the Lower Landing. “All the shops are closed. Tomorrow Libby and I will help you search.”

Near the river the streets became more and more crowded. It seemed that every spare inch of ground had been taken.
Many immigrants had turned the tops of their trunks into tables. One family had stretched canvas between two barrels to make a roof.

Seeing the small shelters in which people slept upset Libby. “People are living in the streets!”

“When navigation opened in May, three thousand people arrived in four days,” Caleb said. “It's kept up all summer.”

“But soon winter will come!” Libby knew that many people would pass into the countryside and begin to farm. Yet she felt sure that others wanted to stay and find work in the city.

“Hotels and boardinghouses are filled to overflowing,” Caleb told her. “Even if people have the money to pay, there's nowhere in St. Paul to go.”

It wasn't hard to figure out that Franz needed a place to spend the night. “Come back to the
Christina
with us,” Libby invited. “I'll ask Pa if you can live on the boat till we leave. We'll help you find your violin.”

Early the next morning, Libby stood on the main deck, waiting for the gangplank to go down. When Caleb, Jordan, and Peter joined her, Wellington came along.

The minute the deckhands put out the gangplank, Wellington tore across the levee.

Samson raced after him, following the smaller dog up Jackson Street.

At first Libby didn't worry about the dogs running ahead. Whenever they left the boat, they needed exercise. Stopping here and there to look around, Caleb and Jordan took their time in following. But when the dogs got farther and farther away, Libby hurried to catch up. She didn't trust Wellington.

Before long the terrier headed down a side street. Reaching an area of homes and fenced-in yards, Wellington scared up a rabbit. Dodging this way and that, the rabbit fled under a boardwalk. Pushing his nose into the hole, Wellington yapped until the rabbit ran out the other side.

Again the dog took up the chase. When Peter called him back, Wellington didn't obey. Upset now, Libby faced Peter, pointed to the dog, and signed her strongest “No!”

A moment later the rabbit disappeared under a white picket fence. Wellington burrowed under the fence after him. Samson came to a halt and peered between the pickets.

Along one side of the house, the rabbit raced to a small vegetable garden. When he disappeared, Wellington sniffed his way after him until the rabbit bounded off. This time he got away.

Libby breathed a sigh of relief. But when Peter called, Wellington still didn't obey. Off again, he burrowed his nose in the dirt of the garden.

“What's wrong with your dog?” Libby signed.

“He knows how to drive game from holes in the ground,” Peter answered proudly. “He's just doing what is natural for him.”

“Well, teach him to do what
isn't
natural!” Libby said, then felt glad that Peter hadn't heard. By comparison, Samson was a model dog.

Now Wellington was digging. As dirt flew out behind his paws, Peter opened the gate and raced into the yard. When he tried to pick up the dog, Wellington leaped away.

Uh-oh!
Libby thought, but this time even Peter was upset. Already Wellington was digging another big hole. As the
mound of dirt rose behind the dog, Peter grabbed him.

While Peter held the dog in his arms, Libby filled in the holes. Soon her hands and feet were covered with dirt. When she finished, she could be glad for only one thing. At least the terrier hadn't broken off any plants.

Then Libby discovered that Samson was gone. Hurrying out of the garden, she looked up and down the street. Farther down the block, Caleb and Jordan were watching a man build a large house. His mouth stretched wide in a grin, Samson sat on his haunches beside them.

As Libby and Peter caught up, Jordan spoke to the carpenter on the ladder.

“You want to talk with me, son?” the man asked as he climbed down.

“Will you tell me what it's like for our people to live in Minnesota Territory?” Jordan asked.

The man offered his hand. “I'm James Thompson.”

“Jordan Parker.”

“Been here long, Jordan?” Mr. Thompson asked.

“Came into St. Paul yesterday. What about you?”

Mr. Thompson smiled. “Since a long while before you were born. A Methodist missionary needed an interpreter with the Indians, and I started working for him. He bought my papers and set me free.”

Mr. Thompson slipped his hammer through a loop in his overalls and sat down on a keg of nails. “Do I like living in St. Paul? Yes, I do. I like building houses here. Have you seen how crowded it is?”

Jordan nodded. “People livin' in the streets. But someone said if there's money, a man can build a house in a day.”

“A shack in a day,” Mr. Thompson answered. “Not the kind of houses I build. In winter the wind blows straight down from the north. The cold goes right into your bones. My houses keep people warm.”

Mr. Thompson looked Jordan in the eyes. “Why do you ask about Minnesota Territory?”