by John Babb
He began to realize the properties nearby were full of both white and Negro field hands. All were engaged in turning over the corn-stubbled fields with mule-drawn plows. Apparently planting time was close at hand. Most of the workers were lightly dressed for a chill morning, wearing only long shirts and trousers, and at least half appeared to be barefoot. Ben knew from experience that bare feet and corn stubble didn’t mix very well.
He noticed the mules all had their heads cast down, as though there was no hope that the day would get any better, and as he passed by, he realized the field hands looked every bit as forlorn as the mules. Another Negro was sitting on a grey stallion in the middle of the activity. Ben was surprised that the man had a musket across his saddle. He couldn’t help but wonder why the two races were working side by side, as though both were slaves.
The land began to roll again, and within another mile, Ben spotted a line of trees ahead that undoubtedly meant another creek to cross. Probably the previous day the creek had been little more than a trickle—what his pa used to call a jump-across creek—but the evening’s rain had turned it into an obstacle. It was running muddy, so there was no way to tell how deep the water might be.
He was able to retrieve a dead branch hanging from a sycamore and decided to use it to test the depth of the stream. The pony stepped gingerly into the creek, with Ben holding the saddle horn with one hand and the stick with the other. It seemed like the water was only about a foot and a half deep. Ben leaned ahead to test the bottom again, but the stick broke suddenly and Ben hit the water so fast he barely had time to hold his breath.
He tried to stand up in the creek, but had trouble keeping his balance. The current pushed him about ten yards downstream before he could regain his feet and scramble up the far bank. Thankfully, his horse stood waiting on him. He spoke to the animal and got his hand on the reins, but, unfortunately, there was nothing in sight that would allow him to remount. There was no choice but to walk until he found a stump or a wood fence or some other aid to get him up on the horse. He was going to get cold pretty quickly.
He heard a splash behind him and turned to see another horse and rider enter the creek. The man had no problem in crossing and came up to Ben. “I saw you fall in the crick there. You ain’t hurt are you?”
Ben looked at the man. He appeared to be about the same age as his pa and wore a slouch hat and a long brown coat. He had sandy blond hair and a mustache of the same color, as well as eyes that were positively green. Although it was hard to tell on horseback, he appeared to be fairly tall. His horse—a palomino—was well turned out, and it was obvious that someone had spent a lot of time taking good care of him. “No, I’m not hurt, but I can’t get back on my horse.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not tall enough to mount her without the help of a stump or something.”
The man sidled up to Ben and lifted him by the back of his jacket until Ben could grab the saddle horn and slip a foot in a stirrup. “Thank you, sir. Uh, what’s your name sir?”
“D. G. Harris is my name. How about yerself?”
Ben had a revelation. He’d wanted to do something like this for at least a year. Now he was in a position that nobody would ever know the difference. “My name is B. F. Windes.” Just like that! He was a brand new person. In fact, he even felt different. He could swear he felt the earth give a little shiver of recognition beneath him. Just to think—nobody would know any better!
“Well, B. F., where are ye headed?”
“I’m headed to West Port to try and catch up with my pa before he leaves for California, Mr. Harris.”
“My friends just call me D. G.”
“Where are you headed, sir?”
“I’m goin’ into Independence, hopin’ to find some good taters. I’m so tired of turnips I don’t know what to do. And I’d like to buy some dried apples too. My wife can make some fine apple pie if she gets the makin’s.”
“I’d sure appreciate it if I could ride along with you to Independence.”
“Glad to have the company.”
“I’ve got four fresh eggs in my kit. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to fry them up if you’d like to split them with me.” His teeth had started to chatter, and he was shivering.
“That sounds a lot better’n the hardtack I got in my jacket. It don’t appear that a train has been through here yet this year. If it had, there wouldn’t be a sign of firewood anywhere close to the Trail. But there’s some dead wood hangin’ from that beech tree yonder. Mebbe we can get a fire goin’. Looks like you could use a warm-up.”
B. F. slid off his horse when they reached the tree. “You sound like you’re from Kentucky too. I just met a man in Lexington from there yesterday—a Mr. Chadwick.”
“I know Chadwick. He’d sell you a three-legged mule and swear it was a racehorse! But shore, I’m from Caintuck too.”
A fire was started. Ben stood as close as he could, and steam began to come off his wet clothing. He took off his shirt, as best he could with shaking hands, and put on the still damp shirt from his bag. It was only marginally better, but it would have to do. He wrung out his wet shirt and rigged it on a couple of forked sticks as close to the fire as he dared. He then retrieved the iron skillet from his bag, and in no time they were feasting on scrambled eggs. D. G. appeared to hesitate, then asked his question. “Do yore initials stand for anythin’, or are you just named B. F.?”
“My pa told me that my momma wanted to name me after her favorite patriot, Mr. Benjamin Franklin. Her pa was partial to him, being from Philadelphia hisself. So my name is actually Benjamin Franklin Windes.” B. F. looked at his new friend. “What about you, D. G.? Does that stand for anything?”
“I ain’t told nobody my given name since I left Caintuck, includin’ my wife. My ma fancied herself an educated woman. She come to Caintuck from Virginny, and she was always fond of usin’ French words. So she named me Dieu Geuid . . . Dieu Geuid Harris.” D. G. looked hard to see what kind of response his confession had gotten.
“She named you Do Good? That ain’t French!”
“No, it’s all in the way you spell it. My name is written DIEU GEUID. It’s just pronounced Do Good.”
“Well, D. G., you’ve sure got a fine name—the kind of name that people could remember if you ever decided to make use of it. By the way, I’ve got another question. This morning I passed several fields with both white men and Negroes turning over the soil. I hear Missouri is a slave state, so why was everybody doing the same work?”
“Them white folk were most likely indentured.”
“I never heard that word before.”
“If a white man gets hisself into debt, and he cain’t pay it, then the county magistrate can sell his debt at an auction at the courthouse. Whoever pays the debt then owns the man until he’s worked long enough to pay it off. Some of them big farmers would druther get an indentured man as a slave. The slave costs a whole lot more—maybe four hundred to six hundred dollars for a healthy young buck. Course, it seems like they’re all tryin’ to run off over to Illinois to get free. Anyways, them coloreds is a lot of trouble.”
“How long does the white man have to work to pay off the debt?”
“Well, it depends on lots of things. Does the man have a skill that’s sorely needed—like a blacksmith or a wheelwright? Is the man young and full of vinegar or all stove-up? Most of these indentured servants workin’ in the fields is prob’ly worth only about eighty to one hundred dollars for a year’s work. Course, it falls on the farmer to provide that servant with a shack and enough food to eat for the year, just like he does for a slave. I heard of some folks who get indentured for four or five years before they get free.”
“Don’t those folks ever run off?”
“Every now and then. But what usually happens is the farmer adds his expense of catchin’ the servant to his debt. A feller that runs off and gets caught might be lookin at three or four more years added to his time. I reckon most feel like it
ain’t worth it.”
D. G. pointed from the top of a rise. “You see the church steeple to the north along that line of trees? That yonder is Independence, and the Trail leads right into town. Most folks travelin’ by wagon from Lexington generally get here toward the end of the second day. You can come into town with me if you like, or you could cut a little bit to the south, and then bear back to the north gradual like. You’ll hit the Trail about a mile the other side of town. It ain’t yet noon, and West Port is just about fifteen more miles. You can make it easy afore dark if you come into town and get somethin’ to eat then light out for West Port and don’t laze around.”
B. F. considered for a minute. It’s possible that the Lexington sheriff could have come all the way to Independence to find him, but that didn’t make much sense. Moreover, he was hungry again. “I’ll ride with you if you don’t mind, but I’ll need to move right along as soon as I get a meal.”
The town appeared to be about twice the size of Lexington. On the way in, they passed at least fifty big wagons and a tent city that smelled suspiciously like an overflowing latrine then corrals filled with mostly oxen and mules. There was Weston’s Wagon Factory and Repair—est. 1830, two general stores, Noland’s Inn, three other non-descript hotels, and at least as many saloons. The entire town seemed to be geared toward the traveler. They approached the town square, which had a much smaller courthouse than had been in Lexington. Here in Independence, the courthouse was a plain, foursquare stone building, surrounded by a large lawn and enclosed by a four-rail, white wooden fence. B. F. realized he didn’t even know what the Lexington sheriff looked like, so it was pointless to try and keep an eye peeled for trouble.
They stopped across from the courthouse to water their horses, and B. F. noticed there was a message that someone had cut into a walnut tree that proclaimed the place Rose’s Spring. D. G. pointed across the street. “That tradin’ post yonder once belonged to the son of the great man hissef, Dan’l Boone. The place was a sight more active until West Port opened up. Now West Port gets steamboat traffic to deliver goods at West Port Landing, there at the big bend of the Missouri. There’s a little settlement there called the City of Kansas—ain’t much of a city if you ask me. Anyways, travelers can save themselves about a day’s journey if they get off a steamboat there insteada stoppin’ just north of here at Blue Mills. But most folk believe it’s best to avoid that wagon long as they can. So West Port sorta cut deep into the traffic here in Independence.”
Near the square, Dieu Geuid turned his horse down an alley, behind one of the hotels, and dismounted at the back door. He tapped on the door and was soon hugged around the neck by a woman within perhaps a year or two of his age. B. F. was quickly aware that she was a woman most men would stare at. “Hello, Gertie. I want you to meet a friend of mine—B. F. Windes. B. F., this here is Gertie Rupe. Her pa was one of the first white men to settle this part of the country, and she claims she was the first baby born out here.” He stuck his head inside the door and gave a long, happy inhalation, “And Gertie makes the finest biscuits in the whole state of Missouri.”
B. F. slid off his horse. “Hello, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”
She gave him the kind of smile that appeared to have at least fifty teeth in it. B. F. had noticed that when most folks met a kid, they sort of looked past you, but this Gertie—she looked right into you, as though she really cared about you. “D. G., would you and your friend like to try a couple of these hot biscuits with some of last year’s muscodine jam?” She smiled yet again—right at B. F.
In a couple of minutes, two large, very hot biscuits were handed to B. F., along with a mug of coffee. “Ma’am, I never thought I’d find anybody that made better biscuits than my aunt, but those are the best I ever tasted.”
“Be sure you don’t tell your aunt that. Most women like to think they’re the best at things like that.”
D. G. had a beatific, jam-smeared smile on his face. “If there’s anything finer in this world than Gertie’s biscuits, I reckon the good Lord just kept it for hisself.”
Gertie smiled at him. “Your flowery words don’t turn my head one bit.”
“Say, Gertie, B. F. is tryin’ to get to West Port tonight, so he cain’t dawdle none.”
“You want to ride that direction with me, D. G.?”
“Naw.” Dieu Geuid looked at Gertie and smiled. “I believe I’ll stay right here for a spell. Gertie and I got some catchin’ up to do.” Gertie had her hand on the back of his arm. “You just go back to the square and keep to the right. You’ll be outa town and headin’ toward West Port afore you know it. You’d best hurry a bit to be sure ye don’t get into West Port after dark. Keep an eye out for that pony of yorn. They’s a few sharp fellers that’ll be happy to relieve you of yore pony—and anythin’ else you got if they get half a chance. I sure enjoyed ridin’ with ya’ll.”
B. F. stood on the back step and got up on his horse. “Thanks for your kindness and your friendship, D. G. And Miss Gertie, thank you for those fine biscuits.”
She handed him two more fat biscuits, each filled with a generous slice of ham. “Put these in your bag, son. You might get hungry before you get to West Port.”
As he rode out of town, B. F. touched Gertie’s biscuits in his kit, and he briefly wondered if he was destined to always carry a biscuit or two, just in case someone made him go to bed without any supper.
B. F. thought it must be around three o’clock in the afternoon when he caught up to a train of ten wagons and a small amount of livestock that had probably come out of Independence that morning. The wagons were involved in crossing a stream at the bottom of a wide, shallow valley. A bearded man sat on a mule on the other side of the creek, screaming at the top of his lungs at the people in the wagon that seemed to be mired dead in the middle of the water. “I told ye you’d regret bringin’ that damned piano. I told ye to get out and walk yore wagon across. We ain’t even got to the Territory, and you already stuck. Now we gonna have to pull ye out.” Two men were trying to rig up another brace of oxen to assist the animals that were mired fast in mid-stream.
B. F. crossed above them, tipped his hat to the screamer, and kept going. There was really not a thing he could do to help. He wondered how many times they would get stuck like this before the people in the accompanying wagons decided to take matters into their own hands and get rid of the piano theirselves. There had to be quite a few creeks and streams to be crossed between here and California.
In a couple of miles he passed another small train of wagons, said his hellos, and kept riding. He began to feel exposed, as it seemed that every man he saw was armed with either a pistol or a musket. The carving knife and hatchet in his bag suddenly didn’t seem to be sufficient. At the very least, he needed to get a scabbard for the knife so he could wear it in his belt, or maybe under his pant leg. It wouldn’t do him much good hidden away in his bag. It was a hard thing, having a little bit of money, and having no one to count on except himself.
Eleven
An Honest Man
Westport, Missouri 1849
B. F. heard the town before he could smell it and smelled it before he could see it. At the top of a low hill, he saw a large meadow off to the left that seemed to be filled with at least five hundred oxen and mules, all bellowing and braying in a cacophony of sound. Two men on a wagon pitched hay off the back, while a third man drove a team of mules across the pasture, standing with his legs spread wide apart in the front of the wagon.
Beyond the livestock was a sea of tents and wagons of all descriptions, with hundreds of people milling about. He then passed Horning’s Vineyard, surrounded by freshly white-washed stone walls, and just beyond was a frame house with a sign out front declaring Dr. Franklin Moret, Renowned Physician and Surgeon, while across the street was Vogel’s Dram Shop, then Highsmith’s Grocery, and a nameless tavern with a very drunk man sprawled half on and half off the board sidewalk out in front.
The wooden sidewalks on both s
ides of what turned out to be Main Street were full of merchandise of all description, thus rendering them fairly useless for walking. There were mountains of furs and huge brown robes or blankets stacked in front of stores and one entire alleyway seemed to be piled with nothing but bleached bones and great horned skulls that reached almost to the eaves of the buildings on either side. Given the size of the skeletons, he wondered if they could possibly be the remains of buffaloes.
There were brown-skinned men, with black hair and mustaches, all seeming to wear a variety of the brightest colored blankets and jackets he had ever seen. Several jingled when they walked due to small silver bells that were sewn into the hems of their pants and jackets. They spoke a language he had never heard before. He wondered who these men were and where had they come from? Were they from out in the Territory somewhere?
Two very different looking brown men turned right in front of him on the shaggiest, most ill-kempt ponies he had ever seen. Each had a solitary feather woven into a long hair braid hanging down the back of their shirts. B. F. gave a start of fright and involuntarily jerked backward on the reins. His horse was surprised by this action and hopped a couple of steps to the side before calming. But nobody else on the street seemed to be paying any attention to the men. He had not expected to see live savages in a town, assuming that they were somewhere out on the plains plotting attacks on wagon trains and innocent travelers. However, here they were, mostly talking amongst themselves but also engaged in what appeared to be trading with store owners. Several others had pack horses piled with skins, which they were apparently trying to sell or trade. Two more of them looked hard at him as he brushed by. He wondered if they were thinking about his scalp or his pony.
He passed by a two-story frame building on his right that had a wide staircase running outside of the building to the second floor. Two men with stars pinned on the outside of their jackets were standing on the second-floor landing. They seemed to be watching the hullabaloo below but with no expression whatsoever on their faces. The sign on the building stated West Port City Hall. Another man came out of the door. It was a large Negro, and B. F. was shocked to see that he was also wearing a star. A colored lawman! This was indeed a different kind of place. Even in St. Louis he had not seen so much activity in the streets, this much trafficking in goods, so many guns, and such a variety of wild-looking characters of all descriptions and backgrounds.