Journey to a Promised Land

by Allison Lassieur

  Hattie

  The next morning dawned cool and clear. After a meager breakfast of cold beans, the Jacobs family gathered the last of their things and finished loading the wagon. Then it was time to go. Hattie gave Abraham a boost into the wagon as Papa helped Mama in. Hattie climbed onto the seat beside Papa so Mama could keep an eye on Abraham in the back.

  “He-ya,” he said, snapping the reins. The wagon jerked as Old Jeb the mule set off through the crowded morning streets. No one paid them any mind.

  Like any other day, Hattie thought bitterly. How can the world go on when my world is over?

  They drove past the shop, now nothing more than a pile of blackened timbers. A fresh wave of anger made Hattie’s hands tremble, but she clenched her fists and kept it inside. Papa looked straight ahead, his head held high. Neither of them looked back.

  Slowly the city fell away behind them, replaced by woods and green fields. The sun rose higher, and the cool morning air grew warm. Papa had agreed to meet Singleton a few miles outside town. They were joining the group he was leading to Kansas. It was late morning when they spotted a cluster of wagons and people by the side of the road.

  “Ho, Jacobs!” Singleton called. The group had gathered under the shade of a huge oak tree. Everyone was oddly quiet. Hattie sensed tension. When Singleton spoke, she understood why.

  “I’ve got bad news,” Singleton said. “I won’t be able to go with you. But you’ll be just fine.”

  Papa looked stunned. “Memphis is more than two hundred miles from here! And that’s just to the steamboats. What are we to do when we reach Kansas?”

  “I’m truly sorry, Nat,” Singleton replied, and he did look sorry. “There’s no help for it. I must stay here for another few days, and you all don’t need to wait. But I’ll meet you in St. Louis in three weeks. You have my word.” Singleton gave the group the best route to follow, along with some precautions, then turned his horse and disappeared back toward Nashville.

  Everyone stared at each other, unsure. Then Papa said “We’re Nat and Mary Jacobs. This here is Hattie, and the hellion in the back is Abraham.” Abraham picked that moment to let out a howl, and laughter rippled through the group.

  There were introductions all around. Four other families had made the decision to go to Kansas. The Coopers included a mother, father, and two teenage boys. The Bakers had no children. The Williams family had one girl about Abraham’s age.

  “Welcome, fellow Exoduster.” A young man in a floppy hat waved to Papa. “I’m John Ferguson, and the missus here is Beulah.” A pretty young woman with a baby on her shoulder waved shyly.

  “What’s an Exoduster?” Hattie asked curiously.

  John laughed. “It’s the name the papers done give us folks who are leaving for Kansas,” he said. “Like the great Exodus in the Bible, when Moses led the slaves to freedom.”

  “Seems fitting,” Mama said. “I guess that makes Kansas a Promised Land!”

  “Let’s just hope we’re not lost in the wilderness for forty years,” Papa said wryly. Mama laughed, and Hattie started. It was the first time Hattie had heard that sweet sound since before the fire. In all the rush and anger, she’d almost forgotten what Mama’s laugh sounded like. Something inside Hattie loosened, just a little. Maybe things might be all right after all.

  Amid the neighing of horses and the rattle of wagons, the Exodusters turned west, toward the Mississippi.

  May 10, 1879

  Dear Diary,

  We left Nashville for good today. I thought I would cry but the tears didn’t want to come. Maybe I’m all cried out. A few miles outside town we met up with other families going to Kansas. They seem nice enough. There aren’t any children my age though. One family has two teenage boys. Another family has a girl about the same age as Abraham. In a way I’m glad. I’m not very good company right now.

  Hattie

  Chapter Nine

  For the next three days, the Exodusters made good time. Hope and excitement were in the air, and Hattie couldn’t help but catch a little of it. The beautiful late-spring weather helped too. The days were warm and bright, the deep-blue sky filled with puffy, white clouds.

  Late on the third afternoon, the group stopped to rest. Papa and the other men huddled together, talking in low voices. When Papa came back to the wagon, he had a worried expression.

  “There’s been talk of a mob of white men roamin’ the woods, looking for trouble,” Papa said. “Ferguson says they’re mad at all the Exodusters for getting out of Tennessee. Seems they’re takin’ issue with all their labor leaving.”

  “What are we going to do?” Mama asked.

  “Not much we can do,” Papa shrugged his shoulders. “But we decided not to stop until after we cross the river. It’s too risky to make camp on this side.”

  Everyone was quiet as they set out. The colorful sunset faded, revealing a riot of stars in a dark, moonless sky. They never traveled at night, and the strangeness of it mixed uncomfortably with the anxious lump in Hattie’s stomach. A single torch at the front of the line was the only light. Hattie stared at the feeble red-gold flame bobbing in front of them, a tiny shield against the darkness.

  She heard the river before she saw it: a low, deep hiss that was almost lost beneath the chirrup of crickets. A collective sigh of relief moved through the group. They’d heard the river too.

  As they got closer, something in the air changed and the crickets fell silent. The hairs on Hattie’s arm rose.

  “Papa?”

  “Shhhh.”

  Abraham whimpered. In the back of the wagon, Mama hushed him.

  A yell echoed through the trees, then another. Suddenly a wall of torches and men blocked the road in front of the bridge. Hattie clutched Papa’s sleeve and gasped.

  The men had no faces. Their heads were covered with kerchiefs, their hats shoved low. Their rifles pointed straight at the group.

  “That’s far enough.” One of the faceless men stepped forward, his gun cocked.

  “We ain’t done you no harm,” Mr. Cooper, the older man with the teenage sons, responded. “We’re just passin’ through.”

  “Not tonight you ain’t,” the man said. “You folks go on back to wherever you came from, and no harm will come to you.”

  “Hattie,” Papa leaned down to whisper. “Take Abraham and Mama. There’s a shallow spot about half a mile upstream with an old barn on the other side. Go there and wait for me.”

  Trembling, Hattie grabbed her diary and tucked it into her waistband. Then she slid down and helped Mama and Abraham out of the wagon. Abraham squirmed madly, trying to get out of Hattie’s arms. She set him down hard and clamped her hand over his mouth.

  “Now you be quiet, you hear?” she hissed. Abraham was so startled that he stared at her, wide eyed. Mama gave him a fierce look as they snuck quietly back down the road to a grove of trees. They made their way through fields and woods, circling around until they reached the riverbank. Finally Mama let out a little gasp of relief.

  “We’re in the right place,” she said. “There.”

  The old barn rose before them like a shadowy ghost. It had collapsed on one side, and half its roof was open to the sky. Now all they had to do was get to it.

  Mama beckoned to Abraham, but Hattie stopped her. “I’ll carry him, Mama.”

  Before she lifted him onto her back, she stooped low and looked him in the eyes. “Hold onto this tight now, you hear?” Then she tucked her diary into his waistband.

  Abraham’s wide eyes stared back and her and he nodded. Hattie bent low, and Abraham climbed onto her back, his small arms clinging to her neck.

  “Hold tight, Bram,” Hattie said, straightening her legs.

  Mama gripped Hattie’s shoulder so hard it hurt, but she was too scared to care. Together, they waded into the swiftly rushing water.

  Hattie gasped
as her feet hit the icy-cold water and stumbled. Her mother’s steady hand tightened its grip on her. The water came up to her knees, then her waist. Hattie struggled against the current, hoping her feet wouldn’t go out from under her.

  “You’re doing fine, baby,” Mama said, pulling her forward. “Almost there.”

  A few more steps and they scrambled up the bank, soaking wet and covered with dirt. Mama took Abraham by one hand and Hattie by the other and led them inside the barn. They found a stall in the back, the splintery floor scattered with piles of old hay and dead leaves.

  “You’re soaked clean through,” Mama murmured. They pushed the leaves and hay into a pile, and Hattie collapsed in a heap, her teeth chattering from the cold. Abraham curled up and fell asleep. Mama gathered Hattie in her arms.

  “We’ll be safe enough here tonight,” she said. “He’ll be here soon.”

  Hattie tried to ignore her wet stockings squishing in her shoes and looked up through the broken roof. There were so many stars that the black sky seemed to glow with them. Somehow, the hugeness of the universe gave her comfort. She relaxed against Mama and sent a prayer for Papa to the heavens.

  Chapter Ten

  May 14, 1879

  Dear Diary,

  Last night was one of the longest I’ve ever known. We ran into some trouble. A group of men blocked the road and wouldn’t let us cross the Mississippi River. Me, Mama, and Abraham escaped to an old barn. My stockings were wet and Abraham snored all night. But being hungry was the worst feeling of all.

  When I woke up this morning, Mama told me she’d sprained her ankle crossing the river. I was scared. But she was so calm she helped to make me calm too. She told me to find something useful in the barn and I came across an old bucket. It didn’t have a handle and there was a hole in the side. But Mama plugged the hole with a bit of her petticoat and I got some water from the river. The river looked a lot bigger than it had in the dark! The water tasted cold and fresh. We drank and washed our faces. Now there’s nothing to do but wait for Papa to fetch us.

  Hattie

  Hattie watched the shadows move across the dusty barn floor as the hours passed. Her worry grew into a sick lump in her stomach that hurt more than being hungry did. It was late afternoon when she heard a sound outside. Before she could move, a familiar face peeked inside. With a holler, Papa raced into the barn.

  “Thank the dear Lord you’re safe,” he exclaimed, crushing them in his huge, strong arms.

  “What happened, Papa?” Hattie gasped. “Where are those men?”

  “Gone,” he replied. “But it was a close one, I won’t deny it.”

  Papa told them the Exodusters turned back, but the mob followed them to the county line. Before they left, the faceless men ransacked the wagons and took all the food.

  “What about your tools?” Mama asked worriedly.

  “They didn’t notice the box under the seat in the dark,” he said, a note of relief in his voice.

  “Once they were gone, we came right back to the bridge and crossed over,” Papa said, helping Mama up. “So I high-tailed it here as soon as I could.”

  She winced as she tried to put weight on her foot. With one motion, Papa swept her into his arms.

  “The rest of the group is waitin’ for us a couple miles down the road,” he said to her. They slowly picked their way through the fields, resting from time to time. An hour later, they reached the road. The Coopers and the Fergusons were the only ones there.

  “Where is everyone?” Hattie asked. The Williams and the Bakers were gone.

  “Some folks decided to go on back for good,” Mr. Cooper said. “Cain’t say I blame them.”

  “There should be a store between here and Memphis where we can get supplies,” Papa explained as they climbed into the wagon.

  “How much farther is it to the Mississippi, Papa?”

  “A week, if we don’t run into any more trouble. But there’s good news. The steamboats are free! The government is payin’ for our passage to Kansas.”

  “Are you sure?” Mama asked, always skeptical. “Mr. Singleton didn’t say nothin’ about free passage.”

  “Well, no,” Papa admitted. “But Cooper is sure of it. Ferguson says he saw it in the newspaper.”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Jacobs,” Ferguson said happily. “Not only that, but the government has set aside the whole state of Kansas for us black folks. They’ll give five hundred dollars to anyone willing to go there and work the land.”

  That afternoon, it began to rain, and continued until the next afternoon. Papa fashioned a top for the wagon from their tent, but it didn’t keep out much of the wet. Hattie, Abraham, and Mama huddled miserably under it, trying not to think about food.

  “There’s a town comin’ up in a mile or two,” Papa said. “I’m sure they’ll have a store.”

  The rain stopped, and the men went off to find the store. A little while later, they returned, empty-handed and silent. Without a word, the group moved on. At the next town, they tried again to buy food and supplies. Again, they came back to the wagons with nothing.

  “Word’s got around that we’re passin’ through,” Papa reported when he returned. “No one will sell to us.”

  Every town they stopped at, no one would sell them supplies. The next afternoon, Papa managed to hunt a few scrawny squirrels. Mama and Mrs. Cooper made a watery stew to share, but it barely satisfied people’s hunger.

  Later, Hattie climbed into the wagon to sleep, ignoring her empty stomach. She tried to remember the last time she’d felt full. Then it came to her in a rush of memory: her family sitting around the table at their house, warm biscuits and salt pork on their plates. She choked back a sob, not sure if she was crying for her lost life or the food she had taken for granted. Then a tiny, dark idea came into her mind.

  The quarter moon was high in the clear night sky. Hattie waited for the others to fall asleep. Then she quietly crept from the wagon, careful not to wake anyone. As soon as the camp was out of earshot, she broke into a run. The cool night air felt good against her face. Soon her destination came into view: a small farmhouse they’d passed earlier in the day. A barn sat behind it.

  She paused, unsure and afraid. She was about to turn around when her stomach rumbled, loud and painful. Abraham’s sad face swam before her, pinched with hunger.

  I’ll only take a little, she whispered. Please forgive me.

  Slowly she crept into the barn. It was warm and dark, and smelled of hay and manure. Cows shuffled and moved in the stalls. She found a few empty bags and some boxes, but nothing to eat. As she was about to leave, she heard a low cluck cluck. It came from some boxes along the far wall. Hattie’s heart leapt. She slid her hand gently into one box, and her fingers found a hard, oval object. An egg!

  Quickly, she searched every box and was rewarded with seven large eggs. Carefully, she wrapped them in her skirt.

  “Now if I can only get them back without breaking,” she said out loud to herself, heading for the door.

  “You’re not going nowhere, thief.”

  A figure stood in the doorway, a pitchfork pointed at Hattie’s head.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hattie froze. It felt like someone had poured a bucket of water on her head.

  “P-P-Please don’t kill me,” she stuttered.

  “Who in tarnation is that?” The voice was surprised, but still angry. “Come out and show yourself.”

  It took everything Hattie had to take that step, then another. Rough hands grabbed the scruff of her neck and dragged her outside.

  “Why, you’s nothing but a child! What are you doing in my barn?”

  It was too dark to see much about the woman other than she was tall. And she was white. She gripped that pitchfork like she was itching to use it.

  “I—I—I—” Hattie’s arms trembled so badly that the eggs
rolled out onto the ground with a splat.

  “NO!” She dropped to her knees. She frantically searched the ground, but all she found were gooey raw egg and broken shells, mixed with dirt.

  “Who are you, child?” The voice was a great deal less angry now. “Are you one of them Exodusters they’ve been talkin’ about?”

  Miserably, Hattie nodded. It was quiet in the barnyard. At that moment, her stomach let out a loud rumble.

  “I see,” the woman said softly. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Finally, the woman leaned the pitchfork against the barn.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  Slowly, Hattie stood up, her legs wobbly from fear. Without another word, the woman led Hattie to the back of the house and into a small kitchen.

  “Sit.”

  Hattie obeyed, sinking onto a hard wooden chair. The woman lit the kerosene lamp on the table, and then busied herself at the huge black cast-iron stove. In the sputtering light, Hattie got a better look at her. She was older than Mama, she thought. This woman had wrinkles around her eyes and thin blond hair pulled back in a bun. Her night dress had definitely seen better days. But it was clean and neat, as was the kitchen.

  In no time, the woman sat a plate of hot scrambled eggs, cold cornbread, and a thick sausage in front of Hattie. She devoured every crumb as the woman watched.

  “What’s your name, child? I’m Mavis. Mavis Robinson.”

  Hattie didn’t want to tell this Mavis Robinson anything. What if one of those faceless men lived here? But the hot rush of fear and guilt had drained away, leaving her tired and worn out. The words came tumbling out. Hattie told her about the fire, Kansas, the horror at the bridge, and how no one would sell them food or supplies.

  When it was over, Mavis sat back in her chair. “That’s quite a tale,” she said.

  “Mam, who’s that?”

  A little girl appeared in the doorway in her nightshirt. She climbed into Mavis’s lap, her big brown eyes staring at Hattie. Hattie stared back. Her skin was as dark as Hattie’s. Her black, wiry hair stood up in clumps, just like hers did when Mama didn’t braid it before bed.