Miss Katie's Rosewood

by Michael Phillips

  I told them about the train and everything that had happened since, including what I’d overheard the night before, which was why I decided to escape. Even though I was with total strangers, I felt completely safe and at peace. That’s the kind of men Mr. Davidson and Mr. Brannon were. I felt as secure as if I’d been with my own father.

  “You are a brave young lady,” said the man called Davidson.

  He glanced at Mr. Brannon. “We’ve got to get some men and go after them, Wilber,” he said. “We have to rescue those people and find out who’s behind this.”

  “We ought to be able to overtake them if they are pulling wagons and we are on horseback.”

  “It is now about one o’clock,” said Davidson, thinking. “If they left shortly after daybreak, that means they have six or seven hours on us. But you’re right, Wilber, we should be able to catch them, if not by nightfall, certainly by tomorrow.”

  “I heard one of them say three days,” I said, “and something about a ship waiting.”

  Davidson thought again.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “If you don’t mind remaining here until we return, Miss Daniels,” said Davidson, “we may need you to identify the men.”

  “Couldn’t I go with you, sir?” I said. “I want to help. I’m worried about the people I was with. Some of them were old, and there were a few children too.”

  “You are a plucky one!” he laughed. “You remind me of my daughter-in-law. Hmm . . . now that I think about it, that might indeed be best. We need to be absolutely positive before we make any accusations, and you are the only witness we have.”

  He turned toward Mr. Brannon.

  “If they’re heading for the Mattaponi River, we’ll have to head over the ridge and cut them off before they get to West Point.”

  “We could go downriver and wait.”

  “I would rather intercept them before the river. Once on the water, the risk increases. And we’ll have to have more than just the two of us . . . the three of us, I mean.”

  He thought to himself again.

  “I’ll ride home and get a few of my men. You saddle a horse for Mary Ann.—Can you ride, Miss Daniels?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then the two of you meet me at Greenwood in a couple of hours.”

  PERFUME AND PROBLEMS

  30

  WARD AND TEMPLETON DANIELS CLATTERED INTO Greens Crossing in one of the small Rosewood wagons for what supplies they could get from Mrs. Hammond. In the distance they’d heard the sounds of building where the new livery stable was going up. They stopped at the general store for their supplies and mail.

  “Morning, Elfrida,” said Templeton as they walked in.

  “Good morning, Mr. Daniels . . . Mr. Daniels,” said Mrs. Hammond. “I try not to snoop too much at the mail, but after receiving no telegram, I must confess that I have been watching closely for any word from either of those two girls of yours. But I’ve seen nothing . . . have you had any—”

  “No word yet, and we’re a little concerned,” said Templeton.

  “It’s mighty quiet out there without them,” added Ward.

  “Well, they are with their aunt and I am certain they simply forgot.”

  “I hope that is all it is,” said Templeton, though his tone did not make it sound as if he was convinced.

  “Well, give Josepha my regards,” said Mrs. Hammond, handing them their mail.

  “And a newspaper too, if you don’t mind,” said Ward.

  “Of course, how could I forget?”

  “She says to tell you to come out for another visit. She enjoyed having you the other day.”

  “I just may do that—perhaps this Sunday after church.”

  “She would like that.”

  Behind them the bell above the door jingled. They turned.

  “Ah, Thurston!” exclaimed Templeton, shaking the newcomer’s hand as he approached. “Here we are neighbors and we have to meet in town. In for supplies too?”

  “A few,” replied Mr. Thurston. “But first I just stopped by to pay my respects to this lady here.—Good morning, Elfrida,” he said, tipping his hat as he greeted Mrs. Hammond.

  Mrs. Hammond smiled. “Mr. Thurston,” she said, then ducked her head.

  “Well, we’d best be getting on,” said Ward. “—Good day to you both.”

  They left the store and climbed back into the wagon.

  “Did my eyes deceive me,” said Ward, “or did I see Mrs. Hammond’s face get red when Thurston walked in?”

  “I didn’t notice.” Templeton grinned. “I was too distracted by that smell all over him. Thurston’s boots and trousers always have the reminder of his cows about them, but just now . . . whew! He smelled like he spilled a bottle of lilac water all over himself!”

  “I would never have suspected it of our widower neighbor!” chuckled Ward. “Thurston and Mrs. Hammond—that really does beat all. Wait till the girls hear about this!”

  “I just hope we get the chance to tell them,” said Templeton, reminding them of their troubles. “And now with all that, we’ve got to go cap in hand and kowtow to Taylor.”

  “I know you make light of my past life as a gold seeker, and I reckon I’ve made light of your life as a dandy, but you know what really gripes me?”

  “What’s that, brother Ward?”

  “That when a man turns honest and tries to do right and work hard, like we’ve been doing, all the money goes to the tax man and the bank. I’m not sure honesty and hard work do pay after all. There’s just no reason, as hard as we work at that place, why we should be in financial trouble. Something about it’s just not right.”

  They pulled up in front of the bank.

  “Here we are,” sighed Ward, shaking his head. “All roads for the honest man lead to the bank,” he added cynically, “where they’ll try to take away everything you’ve worked so hard for . . . if the tax man doesn’t take it first.”

  “Come on, Ward,” laughed Templeton. “We’re not quite that desperate yet. Let’s see what we can figure out.”

  They went inside and were soon seated at the manager’s desk.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mr. Taylor, “but I won’t be able to give you boys another extension on your taxes. If they’re not paid by September, I’ll have no choice.”

  “We’ll have our harvest in by then. It looks like it will be a bumper crop.”

  “When one plantation has a bumper crop, so does everyone else. Then the price naturally drops. Don’t put too much faith in the size of your crop. The way I hear it, the price on your cotton might actually be suspiciously low.”

  “Where did you hear that?” asked Ward moodily.

  “I don’t know. The farmers talk about the various crops around the county. Some do better than others. Some fields don’t produce quality cotton is the way I hear it.”

  “Even average prices will bring in enough to pay up our back taxes and pay off the bank in full,” said Ward.

  “If you get average prices.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?” asked Templeton pointedly.

  “I hope you’re right,” said Taylor. “I’ve done all I can for that place of yours through the years—helping Kathleen after her family was killed. I want to help, you understand. But when people get behind on their taxes, that’s when banks tighten up. Helping out once . . . that’s understandable. Everyone has tax problems some time or another. But two years in a row . . . that’s when the people I am responsible to get nervous. Because when a place is seized by the government for taxes, a bank can get left out in the cold. I’m just concerned about what I’ve been hearing, that’s all. . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Taylor, we’ll have our taxes paid.”

  ON THE TRAIL OF THE KIDNAPPERS

  31

  ROB PAXTON RETURNED TO HANOVER, WHERE Sheriff John Heyes had news for him. He had heard back from the federal authorities. There was indeed an active investigation under way into the illicit slav
e trade, but thus far every potential lead had turned out to be a dead end. They had not yet been able to successfully learn of a kidnapping early enough to stop it.

  They hoped this time would be different.

  Reports had surfaced during the preceding months concerning two potential pickup sites on the Virginia coast, both with heavy former ties to the Confederacy and presumably used for centuries for piracy and smuggling. The one was called Wolf Cove, the other, about twenty miles south, Rum Harbor. Both were isolated and difficult to get to, which added to their appeal to smugglers. The York River had a deep channel where a seagoing vessel might lay anchor without fear of the tides as close as three hundred yards from shore. A skillful captain could ride in close on an incoming tide in the dead of night and drop anchor, a barge of unsuspecting victims could be loaded on by skiff back and forth from shore, and his ship be gone and steaming on the outgoing current beyond sight of the American coast on its way south by first light of the following morning. How many former black slaves had seen their short-lived freedom snatched from them by this new evil, and who now toiled in the sugar and indigo plantations of the Caribbean and Indies, was anyone’s guess.

  “I’ve had enough dealings with the federals,” said Heyes as they discussed their options while they saddled their horses, “not to depend on them being anywhere when they say they will. If they’re there, fine. But I wouldn’t want to stake your young black friend’s life on it. So I say we go on our own and hope we have backup. But if not, and if we can intercept them, you and I will have to think up something on our own.”

  “What’s your plan, Sheriff?” asked Rob, cinching up his strap and checking his stirrups.

  “We don’t know which of the landing sites they will use,” answered Heyes. “I don’t see anything else but for us to split up and hope the federals show up in time at both places. If they don’t, we’re going to have to try to crack this thing ourselves. But we’ve got to stop them before they get to sea. By then, it’ll be too late and we’ll never get the people back.”

  Heyes took out a coin. “You want to call it?” he said. “Heads, Rum Harbor . . . tails, Wolf Cove.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Heyes flipped the coin in the air.

  “Tails,” said Rob.

  The coin fell to the ground.

  “Tails it is,” said Heyes. “All right, you’ve got your map?”

  Rob nodded.

  “Then you make for Wolf Cove and I’ll ride for Rum Harbor. If it’s still light when we arrive and there’s no sign of a ship offshore, we’ll search upriver for a mile or two to see if we can find where they’re waiting. If I still find nothing, then I’ll make my way north to you. If you find nothing, you make your way south to me . . . keeping an eye on the horizon all the time. If there’s any sign of an incoming vessel, we have to let that guide us to the pickup site. All right, then?”

  They mounted and swung their horses around in the direction where they would start together.

  “Good luck, Sheriff,” said Rob. “Once we part, I’ll see you somewhere on the coast.”

  “If not, we’ll work our way home on our own. Let’s go!”

  TOO LATE

  32

  When Mr. Brannon and I arrived at the home of his neighbor, Mr. Davidson and his men were waiting for us. I barely had time to get off the horse for a short rest before it was time to go again.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait here with me?” Mr. Davidson’s wife asked me as we were getting ready to go.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Davidson,” I said, “but I feel like I ought to be with them. I might be able to help in some way. With all these men, I don’t know how. What can a girl like me do? But, since I was there when they kidnapped us, you know—there might be something they need me for.”

  “I understand, dear. Well, you just be very careful. I hope I shall see you again . . . safe and sound.—You take good care of her, Richmond,” she added to her husband.

  “I shall indeed, Carolyn!”

  There were about a half dozen men altogether. Mr. Davidson led the way but kept me near him the whole time. I could tell he felt as protective of me as my own papa would have been.

  From what I had told them, Mr. Davidson and Mr. Brannon seemed to have a good idea where they were going and where they hoped to intercept the two wagonloads of people I had been with. But like Mr. Davidson had said, we were six or seven hours behind them already.

  We rode all afternoon, and pretty hard. My bottom was sore and I was getting tired. As the sun began setting, gradually we slowed and the men quieted. A few of them were talking amongst themselves. I knew we must be getting near the river.

  We continued on for another twenty or thirty minutes. Then Mr. Davidson signaled everyone to stop.

  “Let’s go the rest of the way on foot,” he said quietly. “We’re only about a quarter mile from Hotchkiss Landing. If they were planning to load a barge, it’s the only spot between here and the coast. Tie your horses here.”

  The sun had just about set so the shadows were long as we crept through the trees. I couldn’t help being a little scared, even though I was surrounded by nice men. Slowly we made our way along the river at the top of the bank overlooking it below. If anything was going on up ahead of us, I sure couldn’t hear it. All was still and quiet. The crickets had started their evening song and we could hear frogs down at the water’s edge.

  “There’s the wharf and the landing up ahead,” whispered Mr. Davidson.

  “Do you see anything?” asked Mr. Brannon.

  “No . . . nothing yet. Let’s keep moving.”

  Five minutes later we emerged from the woods and came out into the clearing of the place called Hotchkiss Landing. We looked all around, but there was no one in sight.

  A couple of the men ran up to the wharf and looked around.

  “They were here, all right!” one of them called back. “Here are fresh wagon tracks, footprints all around—must have been a lot of people.”

  Mr. Davidson shook his head in disappointment. “We missed them,” he said.

  “Hey . . . over here,” called another. “Here’s the wagons and the horses!”

  We ran behind a little stand of trees to where the horses were tied to two rails on either side of two troughs. The horses were calmly munching and drinking from them. One was filled with water, the other with feed.

  “They must be planning to come back for them.”

  “By the looks of this sweat,” said Mr. Brannon, stroking the neck and back of one of the horses, “they haven’t been here long. These horses are still warm.”

  “Look!” cried another who had wandered out onto the end of the plank wharf.

  We ran toward him and out over the water. He was pointing downriver in the distance.

  “There they are!” he said.

  We all followed the direction his hand was pointing where we could just make out a flat barge heading into a curve. In another few seconds it disappeared from sight.

  “Just as we suspected,” said Mr. Brannon. “They’re on their way to the coast.”

  “We can’t have missed them by half an hour, maybe less.”

  “Then we’ve got to overtake them,” sighed Davidson. “I know you’re all tired, but I do not see that we have any choice. We’ve come too far to give up now. There are a lot of people’s lives at stake.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked one of the men.

  “We’ll have to circle far enough from the river so they don’t see or hear us,” said Mr. Davidson. “Otherwise they’ll be ready for us when they land.”

  “That’s going to be hard riding at night.”

  “The current’s slow. It’ll take them till morning to reach the coast. And it looks like we’ll have half a moon,” added Mr. Davidson, glancing up at the sky. “We might be able to get there an hour ahead of them. But there’s no time to lose. Let’s get as far as we can in what little daylight we have left. Let’s go!”

&nb
sp; STRANGER IN A WHITE NEIGHBORHOOD

  33

  THE SECOND UNEXPECTED VISITOR TO ARRIVE within two days on the doorstep of the Fairchild home at Bingham Court had attracted more than his share of stares walking through this well-to-do white section of Philadelphia. This wasn’t the South, but there were still some things that weren’t done. Like single young Negro men walking past nice white people’s houses.

  But he had come too far to be put off by a few stares. He slowed as he scanned the numbers on the homes, then at last approached Number 37, walked up the steps, lifted the iron knocker, and let it drop.

  About twenty seconds later, the door opened.

  “Beggin’ yo pardon, ma’am,” said the youth, “but unless I’s mistaken, you’s Miz Fairchild. I seen you when you wuz visitin’ at Rosewood, ma’am. I don’ know effen you remembers me, but—”

  He had no chance to finish. Katie had been listening from inside the open door. With a shriek, she rushed past her aunt and attacked their visitor with the embrace of a bear.

  “Jeremiah!” she exclaimed.

  Taken as much by surprise as was Katie’s aunt Nelda, Jeremiah nearly stumbled backward down the stairs.

  “I can’t believe it . . . how did you get here!” said Katie. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

  As liberated as Nelda Fairchild was in the matter of relations between the races, Katie’s display was a little much, even for her.

  “Aunt Nelda,” Katie said, still unable to curb her excitement, “you remember Jeremiah . . . Jeremiah Patterson—Henry’s son. He’s like a brother to me. He lives with us at Rosewood.”

  “Yes . . . yes, of course,” said Nelda, fumbling for words and unconsciously glancing about to see if any of the neighbors might be watching. “How, uh . . . good to see you again. Won’t you, uh . . . please come in.”