Caught in the Act

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Reuben stood, tugging down his coat, and smiled. "I don't need much besides food and keep, and my work here is only temporary. There's a fine job waiting for me back at the river, when I'm ready for it."

  "At the river?" Mike was puzzled.

  "I worked on flatboats for many years," Reuben said, "until I came down with the pleurisy and the doctor told me to find a job away from the dampness of river mists. But I miss the river, and I'll be going back someday."

  "Not soon?" Mike could feel his chin trembling. He didn't want to lose the only ftiend he had in this place.

  "Not soon," Reuben answered. He glanced at the loft. "Back to work. Quickly, now! We have much to get done before noon."

  By the time the noon bell clanged loudly, Mike was dirty and sweaty and glad to stop to wash his hands and face in the basin of water set outside the back door. In spite of his big breakfast, he was ravenous.

  Again Mr. Friedrich said a long prayer, but Mike didn't pay much attention. He kept sneaking looks at Gunter. Once he caught Gunter peering at him, a smile flicking at his lips. Mike quickly closed his eyes and bowed his head over his clasped hands.

  Mike's thoughts were in a turmoil. Did Gunter teU his father what I said? Mr. FYiedrich doesn't seem to be angry with me. Maybe Gunter hasn't told him. But Gunter wants to get me into trouble. So why hasn't he told his father?

  Mike opened just one eye for a quick peek at Gunter, who sat piously with downcast eyes. He was sure that Gunter had something in mind. Mike knew he'd have to be very careful.

  At last loud "Amens" were said. Mike joined in quickly. Mr. Friedrich began heaping food onto the plates, and finally Marta placed Mike's serving in front of him. He moaned with pleasure as he breathed in the mingled fragrances of beef—boiled with spices and doughy dumplings—buttered carrots, beans cooked with lumps of fat pork, cabbage salad with a creamy dressing, and thick slices of dark wheat bread, hot from the oven. "Oh!" Mike said. "Marta's a wonderful cook!"

  Marta giggled, and Mrs. Friedrich said, "Marta does the washing and peeling and chopping chores. / am the only cook in this house."

  Mike swallowed a bite of beef, unbeUevably juicy and tender, and sighed. "Mrs. Friedrich, you are the best cook in the whole world." He spread butter on his bread and watched it melt and soak into the warm slice before he tore off a piece and popped it into his mouth.

  Mrs. Friedrich's cheeks dimpled, her skin pink, her eyes twinkling with delight. "Thank you, Michael. Maybe some of the food you like so much will help you to fill out. Already I see more color in your face. You will soon be a fine, handsome boy." She looked to her husband for agreement, but his head was down, his right hand gripping his fork as he shoveled food into his mouth.

  Mrs. Friedrich turned back to Mike. "What are your favorite things to eat? You must tell me."

  "Whatever it is youVe cooked," Mike said.

  She giggled. "Don't tease me, Michael."

  "Fm not teasing," he said. "Sure and if the rest of the world knew about the fine foods you set on your table, there'd be people with plates in their hands lined up outside your door just begging for a taste."

  She laughed happily. "Oh, Michael, you are so funny! But you did not give me an answer to my question."

  Mike paused to think a moment. "Well, I always like a bit of sweet, and sausages are fine."

  "What did your mother cook?"

  "Potatoes and cabbage and sometimes squash or carrots. Boiled meat when—when we could come by it." He stopped, embarrassed by the surprise in her eyes. Mike could feel Gunter staring at him, and he refused to look in Gunter's direction.

  "Are you going to talk or eat?" Mr. Friedrich asked.

  Mike knew that was an order, not a question. He bent to his plate and ate as fast as he could, trying to keep up with Mr. Friedrich.

  Before long Marta took the plates fi:-om the table and brought in a bowl of apples cooked with syrup and covered with a thick, flaky, golden-brown piecrust. In her other hand she carried a pitcher of yellow cream. While she ladled spoonfuls of the apples into bowls, pouring cream over them, Mike heard the sound of hoofbests.

  Mr. Friedrich sat erect, listening too, but Marta went to the window, pulled back the lace curtains, and looked out.

  "Oh!" she said, her cheeks turning red. "It's three of the Blair brothers."

  "The Blairs!" Mr. Friedrich threw down his napkin and scowled. "They're all young hotheads! It's the likes of those settlers, come up ft-om the South, that will send this country into war." He gave a longing glance toward his dish of apples and pushed back his chair. "Well— send them into the parlor, and we'll see what it is they want."

  Marta didn't move. As she fumbled with her apron, she mumbled, "It could be they have come to see me and not you, Mr. Friedrich. I'll find out."

  In a few moments, the door between the dining room and the kitchen was thrown open, and a tall, lean, deeply tanned young man with sun-bleached hair stepped through. His trousers were tucked into sturdy black boots, and his dark jacket looked as though it had been made of homespun wool. He held a battered felt hat in his hands and nodded pleasantly. "Mr. Friedrich," he said, then nodded to Mrs. Friedrich. "Ma'am." His smile included Gunter and Mike.

  "What is it, Corey Blair?"

  Mr. Friedrich's voice sounded irritated. Corey Blair quickly apologized. "Sorry to interrupt your meal," he said. "Me and my brothers are ridin' over to Kansas."

  "Hasn't there been enough bloodshed along the border?" Friedrich snapped. "You want to add more?"

  *Those easterners who live in the territory are workin' to make Kansas a free state," Corey said. "We got to keep 'em from doin' it."

  "What does it matter?" Mr. Friedrich's face grew so red and puffed out, it looked to Mike as though it might explode. "We are leading a conrfortable life. Why should the situation change?"

  Corey looked surprised. "It's bound to change," he said. "Those Kansas jayhawkers want to take away our right to own slaves."

  Mike's mouth opened in amazement. He had never met anyone who believed in slavery. He couldn't understand why anyone would.

  Mr. Friedrich lumbered to his feet. "You don't even own slaves! Why do you get involved in this trouble?"

  "Because Missouri is a slave state, and my brothers and me—we're loyal to Missouri. What we do on our own land is our own business!"

  Mike shuddered. Missouri was a slave state? No one had told him that. He was thankful that Mr. Friedrich didn't own any slaves.

  "Foolish, foolish!" Mr. Friedrich thundered. "Don't you know what is happening to Missouri and Kansas? Those ignorant raiders on both sides, with their causes and their so-called loyalties, are stealing from honest people. They're burning houses and murdering. Is that what you want to do?"

  Corey shifted from one foot to the other. "I don't think you understand, Mr. Friedrich."

  "Don't understand? Oh, yes! I understand. I understand that someday some young men like you—with hot blood in their brains instead of good sense—will ride through my land, burning my bam and stealing my money before they even stop to think about what they are doing!"

  Mrs. Friedrich gasped and put a hand to her throat.

  "Naw. It's not going to be like that," Corey answered, and Mike let out a breath of relief.

  "If we have war, it will be you and those who think like you who will cause it!"

  "Not me!" Corey's eyebrows shot up in amazement. "It's Abraham Lincoln who's goin' to start a war, if he gets elected."

  "But you are helping it to happen. If this country is split by war, what wiU you and those like you do then?"

  Corey immediately began to perk up. His eyes sparkled. "Me? Why, I'll go and fight, by G—" He broke off and looked at Mrs. Friedrich. "I'll fight," he said.

  Mr. Friedrich sighed. "So, why are you here now? What is it you want from me?"

  Corey twisted the brim of his hat and shrugged. "Well, nothin' really, Mr. Friedrich. We—uh—that is, I come to say good-bye to Marta."

  *To Marta?" M
r. Friedrich's words were an echo of Mike's own thoughts. "Why should you want to say good-bye to Marta?"

  "Well—uh—^I seen Marta at our church supper couple'a months ago and spoke with her. And since then, on

  r

  K Sundays, when she only has to work half a day and you p and your missus are at your church, I been ridin' over to ^ sit in your kitchen with her and talk and sometimes go walkin"

  Mr. Friedrich looked even more uncomfortable than Corey. "This nonsense must stop" he said. "Marta is not ready to be courted."

  "She's of marriage age," Corey said. "And bein' the oldest, ril someday be gettin' a parcel of my pa's farm to work on my own."

  Mike wasn't much interested in marriage talk, so he quietly gobbled the last couple of bites of his stewed apples and, with his spoon, carefully scraped every bit of the syrup from the bowl.

  Mr. Friedrich whirled toward his wife. "What do you know of all this?" he demanded.

  "N-No more than you," she stammered.

  "Mr. Blair!" Friedrich advanced on Corey, who stubbornly held his ground. "Go on your way—^you and your brothers who are so intent on making trouble!"

  Corey looked surprised. "I don't aim to make trouble here."

  "You have always been a troublemaker."

  "Oh," Corey said, "so that's it. You're still mad about the time we accidentally set your privy afire."

  Mr. Friedrich's face darkened even more. "It was not that many years ago. You were and are still an irresponsible boy!"

  "That ain't fair nor right," Corey began, but Mr. Friedrich waved his hand in dismissal.

  "Remember this—^you are no longer welcome on my property!"

  Without a word, Corey turned and stalked back into the kitchen. For a few moments his angry voice could be heard. After a short silence, the back door slanuned.

  Mike could hear horses' hooves kicking up the gravel in the road.

  "Surely Marta would not be so foolish as to marry that idiotic young man!" Mr. Friedrich grumbled.

  Mrs. Friedrich was almost as pale as the napkin she was twisting. "Why would she want to leave us? We provided her passage. We made a home for her. Where are her loyalties?"

  "You must talk to her," Mr. Friedrich said.

  "Hans?" Mrs. Friedrich's fingers fluttered once more to her neck. "What you said about men coming here to bum and steal—^your gold watch, my mother's silver brooch. What if? ..."

  "It was Corey Blair who set fire to the privy?" Gunter grinned.

  "Hush," Mrs. Friedrich said. "It's not a thing to laugh about. He and his brothers were on our land smoking with some of the farmhands. It made your father furious." She leaned toward her husband. "Hans, will all that you said really happen?"

  "I would not have said it if I did not believe it could be."

  Mike noticed that the skin on Mrs. Friedrich's knuckles was stretched tightly as she gripped the edge of the table. He felt sorry for her. "You could put your money in the bank," Mike suggested. "The swells in New York do."

  "Never!" Mr. Friedrich exploded. "That would be a sure way to lose it! I do not trust paper money, and I do not trust banks. And don't interfere, Michael."

  "Hans," Mrs. Friedrich whispered, "what should we do? Marta knows about ... If she should tell Corey Blair..."

  Mr. Friedrich's gaze shifted in Mike's direction, and he scowled. "Irma! Be silent! You should not talk of such things in front of others!"

  "I'm sorry," Mrs. Friedrich whispered. "I'm so afraid.

  I did not think. Corey Blair is now angry with you. What if he should come back?"

  "Corey is nothing but a fool. He won't harm us." Mr. Friedrich's brow creased even more deeply. "Will you stop quivering and whimpering like a small child, Irma? There is no need for you to be afraid. I have taken care of this family with prudence and wisdom, and I will continue to do so."

  His glance fell on Mike. "Why are you still sitting here when there is much work to be done?"

  Mike gulped, unable to answer. No matter what he did or didn't do, he ended up in trouble.

  "Before you go back to work, Michael," Mr. Friedrich grunted, "help Marta clear the plates from the table. I trust you have learned to do the job properly."

  "Yes, sir," Mike said. From the comer of his eye he saw Gunter's smirk. Was Gunter really stupid enough to try the same trick twice? Mike wouldn't be fooled again.

  Mike puttered at the table, scraping and stacking the bowls, while Mr. and Mrs. Friedrich left the room. Gunter slowly moved to stand near Mike. Mike grinned at Gunter, then ran empty-handed to the kitchen. "Marta," he said, "I'm going to help you clear the dishes."

  "Thank you," Marta muttered. Her eyes sparked with anger as she stomped in front of Mike into the dining room.

  Gunter stepped out of the way, surprised, but Marta shoved a stack of bowls into his hands. "Here," she said. "You may as well help, too. Take these to the kitchen."

  "Papa didn't say I had to" Gunter complained.

  Marta's nose almost touched his, and her words were firm. "/ said you had to. Would you like to make more of this?"

  Grumbling, Gunter headed toward the kitchen.

  In just a few niinutes the table was cleared. As Marta slammed the utensils into a pan of hot, soapy water, she

  said, "Out, out the both of you! I thank you for your help, but now you can help me by leaving me to my work. Mike, Reuben wants you to help him cut wood. You'll find him up the hill."

  Outside the kitchen Gunter glared at Mike. Mike could almost hear Frances warning, "Use your common sense, Mike! Hold your tongue!" but he couldn't keep still. He made a face at Gunter and said, "You were stupid to try the same trick again. I was ready for you."

  "You won't be ready the next time!" Gunter sputtered. He took a threatening step close to Mike, his pudgy hands clenched into fists. "I'll think up something else—something you'll never expect."

  Marta opened the door and shouted at them, "Why are you just standing there? Do you want more trouble? Go along! Now!"

  Mike turned and ran up the hill to join Reuben. He knew he had just made a big mistake.

  Mike heard Reuben before he saw him. He followed the rhythmic thud of ax against wood through the grove of trees that topped the hill. At the edge of a small clearing dappled with sunlight and shade, Mike stopped. Reuben, his coat off, his shirt dark with sweat, swung the ax high in an arc to come thudding down on a fallen tree. In just one motion, as the wood groaned and cracked, he tugged the ax from the cleft it had made, circled it back and up, and slammed it down again.

  Mike hesitated to break the rhythm, but as he stepped forward, a twig snapped underneath his shoe, and Reuben looked up. Slowly he lowered the ax and smiled.

  "How long does it take to finish a plate of apples and cream?"

  "It wasn't the food that kept me," Mike said. "It was the riders who came to see Marta."

  "Riders?" Reuben wiped away the sweat that was dripping from his shaggy eyebrows into his eyes.

  45

  Mike told Reuben how the meal had been interrupted. He couldn't help shaking his head a little when he got to the part about how Mrs. Friedrich had been so afraid that thieves would come for her jewelry and the Friedrichs' money.

  ''Who steals my purse steals trash,'' Reuben said.

  "Oh, no! Not trash," Mike said. "Since Mrs. Friedrich was so worried, they must have a great deal of money."

  "The Friedrichs are no different from the other hardworking farmers who came from German states to settle in Missouri. They mistrust paper notes and insist on dealing in gold and silver coinage. Furthermore, they have a deep suspicion of banks, so they keep what they call their *hard money' at home."

  Reuben rubbed the back of his neck and took a firm grip on his ax. "I'm going to break up this dead hickory, and you can gather the twigs and limbs and chunks of kindling and bind them into bundles." He pointed. "You'll find twine over there, under that pine tree."

  Mike worked hard, occasionally pausing to arch his back, which was f
eeling much less sore, and stretch and knead his neck and shoulders. Reuben did the same.

  Reuben finally called, "Let's take a rest." Laying down the ax, he flopped onto his back. He rested his head on his crossed arms, and stared up at the sky. 'There's a difference in the sky over land and the sky over water."

  Mike sat on the ground, pulled out his pocketknife, and whittled chips from a nearby twig. "Did your poet Shakespeare say that?"

  "No. It's something that every river boatman knows."

  *Tell me about that kind of boat you worked on," Mike said.

  "The flatboat? It's a long boat with a small cabin, two sweeps on each side and—"

  "What are sweeps?"

  "Oars. Poles with flat ends. Each boat carries a crew

  tx) man the sweeps, a captain, and a cook. Flatboats are built and caulked at the riverbank, loaded with cargo, and floated down to towns much farther south where there's a good market for the potatoes or com or whatever the boat carries. The boat's sold there, along with the cargo, and the crew catches the next stem or side-wheeler and sails back up the river again to start over."

  "That doesn't sound very exciting," Mike said. "Not as exciting as riding for the pony express."

  Reuben chuckled. "But it is. There are hidden sandbars, and fast currents, and in some places enough boats of all kinds to run down any craft not quick enough to squeak through. Then there are raftsmen, who'll pick a fight with anyone and who are the worst kind of river rats. There are river pirates to worry about, too. They'd as soon steal your cargo and leave you for dead as not. And if you manage to get to where you were headed, you've got to contend with the merchants who try to drive such a hard bargain for your goods as to make the whole trip not worth the while."

  In his mind's eye Mike could see a swift boat bearing down on his flatboat. It was filled with pirates, scarves wrapped around their heads and knives gripped between their teeth. With wild shouts they brandished swords and leapt to the deck of the flatboat. But Mike was too quick for them. Raising his sweep fi-om the water, he laid about with it, knocking pirates right and left into the water while his mates on the flatboat cheered.