“It’s for guiding your team by the sound. Not for beating on a poor horse. Now, here are the ribbons, same as the reins. Hold ’em in your left hand and keep the whip in your right,” he said.
She took the whip and the ribbons and listened.
“Each of these pairs of ribbons controls two horses so when you’re driving six, you’re holding three pairs of ribbons. It ain’t as easy as it looks. Here’s the pressure brake on the right. Use your foot to work it. Now, release the brake and take her out a mile and turn around.”
Since the day Charlotte had caught the stage in Concord, she’d wanted to try a six-horse team. Wanted to know what it felt like behind all those horses. Suddenly, she was getting her chance.
She yelled, “Git along!”
Charlotte held the ribbons lightly and tried to keep the wagon straight on the road, but it veered to the right and then to the left. She had hitched enough teams to understand how the reins worked but Ebeneezer was right, it wasn’t as easy as it looked. No one had to tell her though, not to whip the horses.
Charlotte gave gentle tugs on the ribbons but even a slight pull sent the horses in another direction. As she approached the turn, the reins tangled. Some horses turned and some didn’t. The wagon rolled into the horses and suddenly she was in the middle of a heap of harnesses and horses. Ebeneezer climbed out and set everything right.
“Guess I was wrong,” he said and gave her a peculiar look. “Maybe you’re just too young to learn the ribbons. Let’s head back.”
“I ain’t ready to turn back,” Charlotte said, and she began to feel that her escape from Mr. Millshark depended on being able to drive this team.
Ebeneezer climbed back in and Charlotte set out. With a steadier hand, she pulled the horses back on course. She tried another turn and again, muddled the horses and wagon. Ebeneezer got out and straightened the lines.
Before he could say anything, Charlotte reached for the reins.
“I can do it,” she insisted.
Charlotte took the reins again and again. Although she continued to get jumbled up in the turns, with each run she felt an exhilaration that she had never felt before. Here were six strong horses waiting for her commands, her tugs on the reins, to tell them which way to go. She yelled, “Haw” and “Gee” to get them to bear left and right, like she did when she was riding one horse or driving two.
She wished Hayward could see her. And Vern. Vern would have never let her get out of that wagon until she figured out the turns. Just like when he taught her to ride, he kept putting her back on Freedom after each fall, saying, “Every time you fall, you learn somethin’ new ’bout your horse. You learn what not to do next time.”
That’s what was happening with the team. Every time she mixed up the reins, she knew what she had done wrong, and she tried not to do it again.
After a dozen runs, she brought them around clean. Ebeneezer finally nodded his approval with a small satisfied smile. He had wanted her to figure it out. He had wanted her to be able to drive the team. But why?
When they pulled back up to the stables, Ebeneezer said, “Charley, or whoever you are, I need this team and this wagon driven to my new stables and I’m figurin’ you can drive them. But you need to leave in the morning, before first light. And there’s something else, I don’t need more stable boys in Rhode Island, but I need another stock tender and soon I’ll be needin’ coach drivers. You got a lot to learn, but I could train you, if it suits you.”
She couldn’t stop the grin that spread over her face.
“It suits me fine,” she said.
AFTER YEARS OF DRIVING HUNDREDS of practice runs with Ebeneezer, Charlotte knew how to coddle a coach around any precarious turn. When she finally did start driving real runs, she learned how to baby the most difficult passengers, and her reputation got her all sorts of requests. If there was an important party, folks wanted the considerate and handsome young driver who had never overturned a coach. Ebeneezer just laughed out loud every time a customer insisted on Charley, and no one else.
And her disguise? Charlotte carried on a masquerade same as an actor in a theater play. She dressed carefully, wearing snug undershirts that kept her figure boy-like. She wore loose-fitting, pleated flannel shirts with a buckskin vest. She favored baggy trousers, leather boots, a broad-brimmed hat, and snug buckskin gloves. She kept a snakeskin whip tucked into her belt.
And she didn’t need to worry about her voice. When she was out with the horses, she practiced speaking low. Maybe it was because she was so good with those horses, or maybe it was because the townspeople just didn’t pay much mind, but Ebeneezer’s clean-shaven young driver with the warm, raspy voice, just didn’t arouse any suspicion. Charlotte was acting, dressing, and talking like a first-rate stage driver, so in folks’ eyes, that’s what she was.
Anyway, Charlotte was careful to protect her identity. She didn’t bunk with the other stable-hands, still preferring to sleep in the loft, and for that, they teased her something fierce about loving horses more than people.
She was even cautious about the letters she wrote to Hayward. Instead of mailing them herself, she had other drivers mail them from towns all over the Atlantic Coast, and she had him write to her in care of Ebeneezer’s stables. Now and then, Hayward would send word that he had ridden over near Concord and stopped at the orphanage to let Vern know her whereabouts. The words of encouragement that Vern sent back through Hayward always made her smile.
For six years, she managed to stay clear of Mr. Millshark. She was eighteen and fully grown, but she was still a young woman doing a man’s work. If she was ever found out, her job could end in a moment’s recognition.
And all of her dreams along with it.
WHAT CHEER STABLES, IN PROVIDENCE, Rhode Island, teemed with activity. There were plenty of passengers to carry as well as parcels of mail and strongboxes from the bank. Charlotte settled into a busy routine, caring for her horses and for her passengers. She was partial to the women and children, always respectful and giving them the best seats. The occasional grumbling men didn’t complain too much, because the talk was they were riding with the best and safest driver on the whole Atlantic Coast.
Charlotte didn’t have much time or cause for worry, until one morning when Ebeneezer handed her the manifest with the list of passengers. She froze at the name before her. It couldn’t be the same Mr. Millshark, could it? Carefully, Charlotte peeked from under her hat and studied the group of people standing near the ticket office. There was a group of women, two children, and one gentleman. The gentleman was Mr. Millshark, one and the same, dressed in a handsome gray suit. But something was peculiar about him. He had grown taller. Much taller. Then Charlotte noticed the fancy boots with high heels that made him look bigger than he actually was.
Suddenly, Charlotte felt twelve years old again. She knew she’d never have to go back to the orphanage. But her heart told her that there was more at stake. If he discovered her, he’d make sure people knew who she was and what she’d done. Once word got out, it wouldn’t matter how old she was or how good a driver. Customers wouldn’t ride with a woman.
When Ebeneezer saw Charlotte standing still, he said, “Charley, get to work!”
“I’ll get the rear boot,” said Charlotte, and she began loading the baggage in the leather storage behind the coach. She tied the overflow baggage on the roof of the carriage, double- and triple-checking the knots. She felt jittery, and her forehead broke out in beads of sweat. She took out her kerchief and dabbed at her brow.
Ebeneezer handed her the paperwork.
“You look like you seen a ghost,” he said.
“I don’t think I can drive today.”
“What are you blabberin’ about? The mail’s gotta go through, same as them passengers.”
Then Ebeneezer looked over at Mr. Millshark. He studied the man, and after a while, a feeling of recognition settled over him. Could it really be the same man from an orphanage who had come looking for a runa
way girl some years ago?
Ebeneezer put his hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Now listen, don’t you pay them passengers no mind. You are what you are. And what you are, is a fine horseman. And the best coachman I ever saw. You remember that. Under the circumstances, there ain’t nothing left for you to do but your job. So get to it.”
Charlotte looked square at Ebeneezer.
Ebeneezer looked square back at Charlotte and said, “You’re the coachman. You’re in charge, so load ’em up.”
Charlotte pulled her hat down lower over her face and tied her kerchief over her nose. She hoped Ebeneezer was right.
“All aboard!” she yelled.
Charlotte seated the women first and put them by the windows. Those were the best seats. Then she put in the children.
“Do you have a seat for me, good man?” asked Mr. Millshark.
“You can squeeze in on the middle bench with them children,” said Charlotte.
“Could I persuade you with a few fine cigars to let me sit up top since I’m just going to the next town?” he asked.
Charlotte hesitated. She didn’t want to argue with Mr. Millshark any more than she had to. And any reputable stage driver would never turn down a handful of cigars.
“Certainly,” she said stiffly, and climbed into the box seat, keeping her head turned away.
Pleased with himself, Mr. Millshark climbed up and sat next to Charlotte.
“Thank you,” he said. “It’ll be a pleasurable ride, for sure.”
Two stock tenders brought the lead horses out, positioned them in the traces, and handed the ribbons to Charlotte. Next came the swings, the middle horses in the lineup, and last came the wheelers, the horses closest to the wheels. The stock tenders released the leaders.
“Get along, my beauties!” yelled Charlotte.
With a flick of her wrist, the stagecoach lurched forward and Charlotte carefully maneuvered the stage out of town.
She allowed the horses to pick up speed. The coach began rollicking across the countryside, veering down the dusty road.
Thoroughbraces, three-inch straps of leather hooked to the axles, cradled the carriage like a baby in a hammock. The coach rocked back and forth. The passengers on the inside bounced around on padded seats but up top, where Charlotte and Mr. Millshark sat, there was nothing but a wooden bench.
Mr. Millshark, wedged into the corner of the box seat, held on to his hat with one hand, and clutched the narrow rail with the other.
Charlotte knew every twist in the road. She knew when she could speed up and when she should hold back. She remembered Ebeneezer’s words: “You are a fine horseman and the best coachman I ever saw.”
“Going a little fast, aren’t you!” yelled Mr. Millshark.
“I know my horses by heart and I’m not one for bad drivin’, so hold tight!” hollered Charlotte.
Nervously, he said, “You’re the boss.”
“Git aeoup!” she yelled, giving the horses more rein and enjoying this moment, this power over Millshark. She loved the thrill of being the master of her team. Charlotte looked at him. He seemed pitiful, hanging on to the rails for dear life. Why, she wasn’t even going that fast!
She knew which roads might be flooded after a rain, which might be cluttered with branches after a storm, and which were muddy. A few days earlier, on this same road, she got stuck in a mud bog near Jenson’s farm. Today, she would have to go around by another road to miss the bog, but suddenly, she felt some childish urge for revenge and had an idea. She gave the team a loud whistle and drove them directly toward the middle of the bog. The stagecoach mired in the doughy mud, but Charlotte wasn’t worried. The passengers weren’t in any danger, and she’d still get them to their stops on time.
“Well, if that don’t beat all!” said Charlotte.
“We’re stuck,” said Mr. Millshark.
“Let’s get her out. You get some brush under her wheels so I can guide her to the other side,” said Charlotte.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Millshark.
“I’m the only one who can drive this team. Them women in the coach are only good for cookin’ and sewin’. I need a strong man to help me. Or else we might be here till this mud dries up. I’d recommend takin’ off those fancy boots and them fine stockings though.”
Mr. Millshark reluctantly peeled them off and got down from the coach. He sank in the mud up to his ankles. He picked up his feet slowly, sinking farther into the mud with each step. He dragged some tree branches over and placed them under the wheels of the stagecoach.
Inside, the coach was cozy, paneled with basswood, and lit with oil lanterns with brass fittings. The small windows had leather shades that could be pulled down to protect the passengers from weather or dust.
“Pull down those window shades, ladies,” Charlotte yelled. “Don’t want you to get muddy!”
Trying not to chuckle, Charlotte stayed up in the box seat and worked the horses back and forth. Each time the wheels turned, Mr. Millshark got sprayed with mud. Finally, Charlotte maneuvered the stage out of the bog and waited farther up the road than she needed for Mr. Millshark to catch up.
“Good man,” said Charley. “Thank you.”
Mr. Millshark climbed up top, but didn’t say a word. On the way to the next town, Charlotte drove as fast as was safe. When she glanced at Mr. Millshark, he looked as pale as milk. It was hours later when Charlotte stopped the stage.
“Well, here we are, the first stop,” she said.
“My boots?” said Mr. Millshark.
Charlotte looked around.
“They were here, sure as I’m here,” said Charlotte. “They must have dropped out on the way. That’s a pity. Well, I suppose we could go back and take a look for them?”
“No!” said Millshark. “I mean, no need.” He held out a coin and said, “If you see those boots again, I’d appreciate you retrieving them. They were specially ordered. Very expensive.”
“Yes, sir,” said Charlotte. She took the coin and hopped down from the seat. She pulled off the kerchief from her face and busied herself with the baggage.
Mr. Millshark was covered with a dried crust of mud and still complaining about his sore bottom and lost boots. He climbed down and came over to Charlotte.
Charlotte looked at him, nodded, and handed him his bags.
A glimmer of recognition crossed Mr. Millshark’s face.
“You look familiar,” he said.
“Oh, that’s what lots of folks say,” said Charlotte, and she hopped back up in the box seat and readied the horses before he could respond.
Mr. Millshark had a puzzled look on his face as he walked, barefooted, into the hotel.
And hidden in the leather storage were a new pair of boots for Ebeneezer.
TWO OF EBENEEZER’S STABLE BOYS, James Birch and Frank Stevens, had left Rhode Island some years ago for California. Now they were back and as excited as two puppy dogs about their adventures. They were full of stories about Argonauts, the gold diggers, and Charlotte couldn’t get enough of their tales.
The West was wild and untamed. Prospectors flocking to pan for gold up and down the lower Sierras were becoming millionaires overnight. And Sacramento. Everyone was talking about Sacramento, California, the most important river port in the West. It was a boomtown and for a businessman it was as tempting as a candy store because if a man struck it rich, he had to have someplace to take his gold and someplace to spend his worth.
“People got to get from one place to another,” said James. “So we started a small stage line, but now we’re joinin’ with other lines to start the California Stage Company. And we need good drivers. We need men in the Mother Lode, where all the gold is. Where they’re mining. And we’re planning to expand routes up and down the Pacific Coast so you’d have your pick. Won’t you come, Charley?”
The money was good and there was plenty of work for men that would go. But what interested Charlotte most was the talk about land.
“If y
ou’re looking to own any, it’s cheap and plentiful,” said Frank.
Charlotte couldn’t help but be excited.
James persisted. “We’ve secured boat passage from Atlanta to Panama. You would travel overland by mule through Panama, then secure a ship to San Francisco, and then take a riverboat to Sacramento. It’s a month’s journey. But when you get there, there’s land as far as the eye can see, just waiting to be bought by you, Charley.”
Their enthusiasm was catching.
“Well, boys, that land sounds mighty appealing,” said Charlotte.
“C’mon, Charley. You’re the best driver we know and we need you,” said James.
Charlotte knew from the minute they started talking about the land that she would go. But she had to tell Ebeneezer. And that wouldn’t be easy.
* * *
“It ain’t a pony ride out there in California!” Ebeneezer practically shouted. “In some places there ain’t roads, just worn-down trails made by pack mules that went afore you. The ground is filled with chuckholes and you’ll be knee-deep in dust!”
“Yes, sir, but I need to go,” said Charlotte.
“You don’t know what you’re in for. Most of the horses are just wild mustangs they brought in from the foothills that don’t know how to work in the traces. You’ll only make three miles an hour on a good day!”
He paced back and forth.
“I hear the coaches are so loaded with folks headed for the mining towns that they have to put passengers on the roof! You’ll lose ’em off the top! And … and you got other things to consider. California ain’t no place for a … for a … you know … for you!”
Ebeneezer had never, not once, said anything about Charlotte’s secret. He never confronted her. He never asked her outright. But he knew. He rubbed his hands over his bald head.
Charlotte tried to explain.
“I aim to get me a ranch and I won’t ever be able to afford it here in the East,” she said. “Out West, there’s land to be had. Cheap. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sleeping in a loft. I want to get me a place. My own place. A home.”
Riding Freedom Page 4