“You won’t understand until you get there,” Kulp said. “We don’t want St. John or anyone else to mistake you for one of the Exodusters.”
“I’m surprised you would say such a thing.”
“Sorry, Miss Bethany, but Topeka has always had a large free-black community, and they’re a bit snooty. The town was an important station on the Underground Railroad before the war. The Negroes there have their own benevolent organizations, their own lodges, their own churches, and their own businesses, and, believe me, their own social clubs.”
LuAnne Brown had gathered women to help sew the dress and made them finish in two days’ time. Patricia Towaday had unearthed a hank of white cotton thread, and her shuttle just flew as she tatted a fine jabot to tuck around the neckline.
Now, as Bethany eyed two well-dressed black couples waiting to board, she appreciated Kulp’s savvy.
“We’re over here, A.T.,” Jed called. He helped Bethany into the carriage, then squeezed in beside her. Kulp had wired ahead to Lavina’s family, as they wanted a suitable place for Bethany to stay. He and the other two men would stay at a hotel.
Topeka was exploding with activity, buildings, people. Still jumpy from the train ride from Ellis, Bethany marveled at how well Kulp knew his way around. He seemed entirely comfortable hiring a carriage and giving directions to the driver. Clearly, he and McBane were making a great deal of money in their land location business, or they couldn’t have paid for all their train tickets.
Everywhere Bethany looked she could see clusters of raggedy blacks loitering on the street, with white men picking their way around them.
“There’s a lot of hard feelings between the Exodusters and the blacks who have been here since before the war,” Kulp said. “At first, all the churches and charitable groups helped the newcomers. Then the emigration overwhelmed everyone. Now everything they’ve worked for is threatened by the ex-slaves pouring in from the South.”
Jed’s mouth tightened. He extended his hands, flexed them, and examined the backs of his fingers as though there was an answer written there. “On the other hand, imagine how these poor people from the South feel. They can’t go back. Not now. Back to what? It isn’t their fault that they’re ignorant and poor and half-sick.”
“Isn’t there anything anyone can do?” Bethany asked.
“Maybe,” Kulp said. “But when St. John sees you for the first time, he must associate you with the free blacks and not with the Exodusters who are causing him problems.”
They reached Lavina Hardesty’s, and Bethany gasped at the attractiveness of the pristine, white, two-story house. She had never been around communities of black people who had lived free before the war. In fact, Jed and Kulp and McBane were the first freeborn Negroes she’d met.
Born on the plantation, then subjected to the abject poverty of Freedom Town in Lexington, she hadn’t realized it was possible for her people to live like this.
Suddenly she was aware of every article of clothing in her suitcase. Panicked, she looked at Jed. He smiled and squeezed her hand.
A tall, slender woman came out of the house and stood on the porch. She wore a long black skirt topped by a snow-white waist. Her black crinkly hair was rolled back into a circle around her head.
“That’s A.T.’s Lavina,” McBane said.
They waited in the carriage. Kulp walked down the brick pathway to greet his lady and Lavina, extended her hand. Then the door opened again, and a man and another woman stepped outside.
“And that’s her parents,” said McBane, “and believe me, they are doing a right smart job of looking A.T. over.”
The reverend’s face was as stern as Moses’s, and Lavina’s mother wore a severe, black dress. But they both smiled and then shook A.T.’s hand as he whipped off his hat. Kulp turned, then walked back to the carriage to get Bethany.
Inside the house, Bethany managed to stumble through the greetings, but she felt profoundly awkward. However, when she went upstairs and changed, she suddenly knew she was dressed just right. She could thank A.T. for that. There was even a pair of gloves to go with her dress tomorrow. Her natural poise returned.
The next morning, as they sat in the lovely dining room, light filtering through the lace curtains highlighted Reverend Hardesty’s white hair, ringing his head like a halo. His black face was shadowed. Grace lasted forever and ever. Bethany was grateful. It delayed the moment when she would have to pick up a fork and eat in front of these elegant people.
Only a memory of how white people acted and looked got her through breakfast. She had never sat at an elegant table. Nor had she ever faced a bewildering array of silverware, had someone pour her coffee, pass her food, and ask if she would like seconds. The eggs stuck in her throat.
“Anybody ever lose a wheel on these streets?” Jed asked as their carriage hit a hole. “We’ll be lucky if we get there on time. And I doubt if St. John thinks much of tardiness.” The capital teemed with new businesses. Construction exploded. “Might as well be driving in Nicodemus.”
“There’s stone sidewalks along Kansas Avenue,” Kulp said, “and they are getting serious about paving streets in some parts of town, but, as you can see, the town is growing too fast for the money to keep up with. Most of the smoke is coming from the Wrought Iron King Bridge Works. There’s a distillery here now and a rolling mill.”
A teamster pulling a wagonload of lumber cursed his pair of work horses. The horse pulling their own carriage tried to rear, and chaos threatened until all the animals were brought back under control.
Bethany pressed her hands over her ears to shut out the din of construction. They headed toward the state house. An enormous mound of stone was piled on the south side. Men were going back and forth between wagons and supplies like a stream of ants.
Bethany stared. She turned to Jed. “How can Governor St. John even think in such commotion?”
“He can’t,” Jed said. “He leaves details like thinking to our venerable legislators. St. John stays at the Copeland Hotel and mainly works out of his suite there. That’s where he’s agreed to receive us.”
St. John’s secretary did not bat an eye when the four blacks announced they had an appointment. He was used to the governor giving audiences to African Americans.
Governor John Pierce St. John was a crusading knight of a man who could stare down an eagle. A magnificent mustache embellished his stern, Roman-nosed face. He had mined, chopped wood, clerked, fought in the Indian Wars, spit in the face of danger, and fought for every penny it had taken him to pay for law school.
He could take the measure of a man before the fellow opened his mouth.
He was uniquely qualified to negotiate the treacherous undercurrents of Kansas politics. He understood the state’s peculiar attraction toward adversity. Understood its ridiculously defiant motto, Ad Astra Per Aspera, “To the Stars Through Difficulties.” As though anything acquired easily was not worthy of notice.
Kansas was proud of being a hard state. Hard to stand and hard to admire. Proud of its disdain for joy and its militant morality.
St. John was the epitome of the warrior ruler and typically Kansan in that not all his views were predictable. He was a century ahead on women’s rights, fanatically idealist about black rights, and perversely determined to slay demon rum.
He was badgered constantly now over the Exodusters. Not only was the influx about to break Topeka financially, they could not begin to cope with the filth and disease. If he had doubts about the stance he had taken in welcoming the flood of immigrants, he did not let them show.
He had met with Kulp and McBane before, but not with Jed. He bowed toward Bethany, who had been coached by all three men.
“Come into my quarters, please,” St. John said.
Bethany’s mouth was dry as cotton. It was good that only men were expected to discuss politics and business, because she could not have initiated a conversation if her life depended on it.
Taking seats, the four blacks liste
ned to St. John expound on the construction of the west wing of the state house, which he could see out his window.
“Now,” he said, settling behind his walnut desk, “welcome to Copeland County, or so I’ve heard this place called. But I’m sure you’ve seen for yourself why most politicians prefer to meet here rather than at that unfinished monstrosity over there. When it’s done, of course, it will be one of the finest capitol buildings in the United States. If it’s ever done.”
He folded his hands across his chest. “I’ve been told this visit is of some urgency, but not the reason for all the mystery.” He looked expectantly at McBane, but it was Jed who spoke up.
“Sir, we bring two issues before you today. First, Mr. Kulp has completed his census. Graham County has the required number of voters. We would like you to designate Millbrook as the temporary county seat until we can hold our official election. It’s crucial that we defeat Wade City. And we would like to introduce you to Sunflower.”
“You’ve managed to unearth this mysterious person?” St. John said. “I’m amazed.”
He didn’t add that blacks living in a remote corner of northwest Kansas were unlikely to know the identity of the most effective and persuasive writer to ever hit the pages of the Topeka Daily Capital.
“Yes, we know this person,” Jed said. “We have just now introduced you to Miss Bethany Herbert of Nicodemus, Kansas, and we would like you to know, sir, that it is she who is the mysterious Sunflower.”
“A black woman?” St. John grasped the arms of his chair. He leaned forward, then stammered with embarrassment, “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Please. It’s just that . . .”
“It’s quite all right, sir.”
Later, Bethany would try to pinpoint why she felt so strangely comfortable with this white man. Comfortable enough to serenely withstand his intense quizzing without faltering and without hesitation. As though she were facing St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, justifying her existence. She had never known before and would never know again a white person she trusted so completely.
“Quite all right.” She looked at him frankly. “I’m used to having my intelligence questioned.”
“You understand of course, Miss Herbert, that I must be certain, because your friends here are asking me to make an extraordinary move in designating Millbrook as the county seat.”
“I understand.”
He rose, paced, then stood clutching the lapels of his coat. “In fact, I have a whole passel of letters from Graham County stating why I should select Wade City.”
“Yes, I would imagine that is true.”
“What can you possibly offer me as proof that you are Sunflower?”
“Jed?” Bethany turned, and Jed drew a leather document folder from his inside coat pocket. He stood and carried it over to St. John’s desk.
“Sir, I will leave this here with you so you can have this verified by the Topeka Daily Capital. These letters are on the same paper the editor there has received. As you can see, this is a blank sheet of paper. Note the quality.”
St. John reached for the paper and studied it intently.
“This is a draft of the letter I’m about to show you.” Jed handed the crumpled newsprint to St. John, who reached for it, then read as much as he could decipher before he gestured at Jed to continue.
“And this, sir, is the letter written by Sunflower, that Teddy Sommers was carrying when he was killed. It’s the final copy of the letter you just read, written on the vellum paper, as I’m sure you can see by matching it to the blank sheet I gave you.”
St. John read the first paragraph written on the lovely stationery and matched the words to the ones on the raggedy sheet. His eyes sharpened, and he drew a quick breath. He looked at Jed, his eyes alight with new understanding.
“That hanged man? Teddy Sommers was the carrier for these letters? They originated in Nicodemus?”
“Yes. This outrage was the work of Wade City men. That’s why you must designate Millbrook as the county seat. The editor there, Norvin Meissner, is a good man. He supports our equal rights ticket. Our people.”
Slowly Jed extracted the final piece of paper. His eyes misted, but he kept rigid control. Kulp and McBane sat sphinx solemn. Tears trickled down Bethany’s face, and she did not bother to wipe them away.
“One more,” Jed said again, softly. Then his voice shook. “There’s one more. One more I want you to see.”
He unfolded the blood-stained sheet of the same vellum as the other papers lying on the desk. The note left on Teddy’s body. His hand shook as he handed the paper to St. John.
The governor read the ugly words. His body jerked, and his face flushed with anger. The whole room grew deathly still. The world outside seemed suspended. St. John slowly expelled his breath. His eyes blazed with a deadly fire.
He looked at all four of the black people. Then he reached for his pen and extended it to Bethany. “As I said, madam, I shall require absolute proof.”
Puzzled, she arose and approached his desk. He slid the original blank piece of paper toward her, then hesitated. “One moment, please, Miss Herbert.” He went to the doorway and called for the secretary to come inside the room and to bring the official state seal.
“Now, Miss Herbert. Mr. Jones will administer an oath swearing that what you are signing is the truth, and he will officially witness your signature. I might add that it had better be the truth, and this signature had better match the signature on the letter Mr. Sommers was carrying when he was killed.”
Bethany’s right hand was steady when she raised it. Steady when she placed her left hand on the Bible, and steady as a rock when she wrote the following words:
“I, Bethany Herbert do solemnly swear that I am the author of the letters published by the Topeka Daily Capital under the pseudonym of Sunflower.”
She signed both Bethany Herbert and Sunflower and steadily looked at St. John.
“I can assure you, Miss Herbert, that all this formality is for the benefit of other people. I have enemies.”
St. John watched as his secretary carefully laid Bethany’s statement on the desk and imprinted it with the great seal of Kansas.
“There is no doubt in my mind now as to your identity. Editor Hudson at the Capital is a good friend of mine, and we have spent many an evening poring over these letters. I know both this particular paper and this signature quite well.”
He smiled ruefully. “And I do confess, Miss Herbert, you have surprised me. You have indeed.”
Bethany said nothing but didn’t suppress the broad smile spreading across her face.
“Now, gentlemen,” St. John said briskly, turning to the black men. “As to your request! Mr. Jones, if you would be so kind as to witness the following bit of business, I shall this day declare Millbrook as the county seat. Needless to say, I intend for McBane to continue as the county clerk until all the officers are officially elected.”
The governor reached for a piece of official state stationery. Jubilant, the four blacks watched St. John write out the statement that would only take him a few minutes but would change their lives forever.
“Mr. Kulp, the federal census will occur this year also. It’s considerably more involved than the one you just completed. I would like you to participate with this one, too, but would you agree to sharing the responsibility with two white men?”
Too stunned to assimilate all the developments, Kulp could just nod before he found his voice. “Sir, I’d be honored.”
“The Capital will soon receive a new letter,” Jed said. “Miss Bethany wrote it right before we came. All hell will break loose when it’s printed. She named names. Spelled it all out.”
St. John nodded, then rose and walked over to the window and stared out at the teeming streets of Topeka, hands clasped behind his back.
He turned. “There’s one more thing you need to know, Mr. Talbot. About the death of your friend, Mr. Sommers.” The governor’s voice was dangerously even with suppressed fury. “All
the resources of the state will be brought to bear to bring those murderers to justice.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bethany covered her mouth to hide her smile. The spelling bee was down to the last two competitors. There were now four white children attending the Nicodemus school, and Zach Brown had met his match in a boy close to his own age.
“Zach, please spell ‘infuriated,’ as in, ‘He was infuriated by her superior tone.’ ”
“E-n-f-u-r-i-a-t-e-d,” he said solemnly. His forehead wrinkled from the strain.
“No, I’m sorry. You may take your place with the other children. Now, Tommy, please spell ‘infuriated.’ ”
Tommy Stuart beamed. Having heard Zach go down, he knew that only the first letter was wrong. “I-n-f-u-r-i-a-t-e-d.”
“Correct.”
Hall and McBane walked into the room as she was writing the next week’s spelling words on her slate. The two men were going to give a special presentation to the upper level math students. She looked forward to having the afternoon off, as she wanted to visit her mother. She was eager to catch Queen Bess up on all the events that had taken place in Topeka.
She wiped her hands. “Children, for the rest of the afternoon, your instruction will be in the hands of Mr. E. P. McBane, county clerk of Graham County, and his business partner, A. T. Kulp. I’m sure most of you know that Mr. Kulp was the official county census taker when we were organizing this county, and Governor St. John has just re-appointed him as one of the three men who will conduct the federal census.”
The children gazed at the men with awe. Black like them, having important doings with the governor.
“And why do we have a federal census?”
A little girl’s hand shot up. “Because the Constitution says we must,” she said eagerly, not waiting to be called.
Bethany laughed. “Thank you, Lydia.”
Their college format was working well. She was still amazed at the zeal with which the blacks in Nicodemus pushed their children toward education. All the parents wanted to help with the school, even if it was just to clean or to keep the coal scuttle filled.
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