Point of No Return

by Paul McCusker

  Parallel to the hotel but on the other side of McAlister Street sat City Hall, with its large, ornate clock tower. The huge face of the clock peered at him like an old friend. It was the only thing so far that Jack was certain he recognized, though the tower still had scaffolding along one side for workers to add some finishing touches. Jack searched his memory from that field trip. The clock tower was finished in the fall of 1858. That’s now, he thought and smiled. Mrs. Sexton, the museum guide, said that it was completed around the same time that Big Ben was put into the tower at Westminster Palace in London. Folks in Odyssey were proud to share the experience with their foreign cousins.

  Jack walked into the hotel and was immediately impressed by the marble and by the plush, red decoration of the lobby, tastefully matched by patterned wallpaper, shelves with Chinese-looking vases, flowers, and dark brown woodwork along the edges of the ceilings and floors. The entire reception desk was also dark brown wood. Camel-backed sofas, loveseats, and wing-backed chairs with frilly skirts were scattered around the room. An elegant staircase led away from the lobby and up to parts unknown. On the other side of a wide, curtained entryway just to the right of the stairs, Jack could see what looked like a restaurant or saloon. Somewhere inside, a piano player announced that he would play a new song and fumbled his way through “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

  Men and women, in varying styles of formal and casual clothes, wandered around the lobby. Businessmen in smart suits chatted seriously in a corner. A man wearing a large, round hat and carrying a long, silver-headed cane plucked a gold watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. The women wore bell-shaped dresses that rustled as they walked past. Overburdened porters moved quickly about with their patron’s luggage in hand.

  Jack stepped up to the reception desk, but a man with a thick mustache stepped in front of him and slapped a coin down on the counter. “This should take care of my room and any extras,” he said quickly. He was obviously in a hurry.

  The spectacled clerk eyed the small, gold coin warily. “Ah, I see. One of those new three-dollar pieces. It’s the first one I’ve seen.”

  “Not sure they’ll last,” the man said simply. “Apply the difference to my account. I don’t want to miss the train.”

  “Yes, Mr. Prentice,” the clerk said, but the man was already on his way out the door.

  Jack approached the counter and stood on the tips of his toes to get the clerk’s attention. “Excuse me—”

  “I’ll be right with you, son,” the clerk said as he turned his attention to shoving pieces of paper into a collection of cubbyholes on the wall behind him.

  Jack waited patiently as bits of conversations around him drifted by. One man complained to a woman, “It just doesn’t make sense that Minnesota can get the statehood and Kansas can’t. I swear, you give those Washington politicians a new capital to meet in and they lose their marbles.”

  “I’m telling you, Beck and Russell say Cherry Creek is teeming with gold. I’m thinking of making the trip out myself,” one traveler said to his companion on the way through the lobby.

  His friend replied, “All the way to Colorado? That’s clear on the other side of the Kansas Territory! It’ll take a mighty long time to get there.”

  “Not so long these days,” he countered. “The Overland Stage Coach made it from St. Louis to Los Angeles in 20 days!”

  A lady sat in a corner chair reading a book. A younger girl eased down next to her and asked what she was reading. “The Courtship of Miles Standish by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” she said, holding it up proudly. “I just received it by post from New England!”

  A man reading a newspaper suddenly laughed and said to his friend, “It’s been over a month since the transatlantic cable stopped working and now they aren’t sure they’ll ever get it fixed. I reckon President Buchanan and Queen Victoria won’t be able to send messages across the Atlantic anymore.”

  His friend chuckled. “Not sure why anyone would want to send cables back and forth across the Atlantic.”

  A cheery, roly-poly fellow—obviously a salesman—entreated another bored-looking man about the “revolution” that the new “Mason Jar” would have on the country. He was giving the man the chance to invest a small sum that he assured him would yield 10 times the amount later.

  But the conversation that caught Jack’s full attention was between two wealthy-looking gentlemen nearby who spoke in hushed but agitated tones about a debate on slavery between Abraham Lincoln and someone named Stephen Douglas.

  “I’m tired to death of hearing about it,” the first man said. “Let the politicians decide and be done with it.”

  The second man shook his head. “I don’t think this is a matter to be legislated. People like John Brown and those abolitionists won’t let it lie. The way it’s going, I figure there’s going to be fighting.”

  “A war?”

  “God forbid,” the man said. “But you see how it’s tearing Odyssey apart. If that’s any indication of the mood of the rest of the country…well, I can’t predict what’ll happen.”

  Someone loudly cleared his throat. Jack realized it was the hotel clerk. “You wanted something, young man?”

  “I’m looking for Reverend Andrew. He lives here, right?” Jack said.

  “He does, but he isn’t here at the moment. Did you look for him at the church? That’s where he generally is at this time of day,” the clerk said.

  Suddenly a man rushed in through the door. He called out breathlessly, “Has anyone seen the sheriff?”

  “Not here. Why? What’s wrong, Albert?” the clerk asked.

  “We’ve got another incident behind the church!” he replied.

  There was a flurry of activity as some of the men reacted and ran to Albert, then all squeezed out the door.

  The clerk groaned, “Not another one.”

  “Incident?” Jack asked.

  “Yep.” The clerk frowned at Jack. “That’ll probably be Reverend Andrew’s doing. Reckon you’ll find him wherever that crowd’s going.”

  Jack sped out of the door after the men.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MATT AND THE GIRL sat under an elm tree near the cemetery. Normally, Matt might’ve thought what a beautiful day it was to sit under an elm tree, with the birds chirping happily and the yellow and brown leaves gently falling. It was another gorgeous fall day in Odyssey, only it wasn’t his Odyssey, and the edge of danger cut through the pretty picture like a razor blade.

  “What’s your name?” Matt suddenly asked the girl.

  She had been staring wearily at the tombstones and answered so softly that Matt barely heard her. “Eveline.”

  “Eveline who?”

  “Not Eveline who. Just Eveline.”

  “Don’t you have a last name?”

  “I think we did once, but I don’t remember what it was.”

  They sat in silence again while Matt tried to grasp the notion of a girl who didn’t know her own last name. It made him uncomfortable. He knew a little about slavery from his classes at school and some of the books he read. But this was the real thing. He didn’t like it. He squirmed impatiently. What was taking Jack so long? he wondered. Where was Eveline’s father? Did he get away from the men in the tunnel? I sure hope so, he thought. Otherwise I don’t know what we’re going to do.

  “Can you read?” Eveline asked.

  “Sure I can read,” he replied, surprised by the question.

  “So can I,” Eveline said with a big smile.

  “That’s what you said before.” Matt shrugged and couldn’t figure out why it was so important to her. “Everybody I know can read.”

  She looked at him carefully, as if trying to decide whether or not he was teasing her. “Everybody? Even folks of color?”

  “Yeah. What’s the big deal? You go to school and they teach you to read.”

  “You went to school?” she asked, awed.

  “Of course I did, er—do,” Matt said. He was getting a little irr
itated with this game. “Don’t you go to school?”

  Eveline shook her head. “Huh-uh. Slaves aren’t allowed to go to school. Our masters don’t want us to learn nothing but the work we do. That’s why I had to learn to read in secret. Aunt Tabby taught me how, but she said I wasn’t ever supposed to let white folks know or they might put me in jail or hurt me.”

  “Put you in jail for knowing how to read?” Matt nearly shouted. “That’s crazy! Why would anybody do that?”

  “Aunt Tabby said that they don’t want us to read because it gives us ideas,” she said.

  Matt didn’t know how to react. He remembered from history class that most slaves couldn’t read, but it never occurred to him that they weren’t allowed to read.

  The distinct sound of horses’ hooves beating the road worked its way through the air. Then came the sound of churning wagon wheels. Matt stood up to look. “Somebody’s coming,” he said and turned to Eveline, but she was gone. He was amazed by how quickly she had disappeared. “Eveline?” He looked around for her. She was a few yards away, waving at him from behind a large tombstone. “What are you doing?”

  She waved frantically at him.

  Torn between running to the road for help or going to her, he hesitated for a moment. She waved with greater agitation, and he decided to find out what her problem was first. “What’s wrong? Maybe it’s your father.”

  “And maybe it’s the slave hunters!” she whispered. “We have to hide until we can be sure.”

  Matt knew instantly that she was right. He didn’t have much to fear in his world, but in her world there was plenty to be afraid of. He ducked behind the tombstone with her and watched the road.

  First came a man on horseback. Matt thought it might’ve been one of the men in the tunnel, but he couldn’t be sure. Following behind him, another horse pulled a wooden wagon with two men sitting up front. Matt still couldn’t be sure whether they were slave hunters or not—how could he?—until Eveline gasped and pointed. Tied up in the back of the wagon, beaten and bloody, was Eveline’s father. She made as if she might rush out to him, but Matt grabbed her arm. They didn’t breathe as the wagon drifted past. Curls of dust were kicked up by the horses and the wheels.

  “They got my daddy,” she moaned. “They’re gonna take him back.”

  Matt didn’t know what to say or do. “Maybe when Jack comes back with the reverend, we can—”

  “No. I have to follow them. I don’t wanna lose my daddy!” With that she took off before Matt could stop her.

  “Wait! You’ll get caught!” he whispered as loudly as he dared.

  “Freedom’s no good without my daddy,” Eveline snapped back, then weaved her way quickly through the graveyard as the wagon disappeared around the bend.

  Matt leaned against the cold, damp tombstone and groaned. What was he supposed to do? He glanced hopefully up the road—praying that Jack, the reverend, and a posse of good guys might be following the slave hunters to rescue Clarence and keep Matt from having to make a decision. A rabbit scurried out to the center of the road, then dashed on to the other side. That was all.

  Matt couldn’t see Eveline anymore. What was he supposed to do? But he knew that there was only one answer.

  He couldn’t let Eveline follow the slave hunters alone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A CROWD OF MEN had gathered in a grove of trees not far from the church. Jack rushed up anxiously and maneuvered so he could see what had happened. A man knelt next to a tree—to cut the ropes that held Reverend Andrew. A small ribbon of blood slid down the side of Andrew’s face. Jack’s heart pounded furiously as he looked all around for Clarence. He wasn’t there.

  Reverend Andrew climbed to his feet and, in a voice filled with anger, told the crowd what had happened. “They burst into the church, grabbed us, and dragged us here. They tied me up and proceeded to beat the poor slave mercilessly. They wanted to know where his daughter was, but he wouldn’t tell them. That made them even angrier, so they beat him more. I protested until they gagged me. They tied me here and hauled the slave off.”

  “What was a runaway doing in your church, Reverend?” one man asked with undisguised annoyance. “You’re not part of that there Underground Railroad, are you?”

  “What do you mean by the question, sir?” another man answered. “If the church can’t be a haven to all men in all conditions, then what’s it for?”

  “I better run home and check my fences then,” the first man sneered. “What’ll become of my business when my cows and pigs know they need only run away to the church for protection!”

  A few men snickered at this remark.

  “You go too far, Thomas,” a man snapped back. “We’re talking about men, not animals!”

  “Are we?” the sneering man replied.

  “Yes, we are!”

  The reverend held up his hands in appeal to the men. “This isn’t the time or place for a debate. I ask only that the men here who abhor the practice of these slave hunters come with me. We must rescue the poor unfortunate who is even now being unwillingly taken back to the South!”

  Half the men murmured their consent, while the sneering man and his group grunted and turned away. One muttered something about the reverend getting what he deserved for helping runaways.

  After the men had gone, Reverend Andrew gathered the remainder around him. “My guess is they took the Connellsville Road. But there’s a girl—the runaway’s daughter—who is hiding somewhere in the region. We must scour the area and find her lest she fall into their hands as well!”

  With this, Jack stepped forward. “Excuse me, Reverend, but—”

  At the sight of Jack the reverend’s eyes grew wide. “You! You were in the church!”

  “Yes, sir. I know where the girl is. She’s with my friend just a couple of miles from here. I came back to find you to—”

  “You know where she is? Excellent!” Andrew exclaimed, then turned to the crowd. “Get your horses and wagons and meet me at the church. God help us to stop this horrendous deed!”

  With roars of approval, the crowd scattered. Reverend Andrew put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Well done, son. What’s your name?”

  “Jack,” he replied.

  “It’s providential that you came when you did,” he said. “Where is the girl and your friend?”

  “At a cemetery a couple of miles from here. The girl said it’s where her dad would meet her.”

  “Clarence was a smart man to prearrange a meeting place if anything went wrong. Which cemetery? Odyssey has several.”

  Jack frowned. He had no idea which cemetery it was. Then he remembered: “The girl said that diseased people are buried there.”

  “I know the graveyard,” the reverend said with a nod. “Now I need to impose on you further. Run as hard as you can to the girl and your friend, and keep them hidden until I arrive with help. Trust no one.

  Clarence didn’t tell the slave hunters where his daughter was, but they might be searching for her! Now, go, lad!”

  The sun was going down by the time Jack reached the graveyard. His side hurt from all the running and he couldn’t remember a time when he felt more tired. “Matt?” he called out. “It’s me—Jack!”

  Silence.

  “Don’t mess around, Matt,” Jack called out again. A cool breeze blew past, and his skin went goose-pimply. Something was wrong. He crept around the tombstones and wooden grave markers, hoping that they really were just teasing him. He then widened his search to include the surrounding woods up to the road. No sign of them.

  “Where are you?” he eventually shouted with exasperation.

  His voice echoed and came back to him empty.

  With no better ideas, Jack slumped down next to a tree by the road. All he could do was wait for Reverend Andrew.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WITH THE SOUND OF THUNDER, the reverend and about 20 men from Odyssey arrived at the cemetery just as the sun ducked below the horizon. They carried rifles
and blazing torches. Jack, with obvious relief, ran out to the road to meet them.

  “Well?” Andrew called as he leaped off of his horse.

  “They’re not here,” Jack said.

  “Are you sure?” a man with thick whiskers asked. Then he signaled for some of the men to fan out to search.

  “Believe me! I already checked,” Jack said. “They aren’t here.”

  “That’s enough for me,” another man shouted. “Let’s go after those blasted slave hunters and show ’em we don’t tolerate this kind of thing in Odyssey.”

  The men shouted their approval and were yanking at the reins of their horses when another posse raced up and surrounded them. Curses and insults were exchanged between the two groups, and Jack was afraid a fight might break out.

  “Hold on, boys,” a lean man shouted from the front of the group as he reined his horse to a stop. He had a star pinned to his gray flannel shirt. “Just what in tarnation do you think you’re doing?”

  “Slave hunters again, Sheriff. Nabbed a runaway slave and probably his daughter.”

  “Sorry, boys, but the law says the slave hunters can take runaways back to their masters. Nothing you or me can do about that.”

  “We’ll show you what we can do about it!” a large man shouted.

  “Whoa now! I won’t have it! Not in my territory. You go after those slave hunters and sure as I’m sitting here, there’ll be a fight. Somebody’ll get hurt or killed. So just put your guns away and go home. No point getting worked up over somebody else’s problem. These slaves aren’t our business.”

  “But my friend might be with them—and he wasn’t a slave!” Jack called out.

  The sheriff jerked his head around to look at Jack. His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about? Are you saying they kidnapped somebody?”

  Jack shuffled uneasily. “We think they took him.”