by Jane Smiley
The proprietor stood behind his counter, smiling. When he saw I had goods rather than money, his face fell. Ah. My goods. There were few enough of them. I pulled out the dress. He looked at it impassively and set it aside. I laid the four books on the table, three of Thomas’s and my Miss Beecher. He opened them and saw that the pages were stiff and discolored. He noted that Miss Beecher herself had written me a note in the flyleaf of her treatise: "To my student, with all best wishes," and he was unimpressed. He set the book aside. From my pocket, I pulled Thomas’s watch. It was warm, as I had been holding it. I set it on the counter, and he picked it up, opened the case, looked at it, shook it, noted the time, and compared it with his own watch, which he took out of his watch pocket. All he said was, "Right time," then he set it aside, and I had the sense of it apart from me, cooling. All the same, I didn’t grieve for it then. It was heavy with too many memories and inner pangs. I felt almost relieved to give it up.
And I was relieved to give up the pistol, the cartridges I had made, and the percussion caps. I pulled them out of the bag and laid them gently on the counter, and for the first time the proprietor looked pleased. He was a western man, after all, and he ran his hand over the barrel and the stock, then he touched the hammer and the trigger with his forefinger. He said, "Don’t git too many of these in. Most folks are wanting to keep theirs."
"It’s a black dragoon."
"I know that. Had two of ’em in. Handy thing."
"Yes, folks say so."
"An’t everything it’s cracked up to be, though."
"Nothing is."
"That’s the truth, too."
He looked over the goods again, calculating. He picked up Thomas’s watch, set it down, ran his hand over the pistol, looked into Mrs. Beecher. Finally, he said, "These guns is twelve dollars new."
"You can see that I’ve kept it very clean. I never let it get fouled."
"It’s your own weapon, ma’am?"
"It’s my own weapon."
"How often you got to change the time on this watch?"
"Once every two weeks, by about five minutes."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, sir."
He looked at the watch again, weighed it in his hand. Then he looked over the array and said, "I got forty dollars for ya, and that’s only because it looks to me like you’re all by yourself out here and these are your things."
"They are."
"This is what you do, ma’am. You take my forty dollars, and then you get yourself by stage to Lexington, away from the war here. That should cost you about two dollars or so. Then you get on the steamboat there, and you go on down the river and get away from this place, because I’m telling you right now that all of K.T. and western Missouri is going to be burning in a month, and if I didn’t have me so many goods here, and such a big establishment, I’d be leaving myself, but I sent away my wife and daughter, back to Illinois. This an’t no place for you, ma’am." He handed me the forty dollars.
I said, "I will certainly take your advice."
"Remember, I told you. Everything them hotheads say they want, they’re going to make sure they git it."
"Yes, sir." I turned my back on everything I owned and walked out of the store.
Although it was Sunday, as I’ve said, it was widely known all over the west that the Lord approved of business going forward when there was a great deal of business to be done, and so I was perfectly able to go into another store and purchase some provisions—early apples and pears, some potatoes and carrots and hard biscuits. I also bought us each a cup. These things came to two dollars and eighty-two cents,
Now I went back to the hotel. As I entered the door and mounted the stairs, I did feel a panic rise in my throat, as if, upon going to my room, I might see something horrible, but all was quiet. Lorna was sitting where I had left her, and when I pushed on the door, she peered out with one eye, then let me in. I showed her the money and food, then sat down upon the bed. I thought we might eat, but I wasn’t hungry, probably from fear, and Lorna didn’t take anything. In my absence, she had put the room to rights as best she could, but it would still take a deal of scrubbing to make it appealing. For a while, we didn’t talk but sat there listening to the conversation and the noises that came through the walls, the door, the windows to the outside. At last, it became apparent that we might talk softly, if we went to the outer corner of the room, between the two small, dirty windows that looked out on the street, one of which had a broken pane of glass. We had to get a couple of things out of the way, and first things first, I whispered, "I can’t bring myself to steal the pony and the cart."
"We ain’ stealin’ ’em. We gone fine a boy to brang ’em. Dere’s boys dat come to de house from time to time, carrying a message or a parcel. We gone fine a boy like dat and give ’im a dollar. I reckoned dat in."
"It’s going to take me a while to find one."
"Dey’s boys all ’round. We cain’ leave heah till afta dark, nohow."
Then I said, "Lorna, where are we going?"
"Kansas."
The very idea filled me with horror.
She said, "Dat’s free soil."
"But it isn’t. The law is officially just like Missouri law, or worse."
"Massa Richard say all de abolishinists have de run of the place and have de say-so dere. He and dem others yell about it all de time."
"It’s not true, and there’s a war on there, too."
She stared at me, resistant.
"I was just there. I came from there. Remember? I told you that one day."
"You did, but den you say you come from over by de river, wheah I seen you before."
"I went out to Kansas with my husband, who gave you that money. We lived in Lawrence."
Now Lorna gave a big grin and whispered, "Massa Richard say dat’s de devil’s own town!"
"Well, folks in Lawrence say that Missouri is the devil’s own country."
"An’ it is, for me. As soon as Massa Richard and his cronies got so heat up about Lawrence, well, me and Jake, we thought dat war de place for us!"
"But it’s been burned once, and my husband was shot there! You can’t escape into a war that’s getting fiercer and fiercer. There are all sorts of bands of men roaming about, looking for a chance to kill someone."
"Dat’s de closest place."
"Maybe, but you have to listen to me. The men who shot my husband didn’t stop to find out anything about him, or us. They rode up to us, took a look at us, and shot him. They shot our horse, too, for no reason. Kansas is different, even from Missouri. Nothing stops anyone there. Whatever builds up here in the east, in Kansas folks let it out. If you and I go into Kansas, a white woman and a black woman, someone on some side will stop us, because there’s three types of people there—the ones who want slavery, the ones who don’t want slavery, and the ones who don’t want slavery or any Negroes in the state. All of them will wonder about us. All of them will think they can stop us and torment us and take us up for some reason or another. Lorna, you never see a black woman and a white woman together in Kansas."
"I cain’ stay in Missouri. I’m in slavery in Missouri. I cain’ do it." She went over to the chair by the door and put her face in her hands. I lay down on the dirty bed and stared at the floorboards of the room above and the rickety joists holding them up. I fell into an uneasy sleep, so exhausted that I couldn’t wake, though repeatedly disturbed by half-heard sounds of boots in the hallway outside the room, boots above us, yelling and shots outside. In my dreams, I missed the peace of Day’s End Plantation, because surely that quiet, whatever it boded, was better than this disquiet. Then I woke up, and I saw that Lorna, in her chair, had fallen into a doze, too. My spirits were low, and I felt a good deal of fear, but I didn’t long for Day’s End Plantation. That was something. I lay there, and shortly Lorna woke up. She looked over, saw that I was awake, and sat up. She took her time adjusting her clothes and the kerchief on her head, standing and even trying to use the tiny loo
king glass that was hanging on one wall. When she was entirely straight and neat, she went over to the corner where we had talked earlier, and so I got up and joined her there. She no longer looked fearful but appeared settled and ready. She whispered, "I see what we got to do, Missy Louisa. We got to go on de boat as missy and gal. We got to sink into de wallpaper, like, an’ stay wheah we look like we belong."
"Lots of women and children and servants are moving east. We’ll fit right in."
"But we got to leave dis town. We done slep’ now. We got to leave as soon as de darkness come."
I nodded.
"Wheah are de pony and de cart?"
"I put them in a livery stable."
And that was the last we spoke of them. We both knew that in spite of our best intentions and greatest care, to return to the pony and the cart was to put ourselves in danger, especially as the cart was a gaily painted one, green with red striping. If we had escaped detection so far (and there was no telling if we had), we would risk it unnecessarily by drawing attention to the pony cart. And so, here was another thing I thought I wouldn’t do that I did when the time came. I realized then that there was no telling what you might do if it looked like you had to do it. That was the lesson of K.T., wasn’t it?
I had no bag now, so Lorna wrapped the provisions in her bundle, which itself was none too large, and she stationed herself against the door while I went out to look for the stage to Lexington. I was soon disappointed. The stage company was over-burdened with business—they were sending folks east in all sorts of vehicles, behind all sorts of draft animals. "Do you know the Missouri roads, ma’am?" said the clerk in a friendly way.
"I haven’t been on them."
"Ah. Well, ma’am, they have quite a reputation, and it an’t a good one. I myself feel that when we send these folks off, we are sending them into the wilderness. And I can’t speak for the drivers, either. Most of them carry their kegs of highly rectified whiskey with them, within easy reach." He leaned over the desk to me. "Good deal of fighting along the way, ma’am. That’s what we hear. Of course, you can go west."
"West!"
"Yes, ma’am. There’s plenty of room going west to Kansas City, and you can get passage there. You’d think the steamboats would stay away, but they are drawn to it! And the passage is very high now. Twenty dollars or more."
"Twenty dollars! It was twelve, and before that it was eight."
"War is surely a good opportunity, ma’am."
"How much is the stage to Kansas City?"
"Ten dollars, ma’am."
"I have a gal."
"She can ride on top for eight, walk alongside and get up from time to time for four."
"She can walk alongside the stage for four dollars?"
"Yes, ma’am. The driver will allow her to get up four times for ten minutes a time, by his pocket watch."
"That’s—"
"That’s what the market will bear, ma’am." He gave me a cheerful smile and stuck his pencil behind his ear, probably pondering the cascade of money pouring through Independence now that would surely at least trickle in his direction.
Lorna, I have to say, was less than astonished by my report. All she said was, "Den we have to walk. You know de way out o’ dis town?"
Well, I did.
Though we never spoke of it, in the back of both our minds was the knowledge that Papa would soon be looking for us, and the course of action we had chosen, to stay during daylight in Independence and then make off after dark, could easily be the wrong choice. If it had taken us half a day to get from the plantation by pony cart, it would take much less than that for Papa and his friends to gallop there on fresh horses. It all depended upon when they returned from the Harris plantation and how quickly it was revealed that I was gone, Lorna was gone with me, and the pony cart was gone with the both of us. Perhaps because we never spoke of it, it was all too easy to imagine the smoothest and quickest possible pursuit on their part, all too easy to envision that moment of looking up and seeing them, him, Papa, right before you, his little arm raised and something in his hand. A whip? A gun? All too easy to wonder what would happen then, upon discovery. And wondering that seemed to stop me in my tracks, make it impossible to move or act. But perhaps speaking about it would add fancy upon fancy, hers upon mine, mine upon hers. We didn’t dare.
We were impatient for full darkness. When it came, we fixed our hair and got ourselves together and passed out of the now crowded hotel without looking either left or right, me in front, Lorna a step or two behind, me with my head high, Lorna with hers low. I went down the stairs, my hand skimming the banister. I strode through the lower room and looked at no one who was looking at me. I went outside and down the outer steps, which numbered four. I turned left, west, and marched along. I saw that walking to Kansas City was going to be considerably harder in a skirt and light shoes than it had been in trousers and boots, but there was no help for that. We passed men on horseback, men in wagons, men afoot. We passed groups of men, men in twos and threes, solitary men. It seemed that all of them looked first at me and second at Lorna, and all speculated about us, but no one stopped us. We walked on, and soon enough the town gave way to countryside. Just about then, when we were alone, Lorna said, "What time do ya make it?"
I said, "I don’t know. I sold the watch."
That was all we said.
I thought of how, the last time I passed this way, I had crawled under bushes or haystacks to sleep at night and had confidently, more or less, gone my way during the day. I remembered how intent I had been upon finding Samson and Chaney. My resolve had given me the confidence to be a boy, hadn’t it? To march along in broad daylight, booted, trousered, braced, behatted, full of purpose and showing it, like a man. Now we paused in the darkness and listened to noises, looked about us, caught each other’s glance and looked away, dreading the very dread we might see. When others passed us, we drew ourselves into ourselves, aiming to pass unnoticed, trying not to look as if we were ready to flee. Ladylike dignity was the key to safe passage, as boyish self-confidence had been before. And I got tired. Lorna didn’t. She said, "What’s de mattah wid ya? Ya slowin’ down!"
"I’m tired. It’s the middle of the night."
"No, it ain’. My guess, it ain’ pas’ ten. We got to go quick as we ken till daylight. We ken res’ den, though I ain’ goin’ to one o’ dem hotels again! I sweah, dat place was filthy! Missy Helen couldn’ have slep’ a wink deah!"
"I can hardly keep awake."
"I’m jes’ glad I is out in de country walkin’, ’stead o’ sewin’ on Massa Richard’s shirts by candlelight!"
"Is Master Richard a cruel master?"
"No."
"Did he ever beat you?"
"Not so’s you’d notice much. He aim for me wid his razor strap one time. He only yell a lot. He don’ evah beat de boys, ’cause he ain’ big enough. He buy dem off wid presents."
I laughed.
"Why you laughin’?"
"Because that’s not the way the northerners think slaves live."
"Slaves live all differnt. But dey all slaves. Dey all got to do what dey is tol’ to do."
"I didn’t see anyone tell you what to do much at Day’s End Plantation."
"Now you soun’ like Massa Richard. When I come back deah a year ago, he say, ’This place is heaven, Lorna! We all have our work to do and we do it, and then we receive our nourishment and our rest, and we rise to do our work again. It’s all the same for master and servant, Lorna. The world you want to get to is a far darker place than Day’s End Plantation!’ " Her mimicry of Papa’s intonation and way of expressing himself was perfect, and so I laughed again, but then I sobered up and said, "And so it is, Lorna. A woman I know and both of her little boys starved to death not far from me this past winter. I might have, too, but for a friend. What will you do, all alone?"
"I ain’ gone be all alone. My man is buyin’ hisself free."
"Couldn’t he buy you free?"
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p; "Tek ’im twelve yeah to buy hisself! In twelve yeah, I ain’ gone be fit to have babies. Anyway, Massa Richard already done tol’ me dat he don’ want to sell me, ’cause I is de best trained and he cain’ get no one like me no more, wid de ablishinists and all. He say, ’We have to draw upon our own resources, Lorna. Not like former times!’ "
"You sound just like him."
"Well, I been heahin’ ’im talk since I war a youngun. Hush, now."
We quieted, and I could hear horses, more than one, trotting along. Without even thinking about it, I stepped over behind a tree, and Lorna stepped in beside me. We pressed against the tree and looked at each other, making no sound. The horses trotted by, two of them. One of the riders was saying, "... shoulda shot ’im a long time ago, but Halloran wouldn’t let me, haw haw!" It was a regret I had heard often enough—Missouri and Kansas were filled with folks who, in the opinion of other folks, would have been shot long before this if better judgment had prevailed. The horses trotted away, and when we could no longer hear them, we stepped out from behind the tree and resumed walking. I was no longer sleepy. I said, "Why shouldn’t you be a slave, Lorna? What if all those preachers are right, and the Lord says that Negroes are best in slavery?"
"’Cause I don’ want to be, an’ I know my own mine bettah dan dose preachahs know de Lawd’s mine, I think."