The Fiddler's Secret

by Lois Walfrid Johnson

  Annika saw her and asked, “What’s wrong, Libby?”

  When she finished telling them, Pa had another question. “Do you know the man’s name?”

  Libby shook her head. “He looked like Mr. Trouble to me.”

  “Give me his description again.”

  “Tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Cruel lines around his mouth.” Libby told about the drawing in the safe.

  “I’ll get my best men working on it,” Pa said. “We haven’t much time before we reach St. Paul. But if they see the drawing, they can begin to search.”

  Pa started off, then came back. “I love you, Libby,” he said. “Remember that, okay? Bring your blankets to my cabin tonight. You can make a bed on the floor.”

  Partway across the deck, Pa turned back a second time. “That man has it in for you, Libby. Wherever you go, take Samson along.”

  “I wonder what’s going on,” Libby said to Annika after Pa left. Spreading her hand wide, she counted on her fingers. “First, the tall man in the shadows of the main cabin. Black hat and long, black coat.”

  “Second—” Libby ticked off another finger. “The short, thin man on the main deck. Hair slicked down, collar so high that it looked as if he has no neck. He’s the one who threatened Jordan, saying, ‘I know you’re Micah Parker’s son.’”

  Libby drew a long breath. “Third, the man I drew on the deck for first-class passengers. Tall, brown hair, blue eyes. Cruel lines around his mouth. And no doubt, the man who searched my room.” Just thinking about it, Libby’s stomach knotted again.

  “Maybe it’s like children in a classroom,” Annika said. “If they’re troublemakers, they always manage to find each other.”

  “You mean they’ve found each other on the Christina? And we can expect more trouble?”

  “Maybe,” Annika said. “Your pa would know better than I.”

  Half an hour later, Libby and Peter watched from the hurricane deck as the Christina rounded the bend a mile below St. Paul. As the steamboat whistled its long, deep blast, Libby saw the city against the last rose color of the sunset.

  Near the riverfront stood large warehouses. On higher ground homes and businesses spread across the bluff. Rising above all the other buildings, church steeples pointed upward.

  Then a high, squealing noise shattered the peace. As the bloodcurdling sound cut through to her bones, Libby trembled. Is this what it means to come to Minnesota Territory?

  When she turned to Peter, his happy look had not changed. But Wellington yipped and squirmed, rubbing his paws against his ears.

  The high-pitched squeal kept on and on. Unlike anything Libby had ever heard, the sound terrified her. Leaping up, she ran to her father’s cabin.

  “It’s the Red River oxcarts,” he said, meeting her at the door. “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Oxcarts?” Libby whirled around. Ahead, she could see nothing but an island and the buildings on the bluffs.

  “Two-wheeled carts filled with furs,” Pa explained. “They come from Pembina, way up at the edge of Minnesota Territory, near the Canadian border. The drivers don’t use grease on the axles. It’s wood turning on wood. People say they hear the squeal for miles.”

  Libby believed it. Though she couldn’t see the carts, the noise was so loud that Pa had to talk above it.

  Going to the railing, he stared upstream. “Usually the drivers reach St. Paul in July. I wonder why they’re here this late in the season?”

  Pa turned to leave. “There might be a hundred carts or more. I need to talk to the passengers. They’ll be frightened too.”

  Libby went back to Peter. By now the Christina was close enough for them to see the steamboat landing. Peter still tried to hold Wellington in his arms, but the dog wiggled and squirmed, yipping continually.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Peter asked.

  Libby pointed to the dog’s ears, made a face showing pain, then covered her own ears with her hands.

  “Do you have an earache?” Peter asked. “Does Wellington have an earache?”

  Libby took Peter’s slate. “Oxcarts,” she wrote. “High squeal. Hurts Wellington’s ears. Mine too.”

  Libby motioned toward the streets of St. Paul. “Watch,” she signed. “Maybe we’ll see them.”

  Four other steamboats had already tied up at the Lower Landing. Mr. Fletcher, the pilot, guided the Christina to the flat area of land that was the levee.

  Beyond the waterfront a dirt street led up the steep bluff. There Libby saw the oxcarts pass by. Their wheels were huge—five feet high or so. The drivers walked beside their oxen.

  As the Christina’s deckhands threw out the lines, Libby hurried down to the main deck to watch. She found Caleb standing near where the gangplank would go down. Seeing him there told Libby that he, too, was eager to visit St. Paul.

  The line of first-class passengers waiting to go on shore were backed up the stairway. Near the steps on the side away from the gangplank, Oliver White stood along the wall. On the deck next to him was his large trunk.

  I wonder how he got back there, Libby thought, surprised that he hadn’t pushed his way to the head of the line. Then Libby saw that Mr. White was talking with Annika.

  Uh-oh! Libby thought. I hope they aren’t becoming friends. She disliked even the thought.

  The squeal of oxcarts went on and on. Then, to Libby’s relief, it finally stopped. Through the opening between warehouses, she saw men start to unload their carts.

  The moment the Christina’s gangplank went out, the first-class passengers streamed across. Waiting their turn, deckers stood with baggage ready and children in hand. The tired, worn look Libby had often seen on the immigrants’ faces was gone. Instead, their eyes were full of hope, their voices eager. The sound of several languages filled the air.

  In the long twilight after sunset, a man carried a young boy across the gangplank. Once clear of the crowd, the man set the boy on his feet and pointed down.

  “Minnesota Territory,” he said. “Sure and if we aren’t in the land of opportunity.” Dropping to his knees, the man kissed the ground. His son dropped down beside him.

  Libby couldn’t imagine herself kneeling in the dirt, touching her lips to the trampled soil of the landing. Yet as she looked around, a woman did the same thing. When she rose to her feet again, excitement lit her face.

  I’ve never really understood, Libby thought. With both Pa and Auntie, I’ve always had a home, a safe place.

  Forgetting everything else, Libby watched the people leave the Christina. Young and old. Single and married. Couples with no children. Parents with few or many children. Some with little baggage, others with much. All with one look. They were eager to begin a new life.

  The fiddler stood among them. Waiting in line, Franz held a carpetbag in one hand and his violin case in the other. Ahead of him a woman with two children balanced a large cloth bag on her shoulder. In spite of the warm evening, she wore a heavy black coat.

  As she started onto the gangplank, the woman reached down, took the hand of the youngest child, and motioned for the other girl to follow. Halfway across the gangplank, the older girl looked down at the dark water and froze.

  Caleb started over to help, but Franz set his belongings on a crate and hurried forward. Taking the child’s hand, he led her safely across.

  Other immigrants streamed forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Libby caught a quick movement. Then the crowd shifted, and Libby saw Franz again.

  “Tank you, tank you,” the woman said as she reached the levee.

  “You’ll be fine now?” he asked. “You have someone to meet you?”

  “Yah, my husband, he meet me here.” The woman pointed to the piece of paper pinned to her coat. It read St. Paul, Minnesota Territory. “My husband, he come here to work, save money to bring us to America.” She touched the blond hair of the youngest child. “This one he has never seen.”

  Franz wished the woman well and hurried back across the gangplank to the Christina. Wh
en he reached the crate where he had left his violin and carpetbag, his smile disappeared. Suddenly he cried out. “My violin! It is gone!”

  As Libby whirled around, a tall man slipped through the door into the cargo room.

  “Caleb!” Libby called, and the two tore after the man. In the dimly lit area they raced between piles of freight, following the sound of running footsteps.

  Before long the footsteps stopped. Libby and Caleb stopped to listen. From one side of the boat, Libby heard a door close.

  Caleb leaped into action. Libby followed him through the cargo area to the engine room. On the far side Caleb flung open the door. When he and Libby came out on the side deck, it was empty.

  Together they raced along the deck back toward the front of the boat. When Caleb rounded the corner, he stopped so suddenly that Libby crashed into him. Together they scanned the crowd of immigrants still waiting to leave. Not one person moved quickly, as though trying to flee.

  Caleb frowned. “Whoever that thief is, he’s mighty bold.”

  “Did you see his face?” Libby asked.

  Neither of them had managed to get a good look. Angry at his failure to catch the man, Caleb pounded his fist against his hand.

  To Libby’s relief Annika was no longer talking to Oliver White. He still stood next to his trunk, waiting for the crowded front deck to clear. Looking concerned, he asked, “Did you find anything?”

  Caleb shook his head. Moving between the deckers, he and Libby made their way over to Franz.

  “Where is it?” he asked. “Where is my violin?”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Pawnshop

  It is my work!” the fiddler cried. “The way I earn my living. But it is more!”

  Growing more frantic by the minute, Mr. Kadosa ran his fingers through his hair. “From one father to the next my violin has come. Now I teach it to my son. It is—” He paused to think of the word. “It is great value.”

  “Very valuable,” Caleb said.

  Suddenly the fiddler broke into a language Libby didn’t recognize. Just as suddenly he broke off to speak in English. “I come to America because people said it is the land of opportunity. I say it is the land of thieves!”

  “Oh no!” Libby exclaimed. “Because one man steals doesn’t mean everyone steals. When one person does something wrong, it doesn’t mean everyone will treat you that way!”

  Libby thought of the cruel slave catchers who wanted the reward on Jordan’s head. Yet a slave owner’s wife had tried to protect Jordan’s family.

  “Even if a whole group of people is unkind, it doesn’t mean everyone in our country is unkind,” Libby went on. “No matter where you go—north, east, south, west—there are good people.”

  His eyes filled with pain, the fiddler shook his head. “Wherever I go people ask me how long I have played the violin. I can’t remember. I was the age of my son when I stood on a chair to play. And now it is gone. All gone!”

  “Maybe not,” Caleb said. “We need to go to the police.”

  “The police?” The fiddler’s eyes filled with fear. “Nein! Not the police!”

  For a moment Caleb stood there thinking. “In America the police are friends to good people,” he said. “The police will help us.”

  The fiddler shook his head. “Nein, nein, nein!”

  “The police will help us find your violin.”

  “Nein, nein, nein!”

  “We’re wasting time,” Caleb answered. “We need to catch the thief at once. Come with us to the police. You don’t have to go in. I’ll talk to them.”

  Still looking uneasy, Franz followed Caleb across the levee. When they reached the police station, the fiddler waited outside with Libby.

  Soon Caleb returned. “I did my best,” he told Franz. “But I don’t know if they’ll find your violin.”

  From the police station they walked to the Pioneer and Democrat newspaper office. There they found someone working late. Caleb helped the fiddler place an ad offering a reward for the return of his violin.

  “We can’t do any more tonight,” Caleb told the fiddler as they started back to the Lower Landing. “All the shops are closed. Tomorrow Libby and I will help you search.”

  Near the river the streets became more and more crowded. It seemed that every spare inch of ground had been taken. Many immigrants had turned the tops of their trunks into tables. One family had stretched canvas between two barrels to make a roof.

  Seeing the small shelters in which people slept upset Libby. “People are living in the streets!”

  “When navigation opened in May, three thousand people arrived in four days,” Caleb said. “It’s kept up all summer.”

  “But soon winter will come!” Libby knew that many people would pass into the countryside and begin to farm. Yet she felt sure that others wanted to stay and find work in the city.

  “Hotels and boardinghouses are filled to overflowing,” Caleb told her. “Even if people have the money to pay, there’s nowhere in St. Paul to go.”

  It wasn’t hard to figure out that Franz needed a place to spend the night. “Come back to the Christina with us,” Libby invited. “I’ll ask Pa if you can live on the boat till we leave. We’ll help you find your violin.”

  Early the next morning, Libby stood on the main deck, waiting for the gangplank to go down. When Caleb, Jordan, and Peter joined her, Wellington came along.

  The minute the deckhands put out the gangplank, Wellington tore across the levee.

  Samson raced after him, following the smaller dog up Jackson Street.

  At first Libby didn’t worry about the dogs running ahead. Whenever they left the boat, they needed exercise. Stopping here and there to look around, Caleb and Jordan took their time in following. But when the dogs got farther and farther away, Libby hurried to catch up. She didn’t trust Wellington.

  Before long the terrier headed down a side street. Reaching an area of homes and fenced-in yards, Wellington scared up a rabbit. Dodging this way and that, the rabbit fled under a boardwalk. Pushing his nose into the hole, Wellington yapped until the rabbit ran out the other side.

  Again the dog took up the chase. When Peter called him back, Wellington didn’t obey. Upset now, Libby faced Peter, pointed to the dog, and signed her strongest “No!”

  A moment later the rabbit disappeared under a white picket fence. Wellington burrowed under the fence after him. Samson came to a halt and peered between the pickets.

  Along one side of the house, the rabbit raced to a small vegetable garden. When he disappeared, Wellington sniffed his way after him until the rabbit bounded off. This time he got away.

  Libby breathed a sigh of relief. But when Peter called, Wellington still didn’t obey. Off again, he burrowed his nose in the dirt of the garden.

  “What’s wrong with your dog?” Libby signed.

  “He knows how to drive game from holes in the ground,” Peter answered proudly. “He’s just doing what is natural for him.”

  “Well, teach him to do what isn’t natural!” Libby said, then felt glad that Peter hadn’t heard. By comparison, Samson was a model dog.

  Now Wellington was digging. As dirt flew out behind his paws, Peter opened the gate and raced into the yard. When he tried to pick up the dog, Wellington leaped away.

  Uh-oh! Libby thought, but this time even Peter was upset. Already Wellington was digging another big hole. As the mound of dirt rose behind the dog, Peter grabbed him.

  While Peter held the dog in his arms, Libby filled in the holes. Soon her hands and feet were covered with dirt. When she finished, she could be glad for only one thing. At least the terrier hadn’t broken off any plants.

  Then Libby discovered that Samson was gone. Hurrying out of the garden, she looked up and down the street. Farther down the block, Caleb and Jordan were watching a man build a large house. His mouth stretched wide in a grin, Samson sat on his haunches beside them.

  As Libby and Peter caught up, Jordan spoke to the carpenter on the l
adder.

  “You want to talk with me, son?” the man asked as he climbed down.

  “Will you tell me what it’s like for our people to live in Minnesota Territory?” Jordan asked.

  The man offered his hand. “I’m James Thompson.”

  “Jordan Parker.”

  “Been here long, Jordan?” Mr. Thompson asked.

  “Came into St. Paul yesterday. What about you?”

  Mr. Thompson smiled. “Since a long while before you were born. A Methodist missionary needed an interpreter with the Indians, and I started working for him. He bought my papers and set me free.”

  Mr. Thompson slipped his hammer through a loop in his overalls and sat down on a keg of nails. “Do I like living in St. Paul? Yes, I do. I like building houses here. Have you seen how crowded it is?”

  Jordan nodded. “People livin’ in the streets. But someone said if there’s money, a man can build a house in a day.”

  “A shack in a day,” Mr. Thompson answered. “Not the kind of houses I build. In winter the wind blows straight down from the north. The cold goes right into your bones. My houses keep people warm.”

  Mr. Thompson looked Jordan in the eyes. “Why do you ask about Minnesota Territory?”

  “I want a place where my momma and my daddy and my sisters and my brother can live safe and free. If we have to be cold, we’ll be cold, but will we be free?”

  Mr. Thompson met Jordan’s gaze straight on. “Living in Minnesota Territory is like living anywhere. If you let yourself be free, you will be.”

  That’s a strange answer, Libby thought. She felt sure Mr. Thompson wasn’t telling Jordan to do whatever he pleased. What does he mean?

  “Are you free to live?” Mr. Thompson asked.

  Jordan nodded. “Free to earn my own way. Free to read and write.”

  “Free to vote?”

  Jordan drew himself up. “Now you’re makin’ fun of me. There isn’t any colored man who votes.”

  Mr. Thompson smiled. “Not yet, but that’s part of what the problem in St. Paul is about. The Democrats and Republicans are supposed to be writing a state constitution together. Instead, they’re so upset with each other, they’re meeting in separate conventions. The new Republican Party wants to give us colored men the right to vote.”