The Fiddler's Secret

by Lois Walfrid Johnson

  As he laid out his captain’s coat, he said, “My clothes brush. And where are my shoes?”

  Upset now, Pa looked around. “What’s going on? Everything I need has disappeared!”

  “Uh-oh!” Libby said. “Did Peter offer to help you yesterday?”

  Suddenly Pa stood still. “Why, yes, now that I think of it. When he asked what he could do, I suggested he straighten my cabin.”

  Instead of its usual place on the washstand, Libby found Pa’s toothbrush in his desk. His comb had somehow fallen down between the bed and the wall. His clothes brush and shoes were in a drawer under the bed.

  By the time Pa put on his captain’s coat and hat, he looked exhausted. And Joe Rolette was knocking at the door.

  “Can you manage to find some other way for Peter to help?” Pa asked as Libby scurried out.

  At breakfast Pa told Annika, “I’m going to take a look around today. Would you like to come with me?”

  “I’d like to go,” Annika said, “but I promised to check back with Harriet Bishop. She’s looking for a teaching position for me.”

  Pa looked disappointed. “I’d still like to have you help me teach on the Christina if you’re willing. You could also teach English to immigrants as they travel upstream.”

  Before Annika could answer, Peter jumped in to ask Pa, “How can I help you today? Shall I clean your cabin again?”

  Taking Peter’s slate, Pa wrote quickly, “I’d like your help in another way. If you want to be an explorer, how about going with me?”

  While rousters loaded Joe Rolette’s furs onto the Christina, Pa set out with Peter. From the boat Libby watched them cross the waterfront.

  “Peter gets to be with Pa for a whole day,” she told Annika.

  “Libby, Peter needs a sister just like you,” Annika said gently. “And he needs your pa in the same way that you need him. Your father has enough love for both of you.”

  But Libby’s gaze followed Pa long after he and Peter started up Jackson Street. I’ve always had Pa to myself. My life is changing. I don’t know if I like the changes.

  On the riverfront Libby and Franz watched Jordan and Caleb go from one wagon to the next. Before long they found a farmer headed for the young city of St. Anthony. On his way there, he would pass near Larpenteur’s Lake, where the oxcart drivers camped.

  Franz swung up onto the seat next to the driver while Libby, Caleb, and Jordan climbed in at the back. As they bumped along, Jordan leaned against the high boards at the front of the wagon. His eyes closed, he hummed so softly that Libby could barely hear him.

  When Jordan began singing the words, Franz turned his head to listen. Swaying back and forth with the music, Jordan seemed to forget where he was.

  “Deep River, my home is over Jordan;

  Deep River; Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground;

  Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.”

  As though there had been no months between, Libby remembered the first time she heard Jordan sing. His back raw and bleeding, he sat in the sun while Caleb washed his wounds.

  “Don’t you hate your owner Riggs?” Libby had asked when she learned about the beating.

  “I wants to be angry—to hate him with all my soul,” Jordan told her. “But hatin’ robs your bones of strength, makes you blind when you needs to fight. If you forgive, you be strong.”

  From that moment on, Libby’s life had been forever changed by what she saw in Jordan and his family. For them, crossing a river meant escaping from slavery into a new life of freedom. But it also meant something more. The strong spiritual life that Jordan and his family shared was like a flowing river.

  “Oh, don’t you want to go to that gospel feast,

  That promised land where all is peace?”

  Like a cry the words came from deep within. Softly Franz began to hum along. Jordan’s voice grew stronger and stronger.

  “Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground;

  Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.”

  When the farmer stopped at the trail to Larpenteur’s Lake, Jordan stayed in the wagon as it went on to St. Anthony. Libby, Caleb, and Franz walked the rest of the way to the camp of the oxcart drivers.

  From Pa, Libby had learned that the drivers were of French, Scotch, English, Cree, and Ojibwa ancestry. Each of their carts carried about a thousand pounds of furs from Manitoba and the Red River Valley. Usually the drivers started south in June, and the long walk took about forty days. More than once Pa had wondered why this year they had arrived so late in the season.

  Soon Libby heard the light, quick tunes of a fiddle. As Franz started walking faster, she asked, “Do you think that’s your violin?”

  They found the campsite on the shores of a small lake. Here and there was a covered wagon, but some of the drivers had set up tepees. Others had thrown buffalo hides over their carts to make tents. Nearby, oxen and mules grazed on the prairie grass.

  A few men sat on logs around a campfire and wore blue shirts with metal buttons and red sashes around their waists. Often their faces were dark and lined from being in the wind and sun. Two of the men were shaping new axles for their carts. Other men repaired harnesses for their return trip to the far north.

  Among the drivers were a handful of women and children. The women’s carts were brightly painted, and they had washed crusted mud from the spokes and rim.

  When Libby asked about their carts, a woman explained. “If we cross a river, we take off the wheels and tie four of them together to make a raft.”

  The wheels were bowed, and the drivers used a lining of buffalo hides to protect the furs from water. Now the carts no longer held furs, but some were partly filled with supplies for the trip home and the winter ahead.

  The woman also told Libby why they were late in reaching St. Paul. There had been much sickness. Often axles on the carts broke and needed to be replaced. More than once oxen had stumbled into bogs. What appeared to be solid ground shook for ten or fifteen feet around.

  At the campfire the oxcart driver played one lively tune after another. When he stopped, Franz motioned to the fiddle and asked, “May I?”

  The driver sized Franz up.

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised at once. “I’m a fiddler too.”

  With the bow dancing across the strings, Franz played the melody the driver had just finished. When Franz stopped, he turned the fiddle over. As though liking the feel of the wood, he gently rubbed the back side.

  Carefully Franz handed the fiddle back to its owner. “Do I have the tune right?”

  The other man beamed. “Just about. You have a good ear. I’ll show you the place you’re missing.” Using short, quick bows, the driver played one part of the tune again.

  Tapping his toe and nodding his head in time to the music, Franz hummed along with the fiddle. Finally he said, “Thank you, thank you! Now I have it! Whenever I play your song, I’ll think of you.”

  “And I you!” As the driver bowed low, his red sash touched the ground. “When I tell my children of this moment, I will say a great man played my fiddle.”

  Leaving the camp behind, Libby, Caleb, and Franz started back to the trail that led to St. Anthony and St. Paul.

  “Was it your violin?” Libby asked.

  Franz shook his head. “But a gut one it is. Did you hear how sweetly she sang? The man not only has a gut fiddle. He is an excellent fiddler. That is why he saved his gold for an even better violin.”

  Now Franz looked disappointed. “So close we came to finding my violin. The oxcart driver thought the thief didn’t really want to sell it. Much, much gold he wanted. No one could buy it.”

  “Do you collect songs wherever you go?” Libby asked. “Is that how you learned to play different kinds of music?”

  Franz smiled. “I was a child when my nurse took me on visits to her village. I danced to the tunes of country fiddlers. Their music entered my blood, and I never forgot it.”

  Soon they reache
d the trail where stagecoaches ran twice a day between St. Paul and St. Anthony. The stage heading back to St. Paul came first, and Franz swung aboard. Before long another stage stopped to take Libby and Caleb to St. Anthony.

  “We have another clue,” Libby said as the horses moved out.

  “I know,” Caleb answered. “If Franz had a nurse take care of him when he was a boy, he came from a well-to-do family.”

  “I’ve been thinking about something else.” Libby remembered the day the fiddler didn’t answer when she called him Mr. Kadosa. “I think Franz is his real first name. That’s why he asked us to use it.”

  Soon the stagecoach brought them to the east side of the Mississippi River. Looking ahead, Libby saw the five-story brick building that was the Winslow House in St. Anthony. A high flight of steps led up to the main entrance of the hotel.

  Near that entrance Libby noticed a swift blur of color. Someone ran down the steps, across the road, then down more steps to the riverbank. Libby leaned forward to see. Could that possibly be Jordan? He was too far away to be sure.

  As the stage drew closer, Libby saw a well-dressed man standing at the top of the hotel steps. In his hand was a gold-headed cane. Forgotten now was the blur of someone running—the person Libby could barely see. The man on the steps held her full attention.

  “I have a terrible feeling,” she whispered. “Do you think Mr. Thompson understood that Jordan is a fugitive?”

  Caleb knew exactly what she was saying. “He probably thought Jordan was a free black like himself, that Jordan has freedom papers and it was safe to send him here. He might be in big trouble.”

  When the stage came to a stop, Libby’s guess turned into a nightmare. The tightness in her stomach changed to a fear she couldn’t push aside.

  “Caleb,” Libby said, barely able to speak. “Look who’s standing on the steps.”

  Caleb glanced that way, then jerked to attention. “Is that really Riggs?” Not only was the man Jordan’s owner and most dreaded enemy. He was a cruel slave trader as well.

  Caleb balled his fists in anger. “Of all the places in the world where Riggs might be! How could Jordan possibly come to the same hotel?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Dreaded Friend

  Riggs must be here to escape the heat.” Libby’s voice was small.

  “Well, I guess it’s not such a big surprise,” Caleb answered. “Your pa said that of all the hotels in the area, this is the one people from the South like best. It has every luxury a hotel can offer and a view of the falls besides.”

  Just then the stagecoach driver climbed down from his high seat. Opening the door, he called, “Everybody out!” But Libby could not move.

  When the driver tried to hurry them along, Caleb said, “We’ve decided to go a bit farther.”

  “Can’t go any farther. End of the line.”

  Caleb glanced around. Riggs still stood on the top step at the main hotel entrance. It wasn’t hard to see that he was searching for someone.

  “We can’t get out,” Libby whispered. “That must have been Jordan running away. If Riggs sees us, he’ll have no doubt that Jordan is here.”

  “We’ll wait in the stagecoach,” Caleb told the driver. “We’ll ride with you back to St. Paul.”

  “That’s at least an hour from now,” the driver said. He tipped his head toward the hotel. “You’ll have to wait inside.”

  Instead, Caleb stood up, grasped the handle on the far side of the stagecoach, and opened the door. When he stepped down, Libby followed him. The stagecoach stood between them and the man on the steps.

  “Keep your back to Riggs,” Caleb whispered to Libby. “Pretend you’re enjoying a walk.”

  Caleb crooked his arm, and Libby took it. From his high seat on the coach, the driver called to his horses, “Giddyup!”

  But Libby had no time to enjoy her first view of the beautiful falls. Instead, she prickled with nervousness. It took all her willpower to not look around to see if Riggs was still on the steps, watching.

  Without turning his head even to talk with Libby, Caleb kept his back to the Winslow House. Just as Libby felt she could no longer bear the suspense, they reached the river.

  Ahead lay two islands, with Hennepin on their left and the larger Nicollet Island off to their right. Sloping sharply downward, the riverbank looked muddy, as if from recent rains.

  “It’s going to be slippery,” Caleb said. “Hang on to my arm and don’t make a scene. When we’re halfway down, Riggs won’t be able to see us.”

  Libby felt sure that the minute she stepped onto the miry bank she would sink in. When she drew back, Caleb tugged her arm and moved ahead.

  It was every bit as bad as Libby expected. As they walked down the bank into the lower land next to the river, Libby slipped, but Caleb hung on. The next instant her right foot sank deep in the soft ground.

  Libby stopped, afraid. “Are there snakes here?”

  “Probably. Keep moving.” Caleb tugged on her arm. “We aren’t out of sight yet.”

  As Libby stepped forward, her left foot also sank deep. Within two more steps, mud rose to her ankles, almost oozing into her high-top shoes.

  Libby gasped. “Oh, Caleb, I can’t stand it!”

  “You have to!” Caleb’s voice did not allow her to disagree. “If Riggs catches Jordan, it’s his life. Keep going no matter what!”

  Struggling to pull out her feet but sinking again at each step, Libby wailed, “But where are we going?”

  “First, out of sight. Second, to find Jordan. He must have seen Riggs and that’s what sent him running.”

  “You think Jordan is here?”

  “Where else can he be? Somehow we have to get him to a place where he’s safe.”

  Ahead of Libby lay the edge of the river. Keeping her gaze on the rocks, she moved on. Soon the pounding rush of the waterfalls drowned out even Caleb’s shouted words.

  Caught by the swiftly moving current, huge logs rode free, tumbling over the falls to the calmer water below. Caleb turned upstream, following the edge of the river.

  Before long they reached a large sawmill. Great piles of logs filled the land along the river. Nearby stood a smaller gristmill. Outside, horses stood harnessed to farm wagons while their owners waited for their grain to be ground.

  Only when they stepped behind a pile of logs did Caleb stop. Peering around one end, he looked back. Libby turned with him.

  At least two blocks behind them, the Winslow House rose higher than the surrounding buildings. Caleb was right. If Riggs was still standing on the front steps, he was out of sight.

  As Caleb faced upstream again, he dropped Libby’s arm. Caleb moved ahead quickly now, thinking only about finding Jordan.

  Across the river on the west bank was another sawmill and gristmill. Still an infant village, Minneapolis was no match for the sprawling village of St. Anthony, which lay along the east bank of the falls. With its many frame houses built from lumber sawed in the mills, St. Anthony looked like views Libby had seen of small New England cities.

  By now the panic in her stomach had settled into a tight, hard knot. “If Jordan is here, where can he be?”

  Caleb shook his head. “Most anywhere. St. Anthony has over four thousand people!”

  “If only we had some way to know which direction Jordan went,” Libby answered. “Peter gave us a secret sign. Do you think Jordan would remember?”

  They began by searching for his boot prints, but the muddy land was filled with countless tracks. Then, near a bridge to Nicollet Island, Libby saw what she hoped for.

  “Look!” She pointed down. “Peter’s fish! And the head of the fish points toward the island!”

  After crossing the bridge to the island, they checked the ground again. This time a fish pointed off to the right. As with the first fish, it had been drawn in a hurry.

  From one secret sign to the next, Libby and Caleb followed Jordan. Sometimes the fish were easy to find. Other times they were half hidde
n, as if drawn while Jordan knelt beneath a bush. His trail headed up the island past a house, then looped around, coming back to a wooded area close to the falls.

  When at last they caught up with Jordan, he had found refuge in a clump of trees. Watered by the spray of the rapids, the leaves were so thick that they hid Jordan completely. Without the sign of the fish, they might have missed him.

  As Jordan looked up and saw them, he trembled. “If Riggs can find me here—here in Minnesota Territory—where can I be free?” Gone was all the confidence that Jordan usually displayed.

  “You’ll be okay,” Caleb told him.

  For Jordan, who had grown used to hiding from slave catchers, there was something much bigger. “But my family sent me here to spy out the land. Where can they be safe?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Caleb said, trying to encourage him.

  They decided to try for help at one of the mills. Walking back, Caleb found a farmer who planned to drive across the prairie to St. Paul.

  Soon after Caleb returned to Jordan and Libby, the farmer drove close to the Nicollet Island bridge and stopped his horses. When Jordan started to stand up, Caleb said, “Wait for the signal. He’ll get water.”

  Libby was curious. “How did you know who to ask?”

  “I prayed,” Caleb told her. “Then I started asking questions. This man took me aside, as if he guessed what I needed.”

  The sun had passed its highest point when the farmer picked up a bucket from the back of the wagon. At the river he filled it with water.

  “That means there’s no one watching,” Caleb told Jordan as the farmer started watering his horses. “When you get to his wagon, there will be two burlap bags. Crawl into one of them and pull the other over your head.”

  Following Jordan, Libby and Caleb sat with him in the back of the wagon. Surrounded by the high board sides, they rode to St. Paul.

  “Did Riggs see you?” Libby asked Jordan when he pushed the burlap bag away from his face.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I took one look at him and took off like a bolt of lightning.”