Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  “It does, best I can figure.”

  “Still planning to farm a cash crop?”

  “I am.”

  “Cash crop needs to get to market.”

  “It does. We might not be able to start with a cash crop right off, but once the railroad comes, we’ll be able to get a cash crop to market.”

  “Waitin’ on the railroad could take some time.”

  “It likely will, Pa, but it will come; and when it does, it will change everything.”

  “I hope you’re right, son. For both your sakes, I hope you’re right.”

  Ma reached for her handkerchief as she did each time the subject came up.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  * * *

  The sun was full up by the time the cow was milked and the stock fed. The boys went off to the house for breakfast. Micah crossed the yard through a flock of pecking chickens to the cabin in the sycamores. He clumped up the step and swung through the door to the smells of bacon and coffee.

  “Sure smells good in here to a hungry man.”

  Clare glanced over her shoulder at the stove, turning sizzling bacon strips. “Food always smells good to you.”

  “Wagon seal looks set up good enough to start packin’. Have you finished patching the canvas cover?”

  “I have; it’s ready to put up. I’ve also made a list. It’s on the table.”

  “I’ve got the list. I’ve been checkin’ things off right along as we collected them.”

  She smiled. “Not that list. This list puts things in order for packing. Hard goods we’ll need when we homestead go first near the front. Stores go next in the middle. Daily things we’ll need while we travel toward the back where they’re easy to unload for the night.”

  He picked up the list and read. He shook his head, set the list down, and crossed the dirt floor. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck below the ear. “You do think of everything.”

  “Just bein’ practical is all. Now you be practical, too, Micah Mason, or you’ll have me burn this bacon.”

  There. Micah wiped sweat from his hands on his britches. He surveyed the first part of his wagon load, estimating the room remaining for the balance of the load. He started with the awkwardly shaped plow. He took it apart and lashed the frame and blades snug against the back of the wagon box. He packed smaller farm implements and basic building tools next, along with seasonal items like snowshoes. He lashed that part of the load to the sides of the wagon in a fashion to hold it from shifting. He brought the team up from the barn and hitched the mules to the wagon. Clare stepped out of the cabin, adjusted her sunbonnet, and stepped off the porch. Micah smiled.

  “Just in time.”

  She peered over the wagon gate to inspect the long-term load, mentally checking that the butter churn was properly packed. Food stores would come next, followed by the items they would need daily along the trail.

  “May I?”

  He helped her up to the wagon box. He walked around the team checking the harnesses as he made his way to the driver’s side. He climbed into the box, released the brake, and clucked to the team. The traces engaged with a lurch down the road into town.

  Marlin Fitzweiler wiped his hands on his apron, greeting them with a wave from the boardwalk outside the Hudson Mercantile.

  “Pull around back to the loading platform, Micah. It’ll make handling an order this size easier.”

  Moments later Micah and Clare stepped off the wagon box onto the loading platform at the back of the store. Marlin met them there with a hundred-pound sack of flour. The rest of the order was assembled, waiting for them inside. Micah let down the wagon gate and stepped inside. He hefted the flour and carried it to the front of the wagon. Clare stood on the platform with the list checking off the items as Marlin brought them out to the wagon.

  Thirty pounds of hardtack, seventy-five pounds of bacon, ten pounds of rice, five pounds of coffee, twenty-five pounds of sugar, ten pounds of salt, and one keg of vinegar. Marlin rolled an empty thirty-five-gallon barrel out to the platform.

  “You’ll need this for water, Micah. You can mount it on the wagon when you get back to the farm. No charge for the barrel.”

  “Much obliged for that, Marlin. What do we owe you for the rest of it?”

  The shopkeeper wiped his brow on the hem of his apron. He drew a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Micah. “A hundred forty-three dollars should do it.”

  Clare opened her purse and counted out the bills.

  “Where you folks headed?”

  “Kansas.”

  “What takes you there?”

  “Land. Land and the promise of a rail route to the Pacific. When that happens the market for a cash crop like wheat or corn will stretch as far as the rails will take it.”

  “Sounds like a lot depends on a rail route that hasn’t been chosen yet.”

  “No, it hasn’t, but look at the Baltimore & Ohio. They’re betting a whole lot more than we are on a central route that picks up commercial interests in Chicago and along the Mississippi.”

  “Well I sure hope that part works out for you. Paper says according to that Kansas-Nebraska Act, the vote will decide slavery for the territory. The Plain Dealer says it’s likely to be controversial with Missouri for a neighbor. Controversial sounds violent to hear Brother Brown tell it.”

  “We’ve heard Brother Brown testify in church. I’m hopeful the right of it can be resolved peaceably.”

  “I hope you’re right about that, too, but I’d be careful if I were you. You didn’t order caps, powder, or lead. Are you properly armed?”

  “I am, though you make a good point. Best add some of all that to the order.”

  Clare furrowed her brow and followed the men into the store.

  They finished packing that afternoon. They added ground corn, canned tomatoes, and half bushels of apples and beans to the food stores. Clare oversaw the last of the load, arranging the things they would need on the way west. They made a bed for sleeping and covered it with a small table, two chairs, a bench, and spare clothing. Last came the coffee grinder, pot, cookware, dishes, water bucket, oil lamp, and candles. Clare nodded, brushing an errant strand of hair off her smudged cheek.

  Micah closed the wagon gate as the sun drifted behind the cabin roof. He’d carry the smooth bore cap and ball musket in the wagon box along with a .44 Colt Dragoon and first-aid kit. There’d be time for that in the morning. He put his arm around Clare.

  “Ma’ll have supper on pretty soon.”

  “Do we say our good-byes tonight or in the morning?”

  “Let’s let Ma and Pa decide that. Any other good-byes you feel needful?”

  She glanced far away. “Maybe we could stop by the cemetery on the way out of town. I’ll take a bouquet for my parents’ last respects.”

  They walked up to the family farmhouse as the supper bell rang.

  Next morning, they were all there at sunup to see them off. The girls cried. The boys put on their best manly demeanor. Jimmy, the next oldest, shook Micah’s hand and accepted responsibility for helping Pa. Pa choked a little on “Good luck, son.” Ma gave both of them a tearful hug.

  “You be sure to write and let us know when you settle.”

  Micah nodded around a lump in his throat and helped Clare up to the wagon box. He climbed into the driver’s seat and gathered the lines. He took one last look at the family and farm he’d known as home the whole of his life. He released the brake with a wave and clucked to the team. They rocked down the dirt drive to the town road and turned southwest to pick up the National Road west at Columbus.

  Jackson County, Missouri

  June, 1854

  Hot. High summer afforded folks precious little relief from heat’s vise-like grip. Even the wind blew hot when it blew. When it didn’t, the air shimmered in steamy layers, soaking a person to the pores. Today Caleb didn’t mind the heat. He added rock salt to the churn and cranked. He wiped sweat from his eyes with a faded b
andanna long gone damp with the chore. A hot summer Sunday was good for fishing or splashing in the creek. On a day like today, it was also good for an ice cream social.

  Massa Ruben invited his neighbors to come by after church. Caleb was put to making ice cream. He kept making it, too, even after they had enough for the white folks. Massa Ruben gave him a wink and nod to be sure to make enough for his folk and them as came attending the massa’s guests. They’d have a cool, sweet treat from the heat this afternoon.

  Massa Morgan Walker was among the first to arrive with his wife and son. Miriam, eighteen this summer, come along, too. Eighteen this summer, she might be by now. She spotted him while she helped Mrs. Morgan Walker down from the carriage. The family went off to the plantation house. Miriam come down to the ice house, where ice cream making was in progress. She sashayed down the path through the trees with a saucy swivel to her step, wearing that half smile that always made him wonder what might be coming next.

  “Afternoon, Caleb.”

  “I believe it is. Yes, sir, it surely is.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me. I’m a woman.”

  “Promoted yourself from girl already? Why you must be eighteen now, huh.”

  “Close enough. Records ain’t none too certain on such matters. I reckon you’re glad enough to see me,” she said, taking a seat on a hay bale.

  He added more salt to the ice. “Oh, I don’t know, you seem glad enough for both of us.”

  She pulled a pout and crossed her arms across her chest. “That’s a poor way for a man to greet his intentioned.”

  “That again.”

  “Yes, that again. You ain’t forgot, has you?”

  “I ain’t forgot you got the notion. How’s the house work progressin’?”

  “So far he mostly leaves me be ’cept for the watchin’. I ’spect it’ll come to no good afore too long. You want me, Caleb, it be time we get to jumpin’ that broom.”

  He paused the crank. “I believe this batch be stiff enough.”

  “All you got to talk about is ice cream?”

  He chuckled. “That be firmin’ up, too. What if it don’t work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he don’t lose interest over you bein’ taken to wife?”

  “We won’t know lessen we try.”

  “We still ain’t got the answer to which one of us gets sold. Won’t do no good to wed if we ain’t together.”

  “I told you to think on that. You mean you ain’t come up with a plan yet?”

  “Not one with a ghost of a chance it might work.” He waved over a boy to run the finished batch of ice cream up to the house. He poured cream batter and maple syrup into the churn.

  “Make yourself useful and fetch me some ice.”

  She knit her brow in a scowl and did as she was told.

  Caleb repacked the churn in ice, added salt, and returned to turning the crank.

  Miriam sat on the hay bale, hunched elbows to knees, and rested her chin on her fists. She fixed him with those deep, brown eyes no man could deny.

  “There’s one way we can jump the broom and be together.”

  “Well that’s good to know. How could I have missed it? And what would that be?”

  “Run away.”

  He stopped mid crank. “And I thought jumpin’ broom was a crazy notion. You ever seen what they do to runaway folks?”

  “I heard stories.”

  “I seen it. Miriam, eighteen this summer, you don’t want no part of that.”

  “That’s only if they catch you.”

  “But that’s what they do. They send Jacob Herd and them dogs of his after you. They catch you and bring you back to teach the folks watchin’ a nasty lesson. You might not think them carnal house chores is so bad compared to that.”

  “You don’t care enough for me you’d let that snot nose white boy have his way with me?”

  “I care enough not to want to see you bad hurt for a runaway slave.”

  “Good. That’d be it then.”

  “That’d be what?”

  “We jump the broom tonight after supper.”

  “You’re crazy, girl!”

  “Crazy in love with you. And you’re in love with me. You just ain’t admitted it in so many words just yet.”

  “Jump the broom and live apart.” He shook his head.

  “Like I said, we run away.”

  “That’s silly talk.”

  “All we got to do is get us to Kansas. It ain’t far, and it’s fillin’ up with Abolitionist Yankees who run them railroads under the ground. We’ll be safe there before that slave catcher can round up his dogs.”

  “You mean underground railroad. The heat must a’ got to your mind, girl. You wouldn’t have the least notion how to find one.”

  “Get on with makin’ ice cream. We got us a celebration tonight.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  “And here I thought this all might just be a bad dream.”

  “What do you need bad dreams for? Look at me. You got a better offer?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  * * *

  Indiana

  June 1854

  The National Road stretched a broad thoroughfare from its trans-Appalachian origins all the way to Illinois, paving the way to westward expansion. This leg of the journey rolled across a flat, grassy landscape punctuated by small farms, cultivated fields, scattered hamlets, and inviting inns. The towns offered brief respites from the rigors of the road, but most nights they camped beside the road and slept in the wagon bed. The folks they encountered on the road were freighters shipping produce east or manufactured and imported goods west. Others were neighborly to some nearby town or the occasional drummer peddling his wares. They didn’t see much by way of other travelers headed west. That’d likely come further on toward St. Louis.

  After a few weeks on the road they had their daily routine down. They’d drive until late afternoon, then find a shady spot or an inviting stream to camp alongside. They’d first see to the mules. Much to Micah’s surprise, Clare took a hand in that. She seemed to enjoy tending them with a brush or the water bucket. With the mules picketed to graze, they’d unpack the table and chairs along with the cookware to get on with the business of fixing supper. Most nights they relaxed at table after the meal, enjoying a little restful conversation. One pleasant evening with crickets chirping and frogs croaking Clare said, “They’re such sweet willing workers.”

  “Who?”

  “The mules. They’re not at all what folks lead you to expect.”

  Micah glanced toward the shapes picketed in shadow beyond the circle of lamplight near the creak. “They are a good pair.” He smiled.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I just never figured you for a mule-skinner.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Please, that sounds so nasty.”

  “That’s why it’s funny.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. They’re both so sweet they deserve names.”

  “I call ’em Jack and Jenny. That seems good enough.”

  “You gonna call your children ‘boy’ and ‘girl’?”

  “They’re mules. They’re not children.”

  “All the same, they deserve proper names.”

  “Well since you been thinkin’, I expect you’ve got that figured out, too.”

  “I may. I favor Samson and Delilah.”

  “Seems kind a’ high and mighty for a pair of mules, but if it makes you happy, Sampson and Delilah it is.”

  “Good. Now let’s clean this up and get some rest. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

  Towers of dark cloud billowed out of the west to greet the gray light of predawn. Clare fixed coffee and a breakfast of biscuits and bacon while Micah harnessed the newly dubbed royal couple. The mules took their new-found status in stride, more intent on browse and water before the day’s travel.

  Clare eyed the threatening sky as she handed Micah his plate.
“Looks like we may get wet today.”

  “Part of traveling. Keep the slickers handy,” he said around a bite of bacon.

  She blew on a steamy cup of coffee. “How much further do you figure we have to go?”

  “Depends on how far it is to a place that strikes us as home. Best part of six weeks I reckon.”

  “Seems like we’ve come a long way already. How far west is west?”

  “Once we cross the Mississippi, we can figure we’re west. Best get to it before the rains slop up the roads.”

  They watched the young couple pack up their camp and hitch up the team. Rough-cut men, drifting west, living off opportunities the journey presented.

  “Sodbuster with a pretty wife,” said the burly man with cold eyes and a bushy, black beard.

  “Easy pickin’s,” the ferret-faced, skinny one said in a reedy voice. “Where do you figure to take ’em?”

  The big man glanced at the sky. “Sooner rather than later. Rain comes, that wagon would make for some dry shelter while we pick over the take and take our time with the woman.”

  Ferret face bobbed his head in anticipation.

  The burly man turned to his horse, adjusting the ball and cap Colt at his hip.

  Clare sensed them before she heard hoofbeats. She glanced over her shoulder through the canvas tunnel.

  “Riders coming fast.”

  Micah nodded.

  Two shabbily clad men of rough description loped past the wagon. A short way up the road they drew rein and wheeled their mounts to meet the wagon head on.

  Unease tightened Micah’s gut. He slipped the hammer thong off the Colt on his hip. He’d never had to use it in defense of life or property. He hoped he didn’t have to now. If he did, he hoped he could. He drew the team to a halt.

  “Good morning.” He forced a smile.

  The bearded man’s hand appeared from inside his coat, gun in hand.

  “We aren’t carryin’ money, friend, just household goods. You’re welcome to some food if you’re hungry.”

  “Ma’m, ease that gun out of your husband’s holster with two fingers and drop it over the side of the wagon.”