Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  “How many did you say he has?”

  “The reports say Caldwell’s loss was eleven. I didn’t count ’em but that number seems about right.”

  “And how many men does Stewart have?”

  “That’ll vary depending on if he’s planning a raid or not. He ain’t plannin’ a raid anytime soon with that bounty hangin’ over his head in Missouri.”

  “You sound pretty sure of that.”

  Quantrill smiled.

  “So how many men?”

  “Handful at most.”

  Herd nodded into a puff of pipe smoke. “Sounds like we might turn a profit on the opportunity.”

  “No doubt. You in?”

  “We’re in. When do we ride?”

  “Two days.”

  Sycamore

  January, 1859

  The wagon clattered up the road to the house on a frosty, gray midday. Sampson and Delilah blew clouds of steam as a thin mist blanket rose off their backs from exertion in the cold. Micah hauled lines in the yard. He helped Clare down. Caleb came down the lane from their cabin to help with the unloading. Miriam stood on the porch of the Mason house with the two little girls in tow.

  “You go along inside, dear, and get out of this cold. Caleb and I will bring in our supplies and take theirs on up to the cabin.”

  Clare climbed the porch and herded the girls inside to squeals of delight. Miriam followed, closing the door.

  Micah and Caleb unloaded the Masons’ supplies and carried the bundles into the house.

  “What’s the news up to Lawrence?” Miriam asked.

  “I hear Brother Brown and Reverend John Stewart freed Taylor Caldwell’s slaves,” Micah said.

  “Taylor Caldwell? Is you sure?”

  “That’s the talk. Why?”

  “Massa Morgan Walker sold my mama an’ baby sister to Taylor Caldwell. Mama’s been gone fer a spell now, but my sister Liza might be with them still. Do you know where they are?”

  “Stewart’s compound,” Micah said. “I saw Owen Brown at Eldridge House. He told me the Caldwell slaves are there waiting passage to Canada.”

  Miriam turned to Caleb. “We gotta go quick. We can bring her here with us.”

  “She be considered a runaway. She be better off in Canada.”

  “We be runaways, and we be here.”

  “That’s different. Our trail went cold when Micah and Clare took us in.”

  “So? Liza’s trail can go cold when we take her in.”

  “And if it don’t, it could warm up our trail again.”

  “Liza’s blood kin. I’m goin’ to find her. Are you comin’ with me?”

  Micah suppressed a smile.

  Caleb rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  “She been this way since the day she proposed jumpin’ the broom to me.”

  “She proposed?” Micah chuckled.

  “She did,” Caleb said.

  Miriam bunched her fists on her hips. “You the one said yes. Don’t you dare be takin’ to regret now.”

  “Take the wagon,” Micah said. He pulled the carbine down from its pegs along with powder and ball. “Best take this.”

  “We’ll mind Rebecca,” Clare said.

  Wakarusa Creek

  The Stewart compound gates opened to Caleb and Miriam. Caleb drove the wagon into the yard amid a scurry of chickens. Reverend Stewart came down to the yard from the house to greet them.

  “Caleb, Miriam, what brings you by?”

  Miriam climbed down from the box without waiting for Caleb to help her.

  “We heard the Taylor Caldwell black folks is here.”

  Stewart knit his brows. “Who told you that?”

  “Owen Brown toldt Micah Mason.”

  “I see.” Stewart relaxed.

  “My baby sister Liza might be with them.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have any babies here.”

  “Oh, she ain’t no baby no more. That’s what she was when Massa Morgan Walker sold her and my mama to Massa Caldwell.”

  A curious crowd had begun to gather, black folk drawn by two new arrivals. One spoke up.

  “You lookin’ fer Liza?”

  “Yes! Is she here?”

  The man shook his head. “She jumped the broom with a Morgan Walker field hand last spring. Massa Walker liked his man, so he bought her for him. Massa Caldwell said sompin’ ’bout prime breeding stock.”

  Miriam drooped her head in disappointment, clenching her fists at her side. Caleb wrapped his arms around her.

  “Seems like you gals is always marr’ing into some kind of trouble. At least she’s happy.”

  “It’s too late to head back to Sycamore tonight,” Reverend Stewart said. “Put up your team and spend the night here. You can start back in the morning.”

  Bundled in blankets with Miriam on a bed of straw in the Stewart barn, Caleb woke with a start at the first shot.

  “What is it?” Miriam sat up wide-eyed in total darkness.

  “Bushwhackers I reckon. You stay here.” He grabbed the carbine, powder, and ball.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Somebody’s got to defend this place.” He ran out the door followed by a half-dozen former Taylor Caldwell slaves.

  Moonlight splashed the yard in a chill glow. Reverend Stewart and a few of his men scrambled to the stockade portals on either side of the gate. Mounted raiders swarmed over the clearing marked in muzzle flash, powder charge, and the splatter of ball against timber. The Stewart men returned fire with carbine and shotguns. The raiders pulled back their charge.

  “Caleb, mind the catwalk atop that back wall,” Stewart shouted. “The rest of you come with me.” He ran back to the house followed by the former slaves.

  Caleb scrambled up a ladder at the back wall of the compound to a narrow walkway. He peered through the first portal he came to. Moonlight painted the trees beyond the clearing in shadow, a barren briar patchwork of branches held aloft on stout trunks. Something moved in the trees. Off to his right two men broke from the shadows and rushed toward the wall, a coiled rope in hand.

  Stewart led the men to an armory at the back of the house.

  “How many of you men know how to shoot?”

  Three hands went up.

  He handed each of them a rifle, powder, and ball. “Man the portals on the east wall. Two of you shoot. One reloads.” They ran off the way they’d come. The reverend handed two of the remaining men shotguns. He took a third shotgun for himself. “We’ll take the west wall.”

  “I don’t know how to shoot this thing,” one said.

  “You’re about to learn fast.”

  “Yes, suh.”

  Stewart led the way into darkness.

  The rope snaked up to the top of the wall, the loop caught purchase, tugged tight. Rope and timbers strained under the weight of a climber. Caleb waited, crouched beside the rope. Someone grunted with exertion through the timbers. A slouch hat peeked over the wall, the shadow of a head inched into view.

  Caleb struck. The carbine stock smashed the climber across the bridge of his nose. He fell back with a scream, landing on the second man waiting to climb. Caleb swung the carbine over the top of the wall into the upturned face of a man struggling to regain his footing. He fired at near point-blank range. The face disappeared. He ducked back behind the wall as the trees lit in a volley of muzzle flash and ball.

  Caleb worked to reload powder, wadding, and ball. Finally hit something with this thing. A second thought hit him. He reached for the rope, reeled it in, and dropped it inside the stockade. Let’s see if they got any more.

  Behind him, off to the right, shotguns gave out their throaty roar.

  “Nothing to this!” The never-fired-before black man said over the muzzle smoking in his portal.

  Reverend Stewart smiled. “Now reload!”

  The man fell back from his portal replaced by another. He fumbled with shot and cartridge.

  As long as they don’t press us any faster than these boys
can reload, chances are we can hold them off. Stewart felt a small measure of confidence return since the first shots being fired.

  The raid settled into a battle of attrition. Both sides exchanged fruitless fire. Herd fumed. He turned an accusatory scowl on Quantrill.

  “You said Stewart only had a handful of men.”

  “He does, if you only count white men.”

  “You think he armed the slaves?”

  “What do you think? He got them walls manned somehow. We could try burnin’ ’em out.”

  “Burnt black men don’t fetch statutory reward money let alone full price on the block. I’ve lost three men so far. I ain’t goin’ in for no more. Come on. We’re gettin’ out of here before first light.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  * * *

  North Ferry Crossing

  April, 1859

  Thorne jogged Rogue through a dreary, cold drizzle up the muddy road to the North Ferry Inn. Rusty brown stained the black’s belly and hocks as he splashed through mud to the rail. Thorne stepped down, his riding boots sinking into the ooze. He stepped up to the shelter of the boardwalk and shook rainwater from his cloak. He ducked inside and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust in dim, smoky light. He spied the object of his search seated at an inconspicuous table set off from the bar. The man arched a brow at his approach.

  “Thorne, what brings you up here on a day like this?”

  “Nice to see you too, Jake.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound inhospitable. It was merely surprise. Have a seat.”

  Thorne peeled off his wet gloves, dropped them on the table, and hung his cloak over a vacant chair. Herd motioned the waiter for a second glass.

  “Thanks. I could use a little something to take the chill off.” He settled into a hard, wooden chair.

  Herd poured. Thorne took a swallow.

  “Now then, what is it that brings you all the way up here?”

  “A bit of business you may find of interest.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You probably heard about the recent failed raid on the Stewart compound.”

  “I heard.”

  “I’m sure you did. One of the freed men who defended Stewart is a man who might be of interest to you.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “The man works the Mason farm. He goes by the name Caleb.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “I believe the man and his woman ran away from Morgan Walker. The Caldwell folk might not have stood the reward for their runaways, but Walker surely will.”

  “Hmm. Walker did retain me to track a pair of runaways a few years ago. As I recall he owned the woman. The buck belonged to Ruben Wright. Their trail did dry up in the vicinity of the Mason farm. What’s all that got to do with you? It can’t be the paltry reward.”

  Thorne shook his head. “You’re welcome to the reward should you choose to avail yourself of it. The runaway and the abolitionist Mason work that section in partnership. It’s land that naturally complements my holdings. By rights it should have been mine. Mason jumped his claim before I could file. Together they resist me. Left alone, the holding is too much for one man to work. I mean to have that land. Mason cannot hold out. Are you interested?”

  “It seems I already have an interest courtesy of Morgan Walker.”

  “Splendid.”

  Sycamore

  Sun kissed the western horizon as Caleb finished the last row. They’d put in a long day since sunup. Even the normally resilient Delilah plodded at the end. He let her drink her fill at the creek bank. Cook smoke drifted to the evening sky, promising one of Miriam’s fine suppers. Finished, the jenny blew her nose with a snort.

  “All right, girl, let’s get you along back to Sampson. He probably got a sack a’ grain he holdin’ with your name on it.” He clucked at the lines, crossing the creek and turning north on the tree shadowed wagon lane toward the barn. Something moved. A dark figure stepped out of the trees in his path. Who might this—

  He never completed the thought. A blow to the back of his head rendered him senseless.

  A wagon emerged from the trees. They bound and gagged him. It took three men to load him into the wagon. Two men climbed into the box. Herd and Quantrill mounted horses hidden in the trees. They took the wagon road east.

  “Micah! Micah!” She pounded on the door. Lamp light spilled through the door into her tears.

  “Miriam, what is it?”

  “Is Caleb here?”

  “No, why?”

  “He’s hurt. I think they must’a took him.”

  “Who took him?”

  “I don’t know. Slave catchers maybe.”

  Clare put her arm around her sobbing friend.

  “Tell me what happened,” Micah said.

  “He didn’t come in for supper. I went out to find him. I found Delilah hitched to the plow on the lane to the barn. Caleb ain’t nowhere around. It ain’t like him to leave that mule hitched up. Then I seen dark spots on the ground. It’s fresh blood.”

  “Show me.” Micah took a lamp and led the way out the door and up the lane to where the jenny stood in her traces. He saw blood stains along with boot prints of three, maybe four, men, wagon tracks, and horse sign. The wagon turned up the road east.

  “All right, here’s what I want you to do. Put up Delilah. Miriam, I want you and Rebecca to hide out in the dugout house.”

  “You think they’ll come back?” Miriam said.

  “I don’t know, but we’re not takin’ any chances.”

  “What are you going to do?” Clare asked.

  “Ride into Lawrence to get help. Then we’re going after Caleb.”

  Lawrence

  Micah loped down Massachusetts to Eldridge House. He drew a halt and stepped down. He looped a rein over the rack and bounded up the steps. He found James Lane at his usual table playing cards with Doc Jennison and a few others. Lane took one look at Micah’s face and the Colt at his hip and knew it meant trouble.

  “Micah, what’s the matter?”

  “It’s Caleb.” The story spilled out.

  “Where do you figure they’re headed?”

  “If it’s slave catchers, they’d return him to Morgan Walker for the reward.”

  “Doc, can you and your boys help?”

  Jennison nodded.

  “Good. Then let’s ride.”

  Thirty minutes later Lane, Jennison, Micah, and a dozen Jayhawkers rode south.

  Jackson County, Missouri

  Caleb’s head hurt something fierce. If he’d had his supper he’d surely have lost it. The bumping and jouncing of the wagon did nothing to improve his lot. Dim light penetrated the canvas tarp they had covering him. They’d taken no chance of a free-soil man unraveling their plan. He could tell by the light and warmth that the new day was well along into morning when they splashed across a creek he remembered. They must be northwest of the Morgan Walker farm. The driver drew the wagon to a stop. He could still hear the creek. The change in light told him they must be stopped in the shade along the tree lined bank.

  “Wait here,” someone said, “while me and Quantrill have a talk with Walker.”

  Herd, it had to be. Horses galloped away. The wagon box groaned as his captors climbed down.

  “How’s our package doin’?”

  Someone pulled back the tarp. Even the shaded light caused him to blink.

  “He’s awake and he’s breathin’.”

  The canvas dropped back in place. They moved off somewhere talking quietly. Caleb tested the bonds on his hands. The ropes cut his wrists. Still he worked on them. There were two of them. Likely they were armed. Still, he might surprise them if he could free his bonds.

  Herd drew rein at a main house with grassy lawns at the end of the stately drive entering the Morgan Walker farm. Quantrill took in the expanse of the place, the elegant house, quarters for thirty or forty slaves. Corrals and barns stocked with fine horseflesh, mules, and cattl
e. One pen held a powerfully built bull, certain to keep the herd plentiful with calves. It was a prize worth far more than a statutory slave price. Some of his friends on the other side would surely consider it prime opportunity. All in good time. Today, he would learn.

  Herd stepped down with Quantrill at his side. They climbed a broad porch, fronting the house to elegant double doors. The brass knocker summoned a white-haired black man in starched, white coat.

  “Is Master Walker in?”

  “Who may I say is callin’?”

  “Jacob Herd.”

  Recognition and fear flickered in the old man’s eyes. He disappeared down a polished wood hallway bathed a tawny glow in midday day light spilling through lace curtains. He returned moments later.

  “This way, Mr. Herd.” He led them down the hall to a massive library.

  The school teacher in Quantrill estimated it to be the envy of many a university.

  “Jacob, it’s been some time. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Unfinished business, Mr. Walker. It’s good to see you, sir.”

  “And this gentleman is?”

  “William Quantrill, Mr. Walker.” He extended his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you. Now, Jacob, what is this about unfinished business?”

  “A few years ago, you hired me to track a couple of runaways. The buck’s name was Caleb. I lost their trail and never recovered your property. By the happenstance of good fortune, I’ve come upon him and thought we might discuss your interest in recovering him.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember. He’d taken one of my house slaves. A young woman . . . Miriam, as I recall. So you’ve run across him after all this time. Actually, he belonged to Ruben Wright, so you may be talking to the wrong man. Is he servable?”

  “If he weren’t, I wouldn’t trouble you with it.”

  “Then it’s likely Ruben will stand the statutory reward. If not, I’m interested. He was a first-rate hand with a plow.”

  “Two hundred dollars is a paltry sum for a specimen like him. It took four of us to secure him. I should think a hundred a man would be more in keeping with his worth on the block.”