Sycamore Promises

by Paul Colt

  Clare took strength from the old tree. It must have seen all this before. It clings to a life force in the land. The Lord must have seen the land through this before. The old sycamore testified to that. She prayed the good Lord would see them through to the blessing of rain.

  Caleb milked the cow in the morning and fed the stock. He turned the stock out according to the dictates of the day’s chores. He cleaned the barn, mended harness, sharpened plow and scythe. Simple chores busied hands, pushing back at worry. He watered the stock each evening.

  Miriam looked after the girls at play and freshened their lessons lest they forget. Morning play led to midday, rest, some lessons, and more play. The children played in the shade of the old sycamore. They took little note of the cracks in her earth. Play lacked worry. Their laughter was a counterpoint to the mood of concern hanging over their elders.

  Micah squinted against the sun, searching the horizon for a sign of relief. None came, save the red sky at night bred of the old mariner’s rhyme.

  July

  Hot wind whipped the land; swirling dust devils danced across her brow. Sun parched sprouts turned golden straw before their time. Barren ache replaced the verdant promise of spring. The creek slowed to a sluggish trickle. The river receded from her banks. The sycamore bowed her limbs to the earth.

  Parched soil crumbled between Caleb’s fingers. Limp plantings turned brown, shriveled grain. Micah shook his fist at a relentless sky. Miriam steeled herself to hard times. Clare stood beside the old tree, her eyes turned to the heavens, praying for rain.

  Sunday dinners turned somber with worry. The girls giggled and prattled, gravity beyond their years. Their elders’ thoughts seldom strayed far from parched land and the crops withering in the field. They joined hands around the table to give thanks for their meal. Caleb said the blessing. Miriam finished for him.

  “And, Lord, if you might could spare us one more little blessing. We could sure use some rain on our fields.”

  “Amen.”

  “Here’s hopin’ the good Lord be listenin’ this day,” Caleb said.

  “He always listens,” Clare said. “Just sometimes He wants things for us we don’t know we need.”

  “He only gots to look at them fields to know what we need,” Miriam said. “If we be needin’ somethin’ else, I sure don’t know what it be.”

  “We’ll find out in good time.”

  “And if it don’t rain, what then?”

  Glances exchanged around the table.

  Micah shook his head. “We’ll lose the crop.”

  “What be coming of Sycamore if we do?” Caleb said.

  “Nothin’ good, I’m afraid,” Micah said.

  “Pass the potatoes.”

  August

  Rain did not come. Hot summer sun bleached the sky blue-white in a ball of shimmering heat. Tender shoots of spring died at their root. Once filled with tender promise, she ached, dry tears barren with loss. The old tree stretched out her limbs to the loss of her fold and moaned to the wind.

  September

  They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence, faces dark and sun-hardened to the burning wind. Dun dust clouds boiled across fruitless dry fields.

  “What’s to be done?” Caleb said.

  “Plough it under,” Micah said.

  “Plough it under?”

  “Plough it under.”

  “Then what?”

  Micah looked to the sky.

  “I don’t know.”

  The dark rider drew rein. He looked out over the windswept fields. A mule and ploughman plodded along a row in one field, raising a dust trail dissipated against a cloudless, white sky. He shifted in the saddle and smiled. This wasn’t the precise opportunity he’d envisioned, but he seldom missed opportunity when he saw it. Loss of a crop would do its work quickly. Fillmore would accommodate the loss—he’d see to that. He squeezed up a lope into town.

  Lawrence

  October

  Lawrence Union Bank occupied a one-room clapboard building on Massachusetts. Temporary housing for the bank was one of the first structures completed in rebuilding Lawrence. The bank housed a lobby with teller counter and safe. It accommodated the bank’s business without the pretense of strength usually associated with a banking institution. A more suitable structure would surely be built one day, but, for the present, the bank was open to finance rebuilding the town.

  The bank’s founding directors recruited Thaddeus Fillmore of Kansas City to manage the bank as president and cashier. An experienced banker, Fillmore presented the picture of trustworthy prudence to the community and his customers. He quickly insinuated himself into local society, befriending the influential who made up the political and commercial class of town folk. He was seated at his back-corner desk engrossed in the previous day’s ledgers when one of his directors entered the bank. He rose in practiced deference as was his custom.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Thorne. How may I be of service?”

  “A small matter, Thaddeus.” He gestured to a side chair. “May I?”

  “Please, have a seat.” They settled into their chairs. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Thorne made a steeple of his fingertips. “It’s about the Mason place. Do you know it?”

  “The one they call Sycamore?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve driven past it on my way out to your place. What about it?”

  “I believe they’ve lost their crop.”

  “Ah, this drought. Simply dreadful. It’s brought suffering to so many. I wish we could help them, but, as you know, the bank’s resources are limited. Our lending priority must be rebuilding the town. They’ll seek a mortgage. Risky business when compared to our construction loans to businesses with going concerns.”

  “I understand all that. Nevertheless, I want you to mortgage their farm if they ask.”

  “What about the board? Our lending policy is quite clear.”

  “Leave the board to me.”

  “But the risk—what if the drought persists.”

  “What value might a mortgage place on the property?”

  “A lender might extend credit up to half the value of the property. One can never be sure what the property might fetch in the event of foreclosure.”

  “Exactly. You see, you have no risk at all.”

  The banker knit his brow. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll buy that land at the face value of your loan.”

  “Aha, now I see.”

  Sycamore

  They sat at the dining table all eyes fixed on Micah. The light of a single candle pooled on the rough-cut tabletop.

  “We’ve no choice. We lost the crop. We can survive the winter, but we’ll need seed to plant in spring.”

  “But doesn’t a mortgage put Sycamore at risk?” Clare said. “What if the drought continues?”

  “What’s a mortgage?” Miriam asked.

  “A mortgage is a loan from a bank. You put up the deed to your property as security for repayment of the loan.”

  “What’s all that mean?”

  “It means if we don’t repay the loan, the bank can take Sycamore and sell it.”

  “How we gonna repay this loan?” Caleb asked. “We done lost the crop.”

  “That’s why we need the loan. We repay it out of the sale of the crop next year.”

  “Then like Clare said, s’pose the drought keep on?” Miriam said.

  “That’s a risk we have to take. If we haven’t got seed to plant in the spring, the land don’t do us no good. We’d have to sell the farm and move on.”

  “Sounds like we could lose our Sycamore either way,” Caleb said.

  “Not if we bring in a crop next year.”

  They looked from one to the other.

  Miriam folded her arms. “Micah’s right. We got no choice. Sycamore be the best chance we got, Caleb.”

  He nodded.

  “We be with you, Micah.”

  “Clare?”<
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  She nodded.

  “Pray for rain.”

  Lawrence Union Bank

  The bank opened at nine on yet another hot, dry morning. Micah waited on the boardwalk. He’d fretted over the decision to take a loan all the way into town. He didn’t like the risk. They had no choice. It was that simple. What if the bank refused to make the loan? They could see risk as surely as he. The head teller appeared at the door. He turned the Closed sign to Open and unlocked the door, admitting him with a thin smile. Micah nodded and crossed the lobby bathed in morning glow.

  “Mr. Fillmore?”

  The banker looked up from a stack of papers. “Yes?”

  “Micah Mason, sir. I’d like to talk to you about a loan.”

  “Ah, Mr. Mason, I’ve been expecting you. Sit down, sit down.”

  “You have? Why?”

  “I heard about the tragic loss of your crop. Terrible thing this drought, terrible.”

  “Yes. I’d like to take out a mortgage on Sycamore.”

  “Your farm.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How much were you thinking?”

  “We’ve got three-hundred-sixty acres.”

  “We?”

  “Me and my . . . wife and I.”

  “The title will be in your name of course, so as far as borrowing is concerned, it’s your farm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The bank isn’t doing much mortgage lending these days. Our loan policy commits the majority of our resources to construction lending for rebuilding Lawrence. We might do something short term. Let’s see, three hundred and twenty acres . . . market price is $1.25 an acre. We might go $125 on that.”

  “We got two houses, a barn, and stock pens on that.”

  “Yes . . . well, improvements such as that may or may not add to the value of the property. We are in the business of hard security. I’m afraid the best we can do is one-hundred-twenty-five dollars due in full in one year. Will that be suitable?”

  “I reckon it’ll have to be.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  * * *

  Eldridge House

  April 10, 1865

  Day by day Lawrence rose from its ashes, personified by the defiant Eldridge House edifice. Much finish work remained to be done on the upper floors. Furnishings for the opulent lobby floor were in various stages of order and shipment. Still, they’d opened her at the first opportunity. James Lane and Charles Robinson sat at a rough-hewn table with tankards of tart apple cider. A special edition of the Lawrence Republican lay on the table. The headlines screamed.

  War Ends

  Lee Surrenders at Appomattox Courthouse

  Lane lifted his tankard. “You surely had the right of it, Charles. We sit here today surrounded by your rebuilt vision.”

  “Thank you, James. Kind of you to see it that way, though, as you well know, much remains to be done.”

  “Less than would be needed had we not had the benefit of your foresight.”

  “The coming of the railroad promises to brighten our future still further, if it would only rain to assure we have one.”

  “Spring rains have been short of the need, but our luck must surely change.”

  “One would hope and pray so. Those able to plant this spring may be spending their all to do it. Another lost season would spell disaster for many.”

  “We can only hope for the best.”

  “The best holds different meanings for some.”

  Lane looked puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  Robinson lifted his chin across the lobby. Lane followed the gesture. Titus Thorne shook his cloak off at the door.

  “Ah, some things never change,” Lane said.

  “He’s used the bank to set his cap for the Mason place.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that. A mortgage?”

  Robinson nodded.

  “You were quick to join his syndicate for the purpose of hastening the rebuild in Lawrence. His real purpose in wanting a bank is to partake in developing the railroad right-of-way. It seems he’s decided land speculation also suits him. Once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel.”

  Sycamore

  May, 1865

  The new season began with all the promise of the last. Snow melt and frost left her soil some moisture. The season’s planting filled her with promise. Shoots burst forth green and tender. The old sycamore sensed desperate promise. Clear and bright, bright and clear, day by day, spring passed into early summer.

  Miriam fed the chickens and watched the sky. Clare hung laundry and watched the sky. The girls played and laughed merrily in the yard. Caleb milked the cow and watched the sky. Micah pitched hay to the mules and watched the sky. The sky arched cloudless blue.

  Sycamore

  June

  Thorne drew rein on the road to town. Hot, dry wind washed over him. Rogue snorted at a dust devil swirling down a wagon rut, winding northeast. Off to the left the fields grew slowly, the land parched. Crops wilted. Thorne looked to a clear, cloudless sky and smiled. Time would run out on these squatters at last. What should have been his from the start would be his soon enough and at a foreclosure price less than half its value.

  Micah watched the rider from the barn loft. It hadn’t occurred to him before. He heard Thorne had given his support to chartering the bank, the bank that now held a mortgage on Sycamore. There he sits, like a vulture circling carrion kill. He looked to the sky. Please, God.

  July

  Life slowly sapped from the folded rows in the fields. Her offspring grew weaker with each passing day. The creek’s merry spring gurgle dwindled to whispers slipping away. Dust devils passed for tears. Not again. Only the old sycamore looked on in hope.

  “Look there!” Caleb ran into the barnyard pointing west.

  Micah emerged from the barn.

  Clare and Miriam came running from household chores.

  Dark stain spread across the western horizon, slowly building toward them. Mesmerized in hope, they watched it grow. The breeze freshened. Thunder rumbled in the distance. They stood transfixed, believing and not believing. Could it be? The cloud bank rolled faster. Wind gusts tore at loose clothing. Lightning flashed in the distance, chased by peals of thunder that reverberated to the soul of a man’s inwards.

  Fat droplets spattered upturned faces. Puffs of dust splashed in the barnyard. A gray sheet emerged in the west, hung beneath dark clouds stacked in banks. Life burst forth from foreboding darkness. Rain came in sheets of hope. Joy rippled and pooled in puddles. Sycamore stretched forth her limbs to gather it in. Nourishment fell on the land, softening parched roots, teasing tendrils to drink freely, straighten, and strengthen.

  They ran to the shelter of the barn, laughing like children at play. They stood dripping, shoulder to shoulder, and watched. Rivulets ran from the barn roof, cascading across the open barn doors.

  “Our prayers be answered,” Miriam said.

  They sank to their knees in thanksgiving.

  Lawrence Union Bank

  November, 1865

  Cold, white light bathed the austere bank lobby in the promise of winter. Micah watched the banker count the bills, dip pen in ink, and satisfy his debt.

  “Paid in full.” Fillmore handed Micah the cancelled note.

  Relief washed over him like summer rain belatedly come. They’d found their way out of a great darkness. They’d come close to losing it all. So close. He stood.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fillmore.” He turned to leave just as Titus Thorne entered the bank.

  “I see you’ve paid your debt.”

  Micah nodded.

  “Pity. I’d rather thought I might acquire that land of yours after all.”

  “No, sir. Not now. Not ever.”

  Thorne laughed. “Cocksure are we, boy?”

  “Not sure. Determined. Good day, sir.” He brushed past a slack-jawed Thorne and stepped out to the boardwalk.

  “You’d never have gotten that land, Thorne.�
� James Lane turned away from the teller counter.

  “Oh? How can you be so certain, James?”

  “I’d have loaned him the money to pay you. Should the need arise, I stand ready to do so again.”

  “Why would you do such a thing, James? What could possibly be in it for you?”

  “Loyalty, Thorne, but I shouldn’t expect you’d understand that. He served as my adjutant in the Kansas brigade. Served me well, too. I shan’t forget that; neither should you. Good day.”

  Drought, rain, harvest, redemption. The old tree extended her limbs in thanksgiving. A few remaining leaves, ochre and orange, fluttered to the blanket spreading below, their work done for the passing of this season. Golden light lay mellow on fields turning to the contentment of a winter’s slumber. The mule-drawn buckboard passed up the lane to the barn, turning for home. The old tree watched over her land, once more at peace.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  * * *

  February

  1866

  Micah awoke to Clare retching in the chamber pot beside the bed. Outside the wind howled, swirling sheets of fresh snow. Finished, she rolled on her back. Her body radiated clammy heat. Chill in the room gave gray mist to their breath.

  “Are you sick?”

  “Must be something I ate.”

  He felt her forehead. Her hair was matted with fever. “Can I get you something?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just let me rest.”

  Micah got out of bed. He pulled his britches on over his nightshirt and slipped into his boots.

  “I’ll empty this.” He took the chamber pot out into the storm. Cold wind cut through his nightshirt. Snow swirled around him as he trudged out to the yard and emptied the pot in a drift. He returned the pot to the bedroom. Clare’s breathing came labored.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”