Freedom's Call

by Douglas Cornelius

  FREEDOM’S CALL

  FREEDOM’S CALL

  Doug Cornelius

  CrossLink Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 Doug Cornelius

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  CrossLink Publishing

  1601 Mt. Rushmore Rd, STE 3288

  Rapid City, SD 57702

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the address above.

  Freedom’s Call/Cornelius —1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-63357-207-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019951608

  First edition: 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to all those family members, siblings, and friends who were on my prayer team, lifting me up with great love, as I entered the hospital for open heart surgery the spring of 2019.

  Contents

  Preface

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author Notes and Brief Biographies

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Preface

  Freedom’s Call is based on the true lives of Elijah Lovejoy and African American William Wells Brown, two pre-Civil War champions of the abolitionist movement. The fact that their lives actually intersected briefly made it that much easier to tell their stories and to interconnect their lives with fictional characters, Brady and Charlotte, who must experience those men’s daily travails, as well.

  Hence, unlike many other historical fiction pieces, Freedom’s Call is more than just placing fictional figures into a specific time period. The reader is put right into the decision-making processes of real-life characters whose lives greatly impacted history.

  Actual biographies, of course, are excellent resources as well. Hopefully, reading this story will spur additional follow-up by some readers to those tools. From Fugitive Slave to Free Man: The Autobiographies of William Wells Brown by William L. Andrews and Freedom’s Champion: Elijah Lovejoy by Paul Simon were two excellent sources. May this story of intrigue and suspense be your first step in understanding the important roles of these men in our history.

  Acknowledgements

  Twice monthly I meet with a writers’ group held at my church, Church of the Open Door (Maple Grove, MN). Led by Nina Engen and Tim Olson, this group has been extremely valuable to me as I’ve sorted through various writing issues, striving to continually improve. I also highly regard writers’ conferences. Over the past few years, I’ve attended conferences in Colorado, Florida, and Minnesota.

  Many thanks also must go to my fine editor, Deirdre Lockhart.

  Chapter 1

  St. Louis, MO

  Winter 1831

  Brady Scott’s chest tingled, and a rush of satisfaction welled up into his face. With a direct hit of his snowball, the other boy’s black cheek must really be stinging. Feeling the glow of success in his own cheeks, Brady rocked back on his heels and cast a quick glance toward Jamie McKinney. Surely, his leader must have noticed the snowball exploding bright white in the early-morning sun—just his latest bit of expert marksmanship. Barely a teenager, Brady was the youngest gang member, and now, he so wanted to regain the reputation he’d lost in the fury of an earlier battle.

  Eyes wide with fear, the struck boy wiped remnants of snow from his dark face and bent to retrieve a box he’d dropped while trying to defend himself. But then the other four boys all closed in, some hurling sticks and stones that also found their mark. Jamie led the way, trying to push the bent-over boy off his feet. But widening his stance, the boy brought his torso back up, plowing his shoulder into Jamie’s stomach and bowling him over. The two grappled, fists flying, while the others cheered Jamie on.

  * * * * *

  Charlotte Jones looked up from her desk as his passing visage eclipsed the window’s bright light. A few seconds later, Sandford bolted through the front door, his flailing arms trying to tell a story before words could escape frost-laden lips. She slammed her pencil down. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Bunch of white brutes,” he said, gasping, bending over to catch his breath. “They threw snowballs, sticks, stones—any crying thing they could get their hands on. I was carrying the type from the other printing office.” He reached up to feel a scrape on his cheek.

  “But why would they?” Such events weren’t totally unexpected, especially to the likes of Sandford. She offered him a handkerchief from her pocket.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” With the handkerchief pressed to his cheek, he shook his head from side to side and leaned his unsteady body against her wooden desk.

  Mr. Lovejoy’s office door opened with a bang, its window rattling, and he rushed out to survey Sandford from head to toe. His eyebrows drew together as he bit on his lower lip. “What in the blazes, boy? How’d all this happen? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. But it was scary.” Sandford’s eyes widened. “Some white boys had me completely surrounded. This big guy tackled me to the ground, and I feared being beat up so bad, my momma wouldn’t recognize me no more.” He exhaled loudly. “I was able to break loose. Had no choice but to run. I’m a fast runner.” An ever-so-slight smile made its first appearance.

  “And where’s the type?” A new level of concern furrowed Mr. Lovejoy’s brow.

  “Carried it for a short way, I did, but it was too heavy.” As his voice faded, Sandford’s smile twisted to a frown. His hands fell to the sides, and a pitiful shrug lifted his scrawny shoulders. “Sorry—had to leave it behind.”

  “That type’s worth a lot.” Mr. Lovejoy’s mouth flattened. “Hopefully we can still find it if it’s not buried in some snowbank. Where did you leave it?”

  “In front of the dry goods store.” Sandford examined the bloodstained handkerchief.

  “I’ve got to go retrieve it. Charlotte . . . ” Mr. Lovejoy turned to her while stroking his stubbled chin. “You’re strong for your size. I don’t think they’d hurt a girl. Between the two of us, we’ll get it back here. Clean yourself up, Sandford, and take the rest of the afternoon off.”

  Charlotte retrieved her coat and boots. If only she could get her hand past the torn lining into the armhole. A slight tug was all she dare with the frayed bootlaces. Mr. Lovejoy headed back to his office for his outerwear, finishing with a fling of his cashmere scarf around his thick neck. They stepped outside together, the sting of winter’s air providing a harsh welcome.

  �
�Who do you suppose those people were that attacked Sandford?” She doubled her steps to catch up with him.

  “Probably some teenaged sons of slaveholders.” A grimace twisted his face as he focused on the slush at their feet. “Maybe they were feeling particularly entitled today.”

  She hopped a quick double step as his stride seemed to grow even stronger. “I just can’t imagine Sandford doing anything like taunting,” she said. “He’s such a sweet soul. He wouldn’t do anything to get them mad, would he?” She took a gentle swipe at a cloud of her breath as it floated from her mouth.

  “I’m not inclined to blame Sandford one bit.” He kicked at a mound of snowy slush in his way.

  After about ten minutes, they rounded the corner to the dry goods store. Two men were hunched over a box. One looked up. His glaring gaze soon found Mr. Lovejoy’s face.

  “I know you.” He charged forward one step, gritted teeth flashing through twitching lips. “You run that newspaper south side of town. You’re probably looking for this.” He pointed at the box.

  “Must be OK, Charlotte!” Mr. Lovejoy whispered to her, undoubtedly thinking the type was undamaged. He sprinted forward a few steps before his initial reaction of joy faded. He slowed his gait, no doubt not wanting to walk too quickly into the wrath of the rattled man.

  Two other strangers stopped at the entry to the store, mumbling something with looks of worry that could not have matched the anxiety she now felt.

  “I’m sorry.” Mr. Lovejoy squinted. “Do I know you? Your face looks kinda familiar.”

  “Samuel McKinney. You’ve got that black boy working for you, right?”

  “Sandford, yes. I see you’ve come across the type he was trying to deliver to my office.”

  Charlotte stopped in her tracks with a whimper as he approached the box and bent over it.

  “Well, that boy hurt my son something terrible. If I ever see him again, I’ll whup him till he cries for mercy.”

  Charlotte’s pulse raced. That couldn’t be true. She knew Sandford. A pounding in her ears intensified. She so wanted to blurt something out, but words from a half-black girl would never be heard by that man.

  “Hold on now, Mr. McKinney.” Mr. Lovejoy held up one gloved hand. “Let’s just relax. That’s not the side of the story I heard. Sandford told me right to my face he was surrounded and outnumbered. All kinds of whatnot was thrown at him, leaving cuts and bruises.”

  “Rubbish. You’re not going to believe the likes of him, are you?” Mr. McKinney stomped his foot, sending a spray of snow over Mr. Lovejoy’s precious box—would it hurt it? “He’s the one who beat up on my boy.” He swiveled his head to the side and spit.

  “Then why’s this box of type left stranded here?” Mr. Lovejoy lifted both hands now, palms up. “He had to leave it to run to safety.”

  Mr. McKinney stepped forward, brushing the extended arms aside, his face now mere inches away, his breath fogging into her boss’s face. “All I know is my boy was beat up, and this Sandford, as you call him, is going to pay.” He pivoted and stomped away.

  * * * * *

  Several days later, Charlotte sat at her desk finishing her lunch. The strong dill taste of her last crunchy pickle bite was a welcome respite from the smell of ink constantly wafting into the office from the shop.

  But then she cringed as Sandford stormed through the door, his head looking almost like a smashed melon, this time much redder than the previous incident. Blood completely saturated his clothes. He breathed heavily as he tried to explain. According to Sandford’s account, Mr. McKinney spotted him walking along Main Street, seized him by the collar, and struck him repeatedly about the head with his large cane. As Sandford spoke, blood rushed nonstop from his nose and ears. Her simple handkerchief was not up to the task.

  Mr. Lovejoy sent Sandford home to his master. For five weeks, he couldn’t walk. When Mr. Lovejoy had to hire a replacement for him, her heart sank to a new low. She’d always felt Sandford a kindred spirit. Like her, he had a white father and a black mother. They had shared how each felt like a pariah to those of the other races. The whites looked down at them as impure. The full blacks were jealous because they did not carry the entire burden of being as black as they were.

  And also like her, Sandford was an inquisitive learner. Their two minds would probably never meet up again. And at this point, all she could do was pray for him.

  Chapter 2

  August 1832

  Brady sat at a long table aboard the Tecumseh headed downstream south of Vicksburg, Mississippi. The side-wheeling steamboat was plying the Mississippi River toward New Orleans. Finished with his breakfast, he opened his Legends of Sleepy Hollow book and positioned it to capture a shaft of morning sun from the window while his parents dawdled with their breakfast.

  “Brady, how can you have your head buried in a book when this is your big day?” his mother asked with eyes as uplifting as her vibrant voice this fine morning.

  “Don’t worry, Mother. Reading is my diversion to stay relaxed. I’m going to do just fine.” He drummed his fingers on the open pages.

  His father yanked on a brass chain, and his watch tumbled out of his vest pocket. “Well, you’ve only got about twenty minutes to get up there. Starts at eight o’clock, right?” With his other hand, he jabbed a fork into his remaining grits.

  “The shifts at the wheel are each four hours, and mine starts at eight. If it’s like my other stints, the time till noon will go fast.”

  “Even with Mr. Avery looking over your shoulder at every move you make?”

  Brady closed his book. “Father, I’ve had a lot of practice. This is only the final test to become a cub pilot.”

  “Well, I still worry about your hearing.” His mother spread strawberry preserves on her toast. “There’s so much background noise, isn’t there?” She pointed the berry-tipped knife his way as her brow wrinkled.

  Brady leaned in, tender warmth flooding his chest. “Mother, this is not new. My ears are used to it. Besides, my hearing is much better now—thanks to you.” He took a gulping sip of coffee and swiped his mouth with a napkin. “Maybe I’ll take a biscuit with me.” He grabbed the last one from the basket and pushed his chair from the table.

  “We’ll be praying for you,” she added, her blue eyes sparkling with the excitement of a mother about to see her son lasso his dream.

  Brady sauntered to the staircase leading to the texas level where he hoped one day to reside as an officer. He was glad his parents had come aboard for this final test. His mother recognized early on that the prospect of piloting had some sort of spell on him. Now that he was fourteen, she had encouraged him to try out for a spot as a cub pilot last summer. They’d celebrate tonight.

  He loved everything about steamboats. Even the sounds invigorated him. From the gentle whoosh of steam behind each stroke of the engine’s pistons, to the water lapping off the paddlewheels, to the call of a gull swooping down to check out the river life—he loved it all.

  And now as he climbed the steps up to the pilothouse at the very top of the vessel, he noticed a slight tremble to his hands. Had the confidence he displayed to his parents been short-lived? He took in a deep breath, letting the familiar whiff of fresh river air settle his nerves.

  Inside, the sun shone through the east-facing side window. Using a rag with his left hand, Pilot Avery was wiping the front window as he gripped the wheel in his right.

  “Good morning, Brady. I trust you’re up for this. You’ve got it a bit tougher this time. Water level’s down since May. Pilot Ramsey wasn’t feeling well this morning, so it will be just the two of us.”

  “Yes sir. And I’m fully aware it’s completely different going the other way. Making the turns through this winding part will be tricky.” He took a firm grip of the wheel.

  “Well, you’ve studied your notes from before, right?” The pilot stepped
closer behind him.

  “Absolutely.” The portly man’s heavy breathing warmed Brady’s neck, his coffee breath distracting him.

  “So, what’s the name of the point we’re coming up on?”

  Brady studied the surrounding trees and shoreline. “Looks to me like Eight Mile Point.” He held his chin high, his confidence coming back.

  “We’ll have to start our turn well in advance. See that huge cottonwood with the big branches hanging over the water?” He pointed ahead off to the starboard side. “When we get abreast of it, start cranking.”

  Several minutes later, Brady heard the command. “Larboard,1 son, strong larboard. Lively now . . . lively. Snatch it. Don’t dillydally.” The pilot’s breathing grew heavier.

  As he cranked hard left on the wheel, Brady felt a rush when the huge wayward whale at his command responded. But it seemed in slow motion. When will that tail ever come around? Ah, here she comes. Here she comes.

  “All right now,” Pilot Avery said firmly. “You’ve got to start straightening her out. Come on back starboard with that wheel. Easy now . . . easy. You were a little late with that, but we’re OK.”

  Brady took a quick glance back. Pilot Avery rubbed his bushy eyebrows and lifted his hat, running a hand through his short graying hair.

  For the next ten minutes, they had pretty much straight going. A flatboat with cargo passed them going upstream. Brady waved, but no one on the other boat noticed. Or maybe they did but didn’t want to wave to someone they didn’t recognize. No matter. He felt good—especially after negotiating that last turn. His buddies from his old school days would envy him now. Just about every boy growing up in a river town wanted to pilot a steamboat. Could it be his dream was finally coming true? Would he be accepted as a full-time cub pilot?

  Pilot Avery’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Remember that long sand point coming up juts out on the starboard side? We’ve got to go wide around it. Don’t be afraid of the cliff to the larboard side. There’s plenty of easy water over there—it’s deep and clear.”