For a Noble Purpose, page 8
part #1 of Larksong Legacy Series
Her friend’s hands trembled upon her worn skirt, her eyes focused on them rather than anywhere else. She had no choice but to run. A sum that high for a female slave was unusual and likely meant Martha wouldn’t be working in the kitchen or as a lady’s maid. It was said, albeit quietly, that Southern gentlemen sometimes purchased young black women, many still mere youths, to provide them with…intimate companionship. At thirty, Martha was older than most, but not so old and certainly still beautiful. She could serve her new master for decades. Sarah couldn’t believe her father would do such injustice to a woman he had cared for like a second daughter.
“Martha,” her mother said, “this is your only chance. I am granting you this freedom; unfortunately, I cannot grant it legally. You run, and I will deal with Mr. Walcott.” She hugged her, which was unexpected, and Sarah watched Martha go stiff in her arms. “I have always loved you like a daughter. Thank you for all the years you gave me. Take care of Sarah now, you hear?” Martha nodded. “Good. Sarah will meet you at the kitchen door. Now pack quickly. Go.”
As soon as Martha disappeared, her mother spun from the closed door. A lock of blonde hair had fallen against her neck. Her cheeks flushed scarlet, she began transferring clothing from Sarah’s trunk into her lone carpet bag.
“Mama, wait. I thought you wanted me to go to Fulton. You told me they could cure me.”
Her mother’s hands stilled, clutching the sides of the bag. Another lock of hair broke loose, curling down across her shoulder. Sarah had never seen her mother with her hair down. She wondered if they would look more alike then and her mother more romantic. Sarah had never heard the story of her parents’ marriage. She knew they lost many babies, and her mother cried often when Sarah was a child, but otherwise, she knew little.
“Darling, the asylum is but a bandage, not a balm. All you would have there is a life away from here. No one knows why you have lost so many husbands. I doubt anyone could ever explain it as more than the cruelest of luck.”
“You do believe I’m cursed then?”
“A Catholic home does not believe in curses.”
That reasoning was as good as saying “yes.” Sarah’s eyes filled with tears as she helped her mother pack the last of her belongings. More than half the trunk Martha packed now remained behind. She felt like her life was going up in smoke, those stars she had wished on in her childhood now blinking out one by one.
“Where are we to go?” she asked. “Ever since the new law, the slave catchers are everywhere.” The Fugitive Slave Act said blacks could be captured and sold back to the South from anywhere. Even if they were legally free.
“Chances are still better in the North. You wanted to go to Boston. Why don’t you begin there?” Her mother kissed her cheek then gently folded her arms around her daughter. She released a gasp. “Forgive me, dearheart.”
Sarah clutched her mother, inhaled her sweet lavender soap and arsenic face powder. This moment had taken all the courage Elda Walcott had, and Sarah would never fault her for that. “You’re already forgiven, Mama.”
She grabbed the wooden lark and braided ring off the dressing table, snatched her bag from the bed, and raced down the back staircase. Martha waited at the door with her own bag in hand.
Her mother stood atop the stairs, strands of blonde fluttering in the breeze from the open door. She descended two steps as though she aimed to join them, then waved her hand forward. Her lips whispered a silent farewell.
If Sarah didn’t leave now, she wouldn’t have another chance. She would be set inside a carriage for the asylum and Martha…poor sweet Martha would face a far worse sentence.
A wind gust picked up as they raced into the hemp fields, high stepping through the saplings and crushing too many underfoot. Other workhands peppered across the fields, sowing the next rows of seed. A few briefly glanced her way, but seeing her with Martha, returned to their work. It was not unusual to see the two women together, only unusual for them to be running with traveling bags in hand. She had to hope they would say nothing to her father until the end of the day, after she and Martha had hours to slip away.
As they passed from the fields into the shadow of the trees, she clutched the lark tighter inside her palm. Eventually, the slave catchers might be sent after them. After all, Martha belonged to someone and it wasn’t her. She had no papers to keep her friend safe. All those years stargazing together, and not once had she considered how dreams looked far different if your life was drawn on a deed of sale.
She knew what she needed to do, and it meant she would never see Boston.
“Forgive me, Linden,” she whispered, but she didn’t turn back.
By the time Sarah and Martha made it to the old barn, save for two sets of hoofprints, all traces of the Lark brothers had vanished. They followed the trail through the tall grass until it joined with the road, the tracks lost within hundreds of identical prints. Without knowing the brothers’ current whereabouts, the only chance of locating them now was to travel west to Independence. Sarah had to hope she wouldn’t arrive too late.
They kept to the trees and low-lying areas until the afternoon turned to night and the woods pitched so black, they could barely see. Then they worked their way back to the road and continued along by moonlight. No one should be on the road at night and hopefully, they would hear if the slave catchers were sent after them. They had to take advantage of the darkness.
Far above, the stars twinkled against the blue-black sky. This was a long way from how things had been with them when they were children. Now, there were miles of unfamiliar fields and the whisper of wind amongst the cicadas’ whirr. Even her last wedding, mere days ago, seemed like another life. Sometimes, she wondered how much longer she would remember any aspect of Linden’s face. She knew his eyes were brown, but was she remembering how they looked or just remembering what she knew to be true?
Another wave of guilt washed over her, her bag even heavier in her hand. She switched it to the other side but it did little to ease the burden.
She let their feet brush the earth for a few more strides before she said, “Martha?”
“Yes, Miss Sarah?”
“Are you sure you want to come with me? You’re a free lady now. You could go anywhere, you know.”
“Would you rather me go?”
“No! No, I wouldn’t wish it at all. I’m glad you’re here. I only want to be certain you want it, too.”
“Want. It’s a strange word. I stay here and your Pa might have the slave catchers after me. I go off on my own and who knows where I’ll end up. I couldn’t find the North any better than I could find the South. You’ve still been family to me, Miss Sarah. You’ve been kinder than anyone. You have been the closest to a friend that I’ve had.”
She reached for Martha’s free hand and squeezed. “We are friends. Heaven knows I don’t want to do this alone either.”
“Why didn’t you go to Fulton?”
Of course, Martha didn’t understand. She had been in her quarters when Sarah’s mother explained how not even the asylum could work miracles on someone like her. When one was haunted or cursed, as she was, there was no easy way to escape it.
Her relationship with Linden—and his death—had been so personal. She had never really let loose her feelings to anyone after he died. There had been outbursts here and there, fits of tears late at night, and a few during the day. Curses at her father in his office and even more at herself in the silence of her mind. She missed Linden. Oh, how she missed him.
“I decided I would rather be more like you,” she said. “To fly like the lark as it sings.”
“My momma had a song like that. About flying away above the cotton plains, up and up to yonder land.”
“Up North?”
“She never told me where it was.” But the way she said it, so wistful, made Sarah believe her friend knew exactly what the song meant.
“Would you sing me a verse?”
Martha was silent a moment then finally said, “We should be quiet so we can hear if the slave catchers are coming.”
Sarah nodded. She didn’t try to ask again.
10
I
t was another two full days before they reached Independence, Missouri, a small town grand in diversity. From the obviously affluent to vagrants in worn sack coats and torn knickers, from white to black to the copper skin of Indians clothed in little more than animal hides. On the boardwalk outside the hotel, a tribal woman stood adorned in beads and bangles. A tiny infant slept sound in the cradleboard strapped against her back while his mother bartered away beautiful shawls with intricate designs.
Crossing the street was a feat of courage. If one could cross it safely, Sarah reckoned they should have no difficulty crossing the western plains. The road teemed in both directions with every sort of conveyance, from loaded-down wagons carrying families with multiple children, to single men on horseback with two saddlebags and a side satchel as their only belongings. Horses, mules, donkeys, oxen. Chickens running wild and feathers swirling. Dogs nipping at their owners’ heels. And the noise! Ever so much more than Sarah had imagined.
Hawthorn Ridge’s town center wasn’t quiet; the clatter of carriage wheels and horse’s hooves mixed with the echo of boot heels on the boardwalk and the din of conversation. But here it was near pandemonium. Brays and whinnies came from the livery stables and the congested streets made it impossible to talk without shouting. Metal triangles whapped from restaurant doors calling in customers to the mid-day meal. Two boys, no more than eight years old, ran straight across the path, nearly tripping Sarah clean into the dirt. Leaping back, she instead almost bowled Martha over who was standing close behind.
How were they ever to find the Larks in such a mess? It could take weeks to locate them, by which time they would likely have moved on. The women had no food or water; they had spent the night sleeping under a bush and foraging for berries the next morning. She assumed the red rounds hadn’t been poisonous, seeing as they were still alive. Thankfully, her mother had the forethought to pack Sarah a change purse, but without full access to her father’s sums, the amount granted barely more than a few meals. By tomorrow, they wouldn’t have even two cents to rub together, much less buy a way west with. If not for Martha, she would likely admit her foolishness and return home. She could suffer Linden’s curse, but she wouldn’t abandon Martha to the slave catchers.
“Stay close to me,” she whispered. “Don’t draw attention. Any one of these folks could turn us in if they suspect I stole you.”
Martha nodded, dipping her chin and keeping a step behind as they wove toward the General Store. A young couple exited as they reached the entrance, each carrying two burlap sacks apiece and the man with another tied parcel tucked beneath his arm. Deep blonde hair peeked out from beneath his hat’s broad brim, the skin upon his face crimson with a deep tan gone too far, a sure sign of someone not familiar with time in the sun. To the contrary, his wife’s complexion was a lovely golden tan beneath her flowered bonnet and round silver spectacles. Her dark brunette hair swept back into a cinch with golden highlights and a smattering of umber freckles upon her nose.
As a lady, Sarah understood the implications of misplacing one’s bonnet or umbrella in the noonday heat. If she had obtained freckles such as those, she would have been tossed from every circle even before her marriages made a debacle of her social standing. This woman’s blemishes, however, provided her with a youthful softness, despite having to be several years past twenty.
“Pardon me,” Sarah called. The couple turned their way, extending friendly smiles while hoisting their purchases.
Unable to tip his hat, the man nodded. “Good afternoon, ma’am. What can we do for you?”
“Forgive me, but I am trying to find a wagon party. The Lark brothers or perhaps the Larksong wagon train. I’m not certain what they are calling themselves.”
Their expressions instantly brightened. They looked once at each other then back again. “Of course we know the Larks,” he said. “We’re in the same party as them. You and your friend planning to join us then? Ma’am.” He nodded to Martha who was half-hidden behind Sarah, eyes resolutely focused on the soil. She remained silent.
What were the odds they would stumble upon the right party on their very first attempt? Were these people truly with the Larks or were they nothing as they appeared? Out to steal what little they had left? Suspicious of a lone white woman traveling with a lone black woman? Sarah couldn’t believe divine providence would smile upon them after years of seemingly ignoring her prayers.
Slowly, she nodded.
“It is always a fine day to have more recruits on board,” the man acknowledged. “I’m Oliver Shay and this is my wife, Coraline.”
“Sarah Walcott and this is my…” How did she refer to Martha? Her friend? Her maid? Her servant? Her slave? She decided on simplicity. “This is Miss Martha Louis.”
Martha nodded, knuckles white upon her bag.
Coraline’s lips parted into a wide smile. She shuffled her purchases in her arms, attempting to extract a hand and offer it. Unable to do so, she dipped in a slight curtsy. “How delightful to meet new members. You must place your wagon right next to ours.”
They had no wagon. They didn’t even have a horse or a dollar with which to purchase one. They certainly couldn’t stay in Tobias’s wagon. That was indecent.
“Come,” Oliver said. “Our party is grouped a ways out, on the edge of town. It’s farther to the trailhead, but away from some of the bustle.”
Bustle indeed. As they wove their way through the streets, it seemed the Shays knew nearly everyone and nearly everyone returned their esteem. Every way they turned, other pioneers called out greetings, asking questions or making plans. She noticed several wagon canvases had phrases painted in black or red such as “Westward Bound” or “Washington or Bust!” One man stood on a wooden bucket with a brown-dipped rag in hand, in the midst of writing a large “B” on the side of the canvas. She could only wonder what that would spell. His name perhaps?
Beneath him, a girl hardly more than six clutched a rag doll, one wrinkled thumb in and out from between her teeth. She waved with her opposite hand. “Hey-ya, Mrs. Shay!”
Coraline wiggled her fingers back from beneath the burlap sacks. “Afternoon, Betty!”
Oh, Sarah thought. Perhaps the man named the wagon after his daughter like sailors name ships after beautiful women.
A few wagons down, a middle-aged woman packed jars of jam into a crate, a hammer and tacks upon its open lid. She looked up at the Shays’ greeting and wiped the sweat from her brow. “It’s a tart hot one today, Mrs. Shay.”
“Indeed, it is, Mrs. Wilder. Best we’re getting off before we’re in the thick of it.”
Across the row, a man about mid-forties looked up from where he lounged against his wagon wheel, eating beans from a tin bowl, legs stretched out and suspenders loosened. Beneath his worn hat, his skin lay darker than midnight, so deeply brown it held a slight blue sheen. And his lips so plump and pink as to defy that they belonged with the rest of him. Never had Sarah seen such a skin color in Hawthorn Ridge. Even the darkest of their servants were of a deep chocolate, the lightest ones closer to Martha’s caramel hue. Beside the man crouched another colored woman about the same age, spooning beans into bowls for each of the five children seated around the small campfire. A colored family chatting with white folks and facing them full forward instead of at their feet. Except for moments of solitude with Martha, it was practically unheard of back home.
Oliver reached a hand down to grasp the other man’s. “Afternoon, Levi. You and Mrs. Harper all supplied for the trip?”
Levi released his hand and picked up his spoon again. “There about. Got one or two things left to get settled, but we’ll be in line with everyone come morning.”
“Good, good. Coraline’s been asking me if you had to sell your fiddle. Seems she’s ready for more of those spirited tunes.”
Coraline reddened. “I only told him I liked the music. You don’t have to play on my account.”
Levi chewed another bite of beans, swallowed, and gave a sly smile. “I’m happy to play for you, Mrs. Shay. As long as you agree to join my Marie in a song.”
Tobias said their group accepted everyone, that there were no slaves in Larksong, but Sarah hadn’t completely believed it before. These plantation brothers would completely defy Southern convention? Maybe there was more to them than she thought.
After a quick round of introductions and more promises of future musical entertainment, they continued on.
“Those Harpers,” Oliver said as they cornered another wagon and out of earshot. “Fine folk, them. Used to work for the Larks back in Carolina. Some of the only ones left from before Alonzo Lark died.”
“They were slaves then?” Sarah asked. She had assumed as much, but one did meet the occasional freeman. She had heard rumors there were even some colored folks who made their way into the St. Louis aristocracy.
“Sure. Whole family were. Them and Josiah. You’re sure to meet him later on. He’s likely up helping the brothers out. He’s like a second father to those men. I spent plenty of time with both him and the Harpers when Jamison and I were planning things out back in Carolina. We’re setting up a doctoring practice in Larksong.” He waved a hand. “Enough talk. Let’s drop these supplies off and we’ll take you to Mr. Lark.”
They headed toward a wagon at the end of the row, flaps tied at the back and big black letters across the canvas: “Larksong Library.” An adolescent girl lay in the grassy shadows underneath the wagon bed, flat on her back with a book held open above her nose. She seemingly held no concern for the dust drifting over her by those passing by or the questionable number of insects that likely crawled upon her bare feet or up her gingham skirt.
“Alice Ann,” Coraline called. She dropped her supply sacks at the foot of the wagon, startling the girl so she nearly dropped her book upon her face. “Come out here and meet our guests.”
