Joshua Freeman
"The Fight for Freedom"
by
Ernie Webb
Published by Ernest L. Webb at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 by Ernest L. Webb
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Carol von Raesfeld for her editing skills, for helping me get my novels epublished, and for her encouragement and support;
To Dorothy Hardy for the front cover design;
And, to all of my friends and family for their moral support and encouragement as I pursue my goal to get my western trilogy published.
CHAPTER ONE
The Escape
In the years immediately preceding the Civil War, the Kansas Territory earned the nickname, “Bleeding Kansas.” It was not a name lightly earned, rather it was the result of the many violent and bloody fights between the abolitionist “Free-Staters” of Kansas and the pro-slavery forces from across the river in Missouri. It was from Kansas that John Brown launched his raids against slavery. It was also from Kansas that the Confederate guerrilla known as “Quantrill” began his deeds of infamy. Under the provisions of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, Kansas was a free territory and slavery was outlawed. However, as citizens of the United States, Kansans were required to uphold the Runaway Slave Act and return runaway slaves they might encounter to their owners in the slave states. Thus it was that the slave-catcher, Jonathan Gehazi, and his partner, Benjamin Gleason, rode openly down the streets of Leavenworth, Kansas in the spring of 1860.
Foul, cruel men who thrived on the miseries of others, Gehazi and Gleason ignored the reproachful looks of the townspeople. With the cold, watchful eye of experienced hunters, they cast searching glances down each alley they passed. Behind them plodded a packhorse with a chain secured to the packsaddle. At the other end of the chain was an iron ring, locked around the neck of a young Negro male. His hands hung limply at his side while his feet shuffled mechanically to keep up with the horse. Occasionally, the slave-catcher would stop and speak to people in the streets. The town’s inhabitants would shake their heads and continue about their business. Eventually, the slave-catchers approached a dry goods store where two Negroes were unloading a wagon.
“Lookin’ fer runaways,” Gehazi drawled, addressing the laborers. “Either one of you know where it is they might be hidin’?” Neither man answered. They continued their work in silence. “I’d pay handsome fer the right information,” Gehazi continued, then sent a stream of dark tobacco spittle against the wheel of the wagon. “Bought titles to three runaways over in Missouri last month. Caught this one here.” He motioned to the downcast soul in chains behind him. “Think ‘tothers crossed the river last night. Pay five dollahs apiece to ketch ‘em. One young nigger, name Joshua, with an old darkey name One-eye…‘cause he ain’t got but one.”
The younger worker paused from his labors and looked up. “That’s pow’ful money, but ain’t no good iffen you daid.”
“What you sayin’, boy?” Gehazi asked.
“Ain’t safe,” the young Negro replied. “Why, one of us turn in a runaway, these here “Free-Staters” come skin us alive. Else, one of them crazy runaways fix us good. Cain’t spend no money if yo’ head be settin’ one place and the rest of you is somewheres else.”
“You saying you know where they be?” asked the second slaver.
“Mebbe I do, mebbe I don’t. Don’t matter. Sho ‘nuff ain’t gonna risk my life fo’ no ten dollah.”
Gehazi grinned. “Six dollah apiece make you feel better, boy?” He laughed, rolled his quid, and spit again. It splattered at the feet of the young Negro. Ignoring the tobacco, the young man pulled another sack off the wagon, hefted it to his shoulders, and started up the steps to the store.
“Ain’t no amount of money good enough to get killed fo’,” he replied, shaking his head at the top of the stairs. Before opening the door, he stopped, turned around, and looked Gehazi straight in the eye. “But mebbe we could work us a deal.”
Curious, Gehazi leaned forward. “What you thinking, boy?”
“Well, sir, iffen they was my slaves, I could be goin’ after ‘em, then nobody be gettin’ mad at me ‘cause, I be gettin’ my own proppity. Everybody unnerstans proppity. Yessiree, I could go after ‘em iffen they was mine.”
“But they ain’t yourn,” Gehazi drawled. A fly buzzed around his uncut hair and landed in the growth of his week-old beard. He ignored it as it crawled, searching, through his beard.
“Yessir, I knows that, but iffen you was to sell me them papers, they would be. Then, when I kotched ‘em, I could sell ‘em back to you fo’ the six dollah, clear profit.”
Bent from his years of hardship, the older Negro turned, revolted by the young man’s offer. His face screwed up in disgust and shaking his fist, he cried, “You’d sell yo’ own kind back to the hell of slavery?”
“Hush up, old man,” the young man replied and shoved him angrily to the ground. “A man’s gotta do what he gotta do and I gotta make me some money. Don’t care ‘bout nobody else.” He turned to Gehazi. “What you say, Mr. Slaver?”
Gehazi grinned. “How much money you got, boy?”
“Seven dollah,” the young man replied.
Gehazi leaned back in his saddle and laughed loudly. “Hell, that won’t buy the hair off they heads. Cost me $25 apiece, sight unseen.”
“Oh yessir. I knows yo’ is tellin’ me de truff, but right now all you gots fo’ yo’ money is them papers. An’ you wait much longer, dey be gone on de underground, up in Canada or someplace else where you ain’t never gonna see ‘em.”
A crowd began to gather, with the more vocal abolitionists berating the young Negro. “Traitor,” they yelled. “Your own people fighting and dying to be free and you're willing to sell them back to the very devil…for shame.” A few ominous voices expressed veiled threats. The young Negro ignored them, keeping his eyes on the slavecatchers.
“How I know you won’t cheat me and sell them to someone else fo’ a better price?” asked Gehazi.
“Oh, no sir. I know better’n that. Sides, you the onliest one wants them slaves. Ain’t nobody else want them. I sho’ don’t need to own no slaves an’ I ain’t gonna go over to Missouri to try and sell none. If I don’t sell to you, why then I be losin’ all my money. No sir, you be the only one I sell to—won’t sell to nobody else.”
Gehazi leaned back in the saddle to consider the offer. He was not accustomed to negotiating with niggers. This damned free-state and these abolitionists were mixing up his world and he didn’t like it. Right now, however, he had to protect his $50 investment and this seemed to be the only way.
After a few minutes he spit again, then nodded his head. “Deal,” he said. “Lemme have the money.”
The young man drew a small leather change purse from his pants. Unfolding the flaps, he withdrew the entire contents of the seven dollars. With one hand, he passed the money to the slaver; with the other, he received the title papers.
“Now I’m warning you,” Gehazi leaned forward to emphasize his threat. “No funny business. You try to cross me, I’ll skin you alive.” Instinctively, his hand caressed the Negro whip dangling from his saddle. The whip was common among overseers and Joshua was not surprised to see one carried by a slave-catcher. The handle was of solid hardwood and about three feet long. The butt-end was usually filled with lead, making it a terrible club. The lash, however, was the most feared— usually six or seven feet in length, made from cowhide, with pleated wires on the end that could cut heartily into the skin, tearing away strips of flesh.
“Oh no, sir,” the young man replied solemnly. “Won’t sell to nobody else.”
Gehazi turned his horse. “We’ll be staying at the Waverly Hotel. You locate them two and need help corrallin’ ‘em, give a holler. Name’s Gehazi. What’s yore name, boy?”
The young man drew himself up to his full height and replied softly, “Joshua, former slave, now free man.”
“What?” Gehazi turned in the saddle, his surprise now turned to rage. “Why you connivin’ nigger! Trick me, will ya? By God, I’ll take the hide off yore back!”
Reaching for the whip, he goaded his horse towards Joshua. The Negro whip went high into the air. For twenty years it had tasted the blood of men’s and women’s backs. It had always done its job well and Gehazi was an expert in its use. Showing surprising agility, the older Negro dove under the wagon; however Joshua didn’t move. He had sworn that the next man who tried to lay a whip across his back would suffer for the attempt and he was determined not to forsake his vow here in the first moments of his freedom.
The slaver was beside him quickly, bringing the whip down with a fury bred through years of deep-rooted hatred and prejudice. But Joshua had also known the sting of that hatred and one stroke of the whip could not compare to the years of pent-up emotion from seeing his family beaten and cowed. The lash bit into his shoulder, but Joshua ignored it and grabbing the slaver’s leg, wrenched him from the saddle. Both men fell into the dust with bone-breaking force. Riderless, the horse clambered onto the wooden sidewalk, scattering the onlookers.
Gehazi was the first to his feet, but instead of pursuing his advantage, he began a frantic search for the whip he’d lost in the fall. He needed that whip. It was his strength, his power. No person of color had ever fought back against the whip. He knew that once he regained the whip he would beat this nigger to death. The money no longer had meaning. The only thing that mattered now was to make this nigger suffer...and die.
The fall forced the wind from his lungs. Joshua rose slowly, keeping his eyes on the slaver. Gehazi's face bore a look of astonishment and disbelief. Joshua sensed his fear at having been bested by a black man. Simultaneously, the ancient instincts of survival overcame the shock of having attacked a white man. With the blood pounding wildly against his temples, Joshua lowered his head and charged, driving Gehazi back to the ground before he could regain the whip. Then, rising quickly, Joshua clasped his hands over his head and brought them down with the force of a great hammer. Gehazi had struggled to his knees and looked up in time to see the blow that smashed his nose and drove him down into the dusty street for the third time. Joshua grabbed him by the shirt to hit him again, but was interrupted by the warning cry of the old man. “Look out, other one’s got a gun!”
Quick as a cat, Joshua dove for cover as the bullet dug into the ground where he’d been standing. Rolling, he came up on the opposite side of the wagon as he heard the report of another shot. His mind was racing. He was in trouble, real trouble, and he knew it. He was alone and he’d struck a white man. Members of his race had been tortured and hung for less. He was unsure how the Kansans would react, but he had no doubts about the intentions of the slavers—they’d kill him if they ever got their hands on him. He was determined that wouldn’t happen.
Crouched behind the wagon, Joshua considered his chances. His fear was tempered by the knowledge that he had faced them and won. But sweet though this knowledge was, now was no time to enjoy it. As long as they had their guns, he was no match for them. He either had to get their guns or get away. Under the circumstances, the second idea seemed the better thing to do. He remembered the store had a back door to the alley. He still had the wagons between him and the second slaver. Still moaning in the street, Gehazi was no threat. If I kin make it to the store, I gots a chance, but I gots to move fast.
Edging his way towards the rear of the wagon, Joshua gathered his strength to bolt for the door when suddenly a large, powerful hand came down upon his shoulder. A soft, but firm voice said, “You’re safe, son. Stand up.”
Joshua turned and looked into the face of a giant white man. His first impulse was to hit this giant and run for the door, but in the giant’s free hand was a still-smoking revolver.
“You’ve smashed my hand,” screamed a voice from the street.
Joshua glanced over the wagon and saw the second slaver holding a mangled hand where his gun should have been.
“Offer thanks to the Lord,” boomed the giant, “that I was not forced to take your life, my friend. And now, I suggest that your business here is concluded. You should return across the river from whence you came.”
“But that nigger’s a runaway. He cheated us. The law says you gotta help us take him back.”
“Not so,” replied the giant. “He’s a free man. Why, your partner there sold him the papers himself. It was a legal transaction. He didn’t cheat you, he simply outsmarted you with a fine piece of Yankee trading, I’d say. And I was an eyewitness to the whole thing. Now you best leave while you’re still able.”
Gehazi had managed to remount. The hatred boiled in his eyes, but he was in no condition for further fighting. Waving to Gleason, he pulled reins and headed for the ferry. Using his good hand, Gleason followed suit.
“You’ll pay for this,” Gehazi yelled. “We’ll be back. You abolitionists are pushing too hard. Someday we’re gonna have to whip all of ya and I’ll be the first in line to lay all yore hides open—and don’t forget it.”
Joshua watched the procession move down the street. The two slavers astride their horses, nursing their wounds, and the fearful slave abjectly following in the dust of the packhorse. People who had ducked inside at the sound of gunfire now began to peek outside. Some came out into the street. As the slavers crested a small rise and dropped out of sight, the slave attempted one last look at Joshua.
Joshua watched his brother disappear, then fell against the wagon, weeping bitterly.
“Son, you’re a free man now, you should be rejoicing.” The big man laid his hand across Joshua’s shoulders. “It’s all over.”
“Yes sir, I’m free,” Joshua sobbed, “but it ain’t over. They still have my brother and he ain’t free.”
“I see. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do for him; however, you need to get some space between you and those fellows. It wouldn’t do for you to still be here if they find some friends and decide to come back. You come with me and we will figure something out.”
Joshua was undecided about what to do. Everything he had learned his entire life told him not to trust white men, yet this one had surely saved him from either death or a return to slavery. Why had he done so? Did he intend to make Joshua his own slave or did he want the reward money? Joshua’s mind was filled with doubt. Once, he even thought that maybe this white man truly meant for Joshua to be free—but he quickly dismissed the thought. Whatever the reason, the man was too big to fight and he still had that revolver. Joshua decided to bide his time and escape again at the first opportunity.
“Mighty fine shootin’, Reverend,” came a voice from the crowd. “The Lord teach you to shoot as well as sermonize?”
“Well, brother,” the big man replied, “a little practice helps some. The Lord helps he who helps himself.”
“Reverend!” Joshua had heard of a traveling Methodist preacher who taught abolition. He was a legend among the slaves in Joshua’s area. It was said that he delivered his sermons with a Bible in one hand and a revolver in the other—and he was equally good with either. His name was Chivington and he feared no man on earth. Joshua had never believed the stories.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Joshua.”
“Good name Joshua. It fits you. You’re a fighter. Mine’s Chivington.” He stuck out his big hand. Joshua took it and they shook. “Nice to know you, Joshua. Now, help me load up so we can leave.”
The Reverend had three animals: one saddle horse, one packhorse, and a mule. Joshua quickly assessed their value. Both pack animals were healthy and in good condition. The Reverend’s saddle horse, however, was an old mare that had probably been a fine riding horse, but although she’d obviously been cared for, age was catching up with her. Mostly a slow riding horse with not much gut in her, thought Joshua. Maybe he's too soft to put her down, but there was nothin' soft about the way he handled them slavers.
The Reverend had also purchased a large store of provisions, much more than he’d need if he was headed back east. Joshua relaxed a little. The Reverend had to be headed west and that was where Joshua wanted to go. I might travel with him awhile, he decided. The pack animals were soon loaded and the Reverend paid his bill. He stuffed a few loose items into his saddle bags, then took off his coat and rolled it up. “Be too hot for walking,” he said as he secured it behind the cantle. Pulling the wide brim of his hat down on his brow, he unhitched the animals and followed the sun out of town.
Neither man spoke as they passed through the town. The Reverend waved in answer to the occasional greetings of the townspeople, but mostly he hummed gospel tunes while studying the young man walking at this side. Just under six foot, he couldn’t be but 17 or 18 years old, the Reverend thought. Joshua was a powerfully built lad with the muscles of his back and arms showing through the threadbare cotton shirt that hung loosely from his broad shoulders. The old work trousers he wore would have fallen from his narrow waist had they not been held tight by a hemp rope twisted and tied there. His walk was steady and deliberate, and there was a determined set to his jaw. The heat of the sun and the morning exercise had brought perspiration which glistened on his jet-black hair.
About a mile from town, the Reverend turned and asked Joshua if he knew the story of Joshua in the Bible.
“Yessir, Joshua fit the battle of Jericho and helped Moses lead his people to the Promised Land,” Joshua replied.
Pleased, the Reverend smiled inwardly. “That’s right. How long you been running Joshua?”
“Don’t rightly know. Eight, mebbe ten days. Me, old One-eye, and young William. William’s the one they caught—he’s my brother. We just had enough and decided to run. Old One-eye ask if he could come too. Couldn’t say no. So we all just runned away. They caught William ‘fore we could get out of Missouri, using dogs. Me and old One-eye got away. Got to the river and waited ‘til dark, then tried to swim over. Old One-eye, he didn’t make it. River too fast and mean. I tried to keep him from gettin’ in that river, told him it was too fast fo’ an old man, but he say he rather take that river to the sea before he go back to being a slave again. I couldn’t help him none—cain’t swim neither. Now he’s dead, but ‘least his soul can be in peace ‘cause I got his papers. Wherever that river take him, it takin’ a free man.” Joshua’s hand closed over the leather purse where the papers were stored.
“But why did you come into Leavenworth?”
“Didn’t mean to,” Joshua replied. “Didn’t want to come into no towns, but like I say, that river a fast river. We went way up away from the town. When I jump in, that river grab hold on me and turn me all over. Toss me up and toss me down. Thought I was ‘bout done fo’ when I caught hold onto sumpin—tree I think and I pulled fo’ all I was worth. Got to shore so tired I just fell asleep. Woke up hearin’ all them noises and knew I was too close to town. Figured if I tried to sneak away, somebody see me and say, ‘Look there go some runaway nigger.’ So I figure I just sashay into town like I somebody. The man at the store see me and ask if I want to make two-bits. I say, ‘Sure, ‘cause I need to make all the money I can.’ Well, I was workin’ good until them slavers come up.”
“And the old man workin’ with you?”
“Don’t know. First time I ever saw him.”
“Ever do any fighting, Joshua?” asked the Reverend.
“Yessir. Don’ care fo’ it much though. Sometimes my master make me fight somebody else’s prize nigger ‘cause I kinda strong. Didn’t do too bad, but didn’t understand why us two had to whip each other. We was never mad at each other, but had to do good else master get pow’ful mad.”
“Now that you’re a free man, what do you plan to do?”
“Well, sir. I’m goin’ to Californy.”
“Got relatives out there?”
“No sir.”
“Then why California?”
Joshua hesitated. He felt compelled to answer, but he knew he couldn’t tell this man the truth. Never tell a white man the truth, especially when the truth was that Joshua was going to kill another white man. “Cause I be lookin’ fo’ somebody that I know is out there,” he replied.
“Then what?”
“Then I gonna dig fo’ some of that gold.”
“Digging for gold is hard work, Joshua.”
“Well, sir, I ain’t no stranger to that. Done plenty work. ‘Sides, I got a reason fo’ diggin’.”
“Get rich?”
“No sir…gonna get my family free.”
“William?”
“Yessir.”
“And your parents?”
“Momma’s dead. Don’ know ‘bout my daddy. He was sold down the river when I was real young. Now just me, William, and a little girl named Sally.” At the mention of her name, his sister’s picture came quickly to mind—laughing, her big eyes dancing and shining. Joshua had tried to protect her when their mother died, but there was precious little he could do as a slave. Watching her cry at their mother’s deathbed was when Joshua had sworn to himself, “Someday we all gonna be free.”
The Reverend nodded in understanding. “What kind of work have you done, Joshua?” The question brought Joshua back from his memories.
“All kinds. Mostly I was a blacksmith an’ I taken care of massa’s stock.”
“That’s good,” the Reverend replied. “Out west, there’s no slavery, but life will still be hard for you. Having a trade will stand you in good stead and make life a bit easier.”
“Yessir,” Joshua replied.
Coming up a small rise, the Reverend stopped and gazed out across the expanse before them. They talked for some time without talking, the silence broken only by the sound of the animal’s hooves striking the ground or the Reverend occasionally humming a gospel tune.
“Joshua,” he said. “Kansas is a great state, but these are troublesome times. Sometimes I think God is in complete control and this is a wonderful place to be. At other times, the devil has gotten the upper hand and it is mighty worrisome.”
To Joshua, the rolling hills, lush green grass, and the air of freedom marked the time as being one when God was controlling Kansas. Joshua watched two hawks, soaring freely in the distance. I be as free as them birds, but I ain’t gonna rejoice ‘bout that ‘til Sally and William be free too.
~~~~
CHAPTER TWO
Aunt Clara
Although still visible on the horizon, the sun had begun to cast long shadows over the land by the time they arrived at the wagon train. A large train of over seventy wagons was circled into the evening corral. The front wheels of each wagon were drawn up to lock with the rear wheels of the wagon in front. This left only two openings by which one could enter or leave the corral. The draft animals had been unyoked and allowed to graze inside the corral. The herd animals were turned out to graze while several mounted stock herders—the cavies, rode lazily on the outside of the herd to keep them from straying.
The cavies were all-purpose types. Their main duties were to herd the loose stock along the trail. At a halt, they performed whatever duties the wagon master assigned. They also frequently hunted for game and in dangerous times rode out on the flanks to serve as early warning from Indian attacks. Joshua noted that all the primary draft animals were oxen. Though steady and reliable, they were slower than mules or horses. This would be a slow-moving operation and Joshua was in a hurry.
His concern for speed was briefly turned aside since the supper fires were burning inside the corral and the mingled cooking smells of the different fires wreaked havoc with Joshua’s stomach. It had been at least two days since he’d last eaten. Off to one side someone was playing “Sweet Betsy From Pike” on an old harmonica with one bad reed.
The Reverend worked his way through the many small clusters of men until he came to the center of the corral where several men were squatting on the ground, discussing the trip. Nearby, the cook, a large, raw-boned Negro woman in her late forties, was preparing their supper.
“Evening, Reverend. Didn’t know if you was gonna make it ‘fore we left. Fix yourselves a plate and join us.” The speaker was a tall, wiry man wearing a denim shirt, slouch hat, and an easy grin.
“Thanks, Slim,” replied the Reverend. “Joshua and I have worked up a fair-sized appetite.”
As he spoke, the Reverend stepped over to the kitchen wagon, followed by an eager Joshua. The cook gave them each a tin plate and a spoon. Above the fire, a big iron pot held a slowly bubbling stew. The Reverend stirred it, letting the steaming aroma rise and waft past his nose.
“Sure smells good, Joshua.”
“Yessir,” Joshua replied, all the time thinking, Wish you’d do less smellin’ and commence with the eatin’.
At last, the Reverend filled both their plates and rejoined the circle of men. Joshua sat down near the wheel of the wagon and gobbled his food like a hungry wolf.
“Goodness sake, chile,” chided the cook good naturedly. “You better chew that food ‘fore you swallow it, less you like them cows and can make cud fo’ later.”
“Yes’m,” Joshua looked up from his plate. “Ain’t no cow, jest ain’t et in sometime…pow’ful hungry.” He tipped the plate to gather the last morsel in his spoon.
“Well, jest hold out that plate,” she laughed. “I’m gonna fill it up again. Aunt Clara know how to make a stew what will stick to yo’ ribs, chile.” She ladled a second helping onto his plate. As he spooned another mouthful, she asked, “You joinin’ this train?”
“Don’t know. The Reverend say you headed fo’ the gold fields in Colorado or somethin’ like that. I need to get to Californy fast. Don’t know where this Colorado be, just know this outfit got nothin’ but oxen to do the pullin’ and I needs to go faster than that.”
“Well, ain’t yo’ some kinda sassy nigger,” she snapped, the friendly smile gone from her face. “Come in here, ain’t had nothin’ to eat, ain’t got no shoes, no nothin’ and talkin’ like this outfit not good enough.”
“Ain’t saying’ that ma’am, jest I gotta move. Cain’t be wastin’ no time.”
“And how you gonna move so fast?” She drew one hand up on her hip and cocked her head to one side sarcastically.
“Anyways, I can. Walk, I guess.”
“And how does you figure on eatin’? You think that country out there full of people waitin’ to give handouts to ever nigger come passin’ by? Boy, they ain’t makin’ slaves out there, but they ain’t givin’ no handouts neither.”
Scraping his plate, Joshua replied, “Ain’t askin’ fo’ no handouts. I works fo’ what I gets.”
“Well,” she snapped, “I know that to be true. You gonna work for this supper. First thing you do is clean up them utensils. Get over to that river and scrub them in the sand. Scrub ‘em good. Then go get me some mo’ wood fo’ the morning fires. Now git.”
Puzzled at her sudden change in attitude, Joshua shrugged his shoulders and rose to do as she said. When he returned with the firewood, the Reverend called him over to speak with the wagon master and another man.
“Joshua, this is Slim Thompson. He’s the boss. Thinks he might take you on. And this is Reverend Higginson from up north. He’s been helping your people escape from slavery for many years. He wants to ask you some questions. Might help somebody else if he knows more about what you did.”
Slim was chewing on the end of a long stem of grass. “Reverend says you’ve done some ‘smithing,’ that right?”
“Yessir.”
“We could use some help out there. Don’t need a smith full time, but nice to have if we need one. You could run stock with the cavies the rest of the time. We’re hauling for Russell, Majors and Waddell. Government contract for Denver and the Utah army posts. Pays six bits a day and board, payable at the end of the line. If you can’t cut it and I let you go early, you get two bits for each day worked. If you quit, you get nothin’. Fair enough?”
Joshua hesitated. Seventy-five cents a day was more money than he’d ever dreamed of, but money wasn’t important. He didn’t want to tie himself down. He wanted to be able to move when he wanted. “Yessir,” he answered. “Fair enough to try, ‘least fo’ one week.”
“Good,” concluded the wagon master. “You’ll be working on Jim Cabot’s crew. Now when you finish talking with Reverend Higginson, grab a blanket off that wagon and turn in. We start at first light—that’ll be around four. There’ll be plenty to do.”
The Reverend Higginson extended his hand and Joshua responded in kind. “Thomas is my name. What you did was a brave thing, Joshua. What can you tell me so I can help more of your people?” he asked.
“Not much to tell,” Joshua replied. “Waited ‘til they was asleep, then lit out. Moved north at night, traveled water as much as possible to mess up the dogs. Not much else to tell.”
The Reverend nodded. “Joshua, this country is headed for a war over slavery. I’ve sworn before God that I’m going to do everything possible to destroy this abomination. When you get ready to do more to help your family, know this—Reverend Thomas Higginson of Boston is someone you can count on.”
“Thank you, sir,” Joshua answered, but offered nothing else.
They talked a few minutes longer, then the Reverend Higginson shook his hand once more and returned to one of the campfires. Joshua grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around his shoulders and curled up at the foot of a cottonwood. It took him awhile to fall asleep. The events of the day ran vividly through his mind. He was a free man, had a full stomach, and a job paying white man’s wages. He wanted to jump up and shout. But even with all this, he was still a long way from California.
Crack! Joshua was awakened by the sound of gunfire. Startled, he jumped to his feet and looked around. The rest of the camp seemed unconcerned. Lazily they rose, stretched, and lit cigarettes. Gradually he realized that the single shot had only been a signal to awaken the camp for the day’s work. Joshua shook his blanket and followed the smell of coffee to the fire. Against the clear morning air, the aroma was strong and inviting. Before he could reach the pot, Clara drove him away.
“Boy, ‘fore you come sniffin’ ‘round here fo’ coffee, you go help with the work so’s we can start this trip.” Joshua scampered away in search of Jim Cabot to learn about his new duties.
The adage, “haste makes waste” was one to know when preparing a wagon train for a haul. Oxen could be easily skittered and stampede if frightened. If rushed, they could become downright obstinate. Either way, it caused a lot more work than if they’d been properly handled. Bullwhackers and cavies all worked quietly and slowly to bring them to their wagons so that they were settled down before anyone threw a yoke on them.
Contrary to their gruff appearance, bullwhackers knew when to be gentle and the best of them seldom mistreated their stock. Rough, hard-bitten men who no one cared to face in a fight, they were proud of their work and that meant knowing how to handle draft animals. They could turn the air blue with their cursing when the occasion demanded and when they really got worked up, the sun was known to hide behind the clouds, embarrassed. If need be, their rawhide bullwhips could clip an ear or remove a hefty chunk of flesh with one flick of the wrist. Yet, in actuality, no matter how close the whips seemed to come, they seldom bit into an animal’s flesh. Some drivers swore they could remove a fly from an ox’s ear without disturbing the ox. The building of the West could not have been accomplished without them. Not only were they heroic, they were also tough. They gave a day’s work for a day’s pay, appreciated a beautiful sunset, warm beans, and a good joke.
Control of the ox teams was managed through the use of jerk lines. A single line was extended from the bit of the lead animal, through collar rings on succeeding left team members, to the hands of the driver at the left side of the wagon. To turn the teams and wagon to the right required only a series of short jerks and the verbal command “Gee.” A left turn took only a steady pull on the jerk line and the verbal command, “Haw.”
Wheel teams were usually the first to be yoked, then they were led outside the corral and chained to the front wheel. Next, the lead teams were yoked together and hitched to the wagon. Then, in turn, the remaining teams were yoked and hitched. Jerk lines were inspected and installed.
As the wagons were made ready, the men ate in shifts, all managing to down several cups of strong, hot coffee—the staple of the West. The day couldn’t begin until everyone had been well lubricated by this important beverage. They also grabbed a cold biscuit or a piece of jerky to be chewed along the way.
Fires were kicked out and all unharnessed cattle were gathered near the end of the train. The wagon master rode up and down the corral until satisfied that all was ready, then he rode up to the lead wagon and gave the signal to move out. The lead driver’s whip gathered and sailed through the crisp morning air, stopping just short of the animals’ flank with a loud crack, then returned and came to rest on the ground near the driver. The teams strained, the wagon moved, and the day began.
They had traveled less than a mile when the command was given to halt. Down the line, the deep-throated “Whoa, Whoa,” issued forth from the drivers. Immediately, each driver moved among his teams and around his wagon, checking all rigging and cargo. Minor adjustments were made as needed. The oxen shifted, lowed, and urinated. Within ten minutes everything had been checked, settled, and tightened. The train was now ready for the long pull.
Joshua stood off on a slight knoll as the wagons groaned, creaked, and lumbered on—a ribbon of white in a sea of new green grass. By ten they had covered nearly eight miles and stopped for the noon break. The lead wagon began a slow arc to the right, followed by half of the wagons. The middle wagon broke to the left, leading the remaining wagons in the arc that formed the other side of the corral. The oxen were unhitched and turned out to graze, drink, and rest. Joshua and the other cavies took their turns watching the herd. Inside the corral, every man had his work to do and they set about it without discussion.
“Nooning” lasted nearly three hours to allow the animals to rest and to conserve their strength during the heat of the day. Joshua and the other men stayed busy checking and greasing axles, mending harnesses, and gathering wood for fires. When lunch was ready, they all gathered into their respective “messes” to eat. The men were all assigned to “messes” of five or six men and each one took a turn as the cook. While he prepared the meal, the others tended to his chores. Having arrived after the “messes” were formed, Joshua was allowed to eat from the wagon master’s kitchen wagon where Clara cooked. He finished his chores and headed for the kitchen wagon. Clara saw him coming.
“Well, here come that travelin’ boy. Sure nuff quick to come eat. Better hope you can work as good as you come to eat.”
“You a hard woman, Clara,” Joshua replied. “Why you so hard on me?”
“Ain’t no harder on you than I be on any no-count beggar,” she replied, ladling a spoonful of beans onto his plate.
Not wishing to argue, Joshua grabbed a biscuit and went off to eat, which he did quickly, then approached Jim Cabot to ask if there was anything else for him to do.
“Understand you’ve done some smithing?” Cabot asked.
“Yessir.”
“Good, then you ought to know something about rolling stock. Biggest problem we can have is a dry axle. Know how to grease an axle?” he asked.
“Yessir.”
“Good. In addition to other things, our main responsibility is these first fifteen wagons. Anytime we stop, I want you greasing up them axles, got that?”
“Yessir.”
“Other than that, anytime we stop, you stick next to old Jeb there and do whatever he tells you. Got that?”
“Yessir.”
Having said all he had to say, Cabot walked off. Joshua went to inspect his axles.
Jeb had been a bullwhacker all his life. Mentally, he was a little slow, but he knew oxen and wagons and Joshua enjoyed watching him work. They hardly ever spoke to each other. When Jeb did speak, it was more grunts than words. When the train was moving, Joshua usually walked alongside Jeb’s wagon. When the train stopped, Joshua moved quickly among his assigned wagons, checking and greasing axles. At the evening stop, Joshua greased all the axles, then returned to where Jeb was totally absorbed working on his jerk lines. Joshua stood silently by for several minutes. When Jeb realized his presence, he raised his eyebrows to see Joshua without raising his head.
“Eat,” he grunted.
Joshua went off to Clara’s kitchen wagon. As he approached her kitchen, she placed one hand on her hip and scolded him. “Why you so late, boy? You think I got nothing to do but wait on lazy niggers to come eat?”
Shaking his head, Joshua replied. “You work as hard at digging gold as you do busting me, you gonna be a rich woman, Clara.”
“What kinda fool is yo’, anyway, boy? Do I look like I gonna be diggin’?”
Joshua shrugged his shoulders. “Then why is yo’ goin’ to Pike’s Peak?”
“‘Cause I gots to work. All I know is cookin’ and washin’. If men workin’, somebody gotta do the cookin’ an’ washin’.”
Joshua spooned up some sowbelly. “‘Cain’t yo’ do that anywhere? Why yo’ gotta go way out there?”
“Money. Make more money there ‘cause they ain’t many women folk to do such work there. Boy, I been a slave near fifty years. Family still slaves. I gotta make some money to get them free. That’s how I come to be on this train. Didn’t buy no ticket. Didn’t get no free ride like some folks. Ain’t got no wild dreams ‘bout money like some folks. Got to hep my people. Now, ain’t got no mo’ time to be talkin’. Get yo’ food and git.” Joshua filled his plate and left.
The Reverend was standing nearby and overheard the conversation. When Joshua left, he approached Clara. “You’re being quite rough on the lad, Clara.”
“Like I said, Reverend, ain’t got no time fo’ scamps an’ beggars. If we ever gonna do sumpin’ fo’ our people, gotta work.”
“Why do you think he wants to get to California so bad?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Clara, he’s not a scamp. I saw him fight for his own freedom. Now he plans to work for the freedom of his family, just like you. He’s a good lad. He’s worth his salt.” Stung by these words, Clara didn’t answer, but busied herself around the kitchen.
Whenever possible, Joshua tried to stay close to Jim Cabot. Cabot was a man to learn from and everyone in the train respected him. He knew the plains and he’d also been a mountain man. On occasion, he’d ride off alone and when he returned, he always brought back fresh game.
Once Joshua asked him, “How do you always know where the game is bettern’ anybody?”
“Read the signs,” he replied. “Signs always tell the truth, not like man.”
On the third day of the drive, Indians approached and rode by the wagons several times. “Kanzas,” Jim Cabot stated. “Good people.” Jeb had nodded his head to confirm.
At the evening halt, a band of twenty to thirty Indians rode into the camp. The wagon men were unconcerned and generally ignored them. Only Clara was upset with their arrival. As each one passed her fire, they were compelled to taste her cooking and thrust their hand deep into her bean pot, then withdrew it, licked it off, and grinned.
“Shoo! Get ‘way from my pot!” she yelled and chased them away. They only laughed and moved to another fire.
Joshua turned to Jim Cabot, “They don’t look like them Kanzas,” he said.
“They ain’t,” Cabot replied. “Potawatomis. Worthless beggars, but harmless. Pleased to see you noticed the difference.” He turned and walked away.
By the fourth day, Joshua had adjusted to the daily routine and as the wagons began to roll, he took up his position besides Jeb’s wagon. Leaning on a limb he had converted into a walking stick, he watched the Reverend approach him, leading a pack mule.
“Howdy, Joshua.”
“Reverend.”
“Noticed all the other cavies were mounted. Figured it was time you were too. Put Banjo’s load in a wagon. You can ride him ‘til we get to Denver. You ever ride before?”
“Some, but don’ need no mule. Been doin’ jest fine walkin’. Oxen don’t move too fast.”
“That’s true, Joshua, but the rest of these men are mounted. You should be, too. Get up on that mule.”
“Yessir.” Joshua sprang upon the mule’s back, his legs dangling at the sides.
“Don’t have a saddle. You’ll have to ride bareback, but Banjo’s been broken, so there won’t be any problem.”
“Yessir. Thank you.”
They rode together most of the morning, admiring the beauty of the prairie. Frequently, they passed other wagons heading east. They all had large, black lettering on the sides of the canvas. Finally, Joshua asked, “Reverend, why do all those wagons have all that writin’? What do it say?”
“That one there,” the Reverend pointed to one just passing by, “says ‘We busted in Pike’s Peak’!”
“What do that mean?”
“Means they didn’t find their El Dorado like they had expected. They didn’t find any gold. Lost everything and are headed back home.”
“You mean they is some people ain’t findin’ no gold?”
“Lots of people, Joshua. Lots of people.”
“Then why is you goin’ there?”
“Going to open a new church, Joshua. The gold may give out, but never the land. That country is going to be settled, made into good farmland. People will be needing a church. I’m to provide that need.” He looked over at Joshua. “And I’ll be needing some help. Have to build a church. I’ll be needing an assistant. If you’d be interested, I’d be glad to have you be that assistant.”
“That’s real nice, Reverend, but I gotta be goin’ to Californy. Mebbe when I be finished, then I come see you.”
“Fine, but think about it, Joshua. California is a long way off.”
“Yessir.”
Joshua had avoided Clara as much as possible since the first days of the trip. At meal times, he would pass quickly by the fire, take his food, then move away. He was surprised when she called to him. He’d taken his plate and gone off by himself when Clara approached him “Why yo’ goin’ to California, chile?”
“Got my reasons,” he replied without looking up at her.”
Look at me, chile,” Clara commanded him. “I need to talk to you.”
Joshua didn’t look up. “No need fo’ talk, I got my reasons.”
The scene was still clear in Joshua’s mind. He he’d been born and raised on a plantation in Missouri. As a child, his father had been sold “down the river” to one of the Southern plantations soon after Sally was born. Joshua had seen similar events with other slave families so he didn’t think much of it, but his mother had cried a lot. She had been one of the most trusted slaves. She had always done more, worked harder than any of the other slaves. She had felt it was the only way she could keep her family together. It had worked for some time, but then the owner, Mr. Anderson, had fallen on hard times. Largely due to drinking and gambling, his wealth had been squandered. Finally, he had been forced to sell almost everything. As his fortune disappeared, Mr. Anderson had become spiteful and mean, even to Joshua’s mother.
One morning it was announced that Mr. Anderson’s brother had offered him a partnership in a sailing venture and he had to move to California. That day Joshua’s mother had gone to him, begging him to sell them all as a family and not separate them. Mr. Anderson had been drinking and only laughed at her. She grabbed his knees and begged all the more. Drunkenly, he had beaten her with his riding quirt. She wouldn’t let go until she was unconscious. Joshua had carried her limp body back to the slave quarters as Mr. Anderson left for his journey.
His mother died that night, not from the beating, but from the anguish over losing what remained of her family. William and Sally had cried, but Joshua kept it all in—fueling his hatred. Joshua was glad that she didn’t have to see her children on the auction block and he vowed he would kill this white man who had beaten her. In her bandanna hidden behind her bed was all the money she had saved in a lifetime—seven dollars. Joshua carefully put the money in an old leather wallet and decided it was time to run away.
“Joshua, yes they is reason to talk,” Clara insisted. “I judged yo’ wrong first time we meet, now this old black woman wants to ‘pologize.”
“That’s what yo’ want, go ahead.”
“Well, that’s what I want. So, I’m ‘pologizing. Now tell me why you goin’ to California.”
“Clara, I only got two dreams: First one is to set my momma free. Second one is to set the rest of my family free.”
“Why, that’s all jest the same dream, chile.”
“No, ma’am. Ain’t the same ‘cause my momma’s daid. Only way I can set her free is to kill the man what done it and he’s in Californy.” Joshua continued eating.
Tears formed in Clara’s eyes. This was not the scamp she’d thought him to be. This was a man—a real man, the kind of man she knew her people needed both today and in the years to come. She'd always dreamt tht one day her people would be free and equal to the white man to do or not do by their own choosin'—not at the bidding of a white owner.
“Tomorrow we come to the cutoff fo’ the California Trail,” she said. “You leave this train. Take that trail if that’s where you be headed. ‘Sides, they’s a better chance to make yo’ money out there. They is a new strike called the Comstock, right close to California. That’s where all the gold is. I been listenin’ to all these ‘Go-backers’ we been meetin’.”
“Go-backers?”
“Yes, chile. That’s all them people we been seein’ goin’ tother way. They been to this here Pike’s Peak, lost all they money, now they gotta go back home.”
“Why yo’ tellin’ me this?”
“Like I said, I judged you wrong. Son, you got strong blood. You can do it.”
“What ‘bout you?”
“I got to go to Denver. Ain’t strong an’ young like you. You go.” Clara reached out her hand and gently stroked his head. “God bless you, chile. I hope you can forgive this old woman.”
“Yes’m,” Joshua replied, nodding his head. After he’d eaten, Joshua waited until the Reverend and the wagon boss were together, then he went over to them.
“Evenin’, Joshua,” said the Reverend.
“Evenin’, sir. Jest came to tell you both that I be leavin’ tomorrow. Gonna go to Californy.”
“Cain’t pay you if you don’t finish the trip, Joshua. That’s the rules,” said the wagon boss.
“Yessir. What you done, givin’ me board this far is good. I thank you fo’ that.”
“It’s a long trip, Joshua,” said the Reverend.
“Yessir, but I gotta do it.”
Next morning, Joshua walked out beside the wagons leaving Banjo tied to the wagon. He intended to slip away quietly when the train reached the junction with the Blue River. When they crossed, he’d turn north and follow the Blue up to the Platte, then follow the tracks of the thousands of wagons that had made the trip before him. Cabot had drawn him a map in the dirt and explained the trip. They had been moving for about two hours when the Reverend rode up beside him, with Banjo following.
“Reverend, sir. Don’ go tryin’ to change my mind. I’m goin’ to Californy.”
“Didn’t come out here to try and change your mind, Joshua. Came to wish you luck. Also, want you to take Banjo here and this old revolver. Put about a week’s provisions on Banjo. Ought to get you to Fort Kearney. After that, you’re on your own.”
“No sir. Reverend, cain’t take nothin’,” Joshua protested.
“Joshua, you want to get to California?”
“Yessir.”
“Then don’t be so damn stubborn and let your pride get in the way. I’m not giving these to you, it’s just a loan.”
“Cain’t take no loans neither.”
“Damn it, Joshua. When you finally get the money to buy your family’s freedom, do you think you can just waltz into Missouri and buy them…just like that?”
“No sir.”
“That’s right. You’re going to need someone—a white man—to go in and make the purchase. Now when you have the money, come to Denver. I’ll be there and I’ll help you. I know how bad you want to get your family, so I think I can trust you to return Banjo.”
“Yessir, but I never shot no pistol before.”