5

On the Mississippi River, near La Grange, Missouri

Sloan

Sloan held his stomach and twisted his head back and forth, searching the banks, while the man he’d hired slowly rowed the rickety little boat up the middle of the river. The constant turning of his head and refocusing of his eyes was making him dizzy. Or was it the sandwich he’d eaten an hour ago? The ham had tasted…off. He didn’t intend to eat another, and he hoped the one he’d already consumed would stay put. He’d never vomited over the edge of a boat, and he had no desire to do so with this common stablehand, who’d introduced himself as Rock, as witness.

A clear blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon. Sunlight dappled the water, and an occasional splash signaled a leaping smallmouth bass breaking its surface. Each time, Sloan jerked his attention toward the sound. The silver scales on the fish’s underside sparkled like diamonds when caught by the sun’s rays—a fetching sight.

A cool morning breeze touched his face, and on both sides of the mighty river, new leaves decorated trees and bushes, a lovely backdrop for the brownish water lapping at the bank. A beautiful day. Too beautiful, considering the grisly task to which he’d set himself.

As he scanned the banks, he alternately hoped for a glimpse of Fanny’s body and dreaded finding it. He’d never touched a dead body before, and he didn’t think he’d have the ability to do so today. Not with his stomach rolling like dice in a chuck-a-luck cage. But he could have the oar operator do it. A man who shoveled manure wouldn’t be averse to placing a corpse in the bottom of a rowboat.

They drifted near the center of the river for nearly two hours without seeing anything more than birds, jumping fish, and a pair of deer drinking at the water’s edge. Sloan’s impatience grew. Maybe they were too far away from the bank for him to notice anything that could lead them to Fanny’s body.

He pointed to the western shore. “Row closer to the bank.”

“You see somethin’?” Eagerness colored Rock’s tone.

Sloan understood. He, too, was weary of sitting in this rowboat. “Not yet. But I want to go up along this shore, then back along the other.”

“Yes, boss.”

Not a hint of eagerness this time. Only resignation. But the man was being paid well for his efforts. He wouldn’t receive five dollars in wages plus food—such as it was—for a day’s labor in the stable. He had no reason to complain.

The next hours of their slow progress a few feet from the shore proved no more successful than the earlier hours. Nausea added to impatience took Sloan from surly to outright uncivil, but he held his tongue. Rock was four inches taller and twice Sloan’s girth. No good could come from goading the man. The noonday sun blazed down, warming the top of Sloan’s head through his hat, and he shrugged out of his jacket. As he did so, he caught sight of something unusual out of the corner of his eye.

He froze, the jacket hanging from his elbows. “Look there.”

Rock gave a backward jerk on the oars, slowing their motion, and turned his gaze toward the bank. “What?”

“That patch of ground. It looks stirred.” Something other than nausea rolled in Sloan’s belly. “Do you see several footprints?”

Rock craned his neck and squinted at the bank. A smile spread across his square face. “I do.” Then he scowled. “But ain’t we lookin’ for a body?”

Yes, they were. But Sloan wanted to investigate anyway. Besides, if this queasiness persisted and he emptied his gut, he would rather do so in the bushes. He lay his jacket over the plank seat. “Pull up to the shore.”

Rock followed Sloan’s order. The rowboat’s nose slid onto the bank, and Sloan hopped over the side onto the moist, sandy clay. He walked slowly around the periphery of the area, holding his belly and examining the footprints—two sets from boots, one child-sized and the other larger. An unusual indention also marred the ground. The boot prints seemed to circle the indention, then trailed off into the bushes.

Sloan looked toward the brush where the prints disappeared, curiosity rolling in his mind. He turned to Rock, who remained in the rowboat. “I’m going to explore a bit.”

“Mind if I eat some more o’ them sandwiches?”

Sloan didn’t mind if he ate them all. “Go ahead.”

Rock reached for the basket, and Sloan plowed into the brush, head low, scanning the ground for more prints. Dried leaves in various stages of decomposition littered the ground, hiding distinct footprints, but tiny broken branches and trampled spots led him onward. He broke through the brush into a clearing, roughly twelve feet in diameter, obviously not carved by nature. Bushes had been hacked down, their stumps barely sticking above the ground. Many of them seemed to have been pounded to splinters by a hammer. In the center of the cleared area, a circle of rocks surrounded the charred remains of a fire. Or, given the number of blackened chunks scattered in pale gray ash, many fires. A small stack of dried branches and pine needles lay next to the rock circle.

Sloan tapped his chin, scowling. Was this a fisherman’s camp? Or a hunter’s? Possibly. The ground around the firepit was mostly smooth and hard, as if it had been worn down the way pathways were by frequent passage. But the recent rain must have softened it somewhat, because when he crouched low and looked carefully, he made out several boot prints in various sizes and a few prints made by someone with bare feet. He couldn’t imagine a hunter bringing his entire family along, but a fisherman might. He slowly scanned the area, still pondering the purpose for this carefully carved sanctuary, and something out of place caught his attention.

He rose and crossed to the far edge of the clearing. A torn scrap of cloth, dingy gray and wrinkled, was caught on one of the little stumps. He pinched it up and stared at it. After purchasing all items for Fanny’s wardrobe over the past years, he recognized the fabric—a simple linen used for women’s undergarments. But was it from one of Fanny’s petticoats?

He raised it to his nose and inhaled, seeking the essence of Fanny’s lilac toilet water. The foul smell of dead fish and decayed plants filled his nostrils. His stomach whirled, and he tossed the bit of cloth aside. He bent over and lost his belly’s contents. Emptied, he spat several times, but the rancid taste remained in his mouth. He’d rinse it well with water from the jug when he returned to the rowboat. Which he needed to do. Miles of shore remained to search.

Fanny

For two days, the man they knew only as Ransom—he had explained that those who aided slaves to freedom kept their names secret for their safety—transported Enoch’s family and Fanny along the south fork of the Fabius River.

Initially she was surprised he made no effort to avoid established roadways. Even Enoch had asked why they weren’t hidden under bags of cotton, as they’d been on the riverboat. But Ransom had assured them that to anyone they came upon, their group would look like an owner and his wife transporting field hands to another location.

“Nobody’ll pester you while you’re with me,” he’d said with such conviction that Fanny believed him.

They’d slept in a barn the night before and enjoyed a hot meal cooked by a farmwife. The woman had gaped at Fanny’s tangled hair, sunburned face, and mud-stained, hopelessly wrinkled dress and then escorted her into the house. She said, “Honey, you stick out like a Scotch thistle in a rose garden. Nobody’ll take you for a lady dressed thataway. Lemme get you fixed up.” She brushed Fanny’s hair and pinned it into a bun, tied a wide-brimmed bonnet on her head, and even gave her a dress from her daughter’s wardrobe.

The gesture touched Fanny deeply, especially because she saw how few frocks hung on the pegs. Fanny offered to pay for the dress, but the woman waved her hand.

“No, no. My Mary’s close to growin’ out o’ that dress anyway. If we hadn’t already passed her outgrowed shoes to a neighbor gal, I’d hand those to you, too. That cloth you’re wearin’ on your feet won’t last for long.” Then she had hugged Fanny and said, “You keep your money, an’ if you get the chance to give to some needy person along the way, you do it an’ think o’me.”

The blue-checked frock with its simple button-up front and lack of embellishment was foreign yet oh so welcome after she’d worn stage dresses for so many years. She felt as if she was peeling away her identity as a riverboat singer and finding herself again. She vowed to do as the farmwife had asked—to help others the way she was being helped.

Now Fanny rode on the seat with Ransom. As the wagon bumped over the rough road, its rocking motion reminding her of being on the riverboat, Fanny prayed that the man called Standard would still be waiting for them even though they were two days past the planned rendezvous. But if he wasn’t there, Ransom asked Fanny to maintain the role of a plantation owner’s wife and accompany Enoch and his family to Iowa. He’d told her, “I can send ’em on alone. It’s been done before. But only with one or two folks makin’ the escape. A group as big as this one? It’ll be a heap sight harder for them to stay hid. But I know you’ve got your own plans, so you aren’t obliged to do it.”

Fanny prayed for discernment. She had confidence in these men who’d previously worked together to help free slaves. Such an intricate system they’d developed! But she had little confidence in her ability to keep the family safe.

While they rode, Ransom concocted a story for Fanny to share in case she decided to travel on with them. He made her recite the details over and over so she’d be ready if anyone tried to accost her and remove Enoch and his family from her. She knew the words by heart, but would she be able to deliver them with heart? Da and Ma had taught her that bearing false witness was an affront to God. Lying had never come easily from her tongue, and Ma had laughingly told her she shouldn’t bother trying to fib because her guilty face gave her away. Surely anyone could look at her and know she was spinning a tale. She prayed she wouldn’t be forced to recite falsehoods.

But as soon as they were all safe, she intended to sing a song Pazzy had taught her. Fanny asked Pazzy where she had learned it, and she explained she’d been briefly loaned to a Mormon family as a wet nurse when the mother died in childbirth. The family’s housekeeper often sang it while working, and Pazzy memorized it.

“We’ll find the place which God for us prepared” seemed to speak a promise. Many other lines from the beautiful hymn also spoke to Fanny, such as “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.” No part of her unexpected journey had been easy, and it didn’t seem as if it would be easier ahead, but she’d seen evidence of grace every step of the way. Living under Sloan’s control for those long, lonely years, she’d never guessed so many good-hearted people existed. But from old Cricket to each person she’d encountered since her fall from the River Peacock, God had aligned her pathway with folks who honored Him.

She held to the wagon seat and closed her eyes. With the sun warming her hair through the pink-flowered bonnet and the scent of spring pleasing her nose, she thanked God for His guidance, asked His blessing on each of the people who contributed to bringing Enoch’s family and others to a place of freedom, and asked His protection for the remainder of their journey.

As she ended the prayer, someone tapped her shoulder. She turned partway on the bench seat and found Dathan standing behind her, his fingers curled over the seat’s planked back. She smiled at him. “Were you needing something?”

“Yes’m. When we stop, wouldja show me some more letters?”

At their previous stops, she’d entertained Dathan by writing the alphabet in the dirt with a stick and telling him the sounds the letters made. She hadn’t been able to discern whether the activity truly interested him, so her heart rolled over in joy at his request. “I surely will. And if yer mama approves, I’ll show y’ how to write yer name. Would y’ be likin’ that?”

He nodded hard.

She grinned. “All right then.”

Ransom cleared his throat. “There might not be time for letter learnin’. Edina’s just ahead—we’ll be there in another hour or so. Our meetin’ spot is in a thick patch of trees behind a boardinghouse on the north edge of town. If Standard’s not waitin’, they’ll need to push on. Closer we are to the border between Missouri an’ Iowa, the more dangerous it gets. The longer they stay in one place, the more likely somebody’ll notice them an’ ask questions. Won’t be time for much more’n walkin’, eatin’, an’ sleepin’.”

Dathan sank down, his lower lip poked out.

“An’ one other thing…”

The hesitation in the man’s tone sent prickles of apprehension across Fanny’s scalp. “What is it?”

“Your speech. You…” He pulled in a breath, then blurted, “Right then you sounded Irish.”

She couldn’t resist a laugh. “Not so surprising. I am Scottish by birth.” Sloan had discouraged her brogue, saying it made her sound ignorant. He’d hired a tutor not only to educate her but to train her to speak without the lilting rhythm of her homeland.

“Much as I hate to admit it, Miss Fanny, there’s folks who don’t hold much favor toward the Scots or the Irish.” He glanced at her, then set his gaze forward, as if too embarrassed to meet her eyes. “That story I gave you to tell…well, it’ll fall flat unless you sound like a planter’s wife.”

“And a rich planter wouldn’t be marryin’ up with a Scottish lass—is that what yer tellin’ me?” She deliberately injected her brogue for the pleasure of hearing it.

He nodded. “That’s what I’m sayin’.” He shot a brief frown toward the back of the wagon, and then his hands tightened on the traces. “If you end up goin’ all the way into Iowa with this family, you gotta be careful.”

Her pulse skittered, and she shivered despite the sun’s warmth flowing down. She sent up another prayer. Let Standard be waiting.