7
Northeast Missouri, near the South Fabius River
Fanny
Fanny felt as if she’d been walking for years. Her twice-daily strolls around the River Peacock’s deck had not prepared her to trek over miles of uneven landscape. She prayed for strength and hummed Pazzy’s freedom song as a distraction and for encouragement, and somehow her weary legs carried her forward.
The first two days of travel without Ransom as their guide, Fanny saw wagons in the distance only twice. Both times, the group hunkered behind some bushes near the river until Enoch felt it was safe for them to continue. At Enoch’s insistence, Fanny carried Standard’s map, but Enoch was the true leader of the group, and she was grateful for him. His calm, rational responses to the others’ concerns soothed Fanny’s frayed nerves. At the start of each day, he asked the Lord to guide them, and at the close, he thanked Him for His protection.
She glanced at Enoch, who held the opposite handle on the crate of items Standard had left outside Edina. His skin glistened with perspiration, and his heels sometimes dragged in the grass, but even though he was at least three times Fanny’s age, his pace remained steady hour after hour. Behind them, Dathan toted the bulkier of the two carpetbags Fanny had purchased in Edina’s mercantile. Their mouse-eaten blankets plumped the bag the way grain filled a feed sack, making it impossible to carry by its handles. Such an unwieldy burden. But the boy balanced the load against his belly and never complained.
Kircie trailed Dathan and lugged the second carpetbag, which held their jackets and the cast-iron cooking pot Fanny had insisted on buying for cooking on the trail. When she added the pot to her pile of purchases on the general store’s counter, Ransom had scowled in disapproval and said, “That’s gonna be heavy.” He’d been right, but they’d already made use of it.
The previous evening, Itiah and Dathan gathered a huge bouquet of purple flowers shaped like stars. While Fanny entertained Baby Leona by turning the blossoms into finger puppets, Itiah and Pazzy stripped the tiny leaves from the stalks, then broke the stalks into pieces. They boiled them with wild onions Kircie foraged near the river. If Fanny hadn’t seen what went into the pot, she would have believed she was eating cooked turnips.
She’d been wise to buy the pot, and when she sent the family on their way without her, they would have one piece of kitchen equipment for their new life. She smiled, remembering the benevolent farmwife’s encouragement to perform a kindness for someone as repayment for the dress Fanny now wore. She’d done so, and it felt good. What a parade they made—Dathan and Kircie with the carpetbags, Pazzy carrying Baby Leona in a makeshift fabric pouch on her front and the pack Standard had left for them on her back, and Itiah at the rear, constantly scanning the landscape. Was she scouting for possible edibles, for slave catchers, or both?
To Fanny’s way of thinking, with their carpetbags and the trunk, they resembled a group traveling together, not a band of runaways. If they unexpectedly came upon a farmer or hunter, would he view them the same way and leave them be? In the event they were questioned, she would tell her story. The items they toted made it more believable. She continued to practice it, just as Ransom had instructed, but she still hoped she wouldn’t be forced to use it. After all, in the eyes of the law, she was stealing the family members from the one who claimed to own them. She didn’t want to add lying to her list of sins. But she’d do it if she had to.
“Grandpap?”
Dathan’s plaintive query brought Enoch and Fanny to a stop. Enoch peered over his shoulder. “What you need?”
The boy dropped the carpetbag. “Somethin’ in my shoe’s pokin’ me. Can we stop an’ lemme get it out?”
“Best get to it.”
Dathan plopped onto his bottom, tossed his frilly skirts aside, and wriggled his right shoe free.
Enoch glanced at the crate. “Set this thing down, Miss Fanny, an’ take a little rest.”
They lowered the trunk to the ground, and Fanny perched on its edge, stifling a groan. How good to sit, even for a few minutes. Were it not for Ransom’s somber warning about slave catchers, she’d ask Enoch if they could make camp early. Her muscles screamed for rest.
Dathan bounced his shoe against the ground, then stuck it back over his bare foot. He waggled his shoe in the air and grinned. “All better. No more pokin’.”
Enoch pointed to the carpetbag. “Then pick that up an’ let’s go on.”
The child heaved a man-sized sigh, but he obediently reached for the bag. Fanny stifled her own sigh and pushed herself to her feet. As she stood, a wonderful, savory scent reached her nose. She pulled in a full breath of the aroma.
Dathan must have smelled it, too, because he lifted his head and sniffed the air. He licked his lips. “Somebody cookin’.”
Panic struck Fanny. If they were close enough to smell someone’s supper cooking, they were in danger of being seen. Instinctively, she ducked low, and the others imitated her. They squatted in the thick grass, dark eyes pinned on her.
Enoch leaned in. “You see somethin’ worrisome, Miss Fanny?” His husky whisper barely carried over the sound of the river’s trickle and the wind’s song in the grass.
“I don’t see anything, but Dathan’s right. Someone is cooking. They must be fairly close for us to smell it so strongly.” The aroma was making her mouth water. If only Standard had marked a safe house on the map. She would knock at the door and ask for a meal. Wouldn’t they all benefit from a good, hot, hearty supper after their long day of walking?
Itiah pointed to the opposite direction of the river, what Standard had marked as east on the rough map. Fanny looked, too. A spiral of smoke lifted above the gentle rise. From a house or a stage-station chimney? Either way, Standard’s letter said the people wouldn’t be friendly. And they were probably too close to it for safety. They should push on.
Kircie tapped Fanny’s knee. “Miss Fanny, how far you think we got to go yet?”
Standard had estimated a distance of forty-five miles from the spot near Edina to reach Iowa, but with their weaving away from the river and back, they’d probably added miles to it. For reasons she couldn’t explain, being near the river made Fanny edgy, and she’d probably steered them farther from the ribbon of water than she should have. They still hadn’t reached the end of the South Fabius River. “I don’t know for sure.” Whoever was cooking the food would probably know, though. The information could prove useful.
She removed the little embroidered purse purchased at the Edina store from the trunk and pulled out the tortoiseshell comb that came with it. “Kircie, would you pin my bun? Pazzy, please take the shawl I bought in Edina from the bag.”
The two did as she asked even though puzzlement creased their faces.
Enoch scratched his heavily whiskered chin. “What you gonna do?”
Fanny sucked in her lips. The desire to treat everyone to a good meal as well as discover how much farther they had to travel pulled her toward the source of the aroma. But if Enoch forbade her, she wouldn’t go. “I’d like to find the person who is cooking and ask how many miles remain to reach Iowa.” She chose not to divulge her idea about buying food. Dathan was still licking his lips and pulling deep breaths in through his flared nostrils. She’d disappoint the boy if she failed.
Enoch’s thick brows tipped inward. “That be wise, Miss Fanny?”
“We need to know, don’t we? And I promise I’ll be careful.”
He didn’t say anything else, which Fanny took as permission. She opened the purse again and withdrew a twenty-five-cent piece from the little pocket in the purse’s lining. When she’d paid with a ten-dollar gold piece for the goods in Edina, the clerk’s eyes had nearly popped out of his head. Ransom had told her afterward not to let anyone else know how much money she was carrying. Fortunately, she’d received a few smaller coins in change, and she chose one big enough to buy a good meal but not large enough to attract unwanted attention.
Kircie sat back. “All done.”
Fanny smoothed her hand over her hair. The bun felt secure. “Thank you.”
The girl gave a shy nod.
Fanny returned the comb to her purse, then removed the most expensive item she’d purchased in Edina. The simple gold band cost $1.70, but its presence would lend credence to the story Ransom had concocted. She slid it onto her finger, feeling like a fraud.
Pazzy held out the fringed shawl. “You want this?”
“I do. Thank you.” Fanny wrapped it around her shoulders and tied the points in a knot. It would hide some of the dirt stains on her dress and make her appear more presentable. She held her hands wide to the others. “Well? How do I look?”
Enoch chuckled. “You look right smart.” His humor faded into worry. “You be careful, Miss Fanny. Anybody give you trouble, you let out a shout. I’ll come runnin’.”
Dathan puffed out his chest. “An’ me, too.”
She’d have to be in dire need to call them out of hiding. She placed the purse into Enoch’s hands. “If I don’t come back, the money in there is yours.”
He pressed the purse to his chest. “You make sure an’ come back, Miss Fanny.”
She smiled at his concern. “I will.” Then she set off toward the gray trail of smoke drifting toward the heavens.
A dusty stagecoach, its rigging empty of horses, sat outside the long clapboard building, identifying the place as a stage stop. In a corral beside the building, six horses nibbled grass. They lifted their heads and snorted as she passed.
The closer she’d gotten, the stronger the enticing aroma of roasting meat had grown, and her stomach growled in hunger. She gripped the silver coin in her fist and covered the final yards to the building’s front porch. A groan escaped as she stepped up on the wooden platform. Oh, how her muscles ached. But a hot, hearty meal would do her and the others much good.
Just as she reached the door, it swung open. A tall man wearing a sweat-stained tan cowboy-style hat and several days’ growth of dark whiskers filled the doorway. He came to a halt and yanked off his hat, revealing a thatch of uncombed brown hair.
“Well, hello, ma’am.” His gaze swept left then right and settled on her again. “Where’d you come from? You weren’t on the stage.”
Fanny twisted the ends of her shawl, willing her trembling limbs to still. “I was not.”
“You needin’ a ride?” He took one step toward her, his face set in a friendly grin. “I’m fetching fresh horses now. Gonna head out in about ten minutes. Gotta keep to the schedule, you know.”
She didn’t know but nodded anyway.
“There’s an extra seat if you want it.”
“I don’t need a ride, thank you. I…I’m traveling with my husband”—her pulse pounded as she spilled the practiced story—“and our wagon lost a wheel.” To her surprise, the man didn’t even blink in doubt. Heartened, she extemporized a bit for the situation. “He smelled food cooking and sent me to buy a dinner since we’ll likely not be home by suppertime.”
The man stepped aside and swung his arm toward the doorway. “You come to the right place, then. Most o’ the cooks at the home stations can’t even fry an egg worth eatin’, but Bill makes real good grub. Tonight he’s got a pot o’ beef stew simmerin’. You go on in an’ have a plate. I gotta see to the horses.” He slid the hat into place, stepped off the end of the porch, and disappeared around the corner.
Fanny pulled in a breath, silently thanking God for carrying her this far. She moved inside and found herself in a simple dining room dimly lit by oil lamps in cast-iron wall brackets. A lamp in the center of a trestle table sent a yellow glow over a pair of well-dressed older women sipping from dented tin cups and two rough-looking men scooping food from their plates with spoons. The men glanced over their shoulders at her, then turned their attention to their remaining dinner.
A big-boned man with a bald head and an apron tied around his middle stood facing a huge iron stove on the back wall of the room. He stirred the contents of a large kettle. Each swish through the kettle raised the savory aroma.
Fanny fingered the coin, gathering courage, then marched within a few feet of him. “Excuse me, sir?”
He turned around, the spoon gripped in his fist. His brows descended. “Who’re you?”
“Mrs. Theodore Carlson.” She gave the name Ransom invented. “My husband and I were passing nearby and lost a wheel on our wagon. My husband smelled food cooking and sent me to ask about buying a meal.” How skilled she was becoming at talebearing. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted by how easily she spun the yarn.
He put the spoon on the edge of the kettle and wiped his hands on his apron. “I s’pose I could dish you up a plate. Fifteen cents for stew an’ a biscuit. But you’re gonna need to eat it here. I can’t send it with you.”
“Then what is my husband to do?”
Bill shrugged. “Go without, I reckon.”
Why hadn’t she thought to bring the pot with her? How else could she carry the food? Then she recalled the cook on the riverboat giving her an empty lard pail to hold her hair ribbons and combs. “Do you have a tin pail you’re no longer using?”
Now his eyebrows shot up. “You want a whole pail of stew?”
She licked her dry lips and offered what she hoped was a convincing smile. “My husband has a big appetite. And your stew smells wonderful. How…how much would a pail of stew cost?”
He folded his arms and stared at her for a few seconds. “Six bits. Two for the pail, and four for the stew.”
She cringed. She turned her hand over and opened it, showing him the quarter dollar. “I only have two bits.”
“Then I guess you’re either eatin’ a plate here or carryin’ away an empty pail.”
The stagecoach driver came back in and ambled over. “Is Bill fixin’ you up, ma’am?”
Bill pointed at her, his expression aghast. “She wants a pail o’ my stew an’ only has two bits with her.”
One of the men at the table barked a guffaw. “You could have her sing for her supper.” The women tittered.
Heat flooded Fanny’s face, but hope ignited in her breast. She drew a full breath and sang, “ ‘Come again, bright days of hope and pleasure gone; come again, bright days, come again, come again.’ ”
Bill and the driver gawked at her. One of the women gasped, and the men spun around on the bench and faced her.
She’d sung “By the Sad Sea Waves” many times on the River Peacock and knew it well. She sang both verses and choruses, then dipped into a curtsy.
Those listening clapped, and one of the men whistled through his teeth.
She straightened and, by habit, tossed a kiss to her small but enthusiastic audience. When she realized what she’d done, she gripped her hands and pressed them to her ribs. She was no longer a riverboat singer. She mustn’t behave as if she still were.
The stage driver poked Bill on the shoulder. “I think that was worth two pails of stew. Whadda you think?”
“You’re right.” Bill wiped his eyes. “Miz Carlson, that was the purtiest singin’ I’ve heard in my whole life. You earned your supper, for sure. If you buy the pail, I’ll fill it for you.”