Late April, 1859
Next Saturday, in the early morning light, Will drove to Lexington for supplies. Arriving at the dry goods store he presented his list to Mr. Hobson, the owner, who peered at it from behind his round-owl spectacles. He wore a clerk’s visor over his receding hairline and a white pinstriped apron over a dark vest and white shirt. His rotund frame bent forward, and he smiled at Will.
“Good to see you, Will. Reckon it’ll take time to get this order together. Why don’t you park your rig over by the livery stable and walk around? Come back in, say, half an hour.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t suppose you’d be interested in any of that penny candy, on the house like, you being so grown up and all?” Hobson grinned at him.
Will grinned back. “Well, sir, seeing as you’re so kind to offer, guess it’d be rude to turn it down.”
He drove the wagon over to the livery stable, parked, then wandered down the street. As he was passing the First Presbyterian Church, he stopped before the notice board in front. The bold lettering on the front cover of the group of pamphlets pinned there caught his eye: “Hints on Slavery.” Glancing through one of them, Will saw the words “To emancipate the whole slave population gradually has been the uniform plan….” He remembered hearing and seeing other work from the minister that proclaimed slavery against the law of God. Will stuffed the pamphlet in his pocket to read later. He was turning to go when he bumped into a tall, lanky boy with curly black hair carelessly emerging in all directions from under his cap.
“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” said Will.
“S’ okay. My pa, he can write something fierce, can’t he?”
“You the parson’s son? I’m Will Crump.”
“Yep, that’s my pa. I’m Joe Breckinridge. Good to meetcha. I got an older brother named Will.”
“Haven’t seen you at school.”
“Oh, my pa, he’s got his own ideas on education. He’s got me goin’ up to the university. He hopes I’ll be a preacher, too, someday, but I’m plannin’ to join the army. My pa says he thinks it will come to fightin’ about slavery soon enough. Says the slaves all got to go free, maybe get sent to another country. “
Just then, a slave boy of about ten years old came and tried to get Joe’s attention. “Massa Joe, your pa wants you right quick.”
Joe made a face, then turned said, “All right, Josiah, I’ll come. You live in town, Will?”
“No, we have a little farm a ways out of town. I came in for supplies.”
“Well, come by the parsonage next time you’re in town. We’re new here, and I don’t know too many of the fellas yet.”
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When Will returned from town loaded with the supplies he bought at the general store, his father had just finished feeding the stock. They unloaded the wagon together, with Will giving news of friends in town, including reports of the new minister for the First Presbyterian Church, Robert Breckinridge.
“Pa, the minister is publishing pamphlets saying it’s against the law of God to hold slaves—that God will punish the South for it. Yet he seems to own slaves himself.”
“That is a wonder. I would think honor and honesty would demand that he free his slaves. Slavery is wrong—I think a man ought to do his own work, and when he has too much land to farm himself and he can’t afford to hire help, he has too much. They’re already shootin’ each other in Kansas over slaves. A man only needs enough to support his family. But I also don’t hold with telling others how to live—that’s between them and God. Especially some bunch of Pennsylvania lawyers and merchants that never tried to raise a crop, like President Buchanan. No man should be deprived of property by force.”
Will thought this over. “But what about those born to slavery who never had a chance?”
Robert rested the feedbags he was lifting on the wagon gate and looked directly at his son. “S’pose you work hard, sell fifty bushels of corn, and then take the money and buy ten calves. Those calves grow up and have two calves each. Now suppose someone comes along and says your calves can’t have more calves, and they will free all of your calves to roam if they do. Is that fair?”
Will shook his head. “Of course not!”
Robert hefted the bags, putting them in the feed closet in the barn. “No one’s been allowed to bring in slaves from out of the country for nearly forty years. The slaves that are here are descendants of those brought here decades ago. There is no way to get new slaves, new workers, other than through the children of the slaves already here. So what right does some Northerner have to come and take them away from the people who bought their ancestors fair and square? Unless the Northerners want to suspend the Bill of Rights! That’s why that law a few years back, the Fugitive Slave Act, was passed—to preserve the rights of Southern slave owners. Joseph in the Bible was a slave, and God blessed Egypt because of it. They weren’t punished or cursed. But it ain’t worth fightin’ over ‘less someone’s threatening your home.”
“I guess you’re right about that, Pa,” Will said slowly. “And it doesn’t make much sense—a slave owner writing pamphlets against slavery.”
They finished unloading the last items from the wagon.
“Come on in the house, Son. Got something to talk to you on.” Robert led the way into the cabin, waiting and closing the door behind Will as he entered.
Robert reached into the corner behind the door and drew out the old Springfield musket; in its former place now hung the new Enfield.
“I been thinkin’, you doing a man’s work around here, ‘bout time you had your own gun. Think you could put this one to good use?” He smiled.
Will tried to look dignified when he wanted to jump up and down. He took the gun from his father and, looking down at it, could not contain the huge grin that spread across his face. “For keeps, Pa? You bet I could! I’ll be real safe with it, and I’ll bring home a deer!”
✳ ✳ ✳
The next day, dawn crept sleepily over the horizon, the sun slowly rolling back the clouds like covers on a bed. The morning warmth began to burn them away. Will saw the pink clouds and tendrils of light and paused a moment to drink in their beauty, before saying a silent prayer and then hurrying back to get stock fed and morning chores done—woodbox full, water carried, and all ready for the day ahead. He wanted to get out hunting before full light, before the deer retreated to their beds in the forest glens for the heat of the day. Will had been shooting the old Springfield 1812 family musket since he was nine years old, but even though he’d shot it many times with his father, he wanted to prove himself.
He was very proud of having his own gun. He determined to show his father that he was worthy of his trust by bringing home the family dinner. Will’s sleepiness gave way to tense excitement. A slight breeze rustled the branches of the ash and beech trees, making the sun dapple and dance on the forest floor. Across the road to Versailles was a cleared field where deer occasionally ventured for whatever greenery the farmer may have planted. Will was hoping to find one bold enough to allow a clear shot. He jumped when a red squirrel scurried across the path just to the left, but he steadied himself and remained concealed. His father had taught him that an impatient hunter goes hungry.
The morning was cool, but the flies and other bugs buzzing about made concentration difficult. Scanning ahead, he saw no deer or movement. He cautiously crept forward to a fallen tree and crouched behind it. From here, through a break in the trees, he could see patches of the Versailles road about twenty-five yards ahead, and across it, the open field. The wind was coming from slightly to his right, blowing into the forest, away from the open field. Will slithered to the edge of the forest, just staying under cover of the bushes along the road, where he had a clear field of view. He had already primed the musket with powder, and now that he was in position, he slowly rolled to his back. He waited, withdrew the ramming rod, and then shoved home the patch and bullet. He set his powder within easy reach so that he could prime the pan and be ready to fire. He kept scanning the field, waiting. Half an hour passed with nothing to show for it but annoying mosquito bites.
Then Will looked north along the road, momentarily taking his eyes off the field. A movement in a birch tree about fifty yards away caught his attention. Two eyes peered back at him from the branches—a puma! At the same moment, he heard the sound of hooves coming from the south on the hard roadway. A rider wearing a black felt hat and a long black cape approached and passed. The cape fluttered and bounced in the wind as the bay horse moved along at a fast trot. Will saw the puma move, tensing as though to spring. No longer worried about concealment, he grabbed his powder, stood, primed the pan, aimed, and fired, all in the space of a few seconds. The puma dropped out of the tree, mid-snarl, at the feet of the astonished rider’s horse, which reared and whirled madly, as the rider struggled to regain his seat and his control. He pointed the horse away from the puma, back toward Will, and managed a controlled lope, stopping the trembling bay a few feet away.
“Nice shootin’, Son!” said the black-bearded stranger. “Guess that’ll teach me to be in such a hurry I don’t see the surroundings. What’s your name, boy?”
“Will Crump, sir.”
“I’m John Morgan,” the rider said, extending a hand, which Will shook. “I do believe I owe you a debt, sir. When you are able, come around to my house in Lexington. It’s across the street from my mother’s, Henrietta Morgan—ask anyone, it is well known. Then I can thank you properly. At the moment I’m pressed for time, so I’ll bid you good morning and wish you success on your hunt.” He flashed a smile, tipped his hat to Will, and spurred off in the direction of Louisville.
Will did not know what to make of the invitation but decided he would tell his father and follow up on it if possible. He went back to stalking deer and, within an hour, found a small buck that succumbed to another crack from the musket, a head shot. He skinned the puma, pulled the carcass into the woods, and butchered the deer. Then he made a travois to transport his catches. By the time he dragged the plunder home, the sun was well overhead. He would be late for school today, but he did not suppose his parents would mind too much, given his gains of the morning.