When the voting was over, those “permanent residents of the territory” piled back in their wagons and left so fast you would have thought they had itching powder in their pants. They said they would hang Governor Reeder if he refused to declare the election valid, never mind that more people had voted than lived in all of Kansas.
Once they got back to Missouri, they traded in their ox teams for horses and the raids began in earnest. There had been raids all along, of course, but now the bushwhackers came at us in packs, burning cabins and shooting down men in cold blood. The worst gang was led by Henry Clark, a pretty, baby-faced boy who enjoyed killing the way a baby enjoys sucking a sugar tit.
In late spring, when my son Prosser drove me up to Lawrence to get some cough medicine for my grandbabies, I found William Saylor and the other men fortifying the town with earthworks. Carrie Vinton took me over to see a new hotel called the Free State, built out of concrete with loopholes on the roof so you could take aim without making yourself into a target.
Carrie was still thin from the fever she’d had after she gave birth to her son, Teddy, but even so, she told me she had been teaching some of the women how to shoot those Sharps rifles they were secretly getting from New England. When I left, she embraced me as if she feared she would never see me again. “Take care of yourself, Elizabeth,” she said. “Remember, you can always bring your family up to Lawrence to stay with us.”
For reasons I was not then at liberty to tell her, I was unable to leave Osawatomie, but she was right to worry. In July, the fraudulently elected pro-slave legislature met and passed a series of laws aimed at getting me and mine back into chains. Only pro-slavery men could hold office and sit on juries. Anyone who denied that white men had a God-given right to own slaves could to be sent to prison. If you said so much as a word that could be interpreted as supporting slave insurrection, they’d hang you. If a white man wanted to vote, he had to raise his right hand and swear on a Bible to uphold all these laws. As for black people, we knew what they had in mind for us. We’d seen those nooses they wore in their lapels.
It was then we began talking about arming ourselves in self-defense. I had always taught my sons that violence was something they should avoid if possible, but if we were going to remain in Kansas, we needed to be able to fight.
“We fled from the South,” Toussaint said. “Must we now flee from Osawatomie?”
“We have built our homes here, Mama,” Prosser said. “We have crops in the ground.”
“We will stay in Osawatomie,” I promised my boys, and then I told them about a plan I had conceived the previous November when I was on my way to Lawrence to rescue three fugitives who were about to be lynched. My plan was not for warfare. The bushwhackers outnumbered us a hundred times over and attacking them openly would have been suicide. It was a strategy for self-defense, and a good one if I do say so myself.
We already had the manpower, but what we did not have were the weapons. The day after we decided to stand our ground, I wrote to John Brown. (I had never met him in person, but as an Underground Railroad conductor I knew him by reputation, and his sons, who lived over on North Middle Creek, were our neighbors.)
“Come out to Kansas soon,” I told him. “There is a place you need to see
.
” I did not tell him what the place was called or why it would suit his plans. If you have been running slaves to freedom for twenty years as I have, you do not make the mistake of saying something like that in a letter that could be intercepted by your enemies. Still, just in case Mr. Brown did not take my meaning, I wrote the numbers 66- 13-10 under my name.
I knew that as soon as he saw those numbers, he would realize I had given him a piece of Bible code. Sixty-six is the sixty-sixth book of the Bible—in other words, the Book of Revelation—thirteen the chapter, ten the verse that reads: “He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword.”
Imagine my surprise when he actually showed up in Osawatomie with broadswords. By now, everybody knows what John Brown used those swords for, but the first time I saw them, I thought:
He damn well have better brought guns, too.
Chapter Twenty-six
Eastern Kansas, mid-April 1856
P
rairie violets, Chickasaw plums, wild strawberries, purple anemones, and everywhere the tall grass sprouting new growth under a sky so huge Carrie feels as if she has swum out of winter into an ocean of spring. Usually on such a day she would have brought her sketch pad, but this afternoon she is riding from Lawrence to Osawatomie with her medical kit, a rifle, and Teddy strapped to her back in a Kaw cradleboard. The cradleboard is decorated with fine beadwork and has a deerskin shade that protects his head from the sun. It was a gift from one of her patients. Teddy is getting a little big for it, but he loves it, there’s no more secure way to carry a child on a horse, and she wouldn’t trade it for the finest perambulator money can buy.
Three armed men are riding with her. All have the same long, straight noses and deeply set eyes, and all share the last name Brown. The Browns are brothers. For about a year now, they have been living on North Middle Creek not far from Osawatomie. Frederick Brown is the handsomest of the three: round-faced and innocent-looking as a baby although he must be at least twenty-five. Red-haired Owen Brown, whose beard reminds Carrie of a spade, has a crippled right arm. Salmon Brown, the youngest, has the air of a preacher who has been dragged out on Sunday for an excursion he doesn’t approve of.
Carrie knows almost nothing about the Browns, but she’s glad to have them with her. These days she never ventures out unarmed and unaccompanied. Only a few months ago, the bushwhackers surrounded Lawrence again. This time there were fifteen hundred of them, and they came with cannons, guns, and a hatred so intense you could almost smell it. During the second siege she dreamed terrible dreams. Even now when she thinks about them, they make her shudder. The worst is, she can’t remember what they were. All she can recall is waking up shaking and sweating. At the last minute, a peace was negotiated, but she isn’t taking any chances. Even though things have quieted down considerably, only a fool would ride to Osawatomie alone.
On the other hand, if she believed they were in any real danger of being attacked, she wouldn’t have brought Teddy with her. Leaving him at home isn’t easy since he’s still nursing, but she would have found a way. Mrs. Crane’s niece might have agreed to nurse him along with her own newborn, but whenever possible Carrie prefers to take him with her.
I’ll never lose you
, she promised him when he was only a few days old, and not losing him means keeping him close.
Up ahead, a cloud of dust appears. That should be Mr. Trout. He agreed to meet them and accompany them to Osawatomie, and he’s right on time. But just in case it isn’t him—
Carrie pulls out her rifle and the Browns follow suit. She wonders how bushwhackers would react to the sight of an armed woman with a baby on her back. She hopes she never has occasion to find out. So far they haven’t killed women and children. In fact, April is proving to be a relatively peaceful month. Over in Lecompton, a Congressional investigation into charges of election fraud is in process, and while the committee is hearing testimony, neither side wants to rock the boat.
Mr. Trout comes into view riding on a mule. Catching sight of their party, he takes off his hat and waves. Carrie and the Browns lower their guns, and Carrie waves back. When he gets within shouting distance, Trout yells, “Howdy!”
“Howdy!” Carrie replies. The Browns, who are silent men, say nothing.
Trout rides up to them, reins in his mule, nods to the Browns, pulls out a bandanna, and wipes his forehead. “Afternoon, Miz Vinton.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Trout.”
“I hear you’re headed to Osawatomie because your friend Mrs. Newberry is sick.”
“Yes, sir, very.” Carrie gestures toward the Browns. “She sent these gentlemen to fetch me.”
“What’s her complaint? Ain’t cholera, is it?”
“No, Mr. Trout. If it had been cholera, Dr. Saylor would have come. Mrs. Newberry stepped on a nail and the wound has become infected.”
“You sure about that? You don’t want to be bringin’ a babe in arms to no house what got cholera or suchlike in it.”
“I’m sure.”
“Humph. Well, you’re the doctor’s lady, so I suppose you’d know.” He points at Carrie’s rifle. “Can you shoot that thing as well as you can shoot a pistol, Miz Vinton?”
“Yes, Mr. Trout.”
“Well then if the Browns here don’t have any objection, I reckon I’ll ride beside you. As you know, I don’t fancy turning my back on an armed woman. I believe I told you the story of my gun-toting former fiancée when we first became acquainted, but in case it’s done slipped your mind . . .”
For the next five hours, as the Browns ride in silence, Mr. Trout talks incessantly. Just before sunset, they reach the outskirts of Osawatomie. Carrie thanks the Browns for seeing her safely to her destination. After they depart for their homes, she presses a pouch of chewing tobacco into Mr. Trout’s hand and gives him a packet of pills for his lung congestion. She’d like to give the Brown brothers something, too, but so far she has seen no sign that they chew tobacco or drink or indulge in any other vices known to mankind. The only thing she could reliably give the Browns are Bibles, and she suspects they already have a sufficient supply.
Dismounting, she walks to Elizabeth’s cabin. It’s one of three set in a semicircle not far from the place where Pottawatomie Creek flows into the Marais des Cygnes River. The other two cabins are occupied by Prosser and Toussaint and their families. Carrie knocks on Elizabeth’s door, and to her surprise, Elizabeth herself answers.
“Thank God you’re here!” Elizabeth says. Her voice is steady, but when Carrie looks at her face, she has a sense of staring into unknown territory. Enfolding Carrie in her arms, Elizabeth embraces her, baby, cradleboard, and all. Her hair gives off a strange scent Carrie doesn’t recognize. Perhaps it’s the odor of infection.
“Which foot did the nail go into?” Carrie asks her.
“Neither.” Elizabeth releases her and steps back. “I’ve brought you here on false pretenses. I have calluses you couldn’t drive a nail through with a hammer, but I had to get you to Osawatomie. I’ll tell you the details later. Right now, we have to go over to the Adairs’ cabin before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean ‘too late’? Is one of the Adairs sick?”
“No, they’re both in good health, but last night we found a man draped over a fence rail. I think the bushwhackers left him as a warning, or maybe they just left him to die in the first convenient place that presented itself. In any event, he’s horribly burned. What takes tar off skin?”
“Alcohol or kerosene.”
“Spartacus!” Elizabeth cries. Carrie notices Elizabeth’s youngest son standing in the shadows. He looks terrified. How old is he now: fourteen, fifteen? She can’t remember. He’s a foot taller than the last time she saw him, skinny but strong-looking. Starting to become a man, but not one yet by a long shot.
“Spartacus, draw a jug of kerosene from the barrel. Then run over to Mrs. Gate’s and ask her if we can borrow some of her husband’s whiskey for medicinal purposes. Bring the kerosene and whiskey over to Reverend Adair’s as fast as your legs will carry you.”
“Yes, Mama.” Spartacus pauses and his lower lip trembles. “I’m scared.”
“When your daddy preached of a Sunday, he used to say, ‘If the Lord is the strength of my life, of whom shall I be afraid.’ You recognize that, son?”
“Yes, Momma. Psalm Twenty-seven.”
“You repeat those verses to yourself as you run over to Mrs. Gate’s, and you come back to me brave.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Spartacus says.
T
he Adair’s cabin is a two-room fortress made out of logs chinked with mud. The chimney is short and squat, the windows small. When Carrie and Elizabeth arrive, they find Reverend Adair and his wife standing in the doorway peering down the road anxiously. Reverend Adair appears to have aged since Carrie last saw him.
When Mrs. Adair catches sight of Carrie, she steps forward. She’s a determined-looking woman with deeply set eyes, a slightly pointed nose, and a face that forms such a perfect oval that it looks as if it had been drawn with a compass.
“Miss Vinton,” she says, “you are welcome. We have no doctors in Osawatomie. I understand you have apprenticed yourself to Dr. Saylor and have a reputation for healing. I cannot tell you how happy we are to see you. My husband and I have been desperate with worry. We fear the poor man will not survive the night. Please come in.”
The cabin is large as frontier cabins go, with whitewashed walls, a rag rug on the floor, and little luxuries like a walnut-framed mirror mounted above the washstand. A small fire is burning in the fireplace, taking off the spring chill. Sitting in front of it in a cane-bottomed rocking chair is an old man dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black leather tie. His hair is cropped short and combed straight back to reveal a high brow. His nose is long and aquiline, his eyes deep-set like Mrs. Adair’s. It’s a weathered, weary face set on a head that seems too small for his lanky body.
“Miss Vinton,” says Mrs. Adair, “may I present my brother, Mr. Brown.” Mrs. Adair does not offer Carrie her brother’s first name. Later Carrie will realize this is John, the radical brother-in-law Reverend Adair spoke about over dinner in the Gilliss House, the one who believes he is the right hand of God, but at the moment her mind is on other things.
“Good evening, Miss Vinton,” Mr. Brown says. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”