James Grippando - Leapholes

"We're with the abolitionists now. We can't go to parties and rub elbows with the slave owners."

"Nice fancy word there, smarty pants. I bet you don't even know what an abolitionist is."

"I do so."

Abigail spoke up. "An abolitionist is someone who fights to abolish slavery. Some of us speak out in public. Some of us work behind the scenes. A few of us will even risk our lives to help slaves like your friend Hezekiah find freedom. Now, if you two don't quit arguing and help me hatch a plan, your friend Hezekiah is gonna be stuck in slavery for good. You understand?"

"Yes ma'am," they said in unison.

The moon rose in the night sky as the wagon bounced farther down the dirt road. They were out of the city and well into the countryside. It was getting chilly, and Ryan wrapped himself in a coarse blanket. The old wagon creaked. A hoot owl called to them from the twisted limbs of an old oak tree. The ride to Abigail's house was taking longer than Ryan had expected. People in the nineteenth century obviously had a different notion of what "Just down yonder" meant.

The wagon stopped. Ryan looked up, but Abigail shushed him.

"Hold still," she whispered.

A shot rang out. Ryan ducked down and said, "What was that!"

Abigail chuckled as she laid down her shotgun and climbed out of the wagon. "Dinner."

They ate rabbit stew that night at Abigail's cottage. She skinned and dressed the animal herself. She added some onions and roots, then boiled it all in an iron pot that hung in the fireplace. Ryan thought her stew was delicious. Over dinner, he managed to keep the conversation mostly about Abigail and her work as an abolitionist. Inevitably, she started down her own line of questioning. Where were they from? How did they get to St. Louis? His responses were vague, but she didn't seem to care. She was an abolitionist, and all that really mattered to her was getting Hezekiah out of slavery.

That was all Ryan cared about, too.

"We'll leave at sunrise," said Abigail.

"Where to?" asked Ryan.

"There's a plantation south of here, near Jefferson Barracks. The slave owner who took your friend Hezekiah lives there."

"I guess we better get some shut eye then," said Jarvis.

"You two can sleep in the loft," she said.

They thanked her. Ryan started to help clear the dinner plates, but she stopped him.

"Never mind that," said Abigail. "You two look exhausted."

Jarvis yawned into his fist. "We are. Goodnight, ma'am." He went up the ladder and climbed into the loft.

"You too, boy. Git."

Ryan started toward the ladder, then stopped with one foot on the bottom wrung. "Abigail, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"This plantation we're going to. Where my friend Hezekiah is. Have you ever heard anyone say it was the kind of place where the brood follows the dam?"

"Hmmm, no. Can't say that I have. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering. Good night."

"Okay, 'night."

Ryan climbed up to the loft. Jarvis was already snoring. Ryan settled in beside him and stole back half of the big, warm quilt that Jarvis was hogging. Ryan was dead tired, but his mind was too busy to let him sleep. Where the brood follows the dam.

This was sizing up to be one tough riddle. And he might have to solve it with no help from anyone.

The cock crowed as the wagon pulled away from Abigail's house. A silver moon was fading against a bluish-black sky. The sun was but a glowing orange sliver beneath the clouds on the horizon. The prairie grass smelled of fresh morning dew.

Their wagon was packed with everything they would need for the long journey south, which wasn't much. Abigail had run rescue missions before, and she knew the importance of traveling light. Their canteens were filled with drinking water, and they had more dried biscuits and beef jerky than Ryan cared to eat. They each wore a cowboy hat to block the sun. They would sleep on blankets. Beyond that, they had just the clothes on their backs and determination in their bellies.

"How long you reckon 'til we get there, Miss Abigail?" said Ryan.

"Reckon?" said Jarvis, mocking him. "Yet another fancy word. You're a regular abolitionist now, aren't you, kid?"

Both Ryan and Abigail ignored the sarcasm. Jarvis had been grouchy all morning, ever since Abigail's goat had relieved itself on his boot. Abigail said, "Two days. Maybe more, depending."

"Depending on what?"

"Dependin' on whether I'm right or not."

They traveled all day, stopping only to give their horse a rest. Ryan, rode at Abigail's side. She let him take the reins, and it was fun to have the power of a horse at the control of his fingertips. The dirt road shadowed the river, so it was impossible to get lost or bored. Life along the Mississippi was a nonstop show. Ryan saw foxes, bears, and more deer than he could count. Hawks streaked down from the sky and snatched unsuspecting trout from the eddies. The little towns along the way were straight out of the history books. All afternoon, steamboats churned up and down the river. Ryan half expected Huck Finn and Jim to come floating by on a raft any minute. He imagined his dog Sam running happily along the banks and swimming in the river. Then he shook off that thought, trying not to make himself homesick.

That night, they slept under the stars. They woke the next morning and continued due south. Their course took them away from the river, which jogged southeast. By mid-morning, the seemingly endless prairie had turned to farmland. The first plantation came into sight.

"What do they grow here?" asked Ryan.

"Whatever they can," said Abigail. "That there's a cotton field."

It didn't look anything like the amazing photographs Ryan had seen of snowy-white cotton fields ready for harvest. Spring was the planting season, and the fields were bare by comparison.

"What's that smell?" said Ryan.

"Freshly turned dirt. That smell to a farmer is like blossoms to a bumblebee. They can't stay away from it. Don't matter how bad last year was. They might have worked sun-up to sundown, March to October, then lost the whole crop to boll weevils or bad weather or just plain bad luck. Don't make no never mind. They smell that dirt, and they is right back at it the next year. Farmers are a special kind of people."

She brought the wagon to a stop with a tug on the reins and a gentle Whoooooa. She climbed down and told Ryan and Jarvis to follow her up the hill. When they reached the top, they were in a cluster of trees and bushes, looking out over another cotton field.

"This was all useless prairie not long ago," she said. "Now look at it."

Ryan said, "You sound like you admire farmers."

"I do." Then her gaze drifted toward a group of black men in the field, about two-hundred yards on the other side of the fence. "Except when it comes to slavery."

Concealed by the bushes, Ryan counted a dozen slaves scattered across the field. It was mostly stoop labor. Some were planting seeds, while others tended to seedlings and sprouts. Two strong men rode behind a plow mule that was tilling the dark topsoil.

The lone white man was on horseback with a shotgun in his arms. His horse was pulling a small flatbed wagon down a working road that ran alongside the field. On the wagon was a tub of water. The man wore a large black cowboy hat and a black vest over a red flannel shirt. His smokey-gray beard was so long and gnarled that Ryan almost wondered if small animals might be living in there. Despite his advanced years, he sat upright in the saddle. The most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were cold, black, and piercing-the kind of eyes a diver might see just a split second before the Great White shark removes a hunk of flesh.

If Legal Evil had a human host, Ryan imagined that he'd have eyes like these.