“I’d still worry,” Dahlia stated firmly.
Tulip’s black eyes sparkled with irritation as she told her sister, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dahl, stop curdling the milk. Elliot wouldn’t’ve willed her the keys had he not had faith in her good sense.”
Grace decided to interrupt before an argument started. Dahlia, for all her contrary ways, had quite a thin skin and her feelings were hurt easily. The aunts loved each other beyond measure, but that didn’t stop them from sometimes fighting like the siblings they were.
“Aunt Dahlia, you’re right to be concerned,” Grace offered supportively, “although I’ll be gone for some time, I’m confident everything will go well.”
Tulip chuckled, “Grace, you make it sound as if you’ll be gone for months. The trains run much faster than they once did. You’ll be in Kansas before you know it.”
“We aren’t going by train. We’re traveling by wagon.”
“Wagon?” the aunts shouted in unison again.
“Wagon.”
“But why?” Dahlia asked. “Why would you want to subject yourself to such hardship?”
“Jim Crow,” Grace answered simply.
“Ah,” they both replied.
The political gains made by the race after the war were slowly buckling beneath the oppressive weight of the laws and policies implemented by the south’s Redemptionist Democrats. As a result, Jim Crow practices were making it harder and harder for members of the race to do even simple things like travel by train. The country’s Black newspapers were reporting incidents of men and women being set down on the side of the road, or forced to ride in cars usually relegated to stock or freight in response to protests registered by bigoted travelers, conductors, and ticket takers.
Grace had no intention of putting herself or the other women through such tribulation. Who knew what might become of them if they were asked to leave the train? Being stuck out on the plains, miles away from anywhere, with no one to aid them or protect them against night riders or predators, held little appeal. If they traveled by wagon, they could at least control their own fate.
Dahlia pointed out sagely, “But Grace, you don’t know anything about outfitting such a journey.”
“I know, but the brides and I can learn. I’m hoping to hire someone who can be both teacher and guide.”
“Will you be able to find such a man here in Chicago?” Tulip wanted to know.
“I’m certainly going to try. I’ve already begun asking around and I’ve a man named Emerson coming tomorrow. Also, Mrs. Ricks, one of the bank’s cleaning women, says a man in her building named Peterson claims to have done this sort of thing before. I’ll be meeting him, too, if Emerson isn’t suitable. Once that’s done I can start canvassing for the brides.”
Both aunts looked impressed by the explanation.
“It seems you’ve given this quite a lot of thought,” Dahlia announced, sounding pleased.
Grace considered that high praise. “I have.”
“Well, she has my blessings,” Tulip told her sibling.
Grace smiled at the vote of support and then looked to Dahlia. “Well?”
Dahlia answered with a merry twinkle in her eye, “Have we ever been able to deny you anything? You know you have mine, too.”
Pleased by her sister’s response, Tulip reached over and gave her sibling’s hand an affectionate squeeze, then smiled up at Grace and said, “Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. Short of accompanying you, of course. We are both too old to go gallivanting across the country in a wagon.”
“Amen,” Dahlia chimed in. “But we can do most anything else.”
A buoyant Grace gave them both a kiss on their smooth but ancient cheeks.
Grace prepared for bed that night more sure of herself and of her future than anytime since the day Garth Leeds left it to her to inform the guests there’d be no wedding. She also felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she had her cousin Price to thank. Had he not asked for her help, she might never have had the opportunity to escape Chicago so she could clear her head and her heart. The days immediately following her “no wedding” wedding day had been a nightmare. Even though she’d wanted to take to her bed and cry into her pillow, there’d been gifts to return, caterers to pay, and honeymoon arrangements to undo.
Having to face her guests after Garth’s slinking departure had been the hardest, though. The looks of pity had made her burn with humiliation and it took all she
had to stand before them and make her apologies. Although Garth and Amanda had had the bad taste to invite her to the wedding a few weeks later, she’d declined. Word had it that Garth was starting to chafe under Amanda’s very short leash and that the only parts of her fortune he had access to were the parts she doled out to him once a week.
Grace took a seat at her writing desk and opened up the packet she’d received from Price a few days ago. Inside were the promised sketches and biographical information on the men. As she’d done upon first receiving them, she studied the faces. They were of myriad ages, sizes, and hues. Some were dark skinned, others light. Some stated a preference for a pretty girl, while others expressed no preference at all, as long as she was god-fearing and clean. A few expressed no interest in a woman with children and Grace found that disappointing, because she knew there were many single women who might be interested in joining the train for the new life it might offer them and their offspring.
Grace set the sketches aside and wondered how it must be to start a new life in a new place, like the men in Price’s colony. Price and his friends had been part of the Great Exodus of 1879. Beginning in the spring of 1879, thousands of southern Blacks fled the South in response to the death and mayhem brought into their lives by the Redemptionists after the final withdrawal of federal troops after the Civil War. Most went west, to places like Kansas, Nebraska, and Colorado.
The nation’s newspapers dubbed the movement
Kansas Fever
, and it soon became the largest mass migration of the race the country had ever seen. Politicians of all races denounced the Exodus and its organizers because they were losing constituents. Southern planters cried
foul, too, as their source of cheap labor began crossing the Mississippi in droves. At the height of the Exodus there were so many Black folks moving west and so much political clamoring, congressional hearings were convened to make sure there was no conspiracy afoot and that Blacks weren’t being led astray by nefarious individuals, as some politicians and Black leaders claimed.
The race was content to let Congress debate, but the Exodus continued. Whole congregations from churches in Tennessee and North Carolina added their numbers to the throng of men, women, and families with children seeking hope and a new life on the plains. In fleeing the death and fear being fueled by White Leaguers and kluxers, southern Blacks left the well known for the unknown and never looked back.
Many of the pioneers came prepared, bringing with them all the implements needed to start life anew on the vast desolate plains, but others did not. By 1880, the newspapers were filled with tragic stories of starving, needy refugees. Black churches and aid societies did what they could by sending food, clothing, and money, as did sympathetic societies in England.
Closer to home, the great Chicago meatpacking king Philip D. Armour pitched in by soliciting donations from his wealthy friends and sending beef from his own plants to help feed those in need. Now, five years later, the Exodus had reduced to a trickle. Some colonies had prospered and many had died, but the face of the country had been changed forever as a result of the determination of men like Price and his friends—and the determination of the women soon to be their brides.
At the bank a week later, Grace sat at her desk going over the list of supplies she’d need for the journey when
a knock on her office door made her look up. “Come in.”
Lionel Rowe, the bank’s head clerk, entered. During enslavement, Lionel had been head butler to one of the oldest families in Virginia. He continued to carry that formal air to this day. Today he was as impeccably dressed as always in a dark suit and snow-white shirt. As the aunts liked to point out, the short brown-skinned man was still quite handsome, in spite of his having celebrated his sixtieth birthday last October. “There’s a man from the sheriff’s office here to see you.”
A confused Grace asked, “What on earth for?”
“He says it has to do with that man Emerson you hired to lead your wagon train.”
She was speechless for a moment as she tried to figure out how her newly hired guide and the sheriff’s office could be connected, but since she had no answers she said simply, “Have him come in.”
Twenty minutes later, Grace was seated at her desk with her head in her hands, wondering,
What now?
It seemed Mr. Emerson had gotten himself killed in a knife fight at a tavern on the city’s south side two nights ago. According to the man from the sheriff’s office, two drunks began brawling over a prostitute’s favors and when Emerson tried to stop the fight he’d been stabbed. The authorities found Grace’s calling card in his pocket and had come to ask about next of kin, but she’d known Emerson less than a week and could offer up no helpful information.
The news had solved the mystery as to why Emerson hadn’t shown up for the meeting they’d had scheduled for yesterday. It also threw her plans for the wagon train into flux. Where in the world would she find a replacement? Finding him had been a hard enough task. When she first began her search for a guide, she’d talked to
everyone she knew and posted broadsides in various sections of the city. Once word got around that the man hired would be paid a substantial amount of gold in exchange for his services, candidates descended upon the bank like a hard three-day rain.
Most had no experience whatsoever and seemed interested only in the gold. The few who
were
qualified laughed out loud when she told them it would be an all-woman expedition; they seemed to think women were incapable of mastering the skills necessary to complete the journey successfully, and wanted nothing to do with the trip. Only Mr. Emerson seemed to find the task a worthwhile challenge. Granted, he had the twinkle of mischief in his eye and Grace sensed he’d end up being a handful, but he’d been the only candidate, so he’d gotten the job. And now?
She got up and walked to her window. Now that winter seemed gone for good, the trees were sporting fat brown buds and the grass was starting to green, but Grace’s thoughts weren’t on the annual renewal brought about by spring. She was too busy trying to find a solution to the problems the wagon train faced as a result of Mr. Emerson’s untimely visit to that south side tavern.
That evening at home, Grace told the aunts the sad news. Although they were sympathetic, they had no solution.
The next day, Lionel Rowe came into her office un-announced and softly closed the door behind him. “There’s a man named Peterson out here to see you. I suggest you pretend to be busy so that I can send him away.”
A bit taken aback by Lionel’s unconventional entrance, Grace, seated behind her desk, asked curiously, “Why?”
“Because he’s inebriated.”
Grace stared. “Drunk?”
“Very.”
Her disappointment showed in her tone. “He’s the man Mrs. Ricks thought might make a suitable replacement guide for the trip to Kansas City.”
“Virginia Ricks should stick to her mops. The only ‘guiding’ this man is qualified to do is guiding a tankard to his lips. Shall I show him the door?”
“No, send him in. Mrs. Ricks will never forgive me if I don’t at least see him.”
“Grace—” he began warningly.
She waved him off. “It’s all right, Lionel. Your concern is noted, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. To be on the safe side, have Mr. Jones post himself outside the door in case I do need assistance.” Mitchell Jones served as the bank’s constable.
The impeccably dressed Rowe nodded but warned, “Okay, but you’re going to be sorry you didn’t take my advice.”
And indeed, she was.
Grace smelled Lucas Peterson the moment he walked in. The acrid odor wafting from his big burly body burned her eyes and nostrils like smoke. He was dressed in a shirt and a pair of breeches that looked to be made from tanned animal skin. The color appeared to be brown, but due to the stains left behind by perspiration, food, and grime, it was impossible to tell. The shaggy uncut hair was lint filled and gray. Because of his immense size, he’d probably been quite intimidating in his younger years, but now all his musculature had softened to fat. Grace would be willing to bet he hadn’t seen soap, water, or a barber in her lifetime.
“You the lady needing the guide?” he asked. His brown eyes were bright with drink.
Grace had been taught by her father to shake a man’s hand when introducing herself, but not this time; she stayed right behind her desk. “Yes, I’m Grace Atwood,” she stated, trying not to breathe too deeply, “but unfortunately, I hired someone for the position last evening.”
Behind him she saw the smiling Lionel Rowe exiting the office. He did take pity on her, however, and leave the door slightly ajar to let in the fresh air.
“Aw, that’s too bad,” Peterson was saying, in response to her lie about the job being filled.
While Grace wondered how long a woman could hold her breath before fainting, Peterson’s drink red eyes scanned her slowly. When he’d looked his fill, he grinned, showing off tobacco-brown teeth. “You’re a pretty little thing, all that fine red hair. You know what they say about red-haired women,” he stated, then winked lewdly.
Grace stiffened. “No, what
do
they say about redhaired women?”
“That they’re real man pleasers—lots of fire.”
If there’d been any doubts before, there were definitely none now. Grace wouldn’t let this man lead her across the street, let alone all the way to Kansas City.
“Thank you for inquiring about the position, but as I stated, it’s no longer available.” The statement was a lie of course, but she’d lead the wagon herself before letting this offensive and smelly man anywhere near her enterprise.