Caught in the Act (6 page)

Mike hesitated to break the rhythm, but as he stepped forward, a twig snapped underneath his shoe, and Reuben looked up. Slowly he lowered the ax and smiled.

"How long does it take to finish a plate of apples and cream?"

"It wasn't the food that kept me," Mike said. "It was the riders who came to see Marta."

"Riders?" Reuben wiped away the sweat that was dripping from his shaggy eyebrows into his eyes.

45

Mike told Reuben how the meal had been interrupted. He couldn't help shaking his head a little when he got to the part about how Mrs. Friedrich had been so afraid that thieves would come for her jewelry and the Friedrichs' money.

''Who steals my purse steals trash,'' Reuben said.

"Oh, no! Not trash," Mike said. "Since Mrs. Friedrich was so worried, they must have a great deal of money."

"The Friedrichs are no different from the other hardworking farmers who came from German states to settle in Missouri. They mistrust paper notes and insist on dealing in gold and silver coinage. Furthermore, they have a deep suspicion of banks, so they keep what they call their *hard money' at home."

Reuben rubbed the back of his neck and took a firm grip on his ax. "I'm going to break up this dead hickory, and you can gather the twigs and limbs and chunks of kindling and bind them into bundles." He pointed. "You'll find twine over there, under that pine tree."

Mike worked hard, occasionally pausing to arch his back, which was feeling much less sore, and stretch and knead his neck and shoulders. Reuben did the same.

Reuben finally called, "Let's take a rest." Laying down the ax, he flopped onto his back. He rested his head on his crossed arms, and stared up at the sky. 'There's a difference in the sky over land and the sky over water."

Mike sat on the ground, pulled out his pocketknife, and whittled chips from a nearby twig. "Did your poet Shakespeare say that?"

"No. It's something that every river boatman knows."

*Tell me about that kind of boat you worked on," Mike said.

"The flatboat? It's a long boat with a small cabin, two sweeps on each side and—"

"What are sweeps?"

"Oars. Poles with flat ends. Each boat carries a crew

tx) man the sweeps, a captain, and a cook. Flatboats are built and caulked at the riverbank, loaded with cargo, and floated down to towns much farther south where there's a good market for the potatoes or com or whatever the boat carries. The boat's sold there, along with the cargo, and the crew catches the next stem or side-wheeler and sails back up the river again to start over."

"That doesn't sound very exciting," Mike said. "Not as exciting as riding for the pony express."

Reuben chuckled. "But it is. There are hidden sandbars, and fast currents, and in some places enough boats of all kinds to run down any craft not quick enough to squeak through. Then there are raftsmen, who'll pick a fight with anyone and who are the worst kind of river rats. There are river pirates to worry about, too. They'd as soon steal your cargo and leave you for dead as not. And if you manage to get to where you were headed, you've got to contend with the merchants who try to drive such a hard bargain for your goods as to make the whole trip not worth the while."

In his mind's eye Mike could see a swift boat bearing down on his flatboat. It was filled with pirates, scarves wrapped around their heads and knives gripped between their teeth. With wild shouts they brandished swords and leapt to the deck of the flatboat. But Mike was too quick for them. Raising his sweep fi-om the water, he laid about with it, knocking pirates right and left into the water while his mates on the flatboat cheered.

Mike heard a crack of a twig in the woods nearby and looked up sharply, but he didn't see anything. Probably a squirrel or a rabbit, he decided, and tumed back to Reuben. "Wouldn't it be safer to work on one of the big steamboats?"

"Steamboat hands have their problems, too," Reuben replied. "Each man to his own choice, and mine is the

flatboat." He sighed. 'Wwr einen Sommer gonnt, ihr Gewaltigenr

Mike stared at him. **What does that mean?"

"Only one summer grant me, you nughty ones! It's German. Holderlin—^my mother's favorite poet. My mother was German. Holderlin loved his country so much."

"Are you German like the Friedrichs?" Mike asked.

"Not like them. But my heritage stems from their country."

Mike heard a small noise again, but it was farther away. He listened again. Maybe a deer, from the sound of it. Too heavy for a smaller animal. The gentle noises of the country were so different from the ones he knew so well in the city, but one by one Mike was beginning to recognize them.

Reuben's long legs bent like a pretzel as he scrambled to his feet. "Up, up," he said, "and back to work. You keep tying while I get one of the mules to help us cart these bundles to the shed."

The rest of the day Mike worked hard to keep up with Reuben. There were the animals to care for and feed, tools to mend, the vegetable garden to hoe, and wood to carry to the outdoor bin and those beside the fireplaces. When Marta finally rang the bell to call the men to supper, Mike was so exhausted he wanted only to fall into bed.

"Don't anger Mr. Friedrich," Marta whispered to Mike. "Wash up—all the way to the elbows—comb your hair, and come to the table." She winked and gave him a friendly pat on the back. "Be quick about it, too!"

Mike splashed his face and arms with water, shivering as he scrubbed hard with the lump of lye soap. In a way, he hated to remove all the warm, comfortable smells of the cows and bam and fresh-chopped wood and meadow grasses. This country life wasn't half bad, if you didn't mind a more-than-generous share of hard work.

Mike wondered how his brother Danny was faring. Did he have cows to send to pasture and bring back to the bam at night? Wouldn't it have been grand if they could have worked side by side? But instead they'd been parted, and he didn't know when he'd ever see his brother again.

Mike thought about the couple who had chosen Danny and Peg. They looked pleasant and he hoped they were good people, but he didn't know enough about them to tell for sure. Would they make a good home for Danny and Peg? Would they know how badly Danny had missed Da, and how much he needed the love of a father? If Danny ever needed his big brother, would he be able to let Mike know? Mike rubbed hard at his face with the linen towel. He knew enough to hurry without a warning from Marta and pushed thoughts of his fanuly to the back of his mind.

Throwing a longing glance toward his comfortable bed, Mike ran from his room and down the stairs, arriving in the dining room before the others. He overheard voices in the parlor.

"But they were. Papa." It was Gunter, insisting. "I couldn't hear all they said, but I certainly recognized German words. Reuben was speaking to Mike in German!"

Mike was startled. It hadn't been a deer. The noise he had heard in the woods had been Gunter, spying!

"Michael! You are here already!" Mrs. Friedrich spoke loudly, and there was sudden silence in the next room. Mr. Friedrich, Gunter close behind him, appeared in the doorway. They stared at Mike with such deep suspicion that Mike frantically tried to think of the right thing to say.

"I got here first, which probably means I'm the hungriest!" He tried to sound cheerfiil and hoped his laughter didn't sound as false to them as it did to himself.

"Why did you not come into the parlor to join us?" Mr. Friedrich demanded.

"In the parlor? Oh, is that where you were?" Mike asked. He saw the muscles in Mr. FYiedrich's jaw begin to relax.

"Be seated," Mr. Friedrich barked, apparently satisfied that Mike hadn't overheard Gunter. Mike gladly slipped into his chair.

Mike folded his hands for Mr. Friedrich's prayer. He tried to concentrate, and at first he did, but as Mr. Friedrich droned on and on, Mike's thoughts focused on the mealtimes his true family had shared in New York City. He could picture everyone seated around the table.

Ma would bow her head to say the blessing, sometimes reaching out to tap a hand that was trying to snatch a crumb. Mike couldn't figure out how Ma could see with her eyes closed, but she never missed a trick. Their meals together—even though since Da had died the portions were often too small to fill their stomachs— were usually noisy, cheerful times, with each of the Kellys having something to say and not always waiting for a turn in which to say it.

Mike saw Ma's ready smile as she helped Petey, the youngest Kelly. He thought of Peg, who never could seem to sit still, even while she was eating, and Danny, with his mischievous grin, and Megan, with her gentle ways, and Frances Mary, who tried to be as grown-up as Ma, but who could easily collapse into a fit of giggles anytime Mike had a mind to make silly faces.

Suddenly Da's sunburned face, with the laugh crinkles around his eyes, came into Mike's mind so strongly that he clenched his hands together tightly. O/i, Da, he thought, the troubles began when you left us! Why did you have to die?

The memory hurt so much that Mike's stomach ached, and tears rushed to his eyes, some of them escaping before he could rub them away.

"Michael." Mr. Friedrich was calling his name.

Mike immediately came back to the present, terrified that Mr. Friedrich would be angry again. But the man was actually smiling.

"I see that your heart was touched." Mr. Friedrich nodded with self-satisfaction. "I believe there is hope for you if you will keep in mind the fearful picture I have just described of the afterlife that waits for those who wiU not mend their wicked ways."

Mike nodded. He pulled a cotton handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, hoping he could cover the surprise that must have shown on his face. That was a narrow squeak!

Marta carried in a huge tureen filled with a thick soup, and dark wheat bread and butter to go with it.

Mrs. Friedrich's eyes twuikled as she watched Mike eat. "Do you like my soup, Michael?" she whispered.

Mike closed his eyes, savoring the deep, rich taste of the mingled vegetables, spices, and beef. "It's far too good to be called soup," he murmured.

She giggled. 'There's warm gingerbread to follow, and, just for you, the rest of last lught's spiced peaches."

Gunter raised his head from his soup plate. "I want peaches, too."

'There is only enough for one portion," Mrs. Friedrich said, "and Michael shall have it. He must fatten up and grow strong and tall."

Gunter glared at Mike, but Mike didn't care. He was too sleepy now to worry about Gunter, and those peaches had been awfully good. He did notice that during the rest of the meal Gunter wore a scowl. Gunter's expression grew darker when Mr. Friedrich finally laid his fork on his empty plate and said, "Get to bed now, Gunter. With school tomorrow, you must get an early start."

"School?" Mike's eyes flew open, and he sat up eagerly. At last! Andrew MacNair had told them they'd have schooling, and Mike couldn't wait until it started.

"We have a schoolhouse, just two nules away," Mrs. Friedrich began to explain. *The teacher is a fine young woman who boards with—"

"Enough!" Mr. Friedrich interrupted. "Michael will not be going to school."

Mike forgot to be cautious and blurted out, "But we were told that we were to get schooling until we were fourteen."

Mr. Friedrich shrugged. "You wiD be sent to school— someday. To leam one thing at a time is better than trying to fill the mind with too much at once. For now you must be trained in the work to be done on the farm."

"But I could do both!" Mike insisted. "FU work hard. I promise!"

"We will not talk again of schooling until you're used to your new home and duties," Mr. Friedrich said. Without another word he pushed back his chair and left the dining room. Mrs. Friedrich followed. Gunter paused only to smirk at Mike, then hurried to join his parents. Mike could hear the boards groan and snap under their weight as they started up the stairs.

Maybe Mr. Friedrich wovid change his mind if I told him that I can already read, and I won't need to spend too much time studying, Mike thought. He began to follow them, but stopped when he heard the low growl of Mr. Friedrich's whisper.

"Oh, no!" Mrs. Friedrich whimpered. "AU these years youVe been afraid they would send someone after you. Do you think that Reuben—"

"Quiet!" Mr. Friedrich snapped, and Mike slid back against the wall, melting into the shadows.

He slipped into the dining room and stood by the table, trying to piece together and understand all the strange facts he'd heard: Ulrich, the one who had died, had been a thief. For some reason Mike still didn't know.

Mr. Friedrich had been afraid for a long time that someone would be sent after him. Mike's nund raced. There could be only one reason for this fear—Mr. Friedrich had murdered Ulrich.

Horrified at his conclusion, Mike caught his breath. Now Mr. Friedrich suspected that Reuben was the one who was after him. Was it only because Reuben had spoken German? Was Reuben really after Mr. Friedrich? No, Mike told himself. Reuben just knew German poetry.

But Mike realized he had to talk to Reuben about Mr. Friedrich's suspicions. If Mr. Friedrich had killed one man—

Mike squared his shoulders. He was wasting time talking to himself. He had to help with the dishes and get himself to bed. He reached for a bowl but stopped as a deep yawn shuddered through his body.

Marta swung into the room and began to stack the plates. She took a look at Mike. "You're asleep on your feet," she said. "Go on to bed."

"m help you," Mike said, and he picked up the bread platter and the butter dish to carry to the kitchen.

"Hans Friedrich is a hard man," Marta said with a sigh, as she placed the dirty dishes on the table. "He should send you to school."

Mike looked up, surprised. "You heard?"

"There isn't much that Marta misses." Mike turned to see Reuben sitting in a chair in the dim light next to the fireplace.

"I like to know what goes on in this house," she said. "You'd know, too, if you could ever get your long nose out of that book." She shook her head in wonder as she turned to Mike. "Would you believe that Reuben reads while he's eating?"