In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree

  In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree

  Michael A. McLellan

  First printing

  ISBN-978-0-9897098-9-7

  Copyright © 2017 by Michael A. McLellan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at the address below.

  Sweet Candy Press

  PO Box 13201

  Olympia, WA, 98508

  www.sweetcandypress.com

  www.michaelamclellan.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing, publicity, & prepublishing services by Sage Adderley-Knox

  Cover / interior layout & design by Bradley Knox (SUBATOMIC)

  To Landrin Kelly.

  See you in awhile, pal.

  This novel is dedicated to the human race.

  I fear for us.

  One

  1

  Near Osceola, Missouri. September 25 1861.

  “Get up, boy,” Samuel Cromwell said as he laid a kick to the sleeping young man’s bare feet. “You and your woman get up and get on your way, before I change my mind.”

  Henry rubbed at his eyes and looked up at his master’s shadowed features. Samuel kicked him a second time and dropped something onto the splintered wooden floor beside the reed mat he and Eliza shared. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and felt Eliza stir next to him. Samuel held the lantern he was carrying over the small bundle on the floor.

  “There’s some bread and molasses, a little bit of salted pork, a parin’ knife…and your free papers. Hers too. I was going to give them to you come Christmas, anyhow. Ownin’ another man—or woman, for that matter, never felt Christian to me; you know that. I’ve been living contrary to the word of God, regardless of what Reverend Adams says about it, and I know I’m going to have to answer for it eventually. Now listen here. William Prescott tells me those Jayhawkers are camped not but three or four miles up the road. You can take your chances with them, if you’re of a mind, but I’d head out past Chaney’s crossing and stay to the woods. Follow the river northeast and get yourselves to Illinois as quick as you can. Mayhap get up to Minnesota or even Canada.”

  Samuel Cromwell’s expression was grave.

  “You understand those papers aren’t going to mean a damn thing if you get caught by some of our boys?”

  “Yessir,” Henry replied.

  “And I won’t be here to corroborate your story. I’m heading out, first light. I’ll be on my way out to California to join my brother. It was nice to have known you…Henry.”

  “Thank you, sir. You too, sir.”

  “Go on then.”

  Samuel Cromwell turned away without another word and left the tiny, one-room house, leaving Henry and Eliza in the dark.

  Henry stood and retrieved a small, lard candle from a shelf above the pallet by feel. “Get dressed, Eliza. We have to go,” he said, then walked naked through the door. He stepped onto the small porch and watched his master’s silhouette move hurriedly up the path toward the big house. Samuel Cromwell’s lantern caused shadows to flicker and dance in the trees bordering the path.

  Henry walked out to the stone fire ring and stirred up the remnants of the evening’s cook fire. He soon had the candle alight and walked back to the house.

  “Where will we go, Henry?” Eliza asked while gathering up her few belongings and putting them in the embroidered drawstring bag that her previous mistress had given her.

  “North, I suppose, like Mister Cromwell says. I heard tell those Kansas whites preach the abolition but don’t treat our free folks no different than if’n they were still slaves. I heard they do better up north.” Henry set the candle down and began dressing.

  “You hear all that from Nathaniel Clement up at John Anderson’s place? You know you can’t believe a word coming from his mouth.”

  “I heard from others, too. Now come on. Make sure you bring along that sack of flour and whatever else we got.”

  “There’s nothing but a couple biscuits worth left.”

  “Bring it anyhow.”

  “Of course I’m gonna bring it. I was just wondering how we’re going to eat.”

  2

  The two reached the river just before sunrise, and, after some debating, they chose to move a little way inland to find a suitable place to hole up for the day. They were well aware of how things would go for them if they were discovered.

  After negotiating a couple of particularly dense hazelnut thickets, they came across an abandoned trapper’s lean-to about a quarter of a mile west of the river.

  The sun was fully up and they decided that it was as safe of a place as any.

  The aged canvas lean-to was just tall enough for a person to crawl inside, and barely wide enough for two. Henry was over six feet tall, but lean. Eliza was petite; just tall enough to stare Henry in the chest when they stood toe to toe. If either of the two were any larger, they wouldn’t have fit inside together.

  The morning was warm; the early sun rapidly burning off the night’s thin layer of ground-fog. It was promising to be another hot day. Henry and Eliza both removed their coats—his wool and threadbare, hers flannel and still in fine condition—and laid them out upon the thin duff of leaves covering the ground. Eliza was able to sit upright, and she unwrapped the small cotton package that Master Cromwell had given them while Henry lay on his side looking up at her.

  “I hear there’s plenty of payin’ work, farmin’ up in Wisconsin. They say a man can make enough to buy his own piece of land, if’n he’s willin’ to work hard,” Henry said.

  “You hear that from Nathaniel Clement, too?”

  “He says his brother is up there in a place called Wooshara or Washara or somethin’ and—”

  “It’s something, Henry. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s Wooshara County or something. We weren’t all lucky enough to grow up a house-nigger.”

  “Don’t call me that. You know I don’t like it. Besides, I’m trying to teach you, is all. You get up there around all those educated northern folk, you want to be speaking proper don’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said, reaching down and putting his hand up Eliza’s dress so he could rub her upper calf. “I know you’re jes tryin’—just trying to teach me.”

  Eliza cut two slices from the small loaf of bread then cut two thin hunks of the salted pork to lay on top of them. “Do you want some molasses?” she asked, holding up a small clay jug.

  “I reckon we should save it,” Henry replied, taking one of the quasi-sandwiches and biting into it. “That pork’s not going to last long. Once we get further up the woods I can set a couple of snares.”

  “Henry, I’m afraid.”

  “So am I. Don’t you worry, though. Once we get to Illinois, we’ll be jes fine. Can’t be more than a hundred an’ fifty mile if’n we just stay northeast.”

  “If we juststay northeast.”

  “That’s what I said. If we just stay northeast we should be in Illinois in a fortnight.”

  Henry smiled wryly in the dark and popped the last bit of food in his mouth and lay back with his hands laced behind hi
s head.

  “A fortnight?” Eliza exclaimed, forgetting the ongoing grammar lesson for the time being. “It shouldn’t take us two weeks to walk a hundred and fifty miles. Master Cromwell sent me up to Colonel Jenkin’s place to help with the washing when his house-girls fell ill with the yellow fever, and I walked it in an afternoon. And you know that’s five miles to and five miles back.”

  “You weren’t walking at night, through the woods, and the moon ain’t gonna be on our side anymore two or three days from now. We’ll be lucky to get in ten mile a night. C’mon, finish your food and try to get some sleep.”

  “I’m not very hungry. My stomach’s paining me some this morning.”

  Henry looked at her with concern. Eliza smiled, “It’s nothing. It’ll pass.”

  Eliza stowed the food back in the small muslin bundle, set it aside and laid her head on Henry’s chest. She was soon lulled by the steady rise and fall of her man’s breathing.

  They slept.

  3

  Henry’s mother died bringing him into the world, and his father had been stabbed to death by another slave just days before Henry’s third birthday. Henry was told later that the stabbing was over a pair of shoes his father had allegedly stolen from the other man. It was the consensus on the plantation that Henry’s father was a snake of the lowest sort, and his violent end had been a long time coming.

  As a boy, Henry was raised for a time by a woman named Harriet. She had wet-nursed him when he was an infant, then saw to the better part of his upbringing—even while his father was still above ground—until he was sold downriver when he was eleven. Henry lived with her and her two daughters in a small, two-room shanty on a tobacco plantation near the Missouri River in Howard County. In addition to the two daughters, Harriet had also birthed five sons: three died in infancy, and the other two were sold off to new owners before their tenth year. The plantation owner, Alexander Fordham, kept mostly female slaves. He claimed them to be easier to handle and harder workers than the men. Fordham was a widower and was known to call on the young women of his plantation in the early hours of the morning. Refusals were met with beatings. Henry could remember Harriet’s eldest daughter, Sally, being sent for by Master Fordham on more than one occasion. He would sometimes lay awake, listening to Harriet sobbing softly in the darkness after Sally left. He’d wished he could comfort her, but didn’t know how. Sally was always back before sunup, and the incidents were never discussed in Henry’s presence.

  Harriet had treated Henry kindly, but was never affectionate in any physical way. She was a tough taskmaster and had little patience for anyone shirking his or her duties. She’d put him to work as soon as he could heft a wash bucket and worked him hard until he began service in Master Fordham’s tobacco drying shed when he was seven. Harriet cared for him in her fashion but never acted the mother. On the morning he was to be taken to the travelling slave auction in Fayette, she’d given him a stiff, short hug before saying goodbye. It was the first and only embrace Henry had received from another human being in his life.

  Up until the day when Master Stryker, the plantation’s overseer, took Henry to the auction in Fayette, Henry’s life had been routine and mostly unremarkable. He’d been treated fairly, albeit indifferently by Amos Caulfield, the drying shed foreman, and he rarely went to bed hungry. That all changed moments after the overseer—who’d said nothing to Henry during the entire ten-mile trip to Fayette—stopped the mule-cart in front of a large stable near the end of town and said, “You stay put, now.”

  Henry never saw Master Stryker again.

  Fayette was small, but Henry had never been off of the plantation and was awestruck at how many people were about. It was just past midday, and folks were walking purposely from place to place. Some stopped and greeted each other cordially before moving on to whatever business they had to conduct. Two boys of about Henry’s age came out from an alley between two buildings across the street. One saw Henry on the mule-cart, and after tugging on his friend’s sleeve and pointing a finger at Henry, picked up a fair sized dirt-clod and threw it toward the mule-cart. The projectile missed Henry—just—and bounced off of the cart’s backrest before clunking to the floorboard by Henry’s feet. The two boys ran off up the dirt street, shoving each other playfully and laughing.

  “Come on down off’n that wagon, nigger, and get on inside.”

  Henry turned around, startled, and saw a fat man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat with a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth looking up at him speculatively.

  “Master Stryker tol’ me to stay put, sir.”

  “Master Stryker ain’t here, and I ain’t gonna tell you again. You get down offa there and get your ass inside.”

  Harriet taught Henry early on not to argue or be insolent with the whites—any whites. He glanced nervously in the direction Master Stryker had gone then reached into the back of the cart and retrieved the small bundle that was all of his possessions: a second shirt, and a small wooden cross that had belonged to his mother. He jumped down from the mule-cart and looked expectantly at the fat man, who waved a hand toward the stable. Henry turned and began walking. The fat man kicked him in the backside—hard—and Henry fell to the ground.

  “You move your ass when I tell you, nigger. Now get up and move.”

  One of the two large stable doors was propped open slightly and held in place by a couple of roof shakes. Henry entered through the narrow gap at the fat man’s urging. He wondered if the fat man would fit.

  The stable’s spacious interior smelled of fresh hay, leather, and horse manure. Tack hung here and there from the rafter beams.

  The rear doors were both wide open and there was a small congregation of whites gathered just inside of them, speaking in subdued voices.

  “Go stand over there with them other niggers,” the fat man said, pointing. Henry obeyed and walked over to where a group of about ten slaves were standing single file behind a large crate which was placed midway in the stable. They were all naked. He lined up behind a girl of about fifteen—the only female in the group—and looked around apprehensively. After a few minutes, a man in a fine suit and tall hat strode through a door in the side of stable and approached him.

  “You are ahhh…Henry?” the man asked, after briefly consulting a sheet of foolscap.

  “Yessir,” Henry replied.

  “Remove your clothes and put them over there.” The man cocked his head toward several small piles of garments lying on the dirt floor near where he’d entered. “And what is that?”

  “Jes a shirt and my mama’s cross, sir.”

  “Leave it with your clothes. Go on now, boy, then get back over here.”

  Henry did as he was bidden. A wave of homesickness hit him as he undressed, and he choked back the tears that wanted to come. He already missed the little shanty on the edge of the tobacco field. He wasn’t going to hear Harriet’s sweet singing voice as she chopped vegetables for the soup pot that night, or any night, ever again.

  “Hurry on, boy. Time is money, you know. Let’s have a look at you.”

  Henry dropped his too-small, roughly sewn, osnaburg trousers onto his little pile and walked quickly back to the line where the man was waiting for him with clear impatience.

  “I trust you move faster at your work,” the man said, taking Henry roughly by the chin. “Open your mouth…yes, good. Very fine teeth. Lift your arms…higher…good.” He squatted, then reached out and squeezed one of Henry’s thighs, then the other. Now let me see the bottom of your feet…no, turn around, boy. That’s right. Now the other…”

  When he was finished inspecting Henry, the man stepped back and spoke to the entire group of slaves. “When I say your name, you will step forward and stand on this box. You stand up straight and you will not speak to any of my patrons unless they address you directly.” He eyed the line of naked slaves thoughtfully for a moment, then turned and walked briskly toward the group of prospective buyers.

  4

  After
nearly two hours the line of slaves was down to three: Henry, the girl, and a large, muscular man whose back was a latticework of thick scars. Henry had to piss but kept silent. None of the other slaves had spoken a single word—to each other, or the whites, so he thought it prudent to follow suit.

  Not long after the auction started, the fat man with the cigar returned with a milking stool and sat himself down next to Henry and the others. He spent most of the time whittling a big stick into a smaller stick, pausing every now and then to retrieve a small flask from the inside of his sweat-stained shirt and take a pull from it. He also escorted the newly sold slaves from the stable to whatever transport—and future—awaited them.

  The man with the scarred back was called next.

  “John Brown, step up please,” the man in the fine suit called out. John Brown stepped up onto the crate and dispassionately faced the group before him.

  “John Brown, ladies and gentlemen,” the man with the fancy suit and tall hat began. “Thirty-two-years old, and just look at him; he’s a pillar of strength and good health. This well-built nigger’s a skilled carpenter and can work tobacco from sunrise to sundown seven days a week without appreciable signs of slowing…”

  Henry watched with growing trepidation as his turn to stand on the crate grew closer and closer. He watched as John Brown, like the others before him, was poked, fondled, and squeezed repeatedly by the whites while they haggled over the price of owning him.

  Finally, after repeated inquiries into John Brown’s scars and questions as to whether or not he obtained them due to being troublesome (there were assurances that he was a passive and respectful nigger) a deal was struck and John Brown was sold to a man named Frederick Abbott, who was in the market for a slave skilled in woodcraft.

  The girl, whose name was Hanna, was sold in minutes.

  Henry was called and he stepped obediently onto the crate to face his potential masters. He was shamefully aware of his nakedness as he endured the strange hands on his body.