The Silver Highway Read online

  Treasure Quest Books

  The Silver Highway

  Marian Wells

  © 1989 by Marian Wells

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publicaion may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—with the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Manuscript edited by Penelope J. Stokes.

  Cover illustration by Brett Longley.

  eISBN 978-1-4412-6246-2

  Acknowledgement

  I own an 1883 copy of The Story of the Jubilee Singers; it contains their story and a section devoted to their songs. They call them Jubilee Songs; we call them Spirituals, and I have used portions of the rich lyrics.

  The foreword of the volume contains significant insight. Fisk University, of Nashville, Tennessee, was established in 1865, fifteen years before the foreword was written. President C. M. Cravath says, “The millions of recently emancipated colored people of the South must be given a Christian education, or the nation must suffer far more in the future than in the past from the curse of slavery.”

  These people from Fisk University carried their message in song across the United States, into England, and as far as Germany. I understand the volume has been reproduced, and I heartily recommend it.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  About the Author

  Books by Marian Wells

  Back Cover

  Chapter 1

  Olivia Thomas got out of bed and went to lean far out the open window. “Oh, the dogwood is lovely!” Closing her eyes, she savored the mingled odors of Mississippi. “Magnolia is best,” she murmured, “and it doesn’t bloom so early. But it’s all home. I love the smell of spring, but right now azaleas and sleepy afternoons aren’t enough. I want excitement! How I wish Matthew were here!”

  She began to shake her dark hair free of its braid as she looked over the carefully tended rose garden below. The garden was edged by junipers shielding the house from the stables and slave cabins. Even the cotton fields were beyond her vision. Studying the barrier, and irritated at the restriction, Olivia frowned and muttered, “As if we don’t know what’s happening beyond our dooryard! But they can’t hide the smell of home. There’s earth, all moist with spring, and green fields.”

  Olivia ducked back into the room and turned. For a moment she frowned again, “All frills and flounces, pink and orchid. Just like Mama.” Impatiently she kicked at the mahogany bed, draped and bedecked with lace and mosquito netting. She gave another impatient kick, this time exclaiming, “Ouch!”

  The door creaked open and a dark face peered at her. “That you, Missy? It’s early for conversation.” The woman eased her bulk through the door. Smoothing her white-streaked hair, she pulled on the white mob-cap. “Want I should tidy up now? Shall I bring some wash-up water?”

  Olivia shrugged impatiently, “No; no to both, Mattie. I’m going out. Those junipers hide the whole world. I want to see the Mississippi River. Do you know it’s like a silver highway, cutting down through this land, dividing it in half? How it beckons! I’m aching to travel it.”

  Mattie chuckled. “Silver highway? More like Big Muddy, if you ask me.” She shrugged, “Well, it might be a silver highway, but I don’t think you ought to travel today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “I’m not teasing,” Olivia insisted. “I feel this deeply, even when it scares me to think of it. I want to see where it goes. I want to see the cotton bales piled high on the wharf. And steamboats chugging up and down.” She stopped and giggled. “But most surely right now, I’d like to taste hoecake. The smell’s coming from the cabins. Why won’t you bring me hoecake for breakfast? It smells delicious.”

  Mattie frowned, “Missy. I know at least a million little chillen who’d gladly give you a taste of hoecake in exchange for your good bread and butter. Know what? You’d regret it. By the time you get the dirt and ash scraped off, it’s cold and no good.”

  Hopping to the desk stationed between the big windows, Olivia rubbed her toe and plucked at the leather covered diary. “Mama is even here,” she complained. “Pink instead of crimson.”

  “Smacked your toe, huh? ’Least at seventeen you’re too old for a temper fit.” She slanted a look at Olivia and went to flick the tumbled sheets into order.

  Olivia picked up the pen and dipped it into the ink pot. Dear Diary, she scrawled, it is nice to talk to you. How I would love to chase the morning like a bird, to fly away on the wind, to escape like Matthew. Or would I? Is this desire a sign of growing up? At seventeen, I must be.

  Olivia settled back in the chair, pulled her feet up and thought about her brother. “Oh, Matthew,” she scolded aloud, “It is bad enough that you go away to school, but to not come home when spring is in bloom, at least to see the azaleas and dogwood along the canal! What a false brother you are! Besides, I am never allowed to go fishing when you’re gone.”

  For a second longer she watched Mattie picking up the discarded clothing scattered about the room. Jumping to her feet, she rushed to the closet and dug into the box labeled Private, don’t touch. Finding Matthew’s old dungarees and jacket, she pressed her nose into the fabric and smelled the fields, the earth, and the horses.

  “Mattie, I’ve decided I’m going to be wild again.”

  Mattie came to peer over Olivia’s shoulder. “I know,” she groaned, “you’re going to disobey your mother. ’Tis a shame you’re too old for a switchin’.”

  “Now, Mattie, you know Father would never switch me, no matter what.” Flinging her nightgown across the room, Olivia rummaged through a drawer for underclothing. Tossing aside the petticoat, she returned to the closet and found boots.

  Mattie watched as Olivia struggled into Matthew’s trousers. The woman gave a gasp of dismay as the girl shoved her hair into Matthew’s cap. “You’re heading for the fields again! Hasn’t your daddy said enough about riding out like this?”

  Olivia paused. “Enough? All I want to hear.” She studied the anxious face and slowly said, “Mattie, there’s something in me; I h
ave to listen to it. Something says I can’t be a sweet little girl all my life and listen to Daddy say no, while Mama says yes.” Studying the black woman’s troubled eyes, for just a moment she wondered at the fear she saw there.

  Carefully Olivia opened the door and slipped into the hall. All was quiet. Olivia dashed lightly down the hall and took the stairs two at a time. She didn’t stop until she reached the stables. Worming her way between the carriage and the line of tack on the wall, she scooped a light saddle from its peg and slipped through the back door.

  For a moment she stopped and sniffed. From the slave quarters behind the stables came a drift of smoke and the odor of hoecake baking on an open fire. Voices, deep with sleep and softly melodious, addressed each other. It was the sound of home—those gentle slave voices. Olivia smiled as she slipped into the stable.

  Joe was there. His ebony forehead wrinkled and his eyes squinted into troubled creases. “Missy, your daddy will fuss. ’Tis too early for riding, and ’sides—” He shook his head at the dungarees. “Matthew’s? Mighty big. What your mama say?”

  Olivia grinned at him, shaking her head, and mimicked her mother’s mild voice. “Tsk, tsk, Olivia, we girls don’t—”

  Joe’s frown disappeared as he watched her lead Matthew’s horse from the stall. “Exercise she do need, but not at five in the morning.”

  “You go have your hoecake, and you won’t even know.” He helped her slip the reins over the mare’s head before he headed for the door.

  The morning was heavy with moisture and earthy smells. Already the cotton fields were knee high with this season’s crop. Olivia rode slowly along the trail edging the fields. She felt her spirits lift as she breathed deeply of the morning air. She watched birds dart across the fields in streaks of yellow, brown, and mottled gray. As she used her heels to urge the horse, she noticed a streak of red. “A woodpecker, and I’m certain I saw a mockingbird.”

  For a moment she reined in to listen. The trees on the far side of the fields sounded like the tuning of an orchestra. Bird sounds ranged from sleepy lows to raucous highs saluting the morning.

  When Olivia reached the gate on the edge of the field, she started to slip from her horse.

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  With a start, she turned. It was her father’s overseer. “Mr. Burton,” Olivia said slowly, “I didn’t hear you.”

  The man touched his hat with an indolent gesture. He eased his bulk forward in the saddle and said, “Surprised to see the little miss out this early in the morning.” He leered as he added, “If’n it were night, I’d be obliged to turn you around and head you fer home. But I can’t think of any young fellers a hanging around this time of day. Out exercising Matthew’s mare, huh?”

  She nodded. He continued to eye the faded dungarees as he leaned across his mare to lift the latch on the gate. “Better stay outta the woods. Heard Kebblers lost a coupla niggers last week.”

  Curiously she watched him settle back in the saddle. “I see ya ain’t scared,” he added. “But a runnin’ slave will do anything to save his hide, including hitting ya over the head.”

  “Mr. Burton,” Olivia stated indignantly, “I can’t imagine one of our slaves acting that way. Matter of fact, I can’t believe any of our field hands would be running away. We treat them better than most do.”

  Lifting her head, she watched a cloud fragment break free from the bank of sullen thunderheads hovering over the distant river. Glancing at the silent overseer, she added, “Sometimes I think these stories are made up. Why, I don’t know.”

  He chuckled, “Just don’t worry that pretty little head.”

  He closed the gate behind Olivia and raised his hand. As she rode away she lifted her shoulders and sighed in exasperation.

  The warming sun was beginning to release new perfumes. Olivia dug her heels in the horse’s side and pushed through the oak and budding magnolias into the stand of pine climbing the hill behind the field.

  Using the ends of her reins as a whip, Olivia pushed the mare until she crested the hill. There she slipped out of the saddle and tied the reins loosely around a low branch. As the horse dipped her nose into the tender fern growing around the tree trunk, Olivia stretched her arms above her head.

  Before tossing aside the hat she wore, she addressed the horse. “Well, Tag, I guess the two of us will have a lark today. You’re getting the ride Matthew swears you need, and I’m doing a daring thing.” Even as she spoke, she winced at the memory of the time her father found her riding Tag dressed in Matthew’s old clothes. “Oh my, what a scolding! I wouldn’t want to meet him now.”

  The mare lifted her head and studied Olivia for a moment before reaching for another fern. Olivia giggled.

  “What would Matthew say? Last summer when he threw these old clothes in the trash, little did he know that I would be right behind him pulling them out! Sometimes being a lady is constricting,” she confided to the mare, “and I don’t think you like sidesaddles and long skirts wrapped around you any more than I do.”

  Olivia hesitated, looking around. With a shrug she threw herself into the deep grasses. Pulling a long tender stalk, Olivia lifted her face to the warming sun and nibbled the sweet grass.

  She watched the sun rise above the dark line of trees to the east. Turning to the west, Olivia narrowed her eyes, straining to see the Mississippi River from her hilltop perch. “There,” she murmured. “I’m certain that’s a whistle, even though it’s twenty miles to Natchez and the river. Oh, there it is again!” She settled comfortably on her bed of grass and studied the clouds. “Nearly like rain,” she murmured contentedly as she watched the tumbling clouds join together and surge inland.

  Olivia was still watching the clouds when she heard the sharp crack. With a puzzled frown she sat up. Turning she studied the trees behind her, fully expecting to see a hunter. “Can’t say Burton didn’t warn me to be careful,” she whispered. In quick succession she heard another crack, a moan, and then quick multiple snaps.

  Jumping to her feet, she walked to the crest of the hill and looked down the slope to the edge of the cotton field. A movement caught her attention. Shading her eyes, she looked at the center of the field. A dark line of slaves stood motionless, heads bowed. Again she heard the snap, and quickly it was repeated.

  When she saw the dark line tremble, her hand moved to her lips. “No!” she whispered. For a moment her feet wouldn’t move. “They said this happened; I didn’t believe it.”

  Reluctantly she took a step in order to see what the slaves faced. As she grasped the tree branch to lean forward, Tag stopped her grazing. Her ears lifted and then flattened while her nose quivered into the wind. Olivia watched her stomp and whinny as she tugged at the reins. “This is new to me old girl,” Olivia whispered. “But not to you.”

  The sound of the whip fell silent. Olivia moved a step forward. Below, across the green of cotton plants, fenced by that line of dusky figures holding hoes, she could see Mr. Burton. His stocky figure straightened, his arm lifted, and the whip coiled above his head.

  It had found its mark before Olivia heard the sharp crack. As the slaves parted, she watched the dark figure on the ground writhe just as the sound reached her. Powerless to turn away, or even comprehend, she clung to the branch and stared at the growing stain of glistening red on the ground.

  Tag snorted, reared, and struck at the tree before Olivia could accept the scene as real. But powerless to move, she continued to stare at its ugliness.

  Finally Olivia’s numb legs carried her to the horse. She reached for the reins and then realized they were torn loose. Slowly she pulled herself onto the quivering mare and rode in the direction of the awful scene she had just witnessed.

  When Olivia reached the gate and the cotton field, the sun was overhead, blazing between the ridge of clouds. She didn’t need to urge Tag on past that spot. The trembling horse ran, but Olivia couldn’t avoid looking at the dark mat of ruined, flattened plants, stained with blood.

>   Farther on she saw figures, bending, chopping, lifting, moving; their faces were stony, cast in fear, as if they had been chipped away to nothing. The white man was gone.

  Later, standing beside the mare outside the stable, she heard a scream. Throwing the reins at Joe, she ran through the gate toward the cabins. The bleeding figure lay on the ground. A woman hovered over him, her hands like frightened dark birds, dipping, retreating; Olivia turned and ran.

  Bursting into the kitchen, Olivia flew between the dark figures and dashed into the breakfast room. She stood panting in the doorway. The room was flooded with sunlight. A curl of steam rose from the silver coffee pot. A nosegay of pink carnations and wild violets lay on the folded linen napkin.

  Staring at the flowers, Olivia spoke dully. “Father, Burton must go. I’ll not step one foot outside this house until he is gone forever.”

  She heard her father’s growl, felt his grasp. “The beast! I knew I couldn’t trust him. Has he—”

  “He beat the man bloody! I couldn’t believe it! Oh, Mama,” she addressed her mother. “How could he?”

  Her father dropped his hand. “He didn’t touch you?” Color began to move back into his face. Olivia looked from his blazing blue eyes to her mother’s bewildered expression.

  “Then what—”

  “Olivia,” her mother touched her lips, “why are you wearing those terrible old clothes?”

  “Olivia, what in thunder are you talking about?”

  The girl’s voice was hoarse as she forced out the words. “I saw Burton whipping a slave. Oh, Father, it was horrible. Please go see to the man. He’ll die! There’s so much blood.”

  “Daughter!” His face changed, becoming angry. “You have overstepped every rule of this household. Why have you left the house in such clothing? No daughter of mine—what were you doing in the fields?” Before Olivia could speak, he added, “Please attire yourself properly and come down for breakfast.”

  As Olivia left the room, she heard her mother’s voice. “Cornelius, now you understand. It is imperative that Olivia be sent to boarding school.”

  Olivia stopped. She moved back to stand in the open doorway as her parents continued to talk.