Nov 25, 2013 6 min read

? Chapter Twelve

THE STORY SO FAR: As the Damrons struggle along rough roads, their wagon overturns – and crushes Moses’ foot. A kindly couple take the children in – but can the children trust them?

July 1-2, 1828. Off the road to Hardensburg, Kentucky.

I keep a close watch on the Smiths, but it’s different than at Mr. Cottland’s house. They fuss over us, treating us like special guests. Mrs. Smith heats water to clean Moses’s foot, while Mr. Smith makes him a crutch from an oak branch. When Mrs. Smith combs the tangles from Louisa’s hair, she hums a little song and Louisa’s eyes get dreamy. Be careful! I think, but I stay quiet.

After dark the Smiths ladle out bowls of rabbit stew for everyone, even Sandy. The puppy licks his bowl clean and pushes it across the floor with his nose, making us laugh.

Moses falls asleep in the corner, his boots under his head, and then Mrs. Smith asks the dreaded question: “Where are your mama and papa?”

Louisa’s eyes fill with tears. “They died,” she whimpers. I cough, and she claps a hand over her mouth, horrified. “I mean – “

“Poor little lambs.” Mrs. Smith gives her husband a funny look. He sucks on his corncob pipe and nods. A chill slides down my spine.

“I’m sorry,” Louisa whispers, when I settle her near the fire. “She was singing like Mama. I forgot.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. But I am worried.

Later, as I pretend to sleep, Mrs. Smith whispers, “Orphans. The answer to my prayers.”

Mr. Smith grunts. “We cain’t feed four.”

“Just the little ones,” she says. “Please, Henry. Think of the two we lost. It’s like God brought them back to us.”

I open my eyes enough to see his big hand cover hers. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll bind the young ones to us and send the others away. That girl’s a bit snippy.”

Snippy? I clench my fists. Why should I be polite if they steal my brother and sister?

“What if they won’t leave the little ones?” Mrs. Smith whispers.

He chuckles. “No trouble there. When I bedded their animals, I took the boy’s rifle.”

I grit my teeth. They can’t steal Louisa and Solomon – or Grandpa’s rifle, with the silver stock.I’m too mad to cry. I cup my hand around Papa’s ring. Papa, I whisper to myself. Help me.

As if Papa hears me, I suddenly know what to do. When the Smiths are snoring like whistling kettles, I inch out from under the quilt and slip Mama’s diary, quill pen, and ink from my leather pouch. I lie close to the fire, squinting to see in the dim light of the flames. I struggle to remember Papa’s words.

“My fellow Masons,” I write. The pen makes a scritching sound. I stop and hold my breath. The snoring goes on, like two cats purring. I dip the quill into the ink. If only I’d read the letter again! But I remember the most important words:

“My children travel home to their grandmother in Kentucky. They are not to be bound out. I ask for your help…. ” I stop. There was something about “protection,” but I can’t spell it, so I skip that part. “I swear a solum oath on the Bible that these words, in my daughter’s hand, are my own.” I read it over carefully, my hands shaking. That word solum looks funny.

I leave the diary open to dry the ink. I stand up, moving slow and careful. Sandy’s tail thumps. I stroke his long ears until he dozes off, then edge to the table in the middle of the room, my hand groping for the candlestick.

Bang! The candlestick falls over. I catch it before it rolls off the table. My heart pounds. Mr. Smith snorts and Mrs. Smith murmurs, “Whassat?”

“A log popping,” he grumbles.

I don’t move a muscle. It seems like hours before they’re both snoring again. Finally I carry the candle to the fire, hold the wick to the coals to light it, and let the wax drip onto the paper. I spit on my fingers, pinch out the flame, and press Papa’s ring into the soft wax. I even remember to sign his initials, just the way he did. Should I tear the page from the diary?

No – too noisy. Instead, I curl up with the book under my arm. Papa told me to be as tough as my grandfather. Okay, Papa, I think. I’ve done my best.

I hardly sleep a wink, and I’m busy packing our bundles before sunrise.

Mrs. Smith spies me and sits up quick. “Why Jesse,” she says, her voice drippy as sorghum. “Where are you off to so early?”

“We’re headed home, ma’am.” I can fake a sweet voice as well as she can. “Our grandma is waiting on us.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Smith swings his feet over the edge of the bed and pulls his suspenders over his bare chest. “We have a little surprise for you.”

I hear a stumbling noise behind me. Moses must be nearby, but I don’t dare look at him. I clutch Mama’s diary under my arm.

“You and your brother do as you like,” Mr. Smith says. “But me and Martha, we thought we’d keep the little ones. Give them a good home.”

“No you won’t!” Moses hops toward us on one foot and cries out in pain. He plops onto a stool, his face the color of ashes. I dig my fingers into his shoulder.

“We can’t be bound out.” Somehow my voice stays calm, even though my palms are so wet, I’m afraid I’ll drop the diary. “We have a letter from our papa. He wrote it before he died. Didn’t he?” I give Moses a tight smile.

Moses rubs his eyes, looking confused. “Why – yes,” he says at last.

I open the diary and hand it to Mr. Smith. He squints, propping the book on his round belly. I can’t breathe. Will my trick work?

• NEXT WEEK: Where’s Solomon?