Family Heirloom
Family Heirloom
(Appeared originally in the inaugural edition of Steampunk Trails published by Science Fiction Trails, September 2013 )
JULY 7TH, 1916
My father and I were picking strawberries when we heard a clattery, thumping noise coming out of the rising sun. We put down our baskets and walked to the front of the house just as the chattering cut off.
When we cleared the corner, we saw a machine descending towards us, lining up over the dirt road that cut through our swaying oat fields. Grandpa Billy had come in his latest invention.
The spinning blades atop the machine made a swoosh-swoosh-swoosh as they spun. The machine touched down a hundred yards from the house, bounced once, and rolled towards us with a hissing crunch of gravel beneath its wheels.
“Well, I guess he got another one working,” my father said with a smile and a shake of his head. We waited as Grandpa came to a stop in front of our gate.
His machine had a triangular, metal frame about ten feet long. Up front was a bathtub-like cockpit built for two. Behind the cockpit squatted a motor half the size of a hay bale, with a four-foot propeller sticking out the back. The tail section stretched behind the motor on long struts, and the fins made a cross that Grandpa had painted bright red. A thick, steel shaft rose up above the motor, canted backwards slightly, and the two long steel blades spun on its axis.
Grandpa climbed out of the cockpit. His faded overalls were clean as always, but the permanent oil stains speckling the fabric were ever-present. Tan workbooks, similarly speckled, stuck out from the rolled-up cuffs of his pants. His curly, white hair puffed out around the strap of his goggles, and the brass frames set a stark contrast to his ebony skin.
Grandpa had been working on the two-seater for months. He’d already built a couple of single-seaters, and he called them choppers, on account of the blades, I suppose.
He opened the gate and walked up to us, a serious sort of look on his face.
“Good morning, Papa,” my father said, smiling.
“Son.” Grandpa nodded his head once. I’d only ever seen him smiling, and I wondered what was bothering my favorite Grandpa.
“I want to take her to Evansville,” he said, looking at my father. There was a pained look on his face. “I want to show her… and tell her the story I never told you.”
My heart soared. Evansville was sixty miles away. I was going to go up in Grandpa’s flying machine!
I looked up at my father, expectant and hopeful, but dreading he would say no.
My father had a funny look on his face, sort of surprised and sad all at once. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then my father nodded his head and silently walked back towards the house.
At first, I was surprised he didn’t object to me going. Father rarely got between Grandpa and me—me being Grandpa’s favorite and all—but I would have thought going up in a flying machine was something else entirely. I was thrilled at the thought, but I couldn’t help thinking about the looks on both their faces.
When my father disappeared into the house, I turned to Grandpa.
“What is it you want to show me?” I asked, worried excitement pitching my voice up.
It seemed as if something was eating at him, flattening the laugh-lines around his eyes in a way that made me more and more uneasy.
For as long as anyone could remember, Grandpa Billy had always been the one smiling, even when things went wrong. He was the one who cured it all. Scraped knees, pets that went to Heaven, broken hearts… they all melted in the warmth of his smiles.
He didn’t answer my question. He just handed me a pair of goggles and said, “You’ll see.”
We went through the gate, and I slipped on my goggles. Grandpa helped me into the back seat and fastened my harness, cinching it up tightly. He leaned forward, flipped a switch on the control panel, and reached up, grabbing one of the big, upper blades. With a heave, he started it to spinning, grabbing the next blade and pushing harder. With a satisfied nod, he stepped behind the motor and gave a mighty pull on the propeller. The motor coughed once, kicked over, started chattering as the propeller spun faster than I could see.
My whole body vibrated with the steady rhythm, and I shivered with excitement.
Grandpa hopped into the front seat and buckled himself in. He turned in his seat and watched the fins of the tail section move as he shifted the control stick between his legs.
“You ready, Babygirl?” he shouted over the sound of the motor.
I nodded my head quickly, too excited to say anything.
Grandpa moved a lever on his right, and the motor roared. We started rolling forward faster and faster. With a lurch, we lifted off the ground, and Grandpa angled the nose upward. My heart did a somersault inside my chest.
I was flying!
The ground slipped away from us, and the machine turned in a wide circle. Grandpa eased back on the lever, and the sound of the motor softened as we leveled out.
Wind streamed by my face. I was giddy and worried and scared all at once as we sailed over the rolling oat and corn fields of Indiana. The Ohio River was on my left, and Grandpa seemed to be following it southwest.
The sun rode low on the horizon behind us, casting long shadows from the tall oaks and white farmhouses that passed below. Shadows stretched away in long dark lines, pointing like signposts towards our destination.
I couldn’t say anything as we flew. My emotions were all mixed up. In spite of flying for the first time, I couldn’t keep from thinking about what might have stolen his smile away.
Almost an hour later, we were sailing over Evansville. I could only guess, but I figured we were five-hundred feet off the ground. It was strange to see the crooked, dusty streets spread out below us. The blotch of brown roofs made Evansville look almost like a scab on the green skin of Indiana. People, horses, and a few auto-carriages dotted the streets, going about their business. Some of the folks even pointed up at us as we flew over.
It must have been only a few miles past Evansville when we started descending towards the trees along the Ohio River. Grandpa angled away from the water, lining up with a dirt road that cut through acres of swaying oat fields. As we descended, the trees and tall grass became an even faster blur than when we’d taken off, and I realized just how fast we must be going.
Grandpa flipped a switch and the motor cut off. There was only the sound of wind rushing by and the swoosh-swoosh of the blades above.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to laugh. I was so excited and scared that I almost peed my pants, but I tensed up as the wheels bounced off the dirt road and came down again with a jolt. We rolled along for another hundred yards or so, slowing until we came to a quiet, dirt-crunching stop.
The blades above kept spinning as Grandpa hopped out of the chopper and unbuckled my harness. He helped me out and slowly took off his goggles, tossing them onto the front seat. The band had left an indent in his tight, curly white hair, and where the goggles had been his dark skin gleamed with sweat.
I took my goggles off and threw them into the back seat.
He lifted the front seat, pulled out a picnic basket, and then looked down at me, his eyes searching mine. He pursed his lips, licked them once, and frowned, as if he was having trouble deciding what to do.
He sighed finally, a long sound that seemed to carry an unimaginable weight with it, and then he said, “C’mon, Babygirl. The grave’s back this way.”
Without another word, he turned and started walking towards the river through waist-high oat grass.
“Grave?” I called out, confused.
He didn’t turn. He just gave a wave to get me moving as he walked slowly towards a giant oak that stood along atop a short hill near the river.
I stood there for a few heartbeats, frightened and curious. I looked around. There wasn’t anything for miles except fields and trees. It seemed like a strange place for a cemetery.
I swallowed hard and set off after him. The grass swished around me as I walked. I ran my hands over the fuzzy stalks of oats that rippled like water in all directions. I felt nervous—and a little scared.
When I caught up with him, he was standing under the oak, the river flowing behind him a hundred yards down the hill. There wasn’t a cemetery, just a single headstone set in tall grass shadowed by low-hanging branches and wide, green leaves that rustled in the wind.
I stepped up beside him and looked at the stone as he took my hand in his.
ABIGAIL WATSON
June 18, 1816–July 7, 1864
GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN
My breath caught in my throat. Her name, the dates… none of it made any sense. I’d never heard of Abigail Watson before, not from anyone in the family.
“That’s right, Babygirl,” he said quietly. “You two were born on the same day… just eighty-four years apart.”
“Who was she, Grandpa?”
He sighed again.
“She was my best friend,” he said slowly. His face scrunched up, like he was in pain. “And she was the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”
“What’s this all about?” I asked quietly. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s why we’re here. Now that you’re sixteen, you’re old enough to wrap your head around what happened… where I come from. It’s time somebody else knew about her… about what she did.” He smiled, just a little, and a quiet chuckle passed his lips as he nodded towards the headstone. “Hell, most of the folks who were there are with her now. And I ain’t too far behind.” He squeezed my hand and looked at me. “I just hope I get to see her again when I’m gone.” He kneeled, his eyes never leaving the headstone. “Your father knows I come here a few times a year. He knows she was important to me. But I never told him what I’m about to tell you.” Grandpa reached down and ran his hand over the long grass. “You see, she swore us all to secrecy… all two-hundred-and-forty-three of us. I suppose I could have talked about it after she was gone, but my promise to her was all I had left. That and my shame.”
I felt him shaking, and he looked like he was sobbing. I’d never seen him in such a state.
He sniffed, wiped his eyes, and then told me his secret.
MAY 12TH, 1846
Abigail Watson’s elderly husband, Joshua, owned a few thousand acres of oat and corn fields in the southeast corner of Missouri, right up against the Mississippi River. He also owned sixty slaves to tend them. He was a gambling man, and a drinker with an appetite for whipping his property—including his wife, as he saw it—whenever he lost at cards. But he was a good enough gambler to win regularly, and everyone on the farm was grateful when he did.
One late summer night he came home from Sikeston after a long gambling session. He had a young slave in tow, literally. The slave, who Abigail guessed wasn’t more than seventeen or eighteen, was dressed in rags, a chain around his neck, and shackles around his wrists.
Joshua had won the boy and said his name was Billy. He presented Billy to her as a “gift.” She knew it was some half-assed attempt to apologize for all those nights he’d lost at cards and taken it out on her. Like a good wife, she smiled and thanked him.
She removed the shackles and collar as soon as her husband was out of sight, and in that moment a life-long friendship was born.
JUNE 18TH, 1846
Joshua dropped dead in his tracks on Abigail’s thirtieth birthday. She always swore it was the best birthday present she’d ever received. Joshua had no kin, and they’d had no children. This left her with fields to tend and quite a few slaves to tend them with.
A week after her husband’s funeral, she decided to do things her way. There was no one around to argue with her, so she freed every single slave on the farm. She offered to pay good wages to anyone willing to stay. A few headed north, but most—the ones that knew Abigail for who and what she was—stayed, including Billy. And because of his talents, they ended up making one hell of a team.
Everyone for miles and miles knew Billy was good with tools and metal and wood. He always had been, even for his previous owner. He made new equipment for bailing oats, fixed up the house with running water, and even built a small autocarriage for Abigail.
Between the two of them, and with the help of the farm hands, they made the Watson farm more productive than any other for three counties. Abigail had been wealthy before, but a few years of running the farm her way made her the richest woman in Missouri. And her farm hands shared in that fortune.
Things stayed like that for fourteen years—Billy and Abigail running the farm, laughing together whenever they could.
OCTOBER 28TH, 1860
A package from Abigail’s brother, Baxter, arrived early in the morning. At first, she was surprised that he’d sent more than a letter. They had never gotten along, exchanging correspondence a few time a year, generally at the holidays, and purely out of familial duty. They both did the same thing with their parents, and for the same reason.
When Abigail opened it, she knew right away that Baxter wanted something. He was a resident of Alabama and firmly committed to the continuation of slavery. The package contained a roll of schematics and a letter, both done in his own hand.
As she unrolled the schematics and realized what they were for, an idea formed in her head. Upon reading Baxter’s letter, the idea solidified into a plan. There was a certain symmetry to it that pleased Abigail, touching her sense of irony… and justice.
In his letter, Baxter spoke of how he could get rich with his invention… that it would make the South stronger. He wanted to do something to help his countrymen, “beat the damn Yanks if push comes to shove.”
Even in far-off Missouri, Abigail had heard the grumblings of secession by a number of states, and things were starting to look grim.
Abigail composed a polite, apologetic letter to her brother, explaining that times were hard on the farm and she was barely making ends meet. She didn’t wish him luck, of course, but he probably wasn’t aware of the omission. She doubted he was capable of comprehending what it meant even if he had. Abigail was like that—subtle and polite and ever-kind, even when she despised someone.
She asked one of the farm hands to take her reply to the post immediately and then called Billy in from the shed where he had been fixing farm equipment. She laid out the schematics on the dining room table, handed him a glass of lemonade, and asked him what he thought.
Billy took one look and realized they were for a submersible boat. He found the idea intriguing but didn’t see much use for a boat that could travel underwater. It couldn’t be that large, air would always be a challenge, and there was really no practical reason to build one. He said as much.
Abigail smiled and asked him if he thought he could build the thing.
At first, he looked at her like she was addled. Then he noticed the gleam in her eyes and understood that she had something specific in mind. He took a second, longer look. After a few minutes, he said that given both the time and materials, it could be done. But it would be expensive.
Abigail told him her plan. She knew it would be expensive… and dangerous if they were ever caught. But she wanted to do something for a cause she believed in.
So, he built it.
It took him eighteen months and cost her over ten-thousand dollars. First, he had to build a large boat house that extended over the river. Then came the tunnel that connected the main house to the boathouse. And finally, he had to redesign and manufacture a wider submersible than the one in the schematics.
He didn’t work alone, of course. The farm hands all helped, and Abigail pitched in where she could, getting just as dirty and sweaty as the rest. But everyone kept the secret. They all knew the risks but believed in what they were doing.
When they were done, and the submersible was ready, they set themselves upon the real work. They made the right contacts, paid the right riverboat captains, and sent out a promise of freedom.
Their passengers came in ones and twos—usually men, occasionally women, and sometimes children. All of them were escaped slaves, but the fear in their eyes turned to hope as soon as they saw the name of the submersible.
Freedom.
Abigail and Billy set the escapees up in the tunnel under the house, fed them, clothed them, and kept them warm. Every month or so, when there were enough, Billy would steal them away in the Freedom and make the 120-mile trip from the boathouse all the way to Evansville, Indiana.
Abigail, on the other hand, never made the journey. She had a dreadful fear of water, so bad that she could only get as close as the doorway to the boathouse. Even the thought of getting near the Mississippi sent her into fits. It was the only weakness Billy ever saw in her, but he never judged her for it. She was always there to see the escapees off and welcome him home.
For almost two years this went on, becoming a happy routine.
They laughed together and kept up appearances in the farming community.
They made piles of sandwiches and gallons of lemonade for a journey that wasn’t their own. And they used a submersible designed by a Confederate, paid for by a white woman, and built by a negro to grant freedom to those who had none.
JULY 17TH, 1864
Abigail ran a pale, freckled wrist across her forehead, shifting a red lock from green eyes. “With the group from this morning, how many does that make?” she asked, cutting another thick slice of bread from one of the loaves she’d baked that afternoon.
“Seventeen,” Billy replied as he fried up another batch of peppered bacon.
“Did you check her out?” she asked.
Billy chuckled. She knew damn well that he always checked out the Freedom before a run. “Last night, Abigail,” he replied with feigned irritation. “She’s as ship-shape as the day I finished putting her together.”
“Just checking,” she said innocently.
He could see her trying to hide her smile. He nudged her with his elbow. “You’re terrible!” he shouted, and they broke into fits of laughter.
It took them two hours to finish the sandwiches and wrap them in clean, white butcher paper. They spent another two hours squeezing lemons and pouring lemonade into a row of five-gallon jugs.
The setting sun had turned the kitchen burgundy by the time they finished. Billy walked into the pantry and knocked on the back wall three times, then two, then three again. Shifting a dusty bag of sugar from where it sat on a high shelf, he pulled a small lever set into the wall. With a click, the secret door he’d built swung open, revealing a dark stairwell. Pale lamplight shone from the tunnel below. He heard people shuffling around, and then two dark, nervous faces peeked around the corner.
“Tyrell, Jacob.” Billy nodded. “Can a few of you come up and carry our vittles down to the far end of the tunnel?”
“Yeah, Billy,” Tyrell called up. “We’ll be right up.”
“And start loading up the boat once everything is down there,” Billy added.
“Yes, sir!” Jacob replied nervously.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Jacob. Billy will do just fine.” Jacob had arrived that morning. With all the preparations, Billy hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.
Jacob gave a sheepish grin and then disappeared the way Tyler had gone.
Billy started moving the jugs into the pantry when he heard a young boy shouting out front.
He exchanged confused looks with Abigail, and they both rushed to the front window.
In the dusk outside, they saw a young negro boy running up the steps.
“Miss Abigail! Miss Abigail!” the boy yelled as he pounded on the front door.
It was Keenan Holly, the fourteen-year-old son of a family that worked a patch of land at the edge of Abigail’s farm.
“Lord, child!” Abigail cried, opening the door. What has got you in such a state?”
“It’s Anderson! He’s coming! He KNOWS!” The boy was frantic.
“Anderson?” Abigail asked, bewildered.
Billy knew there was only one Anderson who could terrify Keenan like that. “Bloody Bill Anderson,” he said with grim certainty.
“Oh, God,” Abigail whispered.
Billy kneeled down and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Calm down, Keenan, and tell me what happened.”
“I was in town, getting some cloth for Mamma’s new dress. I overheard some soldiers talking in the General Store. I tucked outta sight so’s they wouldn’t see me and heard the whole thing.”
“Heard what?” Abigail asked.
“Anderson’s men captured an escaped slave west of here. The soldiers said the slave was tough, but they got it outta him.” Keenan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He told them he was headed for the Watson farm.”
They were silent as the reality sank in.
Bloody Bill Anderson had earned his name by killing anyone sympathetic to the Union. He’d butchered whole families and burned churches to the ground with the congregation still inside. There had been skirmishes between Union and Confederate irregulars all across Missouri since the start of the war. They were always brutal, and the reprisals horrific.
Right up until that moment, Billy and Abigail had been able to stay out of the war, contributing to the cause in their own way. Now the war was knocking on the front door.
Billy stood and looked at Abigail, fear in his eyes.
She turned, stepped out onto the porch, and looked down the road towards Sikeston.
“Abigail?” Billy said quietly. The last traces of sunlight had turned the clouds black and burgundy.
Like distant thunder they heard Anderson’s armor rolling, a deep, mechanical groan mixed with the shriek of grinding metal. Six electric lights came around a low hill a mile away, splitting the deepening gloom. A line of torches bounced along behind Anderson’s large, armored machines.
Without turning she said, “Billy, you need to get them out of here. Now.”
“You’re coming with us this time, right?” he asked, fear and panic rising in his chest.
She turned and shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
His eyes went wide. “But Abigail—” he started.
“Even if I could set foot in the Freedom,” she said calmly, cutting him off, “I’m not leaving my home. And I’m not leaving these people behind to that monster. Without me, all of the farm hands would go right back onto the auction block, and you know it.”
Billy couldn’t argue. Abigail was a widow with no children. In her absence, the farmhands would be enslaved by her neighbors. He’d seen it happen before. The surrounding landowners would swoop in like vultures and pick the place clean.
“Anderson might kill you,” he said quietly.
She stepped up and put her hand on his arm. “Not even Anderson would murder an innocent woman. If the escapees and the Freedom aren’t here when he arrives, he has no reason to do anything.”
Billy was trapped, and time was running out. He shook his head, doubt filling him to overflowing.
“Then I’m staying,” he said desperately, his eyes meeting hers.
“You know you can’t,” she said gently. “You’re the only one who can get the Freedom up to Evansville. Would you sacrifice all of them,” she asked, nodding towards the pantry, “just to stay here?”
Billy’s heart broke. “No,” he whispered. His shoulders slumped and he stared at the floor.
“Keenan,” Abigail said, turning to the boy. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything, Miss Abigail.”
“Take my horse. It’s in the barn. Ride out to every family on the farm and tell them what’s happening. Tell them to be ready to pack up and go if all of this turns to Hell.” She put her hands on the side of his face and stared into his eyes. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Now get going!” she said. She turned him around and pushed him out the door. She closed it quietly and then turned back to Billy. “I’ll go make sure they have everything down into the tunnel. You go get your things. You might not be able to come back for a while, at least not until this is whole thing settles down.”
“Abigail, I—”
“We haven’t got all night,” she said as she walked towards the pantry.
He closed his mouth and watched her disappear down the stairs.
Billy had to force his legs to move. He headed upstairs to his room and looked around. He didn’t have anything that he really needed. All his memories were tied to the farm, not things that could be put on a shelf. He fought back tears as he threw together some of his clothes and stuffed them into a sack.
He opened the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a thick stack of bills tied together with a leather shoelace. It was over eight-hundred-dollars. He shoved it into a pocket and headed back down to the kitchen where Abigail was quickly filling a sack with the squeezed lemon halves.
Without looking she said, “They’re all headed down the tunnel.” She cinched the sack up and threw it through the pantry down the stairs. “No evidence,” she added, turning to him.
He nodded his head. “Good thinking.” His voice was almost a whisper.
Abigail stepped up to him and reached into her apron. She pulled out leather billfold thick with money. “Don’t say a word,” she said as she slipped it into his pocket and led him into the pantry. “Just get them out of here, Billy. No matter what happens. And promise me you won’t come back unless you hear from me.”
They could hear Anderson’s machines rolling up the road, not more than a quarter mile away.
Billy gulped. They both knew the horrible risk she was taking. Anderson might not care whether she was innocent or not. He might still want to punish a woman who had freed her own slaves.
“I promise,” he said as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I’ll send a telegram to the Evansville office when it’s safe, and I want you to sink the Freedom once you get there. If men like Anderson got their hands on it, they could use it to terrible purpose. You can always build another.” She smiled weakly and then paused, looking up and searching his eyes. “I never could have done all this without you.” She kissed him once on the cheek and pushed him gently through the door.
Her eyes never left his as she closed the door.
Billy turned and walked slowly down the stairs, half of him fighting to rush back and stay with her. But he knew what he had to do.
Tyrell had left him a single lantern the bottom of the stairs, so he picked it up. Stepping into the tunnel, he looked around, remembering those who had passed through. He could almost hear their voices. He broke into a jog, ducking his head under the low support beams and made his way through the tunnel.
He came to an open door, the light of a single lantern flickering beyond. He found them all there, huddled in silence as the river lapped up against the hull of the Freedom. There was only a four-foot gap between the outer walls of the boat house and the river, but it was more than they would need.
Stairs rose to his left, topped by a single door, and he could see torchlight flickering faintly through it. The rumble and screech of Anderson’s machines sounded like they were right on top of him.
“Kill the lantern,” Billy said. He turned his own down and threw it into the river. Tyrell shut off the other, and it followed the first with a splash.
“Everything’s onboard, Billy,” Tyrell said. “Where’s Miss Abigail?”
“She’s not coming,” he replied, his words hollow and faint.
There were whispers from the dark faces around him.
Billy looked around at the frightened eyes that dotted the darkness. It was time for The Speech. He paused and gave them a stern look. “Most of you have heard this, but there are a few who haven’t, so I’m going to say it again. You can’t tell anyone about this. Not about Abigail. Not me. Not that boat over there. None of it. You hear me?” His eyes narrowed, and he glared at them.
They all nodded, their frightened eyes rising and falling in the darkness.
“One peep,” he continued, “one little whisper, and some of the people that have helped us all could end up at the end of a rope or burned to death in their beds. You take this to your graves!” He locked eyes with each of them, forcing a nod. “Now get on board.”
In a silent, single file they shuffled across worn boards and onto the rear deck of the Freedom. Her wooden hull rocked slightly, but the long, copper ballast tanks on each side kept her from tipping.
Billy went to the hatch and helped everyone down a short ladder. Once inside, he closed the hatch. Complete darkness folded in on them. He reached out and grabbed a small coal-miner’s hat from a shelf, fumbled with the latch, and lit it with a match from his pocket. Pale, orange light filled the wooden interior.
The cabin was twenty-five feet long with support beams crisscrossing every four feet. Wooden benches lined the walls, and his passengers moved to them, sitting down nervously. A thick pedestal bolted to the floor stuck up at the front of the cabin, with a shipman’s wheel attached. A spotter scope dropped down from above, and Billy could change the direction it pointed with a small wheel on top of the pedestal. On each side of the wheel were large hand cranks that controlled ballast pumps. Billy could control everything from there.
In the middle of the cabin were two sets of pedals that ran air pumps. Hoses ran up through the middle of the ceiling, with one pulling air in and the other pushing it out. The spotter scope and the hoses would be the only things above the water, and at night they were nearly invisible.
The rear section held the drive mechanism. Billy had scavenged two railway pump cars. A man on each side moved the levers up and down like teeter-totters, which turned the propellers.
Billy had already shown everyone how to operate machinery, and each person would rotate through thirty-minute shifts while he navigated.
“You four,” he said, pointing to the men closest to him. “Get on the levers and start pumping. Tyrell, Jacob. You get on those pedals.”
Everyone took their positions, and with a gentle lurch and a swirl of water along they hull, they set off into the dark Mississippi. Billy quickly turned the ballast valves a few times, and the ship sank several feet beneath the surface with a hiss of air and bubbling water… leaving Abigail’s farm behind.
They travelled at night, hid during the day, and slowly made their way up stream. There were closeable buckets for when they had to relieve themselves, and these were emptied whenever they surfaced, which was as often as possible.
Although there was plenty of conversation amongst his passengers, Billy didn’t say a word during the entire voyage. He just kept thinking about Abigail.
After three days, they reached their landing spot. He’d picked it on his first voyage up river. It was a large oak tree atop a low hill that rose from the bank of the Ohio River. It was easy to pick out, even in moonlight. He pulled the Freedom up as close to shore as he could and then surfaced, overfilling the tanks so the submersible rode high on the dark water.
“Everyone out,” he said. “Make your way to Evansville and find Doc Horton. He’ll help you get situated.”
Everyone came to Billy, hugging and thanking him. He took the money Abigail had given him and split it up amongst them all. And when they were all ashore, he let the Freedom drift to the middle of the river. Then he opened the valves a single turn. He was through the hatch and swimming towards the shore when water closed in around the open hatch. The Freedom disappeared beneath the water with a swish and gurgle of bubbling air.
Billy’s tears disappeared in the water that ran down his face as he climbed out of the river, and then he too set off for Evansville.
JULY 7TH, 1916
Grandpa leaned his head back against the tree and took a deep breath.
“I read about what happened to her a week later,” he said and put his hand on mine. “Bloody Bill Anderson didn’t take prisoners. I knew it. Abigail knew it. But in those last minutes together, we convinced ourselves otherwise.” Grandpa squeezed my hand as tears streamed down his cheeks. “Anderson burned the house down around her.”
All I could do was listen, and I felt my own eyes watering. I wanted to hug him, make him feel better, but he wasn’t finished.
“She was my best friend, you see. And I left her behind… because she told me to. And I’ve never forgiven myself for it.”
I didn’t know what to say, but there was something that didn’t make sense.
“Grandpa,” I started quietly, “if she died in the fire, why is her grave here?”
“When the war was over, Tyrell, Jacob and I took a trip.” Grandpa’s voice changed, and I could hear the hate in him welling up. “We went back and found her grave. Her headstone read, ‘Abigail Watson–Traitor to Missouri.’” Grandpa clenched his fists. “We broke the God damn thing apart, dug her out, and moved her here.”
He was quiet for a while, just staring at the river. Then he sighed, as if the weight of the world had lifted off his shoulders. He opened the picnic basket and pulled out two sandwiches wrapped neatly in butcher paper. Then he pulled out a tall milk bottle filled with pale liquid.
“Lemonade,” he said simply, opening it.
I unwrapped my sandwich and discovered thick slices of bread with layers of peppered bacon in between. I smiled at him and took a bite.
We sat like that for a long time, just eating and drinking as the Ohio slipped by, and after a while his smile reappeared.
“You know, it was your Mamma who gave you your name.” He looked at me, searching my eyes again. “The day you were born, when I looked into your bright, green eyes that first time, and they told me your name, I decided to tell you this story. And when I’m gone, I want you to tell the world. It’s your story now. Maybe it always was.”
I nodded. “I promise, Grandpa.”
He smiled again, the last bits of sadness gone like leaves on the wind.
“C’mon, Abigail. Let’s go home.”