Journey to a Promised Land Read online

  Journey to a Promised Land: A Story of the Exodusters © 2019 by North Star Editions, Mendota Heights, MN 55120. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Book design by Jake Slavik

  Illustrations by Eric Freeberg

  Photographs ©: Library of Congress, 154 (top), 154 (bottom); North Star Editions, 155

  Published in the United States by Jolly Fish Press, an imprint of North Star Editions, Inc.

  First Edition

  First Printing, 2018

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

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lassieur, Allison, author. | Freeberg, Eric, illustrator.

  Title: Journey to a promised land : a story of the Exodusters / by Allison

  Lassieur ; illustrated by Eric Freeberg.

  Description: Mendota Heights, MN : Jolly Fish Press, [2019] | Series: I am

  America | Summary: “Hattie Jacobs and her family join the Great Exodus of

  1879 in search of a better life in Kansas” —Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018038112 (print) | LCCN 2018041143 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781631632778 (e-book) | ISBN 9781631632761 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781631632754

  (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: African American pioneers—Kansas—History—19th

  century—Fiction. | Freedmen—Kansas—History—19th century—Fiction. |

  CYAC: Family life—Kansas—Fiction. | Freedmen—Fiction. | African

  Americans—Fiction. | Frontier and pioneer life—Kansas—Fiction. |

  Kansas—History—19th century—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.L377 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.L377 Jo 2019 (print) | DDC

  [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018038112

  Jolly Fish Press

  North Star Editions, Inc.

  2297 Waters Drive

  Mendota Heights, MN 55120

  www.jollyfishpress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Chapter One

  April 5, 1879

  Dear Diary,

  We had a spelling bee at school today. Me and Josephine were tied for first at the end. Then Miss Banneker gave us the hardest word. Chrysanthemum. I did right terrible with it. I lost my head after the “R.” Jo got it right though. I’d have been mad if she weren’t my best friend. But it’s important that I get my spelling right if I am to become a teacher. Oh my! I can’t believe I just wrote that down. It’s a good thing Bram can’t read yet because I haven’t told that secret to anyone. But it is my deepest desire . . .

  Hattie

  It was one of those late-spring days when the world is bright and warm, and everything feels possible. Hattie ran the ten crowded blocks from the First Baptist AME Church toward home, her heart pounding hard from excitement or the running, she wasn’t sure which. She expertly dodged the dirty pools of water in the street, weaved past the butcher’s store that always smelled of blood, and ducked into a narrow alley. It was crisscrossed with a web of clotheslines that dipped heavily with the laundry her mother took in for extra money.

  Hattie stopped short, breathing heavily. “Mama!” she called. “I’m home!”

  “In the back, baby,” came her mother’s voice.

  Mama was bent over an enormous black iron cauldron, pushing a wooden paddle back and forth in the bubbling, gray water. The familiar scents of wood smoke, lye soap, and steamy clothes hung in the air. She saw Hattie and paused in her work, smiling.

  Hattie threw her arms around her mother in a quick hug, feeling those thin, strong arms wrapped around her like a comforting blanket.

  “Mama, guess what? Miss Banneker picked me for the recital! I’m going to read a poem in front of everybody!”

  Mama beamed with pride. Her rough hand, cracked and hardened through years of work, stroked Hattie’s cheek. “Oh, baby, I’m so proud of you,” she said.

  “Will you come?” Hattie asked, still out of breath from the run. She knew what the answer would be, but she asked anyway, just to hear it.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” her mother replied. “Papa too. And Abraham, if we can keep him from squirming through the whole thing.”

  Hattie grinned. She knew how much stock her parents put on learning. When they were enslaved, they hadn’t been allowed to learn to read or write. After the Civil War, one of the first things they’d both done was go to school.

  “Speaking of your papa, he needs his lunch, and you do too. It’s on the table.”

  Another hug and Hattie dashed through the narrow doorway at the end of the alley. She took the rickety stairs two at a time up to their small two-room apartment. The front room served as kitchen and dining room. The black iron cook stove took up most of the space, along with a table and chairs. The back room held the big, soft bed for Mama and Papa. Hidden beneath it was the trundle bed for Hattie and Abraham.

  Every day when school let out at noon, Hattie came home to take Papa his lunch. Mama always had the food carefully wrapped and waiting. Hattie grabbed the packet and sniffed. Biscuits and sausage, Hattie’s favorite.

  “Bye, Mama!” she called. But Mama was bent over the tub again, wearily wiping sweat and steam from her forehead.

  Papa’s blacksmith shop, a tiny building not much bigger than a shed, was down the street and around the corner. The words JACOBS AND SON BLACKSMITH were painted black above the wide double doorway. Abraham was only three, but Papa had high hopes.

  Hattie was usually greeted with the ring of hammer against iron, but today, the shop was quiet. A horse she didn’t recognize stood quietly in front, his expensive saddle gleaming in the midday sun. Maybe a new customer, Hattie thought. Nashville was a big town, with lots of horses to shoe and wagons to fix. Everybody, black or white, knew Papa was a good blacksmith and an honest man.

  A white man Hattie had never seen before stood talking to Papa in the doorway. He was older, with long, greasy gray hair peeking out from a shapeless hat. Papa leaned against the door jamb, his huge arms crossed against his chest.

  “General Anderson over at Magnolia Run is anxious to have you work for him again,” the white man was saying. “He sorely needs good blacksmiths. He told me personally how much he misses you.”

  “Is that so, Rees?” Papa spoke slowly. “I was his slave from the time I was ten years old until emancipation came to Tennessee in 1864. That was fifteen years ago. I’m not about to go back to that place.”

  Rees’s watery blue eyes narrowed. Hattie held her breath, clutching the packet to her stomach.

  Rees pulled a grubby envelope out of his pocket. “He still wants to hire you, against my better judgment.” He smirked as Papa opened the envelope and began to scan the pages.

  “This is a big order,” he said finally. Rees’s eyes widened in surprise. Hattie realized with a start that he hadn’t expected Papa to know how to read.

  “I require half payment up front,” Papa said, his tone polite. “I think five dollars is fair.”

  Without a word, Papa calmly straightened up to his full height of six foot two, his blacksmi
th arms like small tree trunks against his sides. Rees sputtered and mumbled curses but handed Papa a handful of crumpled bills and coins.

  “You’re short fifty cents, Rees.” Papa said.

  “You’ll get the rest when you’re done!” he shouted.

  Papa gazed at him. Then he picked up the huge iron hammer resting against the side of the shop. His forearms bulged as he casually swung it up and rested it on one shoulder.

  Rees glared at Papa with such hatred that it seemed to pour out of him. After a moment, he turned on his heel and took off. Hattie sighed with relief as she slid her hand into Papa’s large, rough one. Papa smiled down and gave her hand a comforting squeeze.

  “Gotta keep an eye on that Rees,” he said, watching Rees ride away. “He’s the General’s head assistant, and he’s rotten to the core.” Shaking his head, he wiped his hands on a rag from his back pocket. They found a patch of sun in front of the shop for their picnic. Between bites, she told her father the good news.

  “I’m right proud of you!” Papa exclaimed, wiping biscuit crumbs from his mouth. He glanced up as a shadow fell across them.

  “More company,” he said under his breath.

  Hattie looked up too, worried that Rees had come back. But the elderly black man who stood in front of them was nothing like the watery-eyed Rees. He was well dressed in a crisp suit, with long, iron-gray hair that curled in waves to his shoulders.

  He smiled and held out his hand to Papa.

  “Nat Jacobs? I’m Benjamin Singleton. Folks call me Pap. I’ve been anxious to speak to you.”

  Papa set down his biscuit and, with a puzzled expression on his face, stood up to shake Singleton’s hand. “Do you need a blacksmith?”

  Singleton chuckled. “I don’t, but I know of many who do.” He pulled a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Papa.

  “What is this?” Papa asked.

  “It’s a flier I made up last spring,” Singleton replied. “You know things are bad for the black man here in the South. It wasn’t so bad during Reconstruction, when Union troops kept order. Now that they’ve gone, things are getting worse. There’s been more lynchings than ever. Men who speak out, disappear. White landowners force black farmers to rent their land at inflated prices. Then they cheat them, refusing to pay fairly for their crops. Our people can’t get ahead, no matter how hard they try.”

  “But I’m not a farmer,” Papa said, with a note of sadness.

  “You could be,” Singleton replied, waving the paper. “In Kansas, black people are free to better themselves. The government is giving away farmland to anyone—ANYONE—willing to put their backs into making a go of it. I’ve been personally leading groups to Kansas. I took several last year. I’m looking for families to join me this year.”

  “And how do you propose we get all the way to Kansas?” Papa asked.

  “Steamboat,” was Singleton’s instant reply. “Steamboats up the Mississippi will take you straight to St. Louis. From there, you can get out to the settlements.”

  “I’d have to get myself and my family all the way to Memphis then. That’s more than two hundred miles from here,” Papa didn’t sound convinced. “I’ve lived in Tennessee all my life. My daughter goes to school. My shop is doing well.”

  “But you can have a blacksmith shop in Kansas,” Singleton continued. “There are good schools in Kansas. And whole towns where every citizen is like us. Every one!”

  Papa shook his head. “Thank you for seeking me out,” he said. “But I’m not interested in uprooting my family for a wild dream.”

  Singleton nodded. “I understand.” The two men shook hands, and Singleton tipped his hat to Hattie, who was now standing next to her papa. “Good day, miss,” he said.

  Singleton went a few paces and then turned. “There’s a meeting on Friday evening. We’ll talk about Kansas and other things you may find interesting. I hope you’ll consider attending.” Then Singleton, whistling, turned back around and strode down the street.

  “You wouldn’t really move us all the way to Kansas, would you?” Hattie asked anxiously as they watched Singleton go.

  “I expect not,” Papa said. “Now, finish up your dinner and get along to Miss Bradford’s house. Isn’t she expecting you today?”

  “I don’t want to go!” The idea of being cooped up in that dark, old house mending tea towels on such a fine afternoon made Hattie want to scream. “Cain’t I stay here and help you? I won’t be a bother.”

  Papa folded Hattie into his huge arms. “There’s nothing I’d like better,” he began. “But Miss Bradford is a kind woman, and she pays you a fair wage for your work. God knows, we can use every penny.”

  Hattie knew better than to argue. She finished the last of her biscuit and set off.

  At the end of the street, Hattie looked back. Her father was standing in the doorway of his tiny shop, arms crossed, watching her go. There was a look in his eyes that Hattie had never seen before. Pride, and sadness, but something more than that.

  Fear.

  Chapter Two

  There wasn’t much sunlight left to shine through the stiff lace curtains when Hattie picked up the last tea towel from the basket. A stack of freshly mended towels, napkins, and other small items sat in a neatly folded pile beside her chair. Hattie rubbed her eyes, and then squinted to thread the needle one more time. If she worked fast, she’d be done before the light was gone.

  A rustle of silk and the scent of rose water came into the room and paused behind her, but Hattie didn’t look up from her work.

  “About done?” Miss Bradford’s voice was low and scratchy, like she’d swallowed a handful of sticks that never went down.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hattie replied, the steel needle sliding in and out of the fabric, trailing white thread behind. “Just have this one left.”

  The old woman picked up one of the mended pieces. She squinted at it through her spectacles, which were perched on the end of her nose like a tiny wire bird. “I could make stitches this fine once myself.” She sighed and dropped the towel into the basket. “Back before the war, when life was so different.”

  Hattie kept silent and sewed faster. Miss Bradford loved talking about her girlhood. But Hattie always got a funny feeling in her stomach as the woman described her plantation home, with its rolling fields of cotton and dozens of slaves working from dawn until dark.

  “There!” Hattie tightened the last stitch and broke the thread with her even, white teeth. “Good as new, Miss Bradford.” She stood up, feeling her backbone crackle. The only thing she wanted was to go home. But there was one more thing to do, something her mama insisted on.

  “Is there anything else you need, Miss Bradford?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Miss Bradford always had something extra for Hattie to do.

  Hattie tried not to sigh out loud as she followed Miss Bradford into the kitchen. After she drew two buckets of water from the well, wiped down the table, and washed a tub full of dishes, Miss Bradford seemed satisfied. The old woman’s twisted hands painfully unknotted a threadbare handkerchief, and several coins dropped into Hattie’s palm.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Hattie said. She knew without looking that the pay didn’t include all the extra housework. But all she could do was grit her teeth and remember her father’s words. We can use every penny.

  It was almost completely dark by the time Hattie was on the street, flying home as fast as her legs could carry her. It was at least a mile, through parts of town she’d rather not go through in daylight, let alone at night.

  Tonight, though, the city was quiet. She rounded the last corner and sped through the back alley and up the stairs. Wonderful smells of fresh-baked biscuits and fried meat filled the apartment as she closed the door behind her.

  “Hattie!” Papa was already at the table, feeding Abraham a piece of biscuit. “We was get
ting mighty worried. Miss Bradford keep you late again?”

  Hattie nodded as she slid into her chair. A plate of fried pork and brown beans appeared before her. “She made me do the dishes this time. I expect they’d been sitting there for days.”

  Mama sat down with her own plate with a sigh of relief. “Now, Hattie, she’s an old woman and her rheumatism is bad. She cain’t do such chores, and that no-good housekeeper don’t show up half the time.”

  “I don’t know why I have to do all the work,” Hattie said bitterly, between bites. “She never pays me for the extra.”

  “Because the good Lord gave you a strong body and a quick mind,” Mama said. “And you’ll use those gifts to help others in need.”

  She didn’t understand how a white woman who lived in a big house could be someone in “need,” but Hattie kept eating and said no more about Miss Bradford.

  Papa nodded as Abraham tore across the room, dropping biscuit crumbs like snow on the clean, worn wood floor. Hattie watched Mama quietly eating her supper as Papa grabbed Abraham in a tickly hug just to hear him giggle. Her heart was suddenly so full of love, it felt like it would burst.

  After the table was cleared and the dinner dishes done, Mama lit the lamp and pulled her knitting out of the basket by the stove and Papa pulled out the trundle bed in the back room. Hattie crawled beneath the colorful quilts as Papa slid Abraham in beside her. His tiny, warm body curled up against Hattie’s back, and he was snoring in an instant.

  Mama and Papa talked softly in the front room, their voices rising and falling in a duet with the gentle click click of Mama’s knitting needles. Hattie listened until her mind wandered comfortably to her favorite daydream. It was the one no one else knew about. In the daydream, she was a teacher just like Miss Banneker, standing in front of a classroom. Hattie wanted to be a teacher with all her heart. But teacher’s college cost money, more than her family could ever hope to make.

  I’ll just have to work hard, Hattie thought drowsily as her thoughts began to float away. She was almost asleep when Papa uttered a word that cut through the fog in her mind. Rees. Her eyes flew open and she held her breath, listening.