Olivia, Mourning (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Two weeks later, in the middle of May 1841, Mourning drove a wagon up Maple Street to collect Olivia’s wicker baskets. She’d waited until her brothers left for the store and Mrs. Hardaway was back in the kitchen humming. Then she’d dragged them down the front stairs, one at a time. They were heavy and made a loud thump on each step, but Mrs. Hardaway’s hearing was bad. Despite misgivings, Olivia did as Mourning had told her – set the baskets on the other side of the front hedge, hidden from the house but in plain sight of the nosy neighbors across the street. Olivia thought she should try to conceal them in the bushes. Mourning snorted his disapproval of that idea.

“You Killions got neighbor ladies what see what kind a spiders you got on your porch. Best way to get them ladies interested in something is try and hide it. They ain’t gonna think nothin’ of me picking up some junk in front of your house. All the folks in this town think they doin’ me a giganteous favor, lettin’ me haul away the things they got no use for. Anyways,” he said, “soon enough all them ladies gonna know – Olivia Killion gone and run off. But they ain’t gonna think it was with me, just ’cause I pick up your things. You only done what any of them would. Who else you gonna get to carry for you?”

The next morning Olivia woke early, her mind blank. She felt exhausted, but was no longer tormented by anxiety. Things were either going to go as planned or they weren’t and there was not another thing she could do about it. She didn’t feel excited or scared, only impatient for the time to pass, to be on that stage and on her way out of Five Rocks. She had convinced herself not to worry about being seen. So what if someone saw her? What were they going to do? All Olivia had to do was act natural and make up some relatives she was going to visit. Anyway, Avis and Tobey would know soon enough that she was gone.

When the clock struck five, Olivia got out of bed and crept down to use the outhouse before encumbering herself in the traveling clothes she had set out on the hardback chair. She splashed water on her hands and face before putting on her new Sunday dress of soft dark gray and the black velvet bolero jacket that went over it. To save room in the baskets she had reluctantly encased herself in a corset and stepped into six petticoats. She stood in front of the mirror admiring how grown-up she looked and tucked her hair into a white day cap.

Then she reached under her cumbersome skirts to tie her homemade money belt around her waist, thinking that if men had to flounce around wearing these stupid petticoats, not much would get done in this world. The belt was heavy, but the solid weight of the gold coins was more of a comfort than a burden. Last, she pulled the Hawken rifle from under her bed. It was too long to fit in the baskets, even on the diagonal. She slung it over her shoulder and then arranged her long black cloak around it.

She made the bed, smoothed the pink and white quilted cover, and looked around the room. All the surfaces were clear, except for the pitcher, basin, and hand towel on the dresser. She removed the note she had written from the dresser drawer and placed it on the bed. Then she reconsidered and tucked it under the pillow, not wanting to risk anyone finding it before she was safely on her way.

She picked up her tapestry bag, pulled the bedroom door shut, and tiptoed down the stairs and out the front door. It was still early and she went for one last walk down by the river, where faint rays of sun glinted gold off the placid water. The air was still chilly, but had lost its sting. She felt calm and slightly puzzled by the ease with which she was walking away from her life. She felt no sadness, regret, or sense of impending loss. Nothing but eager for a new beginning. Apparently Mabel Mears was scarier than the Indians, bears, and wolves in Fae’s Landing.

Olivia skipped a few stones over the surface of the river and turned to walk back toward the post office. A stage passed through Five Rocks twice a week. Anyone who wanted to go to Erie stood on the wooden sidewalk near the Brewster house at six-thirty in the morning, though it was likely to be closer to seven before the coach finally arrived.

Mourning was not traveling with her. Mr. Bellinir from the Feed & Grain drove to the port once a month to pick up supplies and Mourning had arranged to ride with him, together with his and Olivia’s belongings.

The stage soon pulled up. Olivia paid the driver, bundled herself into the backwards-facing seat opposite a young couple, and exchanged brief hulloes with them before carefully arranging the rifle, laying her head against the side of the coach, and pretending to be sleepy. As they clop-clopped out of town and over the covered bridge Olivia’s peace of mind abandoned her. At last on her way, she grew damp with sweat. What if Mourning didn’t show up? What if she couldn’t find her way to the steamboat office? What if she was robbed?

She finally managed to doze off and by the end of the six-hour journey had regained her resolve. What was the worst that could happen? She would spend a few nights in a public house, waiting for Mourning. If he didn’t come, she would just have to take the stage back home and think of a new idea
.
It was a discouraging thought, but no cause for panic. She alighted in Erie and stood on the sidewalk, blinking and beating the dust from her clothes. How did one transport oneself from one place to another in a huge city?

“No one meeting you, Miss?” the driver asked.

She shrugged and shook her head, embarrassed to be all by herself, an object of pity.

“Stage office is right across the street.” He bobbed his nose in that direction. “They got a hotel, not too expensive, two streets over that way. Or you can hire a wagon back there, behind the livery,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He finished removing the harness from the team of horses and led them off before she managed to open her mouth to thank him and ask how to get to the steamship company.

“Excuse me.” She stopped the next man she encountered on the street. He was rough looking, but removed his worn hat and hugged it to his chest while she asked for directions.

“It ain’t far, Miss. Two streets down and one over. Can’t miss it. You going to Detroit, there’s a boat leaving in a few hours – the
Windsong
.”

She thanked him, smiling. Better to spend another night on the boat than in a public house. She’d heard that in one of those places you were half certain to get robbed the minute you fell asleep.

The tinkle of the bell when she opened the door to the steamship office startled her; it sounded just like the one in Killion’s General. A man in a black cap stood behind a counter selling tickets. On the wall behind him hung an enormous black slate. There it was in white chalk – the
S.S. Windsong –
departing for Detroit. What a lovely name for a boat
.
She went back outside to pace the wooden sidewalk and crane her neck for sight of Mourning Free. Her thoughts wandered to home, knowing that by now someone must have found the note she had left, saying she had gone to look for a better paying teaching job than she would find near Five Rocks.

Poor Tobey may have guessed the truth
, she thought.
If so, part of him feels like he ought to come after me, but another part is arguing that he has no right to interfere in my life.

For once it was a relief to know that when there was any doubt about what he should do rattling around in Tobey’s mind, you could pretty much count on him not to do anything at all. A lifetime passed before Mourning came strolling cheerily up the street, hands in his pockets and whistling.

“Hullo, Mourning.”

“And a good morning to you, Miss Olivia.” He grinned and took off his wide-brimmed felt hat. He was wearing his church-going clothes, but they were thick with dust. He had obviously tried to polish his shoes with lard mixed with soot from the cook stove caps. They were a terrible mess, with dirt, leaves, and even an acorn clinging to them.

“Where are our bags?” she asked, thinking he was no good at pretending. She could tell he was just as scared as she was.

“Someone bringin’ ’em real soon.” He looked behind him just as a wagon driven by a young black man turned the corner. “See, right there.”

They waited for the driver to pull up beside them and Olivia saw that her wicker baskets and Mourning’s toolbox, leather case, and carpetbag were safe in the bed of the wagon. She asked the driver if he could wait for them to get tickets and then take them down to the port. He nodded agreeably and put his feet up.

“There’s a boat leaving in about two hours,” she told Mourning. “I’d better go pay our way.”

Mourning followed her inside and they studied the sign over the ticket window that listed prices. First class to Detroit was $18. Steerage was $7.

“What should we get? What do you think steerage is?” she asked in a whisper.

“Don’t know.” Mourning shrugged, giving her an “I thought you so smart and know all them things” look. “I forgot to aks, last time I took a boat to Detroit,” he said.

“Steerage is deck passage,” a white man standing behind them said to Olivia. “It means you spend the entire trip on the deck. Will you and your boy be traveling on the
Windsong
?”

“Yes, I guess so,” she said.

“That’s her, down there by the pier.” He nodded out the window.

The boat looked enormous, with three towering black chimneys and a forest of wooden masts. It had an upstairs and a downstairs and she could see people standing on both levels. The paddle wheels looked taller than any building she’d ever seen. Stevedores were busy loading luggage, crates, and even animals onto it. A large black stallion shook its head and refused to walk the plank down into the hold until a dockworker drew a big red bandanna out of his pocket and tied it over the horse’s eyes. Olivia gazed at the scene, wondering how she had managed not to notice any of it before, while she was waiting for Mourning.

I have to pay better attention
, she thought.
This is the beginning of my new life. My real life. I have to stop worrying about nonsense and remember everything
.

“She’s a good vessel. A lake boat.” The man showed off his knowledge. “Can’t go through the locks of the Canal with that paddle, so she runs from Buffalo to Detroit. You get yourself a cabin, but your boy will be fine on the deck. This time of year it’s not so cold.”

“How long does it take to get to Detroit?” she asked, though she thought she knew the answer.

“Good two, two and a half days. Longer if they have to repair machinery or stop more than once to take on coal. They usually let you off in Cleveland for a few hours. You’ll take your meals in the dining room, of course, but you best buy your boy some sandwiches before you go aboard. There’s always someone selling sandwiches and coffee to the deck passengers, but they charge more than you’ll pay here and the coffee’s more peas than beans.”

“Thank you.” Olivia tried to turn away, but the man was determined to be friendly and held out a hand as he said his name.

“Mabel Mears,” she responded and offered a weak handshake. “Nice making your acquaintance.” She nodded to the stranger before turning to her “boy.”

“Come outside,” she said, in what even she could hear was a bossy, annoying tone of voice.

“Yes, Miz Mabel, right away.” Mourning gave her a look that could wither weeds and shuffled out to the sidewalk.

“So should I get cabins for both of us?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

Part of the business agreement they had reached was that he would eventually repay her for his passage, so that decision was up to him.

“They ’llow coloreds to stay in cabins?” he asked uncertainly, no longer sullen.

“I don’t know. I can ask. All they can do is say no. If they do allow it, do you want to spend the money?”

“I don’t see
you
in no hurry to be freezin’ your backside on the deck of that boat,” he said. “It gotta be cold at night, middle of all that water.”

“Well, Mourning, aren’t you used to things like that?” she said and he glared at her as though she were all the white folks in the world. “Well, aren’t you?” she said helplessly. “Don’t you go giving me that look. It’s not my fault you grew up sleeping in lofts and store rooms. Anyway, I didn’t say I thought you
should
take deck passage. I asked you if you
wanted
to. It’s your eleven dollars.”

“Right now look to me it be
our
dollars. I thought we spose to be partners. You the one said she gonna help plow fields and go wash loggers’ clothes, she has to. You be spendin’ money on bein’ a lady, we ain’t gonna make it ’round to next summer.”

Her jaw fell open when she understood what he was implying – not that he should take a cabin like her, but that
she
should take deck passage like him. She turned her gaze on the boat. It was a warm afternoon and she tried to convince herself that it might be pleasant, lounging in the sun on the deck, with a nice cool breeze off the lake. But she’d had her own room all her life, never slept on the same side of a wall as family or friend, let alone in public, surrounded by strangers, on a hard wooden deck.

“I don’t know, Mourning. Maybe we’d both better get cabins. Out on that deck someone could steal all our money while we’re sleeping. We wouldn’t get any rest at all, having to watch our things. We’d get to Detroit so tired, we’d be in no shape to buy our supplies and make the trip to Fae’s Landing that same day. We’d end up wasting even more money on hotel rooms in Detroit.”