The Swindler's Treasure (30 page)

Wanda Tiffany, curator, Heritage Cultural Center, introduced me to Kathy Cook and other new friends in Jacksonville: Jack Barwick, president, Jacksonville Historical Society; Art Wilson, freelance writer; and Dr. Jim Davis, history professor at Illinois College. And thanks to the librarians at Schewe Library, Illinois College, and the Jacksonville Public Library.

I'm grateful to Jessica Swanson, championship jumper and championship person, who knows horses much better than I do; and Tim Schandel, senior museum assistant, Lake Superior Museum of Transportation, Duluth, Minnesota.

Big-time thanks to my in-house editors, Rochelle Glöege and Natasha Sperling, and the entire Bethany House team for their help with the first edition of this book.

Thank you to every person at Moody Publishers who has had a part in bringing out this new edition of the Freedom Seekers series: Deborah Keiser, Associate Publisher of River North, for her strong gifting, creative planning, and visionary leadership; Michele Forrider, Audience Development Manager, for day-to-day marketing and making connections with you, my audience; Brittany Biggs, Author Relations; Editorial Assistant, Bailey Utecht; Pam Pugh, General Project Editor, for her oversight, management, and working through the details that bring this book to completion. Thanks, also, to Artist Odessa Sawyer for her exciting art that keeps us asking, “What will happen next?”

Thanks to all of you readers and friends who have found a variety of ways to offer your encouragement and love.

Finally, my deep gratitude to my great husband, Roy, and my editor, Ron Klug. Both of you have profoundly influenced each one of the novels in this series. May the way you have blessed me be returned to you countless times over.

[excerpt from
Mysterious Signal
]

CHAPTER 1

S
hhh!”

In the darkness of night the whisper came, a whisper so soft that at first Libby Norstad wondered if she had imagined it. Then on the night wind she heard it again.

“Shhh!”

A short distance ahead of Libby a thin, quick-moving man led the way—a free black who knew the hiding places well. From shadow to shadow he led the five of them. Using every patch of darkness—every bush, tree, wall, or fence—he protected them from curious eyes.

From her place near the end of the line, Libby counted. First their conductor—the man in the Underground Railroad who led fugitives from one safe place to the next. Then Jordan Parker, runaway slave. Behind him, Jordan's daddy, tall even in the shadows, and newly escaped. A marked man, Micah Parker was wanted by slave hunters for the reward he would bring. Next came ten-year-old Peter Christopherson, then Libby, and last of all, walking quietly behind her, Caleb Whitney.

Springfield
, Libby thought.
Springfield, Illinois. Where can Jordan and his daddy be safe?

“Walk when I walk,” the conductor told them, his voice so low that Libby strained to hear. “Run when I run. Step only where I step.”

For an instant Jordan turned, and the moonlight caught his face. In spite of the danger, his eyes seemed lit from within, showing his pleasure. He was with his father again!

Then Jordan faced forward and moved ahead without a sound. As one person, he and his father followed behind the man who led fugitives to freedom.

Suddenly a dog barked, filling the night air with fear. From nearby another dog answered with a deeper growl.

For an instant the Underground Railroad conductor paused. From one person to the next his whisper moved back. “Now or never. Run or die.”

In the sliver of moonlight, the conductor crouched. Under a row of bushes he went, and Jordan and his father followed. Behind them crept Peter Christopherson, youngest of all, yet full of courage. Ducking branches, Peter stayed low, keeping up with Jordan's daddy.

Then Libby, down on her hands and knees in the dirt. Under the hedge she crept through a hole in a fence. Out on the other side, she ran toward a dog that growled deep in his throat.

As Libby drew closer, the dog leaped out to the end of his leash. Filled with terror, Libby raced past. Already those in front of her were shadows, far ahead, fleeing for their lives. Running after them, Libby heard only the soft pad of Caleb's footsteps behind her.

Behind Caleb, the dog barked again. Now Libby knew him for what he was—a bloodhound trying to wake his owner. Demanding that he be set free, the bloodhound was trained to track down runaway slaves, to keep them from reaching freedom.

A block farther on, a large barn loomed up in the darkness. For only a second the man in the lead paused. Then he pushed open a door—a yawning hole, dark and empty looking in the night. As their leader stood to one side, Jordan disappeared into the barn, followed by his father, Peter, Libby, and Caleb.

Inside was a deeper darkness. Waiting, Libby listened. So softly she almost missed it, the door closed behind them.

“Come,” said the quiet voice.

No lights yet, no sound other than his voice. Then a hand took Libby's. As she grasped it, Libby felt Peter's tug and knew she had become part of a chain. Pulled forward in the darkness, they walked faster now, sure of the person at the head of the line.

Moments later they stopped.

“Wait,” the man whispered. “Don't move.”

With every sense alive Libby listened. From somewhere nearby she heard the snuffle of animals. Then a horse stamped his foot. Instead of seeing, Libby felt movement around her.
A livery stable?
she wondered.
A place for boarding or hiring out horses?
She felt sure it was.

Again a door closed. Another whisper, “Quiet! Be still!” The scratch of a match. Then the dim light of a kerosene lantern hanging from a nail on a huge beam.

Looking around, Libby saw that they were inside an inner room of the stable. Without being told, she knew that no light shone through the cracks to the outside windows. Along two walls were mounds of hay where people could rest. A pail of water with a tin cup waited nearby.

As Caleb joined the men, Libby sat down on the hay next to Peter. Her heart still pounding, Libby thought back to their race through the darkness.

Five months before, in March 1857, Jordan Parker had escaped from slavery. Then less than two weeks ago, Jordan's father, Micah, also escaped, fleeing across the Mississippi River to the free state of Illinois.

Free
, Libby thought.
But not safe. Not even here in Springfield, the capital of Illinois
.

Because of fugitive slave laws, slave hunters could follow runaways into free states. There slave catchers could gather a posse to capture and bring runaways back to their owners. Since his escape, Jordan's father had been hiding from men who wanted the big reward he would bring.

Less than an hour before, in the Springfield house that had offered shelter, Libby and her friends were wakened.

“We're being watched,” said the woman who had taken them in. “Jordan and his daddy need to leave while they can.” In the darkness of that second week in August, her husband had discovered a man standing across the street, tucked close to a barn, but not out of sight.

Fumbling in the dark to pull together her few belongings, Libby had dressed quickly. In the kitchen she found one candle lit. Heavy curtains hid its flame from the outside world.

Jordan and Micah Parker were already waiting. Along with Caleb and Peter, Libby listened to the free black man give instructions. As a conductor, he helped fugitives in the Underground Railroad reach freedom.

“So far there's only one man watching us,” he said. “Soon there will be three or four or five, perhaps a mob. Someone will come with a search warrant. We'll sneak out on the other side of the house while we can.”

His gaze steady, the Underground Railroad conductor searched their eyes to be sure they understood. “Do exactly what I do. You must be quiet. You must obey me instantly.”

Libby glanced at Peter and held a finger across her lips to say “Shhh!” Peter nodded with understanding.

Moments later the conductor led them through the door on their race through the darkness. Now, only minutes after reaching the livery stable, that race seemed like a nightmare to Libby. Sitting on a pile of hay in the hidden room, she leaned forward to listen.

“You must leave Springfield right away,” the free black man told Jordan and Micah. Heads bent, voices low, they stood in a huddle beneath the hanging lantern.

“Me and Daddy needs to go to Chicago,” Jordan answered.

“Then I'll see that you two get to the Junction at North Bloomington,” the man said. “Two railroad lines cross there. You can catch a train and be in Chicago in no time.”

Though the Underground Railroad conductor meant a real train, fugitives more often walked or traveled by other ways. The words
Underground Railroad
described the secret way that escaped slaves passed from one place of shelter to the next. Often these stations were about twelve miles apart, a good distance for horses needing to make a trip and return home before dawn.

“We'll start now, and I'll take you as far as I can,” the man said.

But Jordan looked concerned. “What about the money we found?” he asked Caleb.

Jordan's church in Galena, Illinois, had worked hard to raise money to help fugitive slaves get across Lake Michigan to Canada. Soon after the members asked Jordan to carry the money to Chicago, it was stolen. After a long search, Libby, Jordan, and Peter found it, along with money stolen from Libby's father. For safekeeping they had left it at the Springfield police station.

“I'll get the money,” Caleb told Jordan.

“By wagon it takes me eight or nine hours if I don't have trouble changing horses,” the conductor said. “If you take the morning train out of Springfield, you can meet Jordan and Micah in North Bloomington at about eleven o'clock. There's more than one depot at the Junction. Look for them in the freight room of the St. Louis, Alton, and Chicago Railroad.”

“What if we need help?” Caleb asked. Since the age of nine, he had worked with Libby's father as an Underground Railroad conductor. Now fourteen, almost fifteen, Caleb was used to figuring out ways to help fugitives travel from one safe place to the next.

“I have a friend in the baggage room of the depot who will help you,” the man answered. “If he's not there, look for a signal. Find a safe house on your own.”

“A safe house?” Libby blurted out, even though she knew she should only listen.

“An Underground Railroad station. A place that hides fugitives until it's safe for them to go on.”

Safe
, Libby thought. Even the word sounded good.

“Move quickly now,” the conductor said, his voice low. “Don't go close to the windows.”

The door he touched swung open on oiled hinges. Taking the lantern with him, the conductor moved into the main part of the stable.

As Libby followed, she looked first for the windows. In spite of the well-kept appearance of the rest of the livery stable, the window glass was coated with a heavy layer of dirt, cobwebs, and bits of hay. Libby suspected that they had not been washed for years, probably for a good reason.