HISTORY

Across the Wide River

By Stephanie Reed
Kregel Publishers

CBN.com -- The boy sprinted along the forest’s edge in the bright Kentucky sunshine. As he plowed through scarlet maple leaves, they crackled under his shoes and clung to his white knee stockings. The sweet, dusty smell wrinkled his freckled nose. The sleeves of the boy’s loose white shirt fluttered as he ran, and he kept one thumb firmly tucked under the waist of his gray breeches.

“Hurry up, Father!” Lowry yelled over his shoulder. Why were adults always slow as molasses? “Sherwood will think we ain’t coming for Bible school!”

“Lowry Rankin!” Father sounded far away. “You know better than that.”

“Honest, Father, I ain’t kiddin’!” He hopped the creek that meandered along a green rise to the distant ridgeline. Suddenly something rolled under his foot and he sat down hard. Rubbing his hip as he retrieved his straw hat, Lowry rustled through the leaves until he uncovered a moldy wooden handle about two feet long. He fingered one gnawed end as Father towered above him with a stern face.

“Son, you’re almost nine years old—old enough to know better than that. How many times have I told you that educated people do not say ‘ain’t’?” Father shifted the Bible he carried to his other hand and pulled Lowry to his feet.
“I ain’t sure,” Lowry admitted. He hitched up his breeches and tightened the laces at his back. “What’s this, Father?”

Lowry heard his father sigh. “Please don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Lowry. Try to remember next time.”

“Yes, sir. What is this?”

Father’s high forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows drew together. “It looks like the stock of a whip.”

“For a horse?”

“No, son.” Father hesitated so long that Lowry thought he had forgotten what to say. “For slaves. This is hickory. See how thick it is, Lowry. The lash of the whip was fastened here.” Father indicated the gnawed end. “It looks as if rats have been at the cowhide. The lash would have been about twelve feet long and as thick as my wrist in the middle.”

Lowry crinkled his nose in distaste. “But Father, nobody around here would ever whip a slave. Are you sure that’s what it is?”

Father’s mouth drooped and his eyes were troubled. “Yes, son. I am absolutely certain. Whippings happen all the time. As a matter of fact, your mother and I have been talking it over, and we have decided—”

“I’ll race you, Lowry!” A tremendous shove spread-eagled Lowry into the leaves again.

“—to move to Ohio, where we—”

“Sherwood!” Lowry sputtered, scrambling to his feet. He forgot all about Father, whose words were lost on the wind. Digging in his toes, he ran until the blood pounded in his ears. Maybe today he would beat Sherwood to the log schoolhouse!

Sherwood shot an alarmed glance over his shoulder. Lowry was hot on his heels. Lowry’s stomach somersaulted with excitement as he gained on his friend . . . drew even . . . and . . .

Sherwood leapt the stake and rider fence and tripped in a tangle of long arms and legs on the other side. Lowry sprinted through the gate and smacked the schoolhouse door first.

“I win! I win!” His mouth stretched into a smile so wide it made his jaw ache. He threw out his chest and strutted on the porch. He did not see Sherwood wink at Father.

Lowry gathered his breath and pulled the latchstring. The batten door swung open on its wooden hinges. Lowry’s shoes clattered on the puncheon floor and he marched triumphantly into the schoolhouse. Father smiled at Sherwood and took the piece of paper the boy was holding out to him—a Bible school pass that his master had signed to say he could listen to Bible teaching if two white people were present. Lowry hung his hat on a peg and blinked while his eyes adjusted from the bright glare of the morning sun to the dim light filtering through the greased-paper window.

“I don’t think anyone else is coming, Father. May we start?” The sooner Bible school was over, Lowry reasoned, the sooner he could play with Sherwood. Sherwood nearly always had more chores to do than Lowry did; he guessed it was because his friend was older. Saturdays after Bible school was the only time they could play.

Sherwood sat down next to Lowry on the slab bench, and the boys’ shoulders heaved as they grinned at each other. The older boy’s lively green eyes and quick smile lit up the room. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his golden skin and a few droplets clung to the tight reddish-brown curls that hung over his eyes. Lowry wiped sweat from his own forehead; there was no need for a fire in the open fireplace today. Father perched on the edge of the schoolmaster’s backless chair and opened his heavy Bible.

“Today is the twenty-first day of September, in the year of our Lord 1825. We shall begin with eighth John, verse twelve. ‘Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world.’”

This text—again! Lowry had heard it countless times. He dutifully trained his eyes on Father, whose words rose unheeded to the rafters as Lowry daydreamed.

Friday, here in school, the schoolmaster had drawn a map of Kentucky on the slate; Lowry could still pick out the dim outline on the wall behind Father. When the schoolmaster had asked Lowry to pick out Carlisle, the town where they lived, Lowry had taken the slate pencil and made a mark smack dab in the middle of the state. Though the master had corrected the placement, Lowry was gratified to see he was not far wrong.

Lowry loved Kentucky. The gentle rolling hills and crumbly shelved ridges hid all manner of wonderful possible pets. He knew it was best to leave the wild creatures alone, but he could not bear to hear the plaintive whimpers of an orphaned baby animal. His parents knew he would not rest until he found the helpless creature and took it under his wing.

He had found a dappled fawn last spring and named it Spot. He and his little sister, Isabella, had cared for the orphan, providing for its every need. If ever a fawn lived a softer life, Lowry never heard tell of it. He did recollect that the fawn grew much faster than he did, and in a very short time, Spot became a handful. One morning, when Lowry had faithfully carried the pail of food out to the pen to feed Spot, the high-spirited fawn crow-hopped on its long, matchstick legs, flung out razor-sharp hooves, and stampeded Lowry. He had jumped out of the way faster than a jackrabbit, while Ibby held her sides and squealed with laughter. Spot had charged out of the pen and jaunted off to freedom, but there were many other orphans to be found to take the fawn’s place. Lowry was sure that nowhere else on earth was as wonderful as Carlisle, Kentucky.

Father’s voice droned in the background as Lowry’s thoughts wandered across the countryside. The minutes stretched slower than a dribble of molasses, but Lowry’s mind flitted like the swallowtail butterflies he loved to chase.

He had learned the hard way that some animals do not make good pets. On another occasion, while he and Ibby were gathering hickory nuts, Lowry had heard a curious grunting. He had left Ibby for a moment to check the underbrush for helpless orphans, but instead he had found a litter of ugly wild piglets that squealed in terror when he approached. He had just about made up his mind to leave them alone when a roaring wild hog came crashing through the trees, alerted by the distress call of its piglets. Sunlight glinted off the monster’s dripping yellow tusks as it charged. Lowry had spun on his heels to run, expecting Ibby to follow, but she had stood motionless, her face white with fear.
“Run, Ibby!” Lowry had screeched. All he’d had time to do was chuck a stone at the hog’s face, but it barely fazed the enraged sow. The five-hundred-pound hog, with tusks a foot and a half long, slashed at Ibby, snagging the hem of her linsey-woolsey dress and dragging her backwards over the ground like a rag doll. That was the worst moment, when Lowry knew that Ibby was seconds from death. The hog was about to savage her right before his eyes.

Her screams had pierced his heart. In that moment, he had known he had to do something. Clenching his teeth, he had grabbed a stout limb and sped toward his sister. Gripping the branch so hard that his hand throbbed, Lowry had run faster than ever before in his life. Catching up to the hog, he had pounded on its bristled back until the limb cracked in two. With a fierce yell, he shoved the jagged end at the hog’s eyes, caught Ibby’s arm, and pulled. Her dress ripped as the two of them toppled to the ground. Fortunately, the hog had dodged and retreated. In an instant, Lowry was back on his feet, waving the broken branch menacingly before hurling it at the hog with arms that felt like jelly. He had then crawled back to his sister’s side and hugged her as they both sobbed.

For a week, Lowry had been a hero in Carlisle, the envy of his schoolmates. Privately, he thought that if he had to battle a wild hog to be a hero, he would just as soon let somebody else have all the honors.

Lowry had decided there was no room for a wild piglet in his menagerie. But it didn’t matter anyway. Mother had recently told him that he must not bring home any more wild pets. He supposed she meant for the time being. Money was tight lately, anyhow, ?and Father talked a lot with Mother about being “financially embarrassed.” But Father was always fussing about something.

Lowry shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden bench. Why was he suddenly feeling uneasy? He cast about in his mind but could not pinpoint what troubled him. Wait! It was something Father said just before Sherwood pushed me down in the leaves. Father and Mother had talked over—Lowry could not be sure, but it seemed as if Father had said something about moving . . . to Ohio!

His stomach fell to his shoes. Why in the world would Father want to leave Kentucky? The Rankins had lived here all his life. Well, he had been born in Tennessee, but his parents had moved when he was just a baby. He knew why they had moved that time. It was to get away from slavery. Father hated slavery, just like Grandma Rankin.

When Father talked about Grandma Rankin, it was evident that he loved his mother. From the time Father was small, she had drilled into him that slaves deserved to be free. She would sooner die than force a slave to do her work without pay; she preferred to do it herself. And if a woman as busy as she was finished her work without slaves, she said, then everyone else could do the same.

She spun flax and wool and wove them on the loom into linsey-woolsey cloth to provide clothing for her large family, and the children also helped out with the daily chores. Even when Father was very young, he had swept the house, scoured the floor with sand, and spun flax and wool to help his mother. He frequently reminded Lowry that he had always preferred work to play; in fact, Lowry doubted that Father ever had played. Father’s eyes shone as he described how he kept his mother’s garden back in Tennessee—he marked straight, orderly rows, weeded (a chore Lowry hated), and tenderly cared for the green seedlings. He had also dressed out the corn and cotton crops, repaired gates, and even fashioned plows in his father’s smithy. As he grew up, he had stitched leather harnesses and even cobbled his own wedding shoes. When Lowry thought about Father’s boyhood, he felt lazy.

Father had graduated from Washington College in Tennessee, where Lowry’s Great-grandpa Doak was the president. Father had married President Doak’s granddaughter. That was Mother, and she had named Lowry after her father. Lowry called him Pappaw. Pappaw had convinced Great-grandpa Doak to set his slaves free. Father, raised to hate slavery, had married into another like-minded family. Father could not help but be an ab—abo—something. The word Father always used was difficult, but Lowry knew it meant “no slaves.”

The trouble started when Father became a minister. Lowry knew that the church elders had scolded Father when he preached against slavery in his sermons, but he did not really understand why. He did know that Father was not the kind of man who let anyone else tell him what to do. Rather than cease to preach what he believed, he left east Tennessee one fine morning and set out for the free state of Ohio.

Pappaw had given Mother and Father a horse, a two-wheeled carriage, and seventy silver dollars for the journey. Lowry could scarcely imagine so much money! Grandpa Rankin, on the other hand, had not given anything to the travelers. He had begged Father to stay in Tennessee. Father had flatly refused, so Grandpa Rankin did not even come to breakfast on the morning baby Lowry and his parents left Dumplin Creek, Tennessee. As they drove away, though, Grandpa Rankin had rushed out to the stable and mounted his saddle horse. Silently, he’d followed the carriage on horseback while tears coursed down his cheeks.

The heartbroken procession had traveled solemnly for miles until Father finally stopped the carriage. Tenderly, he had reminded Grandpa Rankin that he was a mighty long way from home, almost too far to return safely by nightfall. What words were spoken then, what embraces exchanged, Lowry never knew. Father could not speak of the parting without weeping. He had not seen his parents since that day.

Oh, Lowry could parrot the story of why his family had left east Tennessee, all right, but it was just a tale he had memorized. It did not concern him, except that the Rankins had not made it to Ohio, because the people of Carlisle, Kentucky needed a preacher. At first, Father had refused to settle in another slave state, but the people had insisted, and it had all worked out. The Rankins had learned to live peaceably among the slaveholders.

That thought brought Lowry back to the present. Why would his family move to Ohio now, he wondered, when they were so happy here in Kentucky? He looked up at Father, who was still reading the Bible to Sherwood and him. Father could not have held a Bible school if the slave masters in the neighborhood had not consented, so the masters could not be so bad. Some of them even allowed their slaves to attend church services and be baptized. Lowry’s friend Sherwood was a slave, yet he was the happiest boy Lowry knew, always cutting a shine. Sherwood even loved his master, Mr. Roberts.

Mr. Roberts was a kind, rich man who owned a hemp farm. He never raised his voice or his hand to his slaves, and he and Father were good friends. In fact, most of the slave owners in Carlisle respected Father and attended his church, even after the church decided slaveholders could not become official members. One Sunday, a visiting minister had asked Mr. Roberts how he felt about that rule. What Mr. Roberts said had gotten back to Father, who had in turn repeated it to Lowry. “I go quite often to Mr. Rankin’s church,” Mr. Roberts had answered, “and enjoy his preaching, even if I cannot be a member there. I don’t think there is one preacher who does not believe that some time in the future Christianity will destroy human slavery. Well, why not preach it, as Mr. Rankin does? I think he is the most consistent Christian in the state of Kentucky. He has my profound respect, for he does not hesitate to preach and practice what he believes.” The words had made Lowry feel proud.

“What’s that mean right there, Mr. Rankin?” Lowry sat up straight. Sherwood was asking Father a question in his slow, soft drawl.

“You mean, ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,’ Sherwood?” Father repeated patiently.

“Yes, sir.”

Lowry slanted a furtive glance at Sherwood. The older boy was leaning forward and breathing in quick puffs. His eyes shone brighter than a flash of summer lightning. He plainly wanted to know the answer so much that Lowry was ashamed; he wished he had paid more attention to what Father had read.
The next instant, he wished it even more. “Lowry, suppose you explain it to Sherwood,” Father prompted. “You have heard this text many times.”

Lowry squirmed. Frantically, he wondered why Sherwood was so interested in this particular verse. He was already an honest boy, always truthful. Maybe the truth was what Father was after; maybe he knew that Lowry had not been paying attention. His face grew warm and he hung his head. “I’m sorry, Father. I wasn’t minding.”

Father sighed. “Well, Lowry, you must do better next time. We must always be ready to give an answer for the hope that is within us.” He consulted his pocket watch. “It’s powerful warm this afternoon, and past time for you to be back, Sherwood. We’ll stop now, but I will be over to visit your master later. I’ll explain it to you then.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherwood’s shoulders drooped until Lowry could almost taste his keen disappointment. For the first time, he wondered if Sherwood was as happy as he always seemed.

“You may be excused, Sherwood. I’d like to talk with Lowry privately. Just wait out on the porch. We’ll be out directly.”

“All righty, Mr. Rankin.” Sherwood lifted the latch and pushed the door wide.
Lowry shuffled to the front of the room. “I’m sorry, sir,” he began. He half-hoped his apology would forestall a scolding.

“Lowry, I—” Father bit off his words and snapped to attention. The color washed out of his face until he was whiter than a hen’s egg. “What was that?”

Then Lowry heard a scream split the air. Was Ibby in trouble again? His skin crawled. He tried to move, to run, but his knees buckled. He opened his mouth to ask Father a question, but Father was gone. Somehow, Lowry followed him out the door.

When he reached the edge of the schoolhouse clearing, Lowry relaxed. A man he did not know stood over some unfortunate animal. He guessed it must be a balky mule, for the man raised a cowhide whip, a whip as thick as Father’s wrist in the middle. The leaded tips whistled through the air and the hoarse screams stopped. Then Father sprinted pell-mell and bellowed in his Sunday voice, “Stop! Stop it at once!”

Lowry followed at a distance, curious to see what was going on. He loved all animals, not just wild orphans, and he felt sorry for the poor old mule, but he was surprised at Father’s reaction. Then he stiffened. There was no mule. What he saw was a crumpled heap of reddened tow-linen on the ground. He touched it and drew away fingers sticky with blood. Slowly his mind puzzled out the rest of the scene: the long arms and legs, the curly mop of hair, the golden skin that was now paler than a beeswax candle, except where red gashes oozed. His friend Sherwood lay curled there, still as death. Cold crept from Lowry’s fingertips throughout his body until even his lips felt numb. A great buzz filled his ears and everything went black.

Something brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes. He was stretched flat on the ground and Father was leaning over him, shaking his shoulder. Lowry saw Father’s mouth move, but he could hear no words. Dimly he knew that something was wrong, that he must get up. Then he remembered with shock: Sherwood! He rolled groggily to his knees and struggled slowly to his feet. Father offered him a steadying hand before turning to tend once again to the young slave.

As Father knelt and tenderly lifted Sherwood’s limp body, giving no thought to his own white shirt, which quickly became stained with the boy’s blood, a string of curse words drew Lowry’s attention to the whip-wielding stranger. He had mounted his horse and was jeering from a safe distance.

“That’ll learn you to truck with slaves and teach ’em to read! You ain’t the only one as can teach lessons. Run him home to his master and tell him, if you dare! You can’t be everywheres at once. If I catch that boy out here again, I’ll finish the job!” Father’s expression was bleak as the man spurred his horse and cantered away.

“Is Sherwood—” Lowry’s voice cracked. Father said nothing but hurried toward Mr. Roberts’ plantation. Sherwood’s head lolled against Father’s arm as he carried him down the path. Lowry trotted woodenly behind them. It was unbearable not to know. He burst out, “Oh, Father, is Sherwood dead?”

“No, son. He’s alive, though just.” Father could barely speak. “That man is right. I cannot be everywhere at once. Mr. Roberts will have to send Sherwood away.”
“But, Father!” Lowry sniffled. He was crying in earnest now. “Sherwood’s my friend!”

“Yes, he is your friend, so you must help me. Run and tell Mother what has happened. She’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.” He felt better for having something to do, but he hesitated. “Will I see Sherwood again?”

“No, son. He is not safe here. Don’t worry about him, Lowry. God is everywhere at once, and he will take care of Sherwood. Run on now!”

Still in shock, Lowry whispered, “Good-bye, Sherwood.” He stumbled blindly for home. He tried not to think, but suddenly the realization was there—this was slavery. He stopped and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. A slave might have a good, kind master and be happy like Sherwood, but it could all change in the twinkling of an eye. Even a good man like Father could not control slavery. At last, Lowry understood why Father had left Tennessee, and why he wanted to leave Kentucky now.

He ignored the stitch in his side as his feet pummeled the path. If Sherwood was as good as gone, then there was nothing left to keep Lowry here in Kentucky. He never wanted to see anyone suffer like that again. He had to get away from slavery forever. He had to get to Ohio.

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