Prologue

Natchez, Mississippi

January 1867

“Carve me a toy, Lee!”

“Me too!”

“No, it’s my turn! Lee made you a horse last week!”

Lee Connor chuckled as he handed the wooden train car to one of the little girls clamoring around his workbench. “Here you go, Sally. The rest of you will have to wait until I’m not so busy. I can’t stand around and carve toys all day. We’ve all got chores to do, so you better scoot!”

“Aw, Lee,” the children grumbled. But slowly, following Sally with her new toy, they eased out of the decrepit barn, and headed home—the big, white, clapboard house everyone in town knew as the Mississippi Orphanage.

My thirty brothers and sisters. My family.

The little girls loved him, sure enough. As for the older ones—well, maybe one of these days. At nineteen, Lee considered himself nothing to turn a lady’s head like the handsomer men in Natchez. Too tall and skinny, with hair the color of corn silk and a gap in his front teeth, he’d been told often enough his fetching smile and welcoming green eyes were his best features.

Come to think of it, the praise had come from the older-than-dirt washerwoman at the orphanage. The thought of having a real woman tell him he was handsome brought a blush to his tanned cheeks. At his age, he often thought of courting a woman, finding a wife—if he wasn’t too embarrassed to kiss one.

“Hey, Lee.” Twelve-year-old Frank, trudged into the barn, a worried frown on his gaunt face. “Where were you all day? Mr. Montgomery said I was to tell him when you got home. He wants to talk to you right quick. You think it’s something bad?” Frank didn’t quite wring his hands together, but Lee had seen him do it many times. Frank was the orphanage’s worrier.

And we sure do have plenty of worries to go around. Not enough money, not enough food, not enough room and too many little mouths and bodies to take care of.

“Now, Frank,” Lee answered, putting on a cheerful face although he felt far from pleasant himself. The day had begun long before dawn when he’d gone to help Mr. Baxter build a new stall for his prize mare. From there, with Mr. Montgomery’s permission, Lee had walked four miles to another farm to help mend a farm fence.

The precious coins he’d earned would go for groceries and dry goods to keep the orphans fed another day. His feet and back ached like blazes, every muscle in his body screamed to sit down, but Sally’d been right there, wanting a toy. “Why would Mr. Montgomery want to talk about something bad?”

“He had an awful serious look on his face.” Frank bit his lip. “Like it might be something bad an’ he said, right away. The second I saw you.”

Lee noticed how hollow the boy’s pale cheeks looked and decided to make sure Frank got more of their meager supply of potatoes at supper. Maybe I can trade one of the farmers nearby for some work for fresh cream. Frank should have more hearty food to build him up. All the little ones need heartier food.

“You go tell him I’m home” Lee gave Frank a firm, reassuring pat on his thin shoulder, alarmed at the child’s knobby bones beneath the threadbare pants. “I’m sure he just wants to know how much money I earned today. Mr. Montgomery’s always looked out for us. Hasn’t he always cared for us and done the right thing?”

“I—I reckon,” Frank answered, not too certain.

“You know he has. Go tell him I’m home,” Lee repeated. “I need to clean up here, so you tell him I’ll be here in the barn. Unless he wants me to come up to his office.”

Frank turned, glanced back once, and then hurried off.

Although Lee had told Frank there was nothing to worry about, he wasn’t so certain himself. In the past few months, Mr. Montgomery had changed. Like Frank, Lee had noticed the director having an “awful serious look” on his face many times. Wonder what’s wrong?

From as far back as he could remember, Lee knew he could trust and depend on Mr. Montgomery to look out for him. He’s my father. Maybe not a blood one, but my father anyway. Wasn’t it the director who helped him find outside work so he could help support the orphans? And wasn’t it he who insisted Lee hold back some of his earnings for himself? “One day you’ll want to strike out on your own, Lee, you keep some of that hard earned money for you.”

Maybe he just wants to tell me about another job, Lee thought as he picked up his carving tools and stored them neatly on a shelf. Or maybe he just wants to invite me to his office for a game of checkers. As the oldest boy at the orphanage, Lee had privileges the other children didn’t. He smiled, anticipating another pleasant evening with the man he thought of as his best friend. Well, almost best friend-… after Thomas.

Although lately, Lee thought as his hand mechanically swept up the wood shavings on the workbench, Mr. Montgomery didn’t seem to have time for leisurely games of checkers or talking about the news he’d read in the papers. Lee had cherished the time with the older man, his knowledge passed on like a father to a son. No, lately, Mr. Montgomery seemed different, more tense and harried. Was Frank right to be worried?

Lee frowned, trying to figure out just when Mr. Montgomery had started to change from the kind, caring father he knew to a stricter taskmaster. He used to be glad about me carving toys for the children, but lately… “Lee? I must speak with you.”

Startled, Lee turned to face the short, stout director of the orphanage. A scowl marked the man’s florid face as he strutted into the barn, tugging down a worn gray vest over the wide girth of his stomach. Been a long time since he’s had a new suit of clothes. Wish I could buy him some.

“Yes, Mr. Montgomery.”

Lee bit his lip and hoped the director wasn’t peeved to find him making toys. Mr. Montgomery didn’t approve of the little ones playing these days. Life was real and earnest for the orphans. It took everyone pitching in to provide a garden for food and to keep the children in clean, hand-me-down clothes.

Some of the girls—barely eight and ten—helped with the washing and mending. Boys as young as five mucked out stalls and fed their meager assortment of cows, pigs, and chickens. Lee worked long, hard hours in the village to help add a few dollars a month to their coffers. Even though he worked hard, Lee figured the time spent making the children’s lives happier was worthwhile too.

A simple wooden toy could bring a smile to the saddest little face. Not that this changed Mr. Montgomery would agree. Not since when… Lee couldn’t figure out when he’d changed. He used to give me toys he’d carved. Take me fishing and hunting. Taught me to play checkers.

Lee brushed a lock of blond hair away from his face and mechanically swept wood chips from the front of his threadbare brown trousers—second or third hand-me-downs from the older boys who’d once lived here.

“Lee, I’m sorry to tell you this,” Mr. Montgomery began in his hurried voice, the voice Lee thought of as the this-is-for-your-own-good one, right before he doled out a punishment. “But it’s necessary for you to leave the home and set out on your own.”

Leave? Although he knew that eventually he’d be asked to make his way in the world, Lee hadn’t expected it this soon. Just a year ago, Mr. Montgomery had remarked how much he depended on Lee, on his working in town or at the neighboring ranches to earn money to keep the orphanage afloat. Hadn’t the director often said how he hoped Lee would stay on for years? When did he change? Why didn’t I notice?

Leave? The idea left Lee with the same sensation he’d had the night he accidentally fell down the well. Like a trapdoor had given way beneath him. He could only stand in stunned surprise.

“Yes, son.” The word grated on Lee’s mind, but he ground his teeth and stood tall. How dare he call me son when he’s turning me out? But he wouldn’t argue with Mr. Montgomery. What good would it do? If there was one thing being an orphan had taught Lee, it was to keep quiet and roll with what life sent your way.

“There was a yellow fever epidemic over in Raymond and the sheriff needs to send six boys here. And you know we are pressed for beds already.”

Lee knew that for certain. He and two of the younger boys shared a room no bigger than a closet. “Even with what you earn working, we just don’t have the funds to cover older boys staying on. You are nineteen. A man now. Old enough to make your own way in the world. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.” For the first time in the conversation, the older man sounded sincere.

“I understand.” I don’t! Why? You said you hoped I’d stay on and help you support the others! We’ve been short on beds before! It never used to matter.

Lee’s heart felt ripped in two, but he stood with dignity. Even though it crushed him inside to think of leaving the children he thought of as brothers and sisters, he wouldn’t let Mr. Montgomery know that. How am I going to tell the children?

“The board of directors said to give you a month, that way you can make some plans and decide what you will do.” Mr. Montgomery gave him a benevolent smile, as if he were personally handing him everything he needed to make his place in the world. “Perhaps you can find a permanent job or an apprenticeship. The preacher and his wife have generously given you a twenty-dollar gold piece to support yourself for a while, in thanks for the work you did on the sanctuary.”

“Please tell them thank you,” Lee said in a careful, calm voice. Inside, he raged. What will I do? Where will I go?

After Mr. Montgomery left the barn, Lee took time to sweep up the wood chips and clean the workbench he’d used the past three years. Even though most wood went to feed the fires in the stoves and fireplaces, Lee held back small pieces to create toys for the younger children—to make their lives brighter. Most of them had no family, barely enough to eat, and wore rags. Who would brighten their lives once he left? It sure won’t be Mr. Montgomery. Not this new one who sees only the number of bodies in the home and not their faces.

Lee wasn’t one to cry. He never had been. But suddenly, he felt tears burn in his green eyes. He was leaving his home—worse, he was leaving all his younger “brothers and sisters”.

A month—it sure wasn’t much time. but Lee had always yearned for adventures. He often told the younger boys’ tales from the books he’d read when he had time for schooling. Adventure. Lee knew from reading that adventure took plans, but he’d never been really good at plans.

Now’s the best time to learn, I guess.

Chapter One

“Lee! Lee Conner! You wait up, now!”

Lee stopped on the red clay farm road and turned to watch a short, wiry farmer with a halo of white hair hurry through a field of rye grass from his house. “Hi, Mr. Clemons. You need help with something today?”

The man stopped, wiped sweat from his face with a dirty, red kerchief and panted a little before he spoke. Even in January, the Mississippi weather could be warm enough to work up a sweat. Shaking his head, he gave Lee a gap-toothed smile, the three teeth he had left shining like pearl onions in his red gums. “No, nary a thing, but the wife and I heard you’re moving on from the orphanage. Word around town says you be heading for Californee. That so?”

“Yes, sir.” Even though it still hurt to acknowledge the fact he had to leave, Lee kept his feelings inside. Every fall the older couple let the orphans glean their corn fields or pick up windfalls in the apple orchard. He’d done odd jobs for Mr. Clemons and his wife through the years, bringing in welcome food and money for his orphanage family.

“We sure will miss you around here.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

“Reason I stopped you is—me and the missus want to help on your trip. So we’re giving you Cletus. You’re gonna need a horse to pull a wagon.”

Cletus! Lee stared at the man incredulously. He had often ridden Cletus or used him to pull a wagon to take supplies to the orphanage. He and the Belgian got along well, and it had been one more thing he regretted about leaving—another wrench to his heart. “Why, Mr. Clemons, I can’t take…”

“No, you listen to me, boy. I’m giving you the horse and Mr. Baxter’s got a nice, light wagon you can take. Smaller than a Conestoga wagon, but since it’s just you a-going it should hold your supplies fine.”

A horse and a wagon? When Lee had first thought of heading to California, he’d written out a list of supplies he’d need. Although the Emigrants’ Guide to Oregon and California written by Mr. Lansford W. Hastings recommended a horse and wagon or oxen, Lee knew he’d never be able to afford either.

A yoke of oxen cost around two hundred dollars and a good wagon at least a hundred. Most of his twenty-dollar gold piece would have to go for food that wouldn’t spoil. Lee figured he’d just start walking until he could find a wagon train and join on with someone else, maybe as a hired hand. To his surprise, tears filled his green eyes and he had to blink. Maybe the old man understood.

“You’ll find a lot of the neighbors gathered supplies for you, Lee. You’ve been a good neighbor all these years—always willing to help any of us in need. Why, when Mr. Baxter broke his leg and couldn’t plow his wheat field, who came over at the break of dawn and did it before his own chores? You. When my wife was ailing and needed that medicine from the doc across the river, who was it rowed across and got it? We all love and care about you, boy. The wife wants me to tell you too—a lot of the women got stuff you’ll need. Pots, skillets, an iron spider, blankets, and medicines. Tad Ewell at the Mercantile said he’s fixing you up a couple of barrels of foodstuffs too. We been reading over that Emigrant’s Guide, and you’ll be outfitted as fine as we can make it.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Lee blinked away tears; the words sounded husky around the knot in his throat. “You don’t know what this means…”

“You’re like a son to a lot of us around here, and we see how you help all those unfortunate mites at the orphanage. You’re a good man, Lee, an’ we aim to see you start off right.”

He swallowed. “Thank you kindly, Sir.”

“You’re welcome. You best be on your way to wherever you was heading. I just saw you down here and wanted to make certain you stop by for Cletus afore you head off to Californee. Danged, if I was still a young blade, I’d go with you too. Take a crack at some of those gold fields!”

After he left Mr. Clemons, Lee hurried down the road and cut across at a path through a dense wood. He’d been on his way to his secret spot when he ran into the farmer. Only Lee knew which way to turn to keep his journey hidden. He’d never let any of the other children follow him here. Never told anyone of the secret place he’d found as an eight-year-old out exploring one day. No one except Thomas.

Just one more thing I owe you, Thomas.

Lee circled a small meadow and stepped through knee-high grass to an abandoned cabin. The cabin had fallen into disuse years ago and sunk into the cellar. A few spikes of rotting wood poked through the jungle of brush growing out of it. Blackberry thorns twisted and climbed over the crumbling brick ruins of a chimney. Even as an eight-year-old he’d never wanted to explore such a spooky place. But, behind the cabin, the owners had dug a small cellar.

To Lee’s delight, he’d found a sturdy, hidden trap door, pulled away the persistent weeds of nutsedge, and discovered rickety wooden steps into an underground hidey-hole. When he’d first found the secret spot, nothing had been inside but a rusty pail and festoons of spiderwebs. Since then, he’d built a small shelf where he kept a jar of money he’d earned – a few pennies here and there from his wages.

Most of what he earned went to the orphans, but Lee knew a day would come when he’d be on his own. Without counting it, he knew it wouldn’t amount to much. Every time there had been a need at the orphanage, he’d raided his cache to help.

On the shelf he also kept a wooden box he’d carved for his treasures—not so much really. A top he’d been given in a Christmas stocking. A nickel pierced through by a circus sharpshooter. The knife he’d used to carve his first toys, the tip nicked off now. He’d come for the one treasure he wanted to keep for his journey.

He rummaged through old marbles to pull out a daguerreotype he’d been given years ago by Mr. Montgomery. A different director than he’d been a few weeks ago when he’d told Lee he must leave. What had happened to the man who’d been more like a father? Lee sighed. He could remember so many happy times with the director.

The patient, fatherly way Mr. Montgomery had taught him and Thomas how to fish. So many lazy, warm, summer afternoons they’d sat on the bank of the Mississippi River talking about everything under the sun. The director never minded Lee’s childish questions or seemed impatient. But now, he’d become so stern and hard. What had changed?

Lee stared at the daguerreotype in his hand, a picture from years ago. A visiting photographer had come to take a photo of the orphans and the home. Later, Lee learned it was sent to solicit funds for the orphanage. Lee stared at all the sad, frightened, or grim faces of the group of boys—forty-five at that time, lined up on the wide wooden steps of the big two-story building.

The gallery along the second floor filled with the girls in their white dresses and big hair bows. Some of them were so short they’d had to stand on wooden blocks, so their faces showed over the railing.

The boys were all dressed in Sunday best—blue serge suit jackets and pants with stiff white shirts. Lee had only ever worn that borrowed outfit once – for the photo. It was easy to pick out the director, Greg Montgomery, standing on the left with a gentle hand placed on the shoulder of Matt LeMont who had died of yellow fever a few months later. A smiling man, more friendly than he’d been in years. A happier time. Why did you change, Mr. Montgomery? Did hard times sour you so much on life you gave up smiling?

Lee found himself—skinny, gangly, the jacket sleeves inched up too far on his long gawky arms. Standing next to him was a tall, older boy with a crooked devil-may-care grin. Thomas.

I sure do miss you, Thomas.

Lee could never remember any life other than being an orphan. Even though Mr. Montgomery told him he’d been dropped at the home at age two by a distant cousin, Lee could only remember the Mississippi Orphanage. That was life. Most every day for those first four years of his life was the same as the one before. Until Thomas came.

Thomas hadn’t been an orphan until he’d turned eight and his family died in a flood.

“Reason I didn’t die,” Thomas told the younger boys, “is ‘cause I was playing hooky from school. Most everybody in the town died when the dam broke, but not ole’ Thomas Stevenson. I’m too ornery to die.”

Even though Lee didn’t know if that was true, he found a true brother in Thomas. Thomas taught him basic skills like how to tie his shoes, to do chores, to hunt. Thomas never made fun of his clumsy attempts to learn how to whittle or the best way to make a slingshot. But when Lee turned eight, the terrible war between the states broke out.

“Soon as I can,” Thomas promised one night after lights out, “I’m gonna join up an’ fight for the Union.”

“The Union?” Lee whispered, both thrilled that Thomas confided in him and scared to have him confess such a treasonous secret. Mississippi was a slave state and they’d been the second to secede from the Union. Mr. Montgomery said they were all Confederates now and took down the lithograph of Abraham Lincoln from the school room wall. “Our president is now Jefferson Davis,” he had told the boys in a shaky voice. “Anyone who mentions the name of Abraham Lincoln is guilty of treason.”

“Way I figure, them slaves want to be free just like us, Lee, boy.” Thomas said as they whispered in the dark. “Old Abe Lincoln is a right just man. I figure if I can, I’m gonna help win this war.”

Lee never told anyone about Thomas’ betrayal. One morning he was just gone. Mr. Montgomery told everyone Thomas had gone to join up—to fight with “our daring men in gray.” Lee didn’t tell him any different. Through the years, he’d hoped for a letter or even Thomas himself to come back. He never did. Maybe he had died fighting for the Union.

Where did you go, Thomas?

Lee placed the daguerreotype in his pocket but left the marbles and the pierced nickel in the box. Maybe one of the other eight-year-olds in the orphanage would need a secret spot one day.