The Fiddler's Secret (4 page)

T
he fiddler motioned to his tattered shirt. “My clothes?”

“If they bother you, you can wear some of mine,” Pa answered. “We're about the same size.”

“Nein!” the fiddler exclaimed, even more strongly than at first.

Backing off, Pa smiled. “Wear whatever you like. You look fine the way you are.”

Strange!
Libby thought.
I've never seen Pa do that
. His first-class passengers were well clothed, well traveled, and well educated. The people Pa hired to entertain them were always dressed well unless playing a part. But Libby knew her father. He would not want to embarrass the fiddler.

“You will be my special guest,” Pa said.

This time the fiddler nodded. “I will come.”

“Tonight? After our evening meal?”

The fiddler smiled. “I will play a concert your passengers will remember forever.”

Pa turned to where Caleb and Jordan still sat on the steps. “Spread the word. Tell the first-class passengers we'll have the best concert they've ever heard.”

The fog had changed to a milky white when Libby sat down to breakfast in the large main cabin that was the dining room. As though Caleb's grandmother also wanted to help people forget the accident, she had outdone herself on the food. When Libby caught a glimpse of Gran in the doorway, her cheeks were flushed with the heat of the oven. But Gran's cinnamon rolls and one-of-a-kind breakfast had never been better.

After breakfast Libby found Caleb and Jordan on the main deck. Sitting down on a crate next to them, she said, “I wonder why the fiddler is going to Minnesota Territory.”

Jordan grinned. “Probably for the same reason I'm going. To see what's there.”

Libby felt curious. Both she and Caleb had expected Jordan to stay in Galena, Illinois. After years of separation because of slavery, everyone in his family was there. “Why
are
you going to St. Paul?”

Jordan dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper. “To spy out the land.”

“Like the spies in the Bible who went to the Promised Land?”

At his birth Jordan's mother had named him in the belief he would lead his people out of slavery across the river to the Promised Land of freedom. For many slaves that meant the Ohio River. For others, such as Jordan's family, it meant crossing the Mississippi River and the state of Illinois to reach Canada.

“Do you mean your family would move to St. Paul?” Libby asked.

“Depends on what I find. My momma and daddy like livin' in Galena, but it's fearful close to where we were slaves.”

“But Minnesota Territory? Pa said that slave owners go to
St. Paul and Stillwater to escape the heat in summer.”

“Aw, Libby, don't you get all worried now.”

“I mean it. People from the South like the cooler weather.”

Jordan grinned. “It's been five months since I ran away from Riggs. He's got so many slaves he's forgotten me.”

“Five months since he told you a slave never got away from him alive,” Libby answered. “Right this minute there could be men like him on the
Christina
. Men who know about the reward on your head. They could be coming north to take their families home. Couldn't they, Caleb?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Caleb pushed his blond hair out of his eyes. “There's one thing sure. On the trip back down the river, Jordan will have to be extra careful.”

Libby still felt uneasy. “It's only August seventeenth. Lots of time for hot weather still.” But Jordan only shrugged his shoulders.

He's brave, I know
, Libby thought as she left the boys and went up to the hurricane deck. More than once she had admired Jordan's bravery.
But sometimes he has so much courage that he runs straight into trouble!

As the morning sun burned off the fog, the
Christina
headed upriver again. When the side-wheeler tied up at a small town, Libby looked down from her favorite viewing spot to see what was going on.

Roustabouts, or rousters, had begun unloading freight. On the riverfront nearby, three boys were teasing a small dog. When he leaped out of the arms of the youngest boy, the dog dodged this way and that, trying to get away.

Soon the biggest boy cornered the dog next to a pile of freight. Picking him up, the bully held the dog so tightly that
he squealed with fear. Squirming and twisting, he struggled to get away.

Angry at the cruelty she saw, Libby headed for the steps. When she reached the main deck, she found Peter ahead of her.

As he hurried down the gangplank, he called to the boys. “Stop it!”

The biggest boy whirled around. Still holding the dog, the boy stalked over. More than a head taller, the bully glared down at Peter. “Who do you think you are?”

“Stop hurting that dog!” Peter answered without giving away that he hadn't heard one word.

Instead, the boy walked over to the river. There he dunked the dog in the water, then rolled him in the brown, sandy mud of the riverbank. Still squirming, the dog yelped with fear. The more he struggled, the tighter the bully held him.

“Stop it!” Peter exclaimed. Rushing forward, he tried to take the dog from the bully. Instead, the older boy stepped back. The two other boys moved behind Peter, surrounding him.

By the time Libby reached them, she was so angry that she had lost all fear. “Put that dog down,” she commanded.

“A girl now!” the biggest bully sneered at Peter. “So a girl has to rescue you!”

The bully pointed at Libby. Peter caught his meaning and flushed. “I can handle this,” he told her.

Libby refused to leave. She glared at the biggest bully. “Let go of that dog, or else!”

The boy laughed. “Or else what?”

As though expecting the dog to bite Libby, the bully set
him down in front of her. Instead, the dog danced out of arm's length, planted his spindly legs, and barked at the bully.
Yap, yap, yap!

But his freedom didn't last. Though the dog darted away, the youngest bully caught him.

Upset by the dog's squeals, Libby balled her fists. The minute the youngest bully looked up, she struck him in the nose. As blood gushed out of his nostrils, the boy dropped the dog.

Horrified, Libby stepped back. But Peter rushed forward, grabbed the dog, and headed for the gangplank. “Run for it!” he cried.

Her knees weak, Libby felt she couldn't move. Then the tallest bully whirled around and started toward her. Libby leaped away and kept running. By the time she raced up the gangplank, she was out of breath.

From the safety of the main deck, she looked back. Already the other bullies were teasing the boy with the bloody nose. Peter found Caleb and Jordan.

Caleb looked from Peter to Libby. “Hey! What's up?”

Peter grinned. “Libby gave a boy a bloody nose!”

“Really?” Caleb asked Libby. “The society girl from Chicago gave a boy a bloody nose?”

Libby was embarrassed. “Peter, be quiet!” Then she remembered their sign for “Shush!”

But Peter kept on. “She hauled off and hit him! You better watch out, Caleb. Don't
ever
make Libby mad!”

Caleb grinned at her. “I can't do that. Not make her mad, I mean. But from now on I'll watch out.”

“What did you say?” Peter asked.

Palms up, Caleb waved his hands to tell him, “Not important.”
Instead, Caleb pointed to the dog. The mud was drying, drawing the dog's hair into clumps.

Peter wore a pleased-with-himself grin. “I'm going to help people,” he announced.

Libby took Peter's slate from the bag over his shoulder. “Help people?” she wrote. “Dogs aren't people!”

Peter looked disgusted. “This dog is going to help your pa.”

That was an even bigger puzzle for Libby. “How?”

“Your pa needs a watchdog.”

“What about Samson?” Libby wrote.

“Samson is a happy dog,” Peter said quickly as though to keep peace. “He'll push you away if there's danger. He'll jump in to rescue people from the water. But this dog—my dog—will make noise. All the way up the gangplank I could feel him barking.”

Libby grinned. “He made noise, all right.” Holding her hands in front of her chest, Libby curled her fingers as if they were paws. “Yap, yap! Yap, yap, yap!”

Peter seemed to read her lips. He understood the barking.

“So,” Libby wrote, “this dog is supposed to help Pa?”

Peter nodded. “I'll train him to do that. Of course, he'll have to help me too.”

“Of course.” Libby glanced toward Caleb, who had swallowed his laughter. “What color is your dog?”

When Peter didn't answer, Caleb took the slate from Libby. “You can't just pick up a dog and start to own it. It might belong to someone.”

“He doesn't,” Peter said. “This dog is an orphan.” His arms closed around the dirty creature. “I know.”

Yes, you would
, Libby thought, suddenly filled with
compassion. After being an orphan himself, Peter would recognize it in a dog.

Caleb wasn't going to let Peter off so easily. “We need to check with the men who live here. Jordan and I will go with you. Those bullies won't touch you if we're around.”

With the dog in his arms, Peter started down the gangplank. The minute his feet touched the riverbank, the three boys started toward him. When Peter saw them, he stopped and stood his ground.

The biggest bully walked straight up to him and held a fist in front of Peter's face. “So! The little boy is back!”

As if he had heard the bully's words, Peter glared at him without speaking.

The bully motioned to his friends. “C'mon, let's get the mutt!”

The other boys moved close. The biggest bully leaned over Peter, scowling down at him.

Just then Caleb and Jordan walked up. Standing behind Peter, Caleb and Jordan glared at the three bullies. Now that they were evenly matched, the bullies weren't so eager to take on a fight. One by one, they walked away.

A short time later, Peter returned to the boat. The front of his shirt was filthy from hugging the mutt, but his eyes glowed with the news he had for Libby. “Caleb asked questions for me. My dog is an orphan, all right. The men who work on the wharf say he's hung around for three weeks. He lives on crusts of bread people throw him.”

When Peter let the dog down, he ran to a deck passenger. Sitting on his haunches, the dog eyed the man's food, wiggled his tail, and barked.

Peter hurried over and scooped up the dog. “He's thin now, but I'll find the right food for him. Caleb's grandmother will help me.”

“What's your dog's name?” Libby signed.

Peter's eyes filled with pride. “His name is Wellington.”

“Why do you call him that?” Libby wrote.

“It's the right name for such a good dog. The Duke of Wellington defeated Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo.”

Often Libby felt surprised by the bits of information Peter knew. Now he went on. “This dog puts up a good fight. You'll see. He's been fighting for life.”

“He's been fightin' for his life, all right,” Jordan said. “I can recognize the signs.”

Libby had no doubt about that either. The next time Peter let the dog down, Libby backed away so he couldn't touch her. Even from a distance he smelled.

When Wellington scampered off, Peter chased after him, and Libby felt relieved. “He's naming that dirty little mutt after the Duke of Wellington?”

Caleb glared at her. “This is serious business for Peter. Don't make fun of him.”

As Libby met Caleb's eyes, she knew she had better not say another word. Though she didn't want the dog mistreated, she wasn't sure she could handle another dog on board. Getting used to Samson had been hard enough.

When Peter found a large tub and a bucket, Jordan helped him draw water from the river. As soon as the tub was full, Peter lifted the dog into the water. Wellington fought against him, but Peter hung on. Sloshing water over the dog's back and head, he rubbed him down with soap. Though Wellington
yipped and whimpered, Peter kept washing him.

Soon Peter lifted the dog from the water. Wellington was so thin that Libby caught her breath. With his wet hair plastered against his body, she could see every rib. His legs seemed to be only skin and bone.

How long has it been since the dog had a good meal?
Libby wondered.

Caleb emptied the dirty water into the river, and Jordan filled the tub again. As Jordan went back and forth carrying water, Libby noticed a man watching him. Still thinking about the possibility of a slave catcher, Libby felt concerned. Then she realized the man was the fiddler.

Once again Peter soaped Wellington down. By the time the water turned gray, Wellington had changed color.

“He's brown!” Libby exclaimed, then remembered to point to the dog's coat so Peter would understand.