• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

I held no affection for Franklin—Franklin was a wretched Ruffian town that Papa and Helen would deplore if ever they saw it—but the next day I said nothing at all as they mourned its (miserable) post office and its (crude) hotel, as well as its (regrettably unshot) citizenry. I even asked Papa where Franklin was and tried to maintain a demeanor of ignorant but well-meaning concern. What, I said, had Papa heard about this fellow Jim Lane?

He had begun, Papa said, as merely a scamp, but the influence of the abolitionists had transformed him into a bloodthirsty charlatan and brute.

Had Papa ever seen the fellow?

Certainly not—he was not curious about such men—but others had seen him. He affected wild clothes, and his eyes blazed with iniquity, more so every day. The senators and congressmen who had seen him in Washington had told Atchison that if this was a fair type of "Free-Soiler," then by all means should the Union be preserved from them!

"Helen mentioned this man Robinson?"

"Ahh. Now, Robinson is a smooth one. Looks normal, respectable, even. Works carefully and slowly, said to be in thrall to his wife, who is even more calculating than he is himself." Papa shook his head. "These are the rumors, of course. I don’t put much stock in rumor myself."

I nodded at the wisdom of this course.

The next day, there were even more alarms. It began in midmorning— the first cool morning we’d had. Helen had made up her mind that she was going to make an oilcloth for the back parlor, and Papa had brought her a sheet of canvas from town. This she had unrolled in the hallway, and she was laying lavender iris blossoms around the borders by means of a stencil. She had also made a stencil for the leaves, and she had a pot of green paint, too. She was just explaining to me how neat and colorful this oilcloth would make the back parlor look after she had impregnated it with enough coats of shellac, when a horse, once again, galloped up the front lawn to the porch. Papa nipped out of his library, where he had been working at some papers, scooted around us where we were kneeling over the canvas, and hurried out the front door, being careful to close it even in his rush. Helen sat up and looked out, then rose up and went over to the window, which was open, and listened. I began to admonish her about eavesdropping, but she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, they’re at it again!" and ran into the kitchen. Moments later, the messenger galloped away, and Papa entered, opening and closing the door with considerable care. He looked at me where I was kneeling between the two pots of paint, and he said, "Where’s Helen?"

"She went into the kitchen."

"Good. She’s not been raised in a manner that has prepared her for the sorts of perils we now have to fear. I regret that, but who was to know? Until last year, we lived in peace here, all of a like mind, expecting only to go on in perpetuity, like the yearly round of the seasons and the daily round of the sun." He sighed. "Ah, well. My dear Mrs. Bisket, I regret to inform you that there is another attack being perpetrated by the devil Lane even as we speak. Rather more in our direction, though still in Kansas."

"Mercy me! Where?" I exclaimed. I thought of Frank at once, with dread.

"They are marching. Or, they were marching as of last night. No one is quite sure to where, but we haven’t the forces to turn them. They may sweep all before them! One thing is clear: Lane proposes to force a military solution to a political conflict, and we will have to answer him in kind."

We stared at one another, and then I slowly stood up, wiping my hands on a rag. Papa took my large hand between his two small ones and said in a dramatic voice, "Much might be asked of me, Mrs. Bisket. My older daughters are far away, and I have only my Helen, the most delicate flower of the three. I dare not commend her to servants, but I feel that I may commend her to you. Your coming here in this time of uncertainty has a fortuity to it that I cannot ignore, though I’m not a superstitious man. At the very least,