19 Years 10 Months 24 Days

By AJ Pearson-VanderBroek

Sophie Irving loves history but working as a tour guide at Nebraska's first homestead is just as boring as it sounds. One day, an unassuming rainstorm begins a chain of encounters with people from the past. Clues about the homestead's Underground Railroad secrets and the family that lived there are revealed, but many questions are left unanswered. A devastating event leads Sophie to leave the museum only to return years later to find the mysteries − and instances of time travel − stronger than before. Museum co-worker Talan Perkins and his friend Walter Owens accompany her in a search that lands them in a posse of vigilante abolitionists and a dangerous plot to rescue a group of slaves from an 1857 auction. All the while Sophie finds herself consumed by the enigmatic draw of a stranger that transcends life and death with one simple date on a gravestone: 19 years 10 months 24 days. As the elements piece together Sophie learns that history, war, and meaningful relationships are not as out of reach as she had always believed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AJ Pearson-VanderBroek
• Release date: Aug 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476347066

AJ Pearson-VanderBroek

AJ Pearson-VanderBroek graduated in 2011 with a bachelor's degree in language arts. Her writing has appeared in numerous online literary journals including Rose & Thorn, Breath and Shadow Magazine, The Legendary, and Short, Fast, and Deadly. Two of her poems will appear in "The Untidy Season: An Anthology of Nebraska Women Poets" set for release in 2012 by the Backwaters Press. She currently works as a library clerk where she assists in historical and genealogy research.

Book preview

Prologue

July 10th 1856

Sunrise.

Pink rays slit the East horizon over hills and plains and plateaus of the rolling Midwest – land verging on the new territory.

A young man in worn clothes, dirty from travel, leaned against the base of a towering oak tree. His head hung low over several pieces of paper he held in his hands. He was thankful for the streaks of sunlight that allowed him to make out the cursive writing of the letters he carried with him wherever he went.

He was a man, now, he figured. He was a boy of sixteen when he left home, if one could call it a home. But what he had seen in over three years accounted for why his deep blue eyes pierced with a gaze bright and wise beyond his age. Much to his dissatisfaction, however, he was still often mistaken for a boy. He was shorter in stature than he'd prefer to be and kept his dark blonde hair longer than most proper gentlemen would. It didn't help that his face still retained the rounded shape from his youth.

He had arrived the night before to the banks of the Missouri and found the ferryman's cabin located exactly where he had been directed. Unfortunately, the ferryman inside was not keen about the arrival of a traveler so close to sunset and denied the man transport across the river until the morning.

The territory will still be there tomorrow, the ferryman had said, quickly shutting the door before the traveler could offer any response.

So the man waited, beneath a nearby tree just outside the ferryman's yard, as the last late orange colors of the sky vanished into midnight black. For a while he gazed at the stars. When his eyes became too tired, he closed them and soaked up the quiet sounds of the rustling summer breeze through the river bank trees.

The man had a slight qualm with having to wait until morning to continue. If he had made it across he could have journeyed further into the night. Eventually the logic that sleep was quite necessary won over as he drifted off and rested easily there for most of the night. Then the shifting sky gave him cue to rise and light to read.

He was halfway through the third letter when there was a creak as the cabin door opened and the plucky boatman emerged, chewing on a pipe.

River's quiet this mornin', the ferryman muttered. S'pose I could take a run this early.

The young man beneath the tree carefully placed the letters into his bag and pulled a wide brimmed hat over his head as he rose from the ground. He walked toward the banks of the Missouri River.

He did not look back.

Chapter 1

August 27th 2004

Hello. My name is Sophie. I'll be your tour guide today.

I hate people.

I grasped restlessly at the side seams of my 1870's reproduction skirt and smoothed the bodice. Although the navy blue calico had been pressed earlier that morning, I couldn't help the nervous straightening.

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask.

I was used to unnecessary anxiety before I gave a tour. But at that moment the fidgeting wasn't so much, Oh my, everyone’s looking at me, rather, Oh dear, I haven’t even gotten through the introduction and they’ve begun to walk away.

It was close to the end of the day and my tour group had started out as a group of eight – a set of grandparents, parents and four children. The grandparents and father had wandered away shortly after I said my name. This left me with the mother and the kids, who were being kept there only because they had been forbidden to leave with the rest of the family.

The three boys ranged in age from around five to eleven with matching buzz cuts. Their T-shirts and cargo shorts got shabbier with each younger age, a certain sign of a hand-me-down wardrobe. The girl couldn't have been more than thirteen, but didn’t possess the fashion shortcomings of her siblings. Her fingernails were bedazzled with purple glitter and the pockets of her denim shorts stuck out longer than the frayed hems. I observed them feeling a bit more claustrophobic wearing my petticoats in the 93 degree weather.

The cabin we are standing in was built in 1854 by Benjamin Merrill and his wife, Clara. They had four children, the oldest was named Edgar and he was the only one of the children not born in the cabin. He was born in Ohio, where they moved from in early '54.

The mother had taken interest in the local visitor’s guide she was balancing on top of a pile of brochures, making it apparent that my speech was meant solely for the edification of her children.

They came to the territory almost before it was even legal to settle here. This was the first homestead in Nebraska.

I saw out of the corner of my eye that one of the younger boys had discovered a brick on the floor. It was nothing of historical importance – we used it for a doorstop. Still, it proved more interesting than my lecture. When he couldn't manage the strength to pick up the brick, he started to kick it.

There is a root cellar beneath the home. We believe the husband made and stored brooms and wine here, along with farming. Interestingly, though, there was a second root cellar, located under what we believe used to be an outbuilding, like a smokehouse...

The brick abuse escalated as the boy's second brother joined in as well. The girl pulled out a dark shade of lip gloss from a back pocket and slicked on a thick coat.

There are newspaper articles dating from the 1890’s that tell us this might have been one of the few stops on the Underground Railroad in Nebraska...

A cell phone rang from another pocket of the daughter's short shorts. She answered it.

...which may explain the second, more secretive root cellar used to hide escaping slaves...

The girl rolled her eyes. Some lame tour, she spoke into the cell phone.

...Unfortunately without more historical evidence it is mostly...

The daughter thrust the cell phone at her mother, who put it up to her ear, covering the other one with her hand. Several of the brochures fluttered to the uneven wood floor.

... just speculation.

By this point I decided that any explanation about the Underground Railroad or Bleeding Kansas years would be an utter waste of my energy.

I was used to being ignored. I wasn’t much taller than the fifth graders that invaded by the yellow busload for school field trips in the fall, day camps in the summer. But I found that I could be louder than them – which was a powerful weapon on my part, as no one ever saw it coming. From day cares to red hat ladies to teacher conference groups, they were all stunned to find that a short, bespectacled high schooler with washed out purple highlights and wearing a prairie dress could speak with a tone of such pitch and volume to be taken seriously.

At least for a few minutes.

Since most of my groups were captive audiences under the whims of some type of authority figure like a parent, teacher, or over-zealous coordinator who had booked the stop, I could usually garner a polite effort of attention that was long enough to get through an abridged explanation. Sometimes I would try to gauge the volatile state of my patron’s interest and delve ahead into more detailed information, but most of the time I just did what was best for both the group and me, and gave up entirely.

I would break out the magical phrase, You can navigate on your own from here, if you’d like. This way I could let them off the hook while sparing them from feeling rude when they would inevitably tell me more or less to shove it. But my services were often salvaged when one or two interested persons, with craned necks to see over the mass of blank stares, would later come up to me and ask questions.

It gave me encouragement, on the mornings that I laced up my reproduction riding boots and buttoned my chemise to go in for a day’s work at the museum, that however indifferent most people were to learn about a time before cell phones, special effects, or vending machines, there would be at least one kindred spirit whose interest would be sparked at the mention of Underground Railroad. Someone who would stop and think that he or she could be standing at a place where such an amazing piece of history took place, and about such people who lived for more than themselves – the people that came through, the people that helped, the people who fought for freedom – and we could keep part of those people alive by learning about their stories.

The brick hit the side of the log wall with a sickening thud.

I bit my tongue and turned toward the other corner of the one-roomed cabin.

The oldest of the boys picked up a wooden spoon from the table and let it fall. He then smashed the bowled end of the spoon with his fist. It flipped over and landed in a pot on the stove, which distracted his brothers from stomping on the brick. The girl took the phone back from her mother, hung up and proceeded to put on another layer of lip gloss.

Well, we have several other buildings on the grounds… A depot, schoolhouse, church, and several others, just out back, up the hill. You can navigate on your own from here, if you’d like. My voice normally fell in disappointment when I said this, but at that moment it was hot, I was at the bottom of my well of patience and I was more than satisfied with going back into the air conditioned museum and straightening the brochure rack.

No, no, come with us! The mother protested, looking up from the visitor’s guide. The kids are learning so much more having you here!

Oh. All right. Um... The heavy scent of restoration sealant that had been sprayed on the cabin walls earlier in the year mingled with humidity and it took an extra second for my brain to process the fallibility of my magical phrase. Sure! Uh… why don’t you check out the root cellar and when you’ve gotten everyone rounded up, we’ll head to the village?

Sounds good to me, sound good you guys? She started picking up the pamphlets she had dropped.

The oldest brother held the brick over the two younger boy’s heads. Their sister texted on the cell phone, her pouty glossed lips reflecting the lantern lighting within the room.

The mother stood up straight with a huff. We’ll flag you down.

* * *

White clovers clustered around the hem of my skirt as I sat on the grass before the cabin’s front stoop, overlooking a downward slant into a ditch on the side of the highway. When it was built, the cabin sat isolated a mile or two out of town, but now was nestled in a pseudo-residential industrial area where the highway speed limit dwindled to 45 before rolling into town. Across the two concrete lanes were several empty lots, punctuated by creeks and thickets of trees. These lots ran into a black iron fence that set the boundary to the several acres that made up Glenwood Park Cemetery. My house was on the other side, one of the few houses on the streets before the industrial road ran into the railroad tracks. Since the 19th Century, this side of town wasn’t seen as prime estate, but like the Merrill’s before me, I knew it as home.

I had moved to Nebraska the summer before my freshman year at high school. My first impression of the riverside town of Ashford, Nebraska: boring. Then I read in the newspaper about a museum, The Merrill Homestead, that was looking for volunteers. I soon found myself filling my time there planting flowers and moving rocks. While I watered the daylilies I read the signs. One day a board member overheard me clearing up information to some tourists. She immediately had me put down the hose and go fill in inside the museum. This led to helping with research and coordinating events. The board then decided to hire me as a guide. I didn't think I fit the image of tour guide, but they put up with my purple hair and introverted manner. Throughout the years I grew into the role and got accustomed to the pace set by the small home town that wasn’t my home town.

Historically, Ashford had originally been named Ashgrove to paint the image of a nice grovey town to settle in. But it soon became apparent why people had come there in the first place – it was one of the best places to ford the Missouri River and get on with life, which is what most people did.

I, however, took a seat on the Merrill Homestead Foundation board which opened the door to a place as a junior member in the historical society. This, much like my purple hair, remained in my life until the summer before my senior year of high school, when I suddenly realized that I had grown used to, into and out of Ashford, and before I had grasped what was going on I had lost my hold. With each new day every curb, brick wall, and stoplight got another inch too close.

But I figured there was no use having a mid-life crises in high school, so I made a deal with myself to put one off at least until college. The most change in my life occurred when I stopped dyeing my hair, but the purple pigment lingered throughout the hot summer months and had only just begun to fade.

Heat from the sun was pulsing on my neck and the aroma of clover nectar was brimming in my lungs, but the fallen leaves that accompanied the fluffy array of cottonwood seeds about the yard hinted that mother nature was anticipating autumn on this late August afternoon.

My group had taken longer to round up than even I had anticipated and since no new visitors had appeared on the scene from the museum’s back door, I felt obligated to wait.

While the group was in the reconstructed root cellar beneath the cabin, my mind wandered to the long-destroyed, potentially never-existent, second cellar that had been suspected for use other than tomato storage. If it had existed, any remnants of it would have been located in the lot across the highway, hidden away on what was now private property.

I surfaced from my thoughts about pioneer life and the journeys of escape for freedom. The rumbling vibrations of passing traffic and the perfume of clovers in the summer heat had given me a headache, and I had been waiting for nearly 20 minutes.

I gathered up my skirts and shifted my weight, rising to my feet only to be startled into a flat fall back into the indent I had made in the patch of clovers.

Josh!

Oh. Hi.

Shaggy dark hair, slender build, looking a little uncomfortable in his dress shirt and khakis, my museum colleague Joshua Roedell stood above me looking genuinely unassuming.

You scared me, I said, catching my breath.

Sorry. His apology was sincere, but practiced. Josh was always sneaking up on people, though not intentionally. Even when he had to cross a stretch of dry fallen leaves, like he had nearing me, he maintained a magical talent of silently appearing, which caught most people off guard.

What’s going on? I asked.

Oh. He shrugged. Just thought I’d come out and say hi. See how you were doing.

I smiled. He probably knew exactly how I was doing. Josh had welcomed the guests inside, took their admissions and sent them out to me. He had a knack for reading people and, at the end of most days, we would recall certain groups or individuals and usually agreed on which ones we wished we could take home and keep forever and which ones we’d just as much like to impale on sticks.

Only a couple years older than me, Josh lived in Ashford but went to college about an hour away. Josh was the person I spent the most time with at the museum, and he could turn the most mundane tasks into grand adventures. Because of budget cuts, the museum director no longer appeared on a daily basis. The other board members rarely graced the scene except for Faith, a warm, plump, cheery woman who had started volunteering more time at the beginning of the season. But it was usually just Josh keeping a hold on my sanity, standing between me and a showcase of skewered tourists.

Well, I’m just about ready to go… I started, but stopped abruptly as a tiny silver glint registered in the corner of my eye. All thoughts of the annoying family were abandoned at once as I lunged with all my being for Josh’s ankle.

Aha! I clutched at his shin with both hands to prevent his escape. Victory is mine!

Ohh! Josh surrendered, holding his foot up as I unclasped the safety pin that had been secured in his sock. It only took you three days!

One of the museum adventures we had invented was a game of which the title explained the objective: Hide the Safety Pin. The premise was simple – we took turns hiding and finding the same safety pin, bent in the middle to prevent cheating. The rules were straightforward – the pin could be hidden anywhere as long as A) I could reach it from my short stature and B) the discovery of the pin would not lead anyone to be arrested for indecent exposure. After a while, we had added a seven day limit that the pin could remain hidden in one place. After that time, the offending party had to disclose the location and relinquish the pin to be hidden by the opponent.

Don’t sound so put out, I said, eagerly clamping the prize safely on my sleeve.

Put out, I’ve been wearing high waters all week.

Well, you get an A for creativity and dedication.

After last time, he said, shielding his eyes and surveying the yard, I should say so.

Not even a week earlier, I had carried out my responsibility of hiding the safety pin by dumping a couple hundred pins of various sizes in the passenger’s side of Josh’s car. I strategically placed the original pin where I would remember it, and left it for him to find. When he discovered the chaos within his '91 Civic Sedan, I caved and volunteered to just tell him where it was and help clean up the mess, but in true spirit of the challenge he went home and gloated over his success the next morning as we scooped the rest of the pins out of his car before any visitors arrived.

I believe you are being summoned, Josh continued, palm shading his face.

I followed Josh’s gaze and saw the mother with a few collected family members. She was waving her handful of brochures like a lifeboat survivor hailing a Red Cross chopper.

I smiled and waved back. Subtle, I said to Josh without moving my lips.

He just grinned and offered me a hand up. I better be getting back in, anyway. Have fun.

Thanks. He pulled me up. You too.

I brushed off my skirt as Josh headed back toward the museum, casually hooking his thumbs in his front pockets, his short pant legs flashing white calf socks with each strolling step.

I turned and quickly made my way across the yard, interest piqued by the notion that they might have a question. I didn’t anticipate what the question could be, which turned out for the better.

The mother had been joined by her husband and the grandparents. When I arrived, she said, Hi, I was just chatting with Phyllis here. She indicated the woman who must have been her mother-in-law. And we were just wondering if you could tell us what flowers these are. She pointed to the fence line where an abundance of blade-like foliage sprang up, sprouting a plethora of spiky, flame-hued flowers.

Oh. Uh. Daylilies. I realized this was not a satisfactory answer, and the two women glanced from me to the plant life with dissatisfied looks.

Out of a three-year-old memory bank surfaced the warm, moist soil through my work gloves, a wheelbarrow full of uprooted plants and a dirt-smudged greenhouse invoice. But it still didn’t give me any more information, and I finished dully with, Regular… daylilies.

Oh, that’s interesting, yes. But what kind, do you know?

I surveyed the tiger tangerine and black speckled petals, then offered weakly, Orange?

Oh… Yes.

There was a marked moment of silence before I asked if everyone was ready to go on.

Of course! The mother said, leaving an impression that she was used to salvaging optimism. Everyone else, she added, brow furrowed, corners of her mouth turned down, will just have to catch up.

Half an hour later, it was clear that no one had the intention to catch up, or stay caught up for that matter, as the four meager patrons that I had guided to the village soon dispersed and strayed away, leaving me alone in the center of the grouping of buildings.

The village was comprised of several buildings – a depot, blacksmith, firehouse, feed and seed store, saloon, livery stable, church, and schoolhouse – that sat on a fenced, six acre piece of land, bound on two sides by a winding creek. A few trails and pathways had been built into the creek and the buildings had been moved in, some directly deposited, others having been dismantled and reconstructed on new foundations.

The land had been the last of a Victorian-era farm, and the miniature town was completed with the farmhouse on top of the hill, built in 1910. The park inherited the house with the land and it had been restored to its original condition, furnished with turn of the Century antiques for a walk-through display. It provided a quaint mantle piece, neatly surrounded by a white picket fence.

Tucked away from the highway traffic and loud noises from the industrial plants, the shelterbelt of trees surrounding the park made the pocket of existence almost otherworldly, but the various plastic signs tacked onto the sides of the historical buildings kept it set firmly in reality.

In the center of the miniature town square was a rock and flower bed arrangement around a flagpole. There were a few large boulders lying around that had metal memorial plaques fused to them. Having lost sight of my group, I took a seat on Mr. Shanefelder’s rock.

Samuel Shanefelder had bought the 1910 house and the land it came with in the mid-1930’s. When the highway was put in shortly after, he had been responsible for pulling the cottonwood cabin out of harm’s way, about 25 to 50 feet, to the Southern edge of his property. It was thought that there had not been any outbuildings from the homestead still standing, because if there had been, Shanefelder would have gotten his hands on them, even if he had to