Westport Landing, Missouri Territory, 1850

Today was going to be the day that Little Joe and Joe’s best friend, Polly, would catch “The Big Humungi,” the king daddy catfish of Petre’s Pond. Joe had made a new lure that would do the trick and couldn’t wait to show Polly.

There was nothing better than these lazy summer days and the way the soft dirt path to the pond felt on Joe’s bare feet. Red-Spotted Swallowtails flew up and away as Joe passed. When high enough, they floated on drafts, landed, then flitted up again, flirting with the breezes.

A scream sounded from the direction of the pond.

Polly? The buck brush was too thick to see through, but Joe recognized the other voices that were slinging mean names and busting out in laughter.

“Leave me alone!”

It was Polly all right.

Joe threw down the fishing pole and charged through brush that grew higher than a man’s head, reaching the clearing by the pond in seconds. Lefty Turkenbaugher and two of his buddies circled Polly. Lefty’s rock hit its target, and all three boys laughed when Polly cried out.

Polly was curled in a ball, cringing on the ground. Her chocolate-brown arms shielded her head and face. Polly’s faded dress was ripped at the sleeve and dirty on one side, where she must have hit the ground.

She spotted Joe from beneath her arms and sat up. Tears made a trail through the grime on her face, and a drop of blood rolled down her forehead.

“You’re gonna pay!” Joe hollered, then ran full tilt for the three bullies.

One of the hooligans whirled around and froze. “It’s Joe! Run!”

The boys dropped what rocks they held and ran in three different directions.

Joe chased Lefty, leaving the others for another day. Lefty, their leader, was the biggest, the meanest, and the eldest of the three—two years older than nine-year-old Joe.

Joe caught up easily and grabbed the back of Lefty’s shirt. Lefty tried to bolt, but Joe held on. Lefty jerked around with a right hook that missed its mark, throwing him off balance. He tripped and fell, then rolled over, looking scared.

“You leave me be! I’ll tell your Pa.”

Joe’s fists were up and ready to strike. “Get up!”

“What you care about some nigger girl?” Lefty whined.

Joe punched him in the eye.

Lefty let out a howl. He covered his sore eye with one hand and raised his other defensively.

“Get up, ‘Left’-over donkey dung, or you’re really going to be sorry!”

The bully did as he was told, holding his eye and backing away.

Joe feinted a move toward him. Lefty swung around and ran for all he was worth.

“I ever catch you even chawing Polly again, I’ll blacken both your eyes!” Joe yelled at the retreating boy’s back. Hands on hips and laughing, Joe watched him go. “Polly, you see how fast that chicken liver is running?”

Polly stood and dusted herself off. Her lower lip trembled and she cried quietly, wiping the tears away as quickly as they came. “I never done nothin’ to Lefty. Why’s he so mean?”

Joe sobered immediately. Next time Lefty came around, he’d really be sorry! Gently dusting the dirt off the side of Polly’s head, Joe said, “Aw, Pol, it ain’t you. Lefty knows he can get away with troublin’ darkies.”

“His Ma’s goin’ be lookin’ for ya.” They exchanged a wide-eyed look of mock fear. Lefty’s ma would be looking for them, as she usually did when Lefty came home crying.

“Hide!” they yelled in unison. And they took off running, stumbling and giggling, toward Joe’s house.

* * * *

Joe lived in a large, yellow, gabled mansion, trimmed in white fretwork. Its sprawling, landscaped acres sported a circular brick drive where carriages could pull in off the main road and leave their passengers beneath the covered entry. Joe and Polly ran to the box bushes next to the entrance of the house and squirmed under the bottom branches, absently brushing off cobwebs that clung to their sweaty faces. Mrs. Turkenbaugher would be coming on foot as she always did. From behind this particular bush, they would be able to listen through the open windows of the parlor where Pa would sit with Mrs. Turkenbaugher while she staged her complaint and settled her “nerves” by downing large quantities of pastries and tea. The discomfort of a branch poking them here or there would be well worth the wait.

When loud footfalls entered the parlor, they held their hands over their mouths to stifle their giggles.

A chair groaned with the weight that had just been placed into it. “Good morning, Silas. If you will excuse me, we must talk about Joe.”

“It’s the Battle-Ax!” Joe hissed.

Joe had met Aunt Hildegard for the first time upon her arrival yesterday. She was a female version of Joe’s father. Unfortunately, Pa’s features were more complimentary on a man, as were his dimensions. Aunt Hildegard was every bit as big as Pa—maybe bigger! She wore her dark hair pulled severely back into a bun, a style that suited her no-nonsense gray dresses, one of which could easily clothe four of Papa’s slaves!

“Good morning, Hildie.” They heard the sound of Pa’s newspaper being folded.

“I just came across Mrs. Turkenbaugher while on my constitutional. She had disturbing news about Joe.”

“Jiggers!” Joe whispered. “Now we don’t get to hear Mrs. Turkenbaugher whine about how mean I been to her ‘darling’ boy.”

“Shhh. Listen,” Polly whispered.

“—the household’s toleration of Little Joe’s rowdy behavior is abominable. Table manners are despicable. Silas, the child receives literally no discipline. There has never been a nanny! Joe smells worse than the barn animals and has hair so filthy I’m not sure what color it truly is!”

Silas sighed. “Little Joe just needs feminine influence.”

“Feminine influence? Yuk!” Joe pretended to throw up.

“My dearest brother, something needs to be done about that child.” The woman’s voice was kind but firm.

“I knew it.” Yesterday, Joe had a feeling things would never be the same when the “Battle-Ax” stepped off her fancy carriage and Pa announced she’d be staying. Indefinitely.

“Silas—” Aunt Hildegard’s voice was gentle, “—you weren’t raised this way. How could you let this happen?”

Another sigh from Pa. “One moment, Hildie.” A chair creaked.

The parlor window closed.

“Jiggers! What’d he close the window for?” The voices in the parlor were now too muted to decipher their content. Joe and Polly crawled out from under the bush and stretched on tiptoes to see over the windowsill.

The words were still unclear, but by the looks on both faces, their conversation seemed to be very serious. They rose, and when Aunt Hildegard turned, Joe could swear she looked right at them. They dove back under the bush.

Seconds later, the front door swung open and Silas Stratton stepped out with Aunt Hildegard behind him. He ran a hand over his hair. Today, for the first time in a very long while, Pa had taken pains with his attire. But his face was still pale and drawn. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Joe!” he called, his voice sounding oddly hoarse.

Instinct told Joe to stay put and not answer.

Polly’s eyes suddenly grew large looking at something over Joe’s shoulder. Unexpectedly, Joe was yanked out from under the bush and hauled up face-to-face with Aunt Hildegard.

* * * *

Hildegard watched with horror as the little devil aimed a kick at Bessie. Bessie, one of Silas’ house slaves, dropped Joe’s arm, avoiding the kick with a squeal, and skittered away, putting the servants’ table and chairs between herself and Joe.

“Gutt Gott. Bessie, hold on!” Hildegard muttered a few choice words in German. The slave was at least fourteen years old to Joe’s nine, yet she was thoroughly intimidated by the hellion.

Bessie, bone thin, pulled her oversized dress back up over a shoulder. The patched and faded blue frock looked as though it had been passed through the family for generations. The second order of business after getting Joe clean and starting lessons would be attending to the servants.

Bessie timidly took hold of the child’s arm, stretching as far away as possible. Despite Joe’s bucking and leg dragging, they were progressing closer to the tub when, to Hildegard’s shock, the child bent and bit Bessie’s arm. Bessie screamed and bolted for the door.

“Bessie, stop!”

The girl obediently halted. She turned about very slowly, an urge to run obvious in her eyes. Unwilling to disobey, the girl began hopping from foot to foot, adding her moans to Joe’s angry howls. The result sounded like an ungodly opera.

“Gutt Gott! Vere do you come from?” Hildegard gripped the back of Little Joe’s rank shirt and gave the child a good shake. Hildegard Stratton took pride in remaining calm in the most trying of times. Having her composure compromised to the point that her accent, which she’d worked so hard to erase, reappear made her mad enough to single-handedly drag the skinny brat to the bath tub. “You ever do that again and I’ll give you the blistering that vill leave you standing for veeks! Better yet, maybe I should order Bessie to bite you back!”

Joe jerked, trying to pull away, swung and missed, then screeched, “I’ll tell Pa what you done to me!”

Hildegard dodged a kick. She thumped the back of Joe’s head. “Your father knows.”

“I’m tellin’ him you hit me!”

She thumped the child again. “Gutt! Now you can tell him I hit you twice.”

The scamp looked shocked, then, realizing they were at the bathtub, pitched sideways, leaning backward into Hildegard’s arms by bracing filthy feet against the tub. “No!”

The word came out as a high-pitched shriek that sent another irritating jolt up Hildegard’s spine. She received another strong whiff of the child’s clothing. “Awk!”

Hildegard dumped the brat—clothes, shoes, and all—into the tub.

The tail end of Little Joe’s protest bubbled up as OOOOs from under the water. The child surfaced sputtering and gasping. To Hildegard, it was reward enough for a year to see the usual smug expression wiped off the dirt-crusted face.

“I ain’t bathin’!” Joe crossed arms, stuck chin in the air, and stared straight ahead at the wall.
“We’ll wait,” Hildegard said calmly. She picked up a book and began reading.

Thirty-two long minutes later, the child’s pipy voice stumbled over chattering teeth, “If I...d-d-d-die from the ague, Pa’ll...n-n-n-never forgive y-y-y-you!”

Yes, and we’d all miss you like the pox. “No, your Papa will never forgive you for wanting to stay in so long.”

“Pa’ll-l-l...”

Hildegard returned to her book, calmly turning the page. It appeared the dear hellion had learned to manipulate the entire household with threats of “telling Pa.” She’d certainly heard enough of it in the last two days. And twice as shocking was everyone jumping so that Pa wouldn’t be “told.”

“O-k-k-kay. I’ll-I’ll-I’ll bathe. If—” A violent chill wracked Joe, giving Hildegard a fleeting thought of what her brother would do to her if, indeed, his miserable child succumbed to some ailment from marinating in cold water.

“No.” Hildegard cut off the attempt at negotiations. She frowned at Bessie, who had immediately risen to do Joe’s bidding. “Bessie, sit!” Hildegard demanded, pointing to the chair.

Bessie sat instantly. Her gaze shifted fearfully between the demon seed and Hildegard.

“Paaaaaaaa!” The word was a shrill, ear-splitting scream.

Hildegard involuntarily threw her book in the air. “Gutt Gott!”

Bessie squealed, leaping from her chair, and commenced wringing her hands. The child’s eyes glowed triumphantly.

That was it! The last of Hildegard’s good nature evaporated. “Be still, you little tyrant!”

She charged to the bathtub. Picking up the soap and holding it in the air like a sword, she declared, “When I’m done with you, you vill be clean and dressed and behaving like the person you vere born to be—a girl named Josette Ruchelle Stratton!”