Chapter 27: Runaways and a Book
January 1852
Obituary: Owen Possibility Kincade
Written by Oliver Kincade
Owen Possibility Kincade was born Dec. 25, 1810, to Ms. Anna Brown, who passed on shortly after her son’s birth. Mrs. Diana Wilson, then known as Ms. Diana Kincade immediately adopted Owen as her own.
Many will remember the kindness and courage of Owen Kincade, most particularly his adopted mother, Mrs. Wilson, his wife, Mrs. Hope Kincade, and children, Samuel, and Maria Kincade. There are many other relatives and friends of Owen’s to name, but sheer number would make such a thing implausible. For, Owen had made many friends throughout his life, through the attraction of his dependability and humility.
Curiosity is one thing Owen has been known for, since he was a small child. He wrote in this very newspaper, and managed to leave every reader informed, yet still awaiting more articles. It is undoubted that many who have not even met Owen will mourn his death, as journalists brilliant as he are hard to come by.
For any of those who desire to attend his funeral.
Edward Dutton glanced up from his newspaper, slightly desolate from the news, but impressed by the writing style. After all, he was a publisher.
While he had traveled to New York to scout out a place to build a bookstore, Edward would not mind finding a new writer. His name was not yet as known as he would have liked. So, he would go to the burial, and hope to meet Oliver. Not that he was only going for business, of course.
**********
Nothing would ever be the same. Oliver knew that. Owen had been like a brother to him, and now he was dead, gone.
Hope had come back from Virginia to explain everything. Owen had died a hero, yet the public could never know. Aside from the slaves Owen had helped and the Kincade family, only one other man knew of Owen’s heroics. He was a free man of mixed races who had assisted Hope in bringing her husband to New York, where the woman was determined to have Owen buried. At first he had been left there, since Hope needed to escape, but she eventually managed to sneak back and bring her husband to New York. It was sickening how many white people of the South would find Owen the monster, and how Hope could not spread her husband’s tragic story in order to keep herself safe.
The burial of Owen Kincade had just ended, and Oliver had not even noticed. He was far too lost in thought. Now, he stood up and started to walk towards the gravestone. Somberness could easily be seen in his step, and his distraction made it unsurprising when he bumped into someone.
Not someone, two someone’s. Oliver barely recognized the two. All he knew about them was that they were neighbors Owen was rather fond of. They were twins, a boy, and a girl, both very beautiful. Their hair was wavy and a dark, reddish-brown that was nearly purple. Both had onyx eyes lowered in grief.
“I apologize,” murmured Oliver quietly, before trudging past the twins.
In unison, the two sympathetically stated, “It is no problem.”
Oliver turned away, a slight flush in his cheeks. He mentally chided himself for it. Now was not the time for such emotions.
~~~
Edward knew he was procrastinating, but it was for a good reason. He ought to let the Oliver boy mourn for a moment before approaching him.
“Mr. Kincade, may I speak to you?” asked Edward finally, with audible nervousness in his voice.
“You may,” replied Oliver, somewhat monotone. “Mr.—?”
Oliver turned around, surveying the man before him with dead eyes.
Edward cautiously continued, “I am Edward Payson Dutton, a publisher. You seem to be a fine journalist, and I was wondering if you have written anything else. You do not have to reply now. You may send a letter to my address if you wish.”
Oliver nodded, and murmured, “Thank you,” with more emotion than he had shown since he heard of Owen’s death.
Maybe he had a chance at his dream.
**********
Agony eventually becomes common in people’s lives as others perish. However, it never becomes less painful. Some, such as Oliver, found themselves feeling empty, and emotionless. Others, such as Diana and Flower, found themselves seeking comfort from each other.
Flower was sobbing into her sister’s shoulder as they gave each other condolences that brought no comfort. After the burial, everything felt so real. The reality of it all pressed into Flower’s heart like a dagger, and there was never a moment where the walls were not closing in.
The woman found herself wondering how she could be so selfish. Her own daughter was fine. It was Diana’s child that perished, so why should she be crying so much harder? Yet, here she was, mentally repeating Diana’s reassurances to herself while she did little for her sister in return.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Flower hesitantly. “I shouldn’t be relying on you for comfort; you should be relying on me.”
“Flower, don’t you dare say such a thing! Owen was close enough to being your son, and you can’t feel guilty about mourning! It doesn’t make me feel worse to comfort you. In fact, it makes me feel better, even if only slightly. I love you so much, sister, and I cannot stand it when you feel guilty over something like this.”
The sincerity in Diana’s voice comforted Flower, enough for her to say what she had needed to say for a while now. “We should get Hope. She needs comforting just as much as I,” choked out Flower.
Diana nodded in agreement, strong even through the tears rolling down her face.
However, as Flower gently pushed open the door of Hope’s room, she only found a small piece of tearstained parchment. The words on it heightened Flower’s sobs.
Mother,
I cannot stand to be around all the memories of my dear Owen. So, I have left, and taken the children with me. Goodbye.
Sincerely,
Hope
April 1852
Owen had died three months before, and Hope was still utterly broken. Cracks filled her heart, and they were empty, void of all joy. Her only joy was her children but taking care of them alone was extremely hard.
Some days, she was overbearing and nosy. On the others, she was distant and lost in thought.
One day, ten-year-old’s Maria and Samuel grew tired of it and ran away from home. They trekked through a small settlement in Colorado, where they had moved with Hope after their father’s death, lugging enough food and water to last them a couple of days. They also had a change of clothes, a single brush, two pillows, and a few blankets. Maria had decided to pack a long strand of twine, saying it may be useful.
When morning came, the two found themselves a nice spot to rest, under a large, vivid tree. Maria used her twine to tie one of the blankets to a branch, which formed a haphazard shelter. Though the two were exhausted, their rest was fitful.
Several hours later, Samuel and Maria gave up all hope of not only sleep but also escape when they heard footsteps. People were just outside their shelter! The people spoke loudly, in a strange tongue that neither of the children knew.
Samuel, the braver of the two, peeked under the blanket.
“Would you look at that?” gasped Samuel, as quietly as he could manage. “There’s Indians out there, Maria!”
Maria met her brother’s eyes, terrified. “We must have wandered into their territory! They own some land just west of our town. What do you think they do to trespassers? I do hope they’re not the bad sort.”
The girl’s voice rose in pitch. Her brains were often helpful, but their source, questions, made Maria easy to terrify. Samuel, courageous and sweet as ever, stood up and sheltered Maria with his own body.
Then the blanket was lifted.
September 1852
Blue Snake’s people had been dying off. They were treated as second class at best, monsters at worst. Those of white skin sent them away from their homes, making life more difficult. Then, there was always the problem of disease. There was only one thing Blue Snake could do, once he had finished the fight against Mexico. He brought the few of his people who remained, and were willing, to his new property in Colorado, which was half owned by James.
James had not minded. In fact, he still found himself exploring and searching for answers he knew he had already found. Even as James searched, he always stayed near the property, just in case something was to happen. It was lucky that he did.
His cousin’s children: Samuel, and Maria, had run away from home and ended up on the property. He had to deal with the situation, which was extremely difficult. As someone who had run away many times, he’d realized being the responsible adult was arduous.
However, James managed to find a solution. Since Hope was having trouble dealing with her children, James decided to move in with them. He had gone through many similar things to what the kids had experienced, which would make him a relatable adult whom they could turn to. Luckily, Hope had not protested. She was far too grateful to see her children again.
**********
It was a rare occasion that Oliver did not know what to write, and this was one of those rare times. Though, circumstances were different. He was writing a letter to Edward Payson Dutton.
February 1853
Randolph,
You may remember the girl who I have mentioned before, Anna. She is a delightful girl, beautiful, and able to stand up for herself. After all this time, I have managed to get a date with her.
Randolph continued to read his brother’s letter, as he went over the wonders of the marvelous Anna. He was incredibly happy for his brother, yet there was something incredibly wrong.
It was not something in Randolph’s life that was wrong. He enjoyed his somewhat dull routine, managing a small grocery store, and occasionally going on a date with his wife. His children were wonderful and filled his day with joy whenever he saw them. The letters of splendor from his family members would always make his day, and visits were even better. What was wrong was the approaching death reaching out to him. He felt sick, and his symptoms worsened daily. The county doctor had no explanation, as he couldn’t find the cause of Randolph’s illness.
However, Randolph ignored his sickness. He was far too determined to keep living like nothing was wrong.
When Oliver finally got his book published, Randolph was ecstatic. He read it every day, and just barely managed to finish it before his death.
He was buried in the small town he lived in. His entire family came, even Hope, and this time, James. Nearly the entire town had attended as well.
Many tears would be shed but there would be some good stories to be told that would make the tears not so important as the memory left inside each heart and mind.
Yes, Randolph’s life had become somewhat monotone, but it was happy, and his jubilance had spread to many others. It was exactly what he had wished for.
His headstone said all that needed to be said of him:
16 September 1818 – 5 May 1854
Randolph Farragut
Husband, Father, Brother, Son
Returned in Peace from where he began
Randolph would have been delighted to know his death had brought James's back into the circle of family, and that Anna would be drawn closer to William. Even if she had her reservations, she truly did care about William.
Written By: EvelynDawn