Free On Track for Treasure by Wendy McClure

were sitting cross-legged in the bed of the Careys’ hay wagon as it bounced gently along. For most of the drive, they silently took in the new scenery, with the exception of Nicky, who’d had a small coughing fit, and Anka, who softly hummed a song to herself. Even George and Harold seemed to understand that they were to be on their best and quietest behavior now. Frances couldn’t help but notice the difference between Jack, who wore a wary expression and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Sarah, who kept smoothing her hair and wiping George’s chin with her handkerchief.
    Reverend Carey steered the horse team onto a smaller road, past a field full of short, scrubby trees. It was the apple orchard, Frances guessed, judging from the way the trees were lined up in neat rows. She remembered Alexander talking about California and how you could pick oranges from the side of the road. This was
almost
as good as that, she thought. For now, at least.
    â€œWhich house is yours?” Frances heard Jack ask Mrs. Carey as the wagon approached a cluster of small board-and-batten houses.
    â€œOh, the sharecropping farmers live there,” Mrs. Carey replied. “They work the oat fields.”
    Reverend Carey turned to look back at the children. “This used to be a plantation,” he explained. “My grandfather built it, and my father ran it after he died. He freed the slaves long ago, of course. Now I’m working to free mankind from other evils.”
    The closer the wagon got, the more Frances could see how small the houses were. Maybe the sharecroppers weren’t slaves, Frances thought, but they still looked awfully poor. On the porch of the nearest house were two women, one wringing something into a washtub, the other with a baby on her hip. They nodded hello as the wagon passed.
    Sarah was staring so intensely at the women she had to turn in her seat to keep them in her sight.
    â€œStop it,” Frances whispered. “You act like you’ve never seen black people before.”
    Sarah turned red. “I have. Just . . . not at the orphanage.” Frances remembered that Sarah had never lived anywhere besides the Home for Destitute Children. It was true that there were mostly white children in the New York orphanages—there was a separate home for black orphans in Harlem. Frances and Harold had been on their own in the city before taking refuge at the Howland Mission and Children’s Home, and while it had been rough, Frances realized, at least they’d known early on that there were all kinds of people in the world.
    The wagon finally stopped between a white barn and a two-story brick house. The house was old and large but unadorned—to Frances it seemed like a big box with a roof, like the kind of house Harold would draw when he was supposed to be practicing his letters. Behind the house was a tiny clapboard chapel, and a little farther beyond that were the sharecroppers’ houses.
    â€œIs that where we’re going to live?” George asked loudly as the children climbed out of the wagon. He pointed at the brick house, gazing up at its tall windows.
    Reverend Carey paused before answering. “That will be up to you, children. We’ll discuss it at supper. But you are all welcome to take a look inside.”
    George required no further invitation. Frances couldn’t believe how quickly he clambered up the front steps. Nicky and Anka and Sarah weren’t far behind.
    Frances steadied herself and took Harold’s hand. Together, they followed Alexander and Jack up to the porch. But instead of going through the door, the boys hung back, their hands in their pockets.
    â€œAren’t you going in?” she asked them.
    Alexander shrugged. “Nah.”
    â€œIt’s just a house,” said Jack.
    Harold pulled on her hand; he wanted to go inside. Truthfully, Frances was curious, too. So they stepped over the polished wood