Chaneysville Incident (62 page)

“John…”

“Shh,” I said. “Listen.” She looked at me. I could see the light from the candle glinting on her eyes. “Listen,” I said again. “Because the time is right: the leaves are off the trees and the ground is covered with snow and the west wind is blowing. Listen.”

So we listened to the sounds the fire made, the sounds of our breathing, the low moaning as the wind went piping through the hollows. We listened for a long time. And then I heard a sound. “Hear them?” I said.

She didn’t say anything.

“Do you?” I said. “Do you hear them?”

“No,” she said.

“That’s because you’re trying,” I said. “You can’t hear them if you try. Don’t try. Just listen.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how to listen that way.”

“Just listen,” I said.

We were silent for a while. “I don’t hear anything,” she said finally.

“They’re there,” I said.

She moved then, sliding her hand across the table to cover mine—not holding it, just touching it lightly, so lightly I could hardly feel it. But I could feel it.

“I know they’re there,” she said. “I can’t hear them. But I know you can.”

“Yes,” I said. “I can. I can hear them as they pass. I can’t see them—it’s misty. But I can hear them. They’re running quietly, like Indians, never breaking the silence, never snapping a twig or turning a stone. You couldn’t hear them at all if it wasn’t for one thing: the breathing. They’re running hard and they’re breathing hard, and that’s what you can hear, that’s the sound that goes floating through the mist. That’s what he hears….”

I stopped and took a sip of the toddy.

“He’s been listening for them,” I said. “He’s been listening for a long time. He started a day ago, when he came down out of the mountains to get supplies before the storm and Nelson Gates told him about the man who had come into town on the eastbound stage and taken rooms at the Rising Sun and started advertising to hire any man with a horse and a dog who knew the South County and didn’t mind earning money tracking down a few slaves—a man named Pettis. He started listening then, wondering if somehow Pettis had found him, and he had gone around the Town, listening to people speculate as to why Pettis would hire all those South County dogs and men when just that morning a pack of mean-looking dogs and meaner-looking men had come up Cumberland Valley and into town, dogs that had the look of slave dogs, men that had the look of slave catchers, and, more important, dogs that were owned and men that were employed by the same man who was doing all the hiring.

“And then he had gone up to the Hill and listened to John Crawley say that he had gotten word that a group of slaves was coming north and had connived to get a local merchant to hire him and Graham to take a load of grain to Iiames’ Mill, on Town Creek, in Southampton Township, and to wait while it was ground, and haul it back, giving them an excuse not only to go into the South County but to stay there and wait for the slaves, and a place to meet them. Then it all made sense. Pettis was there because of the slaves; slave catching was, after all, Pettis’ business. The only thing that didn’t make sense was the hiring of all those extra dogs and men. It was not a major question, but it was a question, and C.K. did not like questions—unless he knew the answers. And so he waited through the night, camping on the hillside at the south end of town, and then rising before sunup and making his way to the town square. There he lurked in the shadows until, in the predawn, he saw the first of the South County men arrive. He kept on waiting, but watching now, too, as more came, men on horseback, some with small packs of dogs. He watched as they milled about, their number swelling, finally completed by the arrival of those mean-looking dogs and meaner-looking men the townspeople had been talking about. It had been getting light then, and C.K. started to leave, but in the last few moments before dawn broke, he saw a man emerge from the Rising Sun, a man dressed in a severe black suit and a white shirt and tie, with a heavy gray riding cloak thrown around his shoulders. Pettis.

“And so C.K. stayed where he was, watching, as Pettis walked to the square and looked over the army he had hired. In a moment a black man came down the street from the direction of the livery stable, riding a mule and leading a well-kept bay stallion. He brought the horse to Pettis; Pettis mounted, sat in the saddle tall and straight, looking around at the other men. And then his eyes fell on C.K.

“He looked at C.K. long and hard, and C.K. looked back, staring into Pettis’ eyes, cold, gray, dead-looking eyes, keeping his body motionless, inwardly cursing the curiosity that had kept him there even in daylight, but knowing it was too late to do anything except freeze and watch and wonder if, somehow, Pettis would recognize him. For a long moment it had been like that, their eyes meeting. And then Pettis nodded his head just slightly, and wheeled his horse and led his army east, out of town.

“C.K. waited again then, because he was shaken, and frightened as he had not been in many years. He wanted to turn and go, to fade back into the safety of the hills. But he could not. Because there were still things he did not know. He did not know why there were so many men and dogs. And he was not sure why Pettis had led his party not to the south, the logical direction, but east.

“And so he followed, not worrying too much at first about Pettis’ route, because Pettis’ men had come up the valley just the day before, and it was perhaps reasonable that Pettis might ignore it for now, and concentrate his forces on the other side of the mountains. But when Pettis reached the Narrows he did not turn south towards Rainsburg as C.K. expected, but crossed the river and headed east on the Chambersburg Pike, towards the town of Bloody Run. Then C.K. began to worry. Because it made no sense for a man to hunt northbound slaves by heading east. No sense at all.

“And so C.K. ran, not bothering to follow Pettis but staying on the south side of the river, making better time on foot than Pettis was making on horseback, reaching the western end of Bloody Run long enough ahead of Pettis to find good cover and take a stand overlooking the road. From there he had watched again as Pettis came, leading his party, stopping them and turning them and taking them down to ford the river.

“Then C.K. stopped wondering and worrying and started doing what he should have been doing all along: thinking. Really thinking. Not just gathering facts and ordering them; not just trying to follow them along;
really
thinking, looking at the overall pattern of things and figuring out what the facts
had
to be.

“The first thing he realized was that he had been underestimating Pettis, thinking that he was just another slave-catcher, and assuming that when Pettis went slave hunting he would go about it as other slave-catchers did. But C.K. knew enough about Pettis’ history to know he wasn’t ordinary. He was careful and he was organized. He was ruthless in his use of force, but he relied more heavily on intelligence—on knowledge. C.K. thought about that.

“And then, suddenly, it all made perfect sense—the extra dogs and men, the route, everything. Because if you assumed that a man was not just hunting slaves, but was hunting with knowledge of the Underground Railroad routes—gotten how, C.K. didn’t know, but somehow gotten—that man would do just exactly what Pettis had done: sweep up the Cumberland Valley covering the most dangerous—and most unlikely—route, and then go east to Bloody Run and south through Black Valley, to the place where the other two routes merged. There a man, if he had enough men and enough dogs, could lay a trap that would be hard to avoid—probably impossible to avoid. If conditions were right, the air warm enough for the dogs to catch scent, the wind blowing out of the south—and it was—there would not even need to be a trap—a simple picket line would do. The slaves would be coming downwind and the dogs would catch the scent and take trail. The slaves would hear the dogs ahead of them and try to turn, but there would be more dogs and more men.

“It would be over then—the runaways would have no chance. Oh, they could run back the way they had come, but they would be running into the wind, leaving not only scent but trail, and they would be heading south, running away from the very thing that had kept them going. And so, one by one, they would fall. The weak-willed would fall first, even if they were young and strong—the will would be more important than youth or strength. Then the weak would fall, the very old and the very young. Then the chase would grow hotter, for what would be left after those had fallen were the ones that had to be caught: the strong-willed and the strong-bodied; the slaves who were not really slaves; the dangerous ones. It would go on for a while. But sooner or later, in an hour, perhaps, or two, or three, they would start to fall. Or perhaps they would turn at bay when they could run no more, turn and try to hide. There would be bloodhounds; they would not hide for long. Those that ran on would be slowing, nearing exhaustion, would see the hopelessness of it all, and just stop and stand and wait. That would be the end of it. Unless there was one. Sometimes there was one, one who ran on when everything—the pain and the sound of pursuit drawing near, everything—said to stop and give in. If it was a man, it was an older man, thin and wiry, a man judged not a good field hand at all. But more likely it was a woman, inured to pain by the agony of childbirth, rich in stamina, strong in will. Those things could make a difference. But not forever. Eventually she, too, would be taken, when even her stamina was gone, when even she felt the pain. She would still run, but she would run awkwardly, without grace or dignity, stumbling now as the panic took her, weaving from side to side as she turned to look over her shoulder at the galloping horses, the clods of earth flying up from the hooves, at the men crouched low in the saddle, ropes swinging in their hands. It would not be the men who took her, though. It would be the dogs that would come running, sleek and swift and low to the ground, making no sound, not even when they leaped and took her in the thigh or the arm and brought her slamming down. Then they would bay to call the hunters, their jaws wide, dripping saliva and, perhaps, a little blood.

“That was how it would end. And there was nothing C.K. could do about it. It was not even a question of the danger; there was simply nothing he could do. Nothing any man armed only with a pistol could do against thirty men and sixty dogs and F. H. Pettis, who knew the routes of the Railroad and God alone knew what else.

“And then C.K. realized that he, too, knew what else—Pettis knew about Crawley and Graham. Or soon would know. Because when the slaves were taken Pettis would surely question them, and learn about the mill. That much wouldn’t matter, since the miller knew nothing, was probably as hungry for a reward as anybody. But Pettis would have to go to the mill to find that out, and when he arrived there he would find Crawley and Graham, two black men in the South County, at the very mill that was the destination of runaway slaves. It would be proof enough. But at least there was something C.K. could do about that; he could try to intercept Crawley and Graham and warn them away. And so he stayed where he was, thinking it through, figuring their route and their strategy.

“They would have left town already. They would have to leave early, because they would want to give the impression that they fully intended to make the trip to Southampton and back in a single day. But somewhere they would have to lose time, because they would want to arrive at the mill so late in the afternoon that they would have a perfect excuse to wait out the night. But they could not simply slow down or stop they would have to come up with something to explain their late arrival….

“Then C.K. saw their plan, saw it as if it were one of his own: the early start, with them not only giving the appearance of speed but actually hurrying, going faster than any sane man would go, making an accident not only plausible but likely; a mad dash through Rainsburg, attracting attention by its recklessness, then, somewhere on the mountain, away from the eyes of the curious, sometime between eleven o’clock and noon, the faking of the inevitable accident, perhaps putting the wagon into a gully, and then making a good show of working feverishly to get it out, but nevertheless taking a long time about it. That was what would save them. Because having figured that much out, C.K. could run to meet them, cut them off, warn them, turn them back. And so he turned away from the river and headed south along the valley, trotting easily, taking his time, keeping alert so that he would not accidentally catch up to Pettis.

“By noon he had reached the forks and was halfway up the mountain, climbing slowly because there was no need to hurry—he could not miss Crawley and Graham. If he felt any urgency, it was because of the weather. As he had come down the valley he had seen the high cirrus twisted by a rising south wind, seen banks of low gray storm clouds come rolling up the valley.

“As he climbed the mountain, he speculated as to what effect the weather would have on Pettis’ plans. The wind would be right for the picket line, but as soon as the sun went down the air would chill rapidly; it would be hard for the dogs to catch any scent. It was even possible that the runaways might slip by in the night. They would have their chance to escape then. But it was not likely that they would. Because sometime that day, possibly that afternoon, the snow would begin to fall, and the tracks in the snow would be plain to the eye. If it did not start until after dark, Pettis could simply abandon the picket line, send his men riding back and forth across the valley with torches, until one of them saw the trail. The runaways might still have a chance, maybe have enough of a lead to make a rescue possible. In any case, C.K. would have no part of it; it would be far too dangerous. For him to be taken would be bad, but for him to be taken by F. H. Pettis would destroy the work of a lifetime.

“He reached the top of the mountain and started down the other slide, beginning to wonder, now, where Crawley and Graham were. It was possible that they had decided to fake their delay closer to Rainsburg, perhaps in the town itself, in order to provide themselves with witnesses. It would be an extreme measure, but the presence of a man like Pettis called for such measures. And so he went on, trotting quickly on the downgrade, filling the time with more speculation: what he would do if he wanted to rescue the runaways. The plans he came up with were ridiculous. One called for him to kidnap Pettis; that, he judged, was the least insane. Another called for him to start a forest fire and blanket the valley with smoke, destroying the dogs’ abilities to scent and the men’s to see. Another called for him to intercept the fugitives and lead them south and then east, over the mountains to McConnellsburg and perhaps Chambersburg, before turning north again; that one could even work—all he would have to do was to manage to find a group of slaves who would be busily engaged in avoiding any kind of detection.