Chasing the North Star (21 page)

“Didn't know I had a pistol, did they, boy?” the drunk man said, chuckling.

The second shot was bright as a flash of lightning, and the jail shook with the report. The bullet hit the wall somewhere above the cot, for Jonah heard the thunk close to his head. He crawled as quietly as he could a few feet away.

“Are you scared?” the man said. “Do you think the devil's coming after you?”

The third blast came from even closer, and Jonah knew the drunk man was reaching through the bars of his cage and firing. Dirt kicked up by the bullet hit his face and his ears rang as if he was deafened. The drunk man was quiet for a full minute. “Won't let me see my children, won't let me in my house,” he muttered and began to sob again. If he was holding a regular six-shooter, he had three more shots. Jonah began crawling to the other side of the cell.

“You trying to hide from old George?” the man called. “I ain't got nothing to lose.”

Jonah lay as flat as he could, as far away as he could.

The next shot must have gone over his head, for he felt the wind and heard the sickening buzz at the same instant he saw the flash. If the man was not so drunk, he would already have killed him. Jonah crawled halfway back toward the cot.

“Time to die, black boy,” the drunk man said.

Jonah hoped the sound of the shots would bring help. Surely the sheriff would hear and come running. But all was quiet around the jail, and Jonah realized that a small building of logs could muffle almost any sound inside it. The crack of the shots might not even be noticed by those sleeping in nearby houses. The fifth shot hit something metal, and the cage rang like it had been slammed by a sledgehammer. The bullet must have ricocheted because something crashed on the far wall of the jail.

“I'll send you to hell!” the man shouted. He fired again, and this time the bullet passed through the blanket near Jonah's waist. He felt he'd been punched there, but when he touched the spot he found no wetness, only torn flannel. The flesh there ached, as if it had been bruised, but there was no blood. It was the last shot in the pistol, if the man had a six-shooter. Jonah listened for sounds of reloading.

“You black bastard,” the man said. “Are you dead?”

Jonah lay completely still. He'd crawled to the door of the cage and waited, hoping the drunk man had no more bullets. He listened and heard a kind of whimper. The room smelled of burned powder and urine. The whimper turned into a moan and a growl, and he thought the drunk man was going to scream out. But instead he vomited. The drunk man puked long and hard, and drops splashed all the way across the aisle into Jonah's cage. The room now smelled of rancid alcohol and sour vomit.

Jonah pushed himself away from the bars. He touched the door of the cage and felt it give a little. He pushed again and it gave a little more. Had the gate never been latched? He'd seen Sheriff Watkins lock the door. It was too good to be true! He pushed the gate again and it opened farther. He pushed it quietly open. One of the wild shots must have hit the lock and broken it. There was no other way to explain the unlocked door. A bullet had hit the lock just right to break the bolt.

Jonah stood up as quietly as he could and pushed the door all the way open. He listened and noted the puking had stopped. He waited and thought what he might do if the entrance to the log jail was locked. Just getting out of the cage might do him no good. A snore came from the other cell, and then another. The drunk man must have passed out in his own vomit. Jonah tried to remember what the aisle in the jail looked like. There was a fireplace at the end opposite the door and nothing but a rough wooden table in between. Jonah tiptoed out into the aisle and tried the entrance door. Sure enough, it was locked and the door was made of heavy planks. It would be impossible for one man to shove the door down. In the dark he couldn't tell exactly what kind of lock was on the door. It was likely a padlock on the outside.

The man in the other cell murmured and rolled over. “Ain't got no right,” he muttered again. Whatever he decided to do, Jonah knew he should have his clothes and shoes on. He slipped back into the cell and found his shoes beneath the cot. The shoes were still damp but he laced them on and sat thinking. His pants and shirt were mostly dry and he slipped those on. The jacket was still damp. He hung it on the edge of the cot. He wondered if he could reach the roof if he stood on the table. Without an axe to chop through the planks and shakes, it was impossible to get out that way.

It occurred to Jonah that Sheriff Watkins might have left the key in the lock of the drunk man's cell. It was unlikely he had, but was still a possibility. Jonah eased his way out of the cell and across the aisle. For some reason he thought the key would be there, to let the drunk man out in the morning. But there was nothing in the keyhole and the door was locked firm. And then Jonah remembered that even if the key had been there it almost certainly would not have opened the entrance lock. He'd been foolish to even think of it.

As he stood in the aisle and cursed his silliness, Jonah saw there was gray at the window. Daylight was not far away. If he was going to make an escape in the dark, his time was running out. No doubt Sheriff Watkins would get an answer to his telegram today. He might even get a message from the sheriff of Greenville County, if Mr. Wells or Miss Linda had tipped off the sheriff in Roanoke. In the first light Jonah looked toward the fireplace at the other end of the walkway. It was cold and dark, but Jonah suddenly recalled he'd seen a poker and ash shovel beside the fireplace. With the poker he might be able to pry shingles loose from the roof, or even break the lock on the entrance door.

Jonah walked quietly to the fireplace and found the iron tools. The man in the other cell snorted and called out in his sleep like someone lost. With the poker Jonah might hit the sheriff or deputy when they came back to the jail. He would have to find a place to insert the poker into the door to break it open. When Jonah lifted the ash shovel he saw how heavy and strong it was. With such a shovel he might dig under the wall of the log jail. All he needed was a hole deep enough to slip through. He took the shovel into his cell and began digging at the bottom of the lowest log. The dirt was hard at the top, but soon as he cut through the packed crust the ground got softer. He dug in little strokes, removing about a cupful of clay at a time. As he worked it got light enough to see into the corners of the cell.

If the drunk man woke and saw Jonah digging he would call out. He might even have more ammunition for his revolver. He seemed like a man who would not mind shooting an escaped slave. If he merely wounded Jonah, he might be able to collect the reward money for his return. Jonah couldn't tell exactly what time it was. Sheriff Watkins had said he'd come and release the drunk man in the morning. But that could mean any time between six and noon. Jonah placed each shovelful of dirt under the cot, and he hung the blanket over the edge of the cot so the pile of clay was hidden. The shovel was not made for cutting into earth, but to scoop soft ashes off the floor of a fireplace. He reached the bottom of the sill log. The hole would have to be a foot deeper under the sill and maybe eighteen inches wide. The shovel blade banged on the log.

The man in the other cell grunted and pulled himself up off the floor. Jonah froze and waited. The man wiped his mouth and cleaned the vomit off his cheek with the tail of his shirt. He picked up the pistol and looked at its chambers. “Did I shoot this thing?” he said.

“Yes, sir, you did,” Jonah said.

“Did I shoot at you?”

“You never hit me, sir.”

The man stood and brushed off his clothes. The jail smelled of puke and piss. “I'm sorry,” he said and walked to the window. He looked out as though expecting to see someone coming.

“I make a nuisance of myself when I shake hands with the bottle,” he said. He sounded entirely different from the man who'd yelled at Jonah and tried to shoot him.

“You was awful drunk,” Jonah said.

“Yes, that I was,” the man said. “I say things I don't mean when I'm in that condition. And I do things I don't mean.” Jonah wondered if the man could remember what he'd hollered in the dark.

The man walked to the bars and looked at the open door of Jonah's cage. “Did I do that?” he said.

“A bullet blowed away the lock,” Jonah said.

“Watkins will make me pay,” the man said. He stared into Jonah's cell and saw the shovel in Jonah's hands. Even in the shadows he could see the fresh dirt under the cot.

“You go right ahead, son,” the man said. “Don't let me stop you. I'm nobody to stop anyone.”

Jonah knew that drunks often feel remorse when they sober up, sorry for the trouble and spectacle they've made. But soon as they begin to feel better they get angry and mean again.

“Go ahead, boy, dig yourself out of here,” the man said. He ran his hand through his hair and sat down on his cot. Since the man had already seen him with the shovel, Jonah saw no reason to stop digging. If he could dig his way out before the sheriff came, it was worth trying. If not, he would be found with the shovel anyway. Jonah began shoveling at the clay again, but soon there were footsteps outside. Jonah slid the ash shovel under the cot as a key was fitted in the outside lock. The door swung open and the sheriff stepped inside and a deputy followed with a tray. Two mugs of coffee smoked on the tray and two plates of grits and biscuits.

“What is this?” Sheriff Watkins said when he saw Jonah's door open and Jonah standing by his cot.

“It's my fault,” the man in the other cell said and pointed to the pistol in his belt. “I'm afraid I scared this boy pretty bad.”

The sheriff looked at the broken lock where the catch had been blown away.

“George, you're a damn fool,” the sheriff said to the man in the other cell. “One of these days you're going to get yourself hanged.”

“I'm awful sorry, Sheriff.”

“Are you hurt, boy?” the sheriff said to Jonah.

“No, sir, but he done shot all over the jail.”

“Give me that gun,” the sheriff said. The man named George handed the sheriff the six-shooter. The deputy passed Jonah a plate and cup of coffee. The grits had a pool of butter right in the middle. The two biscuits were big as saucers. Jonah sat down on the cot and placed the plate on his lap.

“I'm not hungry,” the man in the other cage said. “But I'll take some coffee.”

The deputy set the second plate just inside Jonah's cell and took the second mug to George.

“You'll have to pay for this,” the sheriff said to George.

“I know, Sheriff—I know.”

The sheriff sent the deputy for a chain and padlock for the door of Jonah's cage. He hadn't noticed the shovel missing from the fireplace at the other end of the aisle. Jonah figured it was only a matter of time until George told the sheriff that he'd seen Jonah digging. No white man, even a remorseful drunk, was going to let a runaway slave escape from custody, especially if there was a reward for him. As soon as he was out of earshot, George would tell. Then they'd whip Jonah and put him in chains.

Worried as he was, Jonah ate the grits anyway. The biscuits were warm and the butter sweet and the coffee dark and rich. Whatever happened, he needed to fill his belly.

“You can have this plate, too,” the sheriff said and pointed to the second plate on the floor.

“Thank you, sir,” Jonah said. The more danger he was in, the more important it was to have good manners. When the deputy returned with the chain and padlock, they closed Jonah's door and wrapped it shut.

“George, you ought to be ashamed,” the sheriff said, as he opened the other cell and led the prisoner out.

“I am ashamed,” George said. “I'm awful ashamed.”

When they were gone Jonah finished the first plate of grits and picked up the second. He began to eat slowly, chewing and cherishing every bite. He thought each bite might be his last for a long time. He got half the second plate eaten, and then three-quarters. He ate the last biscuit. He was getting full. He listened for footsteps. No one came. After he finished the second plate, Jonah sat on the cot feeling full and lazy. He sipped the last of the coffee and wondered how the sheriff would punish him for digging the hole. Sheriff Watkins had fed him better than he expected, but once he was angered he might be just as mean as he'd been kind before. That was the way with white men: the best of them might do the meanest things.

Jonah waited a long time, and then he used the piss bucket. Now the jail smelled like shit as well as vomit and piss. He sat back down on the cot and began to be sleepy. The drunk man had kept him awake much of the night. He was tired from worry and digging. It wouldn't hurt to lie down and rest, waiting for the sheriff to come with manacles and chains. Jonah stretched out on the cot and covered himself with a gray blanket. As he slept he dreamed of digging a tunnel. At the other end of the tunnel was a river. Beyond the river lay another country.

It was a key in the lock that awakened him. Jonah sat up, and a deputy came inside carrying a mug and a piece of cornbread on a plate.

“Sheriff said since you had two plates this morning you don't get nothing but coffee and cornbread for dinner,” the deputy said.

“That will be fine,” Jonah said.

Jonah looked for a whip or chain in the deputy's hand, but he carried only a tray. The deputy handed the plate and mug through the door to Jonah and then he unlocked the padlock and took the dirty plates and mug. The deputy smelled the shit and looked at the chamber bucket.

“I'll bring a rag and hot water and you can clean this place up,” he said. “Sheriff don't want no puke in his jail.”

“Yes, sir,” Jonah said.

“Your shit smells worse than regular shit,” the deputy said. But he took the chamber bucket outside and dumped it, then brought it back into the cell.