Running Out of Night (19 page)

He turned, grinned a tobacca-stained, crag-toothed smile, and said, “Don’t act so high and fine with me, girl. I know your kind. Sneakin around, helpin slaves run away from their rightful owners.”

Mama, I thought, help me to not be afeared.

“The idea,” I said. “I would never help slaves run away from their owners. My father and mother wouldn’t never forgive me for that.”

The dirty man jumped over the side of the wagon, grabbed his rifle, and walked back to me.

“Well, look-a-here,” he said. “You’re right fetchy and fancy in all your fine clothes. I couldn’t see last night when I follered you from the railroad house.” His red-rimmed eyes run all over me, bonnet to boot.

“You and them people in that railroad house are hidin slaves and helpin them north,” he said as he walked closer and lifted my bonnet. “I’ll get me a good reward for turnin you in.” He let go of my bonnet, and it slipped down over my hair.

I were boilin up mad. “I weren’t one of them helpin slaves,” I said angrily. “I don’t even know what a railroad house is. I walked past a few houses, then went to the meetin church for quiet afore my mother and father come to take me to Philadelphia. They goin to find you and send you to jail.”

“If you wasn’t one of them, why’d you hide?” he asked, walkin around me, and pokin at me with the barrel of his rifle.

“I were sittin in the church when you come in. I got scairt. Folks been sayin that men are comin in from Rogue’s Holler and stealin from people. You hurt me, hurt me bad!” I shouted. “My father’ll have your hide!”

He shook his head and walked over to a group of men who had turned our way when I yelled.

Purple asters and goldenrod in the meadow to the east of us swayed and bowed in the breeze. A kettle of buzzards glided overhead in wide, lazy circles. As they flew, their long wings tilted and wobbled like they was goin to fall out of the sky. I felt some relieved that they was too far away to pass their unlucky shadows acrost me.

The loop of birds grew smaller and smaller, until one after another landed on the ground and walked acrost the field to a small hump.

“Shag Honeybone,” a tall, ragged man shouted, “you done us no danged good here. The poster said to bring him back alive, but you whipped him to death.”

Whipped him to death. Who had the dirty man whipped to death?

The fat, chuffle-jawed man beside him, called Micajah by the others, were dressed for a Sunday. He shook a sausage finger and said, “We’re not goin to see a penny for that one, but least we didn’t have to bury him. Them buzzards are takin care of the carcass.” He spit a
wad of tobacca onto the ground and nodded toward the meadow.

Carcass. The man had said
carcass
.

I looked back at the meadow. The big buzzards formed a thick black wall. Their heads dipped and bobbed, dipped and bobbed.

“That old Quaker woman ain’t goin to make it either. Might as well haul her out to the field too.”

That old Quaker woman? Did they mean Auntie Theodate?

The men walked to a wagon, let down the back gate, and dragged out the body of a tiny silver-haired woman.

I heard a voice cry out. I’d know that voice anywhere.

Zenobia run toward the wagon, run till the chains round her ankle jerked her so hard she fell to the ground.

One of the men picked up a shovel that leant against a tree. He walked over to Zenobia and swung.

I screamed afore it come down on her.

T
he lark is a mediator between heaven and hell. If you hear the lark sing, you must utter “I choose heaven” if that is where you wish to go
.

T
he man stopped in midswing.

“Don’t you dare to hit my slave girl!” I shouted. “She’s near breedin age. Can you pay my father a thousand dollars for her?”

Zenobia pushed up from the ground and turned her head toward me. Her golden eyes looked dead.

The man set down the shovel and swiped his sleeve acrost his sweaty face.

“This girl and a boy was took from my mother and father’s farm, stolen from my mother and father’s farm. They been missin near a month.”

“What’s their names?” the shovel-man asked.

“Her given name is Zenobia. Our boy’s name is Brightwell. Did you steal him too?”

At the sound of her name, Zenobia turned toward me.

I’m some sure she wouldn’t never think that I would be all drest up in such finery and right in the middle of this hornets’ nest of trouble. And me claimin to be her owner.

All the men set to talkin. Zenobia were lookin at me, her head cocked to one side. I cupped my hands around my mouth while the men shouted at Shag, and I whistled the lark’s song. From somewhere nearby, a lark answered. Out of habit, and for the pure luck of it, I whispered, “I choose heaven.”

None of the men noticed the lark’s song, but Zenobia nodded her head. She knowed who I were.

Two of the men walked over to Zenobia. Would she remember the name Auntie give me? One man grabbed her by her hair and yanked her head back.

“What is yer name, girl?”

“My name Zenobia. I always has belong to Miss Abigail’s family.” She pointed to me.

I breathed again.

The men walked back to the noisy group and set to talkin again.

The big man who had knocked me out and hauled me to here turned and asked, “Then why was she and the boy hidin at the Quaker woman’s house?”

I walked right up to him, put my hands on my hips the way our neighbor lady Mrs. Stone always done when she
were piqued, and looked up. “I cain’t say why they was in a Quaker house, but they was took from our farm a month ago. Slave traders come through late one night and stole them from us. My father said he thought they wanted to move them further south so’s they could sell them to someone else, but they belongs to us.”

The men huddled round me the way them buzzards ringed the carcass in the meadow.

“A fine pot of boilin pig gravy you got us into here, Shag,” the fat man said, a brown drizzle of chewin tobacca trackin down the stubble on his creased chin.

“Miss, Miss whatever-your-name—why should I believe anythin you’re tellin us?” he asked.

I laid my hands wide open and said, “Because I’m tellin the truth. Now ask yer Mr. Shag Honeybone what he done with my travelin sack. You’ll find your answers inside it.” “Shag, go get her sack and bring it here.”

Shag walked acrost the clearin to the front of his wagon, reached under the seat, and pulled it out.

I were some happy to see it and to see one patched arm of my Hannah doll pokin out of the top.

Shag dropped the sack onto the ground in front of me. The circle of men closed in.

I reached inside, felt for the envelope, and pulled out the letter.

The fat man took it from my hands. I could see his face changin—it moved from mad to worried, then right on back to mad again.

“Shag, look what you done. Now, how we goin to keep on with that slave girl of hers? How we goin to keep on with her?” He pointed his fat finger at me.

My heart dropped. What if he thought to feed both me and Zenobia to them buzzards?

“That old woman’s house is a railroad stop,” Shag said. “Nobody saw me pick up the slaves and the old Quaker woman, and no one saw me take the girl from the town. She’s mine now, and so’s her slaves. I gets the money for them all.”

A
green measuring worm is sent by the devil to measure someone for their coffin
.

“W
e gots to get movin,” the fat man said. “Now load that girl onto your wagon, but put her up front on the seat and tie her feet good. Don’t let it show that you got her tied. We’re nearin an ordinary where there’s bound to be travelers. Further down the road a piece there’s a town. This part of the road will have more folks travelin it.”

“Where’s the rest of my catch?” Shag asked. “I got my list here for keepin track of ones I caught.”

Shag pulled a folded paper out of his pocket and read aloud:

“ ‘Armour Washington. Black. One eye missin, scarred on back.’ ”

“ ‘Enoch Smith, about twenty years old. Light brown. Branded on right cheek with owner’s CW initials.’ ”

“ ‘Zenobia, fourteen years old. Dark brown, amber eyes. Scarred on wrists and back.’ ”

“ ‘Better Smith, about seventeen years old. Mulatto, blue eyes. Whip marks on her legs and back, three fingers missing.’ ”

“ ‘Brightwell, tall, black. Scarred on back and face. Long scar under arm to waist.’ ”

“ ‘Theodate Hague. Abolitionist wanted for aiding fugitive slaves. Five feet tall. Sixty years old. White hair. Blue eyes. Private reward.’ ”

The slaves rose as they heard their names called—exceptin for Brightwell and Auntie.

“Brightwell,” Shag called, “Brightwell.”

Micajah walked over to Shag, spoke to him, and stood there watchin me.

Shag shook his head and said, “Oh, that were the one,” and kept on talkin to the man.

I looked around for Brightwell, but he were nowhere to be seen. Auntie laid on the ground at the foot of a broad walnut tree, her eyes closed, her knees drawed up to her chest.

Shag herded the silent men and girls into the wagon and tied them to the sideboards. Nobody said a word. Zenobia looked over at me, her face wiped clean of feelin. Afore Shag jumped back down, I heard a sound, metal on metal. He had snapped fetters around the left ankle of the
branded man, Enoch, and to the right ankle of the one-eyed man called Armour.

“Pick up your bag,” Shag said. “Get movin.” He thumbed toward the wagon.

I stopped walkin and pointed to Auntie. “Don’t leave that old woman out there. That’s a waste of a reward.”

“She’ll be dead in a day. Might as well leave her out with the other,” one of the men said, noddin toward the meadow. “We cain’t get no reward for catchin her if she don’t make it back.”

“Put that old woman in the wagon with us, and I’ll get her fit,” I said, “and you’ll get your reward. I just need some food, water, and a few herbs.”

The men talked together, then nodded in agreement.

Shag yelled to me to set my travelin bag below the seat. I walked over and slid it underneath. Afore I turned back, I felt inside the hidin place for my knife. When my hands wrapped around the long wooden handle my grandpa had carved, I felt like I were startin to set things to rights. I slid the knife down between the seat and the side of the wagon.

Shag and two other men carried Auntie over and throwed her into the back like a load of firewood. I shuddered when I heard the thud of her hittin the floor.

Auntie never moved—never opened her eyes—never made a sound. I watched Zenobia. A fat horsefly lit on her face. She didn’t blink.

All the men walked to their wagons and climbed in.
The horses stirred and lifted their heads as though already feelin the road home under their hooves. One by one the wagons turned and headed south.

“Afore you tie me up, I want to see if that out there is my parents’ boy Brightwell.” I nodded toward the meadow.

“See fer yerself,” Shag said.

Mama, I thought, give me strength. I reached into my pocket and rubbed my thumb against the buckeye.

I walked through the meadow toward them bald-headed buzzards. They saw me comin, fixed me with their dead, dead eyes, hissed, grunted, and barely moved away from whatever they surrounded. It didn’t take me but a blink to know that it were Brightwell.

“Oh, Brightwell,” I cried. “Oh, oh, Brightwell.” He’d helped me, but there weren’t nobody by his side when he needed help. Now all the help in the world would come too late for him. My heart felt like it were broke into so many little pieces that nothin could ever make it come back together again. How had all the good slipped so far away?

I pushed the tears off my cheeks and turned back toward the wagon. Somehow I’d get even with Shag Honeybone, somehow and soon. I didn’t want to meet Zenobia’s eyes. She’d surely see that my hope were lyin back there in the meadow and give over to that death band of buzzards.

Shag spent some time tyin my feet to the buckboard. Then he covered them with my travelin sack. Nobody lookin would ever know that I were a prisoner too. I spread
my feet as far apart as they would move and struggled to set them loose, but the knots held. Now I knowed how Zenobia and Brightwell and all them others felt when they was all chained and tied up and treated worst than animals.