Song Yet Sung (9 page)

—Said you was two-headed, did she?

—How'd you know?

In the thin light of the lantern, she saw him smile grimly.

—So it really is you, he said.

She watched his head turn to glance back over the fence towards the swamp from which he'd come, then back to her.

—How did you come here? he asked.

She was so relieved to hear the caring in his voice, a slice of kindness, from an actual living person, she felt an almost irresistible urge to pour her heart out to him, to recount the terrible things she'd done and seen, but she could not bring herself to utter the words. Instead she said, I'm more lost than I ever was.

—You is hot, he said. She is looking all over for you.

—Who?

—Patty Cannon. You cost her big money. Set fourteen slaves loose.

—I didn't mean to. They left on their own. Little George was at me.

—Don't waste breath on him. He's deader'n yesterday's beer.

—Where am I? she asked.

—Dorchester County. Joya's Neck. On the western side of it. This is the Sullivans' land. Miss Kathleen got four slaves here, body and soul.

—God Almighty, Liz said, exasperated. Six weeks running and I ain't gone nowhere.

—You from Spocott House, ain't you.

—You know it?

—No, but I know you. Everybody knows the Dreamer. Tell me one of your dreams, he said excitedly, wrapping his hands around his knees. Tell me about tomorrow!

She turned away, desolate.

—I can't tell you 'bout nothing, she said.

—That ain't what I heard, he said.

—I'm so tired, she said, I would kill myself if I could.

—Stand up and walk in the clear, and you'll get all the help you want that way, he said. From one wood to the other, they hunting you. Patrols. Constables, and Miss Patty too. They ain't gonna quit till they're sure you're dead or crossed north. They making it difficult for everybody. Even if you killed yourself, you wouldn't make it no easier on the colored here.

He paused for a moment, breathing deeply.

—Now, there's a way out this county, he said. I know it.

—I ain't getting on the gospel train, Liz said.

—Girl, you got a message. Only way to tell it is to get free up north!

—Freedom ain't up north, she said.

—That's the first time I ever heard that.

—I dreamed it, she said. I dreamed of freedom. And she told him of her dreams,
of young black men in great cities who shot one another from horseless carriages, and of fat children who cried of starvation and ran from books like they were poison. She told of white schoolchildren gathered around magic boxes that bore the sorrowful stories of the colored man's past enslavement and the children weeping real tears. She told of black women appearing in front of illuminated boxes that could be seen far distant, their wonderful nappy hair clipped and pressed and shaped dozens of different ways, and of whites who laughed with joy and smiled with glee at being called nigger.

He listened in silence, his head bowed, until she finished.

—I'm trying to put them thoughts away from me, she said.

—You ought not to, he said. What you say is over my head, but God Almighty's got an answer for them thoughts.

—There's something else, Liz said. My dreams keep changing. They're different now. They come towards me some kind of new way each time. And I don't feel well. I got powerful headaches. Seems like everything I see and touch is trying to speak to me. These woods, these creatures living in this swamp and low-lying land. I don't much like it.

He sat for a moment, his head bowed in thought.

—Tell you what, he said. There's a man I know maybe can tell you what them dreams mean.

He opened his calico sack and handed her a few things. A pair of pants. Some fried meat, several roots, and a small leather sack to hold water.

—Me or my nephew will be back in a couple of days, to bring you a few more things to keep you warm and more food. Ain't nobody gonna find you here. This old Indian burial ground's been timbered long ago.

—Burial ground?

—You ain't got to stay here more than a day or two, he said.

—I can't stay out here five minutes by myself, she said.

He placed a hand on her shoulder.

—Ain't no harm gonna come to you here, he said. You got a special purpose, miss. You got to sit tight, till I can get a great man to see you.

—Who is he? Who are you?

The man stood.

—I got to go. One more thing. Who's your ma and pa at Spocott?

—Got none. My uncle Hewitt raised me. He's dead now. He raised five altogether. Captain wanted Uncle Hewitt to raise more. But he wouldn't. Uncle Hewitt took no more than five. Everything he done was in fives. Something about that number he liked. Even this…

She showed him the hemp rope, tied in five knots.

—I seen him tie a rope like this many a day.

The man knelt, his face furrowed in keen interest.

—Where'd you get that from? he asked.

—From a colored man in the woods.

—What man?

—Don't know. Had hair out to here. Didn't say a word to me. He gave me this jacket. These shoes. Something to eat.

—Did he now, the man said.

—Surely did.

—You set eyes on him?

—Not really, she said. He was hidden.

The man nodded slowly.

—That was old Woolman, he said. I thought he was dead. Lives out in Sinking Swamp, way beyond Cook's Point. Said to have children who eat each other. Got an alligator named Gar.

—Didn't see no alligator. Seen his boy. Helped him out a muskrat trap.

—Well, I know now you surely got a purpose, the man said.

—Can you tell me 'bout some words?

—What words?

—
The coach wrench turns the wagon wheel. Tie the wedding knot five times. Sing the second part of the song twice. Chance is an instrument of God. Them words.

—Where'd you hear that?

—From the Woman with No Name. She said there was a song that ain't been sung yet.

He rose to leave.

—You just set here and wait. Put them trousers on and roll up the left leg. Anybody come along here, if their left trouser leg ain't rolled up, git down the road or wake up that knife, one. If the white man catches you and forces you to it, g'wan and turn me in, but don't give up my nephew. You do that, I'll kill you myself, and I'll find whoever you care about and kill them too. There ain't no time for foolishness now. You in it now. You got to stay in it.

He departed.

O
n the main entry to the courthouse of Cambridge City, a young colored boy in a white shirt, bearing a hammer and nails, posted a sign above the doorway. It read:

SLAVES AND FREEMEN. JOIN THE FREE AFRICAN PARTY.
METHODIST MEETING TO ORGANIZE THE RETURN OF FREE COLOREDS
AND MANUMITTED SLAVES TO AFRICA. FOOD AND DRINK. CHILDREN WELCOME.
MEET AT WILFRED'S TAVERN ON PLANTER'S PIKE IN SEAFORD.
SATURDAY EVENING
.

The boy stepped back to regard his handiwork. A white man with a long scar across his face, standing next to him, nodded his approval.

—That's good, Eb, Joe Johnson said.

—What do it say, Eb asked.

—It says free coloreds come on down to Patty's house.

The boy smiled.

—You reckon anybody gonna come?

Joe turned away. He saw no point in mentioning to Eb that this was the manner in which he'd lured Eb's mother in and sold her off before he knew who she was. The boy wouldn't understand it anyway. Patty had raised him part of the time in a backyard, at times on a chain, until Joe intervened.

The two walked across the road and watched as several coloreds walked by the sign, not bothering to look up. A tall, shoeless colored man dressed in tattered clothing, obviously deranged, waddled in front of the sign and stopped at it. The crazed Negro stared at the sign, raised his arms, and quacked like a duck. Several passersby laughed. One man clapped him on the shoulder. Obviously he was a town fixture.

—How's somebody like him gonna read it? Eb said.

—Don't worry 'bout that long-headed nut, Joe said.

—Maybe we ought to put it in a different place, Eb said, so we can be sure the rest of 'em see it.

—They'll know what it is, Joe said, waving his hand. What you worried about?

—I don't want to make Miss Patty mad again.

Seeing the worried look on the boy's face made Joe feel a little sorry for the kid, but not that sorry. He was a nigger after all, and they felt things differently. Still, he understood the fear. Patty was mad, and that was never pleasant. This was as bad as he'd seen it. She had beat the living daylights out of the kid the night before, ostensibly because the biscuits she'd ordered him to bake weren't to her liking. But Joe knew better. She was enraged about Big Linus. And that wasn't the worst of it. She owed on those fourteen souls. She had borrowed heavily against them from States Tipton, a deadly slave trader from Alabama. States was due back by boat as soon as the spring broke, which was just about now. To top it off, Patty had killed another southern slave trader two years previous, a man from Mississippi who had rested overnight at their tavern. The man had done nothing more than arrive at a time when Patty was broke and reveal that he had no family and was traveling alone with a wad of cash and gold. Patty charmed him, fed him a meal, implied they'd have a long night together, then stole around to an open window and greased him in the back while he ate. Joe helped her bury him in the yard, where they had already hidden the body of several Negroes they'd disposed of in years past for various reasons. Dead Negroes never caused suspicion, Joe knew, but the disappearance of the Mississippi trader had brought suspicion on them all, and not just from the local constables, either. States Tipton himself had pointedly asked about it.

Joe often wondered how he'd gotten himself in this deep. The girl he'd married, Maddy, was nothing like the mother. Maddy knitted his socks, darned his pants, helped him make decisions. Together they built his business, which began as an honest tavern servicing travelers who wanted a meal and a bed. Maddy was a temperate woman, calm and patient, kind in ways her mother was not. But like most things in Joe's life, including his parents, she was gone too soon. Swept away by illness. Now there was no one to make decisions for him. Patty, technically, was not an owner of his tavern, but she'd thrown a lot of money at it. Without her, he'd be back to farming, or worse, oystering, which he detested. It was Patty who suggested they take in slave traders and their coffles, since other tavern owners refused them. Maddy, though ill, was still alive then, and she had not liked it. She had implied that perhaps her mother was not all that she appeared to be—that her mother might have had something to do with her late father's demise. But Maddy was drifting towards death at the time, and Joe's grief was so great he couldn't think straight. He was never good at making decisions anyway. Once Maddy was gone, Patty took over, suggesting they nip a slave or two from here and there and sell them south at profit. That was seven years ago. Now he was in it full, with blood on his hands and money in his pocket.

He nudged the boy.

—Go on over to the old colored woman's bakery past the courthouse, he said. See what you hear. And don't say nothing to nobody.

—Okay, Eb said.

He watched the boy step happily across the street. He gave him another year or two before Patty sold him to New Orleans. Too bad. He liked the boy. He sighed, fingering the coins in his pocket.

He crossed the street and headed towards the general store, where Patty and the others were gathering supplies. When he arrived Stanton, Odgin, and Hodge were standing outside the store, looking anxious.

—Can't y'all spread out? he asked. You want the sheriff asking questions?

Odgin nodded towards the store behind him.

—She's vexing the man in there.

Through the window, Joe saw Patty inside, talking to the clerk. He entered.

At issue were two barrels of pork, a pair of boots, and a saddle on the countertop. The clerk was a Hebrew and disagreeable.

—I can give one hogshead of pork on credit, Joe heard him say. But the boots and saddles, I can't bear them.

—You saying my credit ain't good here no more? Patty said.

The man smiled. Joe noticed the man's wife in the corner, sorting vegetables, watching silently.

—You're not hearing me, the merchant said. I said I can't bear it. The saddle and boots is spoken for already.

Joe regarded the old Hebrew and grew suspicious. The man did not seem to know who Patty was. Either that or he was armed. Joe doubted it.

Patty was steamed. She stepped close enough to the man so that their faces were almost touching. Her pretty black eyes, with a snarky look about them, glared in. She smiled broadly. Her face was a sight to behold. Anger swirled behind her pinched mouth. The pretty black eyes roared fury. She was a hurricane.

—You ought not to talk out both sides of your mouth, she said.

The man's smile disappeared and reluctance, then fear, slowly folded into his face. He turned to an old, bent colored man behind the counter.

—Clarence, put these two barrels of pork, the boots, and the saddle inside Miss Patty's wagon. Throw in a bag of potatoes too, he said.

He turned to Patty, smiling grimly.

—There you are, he said.

The colored worker silently picked up a barrel of pork and headed outside with it, loading it on the wagon and coming back inside for the rest.

Patty was still staring at the merchant, furious, when Joe approached. The man fidgeted nervously, picking at his nails.

—Morning, the merchant said to Joe.

Joe didn't even bother to look at the man. He was concerned about Patty. He was afraid she'd pull out her heater and blow out the man's spark, right there in the dead center of Cambridge City. She seemed to be losing control more and more. It would not do for her to kill this man and cause a ruckus here. They were too far from home. They didn't have the friends here that they had in their hometown of Johnson's Crossing, twenty-five miles away.

—Patty, we're finished up here, he said. Let's lift one at the saloon next door.

Patty stared at the man a long time.

—I'll remember your favor for the next time, she said. She turned and stalked out of the store, pushing aside crates as she left.

Joe approached the merchant and offered a dollar.

—For your troubles, he said.

The merchant shook his head.

—This ain't for the pork or none of that. Just a little something for your pains, Joe said.

—I don't want it, the merchant said.

The wife said something to the man that Joe didn't understand. That made Joe even more nervous. He didn't like Cambridge. Too many outsiders. Germans. Hebrews. Foreigners speaking funny languages. Unhappy constables. Even abolitionists posing as slave traders. In the world of trading cash for human souls, a man had to know the territory. These were constant worries. The world was changing too fast for him. The Methodists had made it tight for slave owners in Cambridge. He felt better back in Caroline County.

—How much for that stuff altogether if I paid it now? Joe asked.

—Thirteen dollars total.

Joe reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad, and counted off the money.

—That squares us. Feel better?

The merchant nodded, but he clearly wasn't convinced.

—By the way, Joe said to the merchant. We are on the lookout for a couple of runaway niggers. One's a girl. Deep brown colored. Seen one like that around here?

—I don't know one from the other, the old Hebrew said.

Joe glared at him.

—I bet you don't, he said.

He backed out the door and let it close behind him. Patty and the others were standing outside at the wagon.

—We got no friends here, he said.

—Stop fretting, Patty said. We got a lead. A nigger boy was brought into the doctor here with a wound to his foot. Got caught in a muskrat trap out near Blackwater Creek. That's out on the Neck district. That's in our direction.

—So what?

—Said a pretty nigger girl helped him. Girl had a wound to the face.

—He said it?

—Naw. They put the boy in county jail. Colored woman in his cell got it out of him.

—How'd you hear all this?

—Somebody saw the pa outside the doctor's office, trying to leave the boy there. The pa looks like a monkey. Real beast. Filthy. Hair looked like a wool patch. A couple of deputies chased him towards Blackwater Creek. Said he's wanted for killing somebody. That gives us a place to look.

—Who's out there on Blackwater Creek? Joe asked.

—Ain't but two families. Gables is out there. They friendly to us. And the Sullivans. They're not. They're watermen. Probably Methodists. Me and Odgin'll ride out there. Stanton stays here with the wagon and Eb. You too.

—Why I got to stay here?

She cast a quick glance at Stanton and Odgin, standing by the horses and wagon.

—I want you to watch Stanton, she said softly. I don't trust him.

—I ain't come all this way to baby him and feed him boiled grits, Joe said. He ain't going nowhere till he gets his money.

—How do I know he ain't gonna catch the girl and carry her back to Spocott? Patty said. The old man got a big reward out on her now.

—Joe frowned and followed Patty towards the others. He watched Odgin mount. Patty did the same. Stanton watched them grimly.

—It's too hot around here for us, Joe said. They could put the lock on us.

Patty grunted and swung her horse around. We got five or six slave keepers who'll speak to our favor, she said. Ones who we sold goods to, forged papers for, done some documents to their favor, moved some niggers on their behalf. We could spill the beans on them. Just be quiet and watch out. Somebody said Spocott hired a slave catcher to run down that girl.

—Who?

—Heard it might be the Gimp.

Joe tried to keep the alarmed look off his face. The Gimp's outta the game, he said.

—He better be. I ain't forgot the boathouse at Lloyd's Landing.

Joe nodded. He wanted to forget that one too.

—What do we do if he shows?

Patty looked across the muddy town plaza, shielding her eyes from the sun.

—Just keep your gun oiled and your eyes peeled, she said. Look around here for a couple of days. We'll be back on Saturday. That's five days from now. If we ain't here by Saturday, ride out towards Blackwater Creek.

—You want us to set here five days?

—I didn't say set. I said look out. Go see Big Linus's owner, Gables. He's living out towards Hills Point. Cut a deal if you can. Tell him we'll run down that nigger and sell him off if he wants. We'll take our piece off the top.

—That nigger's dead!

—He don't know that. Long as he thinks his money's alive, he'll help us. Maybe he'll tell us where that nigger was going when we caught him. He wasn't going north when we got him, was he? He was going someplace else. Likely some of our other ones gone where he's gone.

She dug her heels into her horse and rode off, Odgin following.