The Land (34 page)

“What do you suggest, then?”

Mitchell looked away for a moment, then back at me. “I know a man by the name of Tom Bee. He done lumberin' with me up at that last camp I was at, but he done quit that camp 'fore me. He's a good man. He's older'n us and got a family, but he knows how t' chop. Can't chop good as us, maybe ten, twelve trees a day, but he could help and we could make up the rest between us. Seein' he got his family down in here, maybe he be willin' t' come in with us.”

I frowned. “He'd be wanting cash money.”

“Wouldn't you?” admonished Mitchell.

I eyed Mitchell and did some figures in my head.

“You got that kind of money?” Mitchell questioned.

“Well, I hadn't figured on having to pay out cash for workers,” I said. “I had other plans for my money.”

“'Spect ya did,” said Mitchell. “But you wanna give this man Filmore Granger what he want, how you 'spect t' cut all them trees without some more help? I ain't got much, 'ceptin' part of that last month's pay from the camp, but what I got, I'll put in. You know I bought my wedding suit already.”

I considered and gave up on my figures. “All right,” I said. “But this Tom Bee, he best be up to working longer hours than he's ever seen in a lumber camp.”

“Same pay as there?”

I met Mitchell's eyes and agreed. “I'm not about to cheat any man when it comes to his work. I figure to pay him according to how many trees he cuts, that and meals.”

Mitchell nodded. “All right then, Paul, I'll go see if I can't find him first thing come light in the morning. You oughtta know, though, he's a talker, so don't go blamin' me for that.”

Mitchell caught up with Tom Bee, all right, and later that same day Tom Bee showed up ready to work. Problem was, he had a white boy with him. The boy looked to be in his mid teens, and he seemed mighty familiar to me.

“What's he doing here?” demanded Mitchell as soon as he saw him.

“Name's John Wallace and he jus' like my shadow,” said the talkative Tom Bee with the boy standing right in hearing distance. “Come on him 'bout a year ago 'bout t' drown in swampland when that foolish boy done tried t' cross it. I come on him and I says t' myself, ‘Lord have mercy! That boy 'bout t' drown!' An' I ain't thought nothin' 'bout nothin' 'ceptin' some poor fool was 'bout t' go down. Ain't thought nothin' 'bout no color, nothin' like that. Lord jus' done throwed all that out my mind and I gone flyin' int' that there swamp and I done dragged that boy out. Boy so grateful, he done been wit' me 'bout ever since. Come outa Alabama where his folks is, but he left them and met up with a no 'count brother of his round Biloxi, stayed wit' him awhile, then was headed on up this way when I gone and pulled him outa that swamp. That brother of his, he come round sometime and sometime that boy go off with him, then he come on back. When John round here, where I go, he pretty much do the same.”

I looked again at the boy, and it came to me where I'd seen him before. He had been the boy on the ridge, the same boy who had come with that group of men looking for the chicken thieves. The boy looked at me too and said, “Ain't I seen you b'fore?”

“Not that I recollect,” I answered.

He took a closer look at me. “Ya seems familiar somehow.”

“We'd met, I'd know it,” I said.

“But seem like—”

“Hush up, boy!” ordered Tom Bee. “Now, you stop botherin' this man and get on over there yonder 'bout yo' business so we can talk here!” The boy took another look at me, then obeyed Tom Bee and moved away toward the creek.

Mitchell eyed the distant boy with suspicion. “What you bring him 'long for? What you 'spectin' him t' be doin' here?”

“Same as me,” answered Tom Bee. “Cuttin' this here timber.”

I shook my head. “I only figured pay for one man.”

“Ain't gotta pay him no extra. Jus' meals. He stay up at my place most the time anyways. He work or he don't, that there be up t' him. He don't work, then he go off this place. He work cuttin' them trees, then I figure he be payin' me for all I be doin' for him. He won't be no trouble.”

Mitchell shook his head. “I ain't likin' this.”

I agreed. “Me neither. I can't have a white boy working on this place.”

Tom Bee nodded and looked out to the slope. “Seem like t' me, ya already got one.

I followed his gaze. There at the top of the slope was Wade Jamison hauling brush. I sighed. “That boy,” I said, “he just keeps coming back.”

“So what 'bout that boy John?” asked Tom Bee. “Where I go, he jus' go. He won't be no trouble,” he repeated. “I see t' that.”

I glanced across at Mitchell, then answered Tom Bee. “What he does, that's going to be up to you and him. You want to pay him wages out of your wages, then that's up to you, but I don't intend to pay wages for another hand.”

Tom Bee nodded. “Me and John, we work it out.”

“Fine,” I said.

But Mitchell grunted and got up. “Look like t' me we gettin' too many white folks on this place.” He looked at me and walked away. I didn't give him any retort. I was feeling the same way.

I got up and followed Mitchell. When we were alone, I said, “That boy yonder was on the ridge that night.”

Mitchell turned and stared at John Wallace now talking with Tom Bee by the creek. “Then I know he best go. White boy round here anyways gonna only mean trouble. He seemed t' done recognized you.”

“Well, he sure looked at me rather curiously.”

Mitchell laughed. “Who don't? Most likely, he was tryin' to figure out just what you are.”

I didn't laugh. “Tom Bee's set on looking out for this John Wallace, and the boy wants to be with him. If we tell Tom Bee that John Wallace has to go, the boy might get more suspicious of me.”

“But he don't know for sure it was you on that ridge. He stay round here, he might get sure.”

“I figure we'll have to take that chance.”

Mitchell shrugged. “Well, it's up t' you, but I got my eye on him. He do one thing don't look right t' me, we won't hafta worry 'bout him again. I'll take care of it.”

I stared hard at Mitchell. “Don't you touch him,” I warned. “That boy gets hurt, who do you think they'll come looking for?”

Mitchell eyed me and looked away. From that moment, I stayed worried.

 

We settled down to work, the five of us, Mitchell, Nathan, Tom Bee, me, and John Wallace. John Wallace continued to bother me. I knew that if he could place me clear, he could bring everything crashing down around us because of that one time I'd assumed to try and pass the color line. But though he was on my mind each day, he made no trouble while he worked with us. Except for words passed during the course of logging, Mitchell and I didn't have many words with him. Neither did Nathan, and I found that somewhat surprising since they were close in age. All of us pretty much just let John Wallace be and he seemed satisfied with that.

Summer came and the heat began to settle. The insects came too, and so did the rain and the snakes. We were drenched from our own sweat and we itched from insect bites. Living became miserable. The land began to muddy and the mules had a hard time of it pulling the logs through the muck. I began to think that maybe I had been wrong about buying the mules instead of oxen. Oxen with their short legs would have held in this kind of weather. Maybe I'd thought myself too smart. I just prayed that none of the mules broke their legs. But I didn't pray about the snakes, and that was a mistake. One of them bit a mule and one bit Nathan. Fortunately, neither snake was a rattler, because if it had been, we would have had to shoot the mule and we might have lost Nathan. The Lord blessed us on that.

For more than two months the five of us kept up a pace that would have felled weaker men, men with less determination than Mitchell and me, and though Tom Bee did his share of complaining, he worked hard, and so did Nathan and John Wallace. As the time drew near to meeting Filmore Granger's latest timber orders, we cut our sleep back even more, working the full seven days of the week, and all the days felt blended together. We worked such long hours that Mitchell grew concerned about the time needed to build a house for Caroline. “You know her daddy put almost a year on us before we could marry. Well, that time's about up, and I don't intend to wait one day longer. I gotta figure out how I'm gonna build that house.”

“Well, you bring her on here,” I said, “and you two take the cabin. Rest of us can stay in the shed. Soon as we get all the acreage cleared, there'll be time enough to build the house you want.”

Mitchell agreed to that. “S'pose that's all we can do.”

 

Within two weeks of our finishing the cutting of Filmore Granger's first twenty acres, it began to storm daily, and we were forced to stop our work. There was nothing we could do in the face of it. Even Mitchell and I, who kept the work going in rainy weather, were forced inside as the brunt of the storms brought winds so hard, we couldn't even see what was before us. The storms kept up for the better part of a week, putting us behind in the number of trees left to cut to fulfill our agreement with Filmore Granger. As soon as the storms cleared, we were at the trees, chopping even through the night by lantern light.

Throughout all this, John Wallace worked with us, until one day when his brother showed up. We already knew from Tom Bee that John Wallace's brother went by the name of Digger, and as soon as I saw him, I figured Digger Wallace to have also been on the ridge that night. He was a small-built man with worn clothes and eyes that were bloodshot and hands that shook. He looked to have had too much drink, and even from where I stood I could smell the liquor on him, the same as I had smelled liquor on one of the men who had come looking for the chicken thieves. A whip was looped at his side, hanging from his belt, and he kept his hand on it as he talked.

“I come for my brother,” he announced. “Where he at?” Digger Wallace turned directly toward Mitchell, who was on the bank hacking at branches that had been left on some of the logs. I was a few feet away with Tom Bee and the mules, stacking logs to be run down the creek.

Mitchell glanced up but said nothing. At that, Tom Bee greeted Digger with a wide wave. “'Ey there, Mister Digger!” he called. “Say ya lookin' for John?”

“Yeah, that's right. Where he at?”

“He back there in them woods choppin' branches wit' 'nother boy,” answered Tom Bee.

Now, it was an unfortunate thing that Mitchell was the one standing closest to Digger, for Digger looked from Tom Bee to him again and said, “You, boy, go get him. Tell him I wants him down here.” That was Digger Wallace's first mistake.

Mitchell had an axe in his hand, and I knew how dangerous that could be. He just looked at Digger and kept on with his work. I left what I was doing and started over.

“'Ey, nigger! I'm talkin' t' ya! I told ya t' get my brother!” That was Digger's second mistake.

Mitchell turned to face him. “I ain't nobody's errand boy,” Mitchell said. “You want him, then you follow that nose of yours through them woods 'til ya find him.”

Mitchell again turned back to his work. He was holding his temper. Digger Wallace, though, didn't hold his. He untied the whip from his belt and uncoiled it to strike. “Nigger, ya do what I say!” he cried, then flashed the whip toward Mitchell, his final mistake.

Mitchell grabbed hold of the whip in midair and yanked it from him. “Don't nobody whip on me no more!” he declared. “And you call me nigger again, I'm gonna lay this whip right 'cross you!” Then Mitchell cracked the whip hard in front of Digger's face.

Digger jumped back fearfully and, as he did, wet his pants.

Mitchell sneered at Digger's mishap. Then he said, “Now, you get yo'self off this land!”

Digger stood trembling and humiliated. “Ya gonna pay for this!” he threatened. “Ya gonna pay!”

Mitchell stepped forward, the whip still in his hand. “Yeah, I know. Now, get!”

Digger backed away. “I wants my brother!”

“I'll get him for ya, Mister Digger!” cried Tom Bee, and hurried off into the woods.

Digger, now some feet away from Mitchell, said pitifully, “I wants my whip.”

Mitchell tossed it at him. The whip landed at Digger's feet. With shaking hands, Digger picked it up and tried to muster some dignity. “Tell my brother I'm waitin' on him down yonder by the bridge!” he said loudly, giving one last order, and walked away.

I went to Mitchell. “We could face trouble about this. I can't swear to it, but I believe he was on that ridge too.”

“Ah, he ain't nothin' but a drunk.”

“A white drunk,” I said.

“Don't forget, coward too. I wouldn't put it past him, if he was on that ridge with his brother, t' been doin' all that chicken thievin' his own self. He look like the kinda scound' t' do somethin' like that, then come lookin' for a black man to hang it on.”

I watched Digger Wallace's slim figure as he headed for the bridge, and I thought on what Mitchell said. Could be he was right, but that didn't change my thinking about Digger Wallace and trouble.

When John Wallace came from the woods, both Nathan and Tom Bee were with him. “Where's Digger?” John Wallace asked.

“Yonder by the road,” I said.

John Wallace glanced over at his brother, then went to talk to him. When he returned, Digger stayed put. “He says he headin' back t' Alabama and he figures best I go with him. I'll get my things.” He went off to the shed, and Tom Bee went with him. A few minutes later John Wallace, his bedroll across his back, came over to me and he said, “Ya know, Paul Logan, you sure look like another fella I done seen a while back on a ridge south of Strawberry. A white man.” The boy kept his eyes on me. “I done told Tom Bee you looked familiar from that place, but he the only one and he won't say nothin', 'cause he already done told me not to. If you was there, ya got no reason t' worry 'cause-a me . . . you or your friend. Ya done treated me right fair.” Then John Wallace went to join his brother.