The Land (40 page)

“I promise you, Mitchell,” I said, and I felt as if Mitchell had squeezed the words right out of me with his final moments of strength, for once the words were spoken, the promise made, he fell back flat and his hand slipped away.

“Good. Knowed I could count on you, Paul. Knowed I could. You won't be sorry. I promise you that.”

They were Mitchell's last words to me. He closed his eyes again and this time he made no effort to open them. His breathing grew even more halted, and he did not answer when I called to him. For some while I gazed down on my friend, thinking on all we'd been through together, on the unreality of his lying there, on words that needed to be said but maybe not. I squeezed his hand, then I went to the door, opened it, and called Caroline.

She came quickly and glanced at me, and I went outside. Tom Bee was still sitting on the stoop. “It was that Digger Wallace, ya knows that, don't ya?” he said to me. “It was Digger shot that boy. No 'count scound'! Shot that boy and yo' horse too!”

I turned as if in a sleep. “What?”

“Yeah. Thunder, that there fine horse, he lying dead in the pasture out yonder. That no 'count scound' shot Mitchell, then the horse. I done seen him do that, shoot the horse, I mean. Ain't seen him shoot Mitchell, but I done seen him shoot that horse. Why you 'spect he done that, Paul? Shoot that horse like that?” Tom Bee looked up at me, searching for answers. “That horse, he ain't been hurtin' nobody.”

I just shook my head, with no answers to give, and left Tom Bee. I walked past Nathan, who was standing with the mule, and without a word to him headed up the slope with an axe. I walked to the cutting line and began to whack at a tree. With each whack of the axe I thought of Mitchell: of Mitchell standing on my daddy's land facing Hammond and George with an axe, ready to use that axe on my brothers and on me; of Mitchell beating up on me every time it moved him to do so until we came to our understanding; of Mitchell hitting that white man to get my race money; of Mitchell and me under the seats of that train. I couldn't think on Thunder, only Mitchell. I whacked at that tree until it fell. Then I started on another one.

About dusk Caroline came and got me. “You needs t' be there, Paul-Edward,” she said as she hugged her arms to her body. “You leave these here trees be. You his family. You needs t' be down there with him.”

I nodded, left the axe, and followed her down the slope. With Nathan and Tom Bee, Caroline and I sat the night through at Mitchell's side. That next morning, just before the dawn, Mitchell died. My friend, my brother, was gone.

I made a coffin for Mitchell. I had some good, strong plank oak-wood that I'd gotten from Luke Sawyer to make a cabinet on order, but I figured to worry about that cabinet later. Right now I needed the best wood I had to bury my friend. All day I worked on that coffin, and Caroline with Nathan's help washed Mitchell's body in scents and herbs. We dressed Mitchell in his wedding suit, put his boots beside him, and lined the coffin with a quilt Caroline had made for their wedding bed. As the sun set, we buried Mitchell under an oak tree and marked the spot with a cross. We said our prayers over him, and then we left him to his rest.

Right after the burial I asked Tom Bee to make the ride over to the Perry farm and let Caroline's family know about Mitchell. “Tell them I'll be bringing Caroline over when she's ready,” I told him. Tom Bee said he'd set out first thing the next morning.

When Caroline, Nathan, and I were back in the cabin and all the folks who had gathered were gone, I said to Caroline, “I'll take you and Nathan home whenever you say.” Caroline looked at me and was silent. We were seated at the table, and what food folks had brought, Caroline had set before us, but only Nathan was eating. “I know it's been a long day and you haven't had much rest, so you just think on it and let me know.” I waited for her to say something, but she didn't, so I finished off the coffee I'd been sipping and got up.

“Ain't you gonna finish your plate?” she asked.

“Not much hungry,” I said. “I'll just cover it and put it in the food safe.”

“Leave it. I'll take care of the food.”

“No,” I said, finding a clean cloth. “You don't have to wait on me. I'm used to doing for myself.”

“Then suit yourself,” she said.

I put the covered dish away, wished both Caroline and Nathan a good night's rest, and turned to go. “Paul-Edward,” Caroline said as I opened the door, “I'm stayin' here.”

I looked back at her. “What was that?”

“I said I'm stayin' here. I ain't goin' anywhere.”

“Well, we can wait a while,” I conceded. “It's just that I thought you'd want to go back home to your family.”

“This here's my home now.”

I shook my head. “There's no home here.”

“Mitchell told me I get his half of the forty.”

“Well, you do, but—”

“Then I got a home here.”

“No. You can't stay.”

She got up. “Who say I can't?” She eyed me, waiting for an answer, then began to clear the dishes.

“I wasn't expecting you to stay, not with Mitchell gone.”

“You figured 'cause-a that I'd be gone too, huh? Well, ain't gonna be that way. I'm stayin'.”

“But I told Tom Bee to tell your folks I'd be bringing you home.”

“You ain't oughtta told him that. You oughtta done asked me first.”

“Maybe so, but I didn't figure you'd want to stay.”

“Well, I am.”

I took a deep breath. “What about Nathan?”

Nathan stopped eating and looked over at his sister. “You hafta ask him,” Caroline said. “But he stay or he don't, I'll still be here.”

“Now, that wouldn't be right,” I protested. “A man and a woman not married here on the same place, it just wouldn't be right.”

“I said I'm stayin'. I've got a baby comin', and I plan to have somethin' for this here child. Part of this land belong t' Mitchell belong to his child now. His daddy worked right 'longside you t' get it, and now you got some seven months 'til the time's up t' do all the work need doin' for us t' keep it. I'm gonna work right 'longside you now, Paul-Edward, jus' like Mitchell done, 'til this land be truly ours. I done promised Mitchell. 'Sides, how was you plannin' on doin' all this work by yo'self?”

I didn't know what to say to her. Tell the truth, I was just too drained and tired to argue with her about it at that moment. I hadn't slept, and my mind was no longer clear. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Nothin' else t' talk 'bout.”

I just looked at Caroline. She looked at me, and I left.

That night, despite my weariness, I couldn't sleep. I had my mind on Mitchell and on Caroline too. I passed part of the night in restless thought, then finally rose and lit a lantern and settled down to writing Cassie to tell her about Mitchell. I wrote a second letter as well, to Mitchell's mother, and enclosed it for Cassie to deliver. Before the dawn broke, I stuffed the letters in my pocket, took up my shotgun and my shells, and headed up the slope where Mitchell was shot. I found the fallen tree and the ground soaked red with Mitchell's blood. I placed my hand upon the bloodstained earth, then slumped upon the ground, and for the first time I cried for my friend. I remained there until the sun was high, then I took my shotgun and my letters and headed across the forty. I passed the spot where Tom Bee and Nathan had buried Thunder, but I didn't linger there. Tom Bee hadn't understood why Digger had killed the palomino, but I did. Digger was a little man who had nothing. Out of his own meanness he had killed that magnificent animal because he had belonged to me, a man of color. He had killed my horse and he had killed my friend. I left the forty and kept on going. I was planning on hunting Digger Wallace down.

 

I headed straight for Tom Bee's place, which sat on the farther-most edge of the Granger plantation. Even though I knew Tom Bee wasn't there, I figured what with John Wallace having stayed there, Tom Bee's family would know something of the Wallaces and their whereabouts. They said John Wallace had already gone to Vicksburg and they had only heard about Digger being back. I thanked them and asked that they let Caroline know I'd be gone for a while, then went on my way again. I asked every family of color I came upon about the Wallaces, and they all had the same to say. They hadn't seen them. I took caution and didn't ask any white folks directly about Digger. I didn't want them to see me with my shotgun. What few colored folks I put faith in, I asked them to inquire about Digger and they did that, but the word they brought back to me was that Digger was nowhere around, and neither was John.

I didn't accept what word they brought back, and I kept pushing on, looking. I went into Strawberry, mailed my letters, and asked more questions. Mitchell was constantly on my mind. Some white man had killed him, and I didn't figure either Mitchell or I could rest until that white man was dead. I lived in a daze. I wandered that countryside making inquiries about Digger, always hiding my shotgun before I began my questioning so folks wouldn't know I was hunting. But every time I asked, the answer was always the same: “Ain't seen him. Most last we heard, he gone back t' Alabama.” A day and a night passed, then a second and a third of both. I lived on restless sleep and a black-rage anger. I killed squirrels and rabbits and cooked them in the woods, not from hunger, but just to keep up my strength to hunt out Digger. But there seemed to be no Digger to be found.

Finally I headed up to the ridge where Mitchell and I had first seen Digger that night the men had come looking for the chicken thieves. I stood there on that ridge rethinking that night and how close Mitchell and I had come to trouble. I'm not sure why I went back there. I didn't really expect Digger to still be lurking around, as he had that night with his brother John. I was now thinking Mitchell had been right, that they had been the ones who were the chicken thieves. Like Mitchell, I didn't put it past Digger. I settled on the ridge and spent the night. I didn't light a fire. I didn't sleep. I just sat there on that ridge and thought on my life and Mitchell's. The hours passed. The wind rustled the trees, and a soft rain came, and still I sat there. The rain passed and the clouds cleared and a full moon shone, and still I sat there. I was exhausted. Every forest sound drummed in my head, but I took no note of them. I needed sleep, but I couldn't rest. I couldn't do that until I'd found Digger.

“Paul Logan?”

I opened my eyes and jumped up. The moon was fixed directly overhead. I couldn't have drifted off for more than a few minutes, yet that had been long enough for me to lose sense of myself and for someone to come up on me.

“So there ya is! We done been lookin' all over the place for ya!” Tom Bee stepped forward, and with him was Sam Perry. I stared at them without words. “If I ain't know'd 'bout this place, we never woulda done found ya!”

“Tom Bee?” I said, still somewhat in a stupor. “How'd you think to come here?”

“That boy John Wallace. He done tole me he 'spected he seen you and Mitchell up on this here ridge one night some time back. He done said everybody done thought ya was a white man.” Tom Bee eyed me knowingly. “I figured maybe ya thought Digger hung 'bout these parts, so that's how come we headed over this way.”

Sam Perry placed his massive hand on my shoulder. “How's you holdin' up?”

I just nodded.

“Miz Caroline, she done sent us t' look for ya,” explained Tom Bee. “Mister Perry here and his wife, and some of his family come back t' the place wit' me, and Miz Caroline, she said ya done took off and ain't even said word one t' her 'bout it.”

“I sent word.”

“Uh-huh, she done told us 'bout that. Long wit' that so-called word come folks tellin' her ya been out lookin' for Digger.”

“Ya find him?” Sam Perry asked me.

“No.”

“Then that's good. I was 'fraid maybe ya had.”

I sat down wearily. “Everybody says he's most likely gone back to Alabama.”

“Course he done that!” exclaimed Tom Bee. “Ole low-down nothin' of a coward! I coulda done told ya that 'fore I done gone t' Vicksburg!”

Sam Perry sat down beside me. “Best this way, Paul.”

“He killed Mitchell.”

“An' you go kill him, you gon' die too.”

I said nothing.

“So what ya gon' do now, Paul Logan?” asked Tom Bee. I looked up at him and Tom Bee exclaimed, “Ya ain't thinkin' 'bout a fool thing like goin' off t' Alabama after that no-good scound'?”

I took a moment, then said, “If that's where he is.”

“Naw,” said Sam Perry, “naw. Ya go get yo'self killed, then what's gonna come of that land ya worked so hard for? Y'all boys done put near t' a year and a half in that place. Ya gonna end up throwin' it all away for a no 'count like this Digger Wallace?”

“Listen t' him, Paul Logan!” ordered Tom Bee. “Ya knows good and well ya can't go killin' a white man if ya don't figure on hangin' yo' own self! Onliest way ya don't get lynched is for ya t' run, but I knows no matter how fast ya runs, they most likely catch ya!”

“It's yo' land and it's yo' life,” said Sam Perry. “But I'm gonna tell ya, son, ain't nothin' ya can do for Mitchell now, 'ceptin' t' see good on that land. My girl, she dependin' on that.”

I looked at him and my mind turned to Caroline. “She going back with you?”