Walk Through Darkness (27 page)

“He’s dead?” William asked, not looking for an answer but saying the words out loud to help digest them within. The shock of it was complete. Of all the tragedies he had imagined he only envisioned himself or Dover as victims. Of all the ways things could go wrong, he had never really believed Redford was at risk. It wasn’t his fight. He was not a slave. He was a free man. He couldn’t have died for a cause not his own. It didn’t make sense.

William suddenly wanted very badly to leave that room. They weren’t safe. They had to flee before somebody came for them. What were they doing sitting in a room, her dabbing his forehead with a cloth? He almost said as much, but he knew it was impossible. He couldn’t even sit, much less rise and take charge and lead Dover to safety. He was helpless, and the full realization of it was different than any fear he had thus far felt. It was a quieter panic. The room seemed to revolve around him, as if he was at the pole of the world and all else rotated. It seemed this motion had always been there and yet he had just now recognized it, just now realized how helpless he was. He closed his eyes against the feeling of motion.

“What bout them others?” he asked.

“Told you. Humboldt got them.”

“I’ll kill him,” William said. He knew the words sounded foolish but he was unable to stop them. He wanted that man’s death so badly that he had to speak it out loud. “Shoulda killed him already. Shoulda broke his neck.” His arms rose up as he spoke. His hands clenched the air, fingers trembling, so tense they seemed to strain against a solid object. But only for a second. He dropped them in exhaustion and lay panting.

“You ain’t gonna strangle anybody anytime soon,” Dover said, her voice that of a mother, knowing better, speaking reason to a child. “That’s all right, though. He ain’t got us, does he? We breathing free air right now.”

William turned away from her and shut his eyes, thinking that sentiment an absurd one. Air had always been free. That was no change. This was not freedom, not when his body was so raw and pained. Them in this room that wasn’t theirs, brought here by a murderous stranger. How could she find any peace in that? He heard her speaking, talking about his legs. She said that nothing had been broken. That was the trick of it. Nothing broken but a whole lot of damage done. He felt the tips of her fingers touching his thigh, moving down over his shins, which he realized were exposed. Her touch was meant to be gentle, but it pained him. His body was useless. Didn’t that make it broken? Wasn’t he just as crippled as if his legs had been snapped at the midpoint? He opened his eyes and stared at her again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. Her face was composed, resigned somehow, hopeful somehow. “All we been through and you look at me like to strangle me instead of Humboldt.”

He stared on, his mouth opening, lips starting to form words he couldn’t fully put together. Didn’t she see the situation they were in? Didn’t she care about Redford and the others? He wanted to hear her voice quaver with fear, to see her eyes full of tears, face full of sorrow. He wanted to know that she felt something, but in the end all he managed to say was something that
he had feared for a long time. He questioned whether she had any heart in her. “What’s inside you, woman?”

Dover moved as if to rise, her lips a tight line, eyes flying up from him in exasperation. She half-turned, but that was as far as she got. She turned back and gazed at him. Her eyes wide, pupils so large they nearly filled the circle of her irises. “You don’t mean that. Sugar, you know what’s in me. You. You are. Always have been.” She said this so gently that William forgot himself in staring at her, awash with emotion and yet confused by it. How can love come so fast upon anger?

“I don’t understand anything,” he said.

“I know,” Dover said, touching her fingertips to his forehead and tracing his hairline. “I know it. It’s not much longer now and you will. We’re coming through this. May not feel like it to you, but we’re walking through it. You trust me on that? Cause you’re gonna have to. Tonight more than any night yet. You ain’t done being tested. So trust me, and we’ll walk through it all.”

William held her gaze, unsure what she meant but hoping that trust was all they needed.

The old man descended the steps ahead of Anne. He cleared his throat as he stepped into the room, as if he feared catching the couple during an intimate moment. He was bareheaded and in the dim light the gray streaks in his hair stood out with more prominence than their black counterparts. His beard was thick, tending even more toward white, a frame around his lower face that served to soften his otherwise sharp features. His eyes were somehow prominent beyond the norm, melancholy in their movements, lids slow in blinking, making of the downward curve a solemn act, a thing not done lightly but with forethought. His gaze touched on William and then Dover and then William again, not flighty in its motions but nervous beneath his deliberate calm. He cleared his throat and might have spoken, but then he remembered something. He looked down and
checked the back side of his hand, the palm and then the back side. On his face there was no clear indication as to whether he found what he sought.

Anne was the first to speak. She asked how William was. As the question seemed more directed at Dover than at him, William held his thoughts. Dover answered for him. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the old man and yet he kept trying to, looking from him to Anne and then back, up at the ceiling and then back, to the tiny window and then back. He thought at first that it was just the incomprehensibility of this man helping them that drew his eyes. Or perhaps it was that he had seen him moving with such violent precision. Or the suspicion that he must yet have some evil intent. It might have been all of these things but it wasn’t. What drew him was the feeling that the man—this older, white man, savior to him and murderer of others—was afraid to look him in the face and meet his eyes. He still knew nothing about him, and yet from the hesitation in the man’s eyes he learned something, enough to quiet him and calm those other questions.

While he pondered this, the conversation went on, both men mute while the two women spoke for all of them. Anne was much as William remembered, speaking easily with Dover, asking questions of the immediate, as to whether Dover needed anything else. There was water warming upstairs for her to wash his wounds further with, although she should seat herself and let her take care of them both. There was a nervous pitch to her voice, a quaver at the tail end of some of her words. She disguised it with small movements of her hands, with laughter placed at the end of sentences that wouldn’t otherwise have been humorous. But this could not go on forever. The silence of the two men was too strong a force. It was heavy with all the import of the world outside that room.

“Well,” Dover said, having taken a seat at Anne’s insistence, “you two was up there talking. Whatchu done decided?”

He cleared his throat. When he spoke William was startled to recognize his voice. Of course, he had spoken before, in the gaol, but the easy cadence of the man’s words surprised him still. His voice did not match his sharp features. It didn’t suit his violent actions or the lanky strength of his body. If it balanced any part of him it was his eyes. His tones had something of the same deliberate nature, each word clearly formed and executed. No sentence was rushed. Instead it was placed before them complete, irrefutable and pre-reasoned.

He had spoken with Anne and her boys and together they had come up with a plan. This was no mean feat for their circumstances were peculiar, what with a crippled man and child-heavy woman and an old man, all three of them fugitives from the law. He said it was fortunate for them all that Anne was such a reasonable woman. She had sorted him out when he went astray and this is what they came up with. He would book them on a carriage heading north in the morning, passenger perhaps, but cargo more likely, anything to get them out of the city and moving north. They’d travel to New York, where he would cash in the bonds he held to a Chicago bank. With the money he would book the two of them yet another passage, on a ship, one that would take them out of this country.

“Out of the country?” Dover asked.

Aye, the man answered. It was no small thing, he knew, but they hadn’t chosen their circumstances. They just had to deal with what they had. “That sound all right?” he asked.

William didn’t answer. That plan was incomprehensible. Impossible. Carriages and cities and ships. Money drawn from banks. Sailing to another country, forever leaving behind the things they knew. Strange as it felt even to himself, he wanted to back out of it. He would just say that no, that didn’t sound all right. There had to be another way. Let the old man go on if he wanted to, but they could never do all of that. They were Chesapeake slaves without a penny between them. Though their lives
depended upon it, he couldn’t imagine accepting all that the man had just offered. But Dover spoke before he got a chance to.

“How we gonna get to that carriage?”

Anne was seeing to that. She had sent one of her boys to fetch the coal man, he that had so long wanted her for a wife. He would pick up William and Dover in the early hours, hide them in the coal wagon and transport them to the carriage. Anne was sure he would do as she asked. She might have to marry the man in payment, but that wouldn’t be too high a price to pay. She was fond enough of him, anyway. “Just been holding out a little,” she said.

Dover thought this over. “That sounds fine,” she said.

“Good,” the man said. He glanced at William, waiting for a moment to see if he would agree, his face unsure if such agreement was necessary to continue. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll go now. We’ve no time to spare.” Having stated his intention the old man stood as if he had not. His eyes rested for a moment on the folds of the blankets covering William’s legs. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked.

The other three all froze, the question trailing off into a silence weighted beyond reasonable proportion. The old man seemed to recognize this or find something at fault in his question. He shook his head as if he would retract the words and start again. “Well, I ken you’re far from all right. It’s not that I mean. What I wanted to say was … I just want to know that you’ll be all right, that it’s not too late. I mean, I didn’t get to you too late, did I?”

The man’s gaze met William’s full on. The effort of the act was palpable on the man’s features, tension written in lines that seemed to etch themselves deeper with each passing second. It was on this drama that William concentrated. He heard the man’s question and part of him struggled to find the words to answer it. The slave in him felt he must respond and promptly, but that part of him had been newly altered and no longer made
up the whole of him. The better part of him just studied the man, unsure how to answer because he was unsure of the answer. His hand slid down his torso, seeking the button. His fingers rubbed the edge of the circlet through the fabric, one rim around and back to itself. No, he thought, it was the question itself that he was unsure of.

“It’s not too late,” Dover said.

“Course it’s not,” Anne said, her hand nervous at her lips and then pausing, surprised that she had spoken.

The old man was not satisfied with this but he nodded as if he was. He lifted his hat and put it on. The crumpled mass somehow sat with dignity on his head and with it on his face was again composed. “I’ll be going, then.”

F
IVE
In the foyer of the row house the tracker considered his needs and gathered his supplies accordingly. He was alone, but he knew the house was full of boarders, quiet beings unnerved by him and the danger he had brought into their home. They were detectable not by the sounds they made but by their hush, their palpable presence on the other side of the thin walls. Knowing that they would not break from cover, he knelt and opened his large bag. He had to fish through it for some time before he came up with what he sought, a leather pouch, palm-sized and heavy with coins. He weighed it on his upheld hand and found it suitable. He set it aside and slipped his hand in a side pocket of the bag, pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he didn’t look at but simply stuffed in his jacket pocket. He kept his hands moving and tried to fix his mind on the events to come so that none of them would come as a surprise. This was a quiet moment in the eye of a storm. He had felt it many times and knew the tranquility to be deceptive.

But below these focused thoughts his mind wheeled on a more chaotic axle. He replayed the conversation in the cellar. He heard it differently each time, and of those recollections not one of them pleased him. He had spoken calmly and reasonably but only about the details, not about the heart of the matter. He had looked around the room, eyes anxious for something to focus on, the whole time seeing only that colored man lying prone in the bed, feeling the touch of his eyes, sensing every portion of his battered body as it lay sliding forward toward him. Though he tried he couldn’t help but envision him as he had first laid eyes upon him, bound and trussed like a beast, soiled, bloodied, a vent for the lowest of men’s pleasures, a slave. A Negro. The world of difference between them had choked his speech. And yet he could not ignore this man. He could not deny that he saw the man’s mother in his face and saw too the features that made him a Morrison. Both Nan and Lewis had been there in the room with him and it was partially to them that he had spoken. It was this that troubled him for never had he seen clearer proof that one cannot escape a past unquenched. He had thought this before but had always tried to dismiss it as the fancy of his own deranged mind. He would not do so anymore.

He had just closed the bag again when he heard someone ascending the stairs from the cellar. He stood and waited. The young woman appeared. She stood framed in the tiny doorway, listening for a moment. She walked toward him. For the first time he noted the awkward progress of her pregnant gait.

We should know your name, she said.

Of course, he said, surprised that such formalities had yet to be addressed. It seemed absurd considering the intimacies they’d shared in the last few hours. Andrew Morrison. And they call you Dover?

The woman nodded. She didn’t look concerned that he knew her name, but she did take his in carefully. She seemed to sound it out before accepting it. Well, Andrew Morrison, you really gonna do all that for us?

Aye.

And you gonna put us on that boat? When he nodded, she added, Alone?

Thought that’d be best.

The woman agreed that it might be best, but she also shared the fear that the notion put in her. Where was that boat going to take them? No place in this world that she knew, that was for sure. Away from all that they’d ever known, that also was a definite.

Morrison was quiet for a moment and then answered, I know that feeling. I felt it years ago and haven’t ever stopped. Truth be known. Still, it’d be for the best. This country’s got a great evil in it. He looked uncomfortable about using those words and added, Man told me that. “A great evil,” he said, and he knew what he was talking about.

That’s true as spoken. We going, don’t think I’m doubting that. I been scared before and I won’t shy away from it. And I do want a world of things for this child that I ain’t yet seen this country to offer. That’s what it is, but what I’m wondering about is yourself. You putting us on that boat, but what you doing with yourself?

I’m no good as a traveling companion. Been inclined toward solitude for some time now.

And you like it that way? She let this question sit just long enough to get an answer from his silence. If you wanna get on that boat too I won’t argue the point, she said.

Morrison’s eyes drifted over toward the open cellar door.

The woman read his question and said that her man wouldn’t dispute it either.

Morrison had his doubts about this, but he felt already that this woman was not easily argued with. He didn’t know what to say and was surprised at himself by what came out because he hadn’t yet known he thought it.

Feels like I should’ve talked to him more, he said.

Well, the things you got to say ain’t the type a news you give on the brief.

You don’t resent me the things I told you?

The black woman thought this over and answered that that wasn’t her place. Those things were between him and Nan and William.

I didn’t tell you all of it.

And you don’t need to, the woman said. You got guilt around your
neck like a stone. Looks to me like it’s a load you can barely carry but you walking with, been walking with it for some time. Figure you punishing yourself and that’s rare in a white man. Mostly they find someone else to punish for they crimes. Look here, I don’t know just what you done or just what kinda man you are, but I do know you came back. Nobody living in the world to accuse you but you came back. And you brought that there cannon with you. She motioned at his rifle. A smile flared on her face and was gone just as quickly. And unless I’m mistaken you ain’t done yet, are you?

Morrison answered indirectly, saying that there was no excuse for the things those men had done. People like that should pay with their lives. At least that’s my way of thinking at the moment, he said.

The woman studied on this. That’s been my way of thinking too, she said. For some time I thought just that way. Use to wish I was a man. Figured I could do more damage that way. And I would have, too. But if I had I’d be dead now. I wouldn’t have this baby in me. I woulda lived and died without ever understanding why we’re doing it all. That’s a crime I believe men are guilty of more often than women, but they wouldn’t be if they paid more attention to they children.

Morrison looked down. His eyes landed on her belly but moved on as if that was not what they’d intended. He stared for a moment at the satchel in his hand, then hoisted it up to his shoulder. Maybe you ought tell him. The things I told you, I mean.

Well, she said. We’ll see.

Something about those last two words had a note of finality to it. Morrison hesitated for a moment, wondering if there was more to say. Of course there was, but if he said all there was to say he would never stop speaking. And anyway, it was ultimately not this woman he had to confess to. He was grateful to her for allowing him these moments for without her he would be at a complete loss. He thought he should perhaps convey this to her, but as he stooped to scoop up his rifle he saw the expression on her face and knew that he did not have to. These people understand the things not said, he thought. And with that he nodded, hooked his finger around the door latch and pulled it. The house
inhaled the evening air. He paused in the doorway, feeling the breath on his face like passing fingers. Without thinking it through and with no foreknowledge of his own impending action, Morrison dipped for the note in his pocket. He extended it behind him until he felt the woman grasp it. He said, If need be let him read this. Or have it read to him. He opened his fingers, felt the note move away from him and stepped through the door.

Outside, the hound rose from the stoop and greeted him, her head moving side to side, tail still, a message in this though she doubted the man would recognize it. Morrison pulled the length of rope from his jacket pocket and shook it out. The hound, seeing this, whined her displeasure. She stepped back and lowered her head and raised a forepaw in disapproval. But when the man stepped toward her she leapt to the side, turned and contemplated him.

Come here, the man said. Don’t be a devil just now. He stepped forward and the hound again backed out of his reach. He straightened his posture and pitched his voice louder, as if the dog’s hearing was in question. Come here.

The hound did not.

If you knew the trouble you’re causing me … Morrison chased her in a circle, bent over and, for a few seconds, frantic in pursuit. The hound ducked and shifted from him, head low to the ground, paws wide and sure on the paving stones. Her tail pricked up behind her, not wagging, but raised in an indication that she found something mirthful in this exchange.

The tracker pulled upright. Damn it. You’re a vile bugger. He studied her for a moment longer, scowling. The rope dangled from his hand as if he might make a weapon of it. Instead, he tossed it away and said, Do what you like, then.

The man turned, scooped up his rifle and satchel and started off, his pace fast and determined. The hound watched him a moment, skeptical. As the man neared the end of the block the canine set out after him. She fell in step beside him, glad that little discrepancy was behind them.