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.
I didn’t see John Wallace again until he came back into these parts some years later and a man grown. By that time he was changed, but he never mentioned either of us being on that ridge again, at least to my knowing. But it wasn’t John Wallace I was worried about that day as he left the forty. It was Digger. I worried, for no matter how drunk and cowardly Digger was, he was still a white man.
The day after John Wallace left, Mitchell and I came from chopping and found Wade Jamison helping Nathan hack branches from the fallen trees. We called Nathan over. “What’s that Jamison boy doin’ here again?” demanded Mitchell.
“He helpin’ wit’ the brush,” mumbled Nathan.
“How come?”
“Said he wanna help.”
“There’s no money to pay him,” I said.
“He don’t care. He jus’ said he wantin’ t’ help us out.”
“I don’t like it, Paul,” said Mitchell. “We already had that one white boy round here, and look where that got us.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
“Don’t make him go, Paul,” pleaded Nathan. “Wade’s my friend.”
Mitchell scowled down at him. “Friend? Boy, you still carryin’ that foolishness round in yo’ head?” Nathan didn’t say anything, and Mitchell walked off in disgust.
I looked at Nathan, then went over to talk to Wade. “Your daddy know you’re doing this?” I asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“He ask you why?”
“Yes, sir, and I told him about how hard you all are working and I didn’t want you to lose your land.”
I looked long at Wade Jamison, then said, “Why should you care?”
“Because you make good neighbors,” he answered without hesitation.
“I suppose you know about my agreement with Mister Granger.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Nathan told you?”
“Told me, all right, but my daddy already knew.”
I was silent. I didn’t like everybody knowing my business. “I can’t have you working here. I appreciate your willingness to help us, but I can’t have it.”
“I don’t need pay,” said Wade.
“Maybe not, but everybody works here gets paid in some kind of way, and the thing is, I’m not figuring on paying another hand.”
“But you don’t pay Nathan.”
“Not in money.”
“I know. He told me about you teaching him cabinetmaking.”
“Nathan’s told you a lot.”
“We’re friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was thinking, you let me work here this summer, you could teach me cabinetmaking too. I’d like to learn. That could be my pay.”
I studied the boy with his blond hair and his blue eyes. He looked much like Robert. I shook my head. “I can’t do that.”
“’Cause I’m white?”
The boy was blunt. I decided to be the same. “That’s right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you understand enough. What you don’t, ask your daddy.”
Wade Jamison looked at me. “Can I stay on ’til it’s time for the next load to go down the creek?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Like to complete what I start. I’d like to help out until Mister Granger doesn’t need so many trees, and Nathan said the next time Mister Granger comes with his men, you’d have all the extra trees he’s been wanting chopped by then.”
I thought on it. “It’s important to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. You tell your daddy what you’re doing, though, and make sure it’s all right with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Wade—”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ll pay you wages for this week’s work.”
The boy’s lips parted as if to object to that, but then he seemed to sense my need to pay him for his work, and he nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, and went back to chopping the branches.
The day following that talk with Wade, Charles Jamison himself rode over to the forty. He looked around and commended me. “You’ve certainly gotten a lot of clearing done. Looks like you’ll soon be ready to do some farming.”
“I hope so,” I said.
“You know, my boy Wade’s taken a real liking to working here on your place.”
“He’s been a big help. But I told him his being here had to be all right with you.”
Charles Jamison nodded to that. “Understand you told him too you didn’t want him working here.”
I thought on my words. From all I’d heard and from my few dealings with Charles Jamison, he was a fair man. Still, I couldn’t get ov
er the fact he was a white man. One unwise word and I figured I could find myself in deep trouble, Charles Jamison being a fair man or not. “I decided not to take on another hand right now,” I said. “We’ve just about got all the trees we need cut for the next run down the creek.”
Charles Jamison nodded. “Understand that. He told me. Wade, though, is figuring this is something he needs to be doing because of what all’s happened in the past. Now, understand me, I’m not apologizing for anything. My daddy farmed and he had slaves, and his daddy did the same before him. It was considered all right then. By the time I was a boy, thinking was beginning to change, and by the time of the war I already knew that things couldn’t be the same, and come the end of the war and the changes came, I accepted those changes because I had to. Besides, it was time. But Wade’s been coming up feeling like folks are folks, and he’s wanting to make some amends. I’m not feeling the same. What’s done is done. My granddaddy and my daddy cared about our land and the folks who lived on it, and I’m not about to apologize for anything they did. But I’m respecting my boy and his feelings, and I’m learning from him, just as I learned from my daddy, who was thinking before the war of eventually emancipating his slaves.”
“But it didn’t happen,” I said, a little too bluntly and a little too bitterly. My daddy hadn’t freed me either.
“No, it didn’t,” said Charles Jamison, looking me over. His voice didn’t change. “The war happened instead, and we’re all still recovering from that.”
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