A Free State

by Tom Piazza

  “Throw back that canvas, Olds,” Tull said. The man did so, revealing the slave, with his rags down around his thighs, his midsection a mess of clotted blood. His head was near the foot of the wagon, between Tull and Master Arthur. One eye opened, slowly, in the Master’s direction, unseeing, clouded. The Master gave a reflexive wince, an intake of breath, a slight frown.

  “There’s your man,” Tull said.

  Master Arthur regarded Tull now, with some mixture of shrewdness and fear. “Well,” he said, “he’s hardly any good to me in this condition, is he?”

  The words “is he?” angered Tull—the easy superiority, the indifference to the suffering staring him blindly in the face. And trying to get out of paying, clearly.

  “You said dead or alive.”

  “Well, he’s not much of either,” the Master said. A faint trace of a smile around the edges of the eyes. “Is he?”

  Tull drew his pistol and with no further word forced the barrel into the runaway’s mouth against the rag that was still there, pulled the trigger once and sent blood, brains, and the top of the runaway’s skull spattering all over the Master’s breeches and waistcoat. The saddle rag, still wedged in the slave’s mouth, caught fire.

  “Dear Christ,” Master Arthur said. Steadying himself on the side of the cart, he bent over, retching.

  Tull watched him for a moment. “Now,” he said. “Are you going to pay me my money?”

  This was a language everyone understood, and he was generally recognized as effective, ruthless, and fair. He was the hire of choice for the most challenging jobs. The masters were themselves afraid of him, but they knew where they stood at least. And beyond that, he expressed something inside them which they expended their resources in keeping disguised, even from themselves, and yet which was the foundation of their world. For his part, Tull took no pains to disguise his contempt for the planters’ false aristocracy. He had no friends. He took pride in his work, he expected full and prompt payment, and otherwise he kept to himself. He was a professional.

  He drew near the carriage entrance of The Tides now, and upon dismounting was received by a black gatekeeper, in livery. Gold epaulets, fancy stitching, dirty collar and knee stockings. Buckled shoes. A type he hated; it made Tull sick. This footman had a fringe of white hair around his bald scalp, bulging eyes, and a goiter under his left ear.

  Without making eye contact, the servant took the reins and said, “Master James Stephens will see you in the parlor.”

  “Really?” Tull said. A smile slowly disfigured his face, like blood seeping through a bandage.

  “Yes, sah.” No eye contact.

  “Take good care of my horse, now, Sambo.” Fixing him with his stare, willing the old man to look at him.

  “Yes, sah.” Still the unconcern, tying the reins around a post. “I’m called Atticus, sah.”

  “Tell your mama I said hello, Atticus,” Tull said, starting toward the door.

  “Mama in a better place,” the servant said, under his breath, as Tull walked away.

  An older woman servant greeted him at the door and walked him down a short hallway to the main foyer, and through that to the parlor. The plaster had fallen away from a part of one wall in the foyer, and there were gray smudge trails above the wall-mounted oil lamps, unlit, now, in the daylight. The parlor itself was large and bright, with windows stretching from the floor up to the picture-frame molding above. The sunlight had faded the upholstery on the furniture—velveteen settees, French chairs. Fissures in the plaster, here and there. The usual oil portraits on the walls; above the fireplace, a giant, thick, ornate gilt frame surrounded a large mirror, darkened by decades of fugitive smoke. Several large chips of gilt had gone missing from the mirror’s frame and left irregular white patches among the baroque curlicues. A huge, faded Oriental carpet covered much of the floor.

  The Master would make him wait; that was part of the transaction, always. Tull kept his hat on; it was made from a hide of some sort, of a peculiar dark brown color and texture. He remained standing. When the man finally entered—white hair, and a full head shorter than Tull, wearing a red cloth jacket—he dispensed with any greeting, saying, simply, “Please sit down,” and indicating a blue brocade chair. He regarded Tull’s hat, pointedly, but he did not ask him to remove it.

  “You’ve read the note I sent,” Stephens said, once they were seated.

  Tull nodded.

  “You must have questions you need to ask.”

  The man’s hair, mostly white and yellowed, was swept back somewhat theatrically from his forehead. His eyes were green and he had long eyelashes that Tull thought looked like a girl’s. Tull guessed that he had applied some rouge discreetly to his cheeks. He was skinny and slight but not muscular; a boy’s body, with a paunch behind the embroidered white vest. He smelled of rosewater.

  “Why did he run off? Did he get a beating?”

  “I never beat him. He lived comfortably and never lacked for anything.”

  “This boy lived down in those quarters I passed?”

  “No. He lived in a small house twenty yards off the kitchen, to the east.”

  “He had his own house?”

  “He lived there with his mother and one brother.”

  “His mother is still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a father around?”

  The master looked at Tull for two full seconds before saying, “The father is unknown.”

  So, Tull thought. That was easy. Just to be sure, he smiled, nodded as if in accord, and said, “These nigger bitches can pick up extra weight anywhere, can’t they?” He watched Stephens’s face mottle with red, and then he knew for certain who the father was, and he saw that Stephens knew that he knew.

  “Where do you think he went?” Tull asked. “Do you have any idea?”

  An attractive slave girl in her teens entered the room carrying a tray with two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. She stood in front of Stephens, seemingly unsure what to do. Tull watched Stephens avoid her eyes and say, “Thank you, Aurora.” The girl frowned slightly as he took one of the glasses. “You may put the tray down on the table after serving Mister Burton.” She approached Tull, who looked her directly in the eyes and gave her a big smile. She was very scared.

  “You can just set the tray down right there,” Tull said. “Thanks, Aurora.” Her hands shook as she set the tray down and walked out of the room without a word.

  “I am assuming that he has found his way to some Northern city.”

  “That takes in a lot of territory, Mister James. Any hints about which one?”

  “The most likely are those I listed on the advertisement I included with my letter. You may call me Mister Stephens.”

  “Sure,” Tull said, allowing himself a short laugh at his own expense. “Sorry to presume, Mister Stephens. You don’t think he went to Canada?”

  “No.”

  Tull studied the man’s face. “Because the mother is still here?”

  Stephens looked away and made an indefinite gesture, half raising a hand from the arm of the chair, shrugging.

  “You said he played a banjar.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “I always assumed that Enoch made it for him in the woodworking shop.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I’ll have Atticus show you.”

  “I want to talk to the mother, too.”

  Stephens nodded.

  “That’s all right with you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “They were close?”

  “Very.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “He often performed for guests or entertainments. There’s no doubt that he has the banjar and will find a way to perform somewhere.”

  “There’s not a lot of places for niggers to perform, Mister Stephens.”

  “He is resourceful and intelligent and he will find a way to do what he wants to do.”
>
  “You liked this boy pretty well.”

  “He brightened many evenings here.” Stephens looked as if he were going to add something, stopped, pursed his lips, and with a slight shake of his head let it go. He began to stand up, but Tull remained seated.

  “We need to discuss terms.”

  “Yes, of course,” Stephens said, sitting down again.

  After laying out the terms—seven dollars per day plus expenses, plus three hundred dollars reward money, fifty of which was payable immediately and nonrefundable—Tull said, “I assume you want this boy brought back in good shape.”

  “I want him brought back. Alive if possible.”

  “If possible?”

  “Correct.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to come?” This was as close as he came to irony.

  “I have made myself clear.”

  “Actually, Mister Stephens, not quite. You’re telling me you want him dead if it comes to that.”

  “Yes.” Now Stephens stood up, picked up a small bell from one of the end tables, and rang it. Within moments, Atticus appeared. “Atticus, please escort this man whither he asks.” Then, to Tull, who was still absorbing surprise at Stephens’s request: “An envelope containing your initial payment and an advance on expenses will be waiting for you when you are finished.”

  Tull nodded; no hand was proffered to shake, and he walked out of the parlor with Atticus, leaving his lemonade untouched.

  The woodworking cabin was some hundred yards away from the main house, and Atticus walked Burton there without speaking. It was one of the larger dependencies on the grounds, well-tended, shaded by two large trees. Tull ordered Atticus to wait for him outside.

  Inside, Tull found a tall Negro, built very solidly, wiping something off his hands with a rag.

  “Your name is Enoch?”

  “Yes it is,” the slave named Enoch replied. “Sir.”

  No “yassuh” for this one, Tull thought. As his eyes adjusted he saw that the slave had features that were about half African and half white, despite his dark blue-black skin. Blue eyes, and intelligent. This was his little kingdom, Tull thought.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may,” Tull said, all politeness. “If you have the time.” This slave wore some kind of green and red scarf around his neck—silk, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “I will answer if I can,” Enoch replied. Well-spoken; he had learned manners somewhere, probably hired out to some city business for a year or two.

  “May I sit down?”

  “Please do,” Enoch replied. “I hope you won’t mind if I remain standing.”

  “Enoch,” Tull said, “I don’t mind if you take one of those rasps you got there and jam it into your ass and file yourself down to a pile of shit. Just answer my questions.”

  Enoch made his face a blank. “Yes, sir.”

  “You know this boy who ran off, Joseph. Master James says he used to spend a lot of time here. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What can you tell me about him. Start with how he looked.”

  “Joseph not a very handsome fellow, I would say,” Enoch began. “Quite dark-complected, almost black as me.” He gave out with a hearty, utterly false laugh that might have fooled some, but not so practiced an operator as Tull Burton. Nothing enraged Burton quite so much as for a slave to think he could fool him by assuming the same ingratiating mask that slaves habitually wore for their masters.

  “Let me stop you right there, Enoch.” Tull watched the smile remain on the face as the eyes grew masked and watchful. “You know who I am, and if you don’t anyway you know what I’m here for. You know what I do. Is that right?”

  “I have an idea of that, sir.”

  “Now when your master tells me that Joseph has light, copper-colored skin, and you tell me he’s black as you, who do you think I’m going to believe?”

  “I does my best to be truthful, sir.”

  Tull nodded, looking at the man with something that could have been mistaken for tenderness. The “I does my best” was another mask. He was frightened.

  “You see this hat I’m wearing, Enoch? Have you ever seen one like it?”

  Now the slave was quiet and Tull could feel the fear coming off of him. He said, “No sir.”

  “That’s because I made it myself. Cut the hide, cured the skin, shaped it and blocked it. Anything look familiar to you about this skin? It’s got a nice color, doesn’t it?”

  Enoch stood motionless and silent.

  “Now, I’m not playing around with you, Enoch. You answer my questions straight and I’ll have no complaint with you. I don’t want to hear another lie from you. We looking at the same horse, now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now about how tall is he.”

  “He come up to about here on me.”

  Tull nodded. “All right. Would you say he was pretty smart?”

  “Joseph smarter than everybody here put together.”

  Satisfied, now, Tull said, “He worked with you here in this shop?”

  “Sometimes he did,” Enoch said. “He was mainly what you call a house servant. He taken care of Master’s clothes and such. He worked in the pantry seeing after things. But he liked to come down here and he liked for me to show him how things works.”

  “What about the banjo. You made him a banjo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You taught him how to play the banjo?”

  “I showed him some little things on it, but he taken to it just like some people natchly know to ride a horse.”

  “What did this banjo look like?”

  Enoch’s eyes were closed, and Tull gave him a moment, then said, “Tell me what the banjo looked like.”

  “About like that one over there,” Enoch said, opening his eyes and pointing to a corner of the shop. A crude instrument leaning up against a chair in the corner of the room.

  “Get it and bring it here.”

  Enoch did so, standing in front of Tull and holding the banjo for inspection. The body was a small, hollow gourd with a side sliced off and a skin stretched over the open part, secured with small black nails. The neck seemed to have been part of a broom, or perhaps a shovel handle, sheared so that there was a flat surface for a fingerboard. Three strings ran the length, secured at the top by roughly cut wooden pegs attached to a flat piece through holes, as on a violin. Another peg, screwed to the side of the neck about halfway down toward the body, kept a short string in tension. Like the others, it ran down to a small wooden piece at the bottom, to which they were tied; they were held above the surface of the skin by another little wooden piece with notches to hold the strings in place. This little bridge was just below the center of the skin.

  Tull tapped on the skin twice with his fingers; the head was taut. He reached and took the instrument out of the slave’s hands and set it across his own lap. Enoch watched him. With the nail of his right index finger, Tull snapped down on a string; the sound was muted and died out very quickly. He snapped down again, twice, and plucked the short high string. Even in the small shop room it was a quiet sound. Tull played a little tune, a jig, thirty seconds at most, and then, finished, handed the banjo back to Enoch.

  “Your master said Joseph played for dances.”

  “Yes, he was very good at playing for the dances.”

  “Nobody could hear this thing over a pair of shuffling feet, let alone a room full of dancers.”

  Enoch was quiet.

  “What banjo would he play for dances?”

  Enoch was quiet.

  “The reason I’m asking, Enoch, is because Master said that Joseph lit out with a banjo you had made for him that he used to play for dances. He kept it in the house where he lived with his mother, and it was gone.” A muscle in his neck was rigid. “Are you going to tell me the truth?”

  “It was just like mine I got in back.”

  “Then let me see yours, Enoch.” Staring at him.

  Th
e slave walked to the back of the room, twisted a small piece of wood that kept a door closed on a rude hutch, and pulled out something that looked more likely.

  “Bring it here.”

  The slave handed Tull a larger instrument; the body had been made not from a gourd but from a grain sifter, a rigid wooden hoop. A larger skin had been stretched taut across it and held in place by a couple dozen tacks around the outside perimeter. The neck was a section of a table leg, planed down flat on one side to about a third of the original width, and left round underneath. It was a well-made instrument; the hoop was over a foot wide.

  “You made this yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  Along the rim Enoch had inlaid crude wood marquetry in a herringbone pattern. At the top, where the strings were attached—four, this time—the head had been inlaid with a harlequin pattern of marquetry, and on the back side of the head a man’s face had been carved, quite skillfully, into the wood. Laid into the fingerboard itself, next to the side peg for the short string, was a tiny metal horseshoe, maybe half an inch long. Pewter, Tull thought, or maybe lead.

  “Joseph can do this kind of work, too? He does woodworking?”

  “Joseph can do a little. I taught him some.”

  Tull righted the instrument in his lap and played a bit, as he had played before. This time the sound was considerably louder and fuller. Tull stopped playing, stood up, and started for the door, carrying the banjo.

  “Much obliged, Enoch,” he said. “You can keep the other one.” He stepped out through the door with the banjo and walked to where Atticus stood waiting under an oak tree.

  “Come on, take me to the mother.”

  The house in question was compact but, again, nicely tended. Slightly larger than your normal run of cabins, even for favored house slaves. Raised two feet off the ground on piers. Still, not all that much more than a shack, Tull thought. Some flowers planted out front, struggling.

  “Wait here,” Tull said.

  Two wooden planks were steps up to the door. Tull opened the door without knocking.

  The woman at the table, combing out some sort of yarn. At the unannounced entry, seeing the banjo in his hand, gasped. An expression, then, of dread, as if he were a poisonous snake.