The Hidden Light of Northern Fires

by Daren Wang

Katia had told him he should just get another pup, like every dog was the same, and you could just replace your best friend with some random animal.

  She’d also told him that Leander was coming home today, and with that news, he’d been able to pry Hans out of his parents’ grip and get him to come out for a drink at Wilhelm’s Corner House to wait for their friend’s arrival on the train.

  The Corner House wasn’t much of a tavern. Six stools and five tables, Canadian whiskey and Bavarian Enzian on a shelf behind the bar, and Wilhelm’s hausbrau, which tended to give Harry the shits.

  For entertainment, there was Karl Wilhelm.

  When he wasn’t telling stories about the whores of München, he complained about the government, taxes, and that arrogant and rich bastard, Nathan Willis.

  Harry had learned long ago it was not worth his time to defend the man who had done so much good for him. No argument would sway the barkeep. Lately though, Wilhelm had been telling the story of going through the Willis house with the marshal, and it had been making Harry so mad that he’d been walking the three miles to Oscar Dodge’s saloon in Alden when he wanted to drink.

  It wasn’t that long of a walk, and there wasn’t much else to do.

  But since Leander would get off at the Town Line station, they waited for him at the Corner House. There was no one else in the bar, and much to Harry’s relief, Wilhelm had moved on to a new subject.

  “If there’s a war, I hope those Southerners put up a big fence to keep their slaves in,” he proclaimed. “I’m tired of them darkies coming up here, messing with things. Killing good dogs and all.”

  “We sure as hell don’t need them here,” Harry said, tipping his beer toward the barkeep in salute.

  “If there’s a war, I’m signing up,” Hans said.

  “Are you kidding me?” Harry asked. “The army? Why would you do that?”

  “It’s a chance to get out of this town,” Hans said. “Don’t you want to see something besides Town Line?”

  “I was in Alden just yesterday,” Harry said.

  “Har har,” Hans said. “With Leander gone, there’s just not much to do around here. Even if I don’t sign up, I’m wondering about moving down to the city. I’m hoping Leander might let me stay with him for a while. I can’t take living with my parents much more.”

  Harry thought of Hans going away and his heart sank.

  “They’ll never get me in that army,” he said. “No way, no how.”

  “You won’t have a choice,” Wilhelm said. “They’re already drafting every man that they can find down South. Just a matter of time before they do it up here.”

  “How they going to draft me?” Harry asked. “Nobody knows I’m here.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Hans asked. “Everyone knows you’re here.”

  Harry laughed, shaking his head.

  “When I came here, there was a tag on my jacket that said ‘Cleveland’ on it. I tore it off before I jumped off the train. For all I know, they’re still waiting for me over in Ohio. You remember when that census man came through a while back. Everyone lined up to get marked down in his big book, but I wasn’t having anything to do with that—went back to Leander’s shack and hid out for a month. Hell, they find me, they’ll probably want to send me to Cleveland. No way. Everyone else’s name might go into the barrel for the draft, but not mine.”

  “That’s pretty good,” Wilhelm said. “You might just have them beat.”

  “Strauss ain’t even really my name,” Harry said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Hans asked. “Of course your name is Strauss!”

  “They never gave me a last name in the orphanage back in New York, just called me Harry. I think they expected whoever it was in Cleveland to give me a name. I figured I needed one when I got here, and I remembered the conductor on the train that brought us food was named Mr. Strauss. He was a nice man. Even gave me a nickel. So that’s what I called myself.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Hans said. “I guess if someone put the name Harry Strauss on a draft list, you could change it to something else.”

  Harry finished his beer and was about to call for another when they heard the train whistle to the west.

  “Time to go,” Hans said, and they pulled on their coats and walked up Town Line Road and got to the station just as the train pulled in.

  The engineer filled the water tank from the tower, the conductor tossed a canvas mail bag onto the platform, but no passengers emerged from the train.

  “Did Katia say it was going to be the two-fourteen?” Hans asked.

  “She wasn’t sure,” Harry said. “But I thought this would be the one.”

  Hans took off his hat and scratched his head.

  “Well the next one is after six,” he said. “I don’t think I want to spend the afternoon listening to Wilhelm, though. Susie said she was going to make a cherry pie today. I think I’m going to go pay her a visit.”

  “I’ll head up to the Willis house, see if Katia’s heard anything. Maybe he came in this morning.”

  He took off his winter coat as he walked up the hill, taking in the first warm day of spring. As he came to the top of the hill, he saw a thin column of smoke and steam rising in the clear blue sky above the tree line.

  “Mary’s got a sugar fire, I bet that’s where Lelo is,” he said, thinking for a moment that Jep was there to hear him.

  The sugar shack was only a couple hundred yards away through the woods, so he turned into the tree line. The ground was thick with leaves and melting snow, but as he got closer, he took care to be quiet, hoping to catch his friend off guard and jump him.

  He could hear laughter, but it didn’t sound like Leander. He crouched down behind a clump of sumac on the edge of the clearing, and nearly fell over when he saw a one-legged nigger sitting on a stool, smiling as Mary danced for him.

  Then he heard him speak, and he recognized the voice.

  It was the one that had killed Jep.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, twisting his hands around a sumac branch and struggling to keep the beer he’d just finished from coming back up.

  He knelt there, looking at the figure sitting on the stool. He’d never seen a nigger before, though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone. Even when this one killed Jep, he never really got a look at him. It was dark and everyone was running and hiding and all.

  Wilhelm had told him so many stories about them all, how they’d rape any white woman they got near, and how they’d tear a white man apart with their bare hands if they ever got the chance.

  But this one, he just sat on the stool, his peg leg stuck out in front of him, laughing as Mary danced.

  And Mary. Sure, she was always preaching about the slaves and all, but how could she be messing around with this one? The one that killed his Jep.

  He watched as she carried on. She looked happy there with him, like she never was around any of the town boys. She’d always been too good for them.

  He looked around for something he could use as a weapon and found a rock the size of a kitten. He hefted it, thinking it would make quick work of the runaway’s skull.

  Then he remembered how Mary had her fancy pistol. She’d even let him shoot it a few times when he found her practicing in the woods. He’d tried to hit the target she’d pinned up, but it was too far away, and he missed each time. She took the Colt back, reloaded, and hit the bull’s-eye four times in a row. And he remembered how she took it with her everywhere.

  Feeling like a coward, he let the rock slip from his hand. He’d need help.

  He was back at Wilhelm’s in less than five minutes.

  “Mary’s with our nigger at her sugar shack, dancing and carrying on,” he said to the barkeep, gasping after running down the hill.

  “You sure it’s him?” Wilhelm asked, putting down the glass he was washing.

  “I know that voice,” Harry said.

  Wilhelm pulled a new rifle off the wall and handed it to
Harry, then reached into a drawer for a pistol.

  He was almost out the door when he stopped.

  “You’re sure?” he asked again.

  “He’s missing a leg,” Harry said. “I’m thinking that’s where Jep got him.”

  “We’re not going after them, we’re going downtown,” he said. “I want that high and mighty marshal to see I was right. I don’t want Nathan Willis weaseling out.”

  “You ain’t getting that marshal out here again,” Harry said. “Not after last time.”

  Wilhelm smiled.

  “This Southern gentleman came out to see me a few days back, express his sympathy,” he said. “Made it sound like he had some connections downtown, and offered to help if anything like this came up. He’ll get things moving. You’re coming with me—I need you as the witness. Go borrow that nag from the Zubrichs.”

  Harry didn’t move.

  “I don’t want to get Mr. Willis in trouble,” he said. “Let’s just go get the runaway.”

  “Nathan Willis ain’t your friend. You think Mary is hiding him without the old man knowing? Of course not. He’s been keeping that nigger in his house for months, knowing damned well that he’s the one that killed Jep. What kind of friend is that?”

  Harry could feel his heart sinking as he realized it was true.

  They were on their way down the highway twenty minutes later.

  He’d only been to the city a few times before, but Wilhelm came down often to visit the brothels by the canal, and navigated his way down to the waterfront without a problem.

  Two men stood guard at the gangplank of the Abigail, but they stepped aside when Wilhelm gave Compson’s name.

  Everything on the boat shone—the dark wood deck, the little round windows, and the bright brass that seemed to be everywhere. Even the ropes looked impossibly white. Harry had never felt too dirty to be anywhere before, but he did then. While one of the guards went below to get Compson, he rubbed the road dust from his face, kicked the mud from his boots, and spit in his palm and tried to mat down his curly hair.

  Compson had gray hair and a dark mustache, neatly trimmed. His piercing eyes looked out from under dark eyebrows. He greeted Wilhelm like an old friend, and gave Harry’s hand a firm shake before leading them belowdecks. The cabin’s walls were all dark wood with green velvet. The smell of cigars permeated the air. Everything was so nice that Harry was afraid to touch it.

  “I seen that nigger,” Harry blurted. “I seen him today with Mary Willis on her farm.”

  “Is that so?” Compson asked. “Have a seat. Tell me your story.”

  He made a motion with his hands and a black man appeared with two heavy glasses with three fingers of liquor.

  Harry looked at it suspiciously, but Wilhelm smiled and nodded.

  It was the best whiskey Harry had ever tasted.

  Harry told what he’d seen. When Harry mentioned that he’d worked for Mr. Willis, he was asked about everyone’s daily routine and the layout of the farm.

  Finally, Compson leaned back and stroked his mustache.

  “Give me a minute, please,” he said, opening a drawer and taking out a sheet of paper. He wrote quickly, folded the paper, and another black man appeared.

  “Take this to Marshal Kidder,” he said. “He’s most likely in one of the taverns by the canal.”

  He turned back to the two of them.

  “You’ll ride out in the morning,” he said to Wilhelm and Harry. “The marshal will be here at seven, and you need to be ready to go then. Get in and out before the father returns from his morning walk. It’ll be just the girl and the slave, and the three of you should be able to handle that. This story can be very useful for the Southern cause—a county commissioner giving harbor to fugitives. It will be ammunition for us. But it must be handled correctly. If one of them is harmed in the capture, the sympathies will be with the abolitionists. So please operate with restraint.”

  Compson clapped his hands together and told the negro servant to get them some supper and make up beds for them. Harry reached for the decanter of whiskey, but the commander moved it away.

  “Get some rest,” he said. “Afterward, you can have your fill. Of course, once we have the slave in hand, we will locate its owner and the two of you will certainly be rewarded. You won’t be in need of my whiskey, but I’ll be happy to pour you as much as you’d like.”

  After dinner, the negro led Harry to a tiny room. Everything in it was dark wood and bright brass, except for the bed.

  The sheets were the softest thing he had ever felt. The boat rocked him like he was in a cradle and he fell asleep almost immediately.

  FUGITIVE

  Dearest Mary,

  Tomorrow morning we will leave for the city, and we will forever be gone from each other’s lives.

  What can I give to you on such a day as a thank-you? Should I share my grandest dreams? Should I tell you all my deepest fears? Should I bare my soul?

  After I cross over into Canada, I will find a pond, and I will build a little cabin on its shore, just like Mr. Thoreau’s.

  Someday, somehow, I will find Alaura, and I will bring her there, and we will be safe and happy and free.

  Maybe someday you will come to visit me there, and we can make sugar. Maybe I can learn to sing, and then I can see you dance again.

  And now you know all that this simple, useless man dreams of.

  JOE

  Joe and Charles were already loading the casks of syrup onto the wagon when Mary came into the barn.

  “Your father came by yesterday. He’s worried about you taking him downtown alone and asked me to ride down with you two,” Charles said. She nodded and smiled, touching his arm in thanks.

  She loaded food and blankets under the wagon bench so they could stop and picnic on the way back, and tucked her Colt into the cushion.

  “The pistol, again?” Charles asked, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Always,” she said.

  They positioned the barrels of syrup along the outside of the wagon bed, leaving an empty space in the middle for Joe. Charles helped him climb into the space, and Mary handed him a jug of cider and the leftover chicken. She had given him clean clothes, and he’d scrubbed up for the trip. She took a tied handkerchief from her apron pocket and picked lint from it before handing it to him.

  Joe untied it and looked at four gold discs emblazoned with Liberty’s profile.

  “I won’t take your money,” he said, twisting the coins back into the rag and offering them back to her. “I’ve taken too much from you already.”

  “That’s not from me. That’s from my father,” she said. “He’s off for his morning walk, but he’ll not think kindly of you if you refuse his gift.”

  Charles looked at her with a cocked eyebrow.

  Joe frowned, but tucked the handkerchief into his waistband. Hunkered into the hollow among the barrels, Mary thought he looked like a little boy hiding for a game of kick-the-can.

  “Don’t make a sound, no matter what you hear,” Mary said. “I’ve brought dozens of folks downtown. I can talk my way out of anything as long as you stay hidden. If they know you are back here, we’ll both be in for it.”

  He nodded.

  A shadow cut across the barn floor.

  “I need a ride downtown,” Leander announced. His face was puffy and pale and his silk waistcoat had a brown stain down the front. He had his bag in one hand, and another bottle of the brain tonic in the other. He took a swallow before he approached them.

  “Did you sleep in someone’s chicken coop?” Mary asked.

  “I swear to God, Wilhelm’s whiskey has gotten worse since I left,” he muttered.

  “Go clean yourself up if you want to ride with us,” she said. “You’re a disgrace.”

  “After he came down on me like that last night, I’ve got to listen to you now, too?” he snapped at her. “For Christ’s sake, my head is pounding. Can’t you just be quiet and drive me downtown?”

  “Jus
t because you’re hungover doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me,” she said. “I didn’t pour that poison down your gullet.”

  “You could have at least stood up for me,” Leander said, his hand on his stomach as he lurched forward a step. He glared at her with bloodshot eyes.

  “You want me to defend you, do something I should defend,” she said. “You come back here with your head all mush, talking nonsense about a lady you’ve known for just a few weeks, and you want me to stick up for you? I don’t like you this way. You’re not right.”

  “I’m more right than I’ve ever been,” he said. “You don’t see how he’s holding me back. You don’t see how things really are.”

  He stumbled forward, grasped the wagon wheel, slid to his knees, and vomited on the barn’s mud floor.

  A sour whiff of rotgut whiskey rose up and she struggled to keep from wretching herself. She’d seen him hungover many times before, but he’d always been contrite and gentle on such mornings. There was a belligerence in him now, and she wondered whether it had come from this strange woman he’d talked of so much or the potion that he was even then washing his mouth out with as he knelt over his own mess.

  “I do,” Mary said, looking down at him, a hand over her mouth. “I do see how things are.”

  He climbed to his feet and stood over her.

  “You’re no better than he is,” he said.

  She reached into her coat pocket, took out a handkerchief, and offered it to him.

  “Wipe your lips,” she said. “You’ve got sick on your face.”

  He ignored her offering and ran the back of his hand across his chin.

  “Better?” He sneered.

  “Not hardly,” she replied.

  “I’ll ride in the back,” he said. Without waiting for permission, he started to climb between the barrels, then stopped short when he saw the fugitive nestled among them.

  “What in hell?” he demanded angrily.

  “He’s going downtown with Charles and me,” Mary said.

  “Has he been here this whole time?” Leander demanded. “You mean to tell me that while Father refused to risk one red copperhead to help his own son, you were risking everything this family has for some damned slave? This must be some elaborate joke.”