The Shadow Conspiracy II

by Phyllis Irene Radford

  He tipped his hat and strolled back to his men. “All right boys!” he called out. “Settle down now! We’ve made our point.”

  O’Malley spread his arms and herded them back, and they retired to their own section of the camp, to wait and to watch for what came next.

  I turned slowly, shaking from my rage and fear, and made my way back to where Baldwin waited on Sharpie, with the blacks, and my foreman and cook at his feet. “All right, Baldwin, you can come down.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Sheridan,” he replied. “I believe it’s better I stay up here.”

  “Suit yourself.” I had to get away and think.

  “Mr. Sheridan,” called Baldwin behind me.

  “What is it?”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of calling things off, Mr. Sheridan.”

  I couldn’t help it. I stopped in my tracks and I turned. “Are you threatening me, Baldwin?”

  “Do I need to, Mr. Sheridan?” He reached down and patted Sharpie.

  I turned on my heel and strode away. As I did, I glanced up at the bulk of the mountain. Suddenly, I hated it with all my heart. I wanted to tear it down with my bare hands. I wanted to take all the gun powder in the armouries of all the militias in Virginia and pack it full and blow it sky high.

  How had I lost control of my own men, my own job, my own life so fast? So many people wanted this work, and none of them would yield it to the others. None had reason to.

  None, except maybe one. I lifted my head. There was one party in this great disaster who might want something besides work. Through him, there might be a way to buy myself some time.

  I was on my feet and outside almost before I was aware I had moved. “Croft!” I bellowed. “Croft!”

  Croft still stood beside Wilhelm, warily watching the Irish. As I shouted and waved like a fool, Croft touched Wilhelm’s shoulder, then backed away for several strides before he turned to join me.

  “I need you to get Emmett away from the slaves,” I whispered. “Tell him you want to talk about the job, discuss pay, or that there’s another job in the next valley you know about. Anything. Just get him clear.”

  Croft frowned hard. “Your plans haven’t gone so well up to now, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “I know. This is the last gambit, I swear.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  “Then I’m sorry, Croft. Truly.”

  I watched his face. Somewhere inside the man, he was already gone. Maybe he’d stick around long enough to collect his pay, maybe not. Whatever happened at the end of today, I’d soon be on my own. I had to make this work.

  “Please, Croft.”

  “All right.” He said it in the same tones in which a man might say good-bye.

  I went back into the tent, sat at the table, and pulled out the roll of message tape. I scribbled a shorthand note to Mr. Post of the C&O board. Being as sparing as I could with the truth, I said I needed men and guns for the camp. I might have said something about wolves, or bears, or drunken Indians. I cranked the first key on the pigeon’s back. The bird turned its head and opened its beak so I could feed in the message tape. Then, I tucked the pigeon under one arm and hurried out the back of the tent.

  I cranked the remaining keys on the bird’s back tight and set it on the ground. It ran, awkwardly at first, then faster and faster, flapping it’s great wings until it caught the air, and rose, clacking and chiming into the sky. I didn’t wait to watch any longer. I slipped into the trees, to circle around the long way, to come up behind the slaves.

  Croft reached the knot of slaves almost at the same time I did. I clapped my sleeve against my mouth to muffle my breath and watched through the screen of pine and scrub as my foreman led Emmett away, gesturing at the mountain, talking nonsense.

  “John Henry!” I whispered as loud as I dared.

  Not one of the blacks moved, at least, not much. The one nearest me nudged his neighbour with his foot, just a little, and that boy nudged the next. A little shift, a nod, the flick of an eye, silent signals worked their way through the crowd to where John Henry sat. He looked slowly over his shoulder, as if he was doing no more than stretching his neck, then he touched Skinny Shake beside him.

  Together they rose, so smoothly their leg irons made no noise. Emmett had chained them up again. Moving easily, they came to the edge of the circle, John Henry put his back toward the mountain and Emmett, and to my shock, shoved down the front of his pants.

  It took me a second to realize how much sense this made. Who’d question a man’s need to leave his place to take a piss?

  “What you want with John Henry, Massa Sheridan?” he asked quietly. His eyes stayed straight ahead, his face absolutely still. It reminded me sharply of Baldwin last night, for John Henry wore the same blank mask.

  “I’ve an offer for you, John Henry.”

  John Henry grinned then, wide and vacant and utterly mirthless. “Oh, I don’ know nuthin’ ’bout no offers Massa Sheridan. You should be talking to Massa Emmett...”

  “Yes, I’d expect you to say so, but listen. I need you to win. It’s important that Baldwin and his drill be seen to lose. And if you do win, I promise you I’ll buy you and Polly Anne from Emmett.” Skinny Shake drew in a sharp breath. “I’ll send you both to Baltimore to work in my sister’s house. You can drive the horses and Polly Anne can be housekeeper. No more tunnels, John. No more chain gangs or risking your life. A safe home for you and Polly Anne ...and your baby.”

  “You’d buy us?” The ghastly clown’s smile fell away from his face.

  “I would. Whatever the price.”

  “So we could go work for your sister?”

  “You’d be well-treated, John. She’s a good woman, and invalid, so she needs trusty help.”

  “Would you set us free?”

  I winced. “I can’t promise that.”

  “Why not?”

  I drew back, irrationally angered. How much did any of these people want? “You surely know the law. If I set a slave free, any crime they commit, any debt they owe, I’m responsible for.”

  “So we’re not that trusty, are we?”

  “I didn’t say so. Look, John, it’s a complicated matter.”

  “Either my baby’s born free or its born slave. That ain’t so complicated.”

  I thought about O’Malley and his blackmail. I needed time, time for the pigeon to get to Baltimore, time to get men and guns out here. I needed John Henry to win.

  “Five years.”

  “How’s that, Sir?” This time the ‘sir’ was slow in coming.

  “You give me five years service, you and Polly prove yourselves to my sister, and I’ll free you, Polly and your child at the end of them.”

  “You put that in writing?”

  I bridled. Being doubted by this black buck with his parts waving in the hot breeze was too much. “You already have my word.”

  “My first massa promised my mama he’d never sell us apart. Said his word was his bond. Then times got hard, and I ain’t seen my mama in ten years and more.”

  I nodded. “All right.”

  He let go of his piss then, a long, hard stream. I cursed and jumped back to avoid being splashed. When it was done, he pulled his pants up. “I’m gonna win,” he said. “But it ain’t gonna be for you. You take that, Massa Sheridan and you do what you want with it.”

  John Henry and Skinny Shake moved back toward the crowd of blacks who shifted to take them in, to shield their own from me.

  I stumbled back through the trees, telling myself it didn’t matter. I just needed him to win. That was all. If he was determined to do it for his own fool’s reasons, that was just fine.

  The shrill of Croft’s whistle cut the air, and I straightened up.

  The last gambit was in play.

  We filed once more into that dark tunnel, and again lit the lamps. The Paddies crowded the entrance, cutting off the escape. O’Malley took up his post, grim and determined. John Henry picked up his hammers. Baldwin set
tled his goggles into place. The canary watched us, resigned.

  Croft dropped the flag and blew the whistle and they were on again.

  Dust and debris flew up every which way and the air filled with the reek of hot stone and hot oil. Sweat and steam soaked Baldwin’s high collar and foul, black smoke wreathed around our ankles. I glanced over at the canary. It huddled, all puffed up on its perch, staring fascinated at the steam drill and the strong man.

  The outside world was gone. It had never been. There was only the pale stone, the clouds of dust and steam, and the heat and the stink. Our only relief came every half-hour when the thunder subsided to let Baldwin replenish the boilers or to snatch up a pot to grease the bearings or a can to oil the joints. The dust worked its way everywhere, and everything had to be cleaned. And while Baldwin was running about, John just kept hammering.

  The girl brought up cornbread and molasses and fed him from her hands while he hammered. Men brought John Henry water and held the dipper for him. Skinny Shake dropped the drills and snatched up new between one blow and a next and the men brought in steel and passed out stone and they sang their endless, steady songs of death and freedom and back-breaking work.

  And yet, and yet, Baldwin was pulling ahead. Surely he was pulling ahead, and all I could think was, What am I going to do? I was a fool. No man could stand up to the harnessed forces of nature. No human body had the power of steam and gear and metal. Human sinews tired, human brains faltered. The drill would win, and the Paddies would riot. I would die. I’d die under this mountain, leaving Rosamund utterly alone, and it wouldn’t even be Big Bend that killed me. There was honour in losing to the mountain, but to be murdered by a bunch of thugs? How had I ever thought this could work? Be John Henry ever so strong, he was dependent on a boy, a skinny ignorant boy with nothing to win, and if the boy faltered, if the hammer missed ... it was over. Why had I not seen the link before? Why had I not insisted that Skinny Shake be rested, his place be given to a man. Why wasn’t I holding that spike myself, why...

  Someone coughed.

  No, some thing coughed.

  My head jerked up. The thunder that numbed my ears changed its pitch. The dust thinned. I blinked my stinging eyes.

  Sharpie. Sharpie was coughing. The drill shuddered, and it shook.

  And it stopped.

  Baldwin ran in and threw open the control panel. In a frenzy, the little man raced around the great machine, cranking and tightening, opening valves and closing them again.

  And John Henry’s hammer rang on, not just steady, but speeding up. Baldwin checked the boiler and the pressure and spun the valve wheels frantically.

  Clear as a bell the hammers rang.

  “Stop, stop, stop,” whispered Baldwin frantically. “Please stop.”

  He cranked the key again, and this time something went twang. Baldwin stepped back. A hammer blow, a heartbeat, a hammer blow, the ticking of my watch, a hammer blow, and then a new noise.

  O’Malley started to laugh.

  The hammers rang, and the raucous sound of Irish laughter caromed off the walls and ceiling. Baldwin stood beside the silent drill and watched John Henry, still hammering.

  “Stop!” Baldwin shouted. “Stop! It’s over!”

  John Henry brought the hammer down one more time. Clear as silver striking crystal it rang. Only then did he step back.

  “Measure it,” the slave ordered Croft.

  Croft got out his tape and gave one end to Wilhelm.

  “Steam drill nine feet!” Croft called out. John Henry didn’t move. Croft stepped up to the next marker and extended the tape again. John Henry swayed on his feet.

  “John Henry, twelve feet!”

  John Henry staggered. The left hammer fell from his hand, and crashed to the ground. His balance gone, he sank to one knee, and the right hammer fell.

  He looked up a moment before he toppled to the ground. The girl snatched up the coffee pot and ran at once to his side.

  “Here, John Henry,” she murmured pouring a cup of something thick and dark. The smell was strong and oddly familiar, but it sure as hell wasn’t coffee. I hoped she gave him only brandy. She put the cup to his lips.

  “Come on, John Henry,” she murmured. “Stay with me. Finish it, now. Stay with me!”

  Slowly, John Henry drained the cup then he looked up at her, dazed, “Did it,” he croaked.

  “That’s right, John Henry,” she said. “That’s right. It’s done now”

  And John Henry smiled and closed his eyes. His strong hand dropped across the hammer and lay still.

  Slowly she stood, the cup in her hand. “Dead,” she said, to Baldwin, to me, to Croft, to the darkness of the tunnel. “Dead,” she called to the blacks on the line. “John Henry’s dead!”

  The men moved forward, not like O’Malley’s mob, but with quiet purpose. I looked to Emmett, thinking he’d stop them, but he stayed where he was. The blacks formed up into their double line, and in that line they lifted John Henry onto their shoulders and walked him out into the daylight.

  “Well, Mr. Sheridan,” Emmett sidled up to me. “I guess we know who showed who.”

  “Do we?” I asked watching that double line of men move into daylight. “Do we really?”

  The Irish, gallant in victory, helped tow Sharpie out of the tunnel. O’Malley nodded to me as he supervised the gang, letting me know he had forgotten nothing. In his mind, he owned me now. I nodded back grimly and wondered how soon it would be before the company men arrived, and would I still be angry enough to do something to that smug Irish face when they came.

  The blacks dug John Henry a shallow grave in the shadow of the mountain and laid him down with the hammers beside him. Emmett gave his permission for a prayer to be said over the body. I made sure I stood behind their cook for the little ceremony. While heads were bowed, I said to her. “I made a promise to your man, and I intend to keep it.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Yes, Sir,” she murmured, like it meant nothing to her. Perhaps it didn’t, but I’d do as I said anyway.

  The prayer finished, Emmett herded the blacks away from the grave. I stayed on a minute longer, trying to find a way to say farewell to John Henry, or perhaps trying to find a way to understand the difference between what he’d done and what he thought he’d done.

  But there was no answer for me, not then, and not in the long twilight as I sat still in my tent and waited for the sound of clockwork wings.

  As the last of the daylight faded, I heard the drill’s engine cough and roar into life. I stepped out of my tent once more. Baldwin swung himself easily up into his howdah on Sharpie’s back. He looked down at me, and solemnly tipped his bowler hat in my direction. As he did, a whole mane of frizzy red hair cascaded down across his shoulders.

  I stared. Sharpie roared and raised its horn and lumbered smoothly down the hillside as the Irish cheered and jeered and spit and swore. I walked back into my tent like a man in a trance, and sat heavily on my stool. I stared at the place the clockwork pigeon had been. I sat waiting for the sound of the steam drill to fade and wondering why it was taking so long.

  I thought about Baldwin and how I felt so awkward in his presence. I thought about those hands, those wrists and that smooth face...

  Thin, tiny, skinny Baldwin. Paul Baldwin. Who kept The Complete Works of William Shakespeare at the beside and who had surely read Alls Well That Ends Well in which Olivia dressed as a man to protect herself.

  Paul Baldwin who had tan skin and muddy-blue eyes, and who in passing for one thing might have decided to pass for two.

  Paul. Pol. Polly. Polly Anne.

  Polly Anne who had donned a suit and goggles and a man’s swagger and transformed herself to Paul Baldwin to follow behind John Henry’s gang, waiting for a chance to help her man escape. Easy enough for her to shuck the long overcoat and goggles and cover her hair with the ubiquitous scarf to appear as Polly Anne during the competition.

  I was on my feet again, and I was running, out
into the dark, out to the shallow grave where we had left John Henry, who had helped put on such a show that we all thought this was about man against machine, about the Irish and the blacks against the steam engines. We all thought it was about who was going to get the work.

  And none of us, not one of us, saw it might be about something else after all.

  What do they really want? Croft had asked. What do they really want?

  What did Polly Anne Baldwin want, now that she had read the Bard’s tales of women disguised as men, and must have read his most famous story of a false death meant to save a pair of lovers...

  What did John Henry want, who cared for his fellow slaves enough to risk his life for them as much as for his son...?

  I got to the graveside and stood again, staring again, panting again. The moonlight showed the grave, as I knew it would be, broken wide open and empty. Around it I could just make out the tracks of a man’s bare feet running down to meet the tracks of a steam drill’s treads.

  Why? I demanded. If it was just a set up for an escape, why’d you bother? What did it matter if you won?

  But I knew. What did John Henry want? He wanted his fellows to hope. Now the men at the camp would tell a story of victory as well as escape. Now John Henry was the man who’d beat the machines and escaped his masters. They’d pass the tale on using signals we couldn’t see or understand, one to the other, and they say, “If John Henry could do that, if Polly Anne could do that, I can too. If they’re still out there, maybe I can find them.”

  And I stood in the dark by that open grave and wondered how much else the pair of them — the three of them — had yet to do.

  Abide with Me

  Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  ABIDE with me; fast falls the eventide;

  The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide;