Chasing the North Star

by Robert Morgan

  Jonah lay down and wrapped half the second blanket over him. He was already asleep by the time he put his head down on the cot, drifting far out on the warm river of sleep, clinging to a plank or log. And then he reached for something bigger, something he might climb onto. What he grasped was cold, but he heaved himself onto the flat surface and hoped to lie there and dream. But the thing he’d crawled onto was a coffin. It was a coffin carved from cherry wood. The lid was cracked and he saw through the large crack a skull with its mouth open and the mouth appeared to be laughing in his face.

  Jonah jerked away from the coffin and jolted himself awake. He realized it was just a dream and he was still on the cot in jail, not on a coffin lid. A golden beam of late sunlight sliced into the cage from the one window. Jonah dropped back into the dream of sleep.

  WHEN JONAH WOKE AGAIN, it was completely dark, and it took him a few moments to remember where he was. A weak light revealed the window, but not enough to show anything about the cell. He knew the plate and mug were on the ground beside the cot, and the water bucket near the foot of the cot. He needed to piss, and got up and stumbled to the other corner, where he found the chamber bucket. At least I have a pot to piss in, he said to himself and chuckled.

  But once he relieved himself and lay down again, Jonah began to think about the situation he was in. If Sheriff Watkins telegraphed Roanoke, they might identify him and send him back to Mr. Wells. Or they might even find the wanted posters and contact Mr. Williams in South Carolina. It was only a matter of time before he was put in chains and sent back south. Sheriff Watkins seemed to be the kind of man who would treat him well. But he was also the kind of man who would find your legal owner and hold you until arrangements could be made. A man like Sheriff Watkins liked to believe he was a fair man, an honest man.

  As Jonah lay on the cot looking up into the darkness, he knew he would have to think of a way to free himself. The logs of the jail were too thick to cut through, even if he had a knife. The bars on the window were too strong to bend. A hundred men must have been kept in this cage before, and they would have studied ways to escape. If they’d found a weakness in the jail, that weakness would have been corrected. The floor was dirt, and Jonah wondered if he could dig a tunnel under the log wall. But he couldn’t make a tunnel with bare hands. All he had was the wooden spoon, and the sheriff would claim that in the morning. They wouldn’t give him a metal spoon or knife. The sheriff had taken his pocketknife. With a metal knife he could probably dig his way out under the log wall in a day or two.

  Jonah tried to recall what the roof of the jail looked like. Were there iron bars above him, or could he reach the rafters and cedar shingles? If he upended the cot he might climb on the end of it and reach the shakes. He climbed on the cot and found he could touch the eave. The logs or poles that held up the roof were notched snugly into the top log of the wall. Planks nailed to the poles held the cedar shingles. Without an axe it would be impossible to cut through the roof, unless he could find a board that was loose, that wasn’t pegged firmly to the rafters.

  As Jonah was feeling along the edge of the logs, hoping to find a loose plank, he suddenly heard voices. A man shouted and someone answered quietly. Jonah dropped back on the cot.

  “Can’t arrest me . . .” a man yelled, his voice slurred with drink. A key turned in the door of the jail and the door creaked open. Lantern light blinded Jonah for a moment, and then he saw Sheriff Watkins and one of the deputies leading a man whose clothes were rumpled and torn.

  “No call to arrest me,” the man called out as he stumbled into the jail.

  “You can rest here tonight,” the sheriff said.

  “Ain’t fair,” the man growled.

  “I told you to stay away from Thelma,” Sheriff Watkins said. “You’re not to go near her house.”

  “My house, too,” the drunk man said.

  “Not anymore,” the sheriff said.

  Jonah stayed on the cot out of the lantern light as they unlocked the other cage and led the drunk man to the cot. “You get some sleep, George,” the sheriff said.

  The sheriff and deputy ignored Jonah, thinking he was asleep. They took the lantern and closed the door and locked it. The deputy complained about not getting any sleep.

  “Just be glad old George didn’t have his pistol,” the sheriff said.

  The jail was dark as before. Jonah lay on the cot and listened to the drunk man in the other cell stumble around and grumble. “Ain’t got no right, ain’t got no call,” he said. The man fell and began sobbing, crying like a heartbroken child. It sounded like the man was crawling around on his hands and knees, confused in the dark.

  “They will let you out in the morning,” Jonah said. He hadn’t intended to say anything; the words just came out. The sobbing stopped and there was a moment of stillness.

  “Who’s there?” the drunk man said.

  “Just me in the other cell,” Jonah said.

  “Are you the devil come for me?” George said.

  “I’m locked up, too,” Jonah said.

  There was a long silence, and then the man called again. “You’re the runaway slave!”

  “I ain’t a runaway,” Jonah said.

  There was another long pause. Jonah heard a dog barking in the town.

  “Won’t stay in jail with no nigger,” the man grumbled, talking to himself.

  Jonah thought of speaking to the man again and reminding him he would be released the next morning, but he knew there was no use to talk to somebody drunk. Jonah lay back on the cot and wrapped the blankets around himself. His shirt and pants were still damp from the river. He felt more hopeless than before. There was nothing he could do now but wait. They’d let the drunk man go free the next day, but hold Jonah until they’d located Mr. Williams. Somebody was certain to connect him with the handbill. Jonah knew there was a good chance Mr. Wells and Miss Linda had learned who his owner was. Jonah wondered what Mama was doing. He wondered who was reading to Mrs. Williams now. Jonah felt hopeless, but the moaning of the drunk man made him ashamed to cry.

  “They didn’t find my pistol,” the man in the other cell said. “You hear that, boy—they didn’t find my gun. Had it next to my other gun.” The drunk man giggled and repeated, “Had it right beside my other gun.”

  Jonah heard something metallic. Was it possible the drunk man had a revolver? It sounded like the hammer of a pistol being cocked. Jonah lay very still.

  “I won’t sleep in a room with no runaway,” the man said. There was a flash of fire and an explosion, and the metal of the cage rang. Jonah rolled off the cot onto the floor; he smelled burned gunpowder. There was nothing in the cell for him to hide behind. His best hope was to lie flat on the ground and stay quiet.

  “Didn’t know I had a pistol, did they, boy?” the drunk man said, chuckling.

  The second shot was bright as a flash of lightning, and the jail shook with the report. The bullet hit the wall somewhere above the cot, for Jonah heard the thunk close to his head. He crawled as quietly as he could a few feet away.

  “Are you scared?” the man said. “Do you think the devil’s coming after you?”

  The third blast came from even closer, and Jonah knew the drunk man was reaching through the bars of his cage and firing. Dirt kicked up by the bullet hit his face and his ears rang as if he was deafened. The drunk man was quiet for a full minute. “Won’t let me see my children, won’t let me in my house,” he muttered and began to sob again. If he was holding a regular six-shooter, he had three more shots. Jonah began crawling to the other side of the cell.

  “You trying to hide from old George?” the man called. “I ain’t got nothing to lose.”

  Jonah lay as flat as he could, as far away as he could.

  The next shot must have gone over his head, for he felt the wind and heard the sickening buzz at the same instant he saw the flash. If the man was not so drunk, he would already have killed him. Jonah crawled halfway back toward the cot.

  “T
ime to die, black boy,” the drunk man said.

  Jonah hoped the sound of the shots would bring help. Surely the sheriff would hear and come running. But all was quiet around the jail, and Jonah realized that a small building of logs could muffle almost any sound inside it. The crack of the shots might not even be noticed by those sleeping in nearby houses. The fifth shot hit something metal, and the cage rang like it had been slammed by a sledgehammer. The bullet must have ricocheted because something crashed on the far wall of the jail.

  “I’ll send you to hell!” the man shouted. He fired again, and this time the bullet passed through the blanket near Jonah’s waist. He felt he’d been punched there, but when he touched the spot he found no wetness, only torn flannel. The flesh there ached, as if it had been bruised, but there was no blood. It was the last shot in the pistol, if the man had a six-shooter. Jonah listened for sounds of reloading.

  “You black bastard,” the man said. “Are you dead?”

  Jonah lay completely still. He’d crawled to the door of the cage and waited, hoping the drunk man had no more bullets. He listened and heard a kind of whimper. The room smelled of burned powder and urine. The whimper turned into a moan and a growl, and he thought the drunk man was going to scream out. But instead he vomited. The drunk man puked long and hard, and drops splashed all the way across the aisle into Jonah’s cage. The room now smelled of rancid alcohol and sour vomit.

  Jonah pushed himself away from the bars. He touched the door of the cage and felt it give a little. He pushed again and it gave a little more. Had the gate never been latched? He’d seen Sheriff Watkins lock the door. It was too good to be true! He pushed the gate again and it opened farther. He pushed it quietly open. One of the wild shots must have hit the lock and broken it. There was no other way to explain the unlocked door. A bullet had hit the lock just right to break the bolt.

  Jonah stood up as quietly as he could and pushed the door all the way open. He listened and noted the puking had stopped. He waited and thought what he might do if the entrance to the log jail was locked. Just getting out of the cage might do him no good. A snore came from the other cell, and then another. The drunk man must have passed out in his own vomit. Jonah tried to remember what the aisle in the jail looked like. There was a fireplace at the end opposite the door and nothing but a rough wooden table in between. Jonah tiptoed out into the aisle and tried the entrance door. Sure enough, it was locked and the door was made of heavy planks. It would be impossible for one man to shove the door down. In the dark he couldn’t tell exactly what kind of lock was on the door. It was likely a padlock on the outside.

  The man in the other cell murmured and rolled over. “Ain’t got no right,” he muttered again. Whatever he decided to do, Jonah knew he should have his clothes and shoes on. He slipped back into the cell and found his shoes beneath the cot. The shoes were still damp but he laced them on and sat thinking. His pants and shirt were mostly dry and he slipped those on. The jacket was still damp. He hung it on the edge of the cot. He wondered if he could reach the roof if he stood on the table. Without an axe to chop through the planks and shakes, it was impossible to get out that way.

  It occurred to Jonah that Sheriff Watkins might have left the key in the lock of the drunk man’s cell. It was unlikely he had, but was still a possibility. Jonah eased his way out of the cell and across the aisle. For some reason he thought the key would be there, to let the drunk man out in the morning. But there was nothing in the keyhole and the door was locked firm. And then Jonah remembered that even if the key had been there it almost certainly would not have opened the entrance lock. He’d been foolish to even think of it.

  As he stood in the aisle and cursed his silliness, Jonah saw there was gray at the window. Daylight was not far away. If he was going to make an escape in the dark, his time was running out. No doubt Sheriff Watkins would get an answer to his telegram today. He might even get a message from the sheriff of Greenville County, if Mr. Wells or Miss Linda had tipped off the sheriff in Roanoke. In the first light Jonah looked toward the fireplace at the other end of the walkway. It was cold and dark, but Jonah suddenly recalled he’d seen a poker and ash shovel beside the fireplace. With the poker he might be able to pry shingles loose from the roof, or even break the lock on the entrance door.

  Jonah walked quietly to the fireplace and found the iron tools. The man in the other cell snorted and called out in his sleep like someone lost. With the poker Jonah might hit the sheriff or deputy when they came back to the jail. He would have to find a place to insert the poker into the door to break it open. When Jonah lifted the ash shovel he saw how heavy and strong it was. With such a shovel he might dig under the wall of the log jail. All he needed was a hole deep enough to slip through. He took the shovel into his cell and began digging at the bottom of the lowest log. The dirt was hard at the top, but soon as he cut through the packed crust the ground got softer. He dug in little strokes, removing about a cupful of clay at a time. As he worked it got light enough to see into the corners of the cell.

  If the drunk man woke and saw Jonah digging he would call out. He might even have more ammunition for his revolver. He seemed like a man who would not mind shooting an escaped slave. If he merely wounded Jonah, he might be able to collect the reward money for his return. Jonah couldn’t tell exactly what time it was. Sheriff Watkins had said he’d come and release the drunk man in the morning. But that could mean any time between six and noon. Jonah placed each shovelful of dirt under the cot, and he hung the blanket over the edge of the cot so the pile of clay was hidden. The shovel was not made for cutting into earth, but to scoop soft ashes off the floor of a fireplace. He reached the bottom of the sill log. The hole would have to be a foot deeper under the sill and maybe eighteen inches wide. The shovel blade banged on the log.

  The man in the other cell grunted and pulled himself up off the floor. Jonah froze and waited. The man wiped his mouth and cleaned the vomit off his cheek with the tail of his shirt. He picked up the pistol and looked at its chambers. “Did I shoot this thing?” he said.

  “Yes, sir, you did,” Jonah said.

  “Did I shoot at you?”

  “You never hit me, sir.”

  The man stood and brushed off his clothes. The jail smelled of puke and piss. “I’m sorry,” he said and walked to the window. He looked out as though expecting to see someone coming.

  “I make a nuisance of myself when I shake hands with the bottle,” he said. He sounded entirely different from the man who’d yelled at Jonah and tried to shoot him.

  “You was awful drunk,” Jonah said.

  “Yes, that I was,” the man said. “I say things I don’t mean when I’m in that condition. And I do things I don’t mean.” Jonah wondered if the man could remember what he’d hollered in the dark.

  The man walked to the bars and looked at the open door of Jonah’s cage. “Did I do that?” he said.

  “A bullet blowed away the lock,” Jonah said.

  “Watkins will make me pay,” the man said. He stared into Jonah’s cell and saw the shovel in Jonah’s hands. Even in the shadows he could see the fresh dirt under the cot.

  “You go right ahead, son,” the man said. “Don’t let me stop you. I’m nobody to stop anyone.”

  Jonah knew that drunks often feel remorse when they sober up, sorry for the trouble and spectacle they’ve made. But soon as they begin to feel better they get angry and mean again.

  “Go ahead, boy, dig yourself out of here,” the man said. He ran his hand through his hair and sat down on his cot. Since the man had already seen him with the shovel, Jonah saw no reason to stop digging. If he could dig his way out before the sheriff came, it was worth trying. If not, he would be found with the shovel anyway. Jonah began shoveling at the clay again, but soon there were footsteps outside. Jonah slid the ash shovel under the cot as a key was fitted in the outside lock. The door swung open and the sheriff stepped inside and a deputy followed with a tray. Two mugs of coffee smoked on the
tray and two plates of grits and biscuits.

  “What is this?” Sheriff Watkins said when he saw Jonah’s door open and Jonah standing by his cot.

  “It’s my fault,” the man in the other cell said and pointed to the pistol in his belt. “I’m afraid I scared this boy pretty bad.”

  The sheriff looked at the broken lock where the catch had been blown away.

  “George, you’re a damn fool,” the sheriff said to the man in the other cell. “One of these days you’re going to get yourself hanged.”

  “I’m awful sorry, Sheriff.”

  “Are you hurt, boy?” the sheriff said to Jonah.

  “No, sir, but he done shot all over the jail.”

  “Give me that gun,” the sheriff said. The man named George handed the sheriff the six-shooter. The deputy passed Jonah a plate and cup of coffee. The grits had a pool of butter right in the middle. The two biscuits were big as saucers. Jonah sat down on the cot and placed the plate on his lap.

  “I’m not hungry,” the man in the other cage said. “But I’ll take some coffee.”

  The deputy set the second plate just inside Jonah’s cell and took the second mug to George.

  “You’ll have to pay for this,” the sheriff said to George.

  “I know, Sheriff—I know.”

  The sheriff sent the deputy for a chain and padlock for the door of Jonah’s cage. He hadn’t noticed the shovel missing from the fireplace at the other end of the aisle. Jonah figured it was only a matter of time until George told the sheriff that he’d seen Jonah digging. No white man, even a remorseful drunk, was going to let a runaway slave escape from custody, especially if there was a reward for him. As soon as he was out of earshot, George would tell. Then they’d whip Jonah and put him in chains.

  Worried as he was, Jonah ate the grits anyway. The biscuits were warm and the butter sweet and the coffee dark and rich. Whatever happened, he needed to fill his belly.

  “You can have this plate, too,” the sheriff said and pointed to the second plate on the floor.