“I don’t understand.”
“They’s a horse tied to the pole that turn the mud grinder,” Toby said. “What color he be?”
“He’s, uh. . .” Art stopped to consider the question, then he smiled. “I don’t know what color he is,” he admitted.
Toby laughed. “That ’cause he ain’t no horse, he a mule. And you didn’t even know that, ’cause you ain’t never see him.”
“Sure I have, I see him every day,” Art replied. “We walk right by him when we come to work.”
“You walk by him, but you don’t see him,” Toby insisted. “That ole’ mule, he be in his world, you be in your world, and the white man? He be in his world. What you do is, you just stay in your world and that way you not be there in his world. You not be in his world, he don’ give you no trouble.”
* * *
Over the next several days Art thought about what Toby had told him about “not being there,” and was amazed at how accurate Toby’s observations had been. Even the guards whose duty it was to watch them would often look right by them as if they weren’t there.
It wasn’t only Toby who understood this peculiar tactic. The other slaves knew it as well, and they could carry on a conversation among themselves, talking about white men in general or one in particular, right in front of them, and not be overheard. Or if they were, not be understood, simply because the whites felt that nothing the blacks could say or do would have any impact upon their own lives.
They did this by giving nicknames to all the guards and overseers. Matthews was “Ole Mistah Moon,” because he had a very round, almost pasty-white face. One of the guards, who had a constant swarm of flies buzzing around a beard matted with expectorated tobacco juice, was called “Blowfly.” Others were “Rabbit,”.“Snake,” and “Weasel.”
Often one of the slaves would break into song, using a familiar tune but substituting their own lines and using the nicknames of the guards. One slave would do one verse, another would follow with a second verse, a third with a third verse, and so on for several verses. By the end of the song nearly every guard, overseer, or white man of any importance would have been the subject of the most degrading comments, right under their noses.
Ole Mistah Moon go chasin’him a coon,
Oh yay, oh yay,
But the coon so fast Mistah
Moon fall on his ass,
Oh, de oh-yah-yay.
The trick, Art learned, was to enjoy the song without laughing. Laughter was not expected under the conditions in which the slaves worked, and if one laughed, it would break through the wall that separated the slaves’ world from the masters’.
Then, one hot day when the work was particularly hard, the two water buckets were emptied faster than normal. Blowfly pointed to them. “Pick those up and come with me,” he ordered Art.
Blowfly started toward the river with Art following along behind. When they got to the river’s edge, Art filled one of the buckets with water, then set it aside. As he started to fill the other bucket, he saw Blowfly peeing in the first one.
“What are you doing?” Art asked. “That’s our drinking water.”
“Hell, white man’s piss will just make it taste better,” Blowfly said, buttoning his pants up again.
Art felt a rage bubbling up inside him like boiling water. He was holding the second bucket in his hand, and before he realized what he was doing, he swung the bucket at Blowfly, smashing it down hard on the guard’s head. Blowfly’s eyes rolled back in their sockets and he went down. Art kicked over the remaining bucket, then started running. He had run half a mile without stopping before he realized he should have picked up Blowfly’s rifle.
But it was too late now. It was too late for anything but to keep running. If they caught him now he would, at best, be tied to the whipping post for striking a guard and running away. At worst, he could be hanged. He didn’t know if Blowfly was alive or dead, but he had hit him as hard as he could.
He was at least a mile away before he heard the dogs. They had found Blowfly, and now they were coming after him.
Looking out into the river, Art saw a log floating down with the current. Without giving it a second thought, he dived into the water and started swimming toward the middle. He knew from his experience on the flatboat with Harding that the river was full of rip currents and whirlpools. It was an exceptionally dangerous river to swim in, but he had no choice.
The log was coming downriver faster than he realized, and he saw it go by before he reached the center of the stream. He was forced to swim hard downstream in order to catch up to it. Finally he reached it, then grabbed hold and hung there, panting from the exertion.
He could hear the dogs quite clearly now, and when he looked back he saw them gathered at the riverbank where he had gone in. A couple of the dogs jumped into the water, paddled out a short way, then with a few high-pitched barks of fright, swam back to shore and clambered back onto the bank.
“Where’d he go?”
The voice sounded clear, carried to him by the flat surface of the river.
“I hope the son of a bitch drowned,” another said.
Art drew a deep breath and, while still hanging onto the log, ducked his head underwater. He stayed underwater for as long as he could, and when he raised up again, he saw that a fallen tree was blocking his view of the men, which meant that it was also blocking their view of him.
He was free. That was a condition he had taken for granted all his life, but never would he take it for granted again.
9
He had no idea where he was. He thought he might still be in Missouri Territory, at least, because he was still on the western side of the Mississippi River, but exactly where in Missouri, he couldn’t say. It had been nearly a week since he had escaped. Since then he had survived on nuts, berries, and honey.
During his wanderings he had seen a lot of game: rabbits, squirrels, birds, even deer. But as he had no weapon of any kind, not even a knife, he had to watch in frustration as a veritable feast showed itself while remaining agonizingly out of reach.
Then he was awakened one morning by the unmistakable aroma of cooking meat. When he opened his eyes he saw a rabbit, cooking on a spit, over an open fire.
How had this gotten here? He certainly wasn’t responsible. He hadn’t even managed to make a fire yet, let alone kill, clean, and cook a rabbit. And yet, here it was. Was he dreaming?
Art went over to look more closely at the rabbit. The aromas of its cooking made him salivate and caused his stomach to growl in hunger. The smell was real and when he touched it, he knew he wasn’t dreaming.
Moving quickly, as if frightened that it might go away, Art pulled the rabbit off the skewer, then began eating ravenously, pulling the animal apart with his hands and teeth, not even waiting for it to cool. When all the meat was gone, he broke open the bones and sucked out the marrow.
Not until he was finished eating, with a satisfying fullness in his stomach, did he begin to wonder once more where it could have come from. That question was answered when he heard a sound behind him. Turning quickly, he saw four Indians standing there.
One of the Indians made a motion toward his mouth with his hands, then pointed at the rabbit bones. Then moved his jaws, as if eating.
“Oh, damn! I ate your breakfast, didn’t I? I’m sorry,” Art said. “I was so hungry, I didn’t know.”
The Indian pointed to the bones, then to himself, then to Art. The meaning of the sign was unambiguous. He was indicating that he had given the rabbit to Art.
“You gave this to me?” Art asked. He repeated the Indian’s sign, but in reverse.
“Uhnn,” the Indian grunted, though he nodded yes.
“I, uh, have nothing to give to you,” Art said. He made a motion toward himself and his ragged clothing, intuitively signaling that he was nearly destitute.
The Indian indicated that Art should go with them. They turned and started to walk away, but Art remained behind, not sure if he sho
uld go or not.
The Indian turned toward him once more, again indicating that Art should accompany them.
“Well, it was a good rabbit,” Art said. “And I sure don’t seem to be doing that well feeding myself. Besides, if you wanted to kill me, I reckon you would have done so by now. And I don’t think you would have fed me first.”
It was clear that the Indians had no idea what Art was saying. In fact, Art knew they wouldn’t understand; it was just a way of talking out loud without actually talking to himself.
“All right, I’ll go,” Art said, following them.
With a grunt, the Indian turned and they began walking.
Although he had been somewhat re-energized by his meal, Art was still unable to keep up with the Indians. As a result, the Indians had to stop several times to wait for him. Finally, they came over a low ridge and Art saw, on the banks of a small river, an Indian village consisting of several wigwams, domed structures made of saplings, twigs, and woven grass. Men and women of the village looked up curiously; then the children and several dogs ran out to meet them. The dogs barked, while the children laughed and shouted back and forth to each other in excitement. One young boy, braver than the others, picked up a stick and ran up to Art. Art thought the boy was going to hit him. Instead, he just touched him, then, with a loud whoop, ran back to boast of his accomplishment to the others.
The four Indians led Art to the center of the little village, where an old man was standing in front of one of the lodges. The Indians who brought Art into the village spoke to the old man, who nodded, then turned to Art.
“You are English?” the old man asked.
“Yes,” Art replied, though he wasn’t sure he understood the question. Was he being asked if he was English, or if he spoke English?
“It is good that you are English,” the old man said. “I am Keytano of the Shawnee. The Shawnee are allies with the English in their war with the white men who have come to take our land.”
Art knew there a war was going on between the United States and England, but he hadn’t paid much attention to it. Now he understood Keytano’s question, and he was glad that he had answered as he had. If he had answered that he was American, they might have considered him an enemy.
“I’m glad you speak English,” Art said.
“Yes, I speak English very good. I am friend to the English people. How are you called?”
“My name is Arthur,” Art said. He wasn’t sure why he used the more formal version of his name. Somehow, he just believed that was the right response.
“Where is your home, Arthur?” Keytano’s pronunciation made the name sound like Artoor.
Art didn’t want to say he was from Ohio. He remembered a big battle with the Shawnee at Tippecanoe a few years earlier. The chief of the Shawnee, Tecumseh, was not at Tippecanoe, but he did fight at the Battle of Thames, and there he was killed. Some of Art’s family’s Ohio neighbors had been a part of the force that fought against Tecumseh.
“I have no home,” he said. At the moment, it was a statement he could make truthfully.
“You are lost, Artoor?”
“Yes.” This answer was even more truthful.
Keytano smiled broadly. “Now you are not lost. Now you have a home. You will become Shawnee.”
Art thought of his present situation. He had the distinct impression he wasn’t being invited to become Shawnee, he was being told to do so. If he refused the invitation now, he would in all likelihood insult them.
“I will be happy to stay with you,” Art said.
And why not? he thought. At least with the Indians, he wasn’t going to starve to death. And he might even learn a thing or two that he could put to good use.
“It is good,” Keytano said. He shouted something, and a younger man appeared. “This is Techanka. Techanka is my son,” Keytano said. “You will be the son of my son.”
Techanka said something to Art.
“Do you speak English?” Art asked.
Keytano said something, and Techanka hit Art with an open-palm slap.
Surprised by the sudden show of hostility, Art jumped back and put his hand to his face.
“Artoor, from this day forth, you will speak in our tongue.”
“But I don’t know your tongue,” Art said.
Techanka hit Art again.
“If you do not learn quickly, Artoor, you will be hit many times,” Keytano said.
Art started to say something else, then realized that every time he spoke in English he was going to be hit. He caught the words before they left his tongue. It was obvious, however, that they were waiting for him to say something . . . anything . . . in their language. Then he smiled, and pointed at Techanka.
“Techanka,” Art said.
Techanka smiled broadly and pointed to himself, nodding yes. “Techanka,” he said.
Art pointed toward the old man. “Keytano.”
Again, Techanka smiled and nodded his head. “Keytano,” he repeated.
Art pointed to himself. “Ar . . .” He paused for a moment, then decided to use Keytano’s pronunciation. “Artoor,” he said.
This time Techanka raised his hands to the others, signaling them to speak as well. “Artoor!” they said in unison. Then, each in turn came up to Art, pointed to him, called him Artoor, then pointed to themselves and spoke their own name. One of those who introduced himself was a boy about his same age and size. He was Tolian, and Art learned that same day that Tolian was Techanka’s son, and now his stepbrother.
* * *
The river was placid, though with a powerful enough current to keep him moving at a good clip. It was nearly dusk and the sun, low in the west, caused the river to shimmer in a pale blue, with highlights of reflected gold. If Pete Harding could find some way to save time in a leather pouch and call it up again, this would be one of the moments he would save.
Harding worked the tiller to keep the boat in midstream, thus taking maximum advantage of the current. This boat wasn’t quite as large as the one he had brought down when Art was with him. That was good, though, because then he’d had Art to help him. He was alone for this trip.
Harding missed Art, and he found himself thinking about the boy often, wondering where he was and hoping he was getting along well. A lot about Art reminded him of himself when he was younger. He too had left home at an early age, though in his case it was not by choice.
Harding was only fourteen years old when both his parents and his younger sister contracted pneumonia and died during a New York blizzard. Harding had been snowed in and unable to go for help. The ground was too hard to bury them, so Harding moved them to the barn and wrapped them in a tarpaulin. While the frozen bodies of his parents waited in the barn for the spring thaw, Harding spent the time just trying to survive.
When neighbors came to call that spring, they were shocked to find the fourteen-year-old boy living alone. He had had to cut his own firewood, had hunted and cooked his own food, and had even fought off an attack by a starving, frenzied pack of wolves.
Well-meaning people put Harding in an orphanage, but within six months he ran away and went to Ohio, where he hired on as a deckhand on an Ohio River keelboat. In that position he learned the rivers—the Ohio, the Tennessee, and later the Mississippi. When he felt he was ready, he went out on his own, buying his own flatboat and cargo, taking it downriver where he would sell his goods, then buy a horse for the ride back. Once back, he would sell the horse, buy a new flatboat and more cargo, and start all over again.
He had been on the rivers for ten years now, both as a hand and as his own man, and he knew not only the rivers, but the other men who plied them. There were several places along the rivers where the boats would tie up for the night, often in groups of five or six boats. Those were good times too, for at the “tie-ups” the boatman would play cards, tell stories, and share their food.
One such tie-up was at a place called Fox Point. Here, where the river had carved a natural basin at the rive
r’s edge, the bank was a wide, flat beach. Seeing it ahead, Harding noticed that three other boats had already put in for the night, and he began working his tiller, angling toward the landing.
A couple of boatmen saw him coming and, waving, they walked down to the edge of the water.
“Pete! You old river rat. You got ’ny whiskey? We done purt’ nigh drunk all our’n,” one of the men yelled, waving at Pete. He held out his hand, signaling for Harding to throw him a line, and when Harding did, he pulled the boat ashore, making the landing a lot easier.
“Hell, Caleb, I’ve never seen you when you hadn’t drunk all your whiskey,” Harding said as he stepped ashore. Not until his boat was made secure did he shake hands with Caleb and the others. Counting Harding, there were now seven boatmen ashore. A fire was already burning, and over the fire hung a black kettle.
Seeing that the men had opted for a community stew, Harding dug through his provisions, came up with a potato, an onion, a couple of carrots, and some salt pork.
“Better let me handle that,” one of the others said, taking the viands from Harding. “I’ve got a good stew going here and I ain’t goin’ to let you ruin it.”
“Ole Hank there thinks he’s the only one can cook,” one of the other men said.
“Well, now, he is a mighty fine cook,” Caleb said. “Fact is, if he was a mite prettier, I’d marry him.”
The others laughed.
The food was good, the tobacco mellow, and the whiskey smooth. The men were enjoying the long, lingering twilight when suddenly an arrow plunged deep into Caleb’s chest.
Caleb looked down at the arrow as if he couldn’t believe it was there; then, with an expression that was a combination of shock and pain, he looked up at the others.
“Fellas, I. . .” he began, then fell forward.
“To your guns, men!” Harding shouted, running toward his boat where he had two pistols and a rifle.
By now arrows were whistling all around them, sticking in the ground alongside, and plunking into the boats and splashing in the water. Two other men were hit; one went down with an arrow in his back, while Hank took one in the leg.
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