Caleb

by Charles Alverson

  From the corner of his eye, Caleb saw that Jardine was back and trying to talk to Caesar over the roar of the crowd. Finally, Caesar slipped from the apron and disappeared. Catching Caleb’s eye, Jardine gave him a single emphatic nod and a flick of his head toward the back exit of the tent.

  At this, Caleb literally leaped at Mott, brushing aside his defenses and smashing a quick series of punches to the head. Mott reeled, and it was only the contrary motion of Caleb’s punches that held him up. Suffering a final crushing blow, Mott fell to the canvas-covered floor. Without waiting to see if Moran would begin the count, Caleb vaulted over the ropes, missed the apron entirely, and hit the packed-earth floor running. Blindly, he followed Jardine’s back.

  A couple of Moran’s roustabouts made feeble efforts to stop them, but then stood back. Suddenly, they were outside, and Pompey and Caesar were sitting on the driving seat of the wagon, both looking nervously in every direction.

  “Go!” Jardine shouted as he and Caleb leaped into the back of the wagon. The pistol was in Jardine’s right hand. Caleb pushed Caesar aside and snatched the whip. Seizing the reins, he lashed the horses into a trot and then a gallop. Behind them, some men burst out of the tent but could do little but shout after them. Jardine hunched low in the back, ready to fire his pistol if need be. “Head for the turnpike,” he shouted to Caleb.

  Within fifteen minutes, the horses were trotting along the dark and quiet turnpike, and the four men in the wagon began to relax. Caesar had taken back the reins, and Caleb, Pompey, and Jardine peered backward for signs of pursuers. Caleb imagined that he could still hear the tumult inside the boxing tent.

  41

  It was very late when they got back to Three Rivers. Caleb thought he could get to sleep without waking Drusilla, but the minute he touched the bed, she was wide awake. She sat up and lit the candle.

  “You succeed?” she asked.

  “What do you think?”

  She looked at his cheek, which was still smeared with dried blood. “I think somebody been hitting you on the face. What he look like?”

  “Like a floor carpet, last time I saw him,” Caleb said. “A white floor carpet.”

  “You been fightin’ white men?”

  “Just one.”

  “That’s one too many,” Drusilla said.

  “Well,” Caleb said, “he was the last one I’ll ever fight.”

  “You got the money?”

  “Master has,” Caleb said. “But I’ve got something else.” He reached for his back pocket and pulled out something wrapped in newspaper. He handed it to Drusilla. “Sorry there wasn’t time to get it wrapped pretty. We left Shreevesville in kind of a hurry.”

  Drusilla undid the paper and pulled out a string of dark yellow-brown beads that weren’t a bad match for her eyes. Even in the feeble light of the single candle, they glowed richly.

  “Man said they were called amber,” Caleb said. “It’s some kind of stone that washes up on the beach. You like them?”

  “I like them,” Drusilla said, holding the beads against her breasts. “Going away present?”

  “Just a present.”

  The next morning, Caleb didn’t say anything about the money they had won, but he kept close at hand. Finally, as he was passing the door to the study for the sixth time, Jardine called him in.

  “You want something, Caleb?” Jardine was trying to hide a smile.

  “Yes, Master.” Caleb looked at him stolidly.

  “Oh, all right,” Jardine said. “I was just joking with you. Draw up a chair and sit down.” He pointed to a chair in front of his desk.

  Caleb looked doubtful.

  “Go ahead,” said Jardine. “If you’re going to be free, you’ll have to get used to sitting down with white people again.” He paused. “But not too used to it as long as you are here,” he added meaningfully.

  Once Caleb had sat gingerly on the chair, Jardine reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. He tipped it onto the desk. Silver and gold coins spilled out.

  “Last time I counted this,” Jardine said as he quickly sorted the money into two heaps, “it added up to twelve hundred and fifty dollars. That makes six hundred and twenty-five dollars each according to our agreement. That sound right to you?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “So,” Jardine continued, “our other agreement was that I would let you buy your freedom for the same amount I paid for you—five hundred and fifty dollars—though you have to admit that you are worth more.”

  Caleb didn’t say anything.

  “But a deal is a deal,” Jardine said, and he lifted a sizeable stack of coins from one pile of money and put it on the other. “That leaves you with your freedom and seventy-five dollars on top. Not bad going for one summer, eh?”

  “No, Master.”

  “So that’s it,” Jardine said. “I’ll write you up a piece of paper explaining that Caleb, formerly the slave of Boyd Jardine of Three Rivers, is now a free man and all that means. You can have that later today, if you like.”

  “That’s fine, Master,” Caleb said.

  “Okay.” Jardine put his hand on Caleb’s remaining money. “You can have this now, or if you like, I can keep it for you until—”

  “I’ll take it, Master,” Caleb said, “if you don’t mind.”

  Jardine looked surprised, but he pushed the money toward Caleb. “Here you go, Caleb. You’re a rich man.”

  Caleb took the coins and put them in his pocket without counting. But he didn’t get up from the chair.

  Jardine looked at him. “I guess that’s it,” he said again, “unless you can think of something else.” He looked at Caleb inquiringly.

  “There is one thing, Master,” Caleb said.

  “And what’s that?” Jardine asked, beginning to look agitated. When Caleb did not respond, he added, “Well?”

  “Pompey, Master.”

  “What about him?”

  “Pompey was a prize, Master,” Caleb said shortly but firmly.

  “Well,” Jardine said, “I didn’t really want him, but I suppose he was. What of it?” He tried to stare Caleb down, but the slave sat impassively, refusing to meet his eye. Finally, Jardine spoke again. “So, Caleb,” he said, “you think that because you won Pompey in the ring you ought to have half of what he’s worth? Is that it?”

  “Yes, Master,” Caleb answered quickly.

  “If that doesn’t beat everything,” Jardine exclaimed, throwing down the pen he’d unconsciously picked up. “You’ve got your freedom, you’ve got another seventy-five dollars on top, and now you want half of Pompey’s value.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Well, how much do you think he’s worth?”

  “Pompey’s mighty strong,” Caleb said. “A good worker.”

  “That farmer in Shreevesville last night didn’t seem to think so,” Jardine pointed out. “He put Pompey up against a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar prize. Sounds to me like Pompey is a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar slave. If that, considering the way you punched him around.”

  Caleb didn’t say anything. He just sat there.

  “Well?” Jardine asked. “What do you have to say to that? You know, free blacks own slaves, too. You’re going to be free today. How much would you give me for Pompey?”

  “I don’t want Pompey, Master.”

  “No,” said Jardine, “and you can’t afford him, either. But say you did.”

  “I reckon, Master,” Caleb said slowly, “that Pompey would be cheap at four hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “You do, do you?” Jardine stared at him.

  “Yes, Master.”

  Jardine exhaled sharply. “So, Caleb, you expect me to take two hundred and twenty-five dollars from my pile here and give it to you for a darkie that I don’t even want?”

  “Po
mpey’s a mighty strong worker. And he can blacksmith some,” Caleb said.

  “I suppose he can cook and sew, too,” Jardine said disgustedly. “You know, Caleb, you ought to take up dealing in slaves. You’re a natural.” He started sorting through his of pile of coins, counting as he shuffled. Suddenly, he threw some in Caleb’s direction. “Two hundred dollars!” he exclaimed. “And not a penny more. Now get out of here. I’ll have your paper ready after dinner.”

  “Thank you, Master,” said Caleb, picking up the money.

  Later that day, the two again sat opposite each other in Jardine’s study. Jardine, ignoring Caleb, was writing with some care on a piece of fine white parchment. Now and again he referred to a big book open on his desk. Finally, finished to his satisfaction, he blotted the parchment, dripped some melted red wax on one corner, and pressed a big bronze seal into the wax. Jardine then set the document to one side to cool.

  “There,” he said, looking up. “As soon as I get that certified over at the county courthouse, you’re a free man, Caleb. What are your plans? I expect you’ll be going north. There’s not much demand for ex-slaves from Boston here in Kershaw County, and I don’t imagine that you’re eager to stay.”

  “No, Master.”

  “But the question is,” Jardine said, “are you in a big hurry to leave?”

  Caleb was confused by the question. “I don’t rightly know, Master. I’ve been thinking about being free for so long that it’s hard to believe that it’s finally happening. It’s all sort of sudden like.”

  “I can believe it is, Caleb,” Jardine said. “And I’ll tell you something you may not agree with, but I don’t think you’re ready to be free.”

  Caleb looked at him skeptically.

  “I just don’t,” Jardine continued. “Oh, once we get this piece of paper stamped, you can tell me to go to hell and just walk out of here free as a bird with your two hundred and seventy-five dollars.” He looked sharply at Caleb. “And I expect you’ve got a few more dollars salted away, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “So you’re rich and free as a bird and you think you have no problems. Right?”

  Caleb just looked at him.

  “Wrong!” exclaimed Jardine. “You may not want to hear this, Caleb, but you don’t have the first idea of how to act like a free man. Not even a free black man.”

  Caleb didn’t know what to say.

  “Get up out of that chair, go out in the hallway, and count to five. Then, knock on the door,” Jardine ordered.

  “Master?”

  “That’s not so difficult, is it?” Jardine said. “Do it.”

  Clumsily, Caleb got up and did as he was told. After he’d counted to five, he knocked on the big mahogany door.

  “Come in,” Jardine said.

  Caleb entered the room hesitantly, but before he could even get near the chair he’d been sitting in, Jardine jumped up and said, “That’s what I mean! That’s what I mean!”

  Caleb stopped as if frozen.

  “You walked into this room like a man trying to steal a chicken or a servant looking to clean up—anything but a free man calling on another free man,” said Jardine. “Now, let me show you what a free man would have done. Sit down in my chair there. The one behind my desk.” When Caleb hesitated, Jardine said, “Go on. It won’t bite you. Now you just sit there, and I’m going to show you how it’s done.”

  Once Caleb was seated uncomfortably behind the desk, Jardine walked out into the hall, waited for a moment, and then knocked loudly on the door. After a pause, Caleb said, “Come in.” He added quickly, “Master.”

  Without hesitation, Jardine strode into the study with his head up and his eyes on Caleb. He marched up to the desk with his right hand extended. “Good to see you, Caleb,” he said briskly, picked up Caleb’s hand, and shook it. Then he all but threw himself into the chair in front of the desk.

  “See what I mean?” he said. “I didn’t hesitate, look shiftily around, or waste a single second wondering how I would be received. I knew that as a free man I would not only be accepted, but welcome. Of course,” he added, “if you behave that way down here, somebody will set the dogs on you. But, believe me, Caleb, when you get up north, folks are going to judge you by how you act. You act like a shifty-eyed darkie, they’ll think you’re a runaway slave no matter what that piece of paper in your pocket says. Some slavetaker will have you in chains and headed south in his wagon before you can say boo. Now, get out of my chair.”

  When the two men had changed positions, Jardine leaned his elbows on the desk and said, “Tell you what, Caleb, I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll stay six months and train me a new Caleb, I’ll teach you how to act like a free man so well that people will think you were born free. And I’ll pay you fifty dollars a month as my household manager! That’ll give you more money when you get up north. Things are expensive up there. How does that sound?”

  Caleb thought for a moment. “That sounds good, Master.”

  “You’re damned right it sounds good,” Jardine said. “It is good. Is it a deal?” He held out his hand over his desk.

  Caleb got up and shook it. “It’s a deal, Master,” he said.

  “Now that that’s agreed, the first thing you have to do is stop calling me Master,” said Jardine. “It was fitting and proper when you were my slave, my property, but now that you are my free employee and servant, you’d better call me Mr. Jardine. Go ahead.”

  “Master?”

  “I just told you,” Jardine said. “I’m Mr. Jardine now. Give it a try.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jardine,” said Caleb uncertainly.

  “That’s better,” Jardine said. “Damn me if I won’t make a free man of you yet or die trying. Now get me a drink. This is dry work.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said with more confidence.

  42

  The next afternoon, Big Mose hitched up the wagon, and Jardine and Caleb rode over to the county court in Camden. Jardine insisted that Caleb sit up on the driver’s seat with him and kept reminding him, “Don’t slouch!”

  Bart Conroy, the county recorder, looked at the paper Jardine had drawn up as if it were a lease on the moon.

  “What is this, Boyd?” he asked.

  “What does it look like?”

  Conroy scratched his head. “Looks to me like you’re giving this nigger his freedom.” To the recorder, Caleb was not even there.

  “I’m not giving him anything,” Jardine insisted. “I’m selling him his freedom for five hundred and fifty dollars. It says so right there.”

  “Yes,” Conroy said. “I can see that. But is he worth that much?”

  “He thinks so,” Jardine said. “I think so. What’s your problem?”

  “Well, nothing, Boyd, but free blacks are scarce in these parts—if you don’t count that one-armed blacksmith over near Jeffers Crossroad, and he was free when he came here.”

  “Well,” Jardine said impatiently, “now there’ll be two of them if you’ll get out your stamp and do your job.”

  “It’ll cost you ten dollars.”

  “I’ll try to live with that,” Jardine said. “How many times have I paid you ten dollars for exercising your right arm a little?”

  But Conroy was reading the document. “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “What’s it say there, Bart?”

  “It says Caleb.”

  “Then his name is Caleb,” Jardine said. “Now for Christ’s sake, stamp it.”

  “Caleb what?” Conroy asked.

  Jardine looked questioningly at Caleb. “Caleb anything?”

  “Just Caleb, Mr. Jardine.”

  “You heard the man,” Jardine said. “Just Caleb. You want my ten dollars or not?”

  “Sorry,” said Conroy. “He’s got to have at least two names. Ain’t a free soul i
n this county with only one. I can’t do it, Boyd.”

  For a moment, Caleb saw his freedom fading away like early mist on a sunny morning, but then Jardine had an inspiration.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “make that Caleb Rivers. Caleb T. Rivers. Will that do you?” He was talking to Caleb as much as Conroy. Caleb nodded.

  “I suppose so,” Conroy said. “What’s the T stand for?”

  “Anything in your damned law say it has to stand for anything?” Jardine demanded. “Just Caleb T. Rivers. Here, I’ll write it in.” Grabbing a pen from a marble stand on Conroy’s desk, he completed the name. “Now sign and stamp the damned thing before I decide to vote Republican next time.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t do that, Boyd,” Conroy said hurriedly. He signed the document with a flourish and then took down from the shelf a wooden box containing a tall device that embossed the county seal over his signature. “Damn, that’s pretty,” he said.

  “Yes,” Jardine said. “Ten dollars’ worth of pretty.” He gave Conroy the money.

  Conroy shook his hand. “Don’t forget to vote next month,” he said. Motioning to Caleb, he asked, “When’s he leaving?”

  “Soon,” Jardine said. “Soon.”

  When they got back to Three Rivers, Caleb couldn’t find Drusilla anywhere. One of the house girls said she thought Drusilla was upstairs, and Caleb found her just finishing moving out of his room and into the little room where Missy had lived.

  “Where are you going?” Caleb asked.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. Least not for six months.”

  “And then?”

  “North.”

  “You going to buy me and take me with you?”