by Marc Graham
Between coughs, I managed to look at Matty, who held the pipe in a white-knuckled grip. He tucked his head between his knees and took in shallow, shuddering breaths. My gut ached as I coughed as deeply as I could, trying to rid the smoke from my lungs. I swallowed some air, and my coughs were soon interlaced with merciless hiccups.
Suddenly, my mouth filled with saliva and I worked feverishly to swallow in between coughs and hiccups. I looked around desperately, then scrambled to a corner of the crib as a wave of nausea overwhelmed me. I heard Matty rush to the opposite corner where he joined me in a duet of heaves and coughs and moans.
When the chorus was finished, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and crawled back to the middle of the crib. I flopped down beside Matty, who was curled into a ball. As my eyelids drooped shut, a mischievous grin played across Zeke’s lips and was the last image I had before slipping into a fitful sleep.
“Get up, boy.”
Thick smoke played under my nostrils and suffocating heat filled my lungs as I hacked and coughed.
“I said get up,” Zeke repeated, and I was hoisted aloft by the rope cinched about my waist.
Zeke’s eyes stared into mine, the whites showing all around the dark centers and strangely lit in a red-orange glow. I took a deep breath and was rewarded not with the pungent smoke of tobacco, but with the dry, sharp smoke of a bonfire.
My eyes widened as I looked around to find the straw and corn cobs being consumed by bright orange flames.
“Matty?” I managed to ask.
“I’ll get him,” Zeke assured me. “You run and fetch some water.”
I pulled the neck of my shirt over my nose and mouth, shielded my face with an arm, then rushed through the shallow wall of flame that separated me from safety.
“I gotcha now, Marse Matty,” I heard Zeke say over the crackle of the fire. “Don’t you fret none.”
I burst from the smoke and flames into clear daylight, and sank to my knees as I sucked in a few lungfuls of fresh air. I forced myself up and nearly tripped over my feet as I raced to the pump in the middle of the barnyard. A bucket was already slung under the mouth of the pump, and I began working the handle.
Half a minute’s pumping brought nothing but a wheezing sound from the pipe, summer having drawn down the water table. I looked around and found a small can of water sitting beside the pump. I grabbed the can and poured the water into the small priming reservoir in the head of the pump before again working the handle. The resistance grew stronger and I was rewarded with two coughs from the pump, followed by a gush of water that streamed into the bucket.
By this time, Zeke had arrived with a groggy Matty in his arms. He eased the boy to the ground, grabbed the full bucket off the mouth of the pump and replaced it with an empty one.
“You keep pumping now, y’hear?” he said. “I’ll come back for this here bucket, but you keep pumping till the trough’s good and full, understand?”
I nodded and bit my lip against the ache already settling into my arms. Zeke turned and ran back toward the fire, the soft padding of his bare feet on the loose dirt blending with the rhythmic whistle of the piston and the steady stream of water filling the bucket.
A high-pitched squeal echoed across the barnyard and broke my rhythm as I turned to look. Angelina had stepped out from the kitchen and now stood riveted on the back porch, hands cupped over her mouth and eyes wide beneath auburn bangs. Within seconds, shouts erupted from all quarters. Slaves tumbled out of the bunkhouse and through the kitchen door. Angelina was nearly knocked into the small garden off the kitchen porch, but Bull caught her with an arm around the waist, hefted her back up onto the porch and handed her off to Belle.
“Buckets,” he ordered the others as he ran toward me.
Belle was right behind him and she pulled Matty out of the way, stroked his head and fussed over him like a mother hen.
“I’ll take the pump, boy,” Bull said. “You run fetch some more buckets out of the shed.”
I nodded and ran as fast as my feet would carry me. By the time I returned, two buckets carried awkwardly in each hand, the trough was almost full and the men—joined now by Mister Barnes and Hick Adkins, another sharecropper—had organized into an orderly fire brigade.
“You think you can keep up with us now?” Bull asked, his operation of the pump arm slowed to a pace just sufficient to keep the trough full.
“I think so,” I said.
“All right, then.” Bull nodded and picked up a bucket of his own. “You just holler if you need to change out.” He filled his bucket and ran to join the battle.
I settled into the rhythm needed to keep pace with the men’s efforts. Within a few minutes, Zeke dropped out of the queue and disappeared into the tool shed. He returned moments later with a collection of rakes, hoes and shovels. Each man returned to fill his bucket again, but their less urgent pace suggested that the worst was over.
“Come lend a hand, JD,” Mister Barnes said.
“Yes, sir.” I dropped the pump handle, flexed cramped fingers and massaged my aching right arm. I followed along to the corn crib, trailed closely by Matty and the women.
Smoke curled around the eaves and sides of the crib, and water streamed away in tiny rivulets. The slaves raked the fodder out of the lean-to and into the mud, while Mister Barnes and Adkins stood by the rows of buckets to guard against a flare-up.
“Looks like we got it in hand,” Adkins said. He pitched an occasional shovelful of wet dirt on the mounds of charred straw and corncobs.
Mister Barnes grunted, a mixture of fear and anger playing across his face. He turned toward Matty and knelt in front of him, stroked a pudgy cheek and tousled the unruly hair.
“You all right, son?” he said.
Wide-eyed and with tear-streaked soot on his cheeks, Matty managed a nod between sobs.
“Can you tell me how this happened?” Mister Barnes looked first to Matty, then to me, and my gut seized in a knot of fear.
“We—we was—” Matty stuttered.
“We was learning from Zeke how to carve,” I said, my eyes fixed on Matty’s. “Zeke was having a pipe, and I guess we all just drifted off. When we woke up, the whole works was afire.”
Matty stared at me in confusion, but I shot him my hardest look that meant Keep your mouth shut.
“Is that the way of it?” Mister Barnes asked Matty.
The crybaby looked at me, trembling, then gave the barest nod of his head.
“Bull,” Mister Barnes said in a steely, calm voice, “go fetch me a rope and the bull-hide.”
The older slave stood still for just a moment, then mumbled, “Yes, suh,” and made for the tool shed.
“You,” Barnes continued, pointing to the other slaves, “bring that rot along with you.” Without another word, he turned and headed toward the front of the barn.
“Come on ’long now, children,” Belle whispered to Angelina and Matty. “Ain’t no call to be standing ’round here. You got to get cleaned up for supper.” As she herded her charges toward the house, she turned to her daughter. Ketty stood rooted to the spot, one hand over her mouth, her wide eyes following Zeke.
“Ketty,” Belle rasped, to no response. “Keturah,” she said more sharply, finally getting the girl’s attention. “You stop that gawking and come help me with supper.”
The girl’s almond eyes clouded over as her head shook and she gnawed at her fingertips. Belle came alongside her, gently pulled Ketty’s hands from her mouth and whispered something in her ear. Ketty nodded. Belle squeezed her shoulders and steered her toward the kitchen. Along the way, Belle cooed a cheery “Come ’long now, children” to Matty and Angelina, and led her brood into the house.
I stood there for the longest time as my conscience cursed me for a coward. I looked at the ruined corn crib, the smoking fodder, the muddy footprints. I expected to see a pair of heel tracks to show how Zeke had been dragged to his punishment, but there was none. He’d gone along willingly, and he hadn’t said a word.
&nb
sp; My spine stiffened in that moment and I was about to run after the men when I heard the first whistle and crack of the whip. A heart-rending wail filled the air as rawhide met flesh. My knees buckled and I crumpled to the ground as a second, then a third crack lashed out. My body shuddered and I pressed hands to my stomach and—from a very different cause than earlier—began to retch.
Supper was a gloomy affair.
The Barneses were from good people and hosted a fine supper table. The talk was usually of politics or history, music or philosophy, and Missus Barnes always made sure to ask my opinion on this or that. I’d had to give up my schooling when I went to work for Mister Barnes, but I thought the supper discussions more than made up for what I missed from books.
This night, though, there was no talk other than the Please-pass-the-salt kind. The dining room echoed of clinking forks and scraping knives, of slurped coffee and stifled belches. Matty thumped his heels against his chair legs, and Angelina had to shush him three times.
“Quit it, Matty,” she said the fourth time, and laid her knife and fork noisily on her plate.
“I ain’t doing nothing,” he said amid the thump-thump-thump of his heels.
“ ‘I’m not doing anything,’ ” Angelina corrected him, “and you most certainly are.”
“That’s enough,” Missus Barnes broke in. “Mister Adkins, JD—I apologize that we are not very good hosts this evening.”
“No need t’apologize, ma’am,” Adkins said through a full mouth, spewing bread crumbs as he spoke. “But, seeing as it’s been a long day and all, I think I’d best be getting along.”
“Me, too, ma’am.” I wiped my mouth and leapt at the chance to escape from the memories of that night.
“Another good day of work,” Mister Barnes offered without enthusiasm as he scraped his chair away from the table. “Belle, would you fix a plate and take it out to Zeke for me?”
“Yes, suh,” she said, and hastily started clearing the table. Her eyes were red and puffy now, though she’d seemed fine before supper.
“Marse Barnes.” Bull ducked his head at the doorway to the kitchen, hat in his hand.
“Yes, Bull, what is it?”
“The boy gone, suh.”
It took a moment for the words to register.
“What do you mean, gone?” Mister Barnes said.
“Gone, suh,” Bull repeated. “I laid him out in the barn after you—after you was through with him, so’s Ketty could tend his back. He gone from there, and he ain’t in the bunkhouse neither.”
The pall that had clouded the room now choked the breath from it entirely. I chanced a look at Matty, whose eyes I’d avoided all evening, and saw a spark of satisfaction.
“Ketty gone, too, suh,” Bull added, and heads jerked up all around the table.
“Saddle three horses for me, Bull,” Mister Barnes ordered, “and ready the dogs. Boys,” he added, looking at me and Adkins, “looks like your day’s not over yet.”
“Yes, sir,” Adkins said, while I nodded dumbly.
“Give Bull a hand, JD. Hick, come with me.”
I followed behind the big Negro while Adkins went with Mister Barnes. Belle settled into a chair—her tears no longer held back—and Missus Barnes and Angelina fussed over her while Matty disappeared up the stairs.
“If you start with the horses, Marse Jade, I’ll find some scent for the dogs,” Bull said.
I nodded my agreement and hustled to the stable. I had two horses saddled by the time Bull joined me, a sweat-stained shirt and a yellow headscarf in his meaty hands. He set the cloths by the stable door and helped with the last horse.
“The dogs?” Mister Barnes asked as we led the horses into the barnyard.
I whistled and yelled, “Here, Argos. Hounds, come.”
A pack of bluetick hounds tore from under the kitchen porch and raced toward the barn. The horses shied at the rush of panting, slavering dogs, but Bull hushed and steadied them. Argos, my own dog from the pack, came to my side, sat and pawed at my leg until I let him nuzzle and lick my hand.
Mister Barnes picked up the shirt and scarf and passed them around the hounds, who whined eagerly as they snuffled at the scent cloths.
“Seek, dogs,” he ordered, and the six hounds raced across the barnyard as moonlight glinted off their sleek, dappled coats.
“Here you go, JD,” Adkins said as I swung into the saddle. He handed me an underhammer rifle and I laid the ungainly thing across the saddle in front of me.
“Wait for me.”
The screen door slammed shut behind Matty as he jumped down from the kitchen porch. He hopped on one booted foot while he tugged at the bootstraps of the other. He made it a quarter of the way across the yard before his belly outpaced his foot and he went down in a red-headed, flannel-clad tangle. He squirmed on the ground until he forced the stubborn boot into place, then picked himself up and trotted the rest of the way to us.
“Get on back inside, son,” Mister Barnes said.
“But I want to go with you,” Matty insisted, his voice cracking.
“This is no business for a boy,” Barnes said as he mounted his horse.
“But, what about him?”
Mister Barnes turned in his saddle to consider me for a moment.
“JD’s a right good hand,” he said. “He does a man’s job even half busted up. Until you start pulling your own weight, son, take on a man’s responsibilities instead of holding on to your ma’s apron strings, you’re still a boy.”
Matty’s cheeks flashed red under the pale moonlight. He fixed me with his green eyes, made greener still by envy and spite. He opened his mouth to speak again, and I feared he was about to spill the truth of the fire until Mister Barnes said, “You get back on into the house, boy,” and spurred his horse after the hounds. Adkins set off after him. I was about to follow when my eye was drawn to a slight motion at one of the upstairs windows. Angelina’s window.
A white lace curtain was pulled back slightly with a set of elegant fingers curled around the edge. It seemed a bright pair of emeralds glowed out from the darkness behind the window panes. My horse nickered impatiently and reined in my thoughts. I gave a Hey-yup and squeezed my knees, and the horse raced after the other two. I stole a last glance before rounding the corner of the house, only to see the delicate lace falling back to rest.
I soon caught up with Barnes and Adkins. Though I had no stomach for the chase, the cool night air was invigorating, and I relished being part of a man’s mission. We rode after the hounds for hours. Three times they lost the scent, and Mister Barnes had to dismount and pass the cloths under their muzzles. Each time the pack tore off in a new direction, only to begin wandering aimlessly a short time later.
“Maybe we should head into Van Buren and raise the sheriff,” Adkins suggested when the coon dogs lost the trace yet again.
“Not a bad idea,” Barnes said. “Hounds, get home,” he called, and the dogs broke away from snuffling at the grass, looked at their master for confirmation, then turned and raced in the direction of the farm.
Argos looked at me quizzically, and I called, “C’mon, boy.” He bounded after me as I followed the other men to the county seat.
I’d been to Van Buren twice before and had been amazed by street upon street lined with wooden and brick buildings, the sidewalks teeming with people. This night it seemed abandoned, and I had to bite my lip to keep from quivering at my own reflection in the darkened windows we passed.
“Wake the sheriff, Hick,” Mister Barnes said. “JD and I’ll check down by the river.”
“Yes, sir,” Adkins replied, and reined his horse toward the one building with a light still peeking out from behind closed shutters.
I followed Mister Barnes along the riverfront, and it struck me that this would be the way for Zeke to come. Across the Arkansas River lay Fort Smith and, beyond that, Indian Territory. Years earlier I’d seen the groups of Indians being herded westward by armed soldiers, seen the fear and anger on t
heir faces as they were driven from their ancestral lands. They’d been cowed then, but the thought of facing those Indians out on the desolate plains—while chasing after my runaway friend— was not something I welcomed.
“Jacob?” I heard Mister Barnes say, and I pulled up my horse, surprised to see a wagon at the ferry landing.
The peddler, Jacob van der Meer, apparently hadn’t heard us coming, and he almost toppled from his seat on the wagon as he spun around, his eyes wide under bushy, black eyebrows.
“Benjamin?” he said in his thick accent, pronouncing the name Ben-ya-min. “What brings you out this time of night?”
“Tracking down a pair of runaways.”
“Really? Which ones?”
“Zeke and Ketty,” Barnes replied as he eyed the merchant’s wagon loaded with pots, tins and other sundries.
“Oof-dah, is that right?” the peddler said. “I shall miss his carvings very much.”
“With luck, you’ll be able to buy them again,” Barnes said. “Once I’m through with him, though, it may be a while before he’s able to handle a whittling knife. What are you doing out so late?”
“Oh, I got some things for the boys at the post,” van der Meer said. “Finally got a chance to deliver some supplies, so I got to be there bright and early to meet with the quartermaster before he gets too busy to see me.”
Argos had been snuffling at the ground during the exchange and now began baying at the back of the wagon.
“Hush up,” I told him, then, “No. Off,” as he jumped up to put his front paws on the tailgate. “Sit.”
“What do you have in there?” Barnes asked van der Meer as he sidled his horse toward the rear of the wagon.
“Oh, you know, just some things for the boys at the post. Supplies and dry goods and such.” The peddler climbed down from his seat and wrung his hands as he stepped toward us.
“Mm-hmm,” Barnes grunted. “That’s far enough, Jacob.” He shifted his rifle in his hands and added, “JD, take a look in the wagon.”
I was stunned by the sudden change in atmosphere, but I nodded and slipped down from the saddle. With the underhammer still gripped in one hand, I eased over to the wagon. Argos sat by the tailgate, and I scratched him between his ears as he whined and pawed at the air. I pulled the pegs from their brackets, then held my breath as I eased the tailgate down.
