The conductor, a young white man, tipped his hat back on his head, and thoughtfully stroked his moustache. “Not today, young sir. I sent a boy to the nearest livery to arrange for carriages, but that won’t be for a long while yet. I hesitate to suggest it, but I reckon you might want to walk. We’re only about four miles from the city, and there’s a good trail yonder.”
Alex turned to Jupe. “Jupe, should we walk? Is that okay with you?”
Both Jupe and the conductor boggled at Alex. Why, they wondered, was he asking his slave’s opinion?
Jupe answered carefully. “That’s what you want, Massa Alex?”
Alex was getting impatient with him again. “Yeah, but is that what you want?”
Jupe slowly nodded.
Jupe and Alex weren’t more than quarter of a mile from the stalled train when they caught up with a coffle, a procession of slaves. Around twenty young men and women were chained together at the wrists in pairs. A long chain connected them all together. Most people were carrying their few belongings in strips of cloth tied into bundles. The women wore headscarves, while the men sported headwear ranging from simple cotton caps to colonial-style tricorn hats. Their clothes were old, patched, and ragged.
To Jupe’s astonishment, Alex walked alongside one slave, and said, “Hi, so, where are you guys headed?”
“Um, Savannah, sir,” said the surprised young man, keeping his eyes firmly downcast. “We’re going to auction.”
“What kind of auction?” Alex asked innocently.
The slave looked at Jupe, silently appealing to be rescued from this crazy white boy. Jupe signaled with a grimace that he knew Alex was crazy, but what could he do about it?
The clip-clop of hooves announced the arrival on horseback of a red-haired white man with a broad-brimmed hat. He was wearing striped pants and a long black coat, but Alex only had eyes for the pistol he had holstered, the rifle strapped across his back, and the long bull whip tucked under his belt. He said to Alex, “Can I help you, sir?”
Alex wasn’t sure what surprised him most: To be addressed as “sir” by a man in his thirties, or that the man had an Irish accent. He muttered, “Um, no… No, thanks. I was just asking these guys where they’re headed.”
“Will you be after buying any of my merchandise, now?” the man asked eagerly. He smiled and waved a hand over the sad procession of men and women, who continued to plod up the rutted dirt road through the pine forest. When Alex didn’t answer, the slave trader gestured at Jupe. “Or maybe you want to sell me this boy. He looks young, I say, but likely. How much are you wanting for him? I could sell him for you if you pay me a small commission.” To Jupe, he said, “Are you a full field hand, boy?”
Jupe blurted out, “Please don’t sell me, Massa Alex.”
Alex was alarmed by the turn the conversation had taken, and by Jupe’s distress. “No, of course I won’t sell you,” he said quietly, and then turned back to the slave-trader. “ I can’t sell him. He doesn’t belong to me.”
Alex was about to add, ‘A person doesn’t have the right to own someone,’ but the slave trader eagerly interrupted him. “He doesn’t belong to you? Then who does he belong to? Is he a runaway?”
Alex thought fast. This man worried him. “No. He belongs to my… uncle. In Virginia. He loaned him to me.”
The slave trader licked his lips. “You sure? What with you walking and that, I reckoned you were down on your luck. I’m not trying to cheat you, I just reckoned you should know that this here’s a valuable young field hand…”
“No, he’s not mine to sell,” Alex said truthfully.
The Irishman shrugged and bid Alex a good day, before turning his horse and riding to the back of the coffle.
That left Alex and Jupe once again walking side-by-side with the slaves. Unaware that Alex was in hearing range, one young man was talking to talk to the other slaves around him. He was high-spirited, and he made the sad-eyed men and women laugh with his tales of outwitting his master. “Why, once I stole a chicken, and after I snapped its neck, I tied it to my leg, under my breeches. I took it into the woods and I cooked it… I mean, I worked for that chicken. I fed that thing, and I picked its eggs, so I reckoned it owed me a right tasty meal.”
But then, the laughter faded as the man described his return from running away to visit his wife and small daughter, who were slaves on another plantation. “The whipping was bad enough. I’ll carry those scars until Judgment Day. But when the man say I was too much trouble, and that he would put an end to my mischief by selling me far away…I really thought I was like to die.”
Alex saw the man’s lip tremble, and he felt desperately sorry for him. He would probably never see his family again.
Suddenly, Alex realized that he himself might never make it home, might never see Hannah or his father again, that he might … Why was he worrying about these slaves, or, for that matter, Jupe? They would all be long dead by the time he was born. Strange thoughts crossed his mind. Would it really be that big of a deal if he sold Jupe? Slavery would be over soon, wouldn’t it? Jupe would be free then, and meanwhile, Alex would be rid of him. Without thinking, he asked Jupe, “When was the Emancipation Proclamation?”
“Eighteen Sixty-Three,” answered a woman’s voice.
The Professor steered her horse to walk alongside the boys. She drew stares from the slaves and the slave trader, who weren’t accustomed to unaccompanied ladies on horseback. “You’re lucky,” she said to Alex. “I’m the only person in 1851 who could possibly have answered that question. Why do you want to know, anyway?”
Alex guiltily dropped his gaze from her. “No reason… I’m so happy you’re here! So hey, where are my sister and Brandon?”
“In Britain,” she said bluntly. “It took me forever to find you. Weeks.”
“I have your calculator,” Alex said, pulling the gadget from his pocket. “Can I go home now?”
But to his disappointment, the Professor waved the calculator away. “No, keep it. I think you’re going to need it in your new job. It’ll certainly make things easier when you add up Thornhill’s accounts. And who is this?” She pointed at Jupe, who was pretending not to listen to the bizarre conversation.
Alex said breezily, “Oh, this is Jupe. His dad asked me to take him to Savannah.”
At the mention of Jupe’s name, the Professor slapped her forehead, as though something had just dawned on her. She muttered to herself, “So this is what Jupiter was writing about in his letters to his sister. No wonder he was being cagey, the wily old devil.” Leaning down from her horse, she hissed at Alex, “You’re taking a huge risk bringing this kid with you. You know you could be arrested for stealing him?”
Alex didn’t know that. “But I didn’t steal him,” he protested. “He just sort of came with me. I couldn’t stop him.”
“Georgia law doesn’t see it that way,” the Professor said gravely. “He’s considered property, just like land or this horse. And he’s not yours. So you had better figure out what to do with him.”
Without further comment, she turned her horse, and cantered back in the direction from which she had arrived. Alex called after her to wait, but she kept on riding until she was out of sight.
“I want to go home,” he said plaintively.
****
Brandon left the coal mine by climbing a ladder through a narrow vertical shaft. It wasn’t the scary climb that he had feared: He had assumed he was miles down, but it took him only a minute to reach the surface.
“It’s a drift mine,” Ben explained when Brandon mentioned his surprise. “We’re lucky not to be down one of the deep pits.”
The outside world was almost as dark as the mine. Looking at the blasted landscape, Brandon began to understand why this area was called the Black Country. The miners were black from head to toe, emerging from the pit in coal dust-covered shirts, trousers and caps. Black slag, the dusty refuse from mining, lay all around in huge heaps, while ramshackle buildings and enormous
chimneys added to the sinister atmosphere. Brandon coughed as the thick, sooty air invaded his lungs. Soon, he was coughing so hard he was afraid he would throw up.
He followed Ben, Zach, and the others as they trudged through the devastated terrain: Every miner, it seemed, was headed to the pub. As they turned a corner, bursts of red and orange flame and showers of sparks shot from two enormous towers, which looked like a castle on fire. Brandon gasped, “What is that?”
Zach explained. “That be the blast furnace. That’s where all the coal from our colliery goes when it leaves the pit. It’s used to make iron.” As the fireworks exploded spectacularly, Brandon wondered to himself why this place wasn’t called the Red and Black Country.
The weary miners tramped in a long line along a muddy footpath, and then arranged themselves in single file as the path narrowed and took them downhill. It continued alongside a canal, on which were moored brightly decorated narrowboats that made Brandon think of giant floating cigars.
Ben tapped Brandon’s shoulder, and gestured up the hill toward a boxy white building. “Welcome, Brandon, to The George and Dragon, the worst public house in all of England!”
The pub actually didn’t look that bad. The soot that begrimed it had colored it a shade of light gray. Extending over the door, a painted sign portrayed England’s patron saint, St. George, clad in armor on horseback, as he valiantly fought a dragon with sword and shield. But nowhere on the building was the name of the pub written. Brandon wondered if this was because the miners couldn’t read.
The miners poured into the pub through the narrow whitewashed passageway, and turned left into a tiny room. The wooden bar with its beer pumps took up about a third of the space, and it was already standing-room only. Many miners were smoking small white clay pipes, and tobacco smoke and coal smoke mingled heavily in the air, along with the sour stench of stale beer. Benches and tables clustered around the walls, but only a handful of lucky miners had arrived in time to find seats. Everyone else stood on the bare wooden floors. If Ben and Zach hadn’t cleared the way for Brandon, he might never have made it past the doorway.
Strangely, nobody was drinking beer. Neither were they waiting at the bar to buy some. Over the hubbub, Brandon yelled to Ben, “Why aren’t we ordering drinks?”
Ben laughed loudly at Brandon’s question, and he nudged Zach. “Eh, listen to this, Zachariah! This lad said he was teetotal, and now he wants to know why he hasn’t had his beer yet! Oi, Brandon, how can we order if we haven’t been paid?”
Now Brandon was utterly confused. Why had everyone come to the pub without money?
At that moment, a man standing close to the door cried, “Oi, lads, here comes the butty.”
Looking past Zach’s elbow, Brandon glimpsed a man in a bowler hat stopping in the doorway. He began to call out names. As each miner stepped forward when his name was called, he was handed a wad of paper. Brandon asked Zach what was going on.
“Payday,” said Zach. He pronounced it ‘Pie-die.’ “You are new, lad. Now mind, we’re not paid in money. We’re paid in tommy notes. You can only use them in the butty’s shop, to buy your food, like, and in this pub, because the butty owns this, too.” He shook his head in disgust.
Brandon was outraged. “Wow, that’s terrible. This guy owns the mine?”
But Zach was shaking his head. “No, no, the butty owns the shop and the pub, but he don’t own the mine. Lord Chatsfield is the owner. The Earls of Chatsfield have always owned this land, so what’s under it belongs to them, or so they say. The Earl gets the butty to run the mine, and the butty hires us. That way, if the government finds out we work too long hours or the mine’s dangerous, the butty blames the Earl, and the Earl blames the butty. So neither of them gets blamed, see?”
Just then, the butty yelled, “Brandon Clark.” Brandon thought he had misheard, but Zach said, “That’ll be you,” and shoved him forward. Brandon collected his pay, and found that, sure enough, it was not money he had received, but small printed slips that said they could only be used in the mine shop and the George and Dragon pub. As the butty handed out more wages, a man in the corner of the pub started to sing.
“You charitable friends, I pray, lend an ear, to the miner’s petition, which soon you will hear…”
Now everyone in the pub joined in the song, except for Brandon, who didn’t know the words. He listened with increasing anxiety to the grim and gory tale of the miner.
Before they’ve been working scarce half an hour, A great fall of coals on their bodies doth pour, Then help it is called for by all who surround To see where their mangled bodies can be found Some crushed all to pieces, their brains fly around! Then pity poor colliers that work underground…
“Oh, gross,” groaned Brandon.
But the song wasn’t done. The miners continued:
There yet is more danger to which they’re exposed, There is fire, and sulphur, and water likewise, This fire is quick, also powerful and sharp, Many a poor collier has been burnt to the heart.
Brandon shuddered. Bad enough that he worked alone in silence, dark, and damp, but now he knew how unsafe his job actually was. He also had a hunch that the song was deliberately chosen as a protest to the butty.
“Come on, Brandon,” yelled Ben, waving his tommy notes in Brandon’s face. “Let’s get some ale.”
“I told you,” Brandon said firmly. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
Zach took him aside, and said very firmly in his ear, “Listen, our kid, just a bit of friendly advice, like. The butty and his men are watching, and if you wanna be kept on at the mine, you’ll buy at least a half-pint of beer. You don’t got to drink it.”
“Ar,” said Ben, “You can always give it to us!” They laughed.
But Brandon was shocked. He looked toward the bar, where men were crushed three deep, some waiting to be served, and some already holding pewter beer mugs and fighting their way out of the throng. “So the idea is that we all get drunk, and then we spend our money here in the pub?”
Zach looked grim, and nodded. “Ar, you’re a clever lad. That’s exactly the idea.”
“I won’t,” protested Brandon. “That’s a total rip-off.” He was furious. When he worked as Mr. Gordon’s apprentice in Balesworth in 1915, he earned a fair wage, learned a skill, been mentored by Mr. Gordon, and had a place to live, too. The mine was clearly a very different story.
“Come on, lad,” Zach cajoled him. “What will your mum and dad say when they find out you packed in your job, eh?”
Brandon imagined what his parents would say if he told them he had just quit as a coal miner in Victorian England. “They would be shocked,” he said truthfully. “But they won’t know. I’m leaving.”
“You won’t get far on tommy notes,” said Ben, looking concerned.
But Zach clapped Brandon on the back. “You could do something better than spend your life down the pit. Go on, get yourself down to London.” He smiled. “They do say the streets in London are paved with gold, but I wouldn’t put much stock in it, if I was you. Good luck and fare you well, Brandon.” He raised his beer glass to him.
Brandon had no idea if Zach’s words were encouraging or sarcastic.
It was drizzling rain and freezing cold outside. The damp air made Brandon feel he was breathing coal-soaked fluid. Standing in the dark outside the pub, he rocked backward and forward on his heels. When he exhaled, he added a fog to the heavy air. All he could see was the canal shimmering in the moonlight, and beyond that, darkness. The tommy notes in his pocket were useless anywhere apart from Hitherton. He stepped back into the pub’s entry hall, so that he was neither really outside, nor really inside. Several men roughly pushed past him as they left the pub, cursing him for getting in their way.
Brandon was afraid of staying outside, and of going back in. He had a horrible feeling of helplessness, of having two choices that weren’t really much of a choice, of being trapped. Tears prickled his eyes, and he began to hyperventilate.
He
was only dimly aware of a woman who hurried up the canal towpath toward the pub. She clutched a dark shawl around herself, and held up her long skirt to keep it out of the mud as she splashed through the puddles.
But Brandon’s heart leapt when she came close enough for him to see her face. “Professor Harrower?” he gasped. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”
She ran past him into the hallway, stopping to pull off her shawl, and shake the rain from her hair. “Hi, Brandon. Sorry I’m late. Oh, I do so hate wool clothes. The minute you get rain on them, they stink. Well, at least they’re more waterproof than cotton. Welcome to the Industrial Revolution, by the way. Come on, let’s have a drink, and you can tell me how the coal mining’s going.”
“It’s not,” said Brandon. “I just decided to quit.”
She paused with her hand on the door of the small Select bar, the room where women were allowed. “No, I’m sorry, really I am, but you can’t do that. Stick it out for a bit. I’m sure you’re supposed to.”
Brandon was horrified. “No, ma’am, I can’t. Look, can you please find me something else to do?”
She beckoned to him. “Come on, let’s find a seat so we can talk.”
The Select was almost empty of customers, and quiet despite the shouts and singing from the Public bar next door. The two of them sat at a table, and the Professor handed Brandon a few coins, sending him to fetch two half-pints of beer. He was a bit shocked to be asked to fetch alcohol, but did as he was told.
After Brandon carefully laid the glasses on the table, the Professor took a sip of her drink and grimaced. “Oh, that’s dreadful. Repulsive. Don’t drink yours, Brandon.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m underage, remember?”
“Not in 1851, you’re not. Look, here’s the real problem…” She pressed her knuckle to her lower lip for a moment, and then said quietly, “You can’t quit. I need to keep track of you.”
A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles) Page 9
