"I already talked to her. I talked to them all. They don't know anything."
"Bullshit! This one knows. They probably all know. My brother's murderer is on the Railroad right now and you aren't doing a thing to catch him!"
"Get out of here."
"Not without some answers!"
"Get out of here right now, Wade. So help me God, I'll blow your head off."
Wade glared at him, his whole body taut. Zack met his gaze down the barrel of the musket. At any moment he expected Wade to draw his pistol. Zack resolved to fire if he did.
The standoff lasted for several long moments. At last Zack realized Wade couldn't leave—he was blocking the door.
He edged aside. Wade glared at him for another few moments. Then he stormed out.
Zack followed him partway. He watched Wade walk off into the darkness, the slaves giving him plenty of room. Once he was gone, Zack returned to Etta. She knelt sobbing where Wade had dropped her. She had a split lip and a bloody nose.
"Are you all right?” he asked.
She shot him one of those looks that stripped him to his soul. Then she went back to sobbing.
Zack turned to find the doorway crowded with gawking slaves. “Get someone to help her!” he snapped. A new thought occurred to him. “Where's Priscilla?"
He looked around the room and found the girl peering over the edge of the sleeping loft. Her eyes were wide with fear.
Preacher soon arrived, leading Julia, the slave who served as the plantation's midwife and thus the closest thing to a doctor they had. As the two of them hurried past Zack, he said, “If she needs a real doctor, I'll send for him."
Preacher nodded distractedly. Julia paid him no mind. They both knelt over Etta.
Zack watched them tend to her for a minute, then went outside. The slaves gave him as wide a berth as they had for Wade. He moved off to be alone.
Standing with the musket cradled in his arms, he thought about what had just happened. Something Wade said came to mind: Etta had confessed Joe was trying to run away that night. Zack couldn't believe that. No slave had run away from the Todd plantation since before he left for school. Joe seemed especially unlikely to try it. All his life he'd seemed content here. He was one of those slaves who gave the impression that if he were manumitted, he'd stay on the plantation and do the same work as a free man. There certainly hadn't been any sign of trouble from him lately. Hank hadn't said anything about him being surly or disobedient. And he surely would have.
Granted, Joe did fit the profile of a runaway in some ways. They were usually men under the age of forty. And they usually went alone, even if they had families, the trip being too hard for women and children. Some of the ones who made it would work for years to save up enough money to buy their family's freedom. But not all of them. If Joe had made no such promise to Etta, that might explain why she was so close-mouthed earlier today, letting him seem guilty out of spite.
A new picture began to form in Zack's mind. He saw Hank discovering Joe outside his house late that night, just as he was making his escape. Joe had a bag slung over his shoulder or some other sign that he was running away. Hank tried to stop him. They fought and Joe wound up killing him. It would explain the commotion Priscilla admitted to hearing, but it didn't explain why Hank's body was found inside his cabin. It also didn't fit with what Joe said in Zack's bedroom. Zack still felt Joe's staying close to home was the best proof of his innocence. This new theory only made that feeling stronger. If Joe had been forced to kill Hank to make his escape, he would have run all the harder afterward.
Preacher and Julia came out of Etta's house, closing the door behind them. Zack crossed to them. “How is she?"
"She needs to rest,” Julia said. “I don't think he hurt her too bad, but she needs rest."
"I wanted to talk to her."
"Please, suh. She's in no shape to talk."
Zack glanced at Preacher. “Wade said she told him Joe was running away that night."
"She would have said anything to make him stop,” Preacher said.
"I guess so."
The three of them stood looking at each other. Zack looked away first. “I'll check on her first thing tomorrow."
"Yessuh,” Julia said.
"I'll send for the doctor if she needs him."
"I know you will."
Zack hesitated another moment. Then he walked away.
* * * *
Zack was late to rise again the next morning, the night's events having left him too wound up to sleep. When he got to Etta's house around nine o'clock the place was empty, just like all the other slave houses. He stood gazing at the tobacco fields, watching the distant figures bent at work. He didn't see much point in finding her. If she was well enough to work she didn't need him to fetch the doctor. And that was about the only thing he could do for her, besides clearing her husband's name.
Ten minutes later he was riding down the road to Evansburg. Questions still buzzed in his mind. Not much had become clear to him last night but he felt he knew at least one thing for certain: Wade obviously didn't kill Hank.
For the first quarter mile the road ran alongside the southern limb of the maple woods. Then the trees thinned out, giving way to a stretch of marshy ground. Between the woods and the marshland ran another road, heading north. Zack glanced that way out of habit, looking for traffic. As luck would have it, a wagon was coming down the road. He quickly recognized it, as much by the two mules in the traces as by the driver's posture. The wagon belonged to the undertaker, Jacob Crowley. The driver was his slave, Lionel.
Zack reined up at the crossroads to wait for him. Lionel might be a good source of information. All slaves were, when the subject was one they felt comfortable talking about. And Lionel might know as much about what had happened lately on the Todd plantation as did the slaves who lived there. With Zack's slaves running errands into town periodically and others visiting the plantation on their masters’ business, it never took long for any news to spread.
The challenge, of course, would be getting Lionel to talk. Not only did he have the typical slave's reticence, he was too smart to be tricked into revealing anything that he thought shouldn't be. Zack had had numerous conversations with him during his first year back from Providence. Lionel's intelligence quickly impressed him. Whether the subject was religion or history or even some aspect of plantation life Lionel couldn't know anything about, he kept up his end of the conversation easily. Zack remembered being pleased to think he'd made a friend who was a slave. But then Lionel became distant, seemingly overnight. Zack assumed he must have been scolded for getting too familiar with a white man. It made more sense than his first idea—that somehow Lionel had developed the same contempt for him the white townsmen had.
Lionel stopped the wagon in the road beside him. As usual, his face was an emotionless mask. “'Morning, Mr. Todd."
"Hello, Lionel. Headed back into town?"
"Yes, sir."
"Me too. I'm hoping to see the sheriff. Do you know if he's around?"
"Yes, sir. He's the one who sent me up north this morning."
Zack started to say, “What for?” but stopped as he glanced in the wagon bed. An unmistakable shape lay there, wrapped in a soiled tarp. “Who died?"
"A slave."
Worry gnawed at Zack's stomach. “Whose?"
"The Campbells'. They have that dairy farm up beyond the woods."
Zack breathed a little easier—until Lionel spoke again.
"The sheriff's posse killed him."
"What?! Why?"
Stone faced, Lionel said, “They were following Joe's trail, or trying to. I heard Mr. Graham's dog lost his scent before they even got off your property. But the posse kept riding north because they figured Joe would head that way. They rode all afternoon. Around dinnertime they found this slave out alone, at the edge of the woods. He couldn't account for himself. So they decided he must be a runaway."
"And they strung him up,” Zack finish
ed.
"Yeah."
Zack stared sadly at the shape in the wagon. He remembered the coil of rope hanging from Wade Dixon's saddle. He pictured Sheriff Hines watching as the lynching took place—or worse, taking part in it.
"His name was Travis,” Lionel said. “Mrs. Campbell's in a rage. She said he never hurt a fly. He was just out collecting firewood."
Poor soul, Zack thought. When the posse came upon a Negro out alone, after riding all day in search of a runaway, their bloodlust must have peaked. Doubtlessly Travis panicked when they grabbed him. He couldn't explain fast enough to save his life. Not that the posse would have been in any mood to listen.
Lionel still showed no emotion. Zack was amazed by his self-control. From their past conversations he knew Lionel resented the mistreatment of slaves. There were some slaves who honestly didn't seem to. They believed that suffering was their lot, no matter how severe or unjustified it might be.
Impulsively Zack said, “What would you say if I told you I thought Joe didn't kill Hank Dixon?"
"I'd say I thought you were right."
"Really? Why?"
"You can tell some things about how a person died when you clean up their body, getting it ready for the funeral."
"Like what?"
Lionel sat looking at him for a second. Zack guessed he was trying to judge how much he should say, or whether he'd already said too much.
At last Lionel said, “Sheriff Hines figured Joe killed Mr. Dixon in his cabin, right where they found him. But that's not how it was. Mr. Dixon died on grass. There were some fresh cuts on the soles of his feet and pebbles stuck in the skin. Fresh grass stains too."
"Maybe he struggled with his killer on grass, then ran to his cabin and was killed there."
"I don't think so. The inside of his cabin was neat. No chairs knocked over or anything like that. If there was a fight in there, someone must have straightened up. And that wouldn't make sense. Why would someone hide the signs of a struggle and then leave Mr. Dixon lying there like he was?"
Zack hadn't thought of that. “Well, whether he was killed on grass or in his cabin doesn't say whether or not Joe did it.” He paused, wondering if that was really true. He thought back on what Joe had told him in his bedroom. No, he never said how long he waited before going to Hank's cabin. The killer might have had time to right a toppled chair or two before leaving.
"Maybe not,” Lionel said. “It's just that if Sheriff Hines can be wrong about one part of it..."
"Fair enough.” Zack tried to make his next statement sound casual. “Maybe it was one of the guys from town Hank used to have over."
"Maybe. Those fellas were thick as thieves."
Zack caught the slight emphasis on the word “thieves.” He noted too that Lionel's expressionless mask had slipped a little.
Sensing an opportunity, Zack asked, “What were they up to?"
"Not my place to say.” Just that quickly, the mask was back in place.
"I wish you would."
Lionel didn't respond.
"You know, more slaves might die, like Travis here, if the posse goes out looking for Joe again."
"They won't. They figure they've done their duty, the way they're talking in town. Everyone except Wade Dixon."
Zack could believe it. Judging from Wade's behavior last night, the lynching had only made him hungrier for revenge.
Zack sat waiting, hoping Lionel would say more. For a long time he didn't. He sat staring at the countryside around them.
Then at last his eyes flicked back to Zack. His gaze was suddenly penetrating.
"Don't you know what they were doing in there?” he asked.
"No, I don't."
Zack watched him consider this—consider him.
Lionel said, “They played cards. And drank. Mister Dixon would get a couple of slaves to serve them."
Zack looked at him uncomprehendingly.
Lionel's face twisted a little. “Girl slaves."
Realization hit Zack like a punch in the stomach. When Lionel said “serve,” he meant “service."
"Jesus."
Zack sat lost to shock for a little while. He only stirred when his horse shifted its weight under him. He found Lionel watching him silently.
"Etta?” Zack asked.
"No. Younger girls. Teenagers."
Unspeakable dread welled up inside him. “Priscilla?"
"No. She's too young."
Thank God. But ... Dizzily Zack considered the implications. Maybe Joe really did kill Hank. But if neither his wife nor his daughter were involved in Hank's gatherings, why would he kill him? Who was Joe protecting—or avenging?
"I didn't know,” Zack said weakly. “The slaves didn't tell me. They should have told me. I would have stopped it."
"Would you?"
In Lionel's eyes Zack saw the contempt he remembered. It was awful, deeper and more unanswerable than any he'd ever seen in the eyes of a white man. He dropped his head, overwhelmed with shame.
Lionel said, “I have to go now, sir.” He flicked the reins and drove away.
Zack remained, unmoving, on his horse.
* * * *
Zack awoke to a touch on his arm. “Massa Todd?"
He lifted his head from the desktop. Preacher stood over him, leaning across the desk. His expression was worried.
Zack sat up in his chair. It took him a moment to get his bearings. The creases of sunlight around the curtains of his study showed it was morning. Slowly he remembered his conversation with Lionel yesterday. He never did go to town. Instead he turned around and rode right back here, straight to a bottle of bourbon. He'd been thoroughly drunk by noon.
"Are you all right, suh?” Preacher asked.
"I'm fine,” Zack lied. “What do you want?"
Preacher fidgeted with the hat he held before him. “I came to see you, suh. I came to tell you ... I can't be the overseer no more."
Surprise cleared Zack's head a little. “Why not?"
"My loyalty is with the slaves, suh. It always will be. It can't be with you."
Zack regarded him sadly. “Don't you see? It doesn't have to be one or the other."
"Yes, it does. I had to choose between you and them, and I chose them. I ... I kept things from you."
"What things?"
Preacher's fingers played nervously over his hat.
"What are you talking about?” Zack said.
"Etta and Priscilla are gone, suh."
"What do you mean, gone?"
"They ran away. With Joe."
Zack stared at him, mystified.
"Joe killed Mr. Dixon, suh. I saw it. He had to run away or be killed himself. He was going to go that same night but he wouldn't leave without his family. Priscilla's so young, it would have been hard for them to run away anytime. But with the whole town looking to catch a slave who killed a white man, they'd never make it. So I told him to wait—for things to settle down.
"They left the night before last, after Wade Dixon was gone. We'd all heard about that slave being lynched up North, how it cooled everyone's tempers down. So Joe and Etta were planning to go that night. Then Wade Dixon showed up. Maybe he should've changed their minds, acting like he did. But they went anyway."
Zack was speechless.
"I'm sorry, suh. They were part of my flock. I had to help them."
"Why did Joe kill Hank?” Zack asked.
"It was an accident. Mr. Dixon went out for a walk that night, like he did sometimes, just to check on things. I heard him come out of his cabin and walk up behind my house. When he got up to Joe's place he found Joe outside. They got into a fight."
"About what?"
Preacher squirmed where he stood.
With difficulty Zack said, “Just yesterday I learned ... what was going on in Hank's cabin, those nights he had visitors."
Preacher's eyes darted to his. He quickly looked away again.
"Yessuh. Joe got worried when he saw Mr. Dixon outside his house. He
was afraid he come for Priscilla. Joe asked him if that was why he was there, and Mr. Dixon laughed. He said he'd come for her anytime he wanted. Maybe soon. Joe told him no. They started fighting."
"You heard all this from your house?"
"No. Joe told me later, after it was over. I heard them run past my house, back to Mr. Dixon's cabin. I guess Mr. Dixon was going for his whip or maybe his pistol. The whip was what he had in his hand when Joe got there a second later. Joe took it away from him, strangled him with it. I saw that. When I got to the door, he was choking the last life out of him."
Zack imagined what must have happened next. All the other slaves would have heard the commotion. They must have gathered outside just like they did when Wade was in Etta's house the night before last. They all must have been involved in the cover-up. Some of them just passively, by not speaking up, but others surely took an active role. Maybe they hid Joe—that would explain why his trail never left the plantation. They probably snuck food to him, and information, so he'd know if someone else was arrested for the crime. And they must have rearranged the furniture in Hank's cabin, not realizing it wasn't necessary. Zack could see them righting chairs and stepping carefully around Hank's body, while he slept peacefully in the house, unaware.
Wade was right, Joe and his family would be on the Underground Railroad by now. It was the only sensible course for a slave traveling with a child Priscilla's age. Joe must have made the arrangements that first day of waiting. Zack wondered who their “conductor” was. He knew he had no chance of finding out; no one would share such secrets with a slave owner.
The half empty glass of bourbon by his elbow beckoned to him. With an effort of will he didn't reach for it. “How long was Hank ... doing that?” he asked.
"A couple years. He started not long after he moved into the cabin."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
A tired look came into Preacher's eyes. “It's not against the law."
That was true, of course. Like most states, Virginia had very few laws governing the treatment of slaves. What laws existed were rarely enforced. None of them forbade a white man from having sex with a slave. And in truth, the practice was all too common. Up North people spoke out against it but not here in Virginia. As for himself, Zack felt it was the vilest abuse of power, even if the slave wasn't taken by force. Consent wasn't possible if a woman wasn't free to say no.
AHMM, September 2009 Page 3
