He ran his hands across the nettings until he felt a lump in their smoothness and touched the shells. He pulled out two. He shucked the first, put it to his lips to suck out the oyster, and heard a dog barking in the distance.
He froze, listening closely, oyster juice dripping from his lips.
It was a dog, sure enough, and the bark familiar. It sounded like the one he had evaded two days ago.
But he could not contain his hunger. He gobbled the oyster, then two more, before stopping to listen again. The barking was coming closer, from the other side of the cove, not the house, which was still dark. But which side of the cove?
Big Linus listened in growing panic. The cove was playing tricks on him. He listened intently, not sure which side of the water the barking was coming from, for the sound seemed to echo to either side. This was a problem, for he did not know which way to flee. To the right? To the left? Instinctively, he pulled himself aboard the bungy and frantically worked to untie the bow and stern.
Behind him, a candle in the house flickered, then lit up full.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw the light in the house, and worked even more frantically. But the rope was tied in an odd way, with five knots. Five knots! With the collar! That was the code. The kind colored woman on the pier had left it. But he forgot the rest. Frantically he tried to remember the rest but could not. She was trying to tell him something. But what? It was too late now. He heard the dogs coming.
Excitedly, he grappled with the rope before finally realizing the slave woman had simply looped the eye splice on the piling. He flipped it off the piling at the bow and stern and shoved the bungy away from the pier just as he heard the creak of the cabin door open. He heard a shout and grabbed the oars, pulling hard.
From the cabin, a rifle fired in the distance. He pulled hard. Several seconds passed. Several more. A minute. They were reloading. Another shot came. He heard the plunk of wood shattering as the lead charge smashed into the side of the boat. He pulled frantically. Whoever it was, they’d have to reload. It gave him a few more precious seconds.
He was a big man and it was a small boat, and each pull swiftly moved Big Linus farther into the middle of the cove, and shortly he knew he was out of range, for the shots grew distant. Only then did he stop rowing, and with a savagery made even more powerful by aching hunger, he grabbed at the net on board, unraveled it frantically, and grabbed the remaining oysters wrapped in it. He shucked the first and sucked the oyster out, swallowing without chewing. He grabbed a second, and a third, and only when he grabbed the third did he realize that his feet and ankles were in water. The boat was sinking.
He quickly snatched the oars to swing the boat towards the shoreline, but in the darkness he lost his bearings. He was sure he hadn’t gone too far from the shoreline, but where was it? He struggled, rowing madly now, to the right and left, desperate, straining to see a tree line, his giant head swiveling back and forth, paddling, grunting, but it was too late. The stern of the boat was in the water, and he slid in.
He grabbed an oar and stuck it under his arm, gurgling and sucking black water. With the help of the oar, he swam towards where he thought the bank was. He knew his splashing and struggles were making an awful racket, but that didn’t matter now. He was desperate. If only he could get to shore. He swam as he had never swum before, but in a few minutes fatigue wrapped itself around his legs and pulled them. It was as if a water devil had grabbed his chest, then his legs and clung on. He struggled mightily, but the water devil climbed up his legs and grabbed his chest and squeezed it. He grasped the oar, which would not support his weight. He held on to it anyway, gurgling and choking. He felt his breath slowing, the water devil squeezing him. Loose me, devil, he thought bitterly. Loose me so I can at least die free and clear.
Then, incredibly, he heard a dog bark. Two of them, close at hand. He reckoned he must be close to shore. He looked about him but still saw no shoreline. The barking grew closer and closer, but still he spotted no shore. He grew terrified, thinking the water devil was calling his brothers to claim his soul, for no dog in the world could swim that far out into the bay.
—Loose me, you demons, he cried out, so I can die in the clear.
He heard the creaking of a yawl and the sound of a sail boom twisting in the wind. He felt a net drop over him, then strong hands lifting him on board. He fell inside, gasping for air, covered with the net, exhausted, the dogs snarling at him and a voice telling the dogs, Back, you bastards.
He looked up, and there she was again.
Patty sat before him, in the bow of a dory boat, a two-masted eighteen-foot smuggler, holding a lantern and a rifle. Next to her were Odgin and Hodge, who was holding two dogs on a leash. Stanton was on the trailboard above the bow, holding the jib.
—Welcome home, you black bastard, she said.
—I ain’t home, Big Linus gasped. I’m property of Master John Gables of Bucktown.
He felt an oar slap him across the face. He stopped his struggles in the net for a moment and looked up at the man holding the oar.
—Don’t you hit me with that no more, he said.
Odgin laughed nervously and turned to Patty.
—He’s an onery bastard, he said.
—Hurry up and tie him down, she said.
—Don’t worry, Patty, I got him, Odgin said. He turned around and sat on Big Linus while Hodge hurriedly wrapped at his legs with a rope. You’s a heavy bastard, Odgin muttered, peeking down at Linus beneath him. Must’ve been you that done in my buddy Little George.
At the mention of Little George, the immense Negro, covered with a fishnet and curled into a pitiful, gasping ball on the bottom of the boat, sat upright and sent Odgin sprawling. He reached out a long arm covered with net and managed to pull the horrifed Odgin to him, slamming Odgin onto his back on the bottom of the boat. His other hand still wrapped by the net, and only one hand free, the giant grabbed Odgin’s neck with one immense hand, placed a knee on his chest, knelt on Odgin, and squeezed, choking him.
The three others pounced on Big Linus. Patty slammed a rifle butt against his head. Stanton, holding the tail rudder with one hand, beat him with an oar. Hodge lashed at him with a whip, then leaped on him, clinging onto his back. Both dogs savagely bit him, but it was to no avail. The giant was possessed.
Patty frantically searched for something harder, a hammer or flatiron to clunk the giant Negro on the head with, but she could find nothing. Odgin by now had stopped struggling, the awful gurgling sounds from his throat sounding like the last desperate squeals of a pig being slaughtered. She had no choice.
She swung the rifle around and pointed its barrel at Big Linus, who leaned atop Odgin, his knee on Odgin’s chest, his head clear of the sides of the boat.
—Lean back, Hodge, she said calmly, and git them dogs out the way.
Hodge, still grappling with the giant, turned his head, saw the drawn rifle, and clattered to the stern of the boat, saying, Christ, Patty, not out here.
—Git back and hold them dogs, she said calmly.
It was a tight fit in a dory boat with less than ten feet of space inside it. Hodge yanked the dogs’ leash with one hand, placed his knee on the trailboard, and drew his head far back as he could. Stanton, next to him, held the rudder tightly, he, too, dangling his head over the side of the boat, for the blast, he was afraid, would rock the boat hard enough to throw all of them overboard. He hung his head awkwardly out over the rear, his facial muscles squeezed tight in terrified anticipation, lest she miss and burn him with powder or, worse, a minié ball.
Patty calmly moved to the side of the boat opposite Linus and, from near point-blank distance, placed the rifle close to Big Linus’s head, just behind his ear so as not to blow a hole in the boat, and let the hammer drop.
The explosion resounded around the cove like the sound of a bomb, followed by the sound of splashing as a mass of flesh and spittle flew out into the water, some of it flying high into the air before coming down. The
black giant’s limp body fell shoulder first into a horrified Odgin, then swayed and toppled half out of the boat, tipping the boat to the side, nearly capsizing it. This was followed by the desperate scrambling of Patty and Hodge to the other side of the boat to keep it from tipping while Stanton helped the choking, gagging Odgin, who was desperately trying to push the giant off him.
—Git him off me, he said. Patty, git him off.
It took the four of them to pull Big Linus’s nearly decapitated body back into the boat to steady it, and cut the net away from him. It took several bloody seconds before they could pry his dead hand from around Odgin’s neck and slide the big corpse into the water.
Afterwards, Odgin collapsed to the floor, gasping and panting.
—God dammit, Patty, you coulda killed me, he said.
—Oh, shush, Patty said. The moon had peeked from behind the clouds, and the big body could be seen turning in the water, then slowly sinking in the moonlight.
—That’s at least two thousand dollars there, she said. Gone.
Lying on the floor, Odgin looked up at her, incredulous. That’s all you think about? he asked.
But Patty didn’t hear him. She was already thinking of something else. She regarded the cabin, now clearly visible in the moonlight.
—Why’d he run here? she asked. You think the niggers here was feeding him?
—Who knows? Stanton said.
In the far distance, from the direction of the cabin, they heard a man call out.
—Where’s my boat?
Patty and Hodge laughed.
—Ain’t you gonna explain to him? Stanton hissed.
—Turn this boat around, Patty said. These dogs and boat is rented. We got to return ’em before morning.
—He’ll finger us if he sees this dory, Stanton said. The fool that owns it painted it blue. That’s bad luck, y’know. I told you we shouldn’t rented this damn thing.
Patty dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
—Keep your socks stuffed and let’s go, she said. It ain’t my fault a nigger stole his boat. He’s the one killed his boat, not us. Whip this thing around and let’s take the tall timber.
The boat turned and swiftly tacked back into the bay.
lums
There were 173 colored slaves who lived at the massive plantation known as Spocott House, located on the LeGrand Creek in Dorchester County. All of them were owned by Captain Willard Spocott, and several were standing near the tall, white columns of the captain’s handsome Victorian when Denwood trotted in on his old gelding. The coloreds took in the striped jacket, the old oilskin hat, the rolled-up pants and beaten shoes, the weather-beaten horse, and laughed among themselves. They watched Denwood dismount and tether his horse in front of the captain’s residence.
—That ain’t the Gimp, declared Jenny, a tall colored woman, as Denwood limped towards the front door. Look at him, she chortled. He’s a peddler.
Her husband, Lums, a stout, rust-colored man with long arms and white hair, watched silently, one thumb folded into the belt loop of his trousers. That’s the Gimp, all right, Lums said grimly. Mingo spoke on it. Don’t be fooled on how he’s stepping. He’s a game peacock. He’s got plenty pep in his step, you best believe it. Watch your points round him.
The coloreds watched Denwood knock on the door. They saw the captain, a thin, nervous, bespectacled man in a white silk shirt and blue trousers, open the door, and noted that instead of inviting the ragged figure inside, the captain beckoned him to wait outside while he fetched his frock coat.
Denwood returned to his horse, watered it, retrieved his brush, and lathered his mount while he waited. He glanced at the slaves regarding him from the side of the house just as the captain descended his porch stairs and approached.
—I want to talk to them, Denwood said, nodding at the group of slaves who saw him motion in their direction and quickly slipped around to the side of the house.
The captain fingered his spectacles, regarding the ragged figure before him suspiciously.
—I take it you’re the Gimp, then, he said.
There was no acknowledgment from the stranger, other than a slight nod. He watched Denwood absently brushing his horse. The captain was not pleased. The slight, crippled, willowy figure in oilskin hat and coat, riding this weather-beaten horse, looked nothing like the famous, feared slave catcher that his overseer Tolley had bragged about. He looked like an old waterman.
—Are you him or not?
Denwood checked the horse’s back hooves, pulling up one at a time. He never looked up.
—Maybe I ought to hire someone else for this job, the captain said.
—You might want to, Denwood said. If Patty Cannon got a blow in it. She ain’t nobody to fool with. I got no quarrel with her.
—You afraid of her?
—I’ll need another man or two.
—I’m not paying another man or two. I’m paying you enough for three.
Denwood looked up for the first time, and when he did, the captain drew back. There was a calmness, a blankness to his face, that the captain found frightening. He felt suddenly cold. He fiddled with his frock buttons nervously, pulling his coat against him.
—I can get old Travis House, the constable down in Dorchester County, to deal with Patty, he said quickly.
—The only thing Travis’ll get out of Patty is sore eyelids from blinking too hard, Denwood said. You’ll see a donkey fly before you see him go near her. He ain’t gonna do it.
It was true. The captain had already instructed the constable to question Patty. Travis had agreed, but suddenly had a pressing engagement in Baltimore. He’d muttered something about having to help his cousin’s hogshead shop in Fell’s Point. Conveniently, the task would take him out of the county for at least a week.
—I gave this girl every kindness, the captain said. My late wife taught her to read. And embroider. And dance. No expense was spared in training her.
Denwood kept his head down, lathering his horse. He understood the situation immediately. Nature’s call. The man wanted his cuddle pillow back. Willing to pay big chips for it. The woman must be a beauty.
Still brushing his horse, he glanced at the captain. I need a better horse and a bungy, he said. And I want to talk to every colored you got here.
The captain’s face reddened. I’m not paying you smooth money, he said, so you can poke around my house and ask my business of my coloreds.
Denwood calmly brushed the horse’s shoulder, noting the man’s tone: my house, my business, my coloreds…. He couldn’t stand the plantation owners. Arrogant upper islanders, dredging the poor man’s oysters, driving down the selling price so that only big volumes could be sold and therefore they got a better percentage, leaving the solitary waterman who oystered on his own high and dry, scuffling for peelers and small crabs.
—Either that or I drive this horse right back up that road, Denwood said.
—They won’t tell you anything, the captain replied.
—Only way to catch a colored is through a colored.
The captain frowned, frustrated. Like most plantation slave owners, he hated dealing with anyone in the Trade. The dealers, catchers, traders, were low-class and often one step above the law, forging papers, documents, to their favor. But he had heard about the Gimp. The Gimp had caught Mingo, a troublesome, clever slave from a nearby plantation, when everyone else had failed. He’d tracked Mingo for weeks, all the way to Canada.
—This girl got too high, he said. I was of a mind to sell her before this.
—Too late for that now, Denwood said, shrugging. She got kin here?
—Her mother died. Her father was trouble. I sold him off years ago. One of my elderly hands raised her. Fellow named Hewitt. He died when she was fifteen, so I took her inside. With me. To help me raise my son.
—How old is she?
—She’s about twenty now, give or take.
—All the more reason I need to talk to the coloreds, Denwood sa
id, nodding at Lums and Jenny, who reappeared near the smokehouse, pulling a pig carcass inside it.
The captain hesitated.
—Go on, then, he said. But keep your questions proper.
He nodded towards the large group of colored men digging near the canal.
—You’ll find the driver Tolley out by the canal. He’ll get you whatever else you need.
He turned on his heel and left.
Denwood ambled out to the canal. Twenty minutes later Tolley led him into the smokehouse, where Lums was alone, cleaning ham sides.
—Fella wants to see you, Lums, Tolley said. He departed.
Lums nodded, silent, his head bowed, glancing at the slight figure who darkened the doorway. Standing next to the rungs of the smoked meat that dangled from the ceiling, his pepperbox hanging from one side and his whip from the other, Denwood looked like a child standing next to Lums, who stood nearly six feet tall and was wide as a house. But it was Lums who was afraid. Mingo had told him all he needed to know about the Gimp. If you say nothing, it’s too much, Mingo had said. He’ll suck any secret out of you like a pump. White man’s law don’t mean nothing to him. He got his own law. If he’s drunk, run the other way. But his word is good. And God amuses him.
—You here to talk about Liz, sir? Lums asked.
—No. I wanna talk about you.
—What I done?
—Nothing. How old are you? Denwood asked.
—Don’t know, Lums said. Close as I can tell it, I’d be about sixty-eight or sixty-nine, I expect.
Denwood sat, grimacing slightly. The cool of the smokehouse made his leg hurt.
—I got some nutmeg for that leg if you want it, sir. Wear it in a pouch round your neck. Good for the bones.
Denwood shook his head.
—I had a boy once, Denwood said. He was five years old. He touched a six-legged dog. Then he heard a roaring in his ears. Then he died six days later. Went to heaven, they say. You believe in it?
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