—By the way, your husband about? Patty asked.
Kathleen was silent, holding the rifle steady.
—He out on the water maybe? Patty asked. Storm’s coming in, y’know.
Kathleen nodded with her head towards the main road that ran past the creek.
—You can take the main road out, she said. And if you come back later sporting trouble, I’ll stick this out the window and bust a hole in you wide as a goober’s hull.
Patty smirked, turned, and led her two men towards the main road, but just before reaching it, she veered off and, with an insolent glance at Kathleen, led her men in the direction of the back trail by which they had come.
—The Gables is the other way, Kathleen called out.
—We’ll get round to them this way, Patty called back.
They were out of range now. It was a mistake, Kathleen knew, not to shoot. They would think she was afraid. But she only had powder and shot for one charge. And there were three of them, two of them with Colt Patersons, five-shooters. It would not do, she knew, to fling lead at them. She watched them until they were out of view, then dropped the rifle to her side as if it were an iron anvil.
—God almighty, she said, wiping the perspiration from her head. She looked out towards the bay. The sky was darkening, threatening a storm.
—What the hell they doing here? Huh? What? she murmured. She turned to Amber.
—Where’s Wiley?
—You sent him to town. He ain’t back till tomorrow, Amber said. Me and Mary’ll sleep on the floor tonight if you like.
Kathleen shook her head. Amber watched the perspiration climb over her face and neck.
—That won’t do, she said, staring out towards the trail where Patty had disappeared. I don’t see the point of setting here waiting for her to come back. On the other hand, I can’t leave this farm….
She stared at the bay for a moment, clearly confused, then spat out a torrent of oaths.
—He could just as well have stayed here blacksmithing and made as much money, instead of killing himself out there! she said. Goddamned waterman…!
Amber realized, after a moment of shock, that she was talking of her late husband.
—Ma’am, Amber said, I’ll go to town. I’ll get Wiley and find some help.
—You got to walk, Kathleen said. Wiley got the mule.
—I’ll take the bungy, Amber said. I’ll get Constable Travis.
—Travis House ain’t worth mule shit, she murmured. But git him if you can. He’ll roust up some watermen, some of Boyd’s old buddies. They’ll get word to my pa down in Ocean City.
She glanced down at her hands.
—My hands are shaking, she said. Would you tell Mary to come outside to draw water and put me on some tea?
—’Course I will.
—And stop that damn dog from barking!
She pointed to the grove where the dog had again retreated, then walked into the house, closing the door behind her.
Amber stared out over the hill past the cornfield, where Lucky barked wildly at the same grove of trees where Amber thought he’d seen something before Patty arrived. With a quick glance about to make sure Patty was gone, he quickly walked towards it.
As he approached the grove, he saw Lucky scratching at a small mound of dirt sandwiched between two pines. Amber’s eyes widened in shock as, from a distance of about forty feet, he saw the mound of dirt rise up and a man—or what appeared to be a man—stood up between the two trees, clumps of dirt and branches hanging off him.
He was a Negro, at least nineteen hands high, with muscular arms and shoulders, thick, strong legs, and the wildest clump of hair atop his head that Amber had ever seen.
The man stared at the dog, not moving, his hands at his sides. The dog barked at the man. Still covered with bark, branches, and leaves, the man knelt and, like a living tree, reached out and petted the dog gently, calming him. Then the man turned and trotted into the woods behind him, vanishing into the thickets, which closed behind him with the finality of a door slamming. It was as if he had never been there.
Amber, stunned, rubbed his eyes. Could that be the Woolman he saw? The Dreamer had spoken of him, but didn’t seem sure. Surely old Woolman was dead, more fiction than fact anyway, he decided, since he had never seen him and did not personally know anyone who had. He suspected the man was a runaway, although for the life of him he had never seen one who looked so wild and who moved with such ease and grace, such assurance and skill and coiled swiftness. It was not a man he had seen, he decided, but rather an animal, a deer, a thing of the wild, most likely a ghost.
Standing in the shade of the cornfield, the sky darkening overhead, Amber silently deliberated about whether to tell Miss Kathleen what he had witnessed. He decided against it. If the man was a runaway, that would only bring more patrols, and he already had trouble enough. If he was a ghost, well, what difference did it make? He already had problems plenty. There was nothing he could do to change what was destined to befall him. Everything, he thought bitterly, had already been decided by the Lord.
As if to confirm his fears, the sky above him darkened, the clouds opened up, and it began to rain. A steady downpour. He turned and quickly trotted down the road towards the bungy and pushed it into the water, tacking in for Cambridge City. When he was out of sight of the house, he tacked the bungy back to shore and ducked into the swampy woods near the old Indian burial ground. He had a quick stop to make.
the blacksmith
The familiar ring of a blacksmith’s hammer rang across the town square of Cambridge City as a hooded figure leading a tired horse slowly limped into the middle of the square and stopped. Denwood’s leg was aching. It always bothered him in wet weather, and it had begun to pour from the time he’d left the Spocott House that morning till now, just past noon. He’d decided to see a root woman about it once he got to town, but standing in the middle of the square, he gave up on the notion. The only root woman he knew was colored, and no colored would get near him right now. He was hot with the colored, he knew. Besides, the leg bothered him badly in rainy weather no matter what he did. Any money spent on it today would likely be a waste.
The normally busy street had been thinned by the downpour, except for an occasional horse and buggy splashing across the muddy square, their riders bent low. Denwood stood in place and watched them pass, his head tilted towards the sound of the ringing.
He limped towards the sound, leading his horse through the intricate web of planks and piles of oyster shells in the alleys that ran like arteries off Cambridge City’s main streets. He found himself in an alley behind the main street, facing a dark, dreary blacksmith’s shop with a wide-open barn door, large enough to admit a horse. Inside the open doorway, a middle-aged black man in a ragged apron worked a piece of iron fencing. The man looked up and smiled at him. A customer stood waiting. Denwood limped across the alley and tethered his horse to the back of a saloon whose front faced the main street on the other side. He waited there until the customer left, then entered the shop.
It was warm inside, and he rubbed his hands in relief. The blacksmith, a tall, rangy figure with glistening forearms and veined hands, had already picked up another piece to work on. He looked up at Denwood and smiled. He had a calm, easy, affable air to him, and the smile seemed as genuine as cooked corn.
—Horseshoes, sir? he asked.
—Maybe later. I left my ride over ’cross the road.
—You can bring it in here and let it dry out, the blacksmith said. It’ll fit inside the door there.
—I wonder if you could tell me something, Denwood asked.
—If I can.
—Who is it you’re talking to?
The man smiled nervously and hammered at the iron piece before him.
—Don’t understand, sir, he said.
—Don’t do that no more, Denwood snapped.
The blacksmith glanced at him nervously for the first time and moved the piece around to strike it
again, but did not raise his hammer.
—I ain’t good at counting figures, Denwood said. Can barely add up my money, most days. What little I got.
He grimaced as he leaned against a tall piece of iron fencing propped against the wall. He lifted his bad leg up with his hand so that it sat on the bottom rail of the fencing. His leg was killing him.
—You free or slave? Denwood asked.
—Free, sir.
—Then I could get you in a mite of trouble, couldn’t I?
The blacksmith placed his hammer down.
—I done nothing wrong, he said.
—Five hits. Stop. Two taps. Stop. Five hits. Stop. Then a light two again. That’s it, ain’t it? Tell me you ain’t signaling somebody, and I’ll leave out right now on your word. But if I find out you’re lying, I’ll knock you squint-eyed and stand you up for the constable. You working on the gospel train, ain’t ya.
The blacksmith stared at the floor. You the Gimp, then? he asked.
—I am.
—I heard you was about. Sir, can I shut the door?
—Go ’head.
The blacksmith went to the door, closed it against the driving rain, locked it, then returned to his anvil, leaning on it.
—I thought you left the trade. Got married and gone back to the water. That’s what I heard the word was. Colored folks ’bout had a party over it last year.
—Well, now. And didn’t nobody invite me?
—You was on Hooper Island, sir. That’s a ways from here. You know how hard it is for the colored to get about.
Denwood stifled a smile.
—I’m looking for one soul, Denwood said. Whoever else you trafficking ain’t my business.
—Depends on who it is, the blacksmith said.
—It’s a colored somebody working against the Trade.
—If you talking Moses, you might as well be singing to a dead hog, the blacksmith said. I’d be in a spot. Reckon I’d have to hang first. Colored round here would blister me faster’n a baby can stick a thumb in his mouth. My wife, my children, they’d be dead ’fore my feet touched the ground outside that door there. I never seen Moses, by the way. Wouldn’t know Moses by sight.
—It ain’t her I’m seeking, Denwood said.
The blacksmith stifled a grimace. The Gimp knew Moses was a she.
—I’m looking for a young girl. The Dreamer.
The blacksmith fingered the handle on his hammer. That’s a shame, sir, he said. Reckon Captain Spocott aim to have his candy, don’t he, sir.
—I reckon he does.
The blacksmith scratched his head and frowned.
—What kind of world is it, he asked, where you have to hand over one kind of card to save another? That’s the worst blackjack in the world, don’t you think?
—She your friend?
—Everybody’s a slave is my friend.
Denwood was silent. He rubbed his leg absentmindedly.
—You got children, Mr. Gimp? the blacksmith asked.
—Had one child. He died.
—Sorry to hear it, sir. It’s hard to bear. I got a child that’s gone on to heavenly reward myself.
—You know I don’t believe in heaven.
—I didn’t hear that about you. Heard everything else, though.
—From Mingo?
—From plenty folks. A white man come in here today asking after you. Came in to get his horse shod up. Works for Patty Cannon.
—You shod him up?
—Surely did. Fastenings on them shoes’ll hold up about a week. Maybe ten days if he single paces and don’t trot hard.
Denwood frowned.
—Why you telling me?
—Maybe it could be of some use to you.
—I didn’t say I needed your help, Denwood said.
The blacksmith briefly fiddled with his apron. He said nothing, but Denwood read his movements, the forward arc of his chest, the stolid shoulders that would not sag, the confidence with which his hands held his hammer, all of which said, And I ain’t giving you my help. He had learned not to trust coloreds like this. They pretended respect, feigned subservience with the greatest of ease; they performed well for the white man, but they were not afraid. If they spoke the truth and claimed it to be thus, it was usually good, however. A lie would not do for a man who risked his neck every day on the possibility of freedom, though God knew if the man understood what that was. Freedom to die on the bay tonging oysters? Or farming yourself to death? While the fat cats like Captain Spocott dredged the oyster bars till they gave out, selling oysters by the ton to black market dealers up and down the east coast, the Devil keeping score, working the slave trade till the colored gave out; felling trees and clearing land till there wasn’t none left; digging canals that went nowhere, so they could float their timber and wares to town and gain a few pennies on each deal—not that they needed a few pennies more, but just for the thought of profiting more. This colored probably claimed himself a freedom fighter, yet he wouldn’t know freedom from a bag of onions. Denwood guessed he was probably some kind of captain of the gospel train. It would not do to fight with him, however. It would cost time and defeat his purpose.
—Whether that horse holds up for ten days or ten months, Patty’s the Devil and she’ll die however the Lord wills it, the blacksmith said.
—You know which way she went?
—She rode out today towards the Neck district. Took two fellers with her. Left a colored boy and two white men in town here. The white fellers is at the Tin Teacup over yonder. They sent the colored boy around to Old Hattie’s bakery near the courthouse to sniff out the colored[.] The colored’s telling him the Dreamer’s over in Sussex County. That little boy better watch hisself.
—Is that where the captain’s girl is? Over in Sussex?
—I wish she was.
—Where is she, then?
The blacksmith paused and sighed. He placed his hammer down, wiped his forehead with his hand, then fingered his apron.
—I don’t know that I got to tell it, he said. The minute you touch me, my wife and children’s free to the North. It’s all set up for ’em. They’re still slaves, you see.
—Is that so?
—Yes, sir. This whole village is connected up. Man like youself, working the Trade, you know that, sir, better’n I do. I don’t ring this hammer at two p.m. today, they’re gone.
—Is the Dreamer worth it? Denwood asked. With Patty about? You know what’s coming. Night watchmen. Constables. Sheriffs. Dogs. That’s a hard road, y’know, to the Pennsylvania line. For a woman with children.
The blacksmith was silent a moment.
—I always knowed someone was gonna come for me, Mr. Gimp, he sighed. Why not today.
—If it means anything, I’m gonna find her with or without you, Denwood said.
—Then why should I tell it?
—’Cause you might not look good sucking your thumb before you get hanged. Because you might need a friend later. A lot of reasons.
The colored man stifled a frown.
—I done sucked the white man’s boiled grits all my life, so sucking my thumb’ll do right fine. As for friends, I got plenty of ’em, he said.
—They ain’t doing you no good, Denwood said. You still setting here sharpening iron, and your family’s still slaved up. I been through this town twelve years hearing you strike that hammer.
The blacksmith was silent, looking down.
Denwood threw in the kicker: And I ain’t never bothered you ’bout it, neither.
—I knows it, Mr. Gimp, and I appreciate it.
—Well, then?
The blacksmith wavered a moment, rubbing his hands together, then shook his head.
—Sir, it’s just money to you, he said. I wish it was that way with me.
Denwood stared at his hands, then out the window into the downpour.
—Remember that son I was telling you about? he said. Well, he had a mother. She left me after he passed. She said, ‘You peris
hed our boy.’ I never understood that. I never raised my hand to my son. Never wronged his ma in any way to my knowing of it. Except for my drinking. She ran off with an oysterman from Virginia soon as my boy died. Good thing she went that far, for I’d’a blowed out her spark sure as I’m standing here if I’d’a catched up to her. Thing is, she done nothing wrong to me. I done it to myself. After my son passed, I’d go on a drinking jag till the noise in my head stopped. I can’t no more blame myself for what happens when I’m seeing double off liquor than I could if a tornado was to pick me up and throw me into that alley there. So there weren’t no point to her being with me. Y’understand?
—Surely do, the blacksmith said.
—I hate them goddamn Virginians, though. We gonna have a war with them one of these days over these damn oysters and who’s fishing in whose waters and what all. You know that?
—No, sir, the blacksmith said.
—Believe it, Denwood said. He moved away from the iron fence, rubbing his leg. He leaned against the shop’s windowsill, looking out into the rain, his back to the blacksmith now, talking more to the rain than himself.
—Least you got some children left, he said softly. I’d give anything to see my son again. Even if it was on the auction block, with a yellow-bellied trader feeling his privates and checking his teeth. I’d give a hundred dollars to see it. Least I’d have a chance to honeycomb the bastard who done it.
He turned and peered at the blacksmith sideways, out of the corner of his eyes, the rain blowing behind him past the tiny, grimy window.
—That how you wanna be, blacksmith?
The blacksmith pursed his lips.
—You ain’t got to talk that way, he said softly. I’ll tell it.
The blacksmith looked away as he talked: She said to be out on the Neck district. That’s Joya’s Neck. It’s about fourteen miles west of here as the crow flies. Easier to get out there by boat than overland. There’s a field there about a mile from Blackwater Creek, just this side of Sinking Creek. There’s an old Indian wall out there. Indian burial ground, they call it. The land’s all timbered out. Big mound of dirt, a wall, and a big old spruce tree next to that wall. She’s said to be in the hollow of that tree. It a pretty good stretch of field from Sinking Creek to that tree. The field’s wide open after the swamp ends, so she can see who’s coming.
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