Song Yet Sung

by James McBride

  —She waiting for a boat? Denwood asked.

  —She ain’t waiting for nothing. She don’t want to scoot north. She’s recovering from a wound of some kind, and I don’t know that she’s all well. I don’t know what she’s planning. But they say her mind can carry a heavy load. She can tell the future.

  —Who’s feeding her hoecakes and ale?

  —Well, I done told you where she is, Mr. Gimp.

  —I need whoever’s running her, Denwood said. I won’t pull the covers off him. But if she gets spooked, she’s gonna move. That hammer of yours can travel a lot faster than my horse can.

  The blacksmith hesitated.

  —I ain’t got to tell it, he said. I don’t believe in most of that smoke she’s puffin round no how. I don’t see no sense in a good man getting strung up on account of that foolishness.

  Denwood limped over to a chair and sat in it, painfully. He leaned down and drew a stick finger in the damp dirt on the floor as he spoke.

  —I know at least eight colored in this county right now who’s counting their beans and chips, making ready to cut. Some of ’em been planning on rumbling outta here since before I retired and come back. In fact, I eyeballed two of ’em between here and Bucktown. I ain’t never pulled the covers off nobody. I git who I’m paid to git. I ain’t gonna pound the drums on nobody else. You know that’s true.

  —’Deed I do, the blacksmith said, ’deed I do. Still, he bit his lower lip, unsure.

  —This feller, he said, helps his mistress quite a bit. She’s a widow. She’d’a lost her farm without this feller. He’s the best slave she got. You pull him out into the open, she goes down too.

  —I ain’t gonna fool with her property. I give you my word on it.

  —Still, if it’s all the same to you, it don’t do my heart no good to tell it.

  Denwood stared at him and waited. The blacksmith sighed heavily.

  —Amber is his name. Got a nephew named Wiley and a sister named Mary. Them two ain’t working against the Trade. Just Amber. His mistress is Miss Kathleen Sullivan. She lost her husband and Amber’s brother-in law Nate out on the bay about six months back. They went out and got caught in a squall, I reckon, and never come back. She’s a young woman. Growed up right here in Cambridge. I know her whole family. They’re good folks. Tough folks. She won’t take no backwater off nobody when it comes to her colored. She’s funny about that. She ain’t afraid to shoot.

  Denwood rose. He decided not to reach into his pocket to try to pay the man, knowing the man would not accept it. To him, it was blood money.

  —I’ll thank you, then.

  —You gived me your word on not putting Amber out pasture.

  —I did give it. What’s your name?

  —Ain’t got nar. I just go by Blacksmith.

  —Ain’t you got a real name?

  —Name don’t mean nothing to me. Every truth I ever been told by white folks turns out to be a lie. Including my name. Best not to believe nothing.

  —I could say that about my own self, Denwood said.

  The blacksmith, for the first time, chuckled grimly.

  —Well, sir, you bring that horse in here, I’ll shoe it for nothing.

  Denwood smiled grimly.

  —I can’t count as good as you can talk on that hammer, he said. Gimme a couple hours before you work it again.

  He limped towards the door and opened it to the pouring rain.

  —Watch yourself out there, the blacksmith said.

  —I got my oilskin across the road.

  —It ain’t the rainwater I’m speaking of, the blacksmith said. Constable Travis done cleared out soon as Patty come to town. Said he had some business in Fell’s Point. Ain’t nobody round here gonna help you in a dustup.

  —Why you worried about me?

  —I ain’t fretting about you, Mr. Gimp. But there’s much worse about. Whatever you do for a livin’, you an honest man with a good heart. Mingo said it. Said he’d work for you hisself, if you ever go back to oysterin’.

  Denwood frowned and shook his head, staring out into the pouring rain.

  —Mingo can’t swim, he said. He opened the door and stepped into the downpour.

  He decided he’d walk over to the Tin Teacup. Might as well get it over with. Besides, he was hungry and saw no sense in wasting time. He grabbed his oilskin off his tethered horse and worked his way around the alley to the main street, then ducked into the shelter of the porch roofs that lined the road. He marched along the wooden sidewalk, the water pouring off the roofs of the shops, most of which were closed for lunch. He worked his way around to the Tin Teacup and stepped inside just in time to see Joe Johnson seat himself at a table. Seated with him was another white man and a Negro boy. Both Joe and his partner were facing the door and saw him walk in. The colored boy sat with his back to the door.

  Denwood pulled a chair and sat. He removed his oil slicker and shook the water off it.

  —See, Joe said to Stanton sitting next to him. I told you. He got a way with niggers. Wha’d the blacksmith say ’bout me?

  Denwood smiled. Joe, you married wrong, he said.

  Joe’s smile disappeared.

  —He said that?

  —No, I said it.

  —Then I’ll thank you not to disparage my late wife, Gimp.

  —No harm meant, Joe. I meant your mother-in-law. I asked her to marry me last time, remember? That’d make us kin. I’d be your father-in-law.

  Eb piped up: Is that so, Mr. Joe? Miss Patty didn’t say nothing about getting married. That’s righteous!

  Denwood saw the man next to Joe stifle a smile and look away.

  Joe glared at Eb, reached over, and slapped the little boy across the face. The kid’s smile dissolved into embarrassed, hurt silence.

  Denwood frowned.

  —Ain’t no need for that, Joe, he said.

  —You come over her disrespecting my wife and my mother-in-law and now you telling me how to treat my niggers?

  He slapped Eb across the face again.

  —See, Joe said, this is a blue-gummed nigger. If he bites you, it’s poison. But if you rub his head, it’s good luck. Go on. Try it.

  He rubbed Eb’s head as the boy looked at the ground. Denwood cast his eyes away, checking the room.

  Joe grinned.

  —You should be an abolitionist, Gimp, he said. Soft on niggers as you is.

  Denwood fingered a wet button on his oilskin. He nodded at Eb.

  —This your new Little George?

  —In a manner of speaking.

  —I come to make a deal.

  —What type?

  —I only want the Spocott girl. I got no interest in the rest of them colored. If I see ’em, I won’t touch ’em. Honest. Even if they got rewards on ’em, I won’t bother ’em.

  —Why you so generous?

  Denwood shrugged. I’m getting old.

  —Me too. But I ain’t rich like you are, Gimp. Where you been anyway?

  —I’m retired.

  —Then why you out here?

  —I need the money.

  —Me too, Joe said.

  —You wanna have a drink? Denwood asked.

  —I thought you quit drinking, Gimp.

  —I did. I quit yesterday. I drink only to remember the good things in my life. So far, there’s two. You want coffee?

  —I wouldn’t drink a glass of water with you.

  —Why not?

  Joe pursed his lips. He disliked the Gimp’s smoothness. It always rattled him.

  —Lloyd’s Landing, he said.

  Denwood looked at him in surprise.

  —That was five years ago.

  —Seems like it was yesterday.

  Denwood sat back in his chair and glanced around the room again. He had already counted the number of people present, but he counted again, just to be certain: seven. Of that, four looked likely to be holding iron, but their grey, furrowed brows and burnt skin gave them away as watermen, and thus they were not
likely to be riding with Patty and watching Joe’s back. Still, with Patty’s crew, one never knew. She changed them so often. His eyes cut to the other man at the table, Stanton Davis, whose hands were calmly wrapped around a beer glass, his fingers curled around a set of prayer beads, which he fingered slowly.

  —Nobody walked away from Lloyd’s Landing broke, if I recall, Denwood said, except the colored that was there.

  —So you say.

  —You lost money on it? Denwood was surprised.

  Joe was silent. The less he told the Gimp, the better. Patty was better at this. She could charm even the Gimp. He decided to change the subject.

  —I can’t make no deals unless I clear it with Patty, he said.

  —She coming back soon?

  —Soon enough.

  —Soon enough today, soon enough tomorrow, or soon enough soon?

  —Pick any one you want.

  Denwood smiled.

  —All right, Joe. I’m trying to make a deal here. See what she says on it.

  —Where you gonna be?

  —I won’t be far. I’m on the hunt.

  —Well, so are we.

  Denwood’s smile disappeared. He held up his hand. He was hungry and wet. A quarrel with Joe was not what he had in mind.

  —I give you my word, if I see any of them others, I’ll keep my hands off ’em. I just want the girl. She’s stolen property. Her owner’s got more chips than you and me put together. You can’t get nothing for her, not with all this law creeping around. The old man wants her back. He’s paying long dollars for it.

  —How come we can’t get them big jobs? Joe asked.

  —You gotta pray more, Denwood said.

  —I didn’t know you believed in God, Joe said.

  —I don’t. I’m superstitious.

  —So I heard. Joe snorted. Fucking with a six-legged dog, was you?

  Joe’s eyes widened as Denwood rose from the table, his eyes glistening.

  —I’m sorry about your son, Gimp, Joe said quickly. Very sorry indeed.

  But it was too late. Denwood felt the hot calm descending on him, the roaring in his ears beginning its long crescendo. Every muscle, nerve, and fiber of his insides felt like it was burning.

  Stanton, who was slouching in his chair and still nursing his beer, sat up straight, his hands still on his prayer beads. He watched Denwood’s burning gaze fall calmly to his hands, then to Joe’s, then back to his own, then about the room. This was a dangerous bastard, Stanton thought, calm as a lake when he got glassy-eyed pissed. Not a good sign.

  —Don’t make me bust you cockeyed in front of your new friend here, Denwood said.

  —Just funning, Joe said. Like I said, I’m sorry.

  Denwood waited several seconds, the room watching now, no one moving, until he felt the whirring in his ears dying down, felt himself clearing, coming back to himself, his rage leaving him, the death calmness dissipating, normalcy return.

  —That’s the deal I’m offering, he said. Tell Patty we’ll walk away the better for it.

  He turned and slowly limped out into the rain with Joe, Stanton, and Eb watching.

  Joe turned to Stanton.

  —That’s one ornery bastard, ain’t he? Tips in here woofing my dead wife, but I mention his dead kin, he gets in a hank about it. Son of a bitch. He shoulda been a schoolteacher. He’s mean enough.

  Stanton nodded, returning to his beer. This wasn’t what he had in mind. He had heard of the Gimp, and what he’d just seen of him he did not like. Fifty dollars a month wasn’t enough to take on that fella in a one-on-one. It’d have to be a gang bang, he thought grimly. And he’d be at the ass end of it.

  discovered

  The rain arrived as soon as Amber pulled his bungy to the shore near the old Indian burial ground. The long trek up Sinking Creek to the bog had been muddy and cumbersome. His insides felt like a tightly coiled spring. He was sweating profusely, and tired. The chilly breezes made his bones ache, and his feet, clad in old, beaten shoes full of holes, were cold and soaked. He had never sailed up Sinking Creek to the Indian burial ground in foul weather, and he resolved never to do it again. It was like being blind, groping up the tiny creek. It was nearly night, and while he could use the darkness as an excuse to explain his delayed arrival in Cambridge City should Miss Kathleen ask about it, there still wasn’t a lot of time. He really did have to get the constable. It was tricky business, all of it.

  The cloudy sky overhead seemed to lower itself upon him as he trotted forward, and pitch-black night arrived just as he walked into the thick swamp off Sinking Creek. There was no moon to help out, and the usual markings he used—trees, the creek, the mounds in the earth—were awash with mud and critters. He crossed the open field, found the stone wall, followed it, and, after what seemed to be an eternity, found the hollowed-out oak.

  She was huddled in the corner of the hollow when he arrived. He lit an oil lamp, shone the lamp in her face for a moment, then doused it. She was dry but looked exhausted and drained.

  —I got something to write and a pencil, he said. He tried to sound gay.

  She nodded, distracted. She didn’t seem relieved to see him.

  —I got eatings too, he said.

  —I ain’t hungry, she said. I ain’t ate all you left me before.

  —You got to eat, to keep your strength up.

  —How long I been here? she asked. I been sleeping for hours.

  —Just four days.

  She sat up on her knees and rubbed her face.

  —I got to get out of here, she said. The night here, there’s things out here, I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being by myself. Put that light on again, would you, just for a minute.

  —I can’t do that.

  —The darkness out here is the devilment. I’m losing my mind. Please. Just for a minute.

  He lit the lamp again.

  —I can’t stay with you too long tonight, he said. I would if I could.

  —That’s kind of you. I appreciate your kindness, Amber.

  The way she said his name, the tilt of her head in the light, the curve of her lips pursed in distress, the clearness of her thought and speech, made his heart pound. He could feel his resolve slipping. It was all he could do not to reach out and pull her into his bosom to warm her.

  He watched her slender arms reach out, her tiny hands gently pick up the paper, holding it high against the light, shielding it from the water that dripped off everything, her face tilted upwards. Her eyes scanned the paper as she held it up to the light. She is smart, too, he thought ruefully. He would do anything, he realized, to have those eyes look lovingly in his direction.

  —You got to roll, he said. Patty’s here now. She been to the farm today.

  —Let her come, then, I’m tired.

  —I can fetch you some clothes from my sister. You can write yourself a pass. Then I can maybe put you on the gospel train. Or I can get a colored blackjack to sail you across Blackwater Creek to the Choptank. There’s a fella in Talbot County, a colored waterman. He can run you up to Caroline County. After that, you’d be on your own.

  He had no idea how he would do that. He had no way of contacting these men. He didn’t know their codes. As for taking her out of the Neck district, if he stole Miss Kathleen’s boat, he’d be hotter than Calpurnia’s biscuits. Besides, that was his plan, to use her boat, but that was for much later. As for now, he had yet to hear from his contact. There hadn’t been time or opportunity. Everyone was lying low. Patty’s breakout had changed everything, and there must have been some kind of incident in town. He could not hear the ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer from fourteen miles out, but he had read all the codes. The quilts that Clementine, the colored woman over at the Gables farm, aired out on the porch each day were screaming, Hold tight. The black watermen who tacked up the Chesapeake ran their sails to leeward, wrapping them from right to left instead of left to right. That meant: Hold. Trouble was about. He was just talking, he realized, trying to giv
e comfort.

  She shook her head.

  —I’m seeing things out here. Last night a whippoorwill came and sat out by this tree till daybreak. Sat there and looked at me. Seen a wildcat walk past. Right by this tree here. Somebody’s watching me.

  —Don’t talk crazy, he said.

  —I ain’t afraid, she said. Death would be a relief to me, after what I been through.

  —What you been through?

  She wanted to tell him, tell him about the places she’d been and the people she’d seen, the terrible things she’d done to survive, the miles of emotional hardship she’d endured in her short life, but the years of molding herself into something she was not lay inside her like a block of granite, hard and unbreakable. So she said nothing.

  He sighed deeply and said, I been thinking of running. I can take you on the gospel train myself.

  He had never before offered to take her himself. It was, he realized, a huge commitment. There was no negative to it. He expected this news would be greeted with a vigorous acknowledgment. Instead, it was as if he were talking to himself.

  She lowered the paper from the light and handed it back to him, along with the pencil.

  —There ain’t no freedom up north. Not nowhere in this country. Ever. Everything that’s taught here is a lie. Everything you and I got has already done been taken. It’s like that old woman said: every lie is a truth and every truth is a lie.

  —Is you waiting for someone? Is that it? Someone close to your heart?

  —I had a friend named Ned. Growed up in the same house with him. We was no kin. Supposed to be married.

  —What about him, then? You staying round here to look for him?

  He felt a pang of jealousy even as he said it, and realized he was already halfway into locking himself into a fool’s errand. He was supposed to get this woman on her way and forget about it. He had already offered her passage to the North every which way.

  —He got sold when we was children. I wouldn’t know him from Adam anyway. He’s likely dead. It’s just a dream I had. Uncle Hewitt, I think he expected us to be married. That’s the one thing the white man can’t take, you know: your dreams. The Woman with No Name in Patty’s house was right about that. They’ll always hate you, you know. Their whole world is built on it.