—I got to get back, he said. Missus told me to fetch the constable ’bout Miss Patty. She’s gonna be vexed. I gotta find a place to stow you.
He pushed off into the swamp and into the creek, going with the current, still heading towards Cambridge City. Liz watched him, her feet dangling off the edge of the boat. She had not been bothered by the narrow escape or the boat floating aimlessly in the wide, forbidding Choptank the night before. She trusted Amber and instinctively knew he was a waterman. Something else had been bothering her: painful headaches, and with them delirious images. Everything she touched—the water, the boat, the trees, the swamp—seemed to have a life to it, a life within it that was beyond what she was seeing. Tied to her waist, having survived the flight by land and water, was the crocker sack given to her by the Woolman. Each time she ran her hand along the last of those five knots, she felt a deep ache, a terrible premonition of something gone wrong.
—How much do you know about the code? she asked.
—This ain’t no time to talk about that, Amber said, watching the shore.
—Something’s wrong with this thing, she said. She looked at him intently, holding the rope forth.
Amber looked at the rope and frowned. He didn’t want to hear any more hoodoo. He was badly rattled. It had been a long night. A gale had pushed the current hard to the southwest, and they had followed it. Had they been oystering, it would have been a good thing, for the choppy waters often unveiled bars beneath the sandy bottom of the bay that held precious oyster treasures beneath, easy pickings for tonging. But they weren’t tonging. They were running, and so far had not run very well or far enough. They had ridden unsteadily to the middle of the Choptank towards the wide-open Chesapeake, with no navigation points, a tiny sail, one oar, and no shore lights as reference. Like any waterman, Amber knew the eastern shore waters well, but the current had taken them too far out into the bay for him to recognize any navigational signs once they passed Hill’s Point. It was only because of the lighthouse at Black Walnut Island, near Ragged Point, that he knew to turn east and sail into Cambridge City. Had he not recognized the lighthouse, they might have floated out to sea or, worse, been carried by the current to Talbot County, where a patrol or even Patty might await them. A journey that should have taken an hour had taken nearly six, and he was exhausted. Dawn was coming, and the fog that had staked its claim on the the waters and low-lying swamps was lifting its hand.
—What is it? he asked, tacking the boat and following the dim line of the cast…
—I been dreaming, she said.
—’Bout that rope?
—Naw. I dreamed somebody’s gone missing. A child. Two of them. And also a song. The Woman with No Name told it to me. Way down yonder…me and my Jesus going… Something or other. And there’s a second part to it, she said. You ever heard that?
—Stop talking crazy, Amber said. This ain’t no time for pestering about songs. We got to get to Cambridge so I can get the constable for Missus like she told me to. I’ll stow you someplace in the meantime.
—It doesn’t matter, Liz said.
—Matters to me. I want to save myself from Miss Patty, even if you don’t.
—Ain’t no sense in running, Liz said.
Amber felt his jaw tightening. He didn’t want to have this kind of conversation.
—You ought to put them thoughts away from you, he said.
—You act like running north’s the be-all answer to everything. It ain’t.
—I didn’t say that. I said Missus could’ve put me on the block a long time ago. Her pa wanted her to do it after her husband passed, but she wouldn’t. It’s on account of that, I reckon, that I stayed. And her firstborn, Jeff Boy, he’s my buddy. I love him like my own. So it’s hard for me to leave him. That’s what I said.
Liz slowly reached out and ran her hand across the top of the water.
—But he ain’t your own flesh and blood, she said.
—Pretty close to it, as far as can be said, Amber replied.
—How close he gonna be to you when he gets grown? she asked. When he gets to be Mr. Jeff, and there ain’t no boy in his name no more?
—Tomorrow ain’t promised to no one, Amber said.
—If the cotton’s so high here, and Missus puts all her business in your hands, why was you planning to run?
—Why you got to vex me so much?
—I ain’t vexing you. You the one setting on the moaning bench.
—I got a mind to jump off this boat and leave you to your own self, Amber said.
—Go ahead.
Amber stared into the dark, furious. Ten hours ago he would have climbed a mountain for the Dreamer. Now, if he could have thrown her off the boat into the water, he would have, she confounded him so.
I wasn’t planning on running off in no jiffy anyhow, Amber lied. I only told you about it because…But he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Couldn’t bring himself to say the words that had scratched at his heart the moment he’d kissed her at the Indian graveyard. He truly wanted to run now, because of her.
He stared out over the water, brooding and confused. He thought he’d loved her when they’d kissed, but he’d never known love, had never even kissed a woman before. He decided that love was beyond his understanding and that she was using her wisdom, her ability to read and write, her brazenness, her dreams, to make herself feel above him. She didn’t care one iota about him. Her beauty was a sword, an extra dagger to cut into his side. He was sure that whatever white man owned her had favored her too much, and perhaps more.
—Whatever I had with Miss Kathleen is broke, Amber said. It can’t be fixed. It ain’t got nothing to do with her and her children. It’s me. I ain’t never gonna be the man I should be because of how I’m born. When you’re born as another man’s property, you’re raised to that. And whatever you think of yourself, you always come back to how the white man sees you. How he thinks of you. Because it was put in you from the time you could walk. I’m fixing to change that some kind of way. I don’t think this is the place where I can do that. No matter how much freedom Miss Kathleen gives me. But I’m sorry to leave her in the lurch if I run off. She has been good to me. She ain’t had to do it. She ain’t required to. She done it because that’s who she is. She deserves better’n the pile of peas she’ll be getting if—or when—I take off. I plan to pay her every bit of what I’m worth when I’m free. Every penny.
—You throwing your money away, then, Liz said. She ain’t no different than that woman that tried to kill us over yonder.
Amber turned his face to look at her. Daylight was coming. He could just make out her face, and see the outline of her long, soft neck. Miss Kathleen stuck a rifle in Patty Cannon’s face day before yesterday, he said softly. Runned her off her land. That ain’t no small potatoes. That counts for something, don’t it?
Liz was silent, and over the lapping of the waters, Amber heard the breath rushing in and out of her chest, and in the growing light could see, for the first time, her face in full. She seemed to be in pain.
—Your head hurting?
—A little.
—Back at that Indian burial ground, how’d you know Patty was coming? he asked.
—Don’t ask me…Liz said, her voice trailing off. I have yet to really see her in person, we was running so hard back there. Something’s happening to me. My head’s…not right. I’m seeing things I ain’t supposed to be seeing.
—Is Patty coming now?
Liz smirked.
—Who would come out here? Ain’t nothing out here, she said.
Liz lay back against the rear of the boat, her head against the towline.
—We got to go ashore, Amber said.
—Rest here with me a moment, would you? I’m scared my mind might change and move around on me some more.
—Can’t do that. Gotta move now.
Amber pointed to a light in the distance.
—We got to paddle in towards that light over yonder. That�
�s Cambridge City.
—We can’t go there!
—We got to. That’s where the coach wrench is.
—What’s that?
—I can’t tell it. Only the blacksmith got the whole code.
—How does he know it?
—You’ll see when we get there. Thing is, don’t say a word to him. When we get to there, speak to the pot. He’ll set a pot in the middle of the room upside down. It’ll keep the white man from hearing us. Don’t look at him and don’t speak to him, no matter what. He won’t look at you, neither. Everybody speaks to the pot.
—Why?
—’Cause if they catch you and force you to it, you can swear on God’s Bible you never seen him nor heard him. All you’ve heard is an old pot ringing, and you won’t be lying.
The sun had just peeked over the horizon when they arrived at the Cambridge City wharf. The dock was strangely silent and depleted of its large cache of oyster boats, which made Amber nervous. At that hour he expected to see the late risers—dawn oystermen were considered late risers—heading out to the bay. Instead he noted that several dories and flatties whose sails he recognized were for some reason not tied to the pier but dredging close to shore. Most watermen, he knew, sailed to deeper waters in the latter part of oystering season, the oyster bars having been dredged out or become difficult to reach with the spring storms pushing the bottom silt and mud over them. The sight of the boats hanging so close to shore was not reassuring. He tacked towards the pier, alert and nervous.
Amber guessed it would take an hour or so to find the constable, gather a few items Missus wanted, and get back home without delay. He could attribute his lateness to the weather, saying the rain last night held him up and he slept over at a barn in town. It wasn’t the first time he’d stayed out overnight because of unforeseen circumstances, and Missus had allowed it. Still, Liz was his biggest worry. He had no pass—neither did she—and that could mean a lot of explaining if someone asked. Her wound would require explaining. Her beauty, her high manner, that too would draw attention. As they slipped towards the pier, he ran through a litany of excuses in his head that he could use on the road and with Miss Kathleen as well, for she would ask specific questions when he got home. He considered breaking his arm to claim that he’d injured himself in some way, but decided against it. He figured he’d need all his limbs for whatever was coming.
Amber docked the boat next to several other bungies and waved at a few lingering colored watermen working on the pier. They studiously avoided looking at him as he helped Liz out of the boat. He understood. The coloreds wanted no trouble. Fishing bungies were common transportation on the eastern shore, and black and white watermen often docked their bungies at piers for days at a time. But a new, pretty colored face, even a wounded one, was not unnoticed by any waterman, colored or white. The coloreds were keeping clear. It made him anxious, and he tied up quickly.
He led Liz into town slowly, following the muddy back alleys full of discarded oyster shells, planks, old furniture, and half-hollowed-out bungies that sat behind the wide main streets of Cambridge. She did not look well and lagged along behind him, her face downcast. Their clothing, though muddy and soiled, was not ripped enough to scream runaway, though Liz was dressed oddly. She still wore the man’s jacket that was given to her by the Woolman, but that, too, Amber knew, was not that unusual, because some slave women with poor masters were stuck with whatever clothing their masters could muster for them. Still, despite the poor quality of her clothing, her bearing was regal and she was starkly beautiful: the rags she wore only seemed to make her that much more striking and sensual, and that attracted attention. Luckily they saw no one.
They walked behind the Tin Teacup, down an alley to yet another muddy alley lined with planks and piles of oyster shells, only to find the blacksmith shop closed. They crept around to the back. Amber softly tapped at the window. In the growing light of the morning Liz saw a face appear. Seconds later the back door opened and they entered.
The blacksmith closed the door behind them without looking at either of them. He strode to the middle of the room, placed a pot upside down on the dirt floor, and stood above it, his back to them. He seemed, from Liz’s perspective, highly agitated. Liz had the feeling that she was meeting a superior, judging from the way Amber walked up to the blacksmith’s back, fawning almost, then placed his back to the blacksmith’s, the two men standing back-to-back. Liz saw it was a ritual, for they both seemed accustomed to it. They spoke over their shoulders at one another in whispers.
—You ought to know better than to come here, the blacksmith said. You get my message?
—I couldn’t hear no hammering where I was. I was out on the bay, running.
—Keep your traveling shoes on, then. They think you done it.
—Done what? Amber asked.
—You ain’t heard?
—What you talking about?
—Your missus’ firstborn been snatched.
—Jeff Boy? Snatched how?
—I don’t know! They think you done it!
Liz watched as the meaning of the words dawned on Amber, his face slowly creasing into shock. He stepped away from the blacksmith, shaking his head as if trying to shake off snowflakes or a bad dream. His face twitched in several different directions before finally righting itself. He gathered himself and once again placed his back against the blacksmith so their shoulder blades touched.
—What happened? he said.
—They’re fixing to drag Blackwater River for him this morning is all I know, the blacksmith said.
—Patty done it! Amber hissed. She’s a devil.
—She’s a slave stealer, the blacksmith said calmly. Child stealin’ ain’t her game. She ain’t gonna steal no white child.
Amber swayed. His knees felt like they were going to buckle. Now he knew why the bungies were dragging so close to shore. And the colored watermen avoiding him when he pulled in—there was a reason for that. He was a marked man. A nigger under suspicion. With a posse, no doubt, heading to Miss Kathleen’s to see him.
—Jeff Boy wouldn’t wander into the Blackwater alone, he said. Blacksmith, I swear before blessed God, he’s never done nothing like that his whole life.
—You got to git up the road, the blacksmith said.
—To where? Missus sent me to fetch the constable.
—Well, you ain’t got to find him, the blacksmith said. He’ll find you. They left this morning for the Neck round three, four o’clock. I reckon they’re there now. You got to git up the highway.
He nodded at Liz without looking at her.
—And take whoever you got there with you.
—She ain’t done nothing.
—I don’t care! That door there ain’t gonna bump you in the back five minutes ’fore they kick it in asking ’bout you. You was surely seen coming here by somebody. What was you thinking ’bout? Coming directly here? You know you ain’t supposed to!
Amber folded his hands over his bowed face. He spoke through his fingers.
—That’s some kind of welcome you gived to somebody who ain’t so ordinary, he said defensively. That there’s the Dreamer.
—Kind of trouble she’s kicked around, I don’t right care who she is, the blacksmith said.
—What is you saying? If you done quit working against the Trade, you shoulda let it be knowed before today.
Now it was the blacksmith’s turn to try to control himself. His face seemed to reel itself in and out like a baited fishline tossed in and out of the water. He ran a hand across his face, which had begun to sweat. He sighed deeply. It took all his will not to glance over at the figure who sat huddled on the floor in the corner of the cold room. He raised a hand to his forehead, rubbed it, looked at the ceiling, then placed the back of his head against the back of Amber’s head. Finally he spoke:
—You got yourself in a mess of trouble, Amber. I can’t be party to it. I ain’t seen this so-called Dreamer, so she’s still safe. I can hold her f
or a day or so, then put her on the gospel train out of this country—maybe.
—She stays with me, Amber said.
Amber saw no sense in explaining to the blacksmith that the Dreamer wouldn’t run—that he didn’t want her to run; that if, in fact, she ran, he would run too. Or was it the Dreamer’s power over him? Or was it his feelings? He could no longer tell. Then a thought came to him that nearly knocked him to his knees. He stared at Liz, breathless.
—By God, Blacksmith, he said. She called it out!
—Called out what?
—She said a child had gone missing. Two of ’em.
He looked at Liz.
—Is that the child you was speaking of?
The blacksmith waved a dismissive hand in the air.
—Amber, it hurts my heart to hear you talking with cotton in your tongue while your head’s about to hit the chopping block. Unless that boy’s found, you deader than Dick’s donkey. You just property to the white man, but his flesh and blood means more to him than money. And you party to his child being missing, unless you can prove otherwise.
—Don’t you see? Amber said. She called it out! Said a child was missing, and he is! Two of ’em! Who’s the other? he asked Liz.
—Stop talking crazy! the blacksmith snapped. You got to turn yourself in, or they’ll shake every colored upside down from here to Delaware till they find you! They bound to break the code. They half know it already. The Gimp’s about, you know. He came round here two days past, asking for her.
Amber’s eyes widened in alarm.
—I thought the Gimp gived up chasing the colored. Gone fishing, they said.
—You spurred that horse wrong too. He’s ain’t fishing. He’s about.
Liz watched Amber move his hand away from his face, saw his shoulders sag, watched the fight leave him.
—All right, then, Amber said. I’ll leave out. I’ll go home. You send her on the train, would you, Blacksmith?
—I’m not going anyplace, Liz said.
It was the first thing she said in the room. The defiance in her voice made the blacksmith smirk.
Song Yet Sung Page 17
