Joe placed his hand on his Colt.
—Don’t make me take this burner out of its house, he said.
A white oysterman nearby, tossing barrels of oysters from his boat onto the dock, stopped his work and strode over. The man was clad in oilskins and boots, with a leathery, weather-beaten face and a head crowned with white hair. He peered at Joe. His grey eyes, surrounded by crow’s-feet, took in the elaborate jacket and hat, the expensive saddlebags, the fine boots. Joe glared down at him, frowning. A damn nosy body waterman. Just what he needed. The waterman looked at Amber, then at Joe.
—What’s wrong? It was a general question, aimed at neither in particular.
Joe spoke first.
—This Negro here’s giving me a hard time.
—Is that true, Amber? the waterman asked.
—No, sir, Mr. Virgil, Amber said. Just told him I’m trying to take these things out to Miss Kathleen’s.
Joe’s face reddened.
—You calling me a liar, nigger? he said.
The waterman glanced at Joe with a smirk. Get off your hind legs a minute, he said. He turned to Amber: I heard one of my coloreds say there’s trouble out at Kathleen’s place. Any truth to that?
—I heard it, sir, but don’t know it to be true, Amber said. I couldn’t get back yesterday ’cause of the storm. But one of Miss Betty’s Negroes said Jeff Boy might have run off in the swamp behind the house. She said that this morning. I got to get back, sir.
The waterman turned to Joe. I know this boy, he said. If he says he got to get back, he got to get back.
—I ain’t got no hank with you, Joe said to the waterman. But I got good cause to believe this here boy is harboring a runaway. I think he might have hid her over at the free blacksmith’s shop. I want to run him back there to check his story. Won’t take but a minute.
The waterman appeared undecided. His missus is expectin’ him, he said. Ain’t no use for him to tarry here if his missus is waiting on him to run down her son. He’s likely got hisself stuck on one of them tiny little islands off Cook’s Point.
—That may be, Joe said. But if this one here’s harboring Negroes, there’s likely deeper trouble to it. And if you helping him, you in it deep too.
The waterman’s steel-grey eyes hardened. Who are you? he asked Joe.
Joe breathed in deep. He had to lie now: I works for Herbert Woolford, out near Seaford County. We’re on the hunt for a couple of his runaway Negroes who come through here. This Negro here was seen with one of them.
By now the dock had stopped business altogether. Several white and Negro waterman wandered closer, full-out curious now, not trying to hide it.
—Woolford got so many hands, he don’t know one from the other, the waterman said. I never knowed him to send a slave catcher to round up any of his coloreds.
—Well, he done it this time.
The waterman’s grey eyes hardened into suspicion and Joe fought the urge to swallow, fighting panic. The waterman stared, his lips drawn tight, his eyes carefully working their way around Joe’s face. Joe felt as if the man’s leathery hands were working their way around his neck.
—You with Patty Cannon’s bunch? he asked.
—Don’t believe I know her, Joe said.
Joe heard a Negro voice call out: He’s a liar, sir. I seen him with her outside the general store when she rode in here three days ago.
This was spoken by a tall, rangy black man, dressed in the relatively neat attire worn by free Negroes. He stood with his foot aside the stern of a small flattie full of oyster baskets. Behind him several Negro workers who had been unloading glared at Joe in silence, their long, muscular arms hanging low, their stares baleful.
Joe shot a burning glance at the Negro and pursed his lips. If they were alone, he would’ve yanked his smoothbore from his holster and aired that longheaded coon out right where he stood. He resisted the urge to cuss the man down and spoke to the group generally.
—I got no quarrel with nobody here, he said. But no idiot scalawag nigger who don’t know me from Adam is gonna go around telling lies on me. Now, I got business here for Mr. Herbert Woolford, from out near Seaford County. Anybody got any quarrels with that, they can take it up with him. I’m just a working man on business.
—Was you at Franzy’s general store yesterday? the waterman asked.
—Surely was, Joe said. And I seen a woman over there struttin’ round with a pistol on her hip and thumping in circles like a damn donkey. But I don’t know her nor none of them that was with her. I’m not allowed to bid good day to a white woman on my own time? Without a nigger telling lies on me?
The crowd, which now included several white watermen, seemed to take the issue to heart, and Joe could feel them stand down. As they did, so went the air out of the Negroes as well. Joe addressed the white waterman who had started the whole ruckus.
—I won’t be no more than five minutes with this boy. It won’t take more’n that to check his story. Mr. Woolford would appreciate your courtesy on it, I’m sure.
The waterman shrugged. I don’t much care whether he appreciates it or not, he said. We don’t take kindly to strangers tying up this dock every which way every time big dogs like Mr. Woolford gets in a fur over his Negroes. Kate Sullivan’s boy is likely gone fishing and got caught out on Mills Island and had to wait out the storm. Still, this boy here belongs with his missus. You take him on ahead. But if he ain’t back in a few minutes, I’m gonna come for him.
He turned to Amber. I’ll watch your boat for you, he said.
The man turned and walked back down the dock, leaving Amber to his fate.
Amber stepped off the pier and slowly walked up the slope towards the blacksmith’s shop. Joe rode slowly beside him.
When they reached the top of the rise out of earshot of the others, Joe leaned down on his horse and snarled softly to Amber: You smart enough to peddle a lot of chin music to your favor. But we ain’t parting quarters till I figures out whether you cabbaging niggers or not. Your story better match up at old Blacksmith’s.
Joe watched the Negro’s head sag, the shoulders droop, the confidence gone, the resistance vanish. He’d seen it in a million runaways. He had him. The Negro stopped walking.
—I’ll tell it, Amber said. Please, sir, have mercy on me. I’ll tell it.
—Tell what?
—You ain’t got to waste time with the blacksmith, Amber said. The one you looking for, she ain’t there. But you got to move fast. If I’m gonna go to prison, then she’s going too, he howled. I knowed I shouldn’ta done it! I knowed it! Damn wench!
Amber slapped his thigh in frustration and knelt, sobbing, his hands resting on his knees, crying for his own dreams, so far beneath those of the one he loved yet so dear to him, which were now scrambled like eggs, love having lasted less than a minute, it seemed. He sobbed out of frustration, because every passing moment of every passing day he’d allowed himself to be less than he truly knew God wanted him to be; he sobbed for his late brother-in-law Nate, and when he was done sobbing for Nate he sobbed for Wiley, and his sister Mary, and Jeff Boy—who, if he wasn’t dead, might as well be—and when he was done sobbing for them, he sobbed for himself again.
Joe watched him with suspicion for several long moments, but when Amber looked up, Joe saw the tears in his eyes were real, and the colored’s face was scrunched up in true agony. And he was sold.
—Where is she? he asked.
—She’s at the old Indian burial ground, Amber said.
—Where is that?
—Out on the Neck, Amber said. We got to hurry! If I’m going to prison, she’s going too! he wailed.
He trotted forward, tripped, fell, and stood up, quickly rolling up his left pant leg nearly to the knee, then trotted towards the road that led past the Tin Teacup, out of Cambridge City, and towards Joya’s Neck.
Joe followed, his horse single-pacing easily. He decided he’d stop at the Tin Teacup and leave a note telling Stanton where to meet h
im, then let the nigger trot towards Joya’s Neck till he got tired, then chain him and ride him on the back of his mount the rest of the way. It was a good stretch, nearly fourteen miles to the Neck. The nigger was bound to get dogged out. Joe considered stopping to rent a second horse for the Negro to ride. He’d have to bring both of them back to town, after all. On the other hand, there was no use spending any more money on this Negro girl. Besides, he thought, watching Amber run, he’d seen niggers run for miles and miles without stopping. They never seemed to get tired. Not the good ones.
spreading the word
Denwood arrived at Kathleen Sullivan’s farm three hours after a constable’s search party did. He’d run up to Trappe in Talbot County on a bad lead. An old drunk named Willard Rush, whom he’d caught several times in the past, swore up and down that the Dreamer had cut and run there and was now headed due north to Easton. It cost Denwood two days and a bottle of rum for the old drunk before he realized the lead was bad.
He rode through a rainstorm straight through to Joya’s Neck from Trappe without stopping. Both he and his horse were exhausted and soaked when he arrived, the rainstorm having followed them.
He paused at the farm’s edge, his eyes sucking up what was around him. The tiny Sullivan farmhouse sat in an open field near two small gardens, a tobacco shed, a barn, Blackwater Creek in front, Choptank River leading to the Chesapeake to the west, and the smaller, more dangerous Sinking Creek hidden in the woods behind it. Whoever lived there, Denwood guessed, had chosen the site well. It was surrounded by water on three sides, the bay within hollering distance, with green fertile lands nearby. The land was too far from town to be attractive to anyone with real money but damn attractive to anyone who tonged during oystering season, which was any month of the year with the letter R in it. He noticed a boat pier on the creek in front of the cabin and a half-built bungy lying beside the barn in dry dock. He guessed the waterman who died hadn’t finished it. He noticed that the boat pier was empty.
He rode to the front of the house, dismounted, and tethered his horse to a porch railing. Dorchester County constable Travis House, a stout, broad man with thick eyebrows that seemed poised in a permanent arch over a flat face, stood on the front porch watching several dories and flatties struggle out on the bay in the driving rain. He stepped off the porch to meet Denwood, the driving wind ripping across his face, one hand holding his hat on his head.
—Thought you was retired, Gimp, Travis yelled, the howling wind nearly drowning out his voice.
—I thought you was in Fell’s Point, Travis.
—I was. Now I ain’t.
—Same with me.
Travis nervously wrapped his oilskin tighter around himself, squinting at Denwood and shielding his eyes from the driving rain. Denwood stepped onto the porch out of the storm, and Travis followed, frowning. He’d hoped to avoid a confrontation with the Gimp. He already had enough on his hands. He stepped onto the porch, removed his hat, and nervously shook the water off it.
—What brings you here, then? Travis asked.
—Want to know what’s going on.
—Everybody knows it. The lady’s son’s gone on the water. Search party’s been out all morning now. You gonna help?
—I might. I got to talk to the woman inside first, Denwood said.
—’Bout what? Travis said.
Denwood shrugged and slowly stepped towards the front door, wincing from the pain in his bad leg. Travis stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Denwood smirked. Travis, he knew, was more politician than lawman.
—This is county business, Gimp, Travis said. You ought to know that.
—Patty Cannon’s the bear coming in the house, Denwood said dryly. You seen her yet?
Travis frowned. Denwood stepped past him and knocked at the front door.
A distressed white woman with her hair down to her shoulders answered. She had a wild, bristling look about her, the lines in her face taut with tension. Behind her stood a tall Negro woman.
—You with the posse? she asked.
—No.
—What is it, then?
—I’m a Negro catcher. I’m seeking a Negro that—
The woman slammed the door in his face.
Travis gave him a satisfied smirk, turned on his heel, stepped off the porch, and marched towards the Choptank, the rain pushing his coat and hat about. He shouted directions at another boat that had just arrived.
Denwood limped to the edge of the porch and took a long look around the woods and swamps that led to Sinking Creek, then limped down the porch steps into the rain again and began to untether his horse.
He heard the creak of the door open behind him. He looked up. A colored woman beckoned him.
—C’mon in here, sir.
He climbed the porch steps once more, leaving his oilskin draped on the porch railing, and stepped inside, where a fire roared.
The white woman sat at the only table in the room, her head resting on her forearms, her face turned downward. Two smaller children sat near her feet, looking distressed. The woman looked up a moment and Denwood saw the handsome face, the tiny dimpled chin, the eyes, dark and red-rimmed, peering around the room, stopping at him, then zipping past him. She placed her head on her arms again.
—Is you all they sent for my Wiley? the colored woman said.
—Who’s Wiley?
—My son, the woman said.
—Nobody sent me for your son, Denwood said.
The colored woman choked off a sob, then pointed out the window to the bay at the assembled watermen’s bungies and flatties struggling in the whipping water.
—Ain’t none of them looking for my Wiley, the colored woman said. Can you help me find him? He’s been snatched by the Devil too.
Denwood stifled an impulse to turn around and leave. How you know the Devil took him? he asked.
—Miss Kathleen said it. Said she seen a glimpse of him. Said he looked like a running tree.
—You saw him too?
—No, I was inside. I heard Jeff Boy yelling and—The colored woman choked off a sob and wiped a tear from her face. I heard him holler and then he was gone. Wiley, he chased whatever it was and never come back. The missus come in here and collapsed.
—Anybody else about?
—Amber, my brother, he gone to town already. He ain’t been back since yesterday. You pass any Negroes on your way out here?
Denwood kept his face somber. Amber was the one he was seeking.
—I didn’t see a thing, Denwood said.
—You took the main road?
—Why would somebody take the road if the bungy’s missing? Did he take that?
—I don’t know what he took, Mary said. He left out before I seen him. Some slave stealers come round here and Miss Kathleen run them off and Amber went to town to get help.
—Was one of them slave stealers a woman?
The colored woman cut a glance at the mistress behind her but said nothing. Denwood noticed the white woman raise her head to peer at him, the lines in her attractive face taut with tension.
—What’s your business here? she asked. She seemed to have recovered a bit.
—I’m looking for a runaway. Stopped to ask if I could check out back of the bog there, over by Sinking Creek. I’m told that’s your land.
The woman’s face colored.
—It is my land and you ain’t welcome on it. Take your business elsewhere.
—I ain’t a slave trader, ma’am. I’m seeking a runaway.
—Get out.
It was a command. Denwood saw no reason to disobey.
He pushed himself from the fireplace and limped towards the door, placing his hand on the knob, then stopping.
—I’d like to be of some help, if I could, he said.
The woman stared into the distance, already lost to him. He saw the long neck, the fine curve of the jaw. As he watched her, something inside him bowed low. He found himself struggling to find words of comfort.
> —I’ll ask round about your boy, he said. Big boy or little boy?
The woman’s face creased in anguish. She lowered her face to the table and folded her arms around her head.
He opened the door; the wind met his face and he strode outside. He reached for his oilskin draped over the railing, put it on, and stepped down the porch to his horse. The rain roared against his face. He pulled his oilskin hat down lower, although it didn’t matter, since both he and the jacket were soaked. He untethered his horse and glanced at the creek and the bay beyond it, the white-tipped waves visible from where he was. It was a tempest, to be sure. In the distance he saw Constable Travis standing at the bank, waving a flag, signaling to the boats to come back in. Good idea: weather like this would only take more lives, not save any. They’d have to search for the boy in the morning. He mounted his horse and backed away from the post.
Before he could turn the horse around, the front door of the house opened and the colored woman trotted out, her head covered with a quilt.
—You can rest in the barn till this storm passes, sir, she said.
—I’ll ride on, thank you.
—Missus said it was okay.
—If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be on my way.
—I’d just as soon you stay, the colored woman said. She glanced back at the house. Some evil’s about round this place, she said. Patty Cannon’s about.
—Patty Cannon ain’t none of my affair, Denwood said.
He pulled his reins to lead his horse away. The colored woman reached out and, with a firm hand, grabbed the horse’s bridle. She pulled the horse by the bit so that its head was close to her mouth, then she spoke up to Denwood through the wind and rain in a low, firm tone filled with neither desperation nor pleading but resolve.
—I know who you are, she said. The one you seek ain’t been here. But if you find my brother, he might know where she is.
She released the bridle reins and backed away, her eyes on Travis, who could be seen over Denwood’s shoulder, standing by the bank, not quite close enough to hear but close enough to notice her talking to him. It immediately gave her credibility.
Song Yet Sung Page 19
