—Which way you come, Wiley?
—The old logging trail.
Kathleen stepped off the porch, grabbed the horse’s reins, and pulled him around. It was a big gelding. She had never ridden on something so big before.
—He been watered? she asked.
—Plenty.
She turned and, leading the horse, set out on foot towards the pine grove where Jeff Boy had disappeared. She heard Wiley over her shoulder.
—You ain’t gonna take that way to Sinking Creek, is you, Missus? The trail don’t hold up after you cross the creek. It’s all swamp. Hard going there, even for a man. Ought you not wait for the constable and the men tomorrow?
Kathleen ignored him, wrapping the oilskin tighter around her and pushing the hat firmly down over her face, then slow-footing up the hill towards the grove of pine trees.
Men, she thought bitterly. They run the world to sin and then wonder why the world wakes up every morning sucking sorrow.
Liz felt more than saw Blackwater Creek as old Clarence tacked into it. He’d approached from the south, tacking carefully up the Choptank, swinging wide through the mouth of the big creek, and pushing into its swampy bosom. It was early evening. The fading sunlight still filtered through the trees, and the odd smell of fresh water pouring out of the Blackwater into the bilious swamps that filled Joya’s Neck gave the air a pungent smell. The vast numbers of heron, kingfishers, and marsh wrens that lived on the wide expanse of salt marshes called out viciously, taking to the air in protest at being disturbed by the fast-moving boat.
Liz’s headache had returned, and with it flashes of insight into the lives of the swamp creatures all around her. She felt as if she were being watched. The fluttering, cries, and honking of the waterfowl and other birds was so loud and agitated that it seemed to reach a fever pitch, an incredible din, and several times she thought to ask Clarence about it, thinking perhaps something special went on about the bay this time of year, like mating rituals or some kind of nesting process, but did not bother him. Instead she closed her eyes and dozed fitfully, jerking herself awake every few moments, afraid to fall deeply asleep and dream.
When they arrived at the mouth of the creek, Clarence stopped tacking, grabbed his oars, and announced, I ain’t sure which way to go now.
—I know, she murmured, and guided him slowly around several bends, avoiding the low-hanging vegetation. They both listened intently for any sounds other than those of the birds. As they approached a curve marked by a tall elm overhanging the creek, she nodded to Clarence and said, Pull up to the bank there and let me out.
—We passed the mouth of the Blackwater, he said. This is Sinking Creek. There ain’t nothing within three, four miles of here.
—Got to be, she said. I remember it.
He nodded over his shoulder: Old Indian burial ground is just yonder. Maybe a half hour by foot, faster by water. You won’t find it by yourself.
—You go on back now. I can find it.
—I’d just as soon stay, if it’s all the same to you, the old man said.
—I’ll thank you here, she said. Whatever light’s left, you gonna need it to get back. Go on, Mr. Clarence. The code’s safe.
The old man lingered a moment. Once you reach Sinking Creek, you can likely cross it if you go straight up this way, he said. The creek ain’t too deep there. Behind it you can take the old logging trail back to Blackwater. You follow that to where Amber lives…or used to live.
He wasn’t certain where Amber was or even if he was alive or not, but thought it better not to mention it.
—He’s alive yet, she said.
The old man watched her face in the fading light. From the south, the fog began to roll up the Choptank and into the Blackwater. If he was going to get back, he’d need to leave soon so he could spot the shoreline, at least until he got far enough out to see the lighthouse at Ragged Point, which he could use to guide him back to Cambridge City.
—All right, then, he said. We rise at sunrise and rest at midnight.
—What’s that mean?
—It means God be with you, ’cause somebody’s broke for the freedom line.
—I ain’t done no such thing, she said.
He looked at her grimly. No matter how the cut comes or goes, Miss Dreamer, you heading for freedom. God bless, he said.
He swung the boat around, glanced over his shoulder, and rowed out towards the Blackwater and the Choptank beyond it. Liz watched him till he raised his sail and began to tack west again towards Cambridge City, rising and falling on the billows.
When he was gone, she turned towards the small strip of land that lay before her. It was no more than two hundred yards wide, with water on either side, mostly swamp and marsh grass, with woods on one margin and a sandy beach on the other. As the sun sank towards the western horizon, she looked across the beach and noticed the tide, which was up, splash against a stand of trees and jutting rock on the far side of it. She closed her eyes but saw only darkness now. Something pushed against her chest and, without thinking, she walked towards the rocky outcrop, swinging wide to the right, with the intention of walking to the wooded area, having learned never to walk in the open.
The woods were farther away than they looked, and it took her a half hour of slogging through thick grass with swamp water up to her ankles before she worked her way to them. By then night had fallen, and she had no lamp, nothing to guide her except her feelings and instincts. Yet, she felt sure. The fog had begun to roll in, so she walked blindly now, pushing aside the thickets and bushes that clawed at her, murmuring to herself, God, I am looking for the one thing I have never felt but once, and I would walk through heaven and earth to find it, if he would but let me find him, so that I could feel it; and if I were to feel it again I would never leave that feeling, or him that gave it to me.
She groped through a grove of thickets, past several trees, and felt the soft marshy earth beneath her feet becoming increasingly firm. She stood in place a moment, resting, her head pounding bitterly. She suppressed an urge to sit, sensing that something important was close. She moved on. The rising tide had not yet crested, and the sound of rushing water filled her ears as she walked deeper into the woods. She sensed that she had nearly reached the edge of the woods facing the water and instinctively turned to her left, keeping the sound of water on her right, knowing that the woods were not very deep and assuming that there was open beach on the far side.
She walked for several minutes. The pounding in her head increased, a constant drumming with sharp edges to it, so strong that she was afraid she might pass out. There was something, she knew, very close, and for some reason she had to see it. She slowly made her way into a thicket and sank to one knee. Heart pounding, she leaned against a tree trunk, for she felt exhausted and had to rest. There she had a vision…
She felt enormous pain, the pain of a thousand indignities, heaped up against the will of one, then saw a small colored boy of no more than seven years old tied to a tree, his back bruised and sore, while a man, apparently his father, hollered out to him, crying, beseeching the child to cooperate. Several other servants, white and colored, stood around the child, begging him, beseeching him to cooperate as well, but the boy shook his head and refused their entreaties. Then a man in frock coat, with iron-grey locks and a deeply lined brow, stepped out from behind the tree. He held a cat-o’-nine-tails. Raising the whip high, he brought it down on the boy’s back. The boy looked up, and she saw a face she recognized.
She awoke with a shudder and dropped to the ground, her back burning. It was as if she had received the blows herself.
—Lord have mercy, she said. I’m losing my mind.
Then she sensed him. Close by. And this time she knew who it was.
She crawled on her hands and knees now. The fog lifted, the moon peeked from behind the clouds, and she saw, on the sandy beach, in full illumination just for a moment, a man, sitting with his arms draped over his knees, silent, watching. He appeared
in full view of the moon, which ducked behind the clouds, but as she crawled towards him, she saw his eyes and realized that he was not who they said he was.
—You should have told your master your dream, she said. Even if it was a lie, you should have told it to him.
The Woolman said nothing. He sat in a ball, breathing deeply.
—Everything I know is a lie too, she said softly. Every truth is a lie. And every lie is the truth. I heard that said. Only tomorrow is truly truthful.
The Woolman shifted slightly, and as he did, she saw his face crease in discomfort and heard him grunt in pain, and she crept close. In the moonlight she saw his arm glistening. When she touched it gently, he leaned away, sucking in air with a soft, fragile hiss.
—You been cut, she said.
The Woolman looked away, shy and embarrassed, as she examined his cut arm and back.
—Where is your son? Liz asked.
The Woolman sat mute and unmoving, head drooping, eyes downcast.
Liz lifted his wounded arm. It felt like a solid piece of oak. When she let go, it dropped to the ground as if it were dead.
—You’re losing blood, she said.
She reached into her calico sack, pulled out the knotted rope that he had given her, and tied it tightly around the arm, cutting off the flow of blood. She ripped off a piece of her dress, stepped over to the creek, dipped it in the water, and wiped the arm clean, then the cuts on his back as well. He regarded the wounds in the moonlight.
—They’re clean cuts, she said. But they’re deep.
She saw his head sink into his shoulders, rise, sink, and rise again.
—You got to sleep? she asked. Go ahead, then.
The Woolman lifted his head to regard her with a baleful stare, his eyes blinking slowly. With effort he slowly got to his feet, beckoning for her to follow.
He slowly led her through the grove, stumbling slightly as he walked, exhausted. From behind, she saw the loincloth, the legs as thick as tree trunks, his muscular back, and said to herself, God have mercy, this is a man—much of a man.
He led her to the edge of the woods where the forest met high, marshy grass. Far ahead she saw the Choptank River and beyond it the lights of a sidewheeler making its way up the Chesapeake towards Baltimore.
The marsh grass ended at a sandy beach. Just before the grass ended at the sandy beach, the Woolman stopped. He pointed to a projection of rock that could be seen around the curve of the land where it met the Choptank River, then sat down, crouched in a ball again, arms around his knees.
—What is it? she asked.
But the Woolman had already lain down on the earth. He turned on his side, placed his head down in the high grass, and slept.
hell in spite of redemption
Astorm was coming, and Denwood sensed it would be a bad one. The mosquitoes rose out of the bog like clouds, and the ducks, wrens, and herons seemed thick as flies, all of them busy, scrambling for last-minute forage. They knew very well what was coming. It was the longest stretch of wet weather Denwood could remember. Spring comes slowly to the eastern shore, and March seems to take to spring the hardest—one day snow, the next day spring. For that reason he couldn’t stand spring: it reminded him of too many promises unkept, lies told, hearts broken.
He had traveled behind the Sullivan Negro nearly four hours. They had two horses now, the Negro riding on Joe’s, since Joe no longer needed his, but even with two horses it had been rough going, most of it on foot. The swamp made it nearly impossible for the horses to navigate in most places, and Denwood wanted to stay clear of any trail and out of Patty’s way. She did not know this land. This Negro did. When instructed to stay clear of the trail, he’d circumvented the old logging road and the main road and followed Sinking Creek until they reached the Indian burial ground and encroaching darkness stopped them. The Negro led him to a large oak tree where a hole had been carved in the side, large enough for two people to fit. Denwood announced that they’d camp there. The Negro was as silent as a summer evening. He collected firewood without being asked and tethered the horses expertly.
Over a small fire in the burrow, safely out of plain sight, they made coffee and cooked the last of his food while Denwood considered the next day’s plan. It would not do to tarry. By avoiding the logging trail and staying out of Patty’s way, he’d slowed his pace. The plan was to take a quick look at the Indian burial ground and the surrounding area, then hurry back to Cambridge City and pay a visit to the blacksmith, with whom he’d about had enough. Now they were stuck at night and unable to move. Another day wasted. The whole thing stank, and he was sorry he’d taken on the job.
He peered out of the burrow, down the long wall that ran along the grassy field. The wall, built by the Indians years ago as protection for their graves, stretched westward into the woods and beyond where, Denwood assumed, Blackwater Creek lay on the other side and, farther on, the Choptank and the Chesapeake. He turned to Amber, who was tending the fire. It was time to stoke this Negro to see what he knew.
—Say, you go by Amber, do you?
Amber nodded.
—I don’t know this land, Denwood said. How much further out before it reaches water?
—Quite a bit, said Amber.
—How come ain’t nobody living out this far, then? It’s close enough to the water. There’s a wall here. Somebody built it to mark off their land and walked away from it, maybe?
—Used to be there was someone here, so I heard, Amber replied. The red man. Built that wall to keep the bad spirits out. So it’s said.
—What happened?
—Oh. Don’t know, sir.
Denwood nodded. The usual game of cat and mouse. The colored was playing it close to the vest. Maybe the bad spirits came anyway, Denwood said, trying to draw him out.
—Well, sir, come winter, when the tide comes up, some of the land goes underwater. We’re a little inland here, but I seen it come up to my neck certain parts of November and December not more than a half mile from here. So I reckon this is hard land to settle. It’s hard settling in a place if you don’t know whether there’s gonna be water in your sitting room or not.
It was the first conversation they had had, and Denwood noted silently that this was a bright colored, which meant he’d have to work him carefully. Bright, he knew, did not always translate into honest, although the man was the property of the Sullivan woman, whom he now found interesting. His mind wandered back to Kathleen standing on the porch, the handsome face, crow’s-feet around the eyes, the brow set in sorrow and despair, staring at him, her lips uttering his name, his insides trying to ferret out if those lips would lie, the ache that accompanied the thought clattering about his heart like a spoon in a metal can, his insides hoping, even if just for a moment, that what he’d sensed from her was real. A need. What he had was a need. What he would give for some relief, he thought, a remedy for his need. Not a physical need—he could get all of that that he wanted in places like Crisfield and St. Michael’s, where the women in the three-room whorehouses that lined the sandy, smelly streets dipped snuff and smoked pipes, servicing watermen from Maryland and Virginia with blunt crudity for a pound of salt or a peck of pickles. But a mental need. A need for someone to mitigate his loneliness. Then again, he thought bitterly, I always ran towards a dollar and not to who I am or what I really need. My own father said it.
He waited a moment to let the bright, colorful, happy thoughts fade from him and the grim, grey feeling of his own reality settle on him again before he spoke.
—How well did you know Liz Spocott? he asked.
—The Dreamer? Oh, tolerable well, Amber mumbled.
—You ain’t lying, now, is you?
The young man looked at him with such sadness that Denwood had to look away. What was happening to him? He couldn’t stand it! He had no plans to feel for this nigger. Didn’t want to know his troubles, not after plugging Joe Johnson for him—for which he’d certainly have to answer to the constable. Romance bet
ween niggers? He didn’t want to know.
—Surely ain’t, sir. I ain’t lying.
—Everyone’s in love with this girl, he said bitterly. And she’s slipperier than drum fish. Hell, I’m in love with her, too, in a way. I’m in love with the money she’s gonna make me.
—Yes, sir.
Sullen, Denwood tossed a twig into the fire. He was flat broke now. The money the old captain had forwarded was gone with what they’d just eaten. He suddenly remembered why he’d gotten out of the slave-chasing business: it was too complicated. When he was younger, he didn’t care about the consequences of chasing and catching them. It was his son who had awakened the whole moral question for him. The moment the five-year-old understood what the word work meant, he’d asked, Pa, has you done many types of jobs? That’s when the heat began. The memory of his son asking, inquiring about his job, scorched him like a hot iron, and he suddenly needed a drink.
He saw the Negro glance at him and then at the ground again.
—How long you known the Dreamer?
—I knowed her when she come into this country nine days ago. Seems like a year.
—Why so?
—Well, she…outright said she was bad luck. And she was right, I guess, what with Jeff Boy going missing and Miss Patty and Woolman running around. In my heart I know the Dreamer ain’t got nothing to do with it. But now that the cat’s out of the bag and seem like trouble’s marching to and fro across these parts, I guess it’s fair to say she did call it out herself. She did say it was coming.
—You shoulda thought of that when you harbored her, Denwood said. I wouldn’t harbor a runaway for a pinch of salt. You looking at five years in prison.
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