Rich Man's Coffin (50 page)

A knock came suddenly at the door.
 
Opening it, Black Jack was met by a sweaty, breathless man.
 
"It's Miss Baillie!"
 
He huffed. "There's been an accident."

Black Jack's heart sank. "What is it?"

         
"I'm not sure.
 
They say she's resting up at the Big House.
 
The doctor's been summoned from Picton."

"Yes.
 
And what am I supposed to do about it?"

"She's delirious.
 
She's asking for you! The Major wants you up there straightaway."

"Tell them I will arrive shortly."
 
Said Black Jack, shutting the door.
 
He put his head down, hand still on the knob, and gathered his scattered thoughts.
 
How much had she uttered?
He wondered.
 
What will the family think?
 
Is she all right?
 
He pulled himself together, and headed for the lights on the hill.

She seemed all right.
 
He looked through her doorway as the maid removed the washcloth from her forehead.
 
He went to her.

"Oh, Arpur.
 
I'm so glad you could make it.
 
Thank you."
 
She looked around him to the maid at the door.
 
"That will be all, Dora.
 
Thank you."
 
The maid genuflected and closed the door on her way out.
 
"Oh, Arpur, it was horrible!"

"What happened?"

"Coming back from the market at Tua Marina, I decided to take a shortcut through a neighbor's field.
 
Everything was fine, but I guess the farmer thought I was a stranger or something.
 
I don't know, but the next thing, his dogs were chasing my horse and we went galloping for the fence. I was so scared, Arpur.
 
We were flying!
 
I tried screaming at the dogs, but they wouldn't mind me.
 
They just kept barking and gnashing their teeth alongside, nipping at my horse's heels.
 
It was terrible!
 
We were going at full flank when we reached the fence.
 
I was thrown so hard, Arpur.
 
I thought I would break into a thousand pieces of glass."
 
She laughed softly, then coughed and grabbed her side as tears flowed down her pale cheeks.
 
"I'm so sorry, Arpur.
 
I'm such a fool."

He daubed her pale eyes with the cloth as he brushed her hair aside. "No, no.
 
You're not a fool.
 
Everything will be fine.
 
It's not your fault.
 
I'm here now." He kissed her hand with a faint smile.

She said, "No, you don't understand.
 
I'm really sorry... about the baby.
 
The doctor says that I lost the baby!"

Splinters jabbed and burned in many points throughout his body, and his temples throbbed.
 
He held back tears of rage as he choked on his words and forced a smile.
 
"Everything’s gonna be just fine.
 
You rest now, love.
 
Just rest."
 
He waited for her to close her eyes. He watched as her exhaustion finally arrived and unpacked its bags, evicting her anguish.
 
She slept.

In his shock, Arthur was whisked back in time.
The dogs tracked him.
 
He was reluctant to leave in January. He heard that the ships depart in winter from New England to reach the South Seas in time for the whaling season. It would be the beginning of winter again by the time he reached his final destination, so he would sail full circle in seasons.
 
Jeff had told him all about it, in an odd way.
 
Now, as Arthur trotted across frozen fields of fallow Mississippi mud, the thought of going from winter to winter in less than a calendar year unnerved him.

         
He felt no closer to the mythical mountain trail, after running all day.
 
He had never ventured so far. By this time, the endless fields and hills before him blended into a mesmerizing scene that carried him in only one direction with two names. Nearly breathless, he kept repeating the words to himself,
Forward, North
, as he melted deeper into the magical, mystical painting he was plodding through.

         
Follow the hills
, Jeff had told him as they carried their wood in for the evening.
 
“Keep the hills in front and the morning sun to your right.
 
If the sun gets too hot overhead, find a creek with some trees and rest up.
 
When the sun cools over your left shoulder, start after them hills again.
 
Find another creek at night and stay there.
 
That way, if you’re sniffed out, you always got the water to cover your tracks.
 
If’n you find a creek flowin’ down out of the hills back at you, follow it up.
 
The trail’s a few days out, depending on how fast you run. When you start seein’ big rocks stickin’ out of the sides of the steep hills, you’s real close.
 
Find a field with some black folk workin’, and blend in long enough to find out ‘xactly where the trail starts.
 
Then you be goin’ into the mountains of Gawgia.”

         
Very good Jeff
, he thought.
If I could just shake these damn bloodhounds.
 
He had sipped no stream water, nor nibbled at the salt bread his mama had made.
 
Who had told?
 
He wondered.
 
From the sound of it, the plantation hounds and the hunting party must have started out after him straight away.
 
He had planned it all well enough.
 
Get into the fields at daybreak with all the other shivering fools.
 
Work a full morning until the midday head count, and have one last good meal before heading out.
 
Work toward the back of the field and slip over the stream while the foreman is busy counting the morning bales.
 

The scheme should have provided him an hour at least, maybe two, before they knew he was gone. Now, he realized that someone must have talked.
 
He had explained it to everyone he trusted; although, his missus did have that look in her eye.
 
He had wondered about her.
 
She really wouldn’t know any better if she had truly wanted him to stay.
 
She was young. She had not witnessed a black man being strung up and tortured to stop more escapes.
 
She might have told, she was that innocent.
 
But how many times did I tell Lalani?
He badgered himself.
 

“Sugar, I’m comin’ back real soon for you and the youngin’, I promise.
 
I’m comin back rich, and we’s gonna live free like decent folks, you’ll see.”
 
He saw himself pleading with her.
 
But she only pretended to understand the details.
 
If he had not been blinded by his ambition, he would have seen her eyes telling another story, betraying her dumb, pregnant silence.

         
His mind grappled with harder lines now than holding court for a suspected snitch.
 
His lungs stung from icy air as he cantered constantly, counting endless fields as he crossed them. He remained vigilant connecting only the plots that lay dormant and empty of farmers and crops.
 
The cold became a blessing. It limited the number of footprints, increasing the amount of fallow fields for the time of year. As the rhythm of his run came over him, he praised the cold where others would have cursed it.
 
With only the late cotton left to harvest, slaves had turned to chopping wood and tending livestock.
 
Winter life was more interesting for his people, but less enjoyable, as most were not fond of the cold weather.
 
Frosty breath brought out the sporting spirit of the plantation owner’s boys, and Arthur had given them a chance to hone their hunting.

         
The dogs were roughly a mile behind him, gauging from the echo of their barks.
 
Their wailing came in waves, fading in and out.
 
Continuing on a direct forward course would only bring them close to his flank by sunset.
 
He had to lose the dogs somehow, without losing time.
 

Pull a switchback
, he thought as he ran.
 
His jogging helped to form a clear plan in his mind.
 
Along with the hard bread, his mother had given him a glass flask of
medicine
, as she called it:
 
A pint of hard whiskey to help him along the way.
 

“Now don’t drink this all at once, Arthur!”
 
She warned.
 
“Just a sip at night to keep you warm.
 
And for God’s sake, if you get hurt, be sure to wash your wounds with it!”
 

Arthur pulled the bottle from his breast pocket and watched as his steps jostled the liquid amber contents.
 
He looked ahead and saw one of the many streams that cut across the fields of the low, flat farm.
 
As he approached the chilly water, a scheme developed in his mind, and he quickly acted upon it.

         
Without stopping, he stooped over to scoop up a small stone from the furrowed field.
 
As he looked from the vessel of spirits in one hand to the rock in the other, he brought the two together smartly at the lip of the bottle. Just as he hoped, a small triangular sliver broke free from the top of the flask, leaving a jagged notch from its smooth round mouth slightly down the neck.
 
Most of the smelly contents remained inside, with the cork clinging to the rest of the rim.
 

Arthur dropped the rock, ripped out the cork, and swiped the jagged edge across his hand.
 
He made a deep gash in the meat of his palm, and he briefly felt the sting of the spirits spilling in.
 
He shook his injured hand and corked the flask, shoving it back into his coat with the clean hand.
 
He let his bleeding hand trail to his side, dripping steadily. Roughly a hundred yards from the creek, he retrieved his handkerchief with his good hand.
 
At fifty yards, he brought the bottle out, grasping it tightly. He looked like a magician ready to perform a trick.
 
With his bloody thumb, he flicked the cork free and splashed the white cloth.
 
Reaching the stony edge of the water, he squatted and poured the shaken bourbon straight into his wound.
 
He allowed the liquor and the blood to mix, stirring with the rushing water as he cleansed the cut.
 
Freed of blood, he wrapped his gash with the spirited rag and tied the knot, pulling it tight with his teeth.
 
Standing, he swigged the remaining sour mash and smashed the glass into shards on the wet rocks.
 
Satisfied with his handiwork, he wolfed down a slab of bread and slurped a palm full of water.
 
He turned upstream and continued to run, skirting the creek along the edge of its sandy bed.
 

He would run until sunset, he thought, and cross the stream in the morning near its head.
 
He was sure that his quick trick had hampered the hounds and their heckling handlers.
 
Someday they will pay for the blood I shed on those rocks,
he promised himself.
 

Suddenly, he was met with a grisly sight that stopped him in his tracks. Up on the ledge of the bank was a tall tree, and tied to it were the mangled remains of a man staring down onto the rocky riverbed. Arthur crept over and grabbed hold of an exposed root, pulling himself close to the sun-dried bones. From way back, something fought his fear to fetch a distant memory and drop it at his feet. He recognized a missing tooth where his father used to pack the snuff before he sang behind the old-timers shed. And there was the lion tattoo from his father’s African tribe, marking him as a king in making, stained all the way to the skull. Arthur recoiled in panic, running without paying proper respects to his past.
  

“Free men don’t get hunted with dogs!”
 
Arthur shouted out loud.
 
The sound of his voice faded into the vast expanse of empty fields, easing his shock and pain as it fled. Downstream, his yell fell to a whisper as it blended with water babbling past confounded hounds sniffing and baying sadly at the bridgeless brook.