Song Yet Sung (17 page)

The woman took the paper and stared at it, turning it back and forth in her hand, clearly not satisfied.

—What's the name again, sir?

Herb frowned, snatched the paper back, folded it in half, and scrawled
Beauford Locke
on the folded sheet.

—Just give it to the Hebrew there. In the general store. Just up the road.

The woman stood firm.

—I can't go till you come, she said. Mary said Miss Kathleen said to make sure you come. Said it was an emergency.

—I
am
coming. Just give that to the old Hebrew there.

—When you coming?

—You go on now. Tell her I'm coming soon as I can.

The woman, clearly disappointed, turned and trotted quickly towards the village. He watched her dash into the general store clutching the note as though it were money, then closed the door and walked back into his own more pressing problems. The colored woman from the cell was belting it out, hollering at him loudly. It was all he could do not to take one of the empty oyster shells off the table and fling it at her.

Inside the general store, Franz Mucheimmer was clearing stock from his shelves when a young Negro woman burst inside, grasping a note.

—Sir, this got to go to Mr. Beauford. It's from the constable.

—Constable Travis's out of town, ain't he?

—Whoever's over there sent it. It's mighty urgent, sir. Got to go to Mr. Beauford right off.

Franz took the note and regarded the Negro woman. She was clearly distressed.

—Somebody in trouble?

—Jeff Boy, Missus Sullivan's son Jeff Boy, he got snatched by the Devil!

Franz was a Jewish immigrant from Bavaria. He did not trust his English. He felt he often said the wrong thing, saying one thing when he meant another. He wanted badly to travel to Baltimore to study English at the synagogue there, but the distance made it impossible. There was a local woman who taught English at the local Presbyterian church every Tuesday night, but as a Jew, he was forbidden by Jewish law from entering the church. He had talked the woman into coming by the store once a week, but she was a volunteer and not always available. As a result, his English suffered. As he watched the sweating, nervous Negro in front of him, he decided to venture to the Presbyterian church next Tuesday and enter no matter what. It was the only way. Otherwise he would forever have this problem of misunderstanding, which he'd had last week when that crazy woman rough rider came by his store, by hollering about a saddle. When his friend Isaac came by the next day and told him who Patty was, Franz had nearly fainted. To travel so many thousands of miles to be shot by a woman in America is too much foolishness for you to bear, Isaac had insisted. Franz agreed. The problem of his not understanding English phrases, like the ones this colored woman was uttering just now, was a problem he aimed to fix. What she said about the Devil snatching someone, he was sure, was some kind of English expression.

—Stay here a minute, he said. He called to the back for Clarence, his store helper.

The old Negro, white-haired, serious, clad in an old tuxedo coat, and bent with age, emerged.

—What's she saying? Franz asked.

From behind the counter, Clarence nodded at the nervous black woman, his eyes calm and alert.

—Ain't you Junius's little girl Ella? From out the Gables' house?

—'Deed I am.

—What's wrong? Clarence asked.

—Wrong? Miss Kathleen's son got snatched in a hole by the Devil, that's what's wrong!

Clarence's thick white eyebrows frowned. He asked dryly, Which son?

—Jeff Boy.

—That's her oldest, ain't it?

—God knows it is! Ella said, wringing her hands. And Wiley went to help him and he's disappeared too.

Clarence nodded. He knew Wiley.

—Disappeared where, now? Clarence asked.

—Down a hole.

—Anybody seen it?

—Miss Kathleen. Dog's dead too, to hear Mary tell it. Kilt!

—When?

—This afternoon.

—Where's Amber?

—I don't know, Ella said. He's round here someplace, getting supplies and fetching the constable. But ain't no constable, that's what the deputy said. You got to hurry. Miss Kathleen's touched. She's touched. Losing her mind, Mary says. I told the white man over at the constable's there and he gived me this note to give to Mr. Locke.

Clarence frowned. Beauford Locke was a waterman and a guzzler of firewater who served with the constable's office when he was good and ready, usually only when there was a lost boat on the bay, and only after Beauford had helped himself to a bracer or two.

He took the folded note from Ella and looked it over, turning it upside down and over in his hand. Then he looked at his boss.

—Mr. Franz, you know I can't read. But I reckon you ought to take a look at this. Mr. Locke ain't due here till tomorrow to get his mail.

Franz pursed his lips, doubtful. The last thing he wanted to do was open someone's mail. As postmaster, that was in fact part of his job, to make sure no one looked at anyone else's mail. Still, it sounded like an emergency, and Clarence, his store helper, was not one who took matters lightly.

Franz took the folded note, then peered out the window at the constable's jailhouse, which was just up the road.

—I can't read someone else's mail, he said.

—But it do sound important, Clarence said. Ella here, she ain't one to smart someone off with a lie.

Franz nodded. The last thing in the world he needed was to rankle his customers and make a nuisance of himself. He and his wife were the only Jews on the eastern shore between Baltimore and Ocean City. Quiet business was always better. He never liked having the postal part of his business. He wouldn't have taken it, but it had come with the business when he bought it eight years earlier. Being the postmaster put him in the middle of everyone's business. He had even changed the setup of his store, putting in tall shelves, several aisles, and only two chairs, to discourage hanging out and gossiping. For that, customers could go across the street to Homer Jones, who had a woodstove and a pot of homebrew for every waterman who wanted to sit around killing long winter evenings, shooting the breeze. Franz found gossiping to be despicable, although had he indulged in it, it would have helped his English immensely, for the litany of lies, gossip, and sin that passed the portals of the post office seemed to cover just about every interesting word in the English vocabulary that Franz could think of. In fact, it was his discretion more than his wares that made his business. He was sure of it. His customers trusted him: he never gossiped about their mail, who it came from, where it went, or what their packages might contain, their subscriptions, or the liaisons that seemed to grow, flourish, and sometimes die in the intersection of his store's tiny aisles. It was not his business. His business was to win trust, not destroy it. Yet, this current crisis demanded action. It meant he had to involve himself, which was, he was certain, bad for business. Yet, he had no choice.

—All right, then, he said. He turned to Ella: You wait here. I'm going across the street to talk to whoever wrote this. I'll ask him to tell me what's in it, then I'll tell you what to do.

At that moment, two white women customers entered the store. He placed the note down on the counter and walked from behind the counter to greet them. As Franz approached the customers, Clarence, with one eye on Franz's wife, who was in the back unpacking crates, slipped a finger in the folded paper, ran his eyes over the words in the note, then folded it back again.

As Ella fidgeted impatiently, Franz walked the women through the store, one woman haggling over the cost of a barrel of pickles. Franz, ever patient and calm, let the woman rant and finally gave it to her for fifty cents less than the listed price.

Ella sat down on a chair in the back of the store and waited, burning with incredulousness, tapping her fingers and sweating. By the time Franz was finished and the women sauntered out of the store, a half hour had passed.

—All right, he said to Ella. Sorry for the delay. Wait one minute. I'll be right back.

He picked up the note from the counter and Ella watched him exit the store, cross the road, briskly walk up the muddy street towards the constable's jailhouse.

Clarence, who had silently busied himself in the store in the meantime, watched as Ella shook in frustration, obviously upset. He approached her, patted her on the shoulder, and said, Now tell me what happened.

—Blessed God Almighty, Jesus! Ella said, staring at Franz's back. He don't believe me, either.

—Yes he do, Clarence said patiently. Don't worry. Tell me what you know.

—But what about
him
?

—Don't fret 'bout him, Clarence said, glancing at Franz's retreating figure. I expect he'll do the right thing.

But that was easier said than done. Franz was a nervous wreck as he walked towards the jailhouse. He had a horrid feeling. Clarence was his barometer of information, and the old man seemed deeply troubled. Still, Franz had no idea what the woman was saying, but whatever it was, it was none of his business. He was breaking the most valuable lesson his father had ever taught him about survival as a Jew in America or anywhere else for that matter: Race, religion, and politics? Shhh! And this sounded like all three. White and colored business was always sticky stuff. He wanted nothing to do with it. He wanted to turn around and leave. All of the constable's men were locals, some of them drunks, and they made him nervous. And now he was walking right into their den. He promised himself as he approached the jailhouse that he would get out of the postmaster business somehow.

He stepped up to the jailhouse door and knocked. No one answered. He heard desperate yelling. He opened the door, walked in, and heard panicked shouting, as Herbie Tucker had a crisis on his hands.

The Negro runaway was in near revolt, hollering from hunger. Herb hadn't thought to send over to the Tin Teacup to get his Negro prisoners anything to eat for two days, and the woman was furious. Franz followed the sounds of the shouting to the back of the jailhouse to find Herbie in the woman's cell, wrestling her onto a cot, while on the floor a Negro boy, his leg clumsily bandaged up to the hip, lay in a near-comatose state. It took Franz nearly an hour to help Herb get the whole business straightened out, running back and forth to his general store for food and medicine for the woman and the boy, who looked so thin and awful that Franz thought the boy would die even as he fed him. The old Jew felt his heart breaking as he felt the boy's pencil-thin arms, lifting the child's head and feeding him as the boy lay on the cold cell floor, breathing laboriously, while Herbie, frustrated, stood over him, thanking Franz and cursing the child.

Finally, when the prisoners had been mollified and all was quiet, just as he was about to leave, Franz got up the nerve to pull the note out of his pocket and mention it to the sheriff 's deputy. By then two precious hours had passed.

—Oh, that, Herb said, waving his hand. It ain't nothing. You can read it.

Franz unfolded the note, which read:
Nigger girl says a devil's loose out on Joya's Neck. Get a boat out on the water and see old Boyd's widow Kathleen.

Franz folded the note, thanked Herb, and returned to his store.

It was already night when he walked through his store's front door. It was dark inside; Ella had gone home. Franz walked along the row of neatly lined mail slots, placed the note inside Beauford Locke's mailbox, and went upstairs to bed. The next morning he woke up with a roaring, pounding headache. From behind his counter, he watched Beauford Locke's mailbox all day with stars in his eyes. By nightfall, the note was still there.

T
he rain had ceased by early morning, and Amber rose, exhausted, to find it still drizzling lightly. They were sitting on the boat outside Cambridge City. Amber had tied the bungy to a thick grove of trees on a creek off the Choptank River, where they had rested for a couple of hours, but now it was time to move. He had been gone from Miss Kathleen's nearly nine hours.

—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?