Song Yet Sung (19 page)

—Go on, then, she said. I'll see you soon, God willing.

—In two days? Amber said. He was asking, not telling, for she was the one who knew tomorrow, not he.

—Yes, I'll see you in two days, she said, grasping his hand, and she knew it to be true. But there was more to it than she could bear to tell him, or even bring herself to think about, for tomorrow held so much wonder and so much sorrow, it seemed impossible to tell it all or even comprehend it all; the events of the next two days seemed unimaginably important, and it seemed impossible that something that important could happen to them, at that moment in time, as poor as they were and as innocuous as they were: herself, the blacksmith, Amber, even the Woman with No Name. They were small people, and what she dreamed of was big, another world beyond imagination that reached far, far beyond the world they all knew, or even dreamed of…And all of it held in a song she had not yet heard and might never hear.

—Seeing tomorrow, she said thinly, grasping Amber's hand tightly, is more than a soul can bear.

I
n a rented room above the Tin Teacup, Joe Johnson sat atop a rancid mattress, shirtless and bootless, writing a letter to his brother in Tennessee. The room, which he shared with Stanton Davis, reeked of foot odor and cigar smoke. Stanton couldn't stand it and left Joe on his own, which was fine with Joe. He needed all his concentration to write. He was nearly done with the letter when Eb ran into the room grinning and excited.

—One of them niggers that helped the Dreamer is here! the boy said.

—How do you know it? Joe asked.

—Lady at the bakery told me, the boy announced proudly.

—Why would she tell you?

—Because I done what Miss Patty told me to do, Eb said. I gived her a quarter dollar.

—A whole quarter dollar? Joe said. For that much I'd sing to a dead hog. That nigger coulda told you anything.

—She led me to where he's at, Eb said proudly.

—Where's that?

—The blacksmith's shop. He come out there, stopped at the general store for supplies, and now he's heading towards the pier. Reckon he's got a bungy there that he's gonna put out on the Choptank.

—He going by foot or horseback?

—Mr. Joe, that nigger ain't got no horse! He's walking in broad daylight. Pushing a whole load of goods he probably picked up for his missus at the general store. I seen him. I followed him to where the road turns off at the dock before I runned in here. He's in a hurry, Mr. Joe.

Joe tossed the letter onto his bed, grabbed his shirt, hat, pistol, and boots. He talked as he dressed: Go get Stanton downstairs. Tell him to meet me at the stable. Don't tarry or I'll grease you good. We catching our money today.

Five minutes later the three of them exited the rear stable of the Tin Teacup on horseback, galloping through the muddy back alleys filled with oyster shells and crab baskets. They thundered past the blacksmith's shop, which was open.

Inside, the blacksmith was applying heat to a pair of tongs while a waterman waited. Holding the hot tongs in his gloved hands over the fire, the blacksmith glanced up at the two white horsemen and the colored boy thundering past, then turned back to work silently, his customer hovering above him.

The three riders hit Main Street, approached a turn in the road, and saw in the distance a colored figure pushing a barrel along, filled with packages and supplies.

—That's him, Eb said.

Joe slowed as they approached and motioned to the others to do the same. When they were still several hundred yards off from the colored man, the horses slowed to a trot and Joe turned to Eb.

—Where'd you say you seen that nigger coming from?

—From the blacksmith shop behind the tavern.

—Wait a minute, Joe said. He reined in his horse and the three stopped.

—What's he doing at the blacksmith shop if he ain't got no horse or wagon? He turned to Stanton. Go by that shop and talk to the nigger owner, Joe instructed him. See what he knows. Then meet me down by the creek.

Stanton frowned. He didn't like it. He was afraid he was being duped. If Joe sent him to the blacksmith, that would give Joe and Eb time to follow this colored to the girl. Once they got the girl, they could head back to Seaford or, even worse, sell her off to the Trade right there in town—there were plenty of slave traders about in Cambridge City that time of year—then he'd be stuck without any chips. He decided to stay with Joe as long as he could.

—What difference does it make? Stanton said. He's the one dipping round with the girl. She ain't gonna be no place but with him.

—Maybe he got her hid over there someplace.

—We can tote him to the blacksmith's after we snatch him.

—Look round you, Joe said. Niggers is everywhere. The minute we touch him they'll pass the word among themselves. Time we get back to the blacksmith's, he'll have got word of us already.

—But the money's right there! Stanton said. He pointed to Amber, who now turned another corner and, with the pier now in full view, headed towards an old bungy moored at the dock.

—You'll follow my rulin's or answer to Patty on it, Joe said grimly.

Stanton smirked angrily, then peeled away, trotting back towards the main road that led to the blacksmith's shop.

Joe watched him leave. He turned to Eb.

—Eb, you follow him. If the girl's there, he might flip on us, turn her in for the reward money, and skedaddle. Take the back alleys that run behind Main Street—same way we came, is all. Then take the little dirt road that'll put you behind the blacksmith's. From there you can watch the back door and the front. If he spots you, just tell him I sent you.

—Yes, sir.

Eb turned and trotted towards a back alley.

Joe spurred his horse now towards the docks, where Amber was hastily hoisting sacks and barrels onto his bungy. Joe swung wide off the dock, then rode up close, angling the horse so that Amber and the bungy were on his left, allowing his free hand to reach for the pistol that hung off his right hip should he need it.

—Howdy, boy.

The Negro looked up and smiled.

—Morning, sir.

Joe saw the colored was, up close, a good specimen: tall, rangy, thin, and well proportioned—which meant if he ran, he'd be quick afoot. Joe kept a good ten feet away from him. After greeting him, the Negro looked down again and busied himself with hoisting the goods on board.

—Where you going? Joe asked breezily.

—Taking supplies to my missus, sir.

—What's your hurry?

—She been waiting two days on me. Couldn't go out 'cause of the storm last night.

—Who's your missus?

—Missus Kathleen Sullivan. Out on Big Blackwater Creek, Joya's Neck.

—Your missus know you out this long?

—Well, sir, I waited out the storm.

—Where'd you wait?

Joe followed the Negro's eyes with his own, watching the Negro glance towards the water.

—Oh, I slept out behind the blacksmith's, he said casually.

—You seen anyone back there last night? Joe asked.

The Negro smiled. Naw, sir. Just a few chickens he got running round.

Amber had finished piling his goods into the boat and stood before Joe, the smile pasted onto his face, his heart feeling like a piece of pounded cotton. He had planned to bring back a pile of goods to Missus, explain he'd been caught in the storm, and beg her to forgive him and let him search for Jeff Boy. The whole thing sounded lame. Now, staring at the gun in Joe's saddle, he felt as if the world were collapsing around him.

Joe guided his horse a bit closer. He glanced up and down the dock. What he saw made him uneasy. There were several Negro watermen close by, building boats, caulking, painting, digging out hulls, unloading small sailing dories and scows; there was even a big oyster sloop with at least three Negroes on deck. It would not do, Joe decided, to make a scene.

—What's your name, boy?

—Amber, sir.

—Your missus got many Negroes?

—Just three, sir. Me, my nephew, and my sister.

Amber slowly knelt to undo the rope that tied the bungy to the dock. Joe grabbed the rope.

—No more than three, you said?

—Yes, sir.

—I hear there's more. I hear she's got an extra one out there. A runaway.

Joe scrutinized the colored's face. It was blank.

—Don't know of one on the missus' land, sir.

His denial was measured. Cool. To Joe's taste, too cool.

—If you lying, you in deep water.

—Sir, ain't many folks out that way, period. If there was a runaway tipping through the Neck, somebody would've spotted him surely.

Joe realized this was a devilishly clever Negro, which made him even more suspect.

—Why was you coming out the blacksmith shop just now? You ain't got no horse.

The Negro's eyes glanced uneasily past Joe towards the other bungies at the dock. The busy cluster of men unloading oysters, shellfish, and crabs slowed, noticing a hank in the brewing.

—Like I said, sir, I slept back there. I then bid thank you to the blacksmith. Being that he allowed me to sleep in the back.

—How did he know you were sleeping in the back last night if you didn't see nobody? Joe asked.

—I don't know how he knew it, Amber said. I reckon I asked him.

—Did you ask him or not ask?

—I reckon I did.

—You can't remember?

—Well, sir, I was tired, Amber said. And it was late.

—I think you're lying, Joe said. Put the rest of your things in that boat and come with me.

An anxious tension worked its way up the Negro's shoulders and into his face. He pointed out towards the Choptank River and the Chesapeake beyond it.

—Sir, I got to go. I got the missus' stuff here. You can check with her on it.

—I will. But first we going back to the blacksmith's.

—If you don't mind my asking, is you a deputy, sir?

Joe, glaring down from atop the horse, reddened. I ain't got to give you chapter and verse on who I am, he said. There's nigger trouble in these parts and I think you got a hand in it.

Nearby, Joe noticed several hands, white and colored, stop their work completely to observe them now. The Negro before him, however, still did not move, which made him even more sore.

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.