Song Yet Sung (22 page)

The message: Wake up the network. Colored's gone running. Two of them.

The blacksmith wondered who it was. He hoped it wasn't Amber. Amber, he was sure, was home and safe. His reputation was impeccable. Miss Kathleen would believe him and forgive him. Still, he was worried, and he hammered the code out again a second time, just in case, as his customer watched, unsuspecting.

The blacksmith's warning rang across Cambridge City and was carried by mouth, horse, boat, and buggy into seven different plantations within an hour, all of whose code runners checked their contacts and found all their coloreds intact. But the eighth plantation discovered the missing souls. Ollie Wilson, driver and house servant of the Wilson family, overheard his master recount the story of the Sullivans several times. The Sullivans from Joya's Neck had a boy missing named Jeff Boy, about eight years old, and a colored named Wiley had disappeared, too. Both were believed to have been attacked by a bear, or maybe drowned in the bay. A patrol had been mounted.

The Sullivan family, Ollie knew, was Amber. Amber was the only one among the Sullivans' coloreds who, Ollie believed, knew the code.

That afternoon Ollie walked the grounds of the Wilson plantation and spread the word to the colored oystermen at the pier who were readying Mr. Wilson's oyster fleet for delivery to the big schooners in the harbor at Cambridge that took Maryland's delicious oysters to the fish restaurants and taverns of Boston, Philadelphia, and New York.
Gone missing is Amber. If you see anything, holler.
Within three hours, a colored waterman from nearby Bucktown named Blair Rush sailed in from the bay to drop a load of oysters and, before turning out to the bay again, heard the story that Ollie had spread. While his master ate lunch, Blair slipped home to tell his wife of a white horseman and a Negro he had seen while dredging for oysters with his master in the Blackwater River near Joya's Neck. Walking with the horseman by the bank of the river, nearly hidden in the brush grass there, was a Negro that looked like the snobbish, skinny little Amber Sullivan—Miss Kathleen's Amber, he said. He'd noticed the white man lead Amber past the turnoff that led to the Sullivan place. They looked like they were heading towards the old swamps at Sinking Creek, where the old Indian burial ground was, close to Cook's Point, the deserted area where that old spook the Woolman was said to be living.

Blair Rush's wife told her sister, who told Ollie Wilson, who told his wife, who put two and two together and approached her missus and asked, Is it okay for us to send over a quilt I made to Miss Kathleen's house? As a gift, being that her son and her slave is missing?

The missus agreed.

The quilt, a near exact replica of the blue and white quilt Mary Sullivan used, with the broken five-star motif pattern except sewn in the opposite direction, was rushed that very evening after supper, along with a hastily scrawled note, full of misspellings, written by the missus on behalf of her slaves:

In the basket were five pieces of baked chicken arranged on a platter with four pieces in a decorative circular pattern, the fifth piece placed on a biscuit to the left, or west side, of the four circular-arranged pieces. The sole biscuit and chicken were held in place by a decorative cloth napkin to arrange a kind of mound, its blue and white decorations also pointed to the left.

That very evening Mary Sullivan, Kathleen's sole remaining slave, opened the door of her mistress's home to receive a package delivered by an exhausted black horseman who had ridden six hours in the driving rain from one side of the county to the other without stopping. The bundle was tied securely across the middle with a single knotted string, decorated at each corner with strings tied in decorative fashion, each string having three knots tied together and two tied apart. Kathleen read the note aloud while Mary opened the package, unfurled the patterned quilt with the broken five-star motif, and saw the platter of chicken. She asked softly, Missus, can you read that message to me again; it's so beautiful, especially that Bible verse.

Kathleen, moved by the generosity of her neighbors and happy to have her mind relieved of her current dilemma if only for a moment, read it again.

—“Whoever is fearful and afraid, let him return and depart early from the west of the mound that is Mount Gilead….”

Mary nodded, grateful, then set out plates and carefully laid out the chicken and biscuits for Kathleen and the children. They ate and Mary went to bed.

The next morning, in the bright sunshine, Mary casually grabbed a water bucket, exited the house, purposefully walked out to the barn, and flung back the large wooden door. She found Denwood sleeping in a pile of hay and shook him.

—Amber is west of here, she said. Near the old Indian burial ground. And I hope your word is good.

I
n the town square of Cambridge City, a tall, gangly Negro strode to the middle of the busy square and stopped. He wore ripped pants and no shoes, and his unkempt hair was stuffed into a flea-bitten top hat, like steel wool stuffed into a pillow. The square full of passersby and pedestrians slowed to watch him.

The tall Negro stood in the very middle of the square, top hat slanting arrogantly atop his head, and gazed about airily, a king surveying his kingdom. Slowly he spread his long arms.

Several white passersby regarded the ragged figure and chuckled. A white woman hurrying past on the wooden sidewalk glanced at the figure, smiled, and spun on her heels, walking backwards, watching. Two storekeepers in animated conversation stopped to gaze at him, amused, as did several children. The tall man's hands rose higher and higher, as if he were casting a spell on the world around him, his arms outstretched, his face regally tilted skyward.

He stood that way for a long moment, glancing sidelong at his audience, aware of them now, preening like an opera singer waiting for the theater to hush. When he was sure he had everyone's attention, he suddenly broke into frenzied action, flapping his arms wildly and hopping on one foot, spinning in a circle.

—Quack, quack!

The pedestrians burst out laughing.

—Go, Ducky!

—Go, nigger!

—Hooray, boy! Go git 'em!

They tossed coins at him as Ducky grinned and quacked. He was one of those lovable, mentally bent slaves whose master had died long ago and left him to his own devices: too old to be sold, useless as a worker, wonderful as a comic figure, he was as much of a fixture in Cambridge City as the morning paper.

Several minutes later the crowd vanished and Ducky was on all fours, gathering up the tossed coins. He carefully deposited the take in his hat and moved on, quacking merrily. By the time he'd reach the end of Main Street, his act was already old, and a couple of merchants shooed him away. A group of neighborhood children appeared, taunted him, and disappeared. Undaunted, he floated down the intricate configuration of planks, walkways, and storefronts that lined Cambridge's main throughfare, quacking merrily, shooed away by some, welcomed with laughter by others.

Just as he reached Franz's general store, old Clarence emerged pushing his wheelbarrow full of oysters on the wooden sidewalk. Ducky approached, planting himself in Clarence's way. Clarence tried to wheel around him, but Ducky blocked his path. Each way Clarence moved, Ducky moved, teasingly, obstructing him.

Clarence set the cart down and put his hands on his hips.

—Go on, Ducky, he said. Git. I ain't got no vittles for you today.

—Quack, quack!

Clarence huffed angrily, lifted the shafts of the wheelbarrow again, and tried to move, but Ducky stepped in front of him.

—Quack, quack!

Clarence swiped at Ducky with one hand, nearly tilting the wheelbarrow over. Ducky danced out of range. Several white people standing in the street laughed.

—G'wan now, you crazy coot! Clarence snapped.

He swiped at Ducky again, missed, but this time lost his balance and capsized his load, sending the oysters clattering to the wooden sidewalk.

—Now look what you done! Clarence roared. He bent down to pick up the shellfish and Ducky bent to help. As they bent, their heads cracked together, eliciting a cascade of laughter from the white pedestrians who watched.

—You dizzy, tongue-tied pest! Clarence grumbled, on his knees now, picking up the oysters. Ducky bent again to help him, the tilted wheelbarrow shielding both their heads from the onlookers for just a moment. As they gathered up the oysters, several of which had fallen between the slats in the sidewalk to the muddy earth beneath it, their heads nearly touched again, and Ducky's eyes, spinning crazily in their sockets, quickly glanced behind Clarence, saw the sidewalk was clear, then locked on Clarence with a steady gaze. He stuck a long arm through the slats to grab an oyster. As he did, he hissed to Clarence,
Blacksmith trouble coming. Right now. Grey horse.

Clarence stood up and shoved him aside, pushing him away with his foot.

—I said git now! You crazy devil. Git! Here!

He grabbed an oyster from the barrel and shoved it into Ducky's chest. Beaming, Ducky rose, quacked, spun on his heel, and crossed the road, spinning merrily, holding the oyster aloft.

Clarence, muttering angrily, glared at him, his hands on his hips, his heart pounding, watching out of the corner of his eye as a sole rider, Stanton Davis, trotted briskly down Main Street on a grey horse and turned into the muddy alley leading to the blacksmith's shop.

Clarence gathered his remaining oysters, picked up the shafts of his wheelbarrow, and headed towards the alley in the opposite direction, towards the rear of the Tin Teacup, while Ducky, quacking happily, disappeared down Main Street, perpendicular to the alley, his honks and quacks resounding off the wooden shops and storefronts.

Liz sat in the hole in the back of the blacksmith's shop, feeling worse than she'd ever felt. The hole was nearly seven feet deep, crudely walled on either side by planks, its muddy floor lined with discarded oyster shells. A hogshead barrel served as its cap, with two slats cut inside it to allow air to circulate. It was insufferably hot. She had been there several hours, but it felt like years. The headache that pounded against her skull had morphed into a tingling that came and went, and along with it came snatches of melody from the song the Woman with No Name had sung in Patty's attic. The song floated in and out of her consciousness:
Way down yonder in the graveyard walk. Me and my Jesus going to meet and talk…Thought my soul would rise and fly…

The old woman had said two songs make the third part. But what did she mean? And what was the point? She thought hard and long on the matter, but no answer came.

She shifted in her hiding place. Her head had been pounding for days, yet beneath it a kind of clarity seemed to settle upon her that made her feel as if she could hear everything in the world. The sensation was extraordinary: at times she felt so sensitive to the elements about her, she felt as if her skin were ready to fly off her body. The small living area at the back of the shop was separated from the front by only a thin black curtain. She was barely ten feet away from the blacksmith's anvil, so the hollow ring of his hammer, the scraping of metal against metal, and the smell and crackle of hot tongs hissing steam as they were lifted out of fire and lowered into water seemed to be right next to her. She felt as if she were seeing these things rather than hearing them. A steady stream of customers came and went, and the sounds of their footsteps, their horses' hooves scraping against the dirt, and their voices seemed to conjure up images, allowing her to visualize their faces, their clothing, and, most horribly, their intentions. As they grunted to the blacksmith to shoe their horses or sharpen their tools, she sensed horrible fright beneath their impatient orders, as if they were bluffing and, despite being white, if only someone would call their bluff, they would surrender their inferiority and say, I'm only joshing. More than anything, it was their fear that frightened her. Their fear seemed to fill the hole with her, and the silences that lived between their words gave her an even greater sense of foreboding.

The blackness of her hiding place was a comfort, and it helped her feel normal. She could not even see her hand in front of her face. She found herself shifting where she sat, then growing weary. She put her hand to her face and gingerly touched the wound on her head, which was healing nicely. She leaned against the dark corners of the wall, feeling the cool dirt against her back. In that manner she fell asleep and dreamed…

She dreamed of thousands of Negroes gathered together at a camp meeting, and before them a colored boy exhorted them with the thunderous voice of a preacher. Yet, he was not dressed like a preacher, in a suit of calico or linens, but in the simple clothing of a farmer who worked the earth, although his body was adorned with shiny jewelry—around his neck, his fingers, even in his mouth. A thousand drums seemed to play behind him, and as he spoke with the rat-tat-tat speed of a telegraph machine, he preached murder, and larceny, cursing women savagely and promising to kill, maim, and destroy. He shook his jewelry towards the sky and shouted, Who am I? Who am I? He seemed not to know. His rage seemed to lift him off the floor, and as she watched, she felt herself floating above the crowd, then circling above the man's head and finally staring into his eyes, and when she peered into them she found herself inside him, looking at him through the generations and generations of who he was, and where he'd come from, seeing face after face until she finally came to a face she recognized. It was someone she loved.

She snapped awake, feeling a sense of impending alarm.

The sound of rushing hooves filled the room, and she knew right then that she had to get out.

She reached for the double-ringed cover to the hole. It was too high. She jumped several times but could not reach it.

—Lord, she said. Help me.

She heard the horseman dismount, the jingling of his spurs, the rustling of leather as he entered the shop, the snorting of his mount as he led the horse into the shop.

—Morning, Stanton said.

The blacksmith looked up from his anvil and smiled.

—Morning, sir. What can I do for you?

Behind the curtain, inside the hole, Liz took the waste bucket, turned it upside down, and swung it against the cover, but to no avail. The sound was deadened by the tool cabinet above it.

Inside the shop, the blacksmith heard a muffled hammering from behind the curtain that separated the front of the shop from the back. He smiled apologetically.

—My boy back there, the blacksmith said easily. Making a racket. Damn fool must've locked himself in the tool cabinet again. What you need, sir?

—Need you to look at this horse you shod for me, Stanton said. It ain't right.

The blacksmith stepped up to Stanton's horse.

From behind the curtain the hammering was heard again.

Kneeling at the front leg of the horse, the blacksmith glanced up at Stanton and smiled, embarrassed.

—Damn fool. Lemme go let my boy loose, if you don't mind.

He rose and moved towards the curtain.

—Wait a minute, Stanton said.

—Sir?

—I didn't know you had a boy, Stanton said.

—Got two boys, sir, the blacksmith said.

—You didn't mention that when I was in here getting shod two days past, Stanton said.

The blacksmith smiled uneasily. Well, you didn't ask, sir, but I got two boys, he replied. I guess one of 'em, the little one probably, got hisself locked up in my tool cabinet back there. He plays in there sometime. I reckon I ought to let him out. Won't take but a second.

He began to turn.

—Don't go no place, Stanton said.

The blacksmith's smile disappeared. I can't just let him set back there, he said. He might suffocate in there.

—Ain't nothing gonna happen to him, Stanton said easily.

—Well, I guess not, the blacksmith said uneasily, but I ought to let him out.

He turned his back to Stanton and stepped towards the curtain once more.

—I'll come with you, Stanton said.

The blacksmith, his hand on the curtain, looked over his shoulder at Stanton, who was standing behind him, and said calmly: Excuse me, sir, it ain't nothing I need help doing. Won't take but a second.

—I aim to help.

Just as suddenly as it began, the hammering stopped.

The blacksmith let the curtain drop and turned towards the front of his shop again. Beads of perspiration burst out his forehead, and he quickly wiped them away.

—He musta got his little self out some kind of way, he said. He knelt before Stanton's horse, picked up his hoof, regarded it, and called out: Willie! Willie, c'mon out here!

The blacksmith glanced behind him at the curtain, as if he expected a little child to appear and come trotting out of the rear, but of course none came.

Stanton chuckled appreciatively, stepped away from the blacksmith, and drew his five-shot Colt Paterson. It was a troublesome weapon but Patty had given it to him, and her displeasure was far more dangerous than any clumsy pistol. Still, Stanton did not like the gun. It was big. Cumbersome. The five-shot Colt was known to misfire when the hammer dropped on a live chamber, even when the gun was holstered. So he kept the first chamber of his Colt empty and kept his prayer beads wrapped around the handle for good luck besides. As he yanked the huge pistol out of its holster, he noticed that the string of beads had unwound. He hastily wrapped them around the handle again as the blacksmith stared, alarmed.

—I need you to send that girl out here, he said.

—Girl, sir?

Stanton's face grew grey and the lines around his mouth tightened.

—I'm gonna bust you with a charge if you trot out one more lie, you chappy-lipped nigger. And I want my money back for your shoeing on this horse. You can't shoe for shit.