Song Yet Sung (26 page)

—That's what the old lady sang, but she didn't know all the words, Liz said. But I heard them in my dream. I heard this preacher say them. And when he did, them words changed the whole world somehow.

—What did he say? Clarence asked.

—He said, Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last…

She sat back, exhausted.

—So you see, she said, it ain't all foolishness. The code tells the future. Not just for the colored, but for everybody.

The old man stared at her, his forehead creased in thought, the boat drifting aimlessly.

—Why, that is something, he said finally. Maybe you are the Dreamer.

—No, I'm not. That man I dreamed of, she said, he's the true Dreamer. And he's right there. Sitting in somebody's tomorrow.

—He got kin among us?

—I don't know what he got, she said.

—Is it Amber? he asked anxiously. Is Amber his kin?

—I don't know who it is, she said. I ain't nothing but somebody who got to get back to the one thing I care about. There ain't no freedom, just like you said. I'd give every tomorrow I ever dreamed to be with somebody that loves me. 'Cause I know what's coming.

—What is that?

Liz smiled bitterly. You ain't got to be two-headed to see my future, she said. I ain't hardly well enough to stand. Something's wrong with me, deep inside. You wasting time with me, Mr. Clarence. Sure as my Savior's in heaven, you wasting time. And risking your life too. For what?

The boat rocked silently now, not moving, the wind having died out. She looked up at the dead sail.

—See that? Wind's died down. It's a token. Time for us to turn back. What you say?

The old man glared at her for a long time. I'll do it, he said, but you got to answer me one question.

—Yes?

—If that preacher you seen in your dream was hollering 'bout being free…well, then, he wasn't free, now, was he? How long that gonna take? What time of tomorrow was you dreaming about?

—I don't know, she said. I said I would tell you of tomorrow. I didn't say tomorrow wasn't gonna hurt.

Without a word the old man lowered the sail, raised the jib, spun the bungy around, grabbed the oars, and pointed the bow towards Blackwater Creek, rowing as hard as he could.

O
n the logging trail in Joya's Neck, Joe walked behind his captured Negro, counting the ways he had handled the situation wrong. It was a bad idea, he decided, to take the nigger to the Neck alone. The swamps and woods were deserted, devoid of life, dark and cold. He hadn't seen a house or even a horseman for nearly three hours, and if he saw one at this point, being so far out on the Neck, he'd have to avoid them to avoid questions. And after all that, this nigger could be leading him on a wild-goose chase. He chastised himself for sending Stanton off. He should've waited for him. He glanced behind him, half hoping to see Stanton's hat bobbing up and down, his horse galloping, catching up, but saw nothing. Stanton should be here by now, he thought. It was high afternoon, almost too late to make it back to town unless he turned around now. If he went out farther and camped for the night, he'd have to rope this colored to a tree—by himself. Joe wasn't good at roping. That was one reason he hated oystering: having to learn how to tie a million different kinds of knots and smelling like fish all day and having to remember a million little things for nothing. That's why Stanton was hired to be here, he thought bitterly. For all he knew, Stanton could've found the girl, dumped Eb, sold the wench off, and left town with a bunch of smooth money stuffed in his trousers. The thought made him furious.

—That prayer-beading rummy bastard, he said.

The Negro walking in front of him looked at Joe over his shoulder.

—Sir? he said.

Joe nudged him forward with his foot, the barrel of his Paterson showing from beneath the blanket draped over the front of his saddle, which covered his hands in the cold.

—How much further, he grunted.

—Another mile or so, sir, Amber said, turning and trudging forward, his face downcast, looking remorseful, his eyes focused on his feet. The walk hadn't bothered him. It gave him time to think. He had made some bad decisions. He had done it all wrong. He felt it was okay to sacrifice himself for the Dreamer, but how noble was it to take her to the blacksmith? The blacksmith would hand her over before he gave up the code. Everyone knew that.

The sound of a horse galloping broke his thoughts. Joe shoved him with his foot and reached for his Paterson.

—Lay down in that ditch there face down. If you move your head an inch, I'll put a charge in it.

Amber crawled into the ditch by the side of the road, his face in the mud, listening.

The horse's steps slowed as it approached.

—You got papers, boy? he heard Joe ask.

—I'm heading home to my missus, Wiley said.

Amber's heart raced. He heard Joe ask, Whose horse is that?

Amber shouted from the ditch, Run, Wiley!

Wiley looked into the ditch and recoiled in surprise, then swung his horse wide of Joe's and spurred it hard forward. Amber leaped to his feet in time to see Joe aim his Colt Paterson.

Joe, like Stanton, always kept the first chamber of his five-shot Paterson empty. The gun was made with its hammer setting on live paper cartridges and had been known to blow men's balls off. He took careful aim at the departing Wiley and clicked the dead chamber. By the time he'd pushed the second round, Amber had leaped up and pulled him down off his horse.

The shot rang wildly into the trees as the two men grappled. Joe got off a second wild shot but the nigger was on top of him. He tried to roll. As they grappled for his gun, Amber saw, out of the corner of his eye, Wiley spin his horse around.

—Go, Wiley! Run! he screamed.

He was weak from the long walk, but he tried to pin Joe's arm, holding the weapon over his head. However, the white man was too quick and drew it down towards him. Amber grabbed at it and a third shot rang out. Their faces were almost touching now. Joe thrust his face into Amber's neck and bit.

Amber screamed and banged the man's hand into the earth several times until the gun popped free. Amber released him, sprang to his feet, and darted into the forest. He lunged through several thickets, fell into a marshy pond, and got up, sprinting. He glanced behind him long enough to see his captor turning around and snatching for his horse's bridle. The man, Amber guessed, wasn't taking any chances on missing again. He was going to ride in close. Amber ran for his life.

A quarter mile away, Denwood was kneeling by the root of a beech tree, reading the earth, having found the telltale bloodstains of someone or some animal that had been injured, when he heard a loud pop in the distance. He held his breath to listen. Then another pop, and then another. That was three. It sounded like a Paterson, a repeater. That meant whoever had fired it likely had one or two rounds left, if he was a fool enough to keep all five chambers packed.

He mounted his horse and trotted briskly towards the sound.

As he approached the old logging trail, he saw a horse galloping. He backed his horse into a thicket, quickly tethered it to a tree, hid, and waited.

A Negro rode past at full tilt, too fast for Denwood to draw his pepperbox and fire. Denwood marked him and let him go. It wasn't his Negro. If the Negro had done all the shooting he'd just heard, the harm had already been done anyhow. There was no one in the woods, he was sure, whom he cared enough about to risk shooting someone's property. He had marked the colored; he would be easy enough to locate later if Denwood needed to find him.

He heard the sound of running feet approaching, and a second horse galloping in pursuit. Denwood crouched low, then saw another Negro racing like the Devil; behind him, through the low-hanging branches of the trees, Denwood could see a white man on a horse. The horseman was struggling through the swamp but could make no time as he dodged among the cypress trees, brambles, and thickets, but in a minute he would be clear and have the colored, who had broken free of the woods, splashed onto the logging trail, and was now coming directly towards him.

Denwood fished a large log from the swamp, hunkered down, and waited, and when the colored was on him, Denwood clobbered him over the head. The man dropped. He turned and faced the rider, who galloped up, his face twisted in rage and exhaustion.

—Joe! Denwood said. What you doing here?

Joe, sitting astride the horse, struggled to calm his nervous mount, his face creased in real fury.

—Get out my way, Gimp. This nigger's mine.

—No, sir, Amber gasped, getting up. I belongs to Miss Kathleen.

—The one from the farm yonder? Denwood asked.

—Yes, sir.

—He's lying, Joe said.

Denwood calmly eyed Joe's hands, one of which still held his horse's reins while the other gripped the Paterson.

—Easy, Joe. Ain't no need to get into no hank over this.

—Mind your own fucking business, you limp-dick bastard. Always getting in somebody's way. Get over here, you black bastard!

Joe rode over to Amber and, still seated in his saddle, tried to kick him. Amber caught his leg. Joe leveled his Paterson at Amber. Denwood fought to keep himself calm. He drew his pepperbox.

—Calm down, Joe. Christ. Don't kill your money now.

—Shut up, Gimp!

Denwood raised his pepperbox. Now, I don't wanna shoot you, Joe, but we're all in business here, he reasoned.

Joe glanced at Denwood, saw the pepperbox aimed at him, and drew his Paterson away from Amber, the barrel pointed at the ground.

—This ain't your affair.

—It ain't, but I'm in a spot, too, and the way you waving that goddamn heater around makes me nervous.

—What kind of spot you in? You got sore eyelids from winking too much?

Denwood fought to keep his calm. I told you, I need my money on this one. Told you you could keep every colored you wanted on this but the one I need. Now, put up that metal, would you? What's your name, son?

—Amber.

Denwood was silent a moment.

—This changes things, he said softly.

—It don't change shit, Joe said.

Denwood casually ran his glance into the woods around them. If one of Patty's hands was there, there were bound to be more about. Not to mention the mother of trouble herself. He certainly hoped that wasn't the case.

—Your mom nearby, Joe?

Joe glared at Denwood, his Paterson still pointed downward.

—Don't get funny with me, Gimp. I ain't in the mood.

—I ain't getting funny. But you backing me into a goddamn headache. Put your gun down and I'll put mine down. You ain't got but one shot left anyhow.

Joe, breathing heavily, holstered his Paterson. Denwood did the same. Joe turned his horse slightly, faced the Negro, and said, Don't you move.

As Joe's horse spun around, Denwood noted that beneath Joe's saddle blanket, nearly hidden by Joe's left leg, was the long barrel of a Colt Walker, a huge saddle pistol. Joe faced him.

—Now listen, Joe, Denwood said. This colored belongs to that lady on the farm at the end of this trail. He ain't lying. Constable Travis and a bunch of watermen are up there running up and down Blackwater Creek, looking for him.

—If he's a runaway, then I'll collect on him, Joe said.

—They ain't looking for him. Boy's gone missing up there. A white boy 'bout eight years old. You seen him?

—You think I'm setting out here strangling a bottle of wine? Joe grumbled. You trying to take my money from me. There ain't no white boy out in these woods.

—I ain't got no interest in lyin' on that, Joe. Where'd you get this colored from, anyway?

—Gathered him up from town.

—Wasn't no white boy with him?

—Hell no, I got this one coming out the blacksmith's. Just a lonely nigger all by hisself. We was doing fine. Till you come along.

Denwood cursed silently. He was too late. Probably this colored had already dropped the Dreamer off there.

—Then who was that just came busting past here on a horse?

—That was the other nigger that rode up on me and tried to kill me, Joe said.

—That ain't true, Amber blurted out. That was my nephew, Wiley.

Joe grimaced angrily and hissed, Shush up, nigger!

—Calm down, Joe, Denwood said. He turned to the young colored. Your nephew got a horse? Denwood asked.

—Naw.

—Your missus got one?

—Naw.

—Then whose horse was it? Denwood asked.

Amber didn't reply. Joe looked away, realized that Denwood was staring at him, and shrugged. Don't ask me: I didn't get a good look, he said.

—Why not? You was right on him.

—I didn't eyeball him for the simple reason these two niggers was trying to kill me, Joe said.

Denwood peered down the logging trail where Wiley had disappeared.

—Well, it looked like a gelding to me, he said. White and brown.

Joe's eyes darted to the woods around him. Denwood noticed and his own eyes narrowed.

—Joe, you sure you don't know whose horse that is?

—Surely don't, he said.

—If I recall correctly, back at Lloyd's Landing, a short-necked fella in your crew—fella named Odgin, I think—he rode a white and brown gelding favored to that one.

—I don't know what Odgin rides.

—I wanna take this fella to his missus, Denwood said, nodding at Amber. His nephew done probably told his missus an interesting story or two.

—He ain't going no place, Gimp.

—He ain't yours, Joe.

—Yours, neither! Since when you in the abolition business? He's a runaway. I'll collect on him.

—I'm taking him to his missus with you, then. We'll go together.

—Like hell we are, Joe said.

Joe's face reddened and he drew his Paterson again, his lips pursed. He aimed the barrel at Denwood.

—Now, what's it to you, Joe, running him out here for nothing, Denwood said calmly. Ain't but one way off this neck by land. If you bust a cap in me here, how you gonna get away? You gonna swing for murder. I ain't drawn my heater. It's put up. See?

—I 'bout had it with you, you crippled, meddlin' pester!

Denwood felt the rage noise rising in his ears and fought it down.

—All right, then. I'm sorry, Joe. You keep him. I ain't getting aired out over no colored. Call it even. For Lloyd's Landing. I'll be on my way. But next time you pull a cap buster on me, or even loose your mouth in my direction, throw out your fuckin' fishing plans. I'm getting sick of you.

Denwood turned and limped towards his horse, sensing Joe's Paterson trained on his neck.

—I'm tired of the friendship too, Joe said softly.

Denwood stood facing his horse and closed his eyes. He waited to hear the last boom of his life, the big one, the one he'd wanted, welcomed, waited for all these years; the one he'd wanted since his son died. He wanted relief from the rage that constantly consumed him, the money worries, the anxiety, the memory of his wife, the regrets for the hundreds of things said and left unsaid between them. He wanted what the coloreds hollered for so fervently all the time: a release, all things being equaled out, to the promised land, where all things and all people were equal. He was tired of chasing them, anyway. This was, he realized, his last job. Noticing Amber standing terrified on the other side of his horse, watching him and Joe play this death game, his life in the balance, Denwood suddenly realized that it was he, not the coloreds, who was the real runaway. Running from himself, from what he was and what he should have been: a waterman like his father. The old man had died coughing from consumption after living off pennies, so poor that his only dream of going whole hog on a steamer to Baltimore died with him; but at least his father had died having stood for something. The old man had refused to participate in the Trade, even though several of his fellow watermen gave up dredging oysters for the relative prosperity of chasing human chattel up and down the highways of the eastern shore, shepherding their weeping charges to piers in Cambridge City, where they were loaded onto huge schooners that took them to points south while the watermen turned slave catchers collected smooth dollars as fast as they could, the Devil keeping score. Instead, the old man lived dirt poor, drinking moonshine from a jar and stacking his meager oyster catch on the same piers where his friends docked their massive dories, cackling gleefully over their wealth and good fortune. Frustrated by his poverty, the elder Long had whipped his young son Denwood nearly blind for the most trivial offenses, and Denwood had resented it: he let the old man know it, too, once he'd gotten fat as a slave catcher himself. By then the old man was too broke and old to oyster and needed Denwood's help, yet refused it, delivering the most crippling blow of all just before he died, saying, Son, you've made money trading cash for blood, and I don't want a penny of what you got. I'd rather starve to death than feed myself from your pocket. At least I know who I am.