Point of No Return (25 page)

“In fact, I'm an amateur bird-watcher myself,” Mr. Mason said. “I'm familiar with the works of Wilson. Wilson was from your country, wasn't he?”

I had a feeling that Mr. Mason was testing Uncle Andrew.

“If you mean Alexander Wilson, he was from Scotland,” Uncle Andrew replied easily. “His nine-volume work
American Ornithology
was unsurpassed. That is, until Audubon published
his
definitive
Birds of America.
”

Mr. Mason knew his bluff had been called. “Yes, an excellent work. In any event, if it won't be intrusive, I might come along with you tomorrow!” Mr. Mason exclaimed.

I dropped my fork and it hit the plate with a deafening clang.

Uncle Andrew smiled. “That would be delightful!”

Mrs. Mason cleared her throat. “Richard, you're supposed to go into town tomorrow, remember?”

“Oh, blast it all!” Mr. Mason shouted. “That confounded meeting with the bankers. You're right, of course.”

“Oh, too bad. Some other time perhaps,” Uncle Andrew said.

A droplet of sweat tickled at the back of my neck.

“If you need anyone else to assist you, besides your young companion here, I'll be happy for one of my servants to accompany you,” Mr. Mason offered.

Uncle Andrew said he was most kind. And as everyone was distracted by their plates of food again, he winked at me.

CHAPTER THREE

Jack tells about bird-watching.

“N
OW, TELL ME HOW
one identifies birds,” Uncle Andrew asked the next day as we tramped across a field not far from Mason's house.

It was a pop quiz. Just that morning Uncle Andrew lectured me about how to be a bird-watcher. He said that if I was going to be his assistant, I had to at least sound like I knew what I was talking about.

I tried to think as I adjusted the sack hanging from my shoulder. In it were Uncle Andrew's pads of papers, pens, and watercolors so he could sketch some of the birds we hoped to find. “The marks around the eyes…” I said.

“And?”

I thought again. “The marks on their wings…”

“Very good. And what else?”

My mind was blank, so I guessed. “The color of their beaks?”

Uncle Andrew shook his head. “I suppose the
shape
of their beaks might be helpful, even the color. But you guessed the wrong end. The correct answer is: the marks on their outer tail feathers.”

I frowned. “Oh, yeah.”

We reached the edge of some woods and Uncle Andrew stopped. He pointed to a cavity in a nearby tree. “There.”

I looked up but didn't see what he was pointing at.

“See? The Eastern Bluebird.”

My eyes finally fixed on a bright-blue bird with an orangey chest sitting on a branch. Another bird just like it flew in from the field and landed on the branch. The high-pitched chirps from the tree said that it was a mom and dad watching over a nest.

“Do you want to draw them?” I asked.

“No, I've sketched some of them from a previous trip. But I wanted you to see them for yourself. That way, if anyone asks, you can say what kind of bird you saw and give a reasonable description.”

“Eastern Bluebird,” I repeated.

“Come along,” he said and continued into the woods.

“Where are we going?”

Uncle Andrew spoke softly. “These woods circle Mason's plantation. I want to stroll around the perimeter, then ‘accidentally' come upon the fields where the slaves will be working. Lord willing, I'll have a chance to talk to them.”

We walked through the woods and every once in a while Uncle Andrew would stop to sketch on his pad, or he'd point out different birds to me. Eventually we got to the edge of a field. In the distance, we could see a group of slaves clearing the field. An overseer sat nearby and barked orders at them.

“Set up my easel here,” Uncle Andrew said. “I'll go have a word with the overseer, so he won't chase us off.”

I nodded and started to unpack the bag while he strode across the field in large steps. I had just set up the wooden legs of the easel when I heard the clanging of several bells. At first I thought it might be the cook signaling everyone that it was time for lunch and didn't pay attention. But the clanging came closer and closer, so I looked up. Three slaves were carrying a huge log away from the field and toward the woods. Two of the slaves looked the way the slaves normally looked, but the third had something on his head that looked like a large helmet. As they walked past with the log, I got a better look and noticed that the thing wasn't a helmet as much as a kind of cage. It had a circle of iron around the top of the slave's head, with several rods fixed to it that stretched down to another circle of iron that fit around the slave's neck. It was fastened shut by a large padlock at the throat. There were big bells hanging from the rods that knocked around to make the clanging I heard.

I know my mouth fell open. The cage-helmet looked incredibly heavy, and I couldn't imagine how the slave was able to walk at all, let alone carry a log. The slave turned to me as they walked by and I recognized him right away. It was Clarence, Eveline's father!

I wanted to shout, but Uncle Andrew's hand was on my shoulder. “I know,” he said quietly. “Don't do anything that will draw attention to our knowledge.”

I got busy with the easel again. “What was that thing on his head?”

“It's a way to punish slaves who've run away. They have to wear them day and night.”

“It looks awful.”

Uncle Andrew nodded. “It's worse than awful. With one of those contraptions on your head, you can barely stoop to work without straining all the muscles in your neck and shoulders. You can't put your head down to sleep; you have to crouch all night. But it serves its purpose. You can't run away without everyone hearing you.” Uncle Andrew rubbed at his face, and I realized he was trying to get rid of the tears in his eyes.

“What are we going to do?”

“It's imperative we don't let on that we know Clarence.”

“Okay.”

Uncle Andrew rubbed his chin. “I think I have an idea.”

Clarence and the two slaves threw the log into the woods, then came past us again. Uncle Andrew called out as he ran to them. The slaves looked stricken that this strange white man would approach like that. If Clarence recognized Uncle Andrew, he didn't let on.

“Pardon me,” Uncle Andrew said, “but I'm doing some research on birds in this area.”

The slaves shuffled their feet and looked anxiously toward the overseer, who now stood up and watched the scene from across the field.

“I believe one of you is named Clarence.”

Clarence spoke reluctantly. “That's me, sir.”

“I've been told that that you know a thing or two about birds. Is that true?”

“Well, sir…” Clarence spoke slowly as if he wasn't sure what the right answer was. “I know a thing or two about birds. Yes, sir.”

“Hey!” the overseer shouted as he came closer.

“I may need some help with my research,” Uncle Andrew said to Clarence.

The overseer was only a few yards away. “What's going on here? You three—get back to work!”

“Yes, sir,” the slaves said and rushed away. Clarence staggered behind with the bells on his helmet ringing and clanging.

“You can look at birds all you want, but stay away from the slaves,” the overseer said. “Distracts them from their work.”

“I'm terribly sorry. It wasn't my intention to stir up trouble. But I'd like to talk to Mr. Mason about the one in the helmet.”

“Why? What'd he do wrong?”

“Not a thing. I believe he may be of some assistance to us.”

“Not that one. You can believe me.”

“Jack, pack up our things. Let's go to the mansion and have a word with Mr. Mason.”

The servant showed us in to the study, where Mr. Mason was seated at the desk. He rose to greet us. “How was the bird-watching today?” he asked.

“Slightly disappointing,” Uncle Andrew answered. “We're having trouble tracking the little devils.”

“I was certain that a man of your expertise would have no trouble finding the birds he wanted.”

Uncle Andrew bowed modestly. “You esteem me too highly. I'm a rank amateur. However, there is someone in your service who may be of great help to me.”

“Is there? Who?”

“One of your slaves.”

“I'm astounded,” Mr. Mason said. “I'm not aware that any of my slaves would have a special knowledge of birds.”

“It's obviously a knowledge from experience, rather than books—of working the land and knowing the birds of the area as a result.”

Mr. Mason shrugged. “Well, sir, if you want to borrow one of my slaves for a day's expedition, I don't mind. Which one is he?”

“The one with the unusual contraption on his head,” Uncle Andrew said.

“Contraption?”

Uncle Andrew explained, “It looked like a cage with bells on it. Makes an infernal noise, I confess.”

Mr. Mason thought for a moment, then realized whom Uncle Andrew meant. “You're talking about one of my new slaves. I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not sure it would be prudent to let him wander the countryside with you.”

“I agree, sir,” Uncle Andrew said carefully. “Particularly with that commotion on his head. I don't think the birds would stay still with him banging and clamoring like he does.”

Mr. Mason frowned. “Do you know why that boy is wearing that hat with the bells? It's because he runs away. I bought him from Ramsay because Ramsay was tired of dealing with him. I apologize, but if I take off the helmet, there'll be no stopping him from running away again.”

“What if I were to promise that he wouldn't? What if I took full responsibility for him while he's with me?” Uncle Andrew locked his gaze on Mason and waited patiently for an answer.

Mr. Mason thought about it for a few minutes, then shook his head. “I don't believe that would be a good idea. Not without the helmet.”

“Perhaps we could take him with the helmet and the key to the padlock. If the bells scare off the birds, we can remove the helmet. If not, we'll leave it on.”

It was a reasonable offer Mr. Mason couldn't refuse without looking like he didn't trust us. “If you'll take responsibility for him and use discretion in your choice, then how can I protest? When would you like to take him?”

“Tomorrow, if you don't mind.”

Later, as we walked to the carriage, I had to ask Uncle Andrew: “Does Clarence really know about birds, or did you make it up?”

Uncle Andrew didn't smile, but there was laughter in his voice. “I haven't the foggiest idea. I suspect he knows as much about birds as you do.”

“Uh-oh.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Jack tells about a plan.

“I
DON'T LIKE IT
. I don't like it one bit,” the overseer—a man named Hickocks—complained as he gave us the key to Clarence's padlock.

“You worry too much,” Mr. Mason said.

“You pay me to worry too much,” Hickocks replied gruffly. “This buck'll run the first chance he gets.”

“And I'll take responsibility for it if he does,” Uncle Andrew said. “Unless you don't consider me a man of my word.”

It was a challenge and Hickocks seemed to know it. With muttered curses he turned and walked off to a group of slaves who were waiting for him. “What are you standing around for, you good-for-nothings!” he shouted at them. He gestured for Clarence to join us.

“Hickocks is a little protective of our property,” Mr. Mason said apologetically.

At the word
property
I looked hard at Mr. Mason. I wanted to say, “What do you mean by calling them property? They're not your property. They don't belong to
anybody
. And you have no right to think so.” The words were right on the tip of my tongue, but I bit them back.