A Free State (7 page)

“Well,” she said, “what kind of routine are you preparing?”

I explained about the Spanish masquerade, and she laughed.

“Do you speak Spanish?” she asked Henry.

“Not really,” he said. “Just a type of joke Spanish.”

“He sounds absolutely like a Mexican,” I said.

“Let me hear!”

Henry let out a sentence, something on the order of “
Dos manicómios de jueves éstaban ricos con la segura
. . .” with a kind of insouciant authority that would have been quite convincing to anyone who did not know Spanish.

“What did he say?” Rose asked, turning to me as if Henry would not understand the question.

“He said, ‘
The sky turns red when the turnips are in the basement
.'”

Henry laughed at this, and so did Rose.

“Close enough?” I said.

“Close enough,” he said.

We discussed a few more details of the costume, and Rose
was all business. At the end of our discussion she wished us good luck with our routine and said the costume would be ready in a few days, as soon as she got the Uncle Tom suit altered for Powell. This was fine, as we were just shy of two weeks away from Henry's debut.

Henry and I quit the theater. I had errands to run, and we walked a ways together along Arch Street. Henry asked me for Rose's name, and I told him.

“Didn't I introduce you?” I asked.

He told me I hadn't, and he added that he had never seen a woman with hair that short before.

“Yes,” I said. “She's unlike anyone else.”

“Is she your sweetheart?”

He wore a slight smile as he asked this. I did not know whether to laugh out loud or to cuff him. It was not the kind of question one asked. And it touched a sore spot in me, of course.

“No,” I said, rather curtly. “She is kept by one of the troupe. Eagan.”

“What do you mean, ‘kept'?”

“I mean,” I said, “maintained. Paid for, housed, clothed, and whatever else you might imagine, in exchange for his pleasure.”

This came out more harshly than I had intended, although it was certainly the truth. I glanced at Henry and saw an expression of gloom settle over his features, a brooding look, almost angry. I thought that he must be quite an innocent to have had no experience or awareness of such an arrangement. Our paths diverged at the next corner, and Henry mumbled his goodbye and walked off under a cloud, carrying his banjo.

I let the others know that we would be adding an extra attraction for one number in the second part, on Saturday two weekends hence. There was curiosity and more or less happy acceptance from Powell and Burke; as they never heard the other acts in advance, they were satisfied to accept my brief précis of the situation. Mulligan, of course, had already been apprised, and he kept his own counsel, although I sensed from his facial expression that his misgivings had had time to breed and perhaps ferment in the days since our conversation. Eagan on the other hand, would not let it alone.

“I had the idea that this troupe was a collaborative venture,” he said.

“What makes you doubt it, Michael?” I said.

“Some of us are now privy to a mystery, for which the troupe as a whole is footing the bill. And a Mexican, in the bargain. Who is this fellow, anyway? I suppose the troupes of Austrians were not enough. At least they are white men.”

“I am paying for this out of my personal receipts, Eagan,” I said. “So you needn't worry about the impact on our finances. And in what way does his color weigh on the discussion, Brother Scamp?”

This question stopped him momentarily, although he recovered himself enough to mutter, “I don't care for intrigue.”

It was only with the greatest effort that I was able to restrain myself from mentioning his own arrangement with Rose in this connection, but I did restrain myself, and the matter of Juan García was allowed to rest, for the moment, without further discussion.

And I waited for the day to arrive, full of anticipation. So much depended upon the success of our scheme. I knew
nothing about Henry, really, nor did he appear to care who I was or where I had come from. The point of our intersection, the plan we had improvised, the music we made, was what mattered. How lucky we were, I thought, to have the theater. What would any of us do if we did not have these roles to play? If you could truly see into the face in the mirror . . . well, who among us would willingly do that? And if we knew who stood next to us at the market, or who passed us on the street, who sat beside us in the theater, if every grave could speak, as in the old ballads, we might not be able to bear living. We never do truly know what others think. And may it please God they never learn what is in our own black hearts.

I
n the still of the day the horse carried him slowly along the graded path under the elms, past the quarters toward the mansion house. Dragonflies hovered and zagged in the shimmering heat. The few slaves he passed averted their gaze. The rifle in the hide sheath; the turned, whitish eye. Nobody could have mistaken him for good luck.

He had been summoned and had come in his own good time. Stephens he knew by reputation, as he knew most of the planters in the area. A drunk with pretensions, a notorious libertine with a big library of books, so he'd heard. And a succession of slave mistresses whom he kept like wives until he tired of them and turned them out, either for sale or to the fields. Nothing very unusual about that, except for the artifice of keeping them dressed well and living in the house. Tull had heard that Stephens had taught two of them to read. Or had someone teach them. The real wife, the white one, had died some years back.

The man's house boy had been gone five months. Stephens placed newspaper advertisements, had handbills printed and posted both locally in Virginia and in Northern cities, increased his reward offer, all to no avail. And had finally sent a message to him, enlisting his aid. It was, he would have been the first to admit, a last resort. Not only because of the expense—a daily allowance in addition to travel funds and incidentals, along with the reward money itself—but because of who and what he was. No respectable person would have much to do with Tull Burton. Especially not a lace-curtain bitch like this James Stephens.

Stories about Burton were his calling cards. Three years earlier, a strong and unbroken slave named Silas had run off from Fontainebleau Plantation, twenty miles to the south, and was rumored to be hiding in a swampy tract of woods another ten miles out. The plantation overseer would not go after him, and the master, a fop in green velvet, had sent for Burton. With two accomplices and two dogs, Tull had tracked the runaway into the deep woods and found him in a tree, from which he refused to descend.

Tull had been through it before, and he always felt anger at the runaways' refusal to acknowledge the nature of the situation, at the waste of time and energy, the forestalling of the inevitable. It was an overcast day, chilly and disagreeable to begin with.

“Come on down, Silas,” Tull said. “You're going home one way or another.”

“I don't have to talk to you,” the runaway said.

“You're going to suffer more than you need to,” Tull said. “Get down now.”

“Shit on your mother, drunk.”

Tull nodded. To one of his men he said, “Start a fire over there,” indicating a spot ten yards away. The man handed his dog's leash to the other assistant and went to gather some sticks.

“I don't drink, Silas,” Tull said, pulling his rifle out of the sheath that hung alongside his saddle.

“I don't have to talk to no white man,” the runaway hollered, his voice on the edge of hysteria. “I'm going to Cleveland, or either Mexico . . .”

To his second man, Tull said, “Tie the dogs to the wagon and get ready to grab him.” The other had gotten the fire started.

“I'm not working no more, and I'm not getting whipped, and your mama likes when I stick it in . . .”

Aiming for the runaway's shoulder, Tull fired one shot, which hit the mark and caused the slave to lose his purchase on one of the limbs to which he clung. Hanging on with his other arm, he struggled to get a leg up over the limb. Tull aimed again and fired, and this time after a brief and futile twist of his torso the slave fell to the ground, making a gurgling sound, an animal sound, angry, pig-eyed . . .

The two men lunged and grabbed him.

“Ohhh,” he hollered. “White man died on the cross for me . . .”

Tull approached, bent down, and forced a dirty saddle rag into his mouth.

“See, nigger? You were right. You don't have to say a thing.” Grunts, struggling. “Pull down those rags.” The breeches, secured by a length of worn and greasy rope. The man who
had built the fire got them undone and yanked them down, exposing the runaway's rubbery, flopping genitals. “You sure stink, nigger,” Tull said. “You ought to take a bath.” Tull pulled out his hunting knife and, saying only “Hold him,” grabbed and stretched the penis and cut it off at the root. The runaway emitted a choked scream from behind the wadded rag in his mouth; his eyes rolled back in his head.

Tull tossed the wad of flesh onto the ground by the dogs then walked to the fire and held the tip of the knife blade in the flame for fifteen seconds, turning it on either side. He walked back and, saying “Hold him steady,” cauterized the nub as the unfortunate man in his care writhed and twisted.

“Now see, nigger? I let you keep your balls. You like to talk so much, why don't you say thank you? My Mama is sure gonna miss that thing.” Drawing back his boot, Tull kicked the writhing man as hard as he could in the side, driving it into the slave's lower ribs, and they all heard the snapping sound.

“Now put him on his stomach and get him tied,” Tull said. “Throw him in the wagon when you got him right. I didn't finish my lunch.”

The group arrived back at Fontainebleau late in the afternoon. As they approached the mansion house, Tull told one of the field hands watching the procession to run and get Master real quick. They pulled over by the stable area. Five minutes later, Master Arthur came sauntering down the path to where they were. He was well turned out—immaculate white breeches, a green velvet waistcoat, and a lace scarf at the neck, setting off his puffy pink face. Tull watched him with disgust.

“Yes,” Master Arthur said. “I see you have brought me something.” The slightly brusque heartiness masking a degree of impatience, or perhaps nervousness.

“Throw back that canvas, Olds,” Tull said. The man did so, revealing the slave, with his rags down around his thighs, his midsection a mess of clotted blood. His head was near the foot of the wagon, between Tull and Master Arthur. One eye opened, slowly, in the Master's direction, unseeing, clouded. The Master gave a reflexive wince, an intake of breath, a slight frown.

“There's your man,” Tull said.

Master Arthur regarded Tull now, with some mixture of shrewdness and fear. “Well,” he said, “he's hardly any good to me in this condition, is he?”

The words “is he?” angered Tull—the easy superiority, the indifference to the suffering staring him blindly in the face. And trying to get out of paying, clearly.

“You said dead or alive.”

“Well, he's not much of either,” the Master said. A faint trace of a smile around the edges of the eyes. “Is he?”

Tull drew his pistol and with no further word forced the barrel into the runaway's mouth against the rag that was still there, pulled the trigger once and sent blood, brains, and the top of the runaway's skull spattering all over the Master's breeches and waistcoat. The saddle rag, still wedged in the slave's mouth, caught fire.

“Dear Christ,” Master Arthur said. Steadying himself on the side of the cart, he bent over, retching.

Tull watched him for a moment. “Now,” he said. “Are you going to pay me my money?”

This was a language everyone understood, and he was generally recognized as effective, ruthless, and fair. He was the hire of choice for the most challenging jobs. The masters were themselves afraid of him, but they knew where they stood at least. And beyond that, he expressed something inside them which they expended their resources in keeping disguised, even from themselves, and yet which was the foundation of their world. For his part, Tull took no pains to disguise his contempt for the planters' false aristocracy. He had no friends. He took pride in his work, he expected full and prompt payment, and otherwise he kept to himself. He was a professional.

He drew near the carriage entrance of The Tides now, and upon dismounting was received by a black gatekeeper, in livery. Gold epaulets, fancy stitching, dirty collar and knee stockings. Buckled shoes. A type he hated; it made Tull sick. This footman had a fringe of white hair around his bald scalp, bulging eyes, and a goiter under his left ear.

Without making eye contact, the servant took the reins and said, “Master James Stephens will see you in the parlor.”

“Really?” Tull said. A smile slowly disfigured his face, like blood seeping through a bandage.

“Yes, sah.” No eye contact.

“Take good care of my horse, now, Sambo.” Fixing him with his stare, willing the old man to look at him.

“Yes, sah.” Still the unconcern, tying the reins around a post. “I'm called Atticus, sah.”

“Tell your mama I said hello, Atticus,” Tull said, starting toward the door.

“Mama in a better place,” the servant said, under his breath, as Tull walked away.

An older woman servant greeted him at the door and walked him down a short hallway to the main foyer, and through that to the parlor. The plaster had fallen away from a part of one wall in the foyer, and there were gray smudge trails above the wall-mounted oil lamps, unlit, now, in the daylight. The parlor itself was large and bright, with windows stretching from the floor up to the picture-frame molding above. The sunlight had faded the upholstery on the furniture—velveteen settees, French chairs. Fissures in the plaster, here and there. The usual oil portraits on the walls; above the fireplace, a giant, thick, ornate gilt frame surrounded a large mirror, darkened by decades of fugitive smoke. Several large chips of gilt had gone missing from the mirror's frame and left irregular white patches among the baroque curlicues. A huge, faded Oriental carpet covered much of the floor.

The Master would make him wait; that was part of the transaction, always. Tull kept his hat on; it was made from a hide of some sort, of a peculiar dark brown color and texture. He remained standing. When the man finally entered—white hair, and a full head shorter than Tull, wearing a red cloth jacket—he dispensed with any greeting, saying, simply, “Please sit down,” and indicating a blue brocade chair. He regarded Tull's hat, pointedly, but he did not ask him to remove it.

“You've read the note I sent,” Stephens said, once they were seated.

Tull nodded.

“You must have questions you need to ask.”

The man's hair, mostly white and yellowed, was swept back somewhat theatrically from his forehead. His eyes were green
and he had long eyelashes that Tull thought looked like a girl's. Tull guessed that he had applied some rouge discreetly to his cheeks. He was skinny and slight but not muscular; a boy's body, with a paunch behind the embroidered white vest. He smelled of rosewater.

“Why did he run off? Did he get a beating?”

“I never beat him. He lived comfortably and never lacked for anything.”

“This boy lived down in those quarters I passed?”

“No. He lived in a small house twenty yards off the kitchen, to the east.”

“He had his own house?”

“He lived there with his mother and one brother.”

“His mother is still there?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a father around?”

The master looked at Tull for two full seconds before saying, “The father is unknown.”

So, Tull thought. That was easy. Just to be sure, he smiled, nodded as if in accord, and said, “These nigger bitches can pick up extra weight anywhere, can't they?” He watched Stephens's face mottle with red, and then he knew for certain who the father was, and he saw that Stephens knew that he knew.

“Where do you think he went?” Tull asked. “Do you have any idea?”

An attractive slave girl in her teens entered the room carrying a tray with two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. She stood in front of Stephens, seemingly unsure what to do. Tull watched Stephens avoid her eyes and say, “Thank
you, Aurora.” The girl frowned slightly as he took one of the glasses. “You may put the tray down on the table after serving Mister Burton.” She approached Tull, who looked her directly in the eyes and gave her a big smile. She was very scared.

“You can just set the tray down right there,” Tull said. “Thanks, Aurora.” Her hands shook as she set the tray down and walked out of the room without a word.

“I am assuming that he has found his way to some Northern city.”

“That takes in a lot of territory, Mister James. Any hints about which one?”

“The most likely are those I listed on the advertisement I included with my letter. You may call me Mister Stephens.”

“Sure,” Tull said, allowing himself a short laugh at his own expense. “Sorry to presume, Mister Stephens. You don't think he went to Canada?”

“No.”

Tull studied the man's face. “Because the mother is still here?”

Stephens looked away and made an indefinite gesture, half raising a hand from the arm of the chair, shrugging.

“You said he played a banjar.”

“Yes.”

“Where'd he get it?”

“I always assumed that Enoch made it for him in the woodworking shop.”

“Where's that?”

“I'll have Atticus show you.”

“I want to talk to the mother, too.”

Stephens nodded.

“That's all right with you?”

“Certainly.”

“They were close?”

“Very.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“He often performed for guests or entertainments. There's no doubt that he has the banjar and will find a way to perform somewhere.”

“There's not a lot of places for niggers to perform, Mister Stephens.”

“He is resourceful and intelligent and he will find a way to do what he wants to do.”

“You liked this boy pretty well.”

“He brightened many evenings here.” Stephens looked as if he were going to add something, stopped, pursed his lips, and with a slight shake of his head let it go. He began to stand up, but Tull remained seated.