Caleb (23 page)

“Take a last look, Caleb,” Jardine said. “You won’t be seeing Three Rivers no more. That is, unless you come back some day wearing a Yankee uniform.”

Caleb took a look. Now that he was leaving, it didn’t seem quite so bad.

Jardine cracked the whip over the team’s heads. “I’ll be back in a week or three, Drusilla. You try to keep that Caesar under control. If he acts up, you tell me.” Caesar didn’t look happy. Everybody waved as the wagon rolled down the drive.

As they neared the Three Rivers gates, Caleb heard a noise. Big Mose and the cotton crew were shouting and waving their hats. He raised his own floppy hat and waved it back.

44

Jardine and Caleb got to the river landing with time to spare. After they stabled the horses and boarded the steamboat to Great Falls, Jardine met some county people he knew and retired to the cabin, escaping the thin mist that had begun to fall. Caleb, shuffling in shoes several sizes too big, joined half a dozen slaves who were huddled amid bales of cotton and hay, a couple of cows, and a big pen of chickens. Two of the men held a piece of canvas over their heads, and the water that gathered on it kept running down Caleb’s neck.

Through a window looking into the cabin, Caleb could see Jardine and the other white men sitting around a table playing cards. He thought of the money in the belt around his waist, and he knew that he could increase it if he were in that game. But he didn’t have to wonder what they would say if he went back there and asked if he could sit in.

An old man who looked at least ninety years old asked Caleb pleasantly, “Who do you belong to, boy?” Caleb felt like telling him,
I belong to me, Caleb T. Rivers, that’s who
, but he knew he couldn’t.

“Mr. Jardine of Three Rivers,” he told the old man.

“Is he a good massa?”

“He all right,” said Caleb. Just then, two of the white deckhands, without a word to the slaves, began shifting the cargo to get ready for the next landing. The black passengers scattered like pigeons. Caleb moved with the rest, but he did not do it gladly. He wondered idly where a free black would have ridden, but he thought he knew.

In Great Falls, they had a couple of hours to wait for the train. Jardine, who had won more money than he had lost to Caleb the night before, was feeling good. “I like the way you walk in those shoes, Caleb,” he said.

“Thankee, Massa,” Caleb said with an exaggerated slur. “Mos’ kind.” In a quieter voice he asked, “How was the game?”

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Jardine said. “Those old boys are paying for our trip. I hope you’re grateful.”

“Sure is, Massa.”

“Don’t overdo it,” Jardine advised him. “I’m going over to the hotel to get something to eat. You find something and meet me right here”—he glanced up at the clock on the town hall—“at six o’clock.”

“Yassa.”

Jardine started to turn toward the hotel but saw that Caleb wasn’t moving. “Well?” he asked.

Caleb just looked at him and held out his hand.

“What?” Jardine exclaimed. “Why, you,” but he dug into his pocket and pulled out two quarters, dropping them carelessly into Caleb’s hand. Caleb didn’t move an inch. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded.

“I hear food comes costly hereabouts,” Caleb said.

“Why, you rascal,” Jardine said. “If I still owned you, I’d sell you for dog meat.” But he reached back into his pocket and pulled out another quarter. “Will this do you?”

“Yassa.” Caleb pocketed the coins, touched the water-soaked brim of his hat, and turned away.

“Six o’clock,” Jardine called after him, “and don’t stuff yourself on that caviar.”

Caleb stopped a black man leading two horses and asked where he could buy something to eat. The hostler directed Caleb down an alley and told him to keep walking until he came to a bend in the river, then look for a house with a big red tin sign. After trudging through the mud for ten minutes, Caleb found the house. It was a rickety affair with a sharply sloped roof and an entrance through a lean-to. Inside, an old woman looked up at him from a big cast-iron range.

“You got a toilet here, ma’am?” Caleb asked, badly in need of one after the long boat ride.

“You eatin’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Lemme see your money.”

Caleb showed her the coins.

“We got the backyard,” she said, waving her ladle toward the other door. “It go right down to the river, and I suggest you do jus’ the same.”

When Caleb returned, he found that the food was a lot better than the facilities. After the old woman piled a second helping of fried fish on Caleb’s plate, cut him another big chunk of bread, and filled his cup with chicory coffee, she said, “You’re not from these parts.”

“No, ma’am,” Caleb said. “Down river a piece. Kershaw County.”

“What you doing up here?”

“Catching a train. My master’s over at the hotel eating.”

“Poor him,” she said. “All the darkies works at the hotel come
here
to eat. That cook over there can’t even boil water without scorchin’ it. Where you going?”

“North,” said Caleb. “Can you keep a secret?”

“If I couldn’t, there be some niggers around here in a heap of trouble,” she said. “What is it? I hope it’s a good one.”

Caleb leaned toward her. “I’m going to be free.” He wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell her that he already was free.

“Hmm,” she said. “You think you’ll like it?”

“Of course,” said Caleb indignantly. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Well,” said the old woman, “I been free these fifty years and more, and I haven’t noticed all that much satisfaction from it. I have to keep this place goin’ fifteen to sixteen hours a day just to stay alive. And that includes Sundays. If I didn’t have a niece who comes in Sunday morning and Wednesday evening, I wouldn’t even get to church.”

“You’ve never been tempted to leave?” Caleb asked.

“For where, son?” she asked. “For where? You want more fish? I got some apple pie.”

“Just the pie, ma’am,” Caleb said, “and some more of that terrible coffee.”

The old woman slapped his shoulder with her wiping cloth. “Mouthy as you are,” she predicted, “you goin’ to last about six minutes up north.”

Jardine came out of the hotel to find Caleb waiting at the bottom of the steps. “Well,” he said, spitting to get a bad taste out of his mouth, “I hope you got your belly full.”

“Yassa,” Caleb said, “but they ran out of caviar.”

At the train station, Jardine bought two tickets to Charlotte, North Carolina. When he walked Caleb to his car, it turned out to be a boxcar with narrow benches running lengthwise on each side. On the benches were black passengers who were trying to sleep away the journey. Others sprawled on the plank floor, using bags for pillows and coats for covers.

“Well,” Jardine said, “it’s not exactly first class, but it’s only a few hours until we change.”

“I’ll manage,” Caleb told him.

“I’m three or four cars on up ahead,” Jardine said. “I’ll check on you later. Sweet dreams, Caleb.”

Caleb just grunted. When Jardine left, he tried to make himself comfortable on a bench that sloped too much for comfort whether he sat up or lay down.

Caleb finally lay down on the bench and, wrapping himself around his bag and using his arm for a pillow, managed to drop off into a light sleep. Sometime later he sensed, without really waking, that the train had stopped, but he clung tenaciously to sleep. Then he felt a cool breeze as the boxcar door was thrown open with a crash. He tried to ignore it until he was shocked fully awake by a hard blow to the back.

“Get up, you,” shouted a harsh voice. Half a dozen white men were walking up and down the car, shoving and kicking the sleepers into consciousness. One of them swung an oil lantern. A frightened child cried out, and her mother hushed her. The black passengers fearfully forced themselves fully awake and waited for what was to happen next.

The invaders had separated and were questioning the passengers in the car. One, a big man with a full black beard and a flat-topped hat, pushed Caleb roughly. “You, who are you?”

“Caleb, suh.” Caleb thought immediately of the freedom paper and money in the belt deep under his clothes. He couldn’t show one without revealing the other.

“From where?”

“Three Rivers, suh, Kershaw County.”

“What are you doing so far from home?”

“Travelin’, suh. With my master.”

“Oh, yeah?”

The bearded man shouted over his shoulder, “I think we’ve got one, Jim.” He asked Caleb gruffly, “You got papers?”

“No, suh. Massa—”

By then the man called Jim was also looking down at Caleb. He snatched the floppy hat from Caleb’s head and, grabbing a handful of hair, yanked his head back. “Let’s get a look at you.”

Caleb tried to look terrified. It wasn’t hard.

“Look at that scar, Morgan,” Jim said. “Didn’t one of those runaways have a scar on his face?”

“Damned if he didn’t,” said Morgan. “Get up, boy!”

“But, suh—”

Morgan kicked Caleb hard in the leg. “Get up, damn you,” he exclaimed. “I’m not here to argue with niggers. You’re getting off this train.”

He reached down to pull Caleb to his feet, but Caleb let his weight go dead. Morgan pulled his arm back to take a swing at him, when a voice came from the open boxcar door.

“Is my nigger giving you trouble, gentlemen?” asked Jardine. He climbed into the boxcar.

“This your slave?” demanded Morgan.

“Sure is,” Jardine said lightly.

“Can you prove it?”

“Do I have to?” Jardine asked him. “How are you doin’, Caleb?”

“All right, Master,” Caleb said. “So far.”

“We’ve got warrants,” blustered Morgan. “Looking for runaways.” He moved aside to let one of his companions by with a scared-looking black boy who was very much under his control. But Jardine stepped in their path.

“May I see those papers?” Jardine asked and hitched back his coat to reveal the butt of his revolver sticking out of the waistband of his trousers.

“Who are you?” asked Morgan, who seemed to be the boss.

“Boyd Jardine of Three Rivers Plantation, Kershaw County,” Jardine said. “At your service. You seem to have mistaken my slave for one of your runaways. You could be making the same mistake with this boy. Now may I see those warrants?” The man with the black boy in tow made as if to push past him, but Jardine said softly, “I wouldn’t if I was you.” The man looked at Morgan.

“Now, those warrants,” said Jardine.

Angrily, Morgan reached into an inner pocket of his coat and shoved a small sheaf of papers into Jardine’s hands. Jardine peered at them in the semidarkness. “Could I have that lamp over here, please?” he asked. Grudgingly, Morgan snatched the lamp from the man holding it and held it overhead. Jardine shuffled through the papers unhurriedly.

“This train don’t stop here long, Mister,” Morgan protested.

“Won’t be long now,” Jardine said soothingly. “Which one of these are you claiming this boy is?”

Morgan grabbed one of the papers out of Jardine’s hand and growled, “This one.”

Jardine studied the paper carefully. “What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

“Marcus, Massa. Marcus Beauclerk,” the boy said shakily.

“How tall are you?” Jardine asked him.

“Don’t rightly know,” the boy said. “Tall enough, I guess.”

Jardine told the boy, “Turn your head, Marcus, so I can see your right ear.”

Reluctantly, the boy did so. Jardine could see that the top portion of the boy’s right ear was missing.

“Looks like you’re a long ways from home, Marcus,” Jardine said, after looking at the rest of the details on the warrant.

“Yessir,” Marcus said, dejectedly.

“They’re probably missing you,” Jardine added.

Up ahead the train whistle hooted.

“This train’s leaving,” said Morgan. “We’ve got to get off.”

“I won’t stand in your way,” Jardine said. “Seems to me that you have the right man here.”

“Why, thank you very much,” Morgan said. He signaled to the man holding Marcus, who firmed up his grip on the boy’s collar.

“Damn you,” he snarled at Jardine, snatching the papers from his hand. “Nobody minds their own business these days. Come on, boys!” The one with Marcus in hand followed the others to the door of the boxcar and jumped out. Morgan followed them. At the door, he stopped and looked balefully at Jardine. “We might meet again someday, Mister,” he said.

“My pleasure,” said Jardine, following him to the door. “If you are ever in the neighborhood of Three Rivers, feel free to drop in. I’m sure that Caleb will be glad to renew your acquaintance. Won’t you, Caleb?” Caleb didn’t say anything.

Morgan jumped down from the car with an oath, and Jardine, making sure that they were leaving, followed. He called to the men as they walked away, “Do you think you could help me close the door?” But they didn’t answer, and Caleb and another man were already closing it from the inside.