Caleb (24 page)

Jardine walked forward to his car and stood on the step until, with another blast of the whistle, the train began moving. Then he stepped up into a passenger car with a genial wave at the men who were disappearing up the track with their quarry.

When the train stopped at Charlotte, Jardine collected Caleb from the boxcar.

“Did you get any sleep?” Jardine asked.

“Yes,” said Caleb.

Jardine looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Ain’t no use going all surly and sullen on me, Caleb,” he said. “I suppose you think I should have taken the boy off of those slave catchers and toted him up north.”

“I guess not,” said Caleb.

“You
know
not,” Jardine said. “That boy was the bona fide property of some folks who had every right to have him back. That’s the law. You know that.”

“Suppose so,” said Caleb.

“You ought to be grateful that I came along when I did. Otherwise, you’d be chained to that Marcus and headed south in even less comfort than you’re traveling north. Those catchers aren’t too particular. They wouldn’t give a damn about that piece of paper I gave you.”

“I know,” Caleb said finally. “And I am grateful. I just—”

“I know, and I’d probably feel the same way in your position,” said Jardine. “But you have to look out for yourself, Caleb. We’re not there yet. Now, let’s find some food. My innards are starting to eat themselves.” He gave Caleb a dollar and turned away to make sure that he knew that he wasn’t going to get any more.

Jardine disappeared into the station hotel, and Caleb searched for something to eat. He saw a black boy sitting on a steamer trunk and gnawing on a chicken leg.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Round back of the station,” the boy said, still chewing. “Old woman called Mary got a whole basket of it.”

“Any good?”

“Sure is,” said the boy. “Better than starving to death. A lot better.”

Caleb found Mary, an old woman with one glazed-over eye, and bought fifty cents’ worth of chicken wrapped up in newspaper. He was walking back to the front of the station and eating when he encountered Jardine, who looked very disgruntled.

“You wouldn’t believe what they’re trying to pass off as food in there. I’d rather starve to death.” He looked closely at the bundle in Caleb’s hand. “What have you got there?”

“Fried chicken,” Caleb said.

“Any good?”

“Not bad,” said Caleb, still eating. “Friend of mine called Mary cooked it.”

“Oh, you’ve got a friend here, have you?” Jardine asked. “How much have you got?”

“Quite a bit,” Caleb said. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he asked, “Would you like some?”

Jardine looked shiftily around the station. “Not here,” he said, “but just slow down on that eating and follow me.” Jardine led Caleb down the platform to an area where cargo was stacked high. Pressed between bales of cotton and boxes of machinery, he grabbed the package from Caleb’s hand, reached into it, and began chewing hungrily on a chicken breast.

“I’ll bet,” he said through a mouth full of chicken, “you weren’t even going to give me any. You’re a selfish bastard, Rivers.”

Caleb just kept eating. But when they’d finished the chicken, he asked Jardine, “I don’t suppose you could get us a couple of bottles of beer from that hotel.”

“You don’t want much,” Jardine said, but he returned with the beer just as their train was called.

The rest of Caleb and Jardine’s trip north passed without incident, but it wasn’t easy. At one point in southern Virginia, there was a forty-mile break in the railway line, and they had to switch to a stagecoach. The coach driver was against carrying Caleb at all. “People don’t like traveling with niggers,” he said. But Jardine slipped him an extra dollar, and Caleb was granted the privilege of clinging to the trunk at the back of the coach while Jardine rode inside with a very nice-looking young lady returning to her home in Richmond. This was not so bad until it started raining. Then it was hell. When they got to where the railway line recommenced, Caleb was shaking with cold, and his arms—frozen in their death grip on the trunk—would not straighten out for half an hour.

When Jardine came out of a nearby inn where he’d shared dinner and a bottle of wine with the young lady, he found Caleb huddled around a campfire, trying to thaw out by drinking some nasty-tasting moonshine. “Nothing like freedom, eh, Caleb?” he said. Caleb did not answer.

“Slaves aren’t what they used to be,” Jardine remarked to the young lady. “Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.”

Finally, when their final train pulled into New York City, Jardine collected Caleb from yet another boxcar, and they stood on the deserted platform in the grayness of early morning.

“Well, Mr. Rivers,” said Jardine, “I guess this is it. I’m going to get me a hotel room and catch up on some sleep before I see a few of the sights and then head back. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Caleb said. “Find some work, I guess.”

“Think you might go back up to Boston?”

“I could,” Caleb said, “but after six years I don’t hardly know anybody up there. I think I’ll hang around here and see what I can do. Might be some opportunities.”

“Might be,” Jardine said. “But if you get tired of the delights of this place”—he looked around at the cold, dirty, and misty railway platform—“there’s always a job for you at Three Rivers. We’ll just forget about that piece of paper I gave you.”

“And my five hundred and fifty dollars?” Caleb asked.

“Oh,” said Jardine, “we could sort that out if the time comes.”

“Thanks for the offer, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said, “but these are early days. I want to find out what there is in this being free.”

“You do that,” Jardine said. “I’ll leave you now, but before I do, I’ve got a little present for you.” He reached inside his coat and pressed his small pistol into Caleb’s hand. “Slip that in your pocket,” he said, “and don’t wave it about. You never know when it might come in handy. Just don’t go shooting everybody who might happen to offend you, Mr. Rivers. Keep it in reserve.”

“I will, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said, putting it into his waistband and feeling the small but solid bulk of the pistol against his hip.

“We can’t just stand here,” Jardine said. “Might get arrested. So I’ll say good-bye. We’ve come a long way since that morning at Lynche’s Landing, haven’t we?”

“Sure have,” Caleb said.

“I can honestly say, Mr. Rivers, that it’s been a pleasure. You take care of yourself.”

“You, too, Mr. Jardine,” he said, “and thank you for seeing me up here. You were right. I’d never have made it without you.”

“My pleasure,” Jardine said. When Jardine didn’t start to move away, Caleb waited. After a long silence, Jardine finally spoke.

“Since we’re unlikely to meet again this side of the grave,” Jardine said, “there’s something you ought to know. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time, but somehow, as your master, I couldn’t find a way to do it.” Again, Caleb waited.

“The fact is,” Jardine said haltingly, “I know what really happened the night that Miss—that Nancy died. Old Doc Hollander didn’t mean to let it out—I know he didn’t—but finally, without naming names, he told someone, who told someone, who told me. At first I was angry at being deceived, but then I realized I had no right to be. What I ought to have been—and what I am—is grateful to you.”

Jardine held out his hand. “I want to thank you, Caleb, for saving my son’s life. Nancy wanted that baby more than anything. I can’t think of anyone who would have—could have—done what you did that night, and I owe you thanks.”

Caleb took his hand, and they shook for a long time without speaking. There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. Then, letting go of Caleb’s hand, Jardine turned away. He walked down the platform toward the carriage ranks.

Caleb stood and watched him go without an idea of what to do next.

45

When a policeman came wandering down the platform with his eyes on him, Caleb knew it was time to move on. At the exit of the station, a small boy, shouting incoherently, waved a newspaper in his face. Digging into his pocket for the remains of his food money, Caleb bought a paper. Spotting a coffee stall, he slipped onto a stool and looked at the newspaper. The headline screamed: “IT’S WAR! SHOTS FIRED: Rebels Capture Fort Sumter, War Cabinet Meets Urgently.”

There wasn’t really much more than that in the extra edition, but Caleb had a feeling that Jardine would not be hanging around New York City very long, not once he saw the papers and the details that would surely follow.

“May I have a cup of coffee?” Caleb asked the stall proprietor, a fat man wearing a dingy white apron. The man looked at him unblinkingly. Caleb repeated, “May I have a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t serve niggers,” the man finally said without expression.

Caleb thought of the pistol in his coat pocket and wondered how the man would react if he found it pointed between his eyes. But then he remembered Jardine’s words. “Thank you kindly,” he said and got down off the stool. As he turned to walk away, Caleb caught sight of his reflection in a window. There stood the most ragtag creature Caleb had ever seen: filthy outsized clothes that had obviously been slept in for days, a bedraggled hat that you wouldn’t put on a dying mule, and four days’ growth of beard. A man like that, Caleb thought, ought to be arrested on general principles. No wonder the stall keeper wouldn’t serve him.

Outside the train station among the rushing people, Caleb wondered what to do next. He could wait for a cup of coffee, but if he was going to survive for the next twenty-four hours, he needed to find a place to sleep, eat, bathe, and get decent. But where?

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Caleb said to a kindly looking woman carrying bundles of flowers, “can you tell me—” but she looked straight through him and kept walking. Then Caleb spotted a black face over the way
.
It belonged to a slim mulatto in a tight plaid suit, a bowler hat, and yellow patent-leather shoes. Caleb didn’t like the looks of him or his clothes, but he had to start somewhere.

“Excuse me,” Caleb said, “can you tell me where I can find a room? And a bath?”

The mulatto turned his pale brown eyes on Caleb in a combination of amusement and calculation. “Well, hello, cousin,” he said. “You just hit town?”

“Yes,” said Caleb, “and I’m looking for a place to stay for a few days. Is there a hotel here that takes blacks?”

“You got money?”

“Yeah,” Caleb said, “I got money, but you’re not going to get any of it. I may have just got off a train looking like a goddamned fool in this outfit, but there’s no straw in my hair. Do you know where I can get a room or not?”

“Sure, sure,” said the mulatto in a different tone of voice. “Go down to that corner. Turn left and walk north about five blocks, then turn right and just keep walking until you start seeing black faces. Ask anybody for the Rosemont Arms. They’ve got what you need. Tell the man at the desk Roy sent you. If he’s got a squinty eye, that’ll be Elmore. And don’t let him charge you more than two dollars a night. Some tricky people in this city.”

“Thanks, Roy,” Caleb said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He held out his hand. “I’m Caleb.” Though a bit surprised, Roy shook it.

When he let go of it, Roy said, “From the calluses on your hand, Caleb, I’d say you were a working man.”

“I was,” said Caleb, “but no more. Thanks for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Roy said. “I be here most days. If you need any more advice or maybe you’re looking for a small poker game, just find me here. Roy knows where things are in the city.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Caleb said and walked in the direction Roy had indicated.

After Caleb saw the sixth black face in a single block, he asked for the Rosemont Arms and found that it was right across the street. It was a squat, dirty brick building that had once been a family home. Only a tiny sign indicated what it was now. When he got a look at Caleb, Elmore the desk clerk, a short, chunky man with the squint that Roy had described, tried to charge him five dollars a night, offered to keep Caleb’s money in the hotel safe, and told him that his cousin Verena had a thing about country boys. Caleb pointed out that Roy had a different view of the room prices, declined the kindly offer to hold his money, and said he’d let Elmore know about Verena. At this, Elmore adopted a businesslike manner, took a week’s rent, gave him a key, and told him that the bath was at the end of the hall. Plenty of hot water this time of day.

“Enjoy your stay,” he said.

“Oh, I will,” Caleb said as he walked up the stairs.

The room was small and dark and could have been cleaner, but Elmore was right about the hot water, and Caleb soaked luxuriously until someone started banging on the door. Then he shaved, got dressed in the best clothes he had, and went back downstairs with most of his money still in his belt and Jardine’s pistol in his coat pocket.

“Tell me, Elmore,” he asked, “where could a man get a decent meal without goin’ broke?”

Elmore considered him admiringly. “Are you sure you’re the same man who went upstairs a little while ago?”

“I think so.”

Elmore told him where to get a good, cheap meal and then added, “I would not like to criticize your dress, but allow me to point out that that six-shooter in your right-side pocket is not doing a thing for the fit of your jacket. If you’re going to carry it, may I suggest a belt holster? I can get you one. Cheap.”

“You do that, Elmore,” Caleb said. “See you later.”

After a good meal in a tiny, smoky, but fairly clean restaurant, Caleb settled back with his second cup of coffee to think about the possibilities. If he were careful, he would have enough money to live for more than six months, but he had no intention of watching his capital dwindle to nothing. After resting up a bit and exploring the big city, Caleb would have to line up some sort of a job and get a regular life. He thought about Drusilla at Three Rivers doing his job and trying to train that fool Caesar. He even thought about Missy, wherever the hell she was. He wouldn’t mind finding a job like he had at Three Rivers and a woman like Missy. Not at all.

For the next couple of weeks, Caleb stayed up until all hours, slept late, and learned a little about the black man’s life in New York City. There were no visible fences, but Caleb found that whenever he strayed too far from the area around the Rosemont Arms, he met a wall of hard looks and closed faces. He also invariably attracted the attention of a policeman, who would ask, “Are you looking for something?” and just as invariably point him back the direction he had come. It seemed to Caleb that although they didn’t have packs of hounds up here in the North, they were just as good at keeping their blacks where they wanted them.

When Caleb became a bit bored, Roy steered him to a poker game over a cigar store, but it took only two hands to convince Caleb that he was out of his league. The first hand was promising, and Caleb dragged in a nice little pot as if this were nature’s way. The second hand started out good, too. Caleb watched with admiration as he was dealt three beautiful kings. On the draw, he got two jacks. This did not displease him, either. With a high full house, Caleb was settling in happily to go with the betting, which had suddenly accelerated, when he caught a glance between the dealer and the man on his left, who’d introduced himself as a stranger just in from Philadelphia. There was something about that glance that Caleb didn’t like, and when the Philadelphian bumped the bet up to two hundred dollars, Caleb folded his hand and said, “No thanks.” He threw in that full house like a man abandoning his only son.

“What!” exclaimed the dealer. “You throwing—” but caught himself before he could reveal that he knew what he had dealt Caleb. Caleb’s hand stayed among the discards. On the very next bet, the Philadelphian also lost confidence in his hand and folded, and the hand was won by a pair of tens, queen high on the dealer’s right. When the next deal began, Caleb stood up and said, “I’m cashing in.”

The dealer stood up, too, and glowered at Caleb. “Are you suggesting—”

“I’m suggesting nothing,” Caleb said, pulling the right side of his coat back to reveal his revolver in the little holster that Elmore had sold him. “I’m just cashing in.”

“Don’t come back,” growled the dealer as Caleb left the room.

“No danger of that,” said Caleb, closing the door. He walked carefully down the stairs, occasionally glancing back.

The next day, Roy asked Caleb how he’d enjoyed the game.

“Oh, very much,” Caleb said. “It reminded me of something they do down where I just came from.”

“What’s that?” asked Roy.

“Well, when they want to catch an alligator, they go out in a boat, dragging a live chicken on a line behind. When the gator rises to grab the chicken, they shoot the gator.”

“You’ve lost me, cousin,” said Roy.

“Well,” said Caleb, “last night I felt a whole lot like that chicken. It made me nervous.”

“But I heard you won a little,” said Roy.

“That’s only because for a little while I outswam those gators,” Caleb said. “I don’t believe I would want to make a career of it.”

“I hope you don’t think that I—” Roy began.

“Of course, not, Roy. Of course not,” said Caleb soothingly.

After two weeks of celibacy, Caleb finally took Elmore up on his suggestion to visit Verena up on the top floor. She turned out to be a slim mulatto girl with no great family resemblance to Elmore, but a great deal of gaiety and a nice little body. Her room was much like Caleb’s, but it was lit by a whole lot of candles, and the walls were draped with cheap but colorful scarves. There was a musky smell in the air that Caleb reckoned had to be incense. He had a good time and happily paid the agreed sum. But he resisted booking a return visit and turned down her offer to go on a shopping trip the next day to look at some lovely bracelets.

“Well?” Elmore asked when Caleb next came by the desk. “Did I lie?”

“Oh, no,” Caleb said. “You have every reason to be proud of little Verena. Except for that disease she has.”

“Disease?” Elmore said indignantly. “I don’t know of any—”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, your cousin has one of the worst cases of the
gotta haves
I’ve ever seen.”

“Go on, man,” said Elmore. “You’re pulling my leg. That girl mighty keen on you.”

“And I feel likewise,” Caleb said.

After local inquiries for employment turned up only jobs giving out handbills or sweeping the streets, Caleb visited an employment agency on a nearby street. When he told the elderly white proprietor about his experience in Boston and at Three Rivers, the man gave Caleb a card to go see a Mrs. Holroyd over on Park Avenue at Thirty-Third Street, an area he’d never before visited.

Mrs. Holroyd’s house was a mansion on a corner. A little brass plaque pointed down a narrow alley to the servants’ entrance.

Caleb didn’t actually see Mrs. Holroyd. Miss Jenkins, the housekeeper, was called down to interview him in the kitchen. A slim white woman with her hair tightly pulled back from her forehead, she sat at the kitchen table, looking at Caleb with bright, all-seeing eyes.

“Did you have an accident?” she asked.

“Ma’am?”

“That scar on your face. It’s most—”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Caleb said. “An overseer down in Virginia mistook my face for the back end of a horse and hit it with his whip.”

“You must have done something.” The mental picture that Caleb presented did not please her.

“Well, at that particular moment, ma’am, I fell down and expressed a certain amount of pain.”

“No. I mean you must have done something
before
he hit you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I failed to get out of his way fast enough. The overseer was suffering from a hangover at the time.”

“Are you being facetious?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I hope not. Tell me about your experience as a household servant.”

Caleb told her the same thing he’d told the man at the employment agency.