Sentinels (11 page)

Noah grabbed both Beasley's shoulders and shook. “What'd he say?”

“Dunno. But I heard two distinct voices. It was American, that's for sure. And then I heard screaming moments later. That's when I ran.”

“Where'd you run?”

“I don't know, boy. I ran for my life! I didn't whip out a map and plot a course. I ran to get the hell out of there.”

“Was the fourth man wearing a mask?” Noah said.

“Couldn't tell. His back was to me the entire time. Wore a cowboy hat like some of the other skinny fellers. He looked a little more built than the other three, I can tell you that. Maybe that's why he went in last, just in case things got hairy. Some added muscle. Seemed to have worked.” Beasley paused and dropped the attitude. “Sorry about Sheriff Cole. He may have locked me up a bunch of times, but he was always polite about it. You could learn a thing or two from him. Like not smacking people.”

“Only when they deserve it.” Noah stood to leave. “Keep drinking your water.”

“Ain't you gonna dry my clothes?”

“Heat'll dry them for you.” Noah waited for Harrison to complete his final few wipes before leaving the cell with the sheets.

“You rest a bit more,” Noah said. “Oh, and thank you, Beasley.”

“See, that wasn't so hard.” Beasley reclined on the mattress.

Noah closed the door.

“So much for putting up ‘wanted' signs.” Harrison stood with Noah in the lobby.

“We could post something asking people to keep an eye out for four men wearing cowboy hats and perhaps Klan hoods,” Noah said.

“That narrows it down to half the population of this town.”

“We gotta put
something
up, if only to warn folks that some really bad people are out there,” Noah said.

“I don't think signs will be necessary for that.”

“You know what I mean, Harrison. People'll want information. I think it's best to give them what we can. I'll go to the mercantile.”

“Shouldn't you check with Sheriff Clement first?”

“I suppose so, but I won't. It's what Sheriff Cole or any other competent sheriff would do. Clement even said it himself—people will want an explanation. So we'll let folks know what we want them to know, just not everything. If the nurse ain't out front I'll find her and send her back. Watch over Culliver in the meantime. Maybe he'll be awake by the time I get back.”

“He didn't stir a bit while we were interrogating Beasley. I think he'll still be asleep when you return.”

“Watch him all the same.” Noah left Harrison to mind the concerned townspeople who ducked in from time to time. He walked down Main Street and stopped when he saw Toby Jenkins pacing in front of the Tavern.

He talking to himself?
Noah thought. The man's agitation became apparent when he halted his circular route in front of the Tavern's entrance and punched a support beam holding the building's awning in place.

Toby stomped toward Noah, almost over him, as the deputy sidestepped him to let him pass.

“What's wrong, Toby? Slow down,” Noah called to the man's backside.

“Can't. Got to figure out something.” Toby kept walking.

Noah jogged to catch up and stopped Toby by standing in front of him, not moving.

“Please, Deputy, I ain't got the time for this.”

“What do you know? What was all that about back there at the Tavern?”

The men stood eye to eye, their noses practically touching. Noah removed his Stetson so the brim wouldn't rub against Toby's forehead. Neither seemed bothered by the closeness, as they were too preoccupied by the unexplained to feel self-conscious. Sounds of horse-drawn wagons and the shuffling of busy feet, even the railroad locomotive's whistle, went unheard as they spoke.

“I don't know what happened to Sheriff Cole, honest to God,” Toby said. “He was a good man.”

“But you know what happened to those soldiers and that Klansman?”

“Never said that. I'm just glad the soldiers are alive.”

“But not the Klansman?” Noah needled Toby, whose eyes glared at the deputy with shock in place of anger.

“He's not dead? Word around town was he was hanged.”

“He
was
, but the rope split,” Noah said. “Managed to cheat the Reaper twice.”

Toby stepped back. “Got to get back to work. Corn's ripe for picking.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here in the first place? You didn't buy anything. I'm going to the mercantile to buy supplies and I'll ask the shopkeeper whether you came in to pay off a debt—which I sincerely doubt. I'll go to the bank to see if you did any business there.”

Toby eyed him accusingly but thought better of escalating the situation.

“Noah, come inside and sit down with me.” Toby didn't wait for a response and walked back to the Tavern, holding open its door, waving for Noah to enter.

“I can't drink on the job.”

“You can drink water, can't you? It'll take but a minute or two. No sense in us clogging up the walkways, right?”

Noah acquiesced and the two took a table in the far end of the mostly uninhabited bar. Toby brought over a glass of water and clanked it down in front of Noah.

“There, it's on me.”

“He charged you for water?”

“Course not.” Toby laughed and took his seat from across Noah. “What place have you ever gone to where they made you pay for water? I think there's a law against it. Drink up. You're sweating.”

“I see you wanted something a little harder.”

Toby held up a double shot of whisky as if toasting.

“You'll pardon me for saying there are better things to drink for breakfast,” Noah said.

“You're pardoned.” Toby threw back enough booze to make his body take notice and left enough in the glass to make the conversation bearable. “And there are worse things, too. I'm having a glass. Those men at the bar”—Toby, glass in hand, pointed at the groaning, hunched masses—“they're having bottles. I'd say I'm being the responsible one. Besides, sometimes a man needs a drink for no other reason than he needs one. Now, as the English might say, old chap: Cheers.” Toby took another swig.

“Right.” Noah gulped until the glass was empty.

“Want another?” Toby asked.

“No, thank you. You said this would only take a minute or two. Time's already up and I've got work to do.”

“Good thing about being your own boss—you decide when you're on the job. I'm off the clock right now. So keep your drawers on. Let the juice work its magic.”

“You drink like this every morning?”

“Every now and then when I'm in town.” Toby looked at him cockeyed. “I'm a grown man, Noah. I know my limit. ” Toby slouched back in his chair and looked around to make sure no eavesdroppers were listening. Satisfied none lingered, he turned serious.

“Snoop all you want. I had nothing to do with any of those boys at the doc's.”

Noah mirrored Toby's demeanor. “Then why'd you come down here? To look at them? To see how three of them had their skulls bashed in? You're taking a mighty strong interest in something you know nothing about.”

Toby remained relaxed but he never lost eye contact. He took a long drink before replying.

“Can't a man be concerned about his town's well-being, Noah?”

“Of course he can. He
should.
But that's got nothing to do with what we're talking about.”

“Really?” Toby smiled upon realizing he hadn't passed along his best to the deputy. “Congratulations on your little boy, by the way. Word spreads fast.”

“Thanks for that.”

Toby hadn't meant to emotionally disarm Noah, but it worked.

“Fatherhood leads to my point, Noah. It probably ain't happened yet, and only barely if it has, and that's this: Pretty soon you're gonna wonder just what the hell kind of world have I brought my boy into? It all starts with this town—any town, really. How will it treat him once he becomes familiar with the folks living here? Your boy don't have to worry about being called a nigger, or being lynched, or worry about men wearing hoods, carrying torches. Mine will, and sooner than I'd like. Soon enough so that his childhood'll be spent learning he's hated for no earthly good reason. And that's only going to increase the love you feel for him. You're going to discover something—hell, I'm going through it myself. That love you feel for that little person cannot be realized by people who don't have children. It can't. Sometimes it's a joy you feel just by looking at him sleeping, other times it's melancholy because there's only so much you can do to protect him from the monsters of the world, and you might not be there for him when he needs you most. It's a responsibility that enlivens me and terrifies me, Noah. It does something awful. I think of my own mortality, wanting to live long enough to know I done right for him. Now I understand what drove my father to protect me as a boy—especially when the white man took me.”

Toby noticed an uncomfortable expression creep across Noah's face.

“They took him, too, my father, and my mother, in a different boat,” Toby said. “My parents were strong and could work—why
not
make them slaves? But you should've seen how they fought when the slavers chained me. How they beat my parents back while they dragged their little boy away. I fought them as best I could—and my folks must've been possessed by some power of God because the clubs that hit them seemed to fuel their efforts to save me. They just kept clawing for me, reaching out to grab me. I was their only concern, pain be damned. I'll never forget the look of horror and failure in my father's eyes at the sight of me being loaded onto that boat, the
Brig Hayne
.”

Toby fidgeted into his chair for comfort. Noah wondered what stories the former slave might tell if he downed an entire bottle.

“That was the ship's name,” Toby said. “I didn't know it at the time. I mean, I was born in Africa. I didn't even speak English. Charlie Stanhope told me later. Toby Jenkins ain't even my birth name. Charlie Americanized me, if you want to call it that. I think I know the birth name my mother gave me—I think. But I don't even bother saying it because it's not who I am anymore. But I'll never forget the name of that boat. The
Brig Hayne
.” Toby chuckled and shook his head in disbelief that it all actually happened. But it did. “Set sail from Africa in March of 1840. Arrived in New Orleans and later made port in Charleston on March, 27, 1840. I'll never forget the date. Slaves have two lives, if you ask me, Noah—the before and after. My first life involved parents, we were a family, we were happy once. My second life? I was born watching the life drain from my father's face when I became a slave. I think about my father more now that I'm among his ranks, so to speak. I don't know what he saw in me in those last moments, but I'd like to think it was strength, maybe reassurance—‘I'll be all right, father, I promise you.' And my mother—I hope she saw that, too. That was the last day I ever saw my parents. I don't even know if they're alive, where they are. Nothing. My one lasting regret is I never got to hug them a final time, and to thank them for raising me right during the short time they had me. And you know what feeling I can't shake, Noah?”

“I can't even imagine.”

Toby leaned in, turning angry, and began jabbing the tabletop for emphasis. “I go to sleep every night wondering how my father managed to live without knowing what happened to me. He woke up one morning with a son and went to bed that night without one. What kind of torment was he going through knowing I was in the bowels of that damned boat? Chained like an animal in the hot belly of that ship. They stored us, Noah. Like cargo. There must've been five-hundred of us crammed in there. We could barely move.”

Toby calmly unbuttoned the top right strap to his overalls and brought down the fabric to expose the right side of his chest.

“They branded us too.”

Noah closed his eyes, repulsed by the raised pink swirl representing the slaver's mark forever cresting through Toby's skin.

“They burned the women—my wife included—under their breasts. No exceptions.” Toby buttoned up. “And that smell, Noah. You smelled death on the battlefield, I'm sure. But the stink of five-hundred hot and frightened bodies mashed together, men and women so scared they can't help shitting and pissing on each other—that's the smell of humanity dying. And the disease it all caused. I heard they tossed at least fifty bodies overboard while we crossed the Atlantic. Just dumped them into the sea for the sharks.”

Toby quieted, his lips trembling. “And my father couldn't do one thing to protect me from any of that. My parents were in one of those boats. They lived that same hell. He'd have given his life to have saved me. I guarantee you he never got a peaceful night's sleep for the rest of his days—that's assuming he wasn't thrown into the ocean. I'm sure there were days he wishes he was. Now I think constantly: How far would I go to defend my boy from the evil that's out there? The same evil I see strolling by me smiling by day and then threading my noose by night. And I know the answer.”

He finished and smiled at Noah, who snapped back to reality, looking around for the first time since starting his talk with Toby.

“And what would that be, Toby? The answer.”

“It might be different from yours. But I doubt it.” Toby finished his whisky, turning the glass upside down and placing it softly on the table.

“Then say it, I'm curious,” Noah said. “I imagine you'd do anything for him, right?”

“There's a difference between me saying it and you feeling it. But you'll find out soon enough. It'll hit you—bam!” Toby smacked his palms together over the table in front of Noah's face. The few patrons already bellied up to the bar turned to look at what made the noise and retreated back into their bottles. “Just like that. And when it does, well, then you can come find me and ask me what I'm doing down here.”