Song Yet Sung (27 page)

That curse alone had kept Denwood running for years. He knew now, as Joe aimed his Paterson at his neck, that his father had been right: he had a debt to pay, and now was as good a time as any to pay it.

He waited for the boom but instead heard the sound of metal striking meat, like the sound of a knife striking a herring or a bristle brush smacking the side of a pig. It was followed by the blast of Joe's Paterson discharging near his ear, causing him to crouch and wince in pain from the noise. But when the roar of the heater died and he straightened up, he found, to his amazement, that he was unmarked. Denwood turned to see Joe's horse reeling in a half circle, a hatchet stuck in Joe's shoulder, then whipped around to see the Negro prisoner with his back to him, staring at what appeared to be a wave of leaves rolling towards a thick stand of cypress trees, moving so fast that it appeared that the wind had picked them up and pushed them along.

The patch of leaves swept past no more than five feet away, just over the Negro prisoner's shoulder, yet it was a full five seconds before Denwood realized he was staring at the back of a tall, long-limbed colored man, blood running down his back from a wound of some kind. The man cut through the swamp so fast that Denwood thought he was dreaming, and had he not glimpsed a huge, muscular calf silhouetted against the bark of a white oak that had grown among the dark cypress trees, he would have thought he'd imagined him completely. Before Denwood could blink, the ebony man had vanished into the thickets, the woods closing behind him with the finality of a door slamming shut.

—Joe, when the Devil invites you to a party, he brings every one of his friends, Denwood said. What the hell was that?

But Joe wasn't listening. His horse spun about as his free right hand grappled desperately with a hatchet embedded in his left shoulder, while his face twisted in rage and agony.

—You ambushed me, you bastard! I weren't going to shoot. You had somebody lying to!

—That's a lie, Joe, Denwood said. It ain't my fault this swamp is lousy with goose shit and stray niggers!

Joe dropped the spent Paterson into the mud, and with his right hand reached across his hips for the Colt Walker in the saddle blanket on his left side. But with the hatchet still buried in his shoulder, it was slow going. Finally he was able to push the saddle blanket aside and draw the gun towards him, but the gun barrel was so long that he could not pull the weapon completely free of its holster. Moreover, his horse kept reeling, slowing Joe's progress and giving Denwood time to back away and pull out his pepperbox. Denwood stepped behind a tree just a few feet away and aimed the pepperbox from his hip.

—You pull that Walker, Joe, and I'm gonna dust you.

—I ain't gonna do nothing, Joe said, as he continued to fumble with the Colt, nearly out of its holster now.

—Then why you pulling at it? Let it alone.

—I'm just checking it, you nigger-loving bastard. I got a right to protect myself out here. 'Specially with you ambushing me with extra niggers.

—I never seen that man in my life, Joe.

Joe struggled with the Walker, its long barrel finally free of the holster, the gun so heavy Joe seemed to have trouble swinging the barrel up.

—I'll get that hatchet out of your shoulder, you stop moving round, Denwood said, stepping forward to reach for the handle of the hatchet and trying to keep the alarm out of his voice.

But Joe had the gun barrel up now, albeit shakily, and tried to maneuver his horse around to angle for a shot. Denwood grabbed the horse's reins and pulled hard, nearly throwing Joe.

—Git off from me, you devilin' mousy bastard, Joe said.

—You gonna shoot me? Denwood said, backing away, his hand on the pepperbox.

—Won't do no such thing, Joe said, but as he righted himself he spun towards Denwood, swinging the barrel of the heavy revolver towards him, and Denwood let loose with the pepperbox.

The tiny pistol roared twice.

Sitting on his horse, Joe stared at the hole in his shirt, then slowly raised his head and looked at Denwood in surprise.

—You can't kill me, Gimp, I own a tavern. It's paid for.

He fell half off his horse, one foot caught in the stirrup, his head splashing into the swamp water beneath the horse's feet.

The Negro stared at Joe, wide-eyed. Denwood stood where he was until his breathing slowed. The scorched barrel of the pepperbox in his hand was burning, forcing him to drop it. One barrel had blown completely open. The gun was useless.

Joe's horse moved nervously, swishing Joe's head back and forth in the swamp.

Denwood closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus. This thing had gone all the way out of control. The Negro eyed him nervously.

—You seen it. He pulled on me.

The Negro nodded silently.

Denwood glanced at the woods behind Amber where the Woolman had disappeared.

—God damn, whatever that was, it was fast, he said. He blinked quickly, trying to clear his head, then said, Get Joe off that horse and git on it. We ain't got a lot of time before whoever Joe was riding with comes round. You know that nigger?

—Don't know him and don't wanna know him. Can I go home now?

—We ain't going no place but to where that girl is.

—She ain't out here, Amber said.

—Why was you taking him here, then?

—I didn't want him to get aholt of her, so I was taking him to the old Indian burial ground.

—Where's that?

—It ain't far from here, Amber said. Just the other side of Sinking Creek. But she ain't there.

—I 'bout had enough of everybody telling me this, that, and the other, Denwood said. Tell you what: We're here now. We'll have a look-see.

Amber gazed fearfully into the cypress swamp where the Woolman had vanished.

—But the burial ground's that way, he protested. Right where that devil was headed! We ain't got to follow that wild nigger, do we?

—Be quiet and mount up, Denwood said. I don't know who to believe no more. Help me move him first.

Without another word, Amber undid Joe's foot from the stirrup. He helped Denwood drag the body into the thicket, out of sight of the trail, then mounted Joe's horse. He watched Denwood pocket Joe's Paterson, pull several paper cartridge charges from Joe's saddlebag, and then step into the thicket to pull out his own horse, which Denwood mounted and pointed down the logging trail towards Sinking Creek and the old Indian burial ground.

T
he evening fog had already rolled in, and Constable Travis's posse had called it quits by the time Wiley made it to the clearing of the Sullivan farm. They were gathered around the kitchen table when he burst in the door with Patty Cannon's pistol in his hand, amid screams of relief and delight by his mother and the Sullivan children. But the rigid countenance of Kathleen Sullivan muted the celebration, and Wiley cast a long glance at the floor before he spoke.

—Well? Kathleen asked.

—It was a colored man, Wiley said. He runs faster than I ever seen a person run. I chased him past Sinking Creek all the way past the Indian burial ground. Seemed like he was headed out towards Cook's Point, Missus. Just when I got to Sinking Creek, I got struck across the face by a white lady.

Kathleen's face reddened and she looked earthward, composing herself, then at Wiley again.

—What happened exactly?

—Just like I said. This white missus knocked me 'cross the face. Her and two other fellas, they took me 'long with them. God 'a mercy, there's so much going on, I don't understand it. They had Amber out there, too, some kind of way. A white feller had him. He tried to throw his pistol on me but Amber throwed him off that job. I don't know what all's going, but there's trouble all about, Missus. Devilment everyplace.

—What about Jeff Boy?

—I tried to tell 'em, Wiley said, but they wouldn't believe me. I told 'em a devil done snatched Jeff Boy. But they made me come with them. Every time I opened my mouth on it they said shut up, and finally they got so they tied me to a horse and pulled me along. She let him get away! he cried. He burst into tears.

There was silence in the room, broken only by Wiley's sobs, which quickly slowed to sniffles. He stood and moved backward to the door, leaning on it, weak with exhaustion and terror. Kathleen pulled up a chair and pushed him into it. He sat heavily with his head back. She knelt by him.

She was afraid to ask it, but she had to.

—Was he alive? Was my Jeffrey alive when you saw him?

Wiley, his head turned upwards to the ceiling, straightened up and looked directly at her for first time, then lowered his eyes to the dusty floorboards.

—Last I seen him, he was very much alive, Missus. He was yelling to beat the band. It broke my heart to hear him yelling, but he was alive, surely. He weren't hurt.

He wiped a tear from his face. I'm sorry, Missus, Wiley said.

Kathleen nodded at Wiley's shaking hand. In his lap, still held tightly in his grip, was Patty Cannon's pistol.

—How'd you get that? she asked.

Wiley looked down. He seemed surprised to see the gun in his hand.

—I musta took it from one of them, he said. That colored fella come on back for more and them white folks gived it to him. He killed one of them outright. The other white man, he seen that black devil and he runned off. The white lady, why, she gived that wild man all the fight he wanted. As God is my savior, she fought like a man, Missus. They was terrible, Lord. The devil! Both of 'em. I reckon I picked this off the ground while they was fightin'. Take this thing, Missus. I don't want it.

Kathleen stared at the gun, undecided about what to do, then gently removed it from Wiley's hand. She checked to see if was loaded, then turned to Mary.

—Mary, stick some biscuits and oysters in that stove and feed him till he comes to himself, she instructed. Clean him up, then put him in my bed and put the children to sleep on the floor here with you.

She rose and reached for her husband's oilskin jacket and hat, which hung on a hook next to the door. I'm going to look for Jeff myself, she said grimly.

Wiley sat up straight. They're killers, Missus, he said. The whole lot of 'em. You'd best wait till morning and the constable comes back. Or let me come with you, then. They got Amber, too, in some kind of fashion.

—You'll stay here with your mother. If Amber's out there, I got all the help I need. If I can find him…

She looked at Mary. Kathleen carefully slipped the pistol gently into Mary's dress pocket.

—Anybody comes in here—so help me God, I'm naming my sin here, Mary—anybody comes to this door looking sideways, I want you to send that thing to barking without asking.

Mary stared at the missus intently.

—Let me come, Mary said softly. We don't need two people to set round here guarding this house.

Kathleen shook her head. These children is put to your charge till I get back or my pa gets here from Ocean City, she said.

—You want me to send for him, Missus?

—Not yet. He ain't allowed to fish around in my business unless I'm dead.

Mary gazed at the floor, thinking of the dreadful future if the unimaginable happened. Miss Kathleen's pa had tried several times to get the missus to sell off her coloreds and move down to Ocean City with him. What if…? It was a terrible notion, the thought of Kathleen not making it back. She turned to Wiley.

—Git your rags together and go with Missus.

—Leave him be, Kathleen said. It was an order. She strode to the cupboard of the kitchen, retrieved her Winchester rifle, powder, minié balls, a hunting knife, several pieces of bread, and a few pieces of salted pork. She wrapped the food in a calico blanket, slung it across her back, and marched to the door. She opened it and saw the large gelding that Wiley had ridden in on. She turned to see Wiley and Mary staring at her.

—Which way you come, Wiley?

—The old logging trail.

Kathleen stepped off the porch, grabbed the horse's reins, and pulled him around. It was a big gelding. She had never ridden on something so big before.

—He been watered? she asked.

—Plenty.

She turned and, leading the horse, set out on foot towards the pine grove where Jeff Boy had disappeared. She heard Wiley over her shoulder.

—You ain't gonna take that way to Sinking Creek, is you, Missus? The trail don't hold up after you cross the creek. It's all swamp. Hard going there, even for a man. Ought you not wait for the constable and the men tomorrow?

Kathleen ignored him, wrapping the oilskin tighter around her and pushing the hat firmly down over her face, then slow-footing up the hill towards the grove of pine trees.

Men, she thought bitterly. They run the world to sin and then wonder why the world wakes up every morning sucking sorrow.

Liz felt more than saw Blackwater Creek as old Clarence tacked into it. He'd approached from the south, tacking carefully up the Choptank, swinging wide through the mouth of the big creek, and pushing into its swampy bosom. It was early evening. The fading sunlight still filtered through the trees, and the odd smell of fresh water pouring out of the Blackwater into the bilious swamps that filled Joya's Neck gave the air a pungent smell. The vast numbers of heron, kingfishers, and marsh wrens that lived on the wide expanse of salt marshes called out viciously, taking to the air in protest at being disturbed by the fast-moving boat.

Liz's headache had returned, and with it flashes of insight into the lives of the swamp creatures all around her. She felt as if she were being watched. The fluttering, cries, and honking of the waterfowl and other birds was so loud and agitated that it seemed to reach a fever pitch, an incredible din, and several times she thought to ask Clarence about it, thinking perhaps something special went on about the bay this time of year, like mating rituals or some kind of nesting process, but did not bother him. Instead she closed her eyes and dozed fitfully, jerking herself awake every few moments, afraid to fall deeply asleep and dream.

When they arrived at the mouth of the creek, Clarence stopped tacking, grabbed his oars, and announced, I ain't sure which way to go now.

—I know, she murmured, and guided him slowly around several bends, avoiding the low-hanging vegetation. They both listened intently for any sounds other than those of the birds. As they approached a curve marked by a tall elm overhanging the creek, she nodded to Clarence and said, Pull up to the bank there and let me out.

—We passed the mouth of the Blackwater, he said. This is Sinking Creek. There ain't nothing within three, four miles of here.

—Got to be, she said. I remember it.

He nodded over his shoulder: Old Indian burial ground is just yonder. Maybe a half hour by foot, faster by water. You won't find it by yourself.

—You go on back now. I can find it.

—I'd just as soon stay, if it's all the same to you, the old man said.

—I'll thank you here, she said. Whatever light's left, you gonna need it to get back. Go on, Mr. Clarence. The code's safe.

The old man lingered a moment. Once you reach Sinking Creek, you can likely cross it if you go straight up this way, he said. The creek ain't too deep there. Behind it you can take the old logging trail back to Blackwater. You follow that to where Amber lives…or used to live.

He wasn't certain where Amber was or even if he was alive or not, but thought it better not to mention it.

—He's alive yet, she said.

The old man watched her face in the fading light. From the south, the fog began to roll up the Choptank and into the Blackwater. If he was going to get back, he'd need to leave soon so he could spot the shoreline, at least until he got far enough out to see the lighthouse at Ragged Point, which he could use to guide him back to Cambridge City.

—All right, then, he said. We rise at sunrise and rest at midnight.

—What's that mean?

—It means God be with you, 'cause somebody's broke for the freedom line.

—I ain't done no such thing, she said.

He looked at her grimly. No matter how the cut comes or goes, Miss Dreamer, you heading for freedom. God bless, he said.

He swung the boat around, glanced over his shoulder, and rowed out towards the Blackwater and the Choptank beyond it. Liz watched him till he raised his sail and began to tack west again towards Cambridge City, rising and falling on the billows.

When he was gone, she turned towards the small strip of land that lay before her. It was no more than two hundred yards wide, with water on either side, mostly swamp and marsh grass, with woods on one margin and a sandy beach on the other. As the sun sank towards the western horizon, she looked across the beach and noticed the tide, which was up, splash against a stand of trees and jutting rock on the far side of it. She closed her eyes but saw only darkness now. Something pushed against her chest and, without thinking, she walked towards the rocky outcrop, swinging wide to the right, with the intention of walking to the wooded area, having learned never to walk in the open.

The woods were farther away than they looked, and it took her a half hour of slogging through thick grass with swamp water up to her ankles before she worked her way to them. By then night had fallen, and she had no lamp, nothing to guide her except her feelings and instincts. Yet, she felt sure. The fog had begun to roll in, so she walked blindly now, pushing aside the thickets and bushes that clawed at her, murmuring to herself,
God, I am looking for the one thing I have never felt but once, and I would walk through heaven and earth to find it, if he would but let me find him, so that I could feel it; and if I were to feel it again I would never leave that feeling, or him that gave it to me.

She groped through a grove of thickets, past several trees, and felt the soft marshy earth beneath her feet becoming increasingly firm. She stood in place a moment, resting, her head pounding bitterly. She suppressed an urge to sit, sensing that something important was close. She moved on. The rising tide had not yet crested, and the sound of rushing water filled her ears as she walked deeper into the woods. She sensed that she had nearly reached the edge of the woods facing the water and instinctively turned to her left, keeping the sound of water on her right, knowing that the woods were not very deep and assuming that there was open beach on the far side.

She walked for several minutes. The pounding in her head increased, a constant drumming with sharp edges to it, so strong that she was afraid she might pass out. There was something, she knew, very close, and for some reason she had to see it. She slowly made her way into a thicket and sank to one knee. Heart pounding, she leaned against a tree trunk, for she felt exhausted and had to rest. There she had a vision…

She felt enormous pain, the pain of a thousand indignities, heaped up against the will of one, then saw a small colored boy of no more than seven years old tied to a tree, his back bruised and sore, while a man, apparently his father, hollered out to him, crying, beseeching the child to cooperate. Several other servants, white and colored, stood around the child, begging him, beseeching him to cooperate as well, but the boy shook his head and refused their entreaties. Then a man in frock coat, with iron-grey locks and a deeply lined brow, stepped out from behind the tree. He held a cat-o'-nine-tails. Raising the whip high, he brought it down on the boy's back. The boy looked up, and she saw a face she recognized.