The Land (21 page)

Without turning, I said, “We didn't take the chickens.” My words were steady, strong, but quietly spoken.

“Yeah? And why we s'pose t' believe that? We don't know you!”

I took a moment, turned, and stared into the darkness as if I could pierce the man's unseen eyes. Then, in a tone I'd heard my daddy use to lesser men, I said, “You questioning my word?”

There was silence. I didn't move. I didn't even look at Mitchell. I figured Mitchell was ready to do what needed to be done. The man in the darkness said nothing. The lead man finally lowered his gun and said, “Y'all figure t' be gone come mornin'?”

I turned to him and nodded. “I figure so.”

“Ya best stick t' that,” he warned. “We don't take easily t' strangers round here.” Then he and the others moved away without another word.

Mitchell and I stayed put, listening to the sounds of their footsteps fading, then the sounds of the forest natural. It took a few minutes before I could breathe normal again. Mitchell got up. He was holding his gun. “That was close.”

“Too close,” I said.

“Figured for sure them lumbermen done come after us,” he said, dismissing the chicken hunters.

I didn't say anything to that. Men looking for chicken thieves and men looking for two men of color who had left their job were all the same to me, as long as those men were white. I turned to my bedding and started rolling it up.

“Whatcha doin'?”

“Getting ready to move out of here.”

“Tired as we are?”

“I suddenly got myself some new energy.”

Mitchell stuck his gun into the waist of his pants. “'Spect I have too.”

After he'd packed his gear, Mitchell said, “Ya know, Paul, I 'spect we best be splittin' up.”

I glanced over at Mitchell, reading him before he said his next words; still, I asked, “Why's that?”

“You know why. You lookin' white in the night done saved us this time, but them men catch a white-lookin' man and a black one for sure on the road walkin' t'gether come light, they might have theyselves a change of mind 'bout our thievin'. We be separated and they come on us, they won't remember one of us from anybody else. Same goes if the lumbermen got folks after us. We travel t'gether, folks take too much notice.”

I knew Mitchell was right. I had already thought it myself. “I could help get us out of a mess, though, we get stopped.”

“Can't help me, you swingin' from a tree yo' own self.”

I sighed.

“They figure you got colored in ya, Paul, that's what's gonna happen sure. You be swingin' 'fore I do.”

“All right,” I said, not liking the truth of any of this but knowing it was so. “You going to head on up to the camp?”

“Yeah, figure t' do so.”

“I'll be going to that Luke Sawyer's store.”

“We can meet up there. Say, in a month or so?”

I nodded, and the matter was settled. “But you send me word before then,” I said, “and I'll do the same.” Mitchell agreed to that. We figured it would ease both our minds to know that the other hadn't gotten caught by Jessup or been mistaken again for a chicken thief.

We stayed on by the campsite awhile after that, waiting for the men to move farther away from us. But before the morning came, we took to the trail again, still headed due north. Couple hours after the dawn we went our separate ways.

 

I was dead tired; still, I walked all that day. Mitchell and I had split the last of Maylene's food, and I ate the final piece of chicken for my dinner shortly past noon. I figured to save the corn bread for my supper. By nightfall I was looking for a place to lay my head in some kind of peace. The moon was rising and I still hadn't found a spot. The darkness came, followed by a full moon. The land opened up into meadow, and I left the trail, crossed the meadow in part, and found myself a hillside to climb. There were some trees, but no dense brush. Out beyond the slope I could see the outline of a forest in the moonlight. There was no man-made light, and I took solace from that. I took off my gear and set it on the ground beside a good-sized rock and wondered how far Mitchell had gotten in his travel. Then, without rolling out my bedroll or checking around that rock for rattlers or any other such thing, I lay down and went to sleep.

 

Next morning when I woke, the sun was already high, shining bright in my eyes. Having not had much sleep in the past days, on this morning I had slept long, and even peacefully, despite being in a place I didn't know and without Mitchell to keep watch with me. I shielded my eyes from the sun, gave them a rub, then looked out upon the day.

I was awed by what I saw.

All around me was emerald green, and above that, God's own bluest skies, blessed only with two or three perfect rolls of pillow-like clouds. A meadow lay all around me, and a forest of longleaf pine dotted with oak and hickory circled the meadow. Gazing from the slope where I sat beside the rock, I felt I was sitting where God Himself must have once sat and been pleased with Himself.

I got up and began to walk the land. I trod down the slope, circled the meadow, and lastly went into the forest along a cow trail laden with dung, to a glade that held a pond as its center. A fallen tree lay beside the pond, and I sat upon it as the morning light slit through the trees and shone everything golden. For the first time since I'd left my daddy's land, my heart soared, higher than any mountain I'd ever imagined, up to God's own perfect clouds, and I felt a peace come over me.

 

“ 'Ey, boy! Whatcha doin' here?”

I turned, startled, and stood quickly. I'd been sitting on the log for some time and the sun was now directly overhead.

“I say, whatcha doin' here?”

An old man stood before me, a stick in his hand for support. He was a man of color.

“Just sitting,” I said.

“You ain't from round here, is ya? Ain't seen ya before.”

“No, sir. Just came here this morning. Slept up on the slope yonder last night.”

The old man's eyes narrowed and he came closer. “Who you? What name ya go by?”

“Name's Paul Logan,” I said, feeling a sudden familiarity with the old man, as if he were a part of home. “I come out of Georgia.”

“And here ya is way over here? Ya don't know it, boy, this here's Mississippi!”

“Yes, sir. I know that.”

The old man eyed me again, then sat down on the log. I took my seat beside him. “Whatcha doin' way over here in Mississippi?” he asked me.

“Heading toward Vicksburg.”

“T' do what?”

I smiled at the old man's curiosity. “Maybe get a job.”

“Umph” was all the old man had to voice to that.

“It's right pretty country here,” I said.

“That sho' the truth.”

“You know who owns it?”

“Oughtta. Man done bought it from my Old Master Morris Granger. Old Master done had t' sell a bunch of his land for taxes, or so that's what folks say. After that war he ain't had no money. Now, I been on this here place from time I was a youngun. Old Master tole me that done been way more'n three score and ten, and I ain't never figured nobody else be puttin' they name t' this land outside Old Master's people. Young Master Filmore, he in charge now. Old Master gone on t' the Maker, but I still here.”

I nodded in appreciation of that fact. “Well, who owns this land now?”

“That there'd be Mister J. T. Hollenbeck. Come down from somewheres north and done bought it after the war. Bought near t' all the land round in here.”

“You think he'd be willing to sell some of it?”

The old man turned and stared at me through milky-looking eyes. “Now how's I s'pose t' know somethin' like that? Ya wants t' know that, then ya needs t' be askin' him.”

I rose. “Then I expect I will. Where can I find him, this J. T. Hollenbeck?”

“Jus' follow that there trail back t' that meadow, then ya head yo'self straight north. Turn t' the east ya come t' a creek, and a forked road. Follow that right fork, and ya find him.”

“Well, I thank you.”

The old man nodded.

I started away, then stopped to look back at him. “May I ask your name?”

“Elijah,” he said. “That's what he called me, Old Master did. Elijah. That's all.”

I thanked him again, then left him there, sitting by the pond. I went back to the slope, got my gear, and headed out. I followed old man Elijah's directions as far as the creek and stopped there to wash up. I had myself one spare shirt and a spare pair of pants, and after I'd cleaned myself, I put them on. I brushed my teeth with a sweet gum stick and combed my hair back straight. Then I continued on my way to see J. T. Hollenbeck. I wasn't dressed Sunday-go-to-meeting, but I was clean.

 

When I presented myself to J. T. Hollenbeck, I let him know right off I was a man of color. I figured it was best I not misrepresent myself concerning this land. If I did business with him, he'd eventually find out anyway, since I wasn't trying to hide the fact, and I didn't want any chance I might have of buying this land to backfire in my face. Thing was, as it turned out, J. T. Hollenbeck wasn't interested in selling, no matter what color I was.

“If you really want land,” he told me, “the man to see is Filmore Granger. I know he's made a few small land deals in the last few years, but I can tell you from experience, dealing with him won't be easy. Now, you say you're a man of color, so I can't guarantee you that Filmore Granger will even do business with you. But if you're interested in buying some land in these parts, you need to at least talk to him. Tell him I sent you, though I don't know how much of a recommendation that would be.” He smiled. “I don't know whom Filmore Granger despises more, white Yankees or free Negroes.”

“Well, I thank you for your advice,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment about the land. “I'd be much obliged, though, if you ever do decide to sell any of your land, you'd keep me in mind.”

J. T. Hollenbeck looked me over, scrutinizing my worth, I suppose. “I ever do think on selling, I'll probably be asking cash money. You'd be able to do that?”

“Well, that'd be depending on your price.”

“It'd be fair, but it wouldn't be cheap. Most men of color couldn't afford it. Where would you get it?”

“Well, that wouldn't be your worry, Mister Hollenbeck,” I said, speaking direct, “long as I meet your price.”

J. T. Hollenbeck smiled again. “I'll keep that in mind, Paul Logan.” Then J. T. Hollenbeck told me how to get to the Granger house, but when I left him, I kept to the trail toward Vicksburg. I had no interest in seeing another piece of land right now. I had seen the land I wanted, and it was that land that stayed on my mind.

When I got to Vicksburg, I went straightaway to find Luke Sawyer's store. When I found it, I told Luke Sawyer that Miz Hattie Crenshaw out of Laurel had suggested I look him up. I told him that I was a wood craftsman and that I was looking for a place to start up my work again. I told him that I could make just about anything when it came to wood furniture; then I handed him the yellowed sheet of paper Miz Crenshaw had written on my behalf when I'd left her place. The fact that I was a man of color was in that letter. Luke Sawyer looked solemnly at the letter, then glanced over his spectacles at me. “How you know Miz Hattie?” he finally said.

“I worked for her a few years back.”

“Doing woodworking?”

“Some.”

“You learned woodworking at her place, then?”

“No, sir. I apprenticed with a man in Georgia, but I finished up with a man outside Laurel.”

“You got tools?”

“Just what I can carry with me. Not all I need.”

“So how you expect to make furniture if you don't have all the necessary tools?”

“Well, Miz Crenshaw said you used to have a cabinetmaker working out of your store, so you'd most likely have access to the tools I'd need. What you don't have, maybe I could make.”

“You'd want to buy the tools from me then?”

“What I'd like to do,” I said quite frankly, checking his eyes, “is go into business with you. You supply the major tools and I'll make the furniture.”

Luke Sawyer studied me. “And how do I know you can do what you say you can?”

“You got something you want made?”

Luke Sawyer gazed at me in silence before pulling out a notebook from below his counter. Then he turned and motioned for me to follow him. He led me outside to a shed that was set back a ways on the west side of his store. He unlocked the door and showed me in. There were some tools hanging on the wall, a fireplace was in the corner, and a lathe sat in the middle of the floor. Planks of lumber were leaning against the wall and dust was settled around the room. “It's been a good while since I had anybody working in here,” said Luke Sawyer as he coughed from the dust. Then waving the dust away, he opened his notebook and thumped his forefinger on a page showing a picture of a night table. “Can you make that?”

I studied the picture, then glanced around the room at Luke Sawyer's tools. “Long as these tools of yours are good, I can make it.”

“Well, I know a lady who mightily wants an oak night table like this and a chifforobe to match. I'm not going to risk my wood on a chifforobe just yet, but if you can make a night table to satisfy her, then I'll consider a proposition with you and I'll pay you for the table. You turn out a poor piece and mess up my wood or my tools, I'll put you to work chopping wood or anything else needs doing 'til I figure you've paid me in full for them. Agreed?”