“Mista Richard whup her. No,” he said quickly, “not wif the snake. He take a rod to her. She pained, but she not bloodied.”
Jud nodded. “Where is she now? With Emeral’?”
Chaskey looked away. “Uh . . . no. She, uh, she up at the house. Mista Richard send fo’ her ‘bout two hours ago.”
“Whut for?”
“I doan know, Jud. I truly doan. But doan fret, they ain’t goan cut her. You know they never bloody no nigger in the house.”
Jud stood silent, breathing deeply. The he turned to go.
“Jud!” Chaskey called. Jud stopped. “I . . . I . . .” The foreman could think of nothing to say. He lowered his head.
“Uh-huh,” Jud said.
Jud went back to his shanty. He sat on a stool, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped and supporting his head. In a while he stood, went to a corner, and picked up a frock Delia had been mending. He walked back to the stool. He sat, holding the frock, caressing while the few remaining sounds from the slave quarters faded one by one.
He did not hear her enter; rather, suddenly became aware of her presence and looked up. She was standing in the doorway.
“Delia!” He leaped up and took her by the shoulders.
She seemed almost not to recognize him, to recognize that he was there at all.
He pulled her softly to him, careful not to touch her back. “Delia, it all right now. I here. It ovuh.”
She stood still. Her arms hung at her sides.
“Delia?” He put a hand under her chin and raised her face so that she was looking into his eyes. Her own were blank. He took her hand. “Come,” he said. She followed him to the bed and stood there until he guided her down.
When her buttocks touched the mattress, she gave a tiny cry. Jud helped her to lie down on her side. She neither helped nor resisted him.
“Delia, tell me whut wrong. Talk to me.”
He tried for several minutes, but got no response. She seemed to be looking through him.
There were tears in his eyes. “Delia, please. Please talk to me. It me, Jud.”
Her mouth opened. He took her face in his hands.
“I . . . I goan away.” Her voice was distant. “I goan far away. Far . . . far. Goan away . . . an’ nobody goan see Delia again. . . . I goan away.”
Jud pressed his cheek to hers. “Yes, Delia. Soon. We goin’ to that mountain.” His voice was choked. “Soon. Jus’ you an’ me.”
If she heard him, she offered no sign.
“Delia. Oh, Delia!” He pressed his face into her hair and wept.
After a while, he extinguished the lamp, sat down beside the bed, and leaned his back against the wall. He stroked Delia’s hand and murmured, “Sleep. Sleep now.”
In an hour his head began to nod.
HE WOKE A LITTLE before dawn with a start. The bed was empty. The light seeping in the windows was a dark gray. A quick glance around the shanty revealed everything in its place, except Delia’s worn pair of shoes, which usually stood beside his own next to the door.
He touched the mattress. It was cold. She’d been gone for some time.
He stepped outside. A thin arc of light was spread across the eastern horizon. A handful of blacks were shuffling sleepily through the quarters. The boy assigned to beat the morning tattoo on the iron triangle was trudging toward the meeting shed, rubbing he sleep out of his eyes with his knuckles. Jud went back inside and waited until the clanging triangle had been silent for some minutes and there were many blacks up and moving about. Then he left the shanty and sought out the overseer.
“Suh,” he said. “Delia burn all night with the fever. She pow’ful weak, cain’t get out of bed.”
“Oh? Well, maybe I should go give her a look.”
“If’n you want, suh. But I dose her good with quinine an’ the fever break this mornin’. She jus’ now close her eyes. She be fine, be right back to work tomorrow. But I thought you want to know ‘bout it.”
“All right. Fine. You git on to work now, look in on her this afternoon. If’n she ain’t better by evenin’, you come git me, hear?”
“Yes, suh.”
Jud worked hard and with careful concentration through the day. He cut, he bored, he polished, he fitted iron tools perfectly with new shafts. He was acutely aware of the grain of the wood he handled, the rough texture of the unfinished pieces, the burning odor that rose as the saw warmed in the tight slots when he cut planks, the crunching of the chips beneath his feet. It was a good, productive day’s work, and he remained in the shop after most of the others had been vacated.
When he finally left, shortly before suppertime, he took a roundabout way back to his shanty, one that brought him past the slaughterhouse. As he had expected, it was empty. Beneath the bone saws and cleavers there was a rack that held an assortment of thin boning knives used for skinning and for fine cutting. He withdrew three of them, turned them over in his hands, and replaced two. The one he kept was narrow and flat, with a five-inch blade. He stuck it in his waistband and covered the hilt with his shirt.
In his shanty he lighted the oil lamp. From beneath the rags in the raffia basket he withdrew several scraps of paper, a newspaper, a quill, and a packet of black dye. He went through the pieces of paper first, and selected one on which someone from the Great House had written, and then crossed out, the first paragraph of a letter. Half of the piece was empty. He folded it, ran his palm along the edge to sharpen the crease, opened it, and tore it carefully on the fold. He discarded the smaller portion, the one with the writing on it. He sprinkled some of the powdered dye into a dish and added water. He thought for some time, furrowing his brow. He took a smaller, dirtied piece of paper, dipped the quill into the dye, and laboriously wrote the first sentence. He spend the next hour in practice, changing words, searching the newspaper to check his spelling as best he could. When he finally felt that he could do no better, he copied what he had written onto the large piece of paper. He wrote:
April 1861
To All Interested. This is Xerxes from Alan Peals Plantation. Cloud Haven. Tennessee. He got til May to get to Charleston to work for my cousins Grain & Feed Store in Charleston. Plees let him work for food if he want.
with respect
Alan Peal. Esq.
Xerxes. Delia would have liked that. He read over his work and was satisfied. He folded the paper with care and tucked it into a bandana in which he had placed some pone and a chunk of smoked meat.
Then he put out the lamp and sat down in the darkness. He waited, thinking of nothing, until the slave quarters were wrapped in silence. Then he emerged cautiously from the shanty and made his way to the Great House, keeping to the shadows.
The night was still save for the chirring of tree frogs and the hum of nocturnal insects. He studied the house as he approached, searching for even the tiniest glimmer of light. There was none. He located the window he wanted. It was at the corner of the house, on the second floor. Below it, a rain barrel stood on the ground, half full. He took off his shoes and set them down next to the barrel. He placed the bandana next to them. Then he stood and listened, sorting out the sounds of the night.
No one was awake.
He removed his shirt, put it with his shoes and the bandana. He drew the knife from his waistband and clamped it in his teeth, and shucked out of his pants. Naked, he looked up. Between the first and second stories was a narrow cornice, and spaced along the cornice were projecting corbels—mostly decorative, but strong enough to support his weight. He tested the rain barrel. It was solid, wouldn’t tip. Bracing one hand against the wall for balance, he climbed up on the barrel and stood on the rim, straddling the mouth. He readjusted the knife between his teeth, reached up, grasped one of the corbels, tested it, and swung off the barrel, kicking a leg high and catching the next corbel in the crook of his knee. Slowly he worked himself up so that he stood erect, legs spread, one foot on each of the corbels. He moved carefully along the wall, and several min
utes later was crouching beneath the window he wanted.
He reached his fingers over the sill and probed. The window was barely open, not enough room for him to work his fingers beneath it. He took the knife from his teeth and pressed the blade against the wall to test it. It gave slightly. It was not meant for heavy work, but he thought it would be stiff enough. He slipped it between the window and the sill, levered it slightly. He pressed harder. There was a small scrape, which made him go rigid, as the window edged up. He waited. When he heard nothing from within, he rose to his full height. Curtains masked the window, but the drapes were open, and Jud could see the outline of a bed and a sleeping figure.
He set the knife carefully on the sill and took hold of the frame with both hands. . His vision did not waver from the bed as he inched the window up, paused, inched it up again, paused. . . .
The figure rolled twice, but didn’t wake. Jud picked up the knife and lifted a leg over the sill and into the room. The carpet felt strange to his bare foot, curiously soft, and without the chill of the ground or of bare floors. He bent his torso low, swung beneath the window, and drew his other leg after him. He parted the curtains, and purposely left them parted so that moonlight spilled in.
He crossed the room, placing his feet carefully and feeling with his toes for obstructions. At the side of the bed he stood looking down at Richard Ackerly’s sleeping form. The white man was lying on his side, his back to Jud. Jud crouched, took hold of a corner of the blanket and gave it a little tug. Richard grunted and pulled the blanket closer to his chin. Jud tugged again. A kind of sigh came from Richard. He rolled over onto his back.
Jud stood, grasped the knife, and leaped upon the white man, driving his knee deep into Richard’s stomach, covering his mouth with one great hand. Richard’s eyes bulged open. Air rushed warmly through his nostrils and his mouth tried to open beneath Jud’s hand. His fists beat at Jud’s head, his fingers clawed for the eyes.
“Quiet, Mista Richard,” Jud whispered. He held the knife out so Richard could see it. “Quiet. Quiet.”
Richard bucked and twisted under him, but Jud’s weight was too great. Jud dimpled the side of Richard’s neck with the point of the knife. The skin separated and a small drop of blood appeared.
“Quiet,” Jud said. Richard ceased to struggle. He stared up through wide eyes. “Kin you see me, Mista Richard? Blink yo’ eyes if you kin. Good. That’s good. You rec’nize me? Jud, right? Good.”
He looked down at Richard with an expressionless face. Then he laid the keen edge of the knife across Richard’s throat.
“You feel that? Uh-huh. Well, you jus’ rest a bit an’ think ‘bout it. Think ‘bout how sharp it is. Think ‘bout where it settin’. You thinkin’ ‘bout that, Mista Richard? Good.”
Jud shifted his weight suddenly and brought it to bear on the knife, pressed the thin blade down through flesh and cartilage, drawing it a little to the side. Richard’s eyes distended. He kicked out. He flailed at Jud. Blood spurted from his throat, spraying hot onto Jud’s arms and chest. The knife pressed against the hard vertebrae of Richard’s neck. Jud held it there, keeping his other hand over Richard’s mouth. Richard thrashed about wildly, but without effect. Small wet coughing sounds issued from his gaping throat. Jud felt Richard’s stomach convulse, and an instant later a thick liquid erupted over Jud’s forearms. Richard’s struggles grew weaker, but still the blood gushed over Jud, soaking the bedding, and still Jud did not relinquish his hold.
It was only when Richard had been motionless for several minutes that Jud eased back, then released him, moved off the bed. He glanced down at Richard, turned and walked to the window, leaving the knife wedged in Richard’s throat. He climbed out through the window, steadied himself, and sprang lightly to the ground, rolling to absorb the shock.
He rested a moment and listened. When he heard nothing that was not natural to the night, he pushed himself up and padded silently to the rain barrel. He took hold of each side of the rim, flexed his arms, and drew up his legs. He lowered himself into the chilly water. Taking care not to splash, he squatted and worked his hands over his body and swirled the water about himself.
He emerged washed free of blood. He rolled his shirt into a ball, used it to wipe himself dry, and dressed quickly.
Once he had gained the public road, he stopped to put on his shoes. He looked up at the moon. Dawn was a little less than four hours away. A man walking leisurely can cover four miles in an hour. A man running steadily, running smoothly, can travel twice that distance.
Jud began to run.
When the first pink fingers of light splayed into the sky, he entered the woods. He stayed near the road, for the foliage was thinner there and would not slow him as much as the deeper woods. He didn’t stop until the sun was well past meridian, and then only long enough to eat some pone. He had no difficulty avoiding the few travelers, white and black, whose paths he crossed. Toward sunset he slanted away from the road, farther into the woods. At the bank of a small stream he rested for a while, but did not allow himself to close his eyes. At dark he was off again, back on the roads. It was easier on them, much easier, and he knew, when he reentered the woods an hour before dawn, that he would have to travel on them during the day, too. Fighting through the undergrowth was difficult, and he couldn’t cover enough ground. Staggering with weariness, he threw himself down in a clearing. He lay only a moment, though, for there were things he had to do before he could sleep. He scraped up a pile of dust, then stripped off his shirt, pulled up his pants legs, and rubbed the dust vigorously onto his skin, working it into his pores. It wasn’t much, but it helped, lightening the deep hue of his color. Then he searched for two stones, a short one with a narrow blunt point, and a second, round, heavy one. He rolled back his upper lip and placed the blunt stone against his teeth. It was a good width; it covered the two center teeth. He held the stone steady, picked up the second one, and used it to strike the first, as he would have used a hammer to strike a chisel. He groaned as the two teeth snapped off at the gum line. He spat them out, along with viscous, saliva-mixed blood. He took green moss from the side of a tree and held it against his injured gums until it stuck. Then he crawled under a thick bush, so the sun would not shine on him when it rose, and fell immediately into a deep and exhausted slumber.
He woke in the late afternoon. He removed the moss and tested the gums. The bleeding had stopped. He walked back to the road, but before leaving the woods, he picked up a knobby-ended stick, the length of a cane. There were not many travelers. When they did approach, Jud stooped and affected a limp. No one paid any unusual attention to him.
Toward the end of the day, he came upon a roadside inn. There was a small coffle—five chained blacks and a white man—preparing to bed down for the night. Two gentlemen sat in rockers on the porch, and another, a traveler from the look of his clothes, was watering his horse. A black man was scooping water from the horse trough with his hand. Leaning against the trough was a stick with a red-and-yellow tote sack tied to the end.
Jud approached them, limping slightly, enough to be noticed, but not enough to draw undue notice.
“Evenin’, Masta. Evenin’ to you, suh,” he said to the man watering his horse. He grinned and bobbed his head. “Kin you tell me, Masta, suh, how far I gots to go ‘fore I gets me to Charleston?”
The white man looked up, then returned his attention to his horse. “You got a goodly walk yet, nigger. Better’n a hunnert an’ fifty miles.”
“Oooh-eee! Thank you, suh. Thank you, Masta.” The white man turned his horse away, started to lead it off, then stopped. He squinted at Jud. “Whut your name, nigger?”
Jud smiled broadly and puffed out his chest. “Xerxes, suh.”
“Mmm-hmm. Lemme see your pass.”
“Yes, suh. It right here, suh.”
The man took the paper and silently mouthed the words as he read it. He finished, scratched his upper lip, and handed the pass back. “Well, if’n you goin’ team up with anot
her walkin’ nigger, you better be right careful.”
Hoofbeats pounded down the road, and above them came a shout, “Ai-yah-ai-yah-hoo!”
“They somethin’ dangery, suh?”
The man was watching the rapidly approaching rider with curiosity.
“Suh?”
“Whut? Oh, a lunatic buck—a big bastard—an’ his wench. Went mad upstate an’ kilt a white man. Headin’ north, most likely, but you never can tell with crazy niggers. Though they wouldn’t o’ got this far if they movin’ south, anyway.”
Jud shuddered. “Lordy! Thank you, Masta. Thank you, suh.”
The rider, a young man with a flushed face, forced his galloping mount into a sharp turn which nearly caused them both to spill. He raced the lathered animal into the yard—“War!”—and jerked it to a vicious stop.
The men on the porch were standing. “Whut you sayin’, boy?”
“War!” The boy leaped from the saddle and ran up to them. “They’s gonna be a war!”
“Now calm down. Whut kind of foolishness you talkin’?”
“Goddamn it, ain’t no foolishness! It God’s gospel truth. We damn near blowed Fort Sumtuh into kingdom come wif our cannon. The Yankees run up the white flag.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Courier jus’ ride hell-bent into town. We goin’ to war! An’ that ain’t all. The Yanks gonna use niggers to fight. They givin’ all them niggers up Norf guns an’ uny-forms, goin’ send ‘em agin’ us! Niggers!”
“No!”
“Not even the Yanks’d do that!”
When his departure would no longer seem conspicuous, Jud limped away from the inn. The stars were already bright in the sky above him. He walked slowly, and for a little while the voices from the inn followed him.
Then he was alone.
Maybe the Quakers could help him find Delia. If they couldn’t, or if she was . . . If they couldn’t . . .
He stopped and looked up. Not at the stars, but at the huge emptiness that separated him from them.
If they couldn’t . . . Maybe he would go to Canada. Maybe he would go North and see if they would make a soldier of him. Maybe he would go and find the mountain. Maybe—
Slave (The Shame & Glory Saga) Page 15