by Cameron Judd
Following the directions McCracken had given him, Clardy cast about until he found Isaac Ford’s resting place. Ford was laid away in a tiny, plain, poorly kept cemetery, in a plain sepulcher upon which his name was crudely inscribed. Not forever will you lie here, Clardy vowed to his departed friend. You wanted to be buried beside your loved ones, and I’ll see that done, as soon as I can. I’ll lay you to rest in Kentucky, right beside your dear Amy.
After his respects were paid, Clardy wandered down to the levee, where all the aspects of life that made New Orleans the distinctive place it was displayed themselves most vividly. All about the levee stood market stands with tables filled with all kinds of wares and produce and overseen by a population of highly diverse and fascinating merchants numbering into the hundreds. Each competed with the others for the attention of buyers by vocal means, some yelling wildly like boisterous mountaineers, some singing, many giving a droning, well-practiced salesman’s patter in a mix of dialects that combined into a cacophanous human symphony. They hawked every kind of imaginable goods: Oysters, wild ducks—some caged live, some killed, plucked, and dressed—potatoes, corn, carrots, eggs, cutlery, tinware, carrots, fish, beef, pork, oranges, bananas, sugarcane.… A man could find most anything he could want without ever leaving the New Orleans levee markets.
Clardy stood amid the hubbub and mostly watched the people. They sported white faces, black faces, faces a light coffee hue that showed a mixing of races. He watched a couple of dancing black women, dressed with the brilliance of spring wildflowers in long scarlet and yellow gowns and multicolored madras turbans, as they sought to draw customers to a pecan-laden table manned by a perpetually smiling, heavily accented black man who managed to converse with his patrons while also providing the music to which the women danced. Clardy watched and listened in astonishment to the man’s rich baritone voice as he mixed song and conversation without ever losing the cadence to which the turbaned women moved.
Making his performance all the more remarkable was the fact that only two tables down, another man, withered and wizened and playing an odd kind of hand drum and occasionally punctuating the beat with shouts in what sounded like some African language, was providing a completely contrary beat for a second band of dancers—quadroons, these appeared to be—and both dancing groups were somehow managing to keep perfect time with their own particular backups, never growing confused by the mixing of music. Astonishing, Clardy thought, that so many different kinds of people could mix so easily and so well. New Orleans was an amazing place the like of which he had never seen.
He bought a bunch of bananas from one vendor and a bottle of some unidentifiable sweet beverage from another, and settled down to watch the whole wonderful show, letting it distract him from the urgency of the purpose that had brought him to New Orleans in the first place. He ached to find Thias at once, but Japheth’s counsel had been wise and he accepted it. To launch out alone would be to fail. If Thias was indeed jailed, they would have to proceed with guided caution and delicacy to obtain his freedom. This was a situation Clardy knew he could not handle alone. He would need the guidance of Japheth’s trained legal mind all the way.
He nibbled his fruit and hoped that Japheth’s business wouldn’t last long so they could get on with the finding and, God willing, the freeing of Thias Tyler.
Clardy will be angry with me for this. But let him be angry. This is the best way to proceed.
Japheth Deerfield had been running that thought through his mind for the last hour, trying to convince himself it was correct. Indeed Clardy would be angry when he learned that Japheth had moved on his own to locate the prison where Willie Jones and “James Hiram” were held, a prison at which he now nervously stood while a burly guard turned a big iron key in an ancient and rusty lock. Clardy would consider himself deceived when he found that Japheth’s “pressing business” hadn’t been his own but Clardy’s. But Japheth had what seemed to him good reason for wanting to initially locate and meet Thias Tyler on his own. He knew the terrible things imprisonment could do to men, how it could ruin their health, break their spirit, and turn them into beings far less human than they had been before. How sometimes it could outright kill them—and that is what he had wished to determine without the burden of Clardy’s emotionally charging presence. All along the way to New Orleans he had pondered the fact that Clardy might find his brother was not imprisoned, but buried in some unmarked pauper’s grave. Japheth’s legal work had already made him aware of three cases of men who had died in the squalor of New Orleans imprisonment. If such had happened to Thias Tyler, he wanted to learn that fact without Clardy being present, so he could break the news in as gentle a way as possible.
Now, as the big iron gate swung open into a dank, mildew-infested row of stone cells, Japheth had new grounds to fear that Thias indeed might be dead. His inquiries for prisoners named James Hiram and Willie Jones had resulted in a troubling answer: Yes, there is a Willie Jones held here, but no James Hiram. Japheth asked what had become of Hiram, but the answer was a disinterested shrug. Don’t know. Seems I heard there was a James Hiram who died. Maybe he died in prison, maybe before. Haven’t been here that long. Don’t know nothing about it firsthand, just what I’ve heard.
“I’ll have to search you for weapons,” the guard said.
“Yes, of course.”
Japheth raised his hands and let the guard search him, hoping the man’s big hands wouldn’t feel the wild pounding of his heart. In no prior case had Japheth felt such a deep personal emotional involvement. He fervently wanted Thias Tyler to be alive for Clardy’s sake. Now he was half sure that he wasn’t. In any case, an interview with Willie Jones should resolve the question.
“You can go on in,” the guard said when his search was done. “But you may not get much out of Jones. He’s fearsome sick. Probably going to die.”
With that bit of news troubling him further, Japheth followed the slump-shouldered guard down the long and dimly lighted hallway, passing stone cages in which resided the forgotten human residue of New Orleans society. He looked straight ahead, but even so felt their sallow eyes on him as he passed. How many like these were there in the world? How many of them might there be who deserved no such foul fate as this? Japheth was no unrealistic soft heart, but he did know that no legal system was perfect, and that sometimes innocents suffered at the hands of the law. Most, maybe all, of these prisoners had been jailed under the former regime; who could say whether their treatment had been justified? As he passed down that hallway, he felt he would gladly throw open the prison doors, free them all, and declare that all had a second chance to build a new and better life. Maybe I do have an unrealistically soft heart, he thought. Maybe it’s good that I’m merely an attorney and not a judge.
“Here’s your Willie,” the guard announced unceremoniously as he fumbled out another key and turned it in the lock of the last cell on the right side of the row. He swung open the door and stepped aside. “Don’t take too long.”
Japheth steeled himself against the ugly stench of the cell as he walked in and beheld a wan, thinly clad man lying on a pallet in the corner. His legs were in irons, a chain running from them to an iron ring embedded deeply in the stone wall. Japheth was struck dumb for a few moments; the man lifted a pallid face and looked at him from behind a thick growth of beard. His eyes were sad, runny, empty. He said nothing. His hair, no doubt lice-ridden, long uncut and just as long unwashed and uncombed, was dark but with much intrusion of gray.
“Don’t take too long,” the guard repeated. He closed the cell door and began to shuffle back down the hall.
Japheth cleared his throat and found his voice. “Guard! Why is this man chained?”
The guard didn’t look back nor stop walking. “Terms of his jailing, I reckon. He was in chains when I got here. Reckon he’ll be in ’em when he dies.” He went on; Japheth heard the iron gate at the hall entrance squeak open and close again with a metallic clang.
“Willie Jones?” he asked the prison
er.
No answer, but a nod.
“Sir, I’m an attorney from Natchez. I’ve come to ask you some questions.”
Something like interest flickered in the sickly eyes. “An attorney … from Natchez?”
“That’s right. I’ve come because you are connected with a case in which I have an interest.”
The man looked at Japheth suspiciously. “I’ve done been tried and sentenced. To these.” He rattled his irons. “What more is there to say? Unless you can get me free of here.”
Japheth looked around the tiny, stinking, moldy cell. No wonder men sicken and die in such places. He pondered uncertainly a moment, then said, “Perhaps I can get you free.”
The first spark of real life registered in the man’s thin face. “Free … but how …”
Japheth was instantly filled with chagrin for having made such a statement. He had no grounds for petitioning for this man’s freedom, nor any guarantee he could obtain it if he did have such grounds. His soft heart again—now he had put into this poor man’s mind a hope he might not be able to fulfill. “Sir, I can try. I can’t assure you of success.”
Willie Jones’s face had gained a touch of color and taken on an expression showing both hope and confusion. Now a look of suspicion asserted itself again. “I don’t know you. Who are you? Why would you want to help me?”
“I’m merely an attorney, as I told you. And I admit that what drew me here was not your situation in itself, but the hope of finding a man named James Hiram. I understand he may have been jailed with you for a crime you committed together.”
“No. James Hiram was never jailed here. James Hiram is dead.”
“Dead.” Japheth looked at his feet. “I feared as much.”
“But you are right that we committed a crime together. Him, me, and Timothy Rumbolt.”
“Yes. It was through Timothy Rumbolt that news of all this came out. Though I didn’t know until now that Timothy’s last name was Rumbolt.”
“You’ve talked to Timothy?”
“No. But James Hiram’s brother has. James Hiram, you may know, was really named Tyler.”
“Yes. Thias Tyler. He told me.”
“Thias has … had a brother named Clardy. Clardy chanced to meet Timothy in Natchez; Timothy told him that you and Thias were jailed in New Orleans together for stealing gold from a church.”
“Timothy was wrong. Thias was—” Jones’s words were suddenly cut off by a fierce fit of deep coughing. This man truly is very sick, Japheth thought as he watched the frail prisoner heave and hack. After nearly a minute of coughing, Jones regained control, turned to the side and spat out an ugly mass of sputum, then continued talking in a voice now tight and wheezy. “Timothy got away, somehow. Hid himself and they never found him. Thias, he tried to get away, too. We were on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain when they caught us. James … Thias, he jumped into the water and swam, with them shooting at him. He drownded out there. Drownded dead. God knows there’s times I wish I had jumped in that water and done the same. It would have been better than this.”
“So Timothy was wrong. Thias Tyler was never jailed here at all.”
“I reckon Timothy told you the best he knowed. Timothy, he’s a peculiar fellow. Got a deep fear of soldiers for some cause or another. Makes him afraid of the world.”
“Yes.”
“So you come for Thias Tyler’s brother, hoping to find Thias and get him free. That right?”
“It is.”
The prisoner sank back against the dank wall. “And Willie Jones, he don’t matter. He ain’t got no brother to come looking for him.”
“Have you any family, Mr. Jones? Anyone who could petition on your behalf? With the purchase of Louisiana there came a new government that might show you lenience if one of your kin would petition the governor on your behalf.”
“I got no kin. I’m alone in the world.”
Japheth rubbed his chin, paced about the cell, thinking hard. He was filled with pity for Willie Jones; it seemed unthinkable not to try to do something for him. Clearly he would die in this cell, and reprehensible as the robbery of holy items was, surely he had paid a sufficient price for his crime already. A very unorthodox and even illegal notion was coursing through Japheth’s mind, countered at every step by his natural caution, by images of Celinda’s reproving face—but did Celinda or anyone else ever have to know? Surely it would be justified morally, if not legally, to carry out his plan. Yes, he would do it. He stopped pacing and knelt before Willie Jones.
“Mr. Jones, you do have kin. A brother.”
“I got no brother.”
“Yes you do. Me.”
Deep bewilderment clouded his pallid countenance.
“I’m going to petition on your behalf, claiming you as my brother and asking for your freedom. I once had a brother, but now he is dead. You can take his place.”
“But they’ll know … won’t they?”
“I seriously doubt it. I doubt they even believe your name is really Willie Jones. Many of the men who rot in these prisons probably do so under false names. I’ll claim you as my brother John, and I believe we have an excellent chance of gaining your freedom. But that’s all I can do for you—you must understand that. When—If we obtain your freedom, you’ll be on your own. I advise that you turn away from crime and get yourself the help of a physician. You are very ill.”
Willie Jones, wide-eyed, took it in. Tears formed and ran down his face, tracking through months’ upon months’ worth of oily grime. “You’d do that for me?”
“I would. I will.”
The prisoner lowered his face and cried silently for more than a minute, and Japheth was happy for the course he had chosen. At length Willie Jones looked up at him and smiled. “You are a saint of God, sir. You surely are.”
“Just an attorney with too soft a heart for his calling. Now understand me, Willie: from now on you are my brother. You must answer to his name, admit that you lied about your identity. My brother was a preacher, by the way; we’ll say that he … that you went wrong and changed your identity out of shame. If anyone asks you details of your life—and I doubt anyone will—say that you are from Kentucky, but that all your trials and sickness had bereaved you of your memories until I showed up and jolted them back into you. It’s a tricky tale, but in your condition I think it will be believed. Not that it is likely, mind you, that anyone will even bother to ask. I suspect the authorities will be glad simply to be rid of you.”
“Bless you, sir. God bless you. Whatever happens, sir, whether they free me or not, I’ll never forget that you did good for me. I’ll never forget the name of … what is your name, sir?”
Japheth, animated with an excitement of moral purpose that had momentarily made him forget his sorrow over the disappointing news about Thias’s fate, rose and turned to the cell door. “Guard!” he called. “I’m ready to leave now.” Then, in answer to Jones’s question, he said with back turned, “My name is Deerfield. Japheth Deerfield. My brother was named John. That’s who you are until you are free and clear—Lord willing. John Deerfield. Ah, here comes the guard.”
He paused as the bulky man shuffled up and unlocked the cell. When he was out of the cell, Japheth turned and nodded at Willie Jones with a smile. Jones was staring at him with an expression of tremendous awe. And no wonder, Japheth thought. Surely I must seem quite a savior to him right now. “Good day, John,” he said. “I’ll see you later, hopefully with some very thrilling news.”
Japheth headed down the hallway at a lope, out through the open iron gate and out of the prison before the somnolent guard had even made it halfway back up the hall from the cell.
Clardy Tyler returned to the inn where he and Japheth had rented rooms. He found the lawyer there, awaiting him with a somber expression.
Something’s wrong. Something about Thias.
“Clardy, sit down,” Japheth said. “There’s news to give you.”
Clardy took off his hat and sank slowly i
nto a chair. Dread filled him. “My brother?”
“Yes.” Japheth cleared his throat, coughed into his fist, looked ill at ease. “Clardy, I have deceived you. I didn’t mind my own business this morning. I minded yours. I made inquiries about James Hiram … about Thias. Clardy, this Timothy fellow, he didn’t give you fully accurate information.”
“He lied to me?”
“He told you the truth as far as he knew it. He had said that he escaped, and that Thias and this other man, Willie Jones, had been captured and put in prison. Correct?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“He was wrong. Only Jones was captured.”
Clardy frowned, taking it in. “So Thias escaped, too?”
“Yes … but no. Clardy, what I found out was this.” And he told the story of his day, told it all except his plan for the freeing of Willie Jones. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, and the growing look of dread comprehension that came over Clardy’s face distressed him deeply.
When Japheth was finished, Clardy said flatly, “Thias is dead.”
“As best can be told, yes. But Timothy didn’t know. He had already made his escape before Thias took to the water.”
“Thias … dead … But where is his body?”
“Never found, I presume. Quite honestly, I was so saddened by what I found that I didn’t ask.”
“Then maybe he’s alive! Maybe this Willie Jones has it wrong!”
“I don’t think so, Clardy. As hard as it is to do, you must resign yourself to the truth. Thias is dead. You did your best to find him, but he is gone and now it’s over. It was the fear that we would find just such news as this that made me go out alone today. If we found out the worst, I wanted to be able to spare you having to learn it as straightforwardly as I did.” He paused, drew in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “There. Now I’ve told you. I dreaded having to strike you with this.”
“So I’ve come to New Orleans only to find that the brother I wanted to see is dead. God.” Clardy put his face in his hands. “God!”