A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles)

by Laing, Annette

  A few yards ahead of him, miners were lying on their stomachs underneath a dangerous-looking overhang of earth and rock. About half of the men were completely naked, and all of them were hacking away with pickaxes at the thick coal seam. A huge rock column supported the cavern ceiling, and a cluster of miners was seated around it, having a picnic. Among them was the young man whom Brandon had met earlier. He was holding an enormous round meat pie and a beer, and he called over to Brandon, “Alright?” It was a friendly greeting, and he pronounced it “Oroight.”

  Brandon nodded curtly. Another miner, an older man, beckoned to him. “Here, coom and sit wi’us while we ‘ave our paces.” He held up his sandwich, and so Brandon understand what “pace” meant. Lowering himself onto the cold hard ground, Brandon shook his head, as if he were trying to get water out of his ears. He didn’t want to think about what he was doing here. Perhaps it was a nightmare. Perhaps he would wake up in modern London in July, or, better still, in Snipesville in August.

  The young miner turned to the others, and said through a mouthful of pie, “Here’s the darky boy I was telling you about.”

  Brandon cringed at the word, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before, in twentieth-century Balesworth.

  The older miner smiled at him. “Right enough, Ben, he is and all! What’s thy name, lad? I be Zachariah, but everybody calls me Zach.”

  “My name’s Brandon,” Brandon said reluctantly.

  The small group of men laughed at his accent. To their ears, he sounded like a native of south-east England. Ben said, “Hark at him, lads, he may look like he belongs here in the Black Country, but he ain’t one of us…. You sound like you am from down South, lad.”

  Zach joked, “Arr, never was spoke a truer word. We’ll make a Black Countryman of him yet,” and the group laughed. “Welcome to Hitherton, Brandon, the finest town in the Black Country of England. Come have a bit of snap with us.”

  “I don’t have any lunch,” Brandon explained sheepishly. “I didn’t bring it.”

  “Here, don’t fret, have some of mine,” said Ben, breaking off a piece of his pie and handing it to Brandon. Zach leaned over to give Brandon a lump of cheese.

  “Thanks, you guys,” Brandon said, gratefully chowing down, but his eyes got wide when Ben also offered him a swig of his beer. “I don’t drink,” he said quietly.

  “Get away!” exclaimed Ben in surprise. “Oy, lads, we’ve got one here who’s taken the temperance pledge. Am you a Methodist? Do you go to chapel?”

  “Um, yes,” said Brandon, figuring it was easiest to agree.

  Ben nodded knowingly. “Arr, that explains you not drinking, like.”

  “Well, just don’t come preaching to us,” said Zach with a chuckle, “and we’ll get on like a house on fire.”

  Brandon didn’t know why, but he had adjusted to their strange accent far more quickly than he could have imagined: He understood every word. He wondered about that. Could it be that whatever magic allowed them to hear his voice differently also allowed him to hear and understand them more clearly? He munched his lunch, and glanced nervously at the heavy shelf hanging over the working miners. It was supported only by upright wooden planks that looked about as substantial as matchsticks. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous?” he asked.

  “Oh, arr, it is,” said Zach, “But what can you do? Work’s work, and this is ours. We lost a couple of blokes not six month ago. It was sad, because we were just about to call them out to let the shelf drop, when it fell of its own accord. Poor chaps never stood a chance.”

  Brandon shuddered.

  “Don’t frighten the lad,” Ben said, “He’s only a trapper on his first day. Are you coming to the pub with us, Brandon?

  “I think I’m too young to go to a pub,” Brandon said, thankful to have an excuse.

  “No, lad,” said Zach, “You’re talking daft. Come with us, we’ll see you right.”

  Just then, a burly man in a bowler hat stopped in front of the group, and looked pointedly at Brandon. “You the new trapper? You’re late for work. I was expecting you hours ago.”

  “Nah, he was on time,” Ben said quickly. “He was working when I came through with my first load this morning.”

  Brandon silently thanked Ben for covering for him.

  The man in the bowler hat didn’t look convinced. “Well,” he said to Brandon, “why aren’t you still at the trapdoor now, eh? I never told you it was time for your snap, did I?”

  “No sir,” Brandon said cautiously. “I guess I got confused.”

  The man leaned down and pointed a finger in Brandon’s face. “You just confuse yourself back to work then. I got an eye on you, I have.” With that, he went over to check on the working miners, pausing only to shoot a stern look at Brandon.

  “I don’t think I know the way back,” confessed Brandon to Ben. “And he’s the boss, right?”

  Ben slapped him on the back. “Don’t you worry, our kid, I’ll show you where you trap. And that one? That’s the doggie, that is.”

  Brandon looked blank, so Ben explained, “The doggie’s the butty’s man underground.”

  Brandon thought, What the heck does that mean? So much for the magic translations…

  Very reluctantly, he followed Ben and his lantern back toward the trap door.

  “Haven’t you got a candle, Brandon?” Ben asked.

  “No. Am I supposed to?”

  “Well,” Ben said, as the trapper opened the door for them, “The trappers that can afford candles usually bring one with them. Of course, the most you afford is one each day, and when it runs out, you’re in the dark again. Still, though, it might help you get used to the mine, like.” He crouched and ducked into the mine tunnel, holding his lantern ahead of him, and Brandon followed. I don’t want to get used to this, he thought desperately. Where’s the Professor? I want to go home.

  ****

  Hannah gazed around her at the factory village of New Lanark. It was an odd-looking place. The towns and villages she had seen in England had grown gradually, and the buildings did not match each other: Different styles of buildings jostled together in no particular pattern, large and small, thatched-roofed and slate-roofed, modern and ancient. Hannah had liked that: Those communities were imperfect and alive. They had soul.

  New Lanark did not. It reminded her of New Balesworth, except prettier. The tall stone buildings were almost identical in size and appearance, and arranged in straight, neat rows. To Hannah, it all looked a bit creepy, as though no human beings had been involved in the village’s creation. She breathed in the smell of wet stone: A heavy rain had recently ended. Although Hannah caught glimpses of people behind windows, nobody else was on the street.

  Suddenly, a girl dressed like Hannah touched her on the shoulder, and said, “Lookinfaygaffah?”

  Hannah jumped away, startled. “Huh?”

  The girl repeated herself. “Yelookinfaygaffah?”

  Hannah said slowly, “I Only Speak English.”

  The girl laughed at her. “Aye, yeedaethat, dafty! Me an a’. Now,” she spoke slowly, “Are… ye… lookin’… fur… the… gaffer?”

  “Maybe,” said Hannah. “What’s a gaffer?”

  The girl seemed amazed by Hannah’s ignorance. “He’s heid yin at the mull.”

  Hannah was none the wiser. “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you. I’m an American. Is there anyone around here who speaks English?”

  The teenager looked incredulously at Hannah, and pounded her shoulder with a closed fist. “Ye say ye’er fray Americay? Gaun!” And then she began to speak quickly to Hannah, who couldn’t understand a word.

  Hannah stared at her in desperation. Then suddenly, the babble from the girl’s lips emerged crystal clear, and Hannah found that she could understand. It was very weird. In England in 1940, everything that she had said was mysteriously translated into the accent and language of the time, while she had to fend for herself in understanding what she heard. But now, even thoug
h the words spoken to her were in broad Scots, Hannah could somehow, someway, know what was meant. The girl had been asking if she was looking for the factory boss, the head man at the mill.

  Hannah now realized that she did not wish to speak with the gaffer. “I’m looking for, like, Child Protective Services,” she said. “I need a foster home.” It came out in a long string of Scots, although Hannah herself couldn’t hear it.

  The young woman heard the words in Scots, but “foster home,” much less “Child Protective Services,” meant nothing at all to her. “I dinnae ken yer meanin’,” she said. “I don’t know what you mean, but are you needing a place to stay? You could maybe get a place with us yonder, on Wee Row.” She pointed to one of the rows of buildings nearby. “Jeannie McKay died yesterday, and Mrs. Nicolson’s needing a new lodger for the tenement. And they’ll need a new piecer at the mill, too.”

  Exasperated, Hannah said “I have no idea…” She was about to add, “… what you’re talking about,” when she heard a cough from behind her.

  “No foster care system here, Hannah,” said the Professor quietly. “Basically, your two choices are work or the workhouse. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to allow Bella here to help you out.” She turned to the young woman who was waiting patiently. “Bella, would you take Hannah to Abby Nicolson, who’s expecting her, and then to the mill to ask for work?”

  “Who’s Abby Nicolson?” asked Hannah suspiciously.

  The Professor tried to give her a reassuring smile. “She takes boarders, or lodgers as they’re called in Britain.”

  Bella held out a hand to Hannah. “Come on, lassie. What’s your name?”

  “Hannah Dias.”

  “Hannah Dow?”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. She was used to the Brits mangling her last name. “Yeah, okay, that’ll do. Hey, let’s go. I’m starving. I gotta eat.” Hannah deliberately ignored the Professor as she followed Bella, which is not to say that she wasn’t relieved to know that the Professor was still hanging around. But Hannah was not ready to beg the Professor to rescue her. Not yet. She would show that woman what she was made of.

  Hannah was out of breath when she reached the third floor of what Bella called the tenement, the apartment block where Mrs. Nicolson lived. Mrs. Nicolson was a small, stooped woman who might have been in her sixties or seventies. Or forties. It was hard to tell. Her face was deeply lined, and she looked like a gnome.

  She stood aside to allow Hannah and Bella into a poky little room. The low ceiling was stained to a dull grey by tobacco and fireplace smoke. Two beds hung with shabby curtains stood side by side against the opposite wall, a small kitchen table filled the middle of the room, and two straight chairs faced the kitchen range, in which was burning a blazing fire. A door at the far end completed the room.

  “Do I have to sleep in the kitchen?” Hannah asked, amazed. “Or is my room through there?” She pointed at the door in the far wall.

  Mrs. Nicolson was astonished. “That’s not another room, lass. That’s the press, where I keep all my bits and bobs.” Hannah understood now that she had pointed to the closet. She also understood she would have to sleep in the same room as Mrs. Nicolson, and who knows who else.

  Hannah tossed back her hair, and put a hand on her hip. “I’d rather have my own room, to be honest. Do you know if anyone else has a room for rent?”

  Mrs. Nicolson laughed, revealing a couple of missing teeth. “Anyone would think you were a fine lady! Look, there’s a wee bit of space for you in the trundle, next to Bella.” To demonstrate, she pulled a low cot from under the bed.

  Hannah stared at it in dismay. “Like, a camp bed? That sucks.”

  Mrs. Nicolson ignored her. “Board and lodging is due at week’s end. That’ll be five shillings.”

  She didn’t ask Hannah if all this was acceptable. Anyway, Hannah knew that, really, she had no choice. But she wasn’t happy about it. Perhaps it was time for a conversation with the Professor, after all.

  ****

  Now, about three hours into the journey, a young black woman was making her way unsteadily down the carriage, selling fried chicken and warm biscuits. The delicious aroma wafting from her covered basket was tantalizing, and Alex was starving. He called her over, and bought chicken and biscuits for Jupe and himself.

  Suddenly, the door leading to the next carriage banged open, and in walked three mean-looking men, one of them bearded and carrying a whip. All of them wore guns tucked into their trousers. The train conductor buzzed anxiously behind them.

  “Slave patrol!” snapped the man with the whip. “Any niggers, get your passes out for inspection.” Alex could sense Jupe tensing up next to him. Then, quickly, Jupe rummaged in his pocket, and furtively pulled out a folded wad of paper. Glancing sideways, Alex was surprised to see Jupe scanning not one, but two passes. Why did Jupe have two passes? Before Alex had a chance to ask him, Jupe hastily stuffed the second pass into his pocket.

  The woman selling food warily pulled out a tatty slip of paper, and handed it to the bearded patrol leader. He spent a long time reading her pass, or pretending to read it, and she grew nervous. Timidly, she said, “My massa gives me permission to work the railroad.”

  “Does he now?” sneered the man. He grabbed the basket out of her hands, and passed it to his friends, who laughed as they helped themselves to chicken and biscuits. Meekly, the woman took back the now-empty basket from him, nodded, and made her way back down the carriage as quickly as she could.

  When the patrol leader saw that Alex and Jupe were together, he assumed that Jupe was Alex’s slave, and he only glanced at the pass before moving on. But Alex heard him mutter to the other men, “That boy don’t look like he can afford his own nigger, does he?” Jupe was shaking now, but Alex simply stared back at the patrol leader. As soon as the man averted his gaze, Alex sighed heavily and slumped in his seat.

  He had thought Jupe would be good company. But Jupe, sitting in strained silence, wasn’t company at all. Alex was beginning to think of him as an irksome responsibility.

  Across the aisle from them sat a grey-haired stranger. He was tall and welldressed, in an impeccable grey suit and shiny new stovepipe hat. A stout walking cane lay across the seat facing him. Ignoring Jupe, he smiled indulgently at Alex. “You headed home to Savannah, young man?”

  “No, we’re going to look for work,” Alex replied.

  “We?” exclaimed the man, looking for an invisible white boy seated between Alex and Jupe.

  Alex suddenly realized what he had said. “I mean, I’m going. With my… um… servant.”

  “Ah-hah,” said the man with mock gravity. “And what line of work would you be in?’

  Alex tried to sound important. “I hope to be a clerk.”

  “Oh ho!” laughed the man. “Well, you choose an interesting time to arrive. Savannah is growing once more. Three new city squares are presently being built, and that’s just the beginning. Cotton, young man, cotton and slaves! That’s the foundation of our prosperity.”

  What a weirdo, Alex thought, as he glanced at Jupe to see if he was offended by the mention of slavery. But Jupe looked as impassive as ever. Alex found him such a mystery. Compared to Jupe, he felt like an extrovert.

  “That’s cool,” Alex said unenthusiastically. “Hey, do you have any idea where we could find Mr. Thornhill?”

  The man was still smiling. “Jeremy Thornhill, the English attorney? Why, of course. You’ll find his offices on Factor’s Walk at the Bay. The Bay is our mercantile center. From the railroad station you walk north until you almost reach the Savannah River. At the top of the bluffs is the Bay.”

  A light went on in Alex’s head. “Oh! You mean Bay Street!” He had eaten dinner at a restaurant on Bay Street with Hannah and his dad.

  “Call it what you will, boy,” said the man. “We call it the Bay.” He smiled again, but his eyes were an icy blue, and his smile was just like a shark’s. Alex figured he’d offended the stranger, but why was it a big deal just be
cause he had contradicted him?

  “Anyhow,” the man continued in a genial voice, “I happen to know that Mr. Thornhill is at home today, at his splendid residence by Lafayette Square.” He narrowed his eyes and glanced pointedly at Jupe as he spoke to Alex. “But I am curious. Why seek a position when you own this slave? You could sell him and make enough money to live comfortably for quite a while.”

  Alex shook his head firmly. “No, he’s not for sale.”

  The gentleman breathed out, his nostrils flaring. “If you change your mind, son, call on me at my office. You’ll find me on Johnson Square. My name’s MacGregor. Mister John MacGregor.” As he turned back to his newspaper, MacGregor was inexplicably chuckling to himself, as though he knew something Alex didn’t.

  Jupe wouldn’t even look at Alex, much less thank him for his support, but carried on staring straight ahead. Alex was really starting to resent him. Why was he stuck with this strange kid, who always agreed with him, and wouldn’t talk to him like a normal human being? Maybe he should just sell him to MacGregor… As soon as he thought it, Alex felt guilty, and a little scared that he should even think such a thing.

  Soon afterward, the train unexpectedly shuddered to a halt. At first, nobody said anything, but a quiet murmur quickly arose among the passengers, who then quieted when heard shouted conversation between the conductor and the driver. The conductor appeared at the end of the carriage. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to disturb you, but the engine’s looking mighty dangerous. Reckon y’all might should get off the train.” He didn’t need to say it twice. People grabbed their belongings, and jostled each other as they headed for the doors.

  While the engine cooled, everyone stood at a respectful distance. After about twenty minutes, Alex approached the conductor and asked, “When’s the next train?”