Chaneysville Incident

by David Bradley

  “It seemed slow to him, terribly slow. He had plenty of time to send his hands groping for something to hold on to, to find something, a knob of rock, to grasp it and hope, and then feel it crumble beneath his fingers, and then to feel the snow falling away as his arms slipped over the edge, to feel the skin of his wrists scraping away on the rock, to actually feel each hand, each finger, losing contact with the rock. It seemed that way, but it was probably not that way; probably all he felt was the loss of support and then the free fall, and then the awful pain in his chest as his body slammed into a rock outcropping seven feet below. He felt the pain, but he managed to curl around the outcropping and hold on.

  “This time he did lose consciousness, long enough for the men who pursued him to come and stand above him, looking across the chasm. When he came to he heard them there, heard them speculating as to what kind of desperation would make a man try a leap like that, what kind of desperation would make it possible for him to succeed, and realized that they had not looked down, or if they had, they had failed to see him. He kept his eyes closed, listening, hoping. And then he heard a new voice, a voice that had command in it: Pettis.

  “The voice came clearly, questioning, and the voice of someone else, the accent and inflection telling him it was a man from the South County, answering: Pettis wanting to know if they were certain they had seen tracks on the far side, the man responding that it was too dark to say for sure, but it had looked like tracks; Pettis wanting to know if they were sure he hadn’t fallen, the man saying they had been close enough to see him leap, and surely would have heard him scream if he had fallen; Pettis asking how long to go around, the man answering half an hour, maybe longer, in the dark.

  “C.K. waited, but they said no more. He opened his eyes then, expecting to see nothing but mist above him. Instead he saw Pettis, still leaning out over the chasm. For a moment it seemed that Pettis had to see him, that he had seen him, was looking straight at him. But the shadows were too dense, or the light was wrong; Pettis turned away.

  “C.K. gave them time to get clear, counting the seconds to make sure he would not wait too long, as a way of keeping his mind off the pain in his chest. When he had counted off three thousand seconds he eased his hold on the rock outcrop, felt around on the face of the rock. He found handholds with no trouble, even though his fingers were numbed by cold and shock, climbed up without difficulty. It was so easy he wanted to laugh. And when he had pulled himself over the edge and lay looking over at the other side, seeing how easy it would have been to leap the other way, he did laugh.

  He lost track of time then; he could have lain there laughing for five minutes, or ten. But then his mind started working again, and he realized what he should have realized as soon as he had heard Pettis talking: Pettis had said ‘he.’ Not ‘they’; ‘he.’ And he realized what that had to mean; that Pettis did not care about runaway slaves; just about one particular runaway slave. That what was going on was not a hunt for fugitives, but a hunt for C.K. Washington, with a bunch of fugitive slaves used as bait, their fates unimportant compared to the importance of capturing C.K. Washington. Pettis had set a trap within a trap. C.K. knew then that it was over for him. All of it. There would be no final season of selling moonshine, no leisurely retreat to Philadelphia. He would not dare stay in the County. He would not dare go to Philadelphia, either. For if Pettis had tracked him down this far, he had probably tracked him from Philadelphia. Perhaps Pettis had heard about a colored man who made whiskey and brought it across the mountains. Or perhaps he had heard one of the Philadelphia bourgeois complaining about a former member in good standing of the black middle class who had deserted the fold, and embraced not only moonshining but whoremongering. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Pettis had found him by accident. It didn’t matter; because he could not afford to take the chance. He would have to head north to the cold of Canada; his choices were gone.

  “He heard a single gunshot. They had killed the horse. Now they would be starting to make the circuit around the gorge, on their way to pick up his trail. He had half an hour’s lead, perhaps a little more, certainly not much more. It was time to rise and run again.

  “But his body was tired, and hurt; it was not going to be enough of a lead, no matter how soon he rose. The next valley was hardly a valley at all, just a hollow with no outlet to the north. If he made it beyond that he would be in Cumberland Valley; to turn north then would be to give up. But he knew he would have no choice but to turn north there. Because he could not climb another mountain.

  “And so, because it made no real difference, he spent an extra minute resting his tired body, thinking. And then it came to him. He could double his lead, double it and perhaps lose Pettis altogether. All he had to do was stand up and turn around and leap that gorge again.

  “He lay there thinking about it, thinking about how Pettis would come around in half an hour and find no tracks but think that it was only because the snowfall had covered them, and would send his men coursing down the mountainside, in a desperate attempt to catch a shadow; how he would curse; how he finally take a cadre back to round up the runaways, to try and salvage that much, and how they would find nothing. Because with an hour’s lead and a storm to cover his trail, C.K. could get to Iiames’ Mill and take the slaves and lead them up over Tussey Mountain and into town and hide them. Then they would be as safe as they could be. And C.K. Washington would be finished, but he would end with a success. It was nice to think about, and to try it made more sense than to run down into Cumberland Valley and find himself on the flat at daylight, hampered by the storm, or bogged down when the west wind piled the drifts.

  “And so he stood up and leaped, giving it no more thought than that, and making the distance with ease, stumbling when he landed, falling hard against the wall of rock, throwing himself sideways to keep from slipping back, feeling the pain as his ribs struck the rock, knowing that the fall must have cracked one or more, but knowing, too, that he had made it. He let himself lie there for only a moment. Then he rose and started back the way he had come, walking now, through the darkening mist, the scuffing of his footfalls echoing softly from the rock on either side.

  “It was full dark when he reached the end of the path—so dark that he would not have known he had reached that point had it not been for the sudden dying of the echoes that had bounced back from the rock. He stopped then, standing in the darkness, feeling the mist wet and cold on his face, and listened. Because he had made the mistake of underestimating Pettis, not once, but twice, and he had been lucky enough to survive it, but he could not count on being lucky again. He would have to assume that Pettis was as good as he was, as sensible as he was. And the sensible thing to do would be to split the party into three groups, sending two to round the gorge at either end, leaving one, a small group of four or five men, to guard the backtrail; to leave them there, at the entrance to the path.

  “And so he listened. Once he thought he heard the sound of harness jingling, and his hand went to his pistol, but when he focused on the sound he heard only the light tinkle of the snow falling through the trees a hundred yards down the slope. He waited, counting the seconds, knowing that time was slipping away, that soon he would have to take the chance. He waited. Five minutes. Ten. Then he moved, not because he was satisfied, but because there was always the chance that Pettis would be alerted by the lack of trail on the far side of the gorge, would turn and come back and find his trail and hunt him down by torchlight; he had to move now, to give the snow time to cover trail.

  “He started down the mountain, still uncertain that he was alone, but hoping that if he was not, he would escape detection. There was a chance he would; it was so dark he could not see his own feet, could only feel the snow spilling down into his boots, the chill that came to his toes. He forced himself to move more quickly, in order to keep himself warm, even though the faster movement made his ribs ache. He ignored the pain, allowed himself to think ahead. A mile down in the valley he had a cache. Not a larg
e one. Just emergency supplies: some dried meat, a jug of whiskey, a blanket, some clean cloth. He could pass by there, wrap his side with bandages, ease the pain in his belly with jerky, the pain in his side with whiskey. Then he would find the fugitives after that; they would all be safe.”

  My cup was empty again. I did not recall drinking the last of the toddy, but I must have, because when I raised the cup to my lips there was nothing there. Somehow she knew it, even though I made no sign; she took the cup and rose and went to the stove. So I watched as she made the toddy, not able to see her, seeing only her silhouette. She mixed as I would, using the thumb for the sugar, pouring the whiskey easily. She brought the cup to me and pressed it into my hands, letting her hands linger there for a moment, holding the warmth of the cup against mine. I knew then that I had underestimated her, and had done it in a way that cheated us both. She let go of my hands and took her seat again, and I could see her face in the candlelight.

  “He could not take his eyes off her,” I said. “He could not really see her—the interior of the mill was too dark, the crack through which he peered too narrow—but he watched her form, silhouetted against the glowing hearth, as she dipped a cup into a small kettle and then handed it to another woman, a small woman, who sat huddled a few feet away, a dark form clutched close to her breast. C.K. did not watch her; his eyes were on the first woman, and he watched her carefully, as she went again to the fire and knelt and stirred it. The coals glowed more brightly, and flame flared, and for a moment he could almost see her face—almost, but not quite. It didn’t matter; he didn’t need to see her face, didn’t really want to see her face. For the moment he wanted only to stand with the cold wind knifing at his back, the snow in which he stood slowly numbing his feet and ankles and calves, and watch the outline of her; that was all that he could stand.

  “He had found his cache with little difficulty, and the mill with even less. He approached it warily, looking for any sign that Pettis had somehow learned about it and set a trap there, determined not to underestimate the man again. But there was no sign of a trap. There was no sign of anything; the mill was simply a mill, not large, perhaps thirty-five feet by forty, two stories high, made of fieldstone and wood, dark and silent, the weir shut, the wheel still, the windows shuttered. The fire inside burned—there was the smell of burning coal hanging in the air—but only a wisp of smoke escaped the chimney; the fire had been banked for the night.

  “Or, perhaps, for the duration of the storm. For the storm was growing. The snow fell less rapidly now, but the flakes were no longer soft and gentle; they were hard, icy spicules that came slicing out of the darkness, cutting at his face. Soon the snow could stop, but the temperature would fall—faster, still, than it was already falling—and the wind would whip the snow on the ground into an angry froth, taking it back up into the sky and driving it across the land in great voracious clouds. That could last for hours or days—certainly it would last into the next day. And so the mill was shut down and the fire was banked; for no man, no miller, anyway, would venture out into that cold, that wind, that sea of snow. All any man with sense would want would be to be at home, with a fire on the hearth and wood stacked in the corner, with food in his belly and a toddy in his hand.

  “That was what C.K. wanted, what he was thinking about when he finally approached the mill, forcing himself to wade in the icy water of the pond so as not to leave tracks, and coming to stand near one of the shuttered windows, in order to peer inside. But then he had seen the woman, bending at the hearth, and the thoughts had left him; he had forgotten the wind and the cold, had forgotten everything, except how to stand and watch her moving.

  “She stepped away from the fire again, turned and looked into the corner of the room, then moved out of his range of vision. Then he became aware of the wind at his back and the numbness creeping up his legs. Then he found he could move, and he left the window and made his way slowly around to the door. The latch string was out; he wondered why she had left it that way, then realized that it made sense to leave it out, for if anyone came he would see it and enter unawares, and give her a chance to take him by surprise…. And then he realized what he was doing, figuring all that out: he was wasting time. Because he was afraid to go inside. Afraid of finding out that it wasn’t her, or that it was; afraid of the truth. But the feeling was gone from his hands, and the rest of him was as cold as it had ever been, so finally he stopped trying to think about it; he just opened the door and went in.

  “The room was dim, lit only by the glow from the hearth. But his eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and he could make out the shapes of all of them, three women and seven children, one a baby, and, in the far corner, the bent, frail form of an old man. He looked at them, not seeing them, really; looking for her. And then he heard a whisper of sound and threw himself forward, twisting his head just in time to see the knife that came stabbing down out of the darkness. But he need not have moved. Because the knife stopped inches shy of where his back had been, hesitated a moment, and then seemed to disappear into the shadows behind the door. And then she stepped out. She had a slightly sour expression on her face. She looked him up and down, taking in the snow-covered slouch hat, the snowy blanket, the gunnysack of supplies he held in his hand. And then she was in his arms.”

  I closed my eyes then and waited, waited for the question. But she did not ask a question. When I opened my eyes I saw her sitting, not moving, just sitting, and I realized that there would be no questions. And then I realized that something strange was happening. Because I was no longer cold. At first I thought it was because the wind had died, but when I listened I still heard it singing to the hills. And then I saw that the candle no longer flickered, that she had moved a little, just a little, but enough to block a draft, or perhaps create a new draft that balanced out the old one. I saw that she was leaning forward, her eyes shining in the light, fixed on the candle. And I looked at it too, at the steady flame, hardly a flame at all now, but a round, warm, even glow that seemed to grow as I looked at it, expanding until it filled my sight.

  “He was warm now,” I said. “He was warm, and the feeling was strange. Because he had not realized how cold he had been. He had known that his hands and feet and face were cold, even though they were so numb he had lost the feeling in them—he had known that because anyone who knew the weather and who knew how long he had been exposed would have known—and so he had not been surprised when the heat from the fire had caused the feeling to come pounding back into them. But he had not known about the other cold, the cold inside, the glacier in his guts that had been growing and moving, inch by inch, year by year, grinding at him, freezing him. He had not known that. But he knew it now. Because he could feel it melting. The heat that melted it did not come from the fire; it came from her, from the warmth of her body that pressed against his back, the warmth of her arms around him, the warmth of her hands that cupped the base of his belly. He lay there, feeling the warmth filling him, feeling the fatigue draining from him, feeling the aching in his ribs easing, becoming almost pleasant, and wishing that he would never have to move.

  “For the moment, he did not. For the moment, none of them was going anywhere. That was what they had decided, he and Harriette, in a quick, whispered conference by the door. He had hoped to move immediately, to escape the danger of the narrow cove in the dark and while the wind blew the snow around to cover up their tracks. But she said that the others were too tired to move. They had been resting for only a few hours; before that, they had been running for more than twenty-four. That had exhausted them; the only reason they had been able to do it was because they believed that when they crossed the Line and left the South, they would be free. She had told them the truth, but they would not believe, and in the end she had let them run hard, because she had believed that when they reached the mill they would be met by men with a wagon, and they would not need to run anymore. But they had heard the dogs chasing C.K. and they had realized that what she had told the
m was true, that there was no safety south of Canada, and then when they had reached the mill they had found nothing: no wagon, no rescue, nothing. Then the hours of running, the miles of effort, the dashing of hope, the cold, the hunger, had come down on them. So they were exhausted; their bodies were, perhaps, a bit recovered, but their minds and hearts were far from that.

  “C.K. looked at them, and realized that what she said was true. But he also knew that they would have to move, and move soon. And so he set about restoring them, using the tricks he had learned over the years. He went to them, speaking to each of them in tones so low that none of the others could hear, getting their names, gently touching them, asking about their pains, their fears, gently eliciting their stories, reminding them of why they had run in the first place.

  “The first was a woman named Lydia, a short, small-boned woman, with ample hips, matronly breasts. Her age, she said, was twenty-five. She knew because the master had told her, once, berating her for being childless. She dropped her eyes when she told him that, dropped her eyes and lowered her head. It was not that she was not fertile; she had been pregnant eight times. But five of her children had died before their first birthday; she did not know why. One had been three when he died of cholera. The other two had been miscarriages. It hadn’t mattered to the Old Master—she was an excellent midwife, good with children, good in the kitchen. But when the Old Master died his son had told her he was going to sell her, because she was twenty-five, and getting too old to breed. She had told that to Harriette Brewer, one day as they worked together in the kitchen. A few weeks later, Harriette Brewer had said she was going to run away, and had asked Lydia to run with her. And Lydia had.