But she had seen nothing of the kind in his future.
“Course it’ll never happen,” said Mike Fink.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Cause I owe that boy my life. My life as a man, anyway, a man worth looking at in the mirror, though I ain’t half so pretty as I was before he dealt with me. I had a grip on that boy in my arms, ma’am. I meant to kill him, and he knowed it. But he didn’t kill me. More to the point, ma’am, he broke both my legs in that fight. But then he took pity on me. He had mercy. He must’ve knowed I wouldn’t live out the night with broke legs. I had too many enemies, right there among my friends. So he laid hands on my legs and he fixed them. Fixed my legs, so the bones was stronger than before. What kind of man does that to a man as tried to kill him not a minute before?”
“A good man.”
“Well, many a good man might wish to, but only one good man had the power,” said Mike. “And if he had the power to do that, he had the power to kill me without touching me. He had the power to do whatever he damn well pleased, begging your pardon. But he had mercy on me, ma’am.”
That was true—the only surprise to Peggy was that Mike Fink understood it.
“I aim to pay the debt. As long as I’m alive, ma’am, ain’t no harm coming to Alvin Smith.”
“And that’s why you’re here,” she said.
“Came here with Holly as soon as I found out what was getting plotted up.”
“But why here?”
Mike Fink laughed. “The portmaster at Hatrack Mouth knows me real good, and he don’t trust me, I wonder why. How long you reckon it’d be afore the Hatrack County sheriff was on my back like a sweaty shirt?”
“I suppose that also explains why you haven’t made yourself known to Alvin directly.”
“What’s he going to think when he sees me, but that I’ve come to get even? No, I’m watching, I’m biding my time, I ain’t showing my hand to the law nor to Alvin neither.”
“But you’re telling me.”
“Because you’d know it anyway, soon enough.”
She shook her head. “I know this: There’s no path in your future that has you rescuing Alvin from thugs.”
His face grew serious. “But I got to, ma’am.”
“Why?”
“Because a good man pays his debts.”
“Alvin won’t think you’re in his debt, sir.”
“Don’t matter to me what he thinks about it, I feel the debt so the debt’s going to be paid.”
“It’s not just debt, is it?”
Mike Fink laughed. “Time to push this raft away and get it over to the north shore, don’t you think?” He hooted twice, high, as if he were some kind of steam whistle, and Holly hooted back and laughed. They set their poles against the floating dock and pushed away. Then, smooth as if they were dancers, he and Holly poled them across the river, so smoothly and deftly that the line that tied them to the cable never even went taut.
Peggy said nothing to him as he worked. She watched instead, watched the muscles of his arms and back rippling under the skin, watched the slow and graceful up-and-down of his legs as he danced with the river. There was beauty in it, in him. It also made her think of Alvin at the forge, Alvin at the anvil, his arms shining with sweat in the firelight, the sparks glinting from the metal as he pounded, the muscles of his forearms rippling as he bent and shaped the iron. Alvin could have done all his work without raising a hand, by the use of his knack. But there was a joy in the labor, a joy from making with his own hands. She had never experienced that—her life, her labors, all were done with her mind and whatever words she could think of to say. Her life was all about knowing and teaching. Alvin’s life was all about feeling and making. He had more in common with this one-eared scar-faced river rat than he had with her. This dance of the human body in contest with the river, it was a kind of wrestling, and Alvin loved to wrestle. Crude as Fink was, he was Alvin’s natural friend, surely.
They reached the other shore, bumping squarely against the floating dock, and the shoreman lashed the upstream comer of the raft to the wharf. The men with no luggage jumped ashore at once. Mike Fink laid down his pole and, sweat still dripping down his arms and from his nose and grizzled beard, he made as if to pick up her bags.
She laid a hand on his arm to stop him. “Mr. Fink,” she said. “You mean to be Alvin’s friend.”
“I had in mind more along the lines of being his champion, ma’am,” he said softly.
“But I think what you really want is to be his friend.”
Mike Fink said nothing.
“You’re afraid that he’ll turn you away, if you try to be his friend in the open. I tell you, sir, that he’ll not turn you away. He’ll take you for what you are.”
Mike shook his head. “Don’t want him to take me for that.”
“Yes you do, because what you are is a man who means to be good, and undo the bad he’s done, and that’s as good as any man ever gets.”
Mike shook his head more emphatically, making drops of sweat fly a little; she didn’t mind the ones that struck on her skin. They had been made by honest work, and by Alvin’s friend.
“Meet him face to face, Mr. Fink. Be his friend instead of his rescuer. He needs friends more. I tell you, and you know that I know it: Alvin will have few true friends in his life. If you mean to be true to him, and never betray him, so he can trust you always, then I can promise you he may have a few friends he loves as much, but none he loves more than you.”
Mike Fink knelt down and turned his face away toward the river. She could see from the glinting that his eyes were awash with tears. “Ma’am,” he said, “that’s not what I was daring to hope for.”
“Then you need more courage, my friend,” she said. “You need to dare to hope for what is good, instead of settling for what is merely good enough.” She stood up. “Alvin has no need of your violence. But your honor—that he can use.” She lifted both her bags herself.
At once he leapt to his feet. “Please ma’am, let me.”
She smiled at him. “I saw you take such joy from wrestling with the river just now. It made me want to do a little physical work myself. Will you let me?”
He rolled his eyes. “Ma’am, in all the tales of you I’ve heard around here, I never heard you was crazy.”
“You have something to add to the legend, then,” she said, winking. She stepped onto the floating dock, bags in hand. They were heavy, and she almost regretted turning down his help.
“I heard all you said,” Mike told her, coming up behind her. “But please don’t shame me by letting me be seen empty-handed while a fine lady carried her own luggage.”
Gratefully she turned and handed the bags to him. “Thank you,” she said. “I think some things must be built up to.”
He grinned. “Maybe I’ll build up to going to see Alvin, face to face.”
She looked into his heartfire. “I’m sure of it, Mr. Fink.”
As Fink put her bags into the carriage in which the men who had crossed with them impatiently waited for her, she wondered: I just changed the course of events. I brought Mike Fink closer than he would ever have come on his own. Have I done something that will save Alvin in the end? Have I given him the friend that will confound his enemies?
She found Alvin’s heartfire almost without trying. And no, there was no change, no change, except for a day when Mike Fink would go away from a prison cell in tears, knowing that Alvin would surely die if he wasn’t there, but knowing also that Alvin refused to have him, refused to let him stand guard.
But it was not the jail in Hatrack River. And it was not anytime soon. Even if she hadn’t changed the future much, she’d changed it a little. There’d be other changes, too. Eventually one of them would make the difference. One of them would turn Alvin away from the darkness that would engulf the end of his life.
“God be with you, ma’am,” said Mike Fink.
“Call me Miss Larner, please,” said Peggy. “I’m
not married.”
“So far, anyway,” he said.
Even though he hardly slept the night before, Verily was too keyed up to be sleepy as he entered the courtroom. He had met Alvin Smith, after all these weeks of anticipation, and it was worth it. Not because Alvin had overawed him with wisdom—time endugh to learn from him later. No, the great and pleasant surprise was that he liked the man. He might be a bit rough-hewn, more American and more countrified than Calvin. What of that? He had a glint of humor in his eyes, and he seemed so direct, so open...
And I am his attorney.
The American courtroom was almost casual, compared to the English ones in which Verily had always litigated up to now. The judge had no wig, for one thing, and his robe was a little threadbare. There could hardly be any majesty of law here; and yet law was law, and justice was not utterly unconnected to it, not if the judge was honest, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t be.
He called the court into session and asked for motions. Marty Laws rose quickly. “Motion to have the golden plow removed from the prisoner and placed into the custody of the court. It doesn’t make any sense for the very item in question to remain in the possession of the prisoner when...”
“Didn’t ask for arguments,” said the judge. “I asked for motions. Any others?”
“If it please the court, I move for dismissal of all charges against my client,” said Verily.
“Speak up, young man, I couldn’t hear a word you said.”
Verily repeated himself, more loudly.
“Well, wouldn’t that be nice,” said the judge.
“When the court is ready for argument, I’ll be glad to explain why.”
“Explain now, please,” said the judge, looking just a little annoyed.
Verily didn’t understand what he had done wrong, but he complied. “The point at issue is a plow that all agree is made of solid gold. Makepeace Smith has not a scintilla of evidence that he was ever in possession of such a quantity of gold, and therefore he has no standing to bring a complaint.”
Marty Laws pounced at once. “Your Honor, that’s what this whole trial is designed to prove, and as for evidence, I don’t know what a scintilla is, unless it has something to do with The Odyssey—“
“Amusing reference,” said the judge, “and quite flattering to me, I’m sure, but please sit back down on your chairybdis until I ask for rebuttal, which I won’t have to ask for because the motion to dismiss is denied. Any other motions?”
“I’ve got one, your honor,” said Marty. “A motion to postpone the matter of extradition until after—“
“Extradition!” cried the judge. “Now what sort of nonsense is this!”
“It was discovered that there was an outstanding warrant of extradition naming the prisoner, demanding that he be sent to Kenituck to stand trial for the murder of a Slave Finder in the act of performing his lawful duty.”
This was all news to Verily. Or was it? The family had told him some of the tale—how Alvin had changed a half-Black boy so the Finders could no longer identify him, but in their search for the boy they got into the roadhouse where his adopted parents lived, and there the boy’s mother had killed one of the Finders, and the other had killed her, and then Alvin had come up and killed the one that killed her, but not until after the Finder had shot him, so it was obviously self-defense.
“How can he be tried for this?” asked Verily. “The determination of Pauley Wiseman, who was sheriff at the time, was that it was self-defense.”
Marty turned to the man sitting, up to now silently, beside him. The man arose slowly. “My learned friend from England is unaware of local law, Your Honor. Do you mind if I help him out?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Webster,” said the judge.
So... the judge had already had dealings with Mr. Webster, thought Verily. Maybe that meant he was already biased; but which way?
“Mr.—Cooper, am I right? --Mr. Cooper, when Kenituck, Tennizy, and Appalachee were admitted to the union of American states, the Fugitive Slave Treaty became the Fugitive Slave Law. Under that law, when a Slave Finder engaged in his lawful duty in one of the free states is interfered with, the defendant is tried in the state where the owner of the slave being pursued has his legal residence. At the time of the crime, that state was Appalachee, but the owner of the slave in question, Mr. Cavil Planter, has relocated in Kenituck, and so that is where by law Mr. Smith will have to be extradited to stand trial. If it is found there that he acted in self-defense, he will of course be set free. Our petition to the court is to set aside the matter of extradition until after the conclusion of this trial. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is in the best interests of your client.”
So it seemed, on the surface. But Verily was no fool—if it was in the best interest of Alvin Smith, Daniel Webster would not be so keen on it, The most obvious motive was to influence the jury. If people in Hatrack, who mostly liked Alvin, came to believe that by convicting him of stealing Makepeace’s plow they might keep him from being extradited to a state where he would surely be hanged, they might convict him for his own good.
“Your Honor, my client would like to oppose this motion and demand an immediate hearing on the matter of extradition, so it may be cleared up before he stands trial on the charges here.”
“I don’t like that idea,” said the judge. “If we have the hearing and approve the extradition, then this trial takes second place and off he goes to Kenituck.”
Marty Laws whispered to Verily, “Don’t be daft, boy! I’m the one as pushed Webster into agreeing to this, it’s crazy to send him to Kenituck.”
For a moment Verily wavered. But by now he had some understanding of how Webster and Laws fit together. Laws might believe that he had persuaded Webster to put off the extradition, but Verily was pretty sure the reality went the other way. Webster wanted extradition postponed. Therefore Verily didn’t.
“I’m quite aware of that,” said Verily, a statement that had become true not five seconds before. “Nevertheless, we wish an immediate hearing on the matter of extradition. I believe that is my client’s right. We don’t wish the jury to be aware of a matter of extradition hanging over him.”
“But we don’t want the defendant leaving the state while still in possession of Makepeace Smith’s gold!” cried Webster.
“We don’t know whose gold it is yet,” said the judge. “This is all pretty darn confusing, I must say. Sounds to me like the prosecution is pleading the defense’s cause, and vice-versa. But on general principles I’m inclined to give the capital charge precedence over a matter of larceny. So the extradition hearing will be—how long do you boys need?”
“We could be ready in this afternoon,” said Marty.
“No you can’t,” said Verily. “Because you have to obtain evidence that at present is almost certainly in Kenituck.”
“Evidence!” Marty looked genuinely puzzled. “Of what? All the witnesses of Alvin’s killing that Finder fellow live right here in town.”
“The crime for which extradition is mandatory is not killing a Finder, plain and simple. It’s interfering with a Finder who is in pursuit of his lawful duty. So you must not only prove that my client killed the Finder—you must prove the Finder was in lawful pursuit of a particular slave.” The thread that Verily was holding to was what the Miller family back in Vigor had told him about Alvin changing the half-Black boy so the Finders couldn’t Find him anymore.
Marty Laws leaned close to Daniel Webster and they conferred for a moment. “I believe we’ll have to bring us a Slave Finder over the river from Wheelwright,” said Laws, “and fetch the cachet. Only that’s in Carthage City, so... by horse and then by train... day after tomorrow?”
“That works for me,” said the judge.
“If it please the court,” said Webster.
“Nothing has pleased me much so far today,” said the judge. “But go ahead, Mr. Webster.”
“Since there is some considerable history of people hidi
ng the slave in question, we’d like him taken into custody immediately. I believe the boy is in this courtroom right now.” He turned and looked straight at Arthur Stuart.
“On the contrary,” said Verily Cooper. “I believe the boy Mr. Webster is indicating is the adopted son of Mr. Horace Guester, the owner of the roadhouse in which I have taken lodging, and therefore he has presumptive rights as a citizen of the state of Hio, which decrees that he is presumed to be a free man until and unless it is proven otherwise.”
“Hell’s bells, Mr. Cooper,” said Marty Laws, “we all know the Finders picked the boy out and took him back across the river in chains.”
“It is my client’s position that they did so in error, and a panel of impartial Finders will be unable, using only the cachet, to pick the boy out from a group of other boys if his race is concealed from them. We propose this as the first matter for the court to demonstrate. If the panel of Finders cannot pick out the boy, then the Finders who died in this town were not pursuing their lawful business, and therefore Kenituck.has no jurisdiction because the Fugitive Slave Law does not apply.”
“You’re from England and you don’t know diddly about what these Finders can do,” said Marty, quite upset now. “Are you trying to get Arthur Stuart sent off in chains? And Alvin hanged?”
“Mr. Laws,” said the judge, “you are the state’s attorney in this matter, not Mr. Smith’s or Mr. Stuart’s.”
“For crying out loud,” said Marty.
“And if the Fugitive Slave Law does not apply, then I submit to the court that Alvin Smith has already been determined by the sheriff and attorney of Hatrack County to have acted in self-defense, and therefore to bring charges now would put him in double jeopardy, which is forbidden by—“
“I know exactly who and what forbids double jeopardy,” said the judge, now getting a little edgy with Verily.
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