ALVIN JOURNEYMAN

by Orson Scott Card

  “It isn’t your money, sir,” said Verily.

  “What, then? What is your objection?”

  “I keep imagining: What if, through some gross miscarriage of justice, I won?”

  Livid, the man hurled vile threats at him and left. Verily never knew whether it was this man or another who sent an assassin after him—a pathetic attempt, knifework in the dark. Verily saw the blade and the assassin’s vicious smile—obviously the fellow had chosen a profession that allowed him to satisfy his own predilections—and caused the blade to drop off the knife and shatter at the man’s feet. The man couldn’t have looked more crestfallen if Verily had made a eunuch of him.

  Debased men, but they all had something in common: they showed a keen regard for virtue, and tried to dress themselves in that costume. Hypocrisy, for all its bad reputation, at least showed a decent respect for goodness.

  These Slave Finders, however, were not noble enough to be hypocrites. Not having risen above the level of reptiles and sharks, they showed no awareness of their own despicableness, and thus made no attempt to hide what they were. One was almost tempted to admire their brazenness, until one remembered what callous disregard for decency they must have in order to spend their lives, in exchange for mere money, chasing down the most helpless of their fellow-beings and returning them to lives of bondage, punishment, and despair.

  Verily was pleased that Daniel Webster seemed to be almost as repulsed by these men as he was. Fastidiously the New England lawyer disdained to shake their hands, managing to be busy with his papers as each one arrived. Nor did he even bother to learn their names; having once ascertained that the entire group contracted for was properly assembled, he then addressed them only as a group, and without quite looking any of them in the eye. If they noticed his aloofness, they made no remark and showed no resentment. Perhaps this is how they were always treated. Perhaps those who hired them always did so with distaste, washing their hands after passing them the cachet of the slave they were to hunt down, washing again after giving them their Finder’s fee. Didn’t they understand that it is the murderer who is filthy, and not the knife?

  It was ten-thirty in the morning before the Finders, seated at a single long table before the judge’s bench, were satisfied that they had got the information they needed from the cachet belonging to a certain Cavil Planter of Oily Spring, Kenituck. The judge had the deposition, carefully taken by Mr. Webster at Mr. Planter’s home in Carthage City, Wobbish. Planter had attempted to assert that the cachet was a collection of nail and hair clippings and a bit of dried skin taken from one Arthur Stuart of Hatrack River; but Webster insisted that he state the exact legal situation, which was that the items in the cachet were taken from an unnamed baby born on his farm in Appalachee to a slave woman belonging to Mr. Planter at the time, who had shortly afterward escaped—with, as Planter insisted on adding, the help of the devil, who gave her the power to fly, or so it was rumored among the ignorant and superstitious slaves.

  The Finders were ready; the boys were led in, one at a time, and lined up in a row in front of them. All the boys were dressed in ordinary clothing, and all were more or less of a size. Their hands were covered, not with gloves, but with burlap bags tied above their elbows; a finer sacking material also covered their heads with loose-fitting hoods. No scrap of skin was visible; care had even been taken to make sure there was no gap between the buttons of their shirts. And just in case, a large placard with a number on it hung from each boy’s neck, completely covering his shirtfront.

  Verily watched carefully. Was there some difference between the Black sons of Mock Berry and the White boys? Something about their walk, their stance? Indeed, there were differences among the boys—this one’s pose of insouciance, that one’s nervous fidgeting—but Verily could not tell which were White and which were Black. Certainly he could not tell which one was Arthur Stuart, the boy who was not fully of either race. This did not mean, however, that the Finders did not know or could not guess.

  Alvin assured him, though, that their knack would be useless to them, since Arthur Stuart was no longer a fair match for the cachet.

  And Alvin was right. The Finders looked puzzled when the last boy was brought in and the judge said, “Well, which of them matches the cachet?” Clearly they had expected to know instantly which of them was their prey. Instead, they began to murmur.

  “No conference,” said the judge. “Each of you must reach his conclusion independently, write down the number of the boy you think matches the cachet, and have done with it.”

  “Are you sure someone hasn’t held out the boy in question?” asked one Slave Finder.

  “What you are asking me,” said the judge, “is if I am either corrupt or a fool. Would you care to specify which accusation you are inquiring about?” After that the Finders puzzled in silence.

  “Gentlemen,” said the judge—and was his tone somewhat dry when he called them that? “You have had three minutes. I was told your identification would be instant. Please write and have done.”

  They wrote. They signed their papers. They handed them to the judge.

  “Please, return to your seats while I tabulate the results,” said the judge.

  Verily had to admire the way the judge showed no expression as he sorted through the papers. But it also frustrated him. Would there be no hint of the outcome?

  “I’m disappointed,” said the judge. “I had expected that the much-vaunted powers and the famous integrity of the Slave Finders would give me unanimous results. I had expected that you would either unanimously point the finger at one boy, or unanimously declare that the boy could not be one of this group. Instead, I find quite a range of answers. Three of you did declare under penalty of perjury that none of these boys matched the cachet. But four of you have named various boys—again, under penalty of perjury. Specifically, the four of you named three different boys. The only two who seemed to be in agreement both happened to be seated together, at my far right. Since you are the only two who agree in accusing one of the boys, I think we’ll check your assertion first. Bailiff, please remove the hood from the head of boy number five.”

  The bailiff did as he was asked. The boy was Black, but he was not Arthur Stuart.

  “You two—are you certain, do you swear before God, that this is the boy who matches the cachet? Remember please that it is your license to practice your profession in the state of Wobbish that hangs in the balance, for if you are found to be unreliable or dishonest, you will never be permitted to bring a slave back across the river again.”

  What they also knew, however, was that if they now backed down, they would be liable for charges of perjury. And the boy was Black.

  “No sir, I am certain this is the boy,” said one. The other nodded emphatically.

  “Now, let’s look at the other two boys that were named. Take the hoods from numbers one and two.”

  One of them was Black, the other White.

  The Finder who named a White boy covered his face with his hands. “Again, knowing that your license is at stake, are you both prepared to swear that the boy you named is an exact match?”

  The Finder who named the White boy began to stammer, “I don’t know, I just don’t, I was sure, I thought it was...”

  “The answer is simple—do you continue to swear that this boy is an exact match, or did you lie under oath when you named him?”

  The Finders who had sworn that the cachet matched no one were smiling now—they knew, obviously, that the others had lied, and were enjoying their torment.

  “I did not lie,” said the Finder who named the White boy.

  “Neither did I,” said the other defiantly. “And I still think I’m right. I don’t know how these other boys could get it so wrong.”

  “But you—you don’t think you’re right, do you? You don’t think some miracle turned that slave baby White, do you?”

  “No, sir. I must be... mistaken.”

  “Give me your license. Right now.”<
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  The miserable Finder stood up and handed the judge a leather case. The judge took from the case a piece of paper with an official seal on it. He wrote in the margin and then on the back; then he signed it and crimped it with his own seal. “There you go,” he said to the Finder. “You understand that if you’re ever caught attempting to practice the profession of Slave Finding in the state of Hio, you will be arrested and tried and, when convicted, you will face at least ten years in prison?”

  “I understand,” said the humiliated man.

  “And you are also aware that Hio maintains a reciprocity arrangement with the states of Huron, Suskwahenny, Irrakwa, Pennsylvania, and New Sweden? So that the same or similar penalties will apply to you there if you attempt to practice this profession?”

  “I understand,” he said again.

  “Thank you for your help,” said the judge. “You should only be grateful that you were incompetent, for if I had cause to suspect you of perjury, it would have been prison and the lash, I assure you, for if I thought that you had willfully named this boy falsely, I would have no mercy on you. You may go.”

  The others obviously got the message. As the unfortunate man fled the courtroom, the other three who had named one boy or another steeled themselves for what was to come.

  “Sheriff Doggly,” said the judge, “would you kindly inform us of the identity of these two boys who stand identified by three of our panel of Finders?”

  “Sure, Your Honor,” said Doggly. “These two is Mock Berry’s boys, James and John. Peter’s near growed and Andrew and Zebedee was too small.”

  “You’re sure of their identity?”

  “They’ve lived here in Hatrack all their lives.”

  “Any chance that either of them is, in fact, the child of a runaway slave?”

  “No chance. For one thing, the dates are all wrong. They’re both way too old—the Berry boys is always short for their age, kind of late-blooming roses if you know what I mean, then they just shoot up like spring grass, cause Peter’s about the tallest fellow around here. But these boys, they was already clever little tykes well known around town before ever the slave that cachet belongs to was born.”

  The judge turned to the Finders. “Well, now. I wonder how it happens that you appointed for slavery these two freeborn Black children.”

  One of them spoke up immediately. “Your Honor, I will protest this whole procedure. We were not brought here to be placed on trial ourselves, we were brought here to practice our profession and—“

  The gavel slammed down on the desk. “You were brought here to practice your profession, that is true. Your profession requires that when you make an identification, it must be assumed by all courts of law to be both honest and accurate. Whenever you practice your profession, here or in the field, your license is on the line, and you know it. Now, tell me at once, did you lie when you identified these boys, or were you merely mistaken?”

  “What if we was just guessing?” one of them asked. Verily almost laughed out loud.

  “Guessing, in this context, would be lying, since you were swearing that the boy you named was a match for the cachet, and if you had to guess, then he was not a match. Did you guess?”

  The man thought about it for a moment. “No sir, I didn’t lie. I was just plain wrong I reckon.”

  Another man tried a different tack. “How do we know this sheriff isn’t lying?”

  “Because,” said the judge, “I already met all these boys, and their parents, and saw their birth records in the county archive. Any more questions before you decide whether you’ll lose your license or be bound over for trial as perjurers?”

  The two remaining Finders quickly agreed that they had been mistaken. Everyone waited while the judge signed and sealed the limitation on their licenses. “You gentlemen may also go.”

  They went.

  Verily rose to his feet. “Your Honor, may I request that these young men who were not identified be allowed to remove their hoods? I fear that they may be growing quite uncomfortable.”

  “By all means. Bailiff, it’s certainly time.”

  The hoods came off. The boys all looked relieved. Arthur Stuart was grinning.

  To the three remaining Finders, the judge said, “You are under oath. Do you swear that none of these boys matches the cachet belonging to Mr. Cavil Planter?”

  They all swore to it.

  “I commend you for having the honesty to admit to not finding a match, when others were clearly tempted to find a match no matter what. I find your profession loathsome, but at least the three of you practice it honestly and with reasonable competence.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said one of them; the others, however, seemed to know they had just been insulted.

  “Since this proceeding is a legal hearing under the Fugitive Slave Law, I don’t have to have your signatures on anything, but I’d prefer it if you’d stay long enough to sign your names to an affirmation that specifically states that this young man, the mixup boy named Arthur Stuart, is definitely not a match with the cachet. Can you sign such a statement under oath before God?”

  They could. They did. They were dismissed.

  “Mr. Webster, I can’t think what in the world you’d have to say, but since you represent Mr. Cavil Planter in this matter, I must ask you for any statement you’d like to make on this matter before I issue my finding.”

  Webster rose slowly to his feet. Verily wondered what the man could have the audacity to say, in the face of such evidence—what whining, sniveling complaint or protest he might utter.

  “Your Honor,” said Webster, “it is obvious to me that my client is the victim of fraud. Not today, your honor, for these proceedings have clearly been honest. No, the fraud was more than a year ago, when two Finders, hoping to collect a fee they had not earned, named this boy as Mr. Planter’s property and proceeded to commit murder and get themselves killed in the effort to enslave a free boy. My client, believing them to be honest, naturally proceeded to secure the redress to which he would have been entitled by law; but now, I can assure you that as soon as my client learns that he was put upon most sorely by those Finders, he will be as horrified as I am by how close he came to enslaving a free child and, what is worse, extraditing for prosecution the young man named Alvin Smith, who it now seems was acting in proper self-defense when he killed the second of those malicious, lying, fraudulent men pretending to be Finders.” Webster sat back down.

  It was a pretty speech. Webster’s voice was lovely to hear. The man should go into politics, Verily thought. His voice would be a noble addition to the halls of Congress in Philadelphia.

  “You pretty much summed up my summing up,” said the judge. “It is the finding of this court that Arthur Stuart is not the property of Mr. Cavil Planter, and therefore the Finders who were trying to take him back to Appalachee were not acting lawfully, and therefore the interference Margaret Guester and Alvin Smith offered them was legal and appropriate under the circumstances. I declare Alvin Smith to be absolved of all responsibility, criminal or civil, in the deaths of these Finders, and I declare Margaret Guester to be posthumously absolved in like manner. Under the terms of the Fugitive Slave Law, there may be no further attempt by anyone under any circumstances to bring Arthur Stuart into slavery regardless of any additional evidence—this action is final. Likewise there may be no further attempt to try Alvin Smith on any charges arising out of the illegal expedition undertaken by those fraudulent Finders, including their death. This action, likewise, is final.”

  Verily loved hearing those words, for all that language insisting that such actions were final had been placed in the law for the purpose of blocking any effort on the part of anti-slavery forces to interfere with the recapture of a slave or the punishment of those who helped a runaway. This time, at least, that finality would work against the proponents of slavery. Hoist on their own petard.

  The bailiff took the burlap bags off the boys’ hands. The judge, the sheriff, Veri
ly, and Marty Laws all shook the boys’ hands and gave them—except Arthur, of course—the two bits they were entitled to for their service to the court. Arthur got something more precious. Arthur got a copy of the judge’s decision making it illegal for him to be accosted by anyone searching for runaway slaves.

  Webster shook Verily’s hand, quite warmly. “I’m glad things worked out this way,” he said. “As you know, in our profession we are sometimes called upon to represent clients in actions that we wish they would not pursue.”

  Verily held his silence—he supposed that for most lawyers this was probably true.

  “I’m glad that my presence here will not result in anyone entering a life of slavery, or of your client being extradited under false charges.”

  Verily couldn’t leave that statement alone. “And you would have been sad to see him extradited, if this hearing had turned out otherwise?”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Webster. “If the Finders had identified young Mr. Stuart, then justice would have demanded that your client be tried in Kenituck for murder.”

  “Justice?” Verily didn’t try to keep the contempt from his voice.

  “The law is justice, my friend,” said Webster. “I know of no other measure available to us as mortal men. God has a better justice than ours, but until angels sit upon the bench, the justice of law is the best justice we can have, and I, for one, am glad we have it.”

  If Verily had been tempted to feel even a glimmer of guilt over the fact that Arthur Stuart really was Cavil Planter’s slave, by law, and that, again by law, Alvin Smith really should have been extradited, there was no chance of it now. Webster’s narrow view of justice was just as truly satisfied by this outcome as Verily’s much broader perspective. By God’s justice, Arthur should be free and Alvin held to no penalty, and so the outcome had been just. But Webster’s justice was as well served, for the letter of the law required the matching of the cachet to the slave, and if it so happened that Arthur Stuart had been changed somehow by a certain Maker so the cachet no longer matched—well, the law made no provision for exceptions, and so, as Webster had said, the law being satisfied, justice must also have been done.