—How’ll I know him?
—He’ll be singing a song with no words. It ain’t the song, sister, it’s the singer of it.
—Is that the song yet sung? Is that what the Woman with No Name spoke of?
—Don’t ask me ’bout her. The less I know ’bout her the better. Just git to where I told you.
—What’s your uncle’s name?
—Names is out, he said.
With that, he laid his barrel to the ground and was off, rolling it around the curve and out of sight. She heard a grunt as he lifted it into the carriage and the hissing of breath between his teeth as he urged the mule towards home.
It took her nearly two hours to walk to the appointed spot. Her feet and ankles were scratched and bruised from falling through thickets and swamps, and the walk was difficult. By the time she arrived, it was well past dark. She sat in the burrow in total darkness. She ate what was left of her corn. Now she had only the flint, the sack, the hemp rope, and the jacket.
An hour passed. Then another. She fell asleep.
Just before daylight, she heard a rustling of the grass and the sound of a man humming. She rose and stepped clear of the hollow to investigate. There was only a quarter moon, but in the clear dim light of the stars she saw a head bobbing through the field coming in her direction. She moved behind the tree, kneeling in the high grass behind it.
The figure saw her and stopped humming.
—Stay there a minute, he hissed, or I’ll leave out.
—G’wan, then, she said, for my legs is shaking so much I got to move.
—Git to where I can see you.
She retreated back into the burrow of the tree and crouched. She faced the opening, saw the bare feet first, then the knees as the long legs bent into a crouch.
A thin young man, clad in vest and tattered pants, appeared holding a candle. When she saw the face, serious, intently peering into the burrow, she retreated all the way to the back of it. He stuck his face into the opening.
—I’m gonna come in there, he said.
—Come on, she said. Just remember I got a knife sleeping in my pocket.
He chuckled softly.
—That ain’t no way to talk to somebody risking his skin to help you.
Up close, she could see the outline of his face, smooth and slender. From his ease of movement, his long frame squeezed into the tiny opening, and his demeanor, she could feel his confidence. He crouched against the entrance, looking at her calmly.
She leaned back inside as he leaned in. From somewhere outside his intense face, a candle appeared. The light flickered against his face. He peered at her face, the full lips, the sweaty, chocolate brown skin, the wide doe-like eyes peering at him, then extinguished the light.
—Tell me one thing and you better talk straight, he said. My nephew’s young and any fool with a good lie can stuff corn in his barn. What was the old woman’s name?
—She said she didn’t have no name. Said whatever name was gived to her was not hers. And whatever truth she knowed was lies. Said the coach wrench turns the wagon wheel. God bless her, she was hurt. She told me I was—
—Said you was two-headed, did she?
—How’d you know?
In the thin light of the lantern, she saw him smile grimly.
—So it really is you, he said.
She watched his head turn to glance back over the fence towards the swamp from which he’d come, then back to her.
—How did you come here? he asked.
She was so relieved to hear the caring in his voice, a slice of kindness, from an actual living person, she felt an almost irresistible urge to pour her heart out to him, to recount the terrible things she’d done and seen, but she could not bring herself to utter the words. Instead she said, I’m more lost than I ever was.
—You is hot, he said. She is looking all over for you.
—Who?
—Patty Cannon. You cost her big money. Set fourteen slaves loose.
—I didn’t mean to. They left on their own. Little George was at me.
—Don’t waste breath on him. He’s deader’n yesterday’s beer.
—Where am I? she asked.
—Dorchester County. Joya’s Neck. On the western side of it. This is the Sullivans’ land. Miss Kathleen got four slaves here, body and soul.
—God Almighty, Liz said, exasperated. Six weeks running and I ain’t gone nowhere.
—You from Spocott House, ain’t you.
—You know it?
—No, but I know you. Everybody knows the Dreamer. Tell me one of your dreams, he said excitedly, wrapping his hands around his knees. Tell me about tomorrow!
She turned away, desolate.
—I can’t tell you ’bout nothing, she said.
—That ain’t what I heard, he said.
—I’m so tired, she said, I would kill myself if I could.
—Stand up and walk in the clear, and you’ll get all the help you want that way, he said. From one wood to the other, they hunting you. Patrols. Constables, and Miss Patty too. They ain’t gonna quit till they’re sure you’re dead or crossed north. They making it difficult for everybody. Even if you killed yourself, you wouldn’t make it no easier on the colored here.
He paused for a moment, breathing deeply.
—Now, there’s a way out this county, he said. I know it.
—I ain’t getting on the gospel train, Liz said.
—Girl, you got a message. Only way to tell it is to get free up north!
—Freedom ain’t up north, she said.
—That’s the first time I ever heard that.
—I dreamed it, she said. I dreamed of freedom. And she told him of her dreams, of young black men in great cities who shot one another from horseless carriages, and of fat children who cried of starvation and ran from books like they were poison. She told of white schoolchildren gathered around magic boxes that bore the sorrowful stories of the colored man’s past enslavement and the children weeping real tears. She told of black women appearing in front of illuminated boxes that could be seen far distant, their wonderful nappy hair clipped and pressed and shaped dozens of different ways, and of whites who laughed with joy and smiled with glee at being called nigger.
He listened in silence, his head bowed, until she finished.
—I’m trying to put them thoughts away from me, she said.
—You ought not to, he said. What you say is over my head, but God Almighty’s got an answer for them thoughts.
—There’s something else, Liz said. My dreams keep changing. They’re different now. They come towards me some kind of new way each time. And I don’t feel well. I got powerful headaches. Seems like everything I see and touch is trying to speak to me. These woods, these creatures living in this swamp and low-lying land. I don’t much like it.
He sat for a moment, his head bowed in thought.
—Tell you what, he said. There’s a man I know maybe can tell you what them dreams mean.
He opened his calico sack and handed her a few things. A pair of pants. Some fried meat, several roots, and a small leather sack to hold water.
—Me or my nephew will be back in a couple of days, to bring you a few more things to keep you warm and more food. Ain’t nobody gonna find you here. This old Indian burial ground’s been timbered long ago.
—Burial ground?
—You ain’t got to stay here more than a day or two, he said.
—I can’t stay out here five minutes by myself, she said.
He placed a hand on her shoulder.
—Ain’t no harm gonna come to you here, he said. You got a special purpose, miss. You got to sit tight, till I can get a great man to see you.
—Who is he? Who are you?
The man stood.
—I got to go. One more thing. Who’s your ma and pa at Spocott?
—Got none. My uncle Hewitt raised me. He’s dead now. He raised five altogether. Captain wanted Uncle Hewitt to raise more. But he wouldn�
��t. Uncle Hewitt took no more than five. Everything he done was in fives. Something about that number he liked. Even this…
She showed him the hemp rope, tied in five knots.
—I seen him tie a rope like this many a day.
The man knelt, his face furrowed in keen interest.
—Where’d you get that from? he asked.
—From a colored man in the woods.
—What man?
—Don’t know. Had hair out to here. Didn’t say a word to me. He gave me this jacket. These shoes. Something to eat.
—Did he now, the man said.
—Surely did.
—You set eyes on him?
—Not really, she said. He was hidden.
The man nodded slowly.
—That was old Woolman, he said. I thought he was dead. Lives out in Sinking Swamp, way beyond Cook’s Point. Said to have children who eat each other. Got an alligator named Gar.
—Didn’t see no alligator. Seen his boy. Helped him out a muskrat trap.
—Well, I know now you surely got a purpose, the man said.
—Can you tell me ’bout some words?
—What words?
—The coach wrench turns the wagon wheel. Tie the wedding knot five times. Sing the second part of the song twice. Chance is an instrument of God. Them words.
—Where’d you hear that?
—From the Woman with No Name. She said there was a song that ain’t been sung yet.
He rose to leave.
—You just set here and wait. Put them trousers on and roll up the left leg. Anybody come along here, if their left trouser leg ain’t rolled up, git down the road or wake up that knife, one. If the white man catches you and forces you to it, g’wan and turn me in, but don’t give up my nephew. You do that, I’ll kill you myself, and I’ll find whoever you care about and kill them too. There ain’t no time for foolishness now. You in it now. You got to stay in it.
He departed.
the sign
On the main entry to the courthouse of Cambridge City, a young colored boy in a white shirt, bearing a hammer and nails, posted a sign above the doorway. It read:
SLAVES AND FREEMEN. JOIN THE FREE AFRICAN PARTY.
METHODIST MEETING TO ORGANIZE THE RETURN OF FREE COLOREDS
AND MANUMITTED SLAVES TO AFRICA. FOOD AND DRINK. CHILDREN WELCOME.
MEET AT WILFRED’S TAVERN ON PLANTER’S PIKE IN SEAFORD.
SATURDAY EVENING.
The boy stepped back to regard his handiwork. A white man with a long scar across his face, standing next to him, nodded his approval.
—That’s good, Eb, Joe Johnson said.
—What do it say, Eb asked.
—It says free coloreds come on down to Patty’s house.
The boy smiled.
—You reckon anybody gonna come?
Joe turned away. He saw no point in mentioning to Eb that this was the manner in which he’d lured Eb’s mother in and sold her off before he knew who she was. The boy wouldn’t understand it anyway. Patty had raised him part of the time in a backyard, at times on a chain, until Joe intervened.
The two walked across the road and watched as several coloreds walked by the sign, not bothering to look up. A tall, shoeless colored man dressed in tattered clothing, obviously deranged, waddled in front of the sign and stopped at it. The crazed Negro stared at the sign, raised his arms, and quacked like a duck. Several passersby laughed. One man clapped him on the shoulder. Obviously he was a town fixture.
—How’s somebody like him gonna read it? Eb said.
—Don’t worry ’bout that long-headed nut, Joe said.
—Maybe we ought to put it in a different place, Eb said, so we can be sure the rest of ’em see it.
—They’ll know what it is, Joe said, waving his hand. What you worried about?
—I don’t want to make Miss Patty mad again.
Seeing the worried look on the boy’s face made Joe feel a little sorry for the kid, but not that sorry. He was a nigger after all, and they felt things differently. Still, he understood the fear. Patty was mad, and that was never pleasant. This was as bad as he’d seen it. She had beat the living daylights out of the kid the night before, ostensibly because the biscuits she’d ordered him to bake weren’t to her liking. But Joe knew better. She was enraged about Big Linus. And that wasn’t the worst of it. She owed on those fourteen souls. She had borrowed heavily against them from States Tipton, a deadly slave trader from Alabama. States was due back by boat as soon as the spring broke, which was just about now. To top it off, Patty had killed another southern slave trader two years previous, a man from Mississippi who had rested overnight at their tavern. The man had done nothing more than arrive at a time when Patty was broke and reveal that he had no family and was traveling alone with a wad of cash and gold. Patty charmed him, fed him a meal, implied they’d have a long night together, then stole around to an open window and greased him in the back while he ate. Joe helped her bury him in the yard, where they had already hidden the body of several Negroes they’d disposed of in years past for various reasons. Dead Negroes never caused suspicion, Joe knew, but the disappearance of the Mississippi trader had brought suspicion on them all, and not just from the local constables, either. States Tipton himself had pointedly asked about it.
Joe often wondered how he’d gotten himself in this deep. The girl he’d married, Maddy, was nothing like the mother. Maddy knitted his socks, darned his pants, helped him make decisions. Together they built his business, which began as an honest tavern servicing travelers who wanted a meal and a bed. Maddy was a temperate woman, calm and patient, kind in ways her mother was not. But like most things in Joe’s life, including his parents, she was gone too soon. Swept away by illness. Now there was no one to make decisions for him. Patty, technically, was not an owner of his tavern, but she’d thrown a lot of money at it. Without her, he’d be back to farming, or worse, oystering, which he detested. It was Patty who suggested they take in slave traders and their coffles, since other tavern owners refused them. Maddy, though ill, was still alive then, and she had not liked it. She had implied that perhaps her mother was not all that she appeared to be—that her mother might have had something to do with her late father’s demise. But Maddy was drifting towards death at the time, and Joe’s grief was so great he couldn’t think straight. He was never good at making decisions anyway. Once Maddy was gone, Patty took over, suggesting they nip a slave or two from here and there and sell them south at profit. That was seven years ago. Now he was in it full, with blood on his hands and money in his pocket.
He nudged the boy.
—Go on over to the old colored woman’s bakery past the courthouse, he said. See what you hear. And don’t say nothing to nobody.
—Okay, Eb said.
He watched the boy step happily across the street. He gave him another year or two before Patty sold him to New Orleans. Too bad. He liked the boy. He sighed, fingering the coins in his pocket.
He crossed the street and headed towards the general store, where Patty and the others were gathering supplies. When he arrived Stanton, Odgin, and Hodge were standing outside the store, looking anxious.
—Can’t y’all spread out? he asked. You want the sheriff asking questions?
Odgin nodded towards the store behind him.
—She’s vexing the man in there.
Through the window, Joe saw Patty inside, talking to the clerk. He entered.
At issue were two barrels of pork, a pair of boots, and a saddle on the countertop. The clerk was a Hebrew and disagreeable.
—I can give one hogshead of pork on credit, Joe heard him say. But the boots and saddles, I can’t bear them.
—You saying my credit ain’t good here no more? Patty said.
The man smiled. Joe noticed the man’s wife in the corner, sorting vegetables, watching silently.
—You’re not hearing me, the merchant said. I said I can’t bear it. The saddle and boots is spoken for alread
y.
Joe regarded the old Hebrew and grew suspicious. The man did not seem to know who Patty was. Either that or he was armed. Joe doubted it.
Patty was steamed. She stepped close enough to the man so that their faces were almost touching. Her pretty black eyes, with a snarky look about them, glared in. She smiled broadly. Her face was a sight to behold. Anger swirled behind her pinched mouth. The pretty black eyes roared fury. She was a hurricane.
—You ought not to talk out both sides of your mouth, she said.
The man’s smile disappeared and reluctance, then fear, slowly folded into his face. He turned to an old, bent colored man behind the counter.
—Clarence, put these two barrels of pork, the boots, and the saddle inside Miss Patty’s wagon. Throw in a bag of potatoes too, he said.
He turned to Patty, smiling grimly.
—There you are, he said.
The colored worker silently picked up a barrel of pork and headed outside with it, loading it on the wagon and coming back inside for the rest.
Patty was still staring at the merchant, furious, when Joe approached. The man fidgeted nervously, picking at his nails.
—Morning, the merchant said to Joe.
Joe didn’t even bother to look at the man. He was concerned about Patty. He was afraid she’d pull out her heater and blow out the man’s spark, right there in the dead center of Cambridge City. She seemed to be losing control more and more. It would not do for her to kill this man and cause a ruckus here. They were too far from home. They didn’t have the friends here that they had in their hometown of Johnson’s Crossing, twenty-five miles away.
—Patty, we’re finished up here, he said. Let’s lift one at the saloon next door.
Song Yet Sung Page 8