—But I don’t know who I am.
—Well, there it is, he said ruefully. That’s a problem, ain’t it. If you don’t know who you are, child, I’ll tell you: you’s a child of God.
—With all I seen, I don’t know that I believe in God anymore, she said.
—Don’t matter, the old man said. He believes in you.
As they passed the mouth to the Blackwater Creek, the old man turned and tacked north, away from Dorchester, towards the Choptank River and Talbot County. Liz turned to take one last look at Blackwater Creek, but her head hurt so badly that she lay down on the lip of the boat instead, staring down at the water and feeling nauseous.
—You okay, child?
The wind blew across her face and she closed her eyes. The rhythmic lilting of the boat calmed her, and she felt the cool breeze of the Chesapeake playfully work its way into her hair and lips, driving into her nose, whistling into her chest, and as it did, from someplace deep inside of herself, she heard the song of the old woman from Patty’s attic whispering in her ears: Way down yonder in the graveyard walk, me and my Jesus going to meet and talk… And in that manner she fell asleep and dreamed.
She felt herself floating down into the water and saw a vision clearly: the brown waistcoat, the calico pants, walking in a marsh near a wall at the old Indian burial ground, a man on a horse following.
—God Almighty, she whispered. She sat up in the boat, grasping her head.
—What is it?
—Amber’s got the Devil on his back, she said. You got to turn back.
—Forget him, child. He’s gone home. We got two hours to get where we gonna git.
—Please. I’ll throw myself in the water and swim if you don’t turn back.
—Go ’head. Once you get on the train, ain’t no getting off.
His smile was gone now, the old eyes set firm, his powerful hands gripping the oars, which lay across his lap, the sail mounted high, taking in full wind, speeding them away from Blackwater Creek, the Neck district, and the Indian burial ground.
—That’s the code, he said. The coach wrench turns the wagon wheel. We is the coach and you is the wheel. Chance is an instrument of God. God rules the world, you see. We do what He says, not what man says. I would no more turn this boat around than stop you from throwing yourself overboard. I’m a soldier in the army of the Lord. The Lord put you in this boat, not man. It’s Him that put you here. It’s Him who’ll throw you overboard if He sees fit.
—Why you talking crazy?
—I ain’t crazy. This is a war, child, and I’m gonna die in it like the rest. I coulda got free long ago, but I’m sworn to Jesus to free His people. You go back and they whip you till you give me and everybody else up that knows the code. That can’t be. God says to free His people in the manner He chooses. Truth be to tell it, I don’t care for you no more’n I care for this piece of lumber I’m holding in my hand here. The colored man’s chosen, see. Chosen by God to be free in His kingdom, and if you want to go on to reward before the rest of us, why, go ahead. I won’t weep for you, being free. I won’t. Even though you is young and high-minded and pretty, and ought to have a full life with children and a husband.
—Do you have children, Mr. Clarence?
The old man’s watery eyes hardened.
—I did. Once. Had a daughter, ’bout your age. But she…
And then he broke. His own memories pushed up against him, and he choked up as he spat the words out. He turned his head away and grabbed his oars and rowed again, although there was no need to, for the wind was at their backs now.
—We ain’t never gonna be truly free here, he said. Not in this land. No matter where we go. Up north. Down south. That’s why I stay here. I live for the code. Code’s like my Bible, right next to Jesus.
She grasped her head and closed her eyes, her head throbbing, the hot sun beating down. She covered her face with her hands to shield her eyes, then leaned forward and spoke to him.
—Let me tell you about tomorrow, she whispered.
—You ain’t got to, he said, rowing.
—You the only person that ain’t asked me about it, she said.
—I don’t wanna know, he said.
—Why not? Tomorrow showed me there’s a part of the code missing.
—Code’s been that way all my life and my pa’s life before it. Ain’t nothing wrong with it.
—Can you listen anyway?
—I already done heard ’bout your dream, he said. Many have talked about it. Colored children eating themselves to death, smoking strange cigars, preaching murder through song and whatnot. Watching themselves in magic boxes and trading in their eyes for different-colored eyes and whatnot. It don’t say nothing to me but there’s a fool colored for every day the good Lord makes. Today and tomorrow.
—But that ain’t the only dream I had, she said. I had another one. Had it since I come to this here country. I haven’t told a soul about it except Amber. And I didn’t know what it meant when I told it to him. But I dream it again and again, and the more I dream it, the more I understand it. I know what it means now! And if I tell it to you—prove it to you—that this boat got to turn around because the code’s meant for it to be, would you do it?
The old man thought a moment, then stopped rowing.
—Go ’head, he said.
She sat forward as she spoke, legs straddling the bottom of the boat, hands folded, the old man leaning in.
—This is about another dreamer, she said. A great dreamer.
I dreamed of thousands of Negroes, she said, and thousands of white people with them, folks stretching as far as the eye could see. They were at a great camp meeting, and one after another various preachers spoke out. Finally the best of them rose up to speak. He was a colored preacher. He was dressed in the oddest suit of clothing you can imagine; I reckon it’s the finery of his time. He stood before these thousands of people and spoke to a magic thing that carried his voice for miles. And Lord, he preached. As Jesus is at His resting place, that man preached. He opened up the heavens. On and on he went, in the most proper voice, using the most proper words. He used words so powerful, so righteous, I can’t describe them—words that seemed to lift him into the air above the others, words that came from God Himself. And the people could tell! They wept at his words and tore their hair and cried. White and colored, they held hands and hollered at him to go on, and when the colored preacher heard them yelling, that drove him to an even greater fury and he became even more excited, and as the crowd hollered at him, he grew so excited, he reached into the past and shouted a song from our own time! A song not yet sung. I heard it at Patty Cannon’s house. The Woman with No Name said it: It ain’t the song, it’s the singer, she said. It’s the song yet sung.
Sitting forward, she recited the words, slowly:
Way down yonder in the graveyard walk
Me and my Jesus going to meet and talk
On my knees when the light pass’d by
Thought my soul would rise and fly…
—That’s what the old lady sang, but she didn’t know all the words, Liz said. But I heard them in my dream. I heard this preacher say them. And when he did, them words changed the whole world somehow.
—What did he say? Clarence asked.
—He said, Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last…
She sat back, exhausted.
—So you see, she said, it ain’t all foolishness. The code tells the future. Not just for the colored, but for everybody.
The old man stared at her, his forehead creased in thought, the boat drifting aimlessly.
—Why, that is something, he said finally. Maybe you are the Dreamer.
—No, I’m not. That man I dreamed of, she said, he’s the true Dreamer. And he’s right there. Sitting in somebody’s tomorrow.
—He got kin among us?
—I don’t know what he got, she said.
—Is it Amber? he asked anxiously. Is Amber his kin?
—What is that?
Liz smiled bitterly. You ain’t got to be two-headed to see my future, she said. I ain’t hardly well enough to stand. Something’s wrong with me, deep inside. You wasting time with me, Mr. Clarence. Sure as my Savior’s in heaven, you wasting time. And risking your life too. For what?
The boat rocked silently now, not moving, the wind having died out. She looked up at the dead sail.
—See that? Wind’s died down. It’s a token. Time for us to turn back. What you say?
The old man glared at her for a long time. I’ll do it, he said, but you got to answer me one question.
—Yes?
—If that preacher you seen in your dream was hollering ’bout being free…well, then, he wasn’t free, now, was he? How long that gonna take? What time of tomorrow was you dreaming about?
—I don’t know, she said. I said I would tell you of tomorrow. I didn’t say tomorrow wasn’t gonna hurt.
Without a word the old man lowered the sail, raised the jib, spun the bungy around, grabbed the oars, and pointed the bow towards Blackwater Creek, rowing as hard as he could.
meeting joe
On the logging trail in Joya’s Neck, Joe walked behind his captured Negro, counting the ways he had handled the situation wrong. It was a bad idea, he decided, to take the nigger to the Neck alone. The swamps and woods were deserted, devoid of life, dark and cold. He hadn’t seen a house or even a horseman for nearly three hours, and if he saw one at this point, being so far out on the Neck, he’d have to avoid them to avoid questions. And after all that, this nigger could be leading him on a wild-goose chase. He chastised himself for sending Stanton off. He should’ve waited for him. He glanced behind him, half hoping to see Stanton’s hat bobbing up and down, his horse galloping, catching up, but saw nothing. Stanton should be here by now, he thought. It was high afternoon, almost too late to make it back to town unless he turned around now. If he went out farther and camped for the night, he’d have to rope this colored to a tree—by himself. Joe wasn’t good at roping. That was one reason he hated oystering: having to learn how to tie a million different kinds of knots and smelling like fish all day and having to remember a million little things for nothing. That’s why Stanton was hired to be here, he thought bitterly. For all he knew, Stanton could’ve found the girl, dumped Eb, sold the wench off, and left town with a bunch of smooth money stuffed in his trousers. The thought made him furious.
—That prayer-beading rummy bastard, he said.
The Negro walking in front of him looked at Joe over his shoulder.
—Sir? he said.
Joe nudged him forward with his foot, the barrel of his Paterson showing from beneath the blanket draped over the front of his saddle, which covered his hands in the cold.
—How much further, he grunted.
—Another mile or so, sir, Amber said, turning and trudging forward, his face downcast, looking remorseful, his eyes focused on his feet. The walk hadn’t bothered him. It gave him time to think. He had made some bad decisions. He had done it all wrong. He felt it was okay to sacrifice himself for the Dreamer, but how noble was it to take her to the blacksmith? The blacksmith would hand her over before he gave up the code. Everyone knew that.
The sound of a horse galloping broke his thoughts. Joe shoved him with his foot and reached for his Paterson.
—Lay down in that ditch there face down. If you move your head an inch, I’ll put a charge in it.
Amber crawled into the ditch by the side of the road, his face in the mud, listening.
The horse’s steps slowed as it approached.
—You got papers, boy? he heard Joe ask.
—I’m heading home to my missus, Wiley said.
Amber’s heart raced. He heard Joe ask, Whose horse is that?
Amber shouted from the ditch, Run, Wiley!
Wiley looked into the ditch and recoiled in surprise, then swung his horse wide of Joe’s and spurred it hard forward. Amber leaped to his feet in time to see Joe aim his Colt Paterson.
Joe, like Stanton, always kept the first chamber of his five-shot Paterson empty. The gun was made with its hammer setting on live paper cartridges and had been known to blow men’s balls off. He took careful aim at the departing Wiley and clicked the dead chamber. By the time he’d pushed the second round, Amber had leaped up and pulled him down off his horse.
The shot rang wildly into the trees as the two men grappled. Joe got off a second wild shot but the nigger was on top of him. He tried to roll. As they grappled for his gun, Amber saw, out of the corner of his eye, Wiley spin his horse around.
—Go, Wiley! Run! he screamed.
He was weak from the long walk, but he tried to pin Joe’s arm, holding the weapon over his head. However, the white man was too quick and drew it down towards him. Amber grabbed at it and a third shot rang out. Their faces were almost touching now. Joe thrust his face into Amber’s neck and bit.
Amber screamed and banged the man’s hand into the earth several times until the gun popped free. Amber released him, sprang to his feet, and darted into the forest. He lunged through several thickets, fell into a marshy pond, and got up, sprinting. He glanced behind him long enough to see his captor turning around and snatching for his horse’s bridle. The man, Amber guessed, wasn’t taking any chances on missing again. He was going to ride in close. Amber ran for his life.
A quarter mile away, Denwood was kneeling by the root of a beech tree, reading the earth, having found the telltale bloodstains of someone or some animal that had been injured, when he heard a loud pop in the distance. He held his breath to listen. Then another pop, and then another. That was three. It sounded like a Paterson, a repeater. That meant whoever had fired it likely had one or two rounds left, if he was a fool enough to keep all five chambers packed.
He mounted his horse and trotted briskly towards the sound.
As he approached the old logging trail, he saw a horse galloping. He backed his horse into a thicket, quickly tethered it to a tree, hid, and waited.
A Negro rode past at full tilt, too fast for Denwood to draw his pepperbox and fire. Denwood marked him and let him go. It wasn’t his Negro. If the Negro had done all the shooting he’d just heard, the harm had already been done anyhow. There was no one in the woods, he was sure, whom he cared enough about to risk shooting someone’s property. He had marked the colored; he would be easy enough to locate later if Denwood needed to find him.
He heard the sound of running feet approaching, and a second horse galloping in pursuit. Denwood crouched low, then saw another Negro racing like the Devil; behind him, through the low-hanging branches of the trees, Denwood could see a white man on a horse. The horseman was struggling through the swamp but could make no time as he dodged among the cypress trees, brambles, and thickets, but in a minute he would be clear and have the colored, who had broken free of the woods, splashed onto the logging trail, and was now coming directly towards him.
Denwood fished a large log from the swamp, hunkered down, and waited, and when the colored was on him, Denwood clobbered him over the head. The man dropped. He turned and faced the rider, who galloped up, his face twisted in rage and exhaustion.
—Joe! Denwood said. What you doing here?
Joe, sitting astride the horse, struggled to calm his nervous mount, his face creased in real fury.
—Get out my way, Gimp. This nigger’s mine.
—No, sir, Amber gasped, getting up. I belongs to Miss Kathleen.
—The one from the farm yonder? Denwood asked.
—Yes, sir.
—He’s lying, Joe said.
Denwood calmly eyed Joe’s hands, one of which still held his horse’s reins while the other gripped the Paterson.
/>
—Easy, Joe. Ain’t no need to get into no hank over this.
—Mind your own fucking business, you limp-dick bastard. Always getting in somebody’s way. Get over here, you black bastard!
Joe rode over to Amber and, still seated in his saddle, tried to kick him. Amber caught his leg. Joe leveled his Paterson at Amber. Denwood fought to keep himself calm. He drew his pepperbox.
—Calm down, Joe. Christ. Don’t kill your money now.
—Shut up, Gimp!
Denwood raised his pepperbox. Now, I don’t wanna shoot you, Joe, but we’re all in business here, he reasoned.
Joe glanced at Denwood, saw the pepperbox aimed at him, and drew his Paterson away from Amber, the barrel pointed at the ground.
—This ain’t your affair.
—It ain’t, but I’m in a spot, too, and the way you waving that goddamn heater around makes me nervous.
—What kind of spot you in? You got sore eyelids from winking too much?
Denwood fought to keep his calm. I told you, I need my money on this one. Told you you could keep every colored you wanted on this but the one I need. Now, put up that metal, would you? What’s your name, son?
—Amber.
Denwood was silent a moment.
—This changes things, he said softly.
—It don’t change shit, Joe said.
Denwood casually ran his glance into the woods around them. If one of Patty’s hands was there, there were bound to be more about. Not to mention the mother of trouble herself. He certainly hoped that wasn’t the case.
—Your mom nearby, Joe?
Joe glared at Denwood, his Paterson still pointed downward.
—Don’t get funny with me, Gimp. I ain’t in the mood.
—I ain’t getting funny. But you backing me into a goddamn headache. Put your gun down and I’ll put mine down. You ain’t got but one shot left anyhow.
Song Yet Sung Page 24