by Thomas Locke
His mother was an unschooled woman who had always shown a quiet awe at Caleb’s voracious appetite for books. She had learned the lore of plants from her own grandmother. Caleb’s earliest memories were laced with the odors of potions and elixirs and spices and unguents. The fragrances had formed his home’s unique signature, the unspoken welcome that transformed the simple act of opening his front door. He had no interest in the herbal craft. But he had always admired his mother’s talent.
Today’s journal entry started with news about Kevin. He had lost weight, of course, and looked almost gaunt. But he was already up and moving about the shop with the help of his cane. Pain still robbed Kevin of a full night’s sleep, since he refused to drink the doctor’s elixir, claiming it left his mind fogged. With his beard and his limp he no longer resembled the deputy he once had been. Now he truly looked the part of a refugee. No one in Overpass gave him a second glance.
The second paragraph was given over to business. In this Caleb was his father’s son. Their one-room shop had swiftly gained a reputation for excellent quality and fair prices, and demand for their product remained steady. The previous afternoon, he and Zeke and Hester and two more guards had traveled to Enoch Maskell’s farm for the rest of their stock. That new supply was more than halfway sold in just one day of trading.
The third paragraph was harder to write. Caleb’s gift was proving invaluable, just as Marsh had predicted. Sometimes he had no idea why he felt drawn in a particular direction, such as when he rented their row house on the lower bridge when they could have doubled their space for half the price by taking a shop at ground level. But what made this portion of the entry hard to write was the personal cost. Caleb felt assaulted by the sheer volume of invisible contacts. People were in and out of the shop all day long. Asking, bargaining, bartering, arguing. He had never known what it meant to be constantly surrounded by the unseen and the unheard. He missed the enclave’s solitude and silence.
The fourth and final paragraph took no time at all, for it was the same single sentence he had written every day since their arrival. Of Maddie there was no news. And of the plans he was forming, Caleb would not commit a word of them to paper.
By this point the light had faded to where Caleb could no longer write. He stowed away his pen and journal and gave himself over to reviewing his plans.
The next day he would act.
An hour later, Caleb started back toward their temporary home, as ready as he could be for what was about to begin.
As Caleb had hoped, Dorsey and his four sons were waiting for him at their shop. Zeke flitted into view at the top of the stairs, waved a greeting, and returned to the kitchen. Dorsey’s hair was still wet from a bath, and his face held the strain from a hard ride.
Caleb greeted them with, “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Dorsey shook his hand without rising from his stool. “The load was ready, and your pa wanted us to make sure you were settling in.”
Caleb nodded to Dorsey’s sons lining the rear wall. “How is Ma?”
“Marsh says to tell you she’s doing better.” Dorsey and his sons were simple mountain men, taciturn and fiercely loyal. He slipped three envelopes from his road-worn jacket. “They both send you letters. And there’s another from your sister.”
“Thank you.” Caleb resisted the urge to tear them open and instead slid them under the counter. “I have a long one for you to take back.”
“Figured you would.” When Zeke descended the stairs with mugs and the coffeepot, Dorsey nodded his thanks. “You’re a good son, Caleb. No matter what folks might say.”
“What are they saying?”
The oldest boy replied, “Depends on who’s talking.”
“Marsh is letting them stew for a while. But he aims on using your work here to make a home for all you specials.” Dorsey used his mug to include his sons. “Me and the clan are helping him out.”
The simple declaration and the iron-hard determination behind it made Caleb’s eyes burn. “That means the world.”
“Zeke tells us things are going well.”
Caleb glanced at the shelves running along the wall behind the counter. They were now restocked with lines of jugs. “If you hadn’t shown up, we’d have sold out tomorrow.”
“Good thing I came when I did.”
“We could use a couple more wagonloads soon as you can deliver them,” Kevin called from upstairs.
Dorsey glanced up toward the second-floor landing. “I hear from Marsh you got yourself a new partner.”
“Kevin Ritter. Former sheriff’s deputy. He was injured in the journey, but he’s healing well.” Caleb saw Dorsey frown and met the man’s worry head-on. “I trust Kevin with my life. And our secret.”
Dorsey took a slow sip from his mug. “I don’t know as how that was your secret to share.”
Caleb sat and waited.
Dorsey glanced at his boys, stolid and silent, a line of black against the rear wall. He then took in the simple store, its worn plank floor, the straight-back stools, and the battered metal trays with glasses and water pitcher and sample jug. The lockbox was kept hidden under the counter, next to a loaded shotgun and pistol. Finally his gaze returned to Caleb. But whatever he was about to say was postponed by Zeke’s announcement that their meal was ready.
They ate a one-skillet dinner, steak and vegetables with bread fried in the grease. Coffee with coarse ground sugar for dessert. They ate with good appetite and little talk. When the meal was done, Caleb brought Dorsey and his sons back downstairs.
Dorsey waited while Caleb locked the door and closed the front curtain, then asked, “How are you taking to the big city?”
“I like it all right. But it’s not home and it never will be.”
“What about Zeke?”
“He’s managing the change surprisingly well.” Caleb drew out a chair across from Dorsey. “Kevin helps. And Hester. She and Zeke are an item.”
“Never thought the boy would settle down.”
Caleb said carefully, “I’m not sure you can use the word ‘settle’ with either of those two.”
Dorsey stroked his silver-black beard, the hand seamed and scarred from thirty years in the mine and even longer at the still. “Anybody else know our secret?”
“Just Kevin. I’d like to bring in Hester. She’d help with my plan. But I’ve been waiting for you to show up.”
“The enclave is taking well to Kevin’s ma, I’ll give you that much.” Dorsey offered a rare smile. “That Abigail is one smart gal.”
“Her son is a good man, Dorsey. The best.”
“Kevin claims you saved his life.”
“Zeke was the one who found him, hidden under a layer of mud in a creek bed. Without Zeke—”
“But it was your gift that told the boy where to look.”
“That same gift is why I trust him. Kevin and his mother lost everything because they refused to give up people like me and Zeke.”
Dorsey nodded slowly. He glanced up to the two men moving about overhead, then asked, “You got your plan worked out?”
“Maybe. That’s for you to decide,” Caleb replied.
He started by moving behind the counter and unlocking the strongbox. The silver coins and bars made quite a pile. He described the role Hester played in protecting the shop.
Dorsey’s sons crowded in, agog at the wealth on display. Dorsey inspected it. “How much is here?”
“What you see. Coins and all, we’ve taken in just over three hundred silver bars.”
He grunted his approval, then said, “Marsh figured on eighty bars for the first load. Ninety, tops.”
“We decided to sell straight to the customer,” Caleb replied. “But this won’t last.”
“Why not?”
“The tavern keepers are some of the most powerful people in Overpass. If we keep challenging their status, they’ll arrange for us to have an accident. The only reason we’ve stayed safe this long is because we’re dickering with t
hree of them.”
“You’re just gonna give up control?”
“I planned on doing this from the start. I’ve showed them the value of our product. I’m making a solid profit. Now I intend to sell a going concern and forge us a strong ally going forward.”
“If I didn’t know better,” Dorsey observed, “I’d say you was scared.”
“I’m terrified,” Caleb agreed. “It’s the only way to survive around here.”
Dorsey lowered his voice. “Where’s the gold?”
“Hidden under my feet.” Caleb stomped on the floor. “Did you bring more?”
“Another sixty bars. The vein is richer than we ever figured was possible.”
The news was exactly what Caleb had been hoping to hear. “Which means we have to move now.”
Dorsey nodded once. “All right. I’m listening.”
Despite the pounding urgency that flooded his entire being, Caleb took the time required to describe the moment he had been bound to his own wagon wheel. He described the refugees who had watched the sergeant uncoil his whip, their belongings scattered over the earth. He talked about the way the refugees had stood there, mute and helpless, as an innocent man was going to be beaten to a bloody pulp.
He then related what it had been like arriving in Overpass, learning that a doctor from someplace called Brooklyn had saved Kevin’s life. How they had slept on the doctor’s floor for two nights, how the office remained jammed with people and ailments and tales of woe. How over dinner the doctor’s wife had described the Jewish family’s trek, one that had lasted six months and covered more than five hundred hard miles. To this place. Which the doctor’s wife called an answer to a lifetime of prayers.
Caleb stopped then, both to catch his breath and to see if they had questions. Dorsey and his sons glared at the unseen world beyond the locked door, their faces creased and grim.
Dorsey said, “All right. You done scared us awake. Now tell us what you got in mind.”
“There is no way I can sell this gold here and be sure of keeping us safe,” Caleb replied.
The oldest son started, “But you said—”
“I know what I said. Back inside the enclave it sounded fine and good. But this is a different world, and now I know I was wrong. Sooner or later, no matter how careful I am or how many layers I build in, word is going to get out. The militia will learn the Catawba enclave has a working gold mine. They will rip us out by the roots. They’ll destroy everything we hold dear. Our homes will be gone. Our families will join the others drifting down the road, hoping for someplace we can lay our heads and feel safe. Until even a place like Overpass seems like paradise.”
Dorsey patted the table softly, gentling his boys before they could speak. “So sell it somewhere else.”
“I intend to,” Caleb said.
“Here it comes.”
“Nashville and Raleigh Townships are out—they’re Charlotte’s closest allies. Richmond is possible, but we run the risk of the federals hearing.”
“Stay away from them government revenuers,” Dorsey said.
Caleb took a breath. “Which leaves Atlanta. They are Charlotte’s biggest enemy. Even if they heard, they wouldn’t talk. For them to get to us, they’d have to go through Charlotte first.”
“So it’s in their interest to keep things quiet.” Dorsey kept patting the polished table. Pondering. “What you need is to make it all the way to Atlanta in one piece.”
“With the gold. Right.”
“And then find yourself some folks we can trust to keep our secret for us.”
“Which is where my gift comes in.”
Dorsey’s features tightened, and it took Caleb a moment to realize the man was smiling. “So let’s hear the rest.”
Caleb took his time laying it out, covering his fears and his questions. Through it all, father and sons burned him with their hard, dark gazes.
When he was done, he sat back. Spent and frantic at the same time.
Dorsey nodded slowly, his gaze on his hands. “When Marsh said he was sending you down here on your own, most of the elders feared you were too young. I told them I thought it was the best thing that could happen.”
Caleb found himself so overcome by the man’s confidence he had difficulty asking, “About Kevin and Hester . . .”
“You do what you think is best.” Dorsey kept nodding as he rose to his feet. He offered Caleb his hand. “There ain’t another man on earth I’d rather trust with this. And that’s exactly what I aim on telling anyone who asks.”
19
They all rose when dawn was little more than a grey tint upon the eastern horizon. They took turns in the washroom and were gathered for an early breakfast when Hester arrived with Sheriff Ferguson. They ate in silence, bid one another luck on the road, and departed. All save Kevin, who was left in solitary control of the shop and its wares.
Caleb, Hester, the sheriff, and Zeke took the Refugee Trail, a well-traveled road that circled west of the Charlotte Township’s boundary fence. Midafternoon they reached the main southern highway linking Charlotte to Greenville. There they turned back north again, following the main road. When they arrived at the city’s southern transport terminal, the sheriff gathered up their mounts, shook Caleb’s and Zeke’s hands, gave Hester a fierce embrace, then headed back. Gus Ferguson had no interest in being caught on the Refugee Trail at nightfall, riding alone and leading three good mounts.
They ate a sorry meal at a wayside tavern. As they were finishing their second cup of coffee, a Greyhound bus rumbled up, and they joined a long line of fellow travelers. The bus was a rusted hulk with mud-spattered sides. Even so, Caleb and Zeke approached the vehicle in awe. Hester acted as though it was all part of a day’s work. As they climbed aboard and showed the tickets they had purchased in the tavern, their rapt expressions drew smiles from those already seated, many of whom had been first-timers themselves earlier that day. The bus pulled away just as the sun touched the western horizon.
Caleb tried to stay awake and savor the experience of his first ride in a powered vehicle. As a kid he and his friends had raced behind trucks traveling the road between Charlotte and Nashville Townships, begging rides and occasionally leaping onto the rear. Now he was one of the privileged few, seated in a padded chair next to his very own window. Despite the road’s rugged condition, they were already moving at twice the speed of a horse-drawn wagon.
The bus rocked and jerked. Once the sun set, there was nothing to see except his own reflection. The window did not open and the overheated air was full of odors. Caleb soon fell asleep.
The next thing he knew, Hester nudged his shoulder and said, “Heads up.”
The Greenville Township main bus terminal faced onto a market square, empty that time of night. A cluster of Atlanta militia stood by the bus door as it creaked open. Two of the green-clad troopers climbed on board. “Everybody have your papers ready!”
The first trooper checked ID’s, the second collected the fees and handed out seventy-two-hour passes. When Hester showed her badge, the guard demanded, “What’s an Overpass guard doing in Greenville?”
“Private hire,” she replied, and jerked her thumb at Caleb. “This one’s father sent me down. We’re three in number. He’s got a servant in the back. Zeke!”
He answered as they had agreed. “Ma’am?”
“Move forward and show the officer your papers.”
The guard checking Zeke’s and Caleb’s ID’s said, “What do Catawba merchants have for sale down in these parts?”
“Shine,” Hester replied. “The good stuff.”
Caleb offered, “My pa’s sent me to look for a new market.”
The guard had heard enough. “Entry fee is a hundred dollars each.” He motioned for the next passenger’s papers. “Guards and servants cost the same.”
20
For Kevin, once the others left, time became a quarrelsome foe.
When he opened the shop two hours late, a line had alrea
dy formed outside his door. Word had spread with the night that the shop had received another shipment. Kevin stopped offering drams to the paying customers because there was neither need nor an assistant to help him keep track of who had already plied the battered tin cup. There were a few grumbles at being refused the customary sample. But these quieted when Kevin invited them to come back another day. If there were any jugs left.
Kevin realized he had missed lunch when shadows began ensnaring the road beyond his open doorway. His leg throbbed in a manner that he could only describe as loud. He was about to stop for a much-needed break when the customers halted their friendly banter. A silence settled as swift as a hand closing upon their collective necks.
A brute of a man in a dusty suit and silk foulard stepped through the doorway and smiled in a manner that only heightened the danger in his eyes. “This establishment is closed for the day.”
His name was Michael Farrier, and he was known throughout the region as a man not to be crossed. He had been pointed out to Kevin on a number of occasions, but this was the first time they had ever met in person.
Farrier said, “You had to be expecting a visit from me sooner or later.”
Kevin tried to match the man’s casual nature. “I thought you’d send your muscle to fetch me.” The same muscle who stood just inside Kevin’s front door. And another out front on the street, telling one and all to go away.
“That would do with most of the folks around here. But you and your lot, you’re deserving a different level of attention.” Farrier was neither tall nor broad, but his strength was as evident as his latent fury. His smile kept lifting the edges of his beard and crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Would you care to hazard a guess as to why?”
Kevin knew an order when he heard one, no matter how smoothly stated. “You knew we were discussing possible arrangements with two Overpass merchants.”