Alvin Journeyman: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume IV (38 page)

Verily let him have the last word. But in his own mind, he answered, Not all, Mr. Webster. You shall not enjoy it all.

No one planned a meeting, but they arrived at Alvin’s cell that evening almost at the same time, as if someone had summoned them. Verily Cooper had come to discuss what would happen during the selection of the jury and perhaps gloat a little over
the easy victory in the hearing that morning; he was joined by Armor-of-God Weaver, who brought letters from family and wellwishers in Vigor Church; Arthur Stuart of course was there, as he was most evenings; Horace Guester had brought a bowl of roadhouse stew and a jug of the fresh cider—Alvin wouldn’t take the cider that had turned, it dulled his mind; and no sooner were they all assembled in and around the open cell than the outer door opened and the deputy showed in Peggy Larner and a man that none but Alvin recognized.

“Mike Fink, as I live and breathe,” said Alvin.

“And you’re that smithy boy who bent my legs and broke my nose.” Mike Fink smiled, but there was pain in the smile, and no one was sure but what there might not be a quarrel here.

“I see some scars and marks on you, Mr. Fink,” said Alvin, “but I reckon from the fact you’re standing here before us that those are marks of fights you won.”

“Won fair and square, and hard fought,” said Fink. “But I killed no man as didn’t require me to, on account of trying to stick a knife in me and there being no other way to stop them.”

“What brings you here, Mr. Fink?” asked Alvin.

“I owe you,” said Fink.

“Not that I know of,” said Alvin.

“I owe you and I mean to repay.”

Still his words were ambiguous, and Arthur Stuart noticed how Papa Horace and Armor-of-God braced themselves to take on the powerful body of the riverman, if need arose.

It was Peggy Larner who made it clear. “Mr. Fink has come to give us information about a plot against Alvin’s life. And to offer himself as a bodyguard, to make sure no harm comes to you.”

“I’m glad to know you wanted to give me warning,” said Alvin. “Come on in and sit down. You can share the floor with me, or sit on my cot—it’s stronger than it looks.”

“Don’t have much to tell. I think Miss Larner already told you what I learned before, about a plot to kill you as they took
you back for trial in Kenituck. Well, the men I know—if you can rightly call them men—haven’t been fired from the plan. In fact what I heard this very afternoon was to pay no nevermind to how the extradition was squished—”

“Quashed,” offered Verily Cooper helpfully.

“Mashed,” said Fink. “Whatever. They got to pay no heed to it, because they’ll still be needed. The plan is for you not to leave the town of Hatrack River alive.”

“And what about Arthur Stuart?” asked Alvin.

“Not a word about no mixup boy,” said Fink. “The way I see it, they don’t give a damn about the boy, he’s just an excuse for them to get you kilt.”

“Please watch . . .” Alvin began, mildly enough, but Mike Fink didn’t need to hear him finish saying “your language with the lady.”

“Beg your pardon, Miss Larner,” he said.

“Don’t that beat all,” said Alvin admiringly. “He’s already beginning to sound like one of your students.” But was there a bite in his tone?

There was certainly a bite in Peggy’s answer. “I’d rather hear him swear than hear you say ‘don’t’ for ‘doesn’t.’ ”

Alvin leaned close to Mike Fink to explain, though he never took his eyes from Peggy’s face. “You see, Miss Larner knows all the words, and she knows just where they ought to be.”

Arthur Stuart could see the fury in her face, but she held her tongue. It was some kind of fight going on between the two of them; but what was it about? Miss Larner had
always
corrected their grammar, ever since she tutored Alvin and Arthur together when she was the schoolteacher in Hatrack River.

What puzzled Arthur Stuart all the more was the way the older men—not Verily, but Horace and Armor-of-God and even Mike Fink—sort of glanced around at each other and half-smiled like they all understood
exactly
what was going on between Alvin and Peggy, understood it better than those two did their own selves.

Mike Fink spoke up again. “Getting back to matters of life and death instead of grammar . . .”

At which point Horace murmured under his breath, “And lovers’ spats.”

“I’m sorry to say I can’t learn no more of their plans than that,” said Fink. “It’s not like we’re dear friends or nothing—more like they’d be as happy to stab me in the back as pee on my boots, depending on whether their knife or their . . . whatever . . . was in their hands.” He glanced again at Peggy Larner and blushed. Blushed! That grizzled face, scarred and bent by battle, that missing ear, but still the blood rushed into his face like a schoolboy rebuked by his schoolmarm.

But before the blush could even fade, Alvin had his hand on Fink’s arm and pulled him down to sit beside him on the floor, and Alvin threw an easy arm over his shoulder. “You and me, Mike, we just can’t remember how to talk fine in front of some folks and plain in front of others. But I’ll help you if you’ll help me.”

And there, in one easy moment, Alvin had put Mike Fink back to rights. There was just a kind of plain sincerity in Alvin’s way of speaking that even when you knew he was trying to make you feel better, you didn’t mind. You knew he cared about you, cared enough to try to make you feel better, and so you
did
feel better.

Thinking of Alvin making folks feel better made Arthur Stuart remember something that Alvin did to make
him
feel better. “Why don’t you sing that song, Alvin?”

Now it was Alvin’s turn to blush in embarrassment. “You know I ain’t no singer, Arthur. Just because I sung it to you . . .”

“He made up a song,” said Arthur Stuart. “About being locked up in here. We sung it together yesterday.”

Mike Fink nodded. “Seems like a Maker got to keep making something.”

“I got nothing to
do
but think and sing,” said Alvin.
“You
sing it, Arthur Stuart, not me. You’ve got a good singing voice.”

“I’ll sing it if you want,” said Arthur. “But it’s your song. You made it up, words and tune.”

“You sing it,” said Alvin. “I don’t even know if I’d remember all the words.”

Arthur Stuart dutifully stood up and started to sing, in his piping voice:

I meant to be a journeyman,
To wander on the earth.
As quick as any fellow can
I left the country of my birth
—
It’s fair to say I ran.

Arthur Stuart looked over at Alvin. “You got to sing the chorus with me, anyway.”

So together they sang the rollicking refrain:

At daybreak I’ll be risin’,
For never will my feet be still,
I’m bound for the horizon
—
oh!
I’m bound for the horizon.

Then Arthur went back to the verse, but now Alvin joined him in a kind of tenor harmony, their voices blending sweetly to each other.

Till I was dragged from bed
And locked inside a little cell.
My journeys then were in my head
On all the roads of hell.

With the next verse, though, when Arthur began it, Alvin didn’t join in, he just looked confused.

Alone with my imagining
I dreamt the darkest dream
—

“Wait a minute, Arthur Stuart,” said Alvin. “That verse isn’t really part of this song.”

“Well it fits, and you sung it to this tune your own self.”

“But it’s a nonsense dream, it don’t mean a thing.”

“I like it,” said Arthur. “Can’t I sing it?”

Alvin waved him to go ahead, but he still looked embarrassed.

Alone with my imagining
I dreamt the darkest dream,
Of tiny men, a spider’s sting,
And in a land of smoke and steam
An evil golden ring.

“What does that
mean?
” asked Armor-of-God.

“I don’t know,” said Alvin. “I wonder if sometimes I don’t accidentally end up with somebody else’s dream. Maybe that was a dream that belonged to somebody of ancient days, or maybe somebody who ain’t even been born yet. Just a spare dream and I chanced to snag on it during my sleep.”

Verily Cooper said, “When I was a boy, I wondered if the strange people in my dreams might not be just as real as me, and I was in
their
dreams sometimes too.”

“Then let’s just hope they don’t wake up at a inconvenient moment,” said Mike Fink dryly.

Arthur Stuart went on with the last verse.

The accusations all were lies
And few believed the tale,
So I was patient, calm and wise.
But legs grow weak inside a jail
And something in you dies.

“This song may be the saddest one I ever heard,” said Horace Guester. “Don’t you
ever
have a cheerful thought in here?”

“The chorus is pretty sprightly,” said Arthur Stuart.

“I had cheerful thoughts today,” said Alvin, “thinking of four
Slave Finders losing their license to carry off free men and put them into bondage in the south. And now I’ m cheerful again, knowing that the strongest man I ever fought is now going to be my bodyguard. Though the sheriff may not take kindly to it, Mr. Fink, since he thinks I’ m safe enough as long as I’ m in the care of him and his boys.”

“And you are safe,” said Peggy. “Even those deputies that don’t like you would never raise a hand against you or allow you to be less than safe.”

“There’s no danger, then?” asked Horace Guester.

“Grave danger,” said Peggy. “But not from the deputies, and most particularly not till the trail is over, and Alvin prepares to leave. That’s when we’ll need more than a bodyguard to die along with Alvin. We’ll need subterfuge to get him out of town in one piece.”

“Who says I’ll die?” asked Fink.

Peggy smiled thinly. “Against any five men I think you two would do well.”

“So there’ll be more than five?” asked Alvin.

“There may be,” said Peggy. “Nothing is clear right now. Things are in flux. The danger is real, though. The plot’s in place and men have been paid. You know when money’s involved, even assassins feel obliged to fulfill their contracts.”

“But for the nonce,” said Verily Cooper, “we’re not to worry about our safety, or Alvin’s?”

“Prudence is all that’s needed,” said Peggy.

“I don’t know why we’re putting our trust in knackery,” said Armor-of-God. “Our Savior is guard enough for us all.”

“Our Savior will resurrect us,” said Peggy, “but I haven’t noticed that Christians end up any less dead at the end of life than heathens.”

“Well, one thing’s sure,” said Horace Guester. “If it wasn’t for knackery Alvin wouldn’t be in this blamed fix.”

“Did you like the song?” asked Alvin. “I mean, I thought Arthur sung it real good. Real well. Very well.” Each correction won a bit more of a smile from Miss Larner.

“Sang
it very well,” said Peggy. “But each version of the sentence was better than the one before!”

“I got another verse,” said Alvin. ‘It’s not really part of the song, on account of it isn’t true yet, but do you want to hear it?”

“You got to sing it alone, I don’t know another verse,” said Arthur Stuart.

Alvin sang:

I trusted justice not to fail.
The jury did me proud.
Tomorrow I will hit the trail
And sing my hiking song so loud
It’s like to start a gale!

They all laughed, and allowed as how they hoped he could soon sing it for real. By the time the meeting ended, they’d decided that Armor-of-God, with Mike Fink to watch his back and keep him safe, would head for Carthage City and learn all he could about the men who were paying Daniel Webster’s salary and see for sure if they were the same ones paying the river rats and other scoundrels to lie in wait to take Alvin’s life. Other than that, everything was in Verily Cooper’s hands. And to hear him tell it, it was up to the witnesses and the jury. Twelve good men and true.

There was a long line at the county clerk’s office as Peggy came in for the first day of Alvin’s trial. “Early voters,” Marty Laws explained. “Folks that worry maybe the weather will keep them from casting their ballot election day. This Tippy-Canoe campaign has folks pretty riled up.”

“Do you think they’re voting for or against?”

“I’m not sure,” said Marty. “You’re the one who’d know, aren’t you?”

Peggy didn’t answer. Yes, she
would
know, if she cared to look. But she feared what she’d see.

“It’s Po Doggly who knows about politics around here best. He says that if it was all up or down on the whole Red business, Tippy-Canoe wouldn’t get him a vote. But he’s also been playing on the western pride thing. How Tippy-Canoe is from our side of the Appalachee Mountains. Which don’t make much sense to me, seeing as how Old Hickory—Andy Jackson—he’s every bit as western as Harrison. I think folks worry about how Andy Jackson, being from Tennizy, he’s probably too much for slavery. Folks around here don’t want to vote in somebody who’ll make the slavery thing any worse than it is.”

Peggy smiled thinly. “I wish they knew Mr. Harrison’s real position on slavery.”

Marty cocked an eyebrow. “You know something I don’t know?”

“I know that Harrison is the candidate that those who wish to expand slavery into the northern states will want to support.”

“Ain’t a soul here who wants to see that happen.”

“Then they shouldn’t vote for Harrison—if he becomes president, it
will
happen.”

Marty stared long and hard at her. “Do you know this the way most folks know their political opinions, or do you know it as . . . as . . .”

“I know it,” said Peggy. “I don’t say that of mere opinions.”

Marty nodded and looked off into space. “Well damn. Wouldn’t you know it.”

“You have a habit of betting on the wrong horse lately,” said Peggy.

“You can say that again,” said Marty. “I kept telling Makepeace for years that there wasn’t a case against Alvin and I wasn’t going to get him extradited from Wobbish. But then he showed up here, and what could I do? I had Makepeace, and he had him a witness besides himself. And you never know what juries are going to do. I think it’s a bad business.”