Chapter 7
W
ith a nod of approval, Marcus let go of my hands and reached for Livie, who was sniffling softly against the sleeve of her dress. I remained propped on my knees, unaware of my limp hands dangling in the air until I looked up into Colt’s perplexed face. He stared at me, thinking thoughts that were impossible to read. My head lowered along with my hands; I did not want to be judged in his eyes.
“I hear dogs yelpin’,” Lillabelle said, dragging a bucket through the cave entrance.
Her mother ran to her and pulled her to her feet. “What you doin’ out there, chile? You gonna be seen!”
“I went fetchin’ water from the stream fo’ Livetta. Don’t be angry, Mama, ’cuz I was ’specially quiet in case any paddy rollers was lookin’ about.”
“Don’t you ever go off on your own again, Lillabelle.” Marcus came across the cave to lift her chin so she could see the alarm in his face. “Now, tell me about the dogs.”
“I heared ’em comin’ from down yonder where they gunned Livetta.”
Colt grabbed my hand and stepped to Marcus. “We’ll go down the mountain to intercept any danger heading this way. If we can’t stop it, I will squeeze off one shot of my rifle to give you time to scatter. If there is no gun blast, then you are safe for now. But heed my warning and be on your way with the twitter of the first night cricket, so your tracks are cold and faded by morning.”
I eased the tension between them when I added, “I will be back tomorrow with more provisions for Livie.”
With that, we parted from our band of runaways. As Colt and I cut a hasty path back through the pine hollow, I looked over my shoulder and saw Marcus staring from the cave entrance. I am sure I saw him nod just before Colt jerked my elbow to keep my attention moving in his direction. I kept stride with Colt around the still waters of Emerald Cove to the steep path descending the mountainside. Near the meadow, I heard the first low bellow of the hounds, just as Lillabelle had said. No effort was wasted on words as we scampered down from the peak. Using our hands like tobacco machetes, we slapped our way through the underbrush as Twitch and his dogs pounced over the far knoll of the meadow, followed by his slave driver, Willy Jack.
I immediately took Colt’s hand to slow his pace. Under normal circumstances, the mere sight of Twitch riled Colt’s defenses, and I did not want Twitch to sense any added uneasiness. Not much got by Twitch’s demon eye. He had a way of observing and deciphering situations that peeled away layers until the heart of the matter was revealed and vulnerable. I suppose that was what made him good at what he did, but it was unnerving to those under his scrutiny. By the time our paths met in the tall grass of the meadow, his hounds were barking and running in circles around us.
“Gracious be, Twitch. Calm these crazy animals,” I said, feigning a casual lilt.
Twitch gave the one nearest me a boot in the haunches that sent it yelping back over the hill, with three others giving chase. Willy Jack waited about twenty paces away, knowing it was not his place to join the group.
“When did you ride in?” Colt asked without masking his disdain. “I thought you would be gone a week or more.”
Twitch fixed his good eye on him as he tongued a wad of tobacco inside his bulging cheek, before spewing a dark stream down toward Colt’s boots. “Then you thought wrong, Purebred. Anyway, when I come and go ain’t none o’ your damn business.”
“If you are fresh off the road,” I jumped in, hoping to tame Twitch’s foul mood, “what brings you up on the mountain? Ol’ Uncle Mooney better not be working you too hard. A man’s got the right to put up his feet and relax after a long journey.”
“Ain’t seen the ol’ man, but I spied a line o’ smoke up on the peak when I came across the flatlands. Gonna have me a look around.”
“Well, if you are curious about the smoke, it was just Colt and me. We had a fire going earlier.”
“That’s right,” Colt said. “I decided to do a little hunting.”
“And with Aunt Augusta gone, Colt let me tag along.”
Twitch squeezed his dead eye closed and studied us. Then he tugged at the limp rabbit hanging on Colt’s belt.
“You kill that?”
Colt was taken off guard because he had apparently forgotten about the rabbit Marcus had given him in the cave. He yanked the animal back from Twitch. “Let’s just say it’s none of
your
damn business,” Colt said, posturing himself for trouble.
Twitch let out a whoop of craggy laughter. “You think I am stupid or somethin’? I know what the two of you are up to.”
My heart sank like a rock in my chest. Were we that transparent? Or was it simply that his instincts were as keen as he often boasted? Visions of bloodthirsty hounds tearing at dark, defenseless flesh swirled in my mind. From the corner of my eye, I saw the subtle movement of Colt’s finger sliding in position over the trigger of the rifle tucked in the crook of his arm. But would a warning shot give them enough time?
“You think I can’t see the dirt on the front o’ your dress where you was on your knees?” Twitch grinned with rotted teeth. “You may have snuck off into the trees, but it wasn’t to do no huntin’.” Twitch cackled back over his shoulder toward Willy Jack. “There ain’t even no buck-shot in that mangy hare.”
Colt raised his fist to deliver a blow to the filthy-mouthed snake, but I caught him by the arm. I knew that once I had the chance to digest Twitch’s insinuations, I would be as fiery as an angry bull, but for now I figured it was best he believed his titillating fantasy rather than have him look to uncover some other reason for Colt and me to be on the peak.
Seeing Colt’s restrained anger, Twitch looked squarely at him. “Guess I don’t need to waste time sniffin’ the smoke of another man’s fire. Maybe Hannah will hunt with me next time. I been known to spark a fire or two myself.” Then, winking his dead eye in my direction, he added, “The torch down in my belly burns a might hotter than straight-laced Colt’s.”
With one forceful yank, Colt freed his arm from my grasp and clamped his hand across Twitch’s throat. Twitch quickly countered by swiping a knife from the leather pouch tied on his belt. The sleeve on Colt’s outstretched arm creased under the pressure of Twitch’s blade.
“Take your hand off me, Purebred, or it will be the last thing you use it for.”
The veins bulging in Colt’s neck pulsated as deep shades of red migrated across his face. I slipped a gentle hand under his arm.
“Don’t let him bait you, Colt.”
Finally, he forced his uncooperative hand to let go. Colt echoed Twitch’s gasp as the fierce stalemate ended with each taking a guarded step back. Twitch holstered his knife, then crinkled his face into a devilish smirk. Satisfied he had won the standoff, he turned and headed back down the meadow toward West Gate. And although the threat was only temporarily defused, I breathed a little easier with each step he took in the opposite direction.
Once back in the quiet retreat of my bedchamber, I was awash with thoughts and emotions. My worries were buffered by the fact that Aunt Augusta was on leave from the house, allowing me sufficient privacy to sort out my thoughts.
Am I crazy thinking I can keep Livie safe? Where will Marcus and the others go from here? When will he return? Is that his touch still lingering on my fingertips?
So much had happened, I could barely digest it all. To calm my uneasiness, I busied myself with needlework in the sewing room. By the time Esther Mae tapped on the door, it was time for supper. When Aunt Augusta was away, it was Colt’s habit to have dinner with me; however, I was not surprised to find myself alone at the dining table. Although a degree of uneasiness came with his absence, I believed it was for the best. I was not in the mood for polite chatter with someone whose stubborn insistence at driving the runaways onward could very well put them on the path of inevitable capture.
Upon scooping the last few morsels of snap beans and pearl onions from my plate, I told Esther Mae I would take my tea on the front porch. I settled on the rocker and creaked in rhythm to the evening chorus accompanying the sun as it lowered in the sky before me. Uncle Mooney’s blacksmith, silent James, led a team of workhorses to the stables. James was hired out to Hillcrest to fulfill Winston’s duties when Aunt Augusta’s business took her away for more than a day or two. James stood tallest of the West Gate slaves, with broad, powerful shoulders and muscled arms chiseled from days spent fulfilling blacksmith duties between the two plantations. His shirt was stripped of both sleeves, with the frayed edges waving surrender to the girth of his arm. He rarely spoke, even to the other slaves, and lived by himself in the loft of the barn used as a forge and farrier shop.
Colt told me James was won in a poker game while Uncle Mooney conducted business down in Mississippi. I overheard Granny Morgan tell Esther Mae that James had a wife and baby sold south before he came to West Gate, which left him with a defiant streak. I did not know if the quarter gossip was true, but it would explain why his master used him to pay off a gambling debt to Uncle Mooney. James was tied to a wagon and returned to West Gate, where he spent his first few weeks in leg and neck shackles secured in the back lot, while Twitch made it known to all that he would break this powerful new buck same as the rest. The last two days of the process, he corralled the slaves of both properties to bear witness to the whippings and watch as the raw wounds were washed in brine until he succumbed. From that point on, James gave in to his new master with detached obedience.
Watching James now, I thought again about the heart-wrenching separation taking place between Marcus and Livie. The flutter in my heart forced my eyes toward Mud Run. The huddled cabins looked no different than they did any other day, except the life and activity there appeared more vivid to me.
What do they talk about inside those cabins? Does James think of his wife and child when he is in the barn, alone with his thoughts? Was Esther Mae missing Winston when she walked down over the knoll with her head drooped to one side?
For me, the shuffle of the slaves from field to cabin simply marked the time of day. And though I often heard the mournful songs that accompanied their migration, I never noticed until now their hunched shoulders and weary faces reflecting the toil of their day.
Shaken by a sudden chill, I crossed my arms tightly against my chest. A thick haze pushed what was left of the setting sun from view. There was no orange glow to punctuate the end of the day, but rather a birdless gray sky brewing dark with storm clouds. A steady wind picked up from the southwest. Loose strands of hair blew across my face and signaled me to make my retreat. I closed the door against the unsettled dust. If the clouds drew near enough to roll over the mountain, the night ahead would be a fury.
A sudden crash of thunder sprang me upright in my bed as walls and windows shook around me. Lightning flashed across my room with nary a pause in between. I pulled my bed jacket snug around my shoulders and went to the north window. Rain pelted loudly against the pane, and the trees of Mud Run were throwing fits against the wind. I worried for Marcus and the other runaways. I knew they would not delay their trek through the mountains, but battling a fierce, drenching gale in the thickness of night might be equally as treacherous as Twitch cornering them with his hounds.
Is the call of the North so strong it will coax them blindly into the belly of the storm? Or is it the misery from which they flee driving them into hell, seeking a better fate?
A jagged bolt of lightning sliced through the ominous blackness above the peak. My thoughts went to Livie alone in Copperhead Cave. Each thunderous crash poked a fretful jab at my conscience until I was terrified for her. I opened my hand and touched the palm where Marcus had wrapped his fingers while I vowed to take care of Livie. He was right. I could feel the promise that bridged us. So I hastily put on the dress I had worn earlier and bundled together two quilts, a cotton dress, and fresh undergarments all wrapped in a wool blanket. Downstairs, I was careful not to rouse Granny Morgan, who slept in a room adjacent to the root cellar. I lit the oil lamp on the table, threw a cloth rag over it to shield it from the rain, and set off on a perilous journey up the heaving mountain.
The veil of night was torn away by bursts of white lightning. I shouldered the storm as best I could while holding the lamp and bundle close to my breast so they would not fall victim to the driving rain. Neither courage nor sense of duty kept my feet moving forward. It was the thought of someone like me, out there alone and afraid, that coaxed me from my warm bed. Trudging my way up to the peak, I ducked under my cloak with each explosion of thunder, convinced the sky was crashing down upon my lowered head. I found relief from the downpour in the tall pines of the hollow, although the echo chamber within the woods sent me running for the cave.
At first, the screams were barely distinguishable from the crashing heavens, but as I neared the cave, Livie’s terrified cries pierced through the storm. I pushed through the entrance, balancing my wares. I had forgotten Colt had suffocated the fire earlier, so the soft glow of my lamp barely smudged the pitch-blackness. The lightning that danced outside the opening high above reflected eerily from wall to wall, and I saw a quick flash of Livie at the far end of the cave.
“Livie, it’s me, Hannah,” I called. “Don’t be frightened.”
After stumbling across her makeshift bed, I found Livie where she had crawled into a corner. She was huddled behind a rock, with her eyes fixed upward where the lightning penetrated her shelter. An uncontainable wail rose from her with each jolt of thunder that shook through the cave. I reached out to touch her shoulder, but it only heightened her cries.
“I shall light a fire,” I yelled. “The storm won’t seem so bad then.”
Strewn across the pit was a modest array of partially burned wood. I pushed the pieces up against each other as I had observed Marcus do, and found a neat pile of kindling he had wisely left for our use. I was grateful for his forethought, because it would have been impossible to find a dry stick of wood outside the protection of the cave. I arranged the sticks between the logs, and then touched some pine needles with the flaming wick of my lamp. The needles torched warmly, igniting the twigs until finally the logs were ablaze. The cave filled with a crackling orange glow as the fire took hold.