The Tinsmith (14 page)

She had relaxed slightly by the time he looked at her again.

“Put it on the table,” she said and pointed.

The table was beside the bed. As he put the bowl down, he took a closer look at Caleb. He lay on his stomach, his torn back uncovered and smelling of some mixture of herbs. The skin was raw and pink-ridged in places, the black like burnt bacon. Caleb appeared to be asleep.

“How could you do it? How could you?”

Her voice broke and large tears filled her eyes.

“You know he didn't steal no hog.”

He forced himself to meet her gaze. He yearned to tell her the truth, but it was as if Caleb spoke to him, saying, Not yet, it's not safe yet, just wait.

He listened. His lips moved but no words fell from them.

“We thought he was going to die,” she said. “He's too old for such a whipping. Mama said she'd never seen so many lashes. If Tom and Robert hadn't got hold of her, she'd have run out and grabbed the overseer's arm.”

He swallowed hard. “How is he now?”

Suddenly her whole body stiffened.

“What you care? You got what you wanted. Ain't no marks on your back.”

It was time to go. He wished he could do something for Caleb, but nothing occurred to him. As he turned to the door, it burst open and the overseer, Orlett, strode in. The shack filled with the ferocious barking of the large bull mastiff straining at the leash in Orlett's right hand. In his left, he held a shotgun. Behind him stood Cray, the huge mulatto that the overseer had brought with him when he'd arrived at the farm. This man was younger than Orlett and powerfully built; his head sat like a cracked boulder on his shoulders. From the largest crack an uneven group of dull teeth stuck out. The skin around the cracks was light brown and he had ears the size of jug handles. Because he had been away on an overnight errand on the night of the whipping, his presence now seemed especially disturbing.

The overseer appeared to laugh as he surveyed the room, but it was impossible to tell because of the barking. At a sharp jerk of the leash, however, the mastiff quieted and sat bristling on its haunches.

“Well now, I didn't figure you'd pay much heed to my advice, but I figured you'd last a mite longer than one night.”

With the dog growling at his side, Orlett walked over to Jancey. She was panting, her arms crossed over her chest, her wrists together near her throat, the way Caleb's had been together. Orlett let the leash drop to the planks and told the dog to stay. Then he reached up and ran a blunt finger along Jancey's jaw line. “Very comely,” he said. “Almost as bright as you, boy. Generally I like them darker, but a man must always be prepared to make exceptions.” He turned to the mulatto. “Cuff him to the bedpost, Cray.” Both the snarling dog and the gun were pointed at John as the mulatto carried out the order.

“Take off that dress, girl,” Orlett said. “Come on, now. Or I'll rip it off for you.” A few seconds later he smacked her across the cheek with the back of his hand. She cried out and cowered against the wall. The cuffs dug deeper into John's skin and the bed shifted a little. He shouted at the overseer.

“Shut him up, Cray.”

Expressionless, the mulatto kicked out. Pain flared in John's skull, down along his spine. The room whirled. Faintly he saw the overseer wrestling with Jancey. Orlett held her to him from behind, his arms around her waist. “Cray, make some space on the bed, will you.”

The mulatto stepped up to the bed, took Caleb by the shoulder and rolled him onto the floor. Caleb groaned as he hit the planks.

Orlett hurled Jancey onto the bed, then stood laughing above her. “Damned if I couldn't use another set of cuffs. But the day a nigger wench can outwrestle me . . .” He ripped Jancey's dress straight down. Her screams came loud and then muffled as he clamped his hand over her mouth.

On his knees directly below, John could not fail to watch. To look down was even worse, for Caleb's head with the mutilated ear was only inches from him. The cuffs ground in deeper and deeper as he strained.

Orlett struck the girl again. Then again. She quieted. Then came the click of a belt unbuckling. The overseer's breath quickened. Jancey cried in gasps. The overseer climbed onto the bed.

John shouted and the mulatto kicked him in the stomach. He lost his breath. His jaw unhinged as he fought to regain it. The smell of herbs rose thickly off Caleb's back.

Seconds passed. Suddenly a piercing shriek rent the close air. A flurry of motion crossed before him and launched itself at the bed. The overseer shouted in pain. Jancey's crying quieted inside the sound.

“Bitch! Get off!”

The dog's barking fell like blows as its jaws snapped at the bodies on the bed, Daney's arms scything the air as she struck the overseer again and again. Orlett, on his back, held his arms over his face for protection and shouted, “Bitch! Goddammit! Cray!” Jancey cowered on her knees, tight against the wall.

Through blurred vision, John sensed the mulatto's slow, methodical movements toward the bed. There was a sharp crack, the shrieking stopped. The barking continued beyond it. Caleb gave another groan.

Daney lay sprawled senseless beside Caleb. Her bare arms bled from where the dog's teeth had sunk in.

“Cray, you damned fool. If you've gone and killed her . . .”

“She ain't dead,” the mulatto said calmly. “I jes cracked her on de jaw. Dey's nothin tougher dan a nigger woman protectin her chile.”

The dog's barking grew even more fierce. The overseer snarled.

“Shut up, King! Shut up!”

The dog did as it was told. The shack grew quiet except for the indrawn short crying breaths of Jancey, who now lay half-naked, curled into herself. The overseer slid off the bed, stood, and buckled his breeches. He stared at the girl and said, “You better get used to it, you and your sister both.” Then he lowered himself to his haunches and grinned and put his face very close. He stank of liquor and goose fat and dog fur. Several long bloody scratches ran from his eyes down through the short grizzle on his cheeks and chin to the sparse hairs at his throat. “You see, boy, what messing with women leads to. I was only giving you the advice a father'd give his own son.”

John collected all the spit he could and spat in Orlett's face, but the overseer just laughed and wiped the spit away with his sleeve. “You know you're a nigger now. You know what it means. I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you, boy.”

Orlett heaved himself to a standing position. He told the mulatto to undo the cuffs.

“And don't be thinking of running either. The second I find you're gone, that's when these niggers will start paying for your absence.”

He laughed his dog's silent laugh. “You might as well eat that bowl of pudding. You might as well get used to the taste of blood cause that's what a nigger's life tastes like. Cray, kindly pick that nigger bitch up. When she comes around, she'll need to get back to her sewing. And you. You get yourself to the barn.”

The overseer shouldered his gun, pulled the dog's leash, and left, Cray following behind with Daney over his back like a sack of wheat. Now it was just John and Caleb and Jancey again.

On his knees still, he stared at his torn and bleeding wrists. His breath flowed whitely but hid nothing. He saw what his life was without having to taste anything. It was the overseer's death. That was plain. No matter what else it would be, he knew his life would have to start with that.

As gently as possible he lifted Caleb onto the bed and placed him beside his weeping daughter. He covered them both lightly with a thin sheet. Then he headed for the hog pens to do his share of the killing work.

•  •  •

The next day put the blacks into a panic of gossip that spread over the farm like a sickness. John understood the cause straight away. The appearance of a single strange white man always created a stir, even in the calmer years, but now, with the war rumoured to break out at any time and the master relinquishing more power to the overseer day by day, an unknown white man was more terrifying than any haunt the most superstitious black could imagine.

Being at the big house, John knew about the man first. And he knew the blacks had every reason to panic, for the man was indeed a slave trader. Early that morning, the master said, “John, there's a gentleman coming here to do business, and I wish everything to go smoothly. Serve the finest liquor and cigars. And be sure to cover up those wounds. Wear long sleeves. And stay away from the hogs this morning if you can't protect yourself any better than that.”

John had not told of the overseer's actions, knowing that in a battle between the two of them, he could not win. Orlett had become the old man's most trusted support, on account of his running of the farm. Generally, too, the word of any white man was always taken over that of a black.

So in his fresh-washed apron he served the three men, the overseer obviously displeased by his presence. “He shouldn't be here,” he said to the master. “We don't want this talked about.”

The stranger agreed. He was neither young nor old, his face thin and grizzled, his voice and language not those of a gentleman. The roughness of his clothes was equally surprising; from hat to boots, his clothing was well worn and of cheap quality. But an exaggerated eagerness to please in his manner made the master disregard the man's physical defects. His name was McElvane and he had travelled all the way from Georgia.

That was all any black would need to know. Even if the master ordered him to leave the room immediately after he'd served the drinks, John had learned enough. Perhaps that was why Orlett only shrugged when the master said, “John understands this is private business. He won't speak of it.”

The stranger ran a bony hand through his thin hair still damp with frost. He looked at Orlett just the way a dog looks for the command to go ahead and eat. Except for the ticking of the grandfather clock and a few bird chirps outside the window, the dining room stayed quiet. The cigar smoke swirled. Orlett blew a great cloud into the air.

“Yes,” he said, “this boy can be trusted. This boy's the most trustworthy boy on the farm. He knows I know him.”

Orlett's eyes sucked in the smoke.

“I'm sorry,” the master said. “I did not foresee that I would be in this position. But the man who stands still while things change around him is not likely to come out ahead.”

“Quite right, sir, quite right.”

The stranger moved to the edge of his chair.

“Your timing couldn't be better,” he said. “There's a great need for labour in the South just now. Mr. Wych of Columbia has instructed me to purchase as much good stock as I can. But, of course, good is the word. I don't want no bad niggers, nor no old and sickly ones neither. There's no profit in dealing in scrubs.”

The master scowled. Delicately he picked a fleck of cigar off his bottom lip. “I leave you to discuss all that with Mr. Orlett. What I wish to know is the price you're willing to pay. I don't part with my property easily or gladly.”

McElvane smacked his lips appreciatively after sampling the liquor. He said, “For a good field hand no more than twenty years old, a thousand at least and mebbe more. Boys over ten almost as much. Women and girls not so much, unless there's some likely breeders.”

Orlett stuck his thumbs under his suspender straps. “And if they're good-looking wenches too, that's a premium as I understand it.”

McElvane nodded. “There's buyers who'll pay tall prices for that, yes. How old?”

“Two of them. Thirteen and fourteen.”

John's heart constricted. He closed his mouth tight to keep his breathing in.

“When you say tall,” the master said, “what figure do you have in mind?”

The trader scratched his chin with a knuckle. “If the girls are good-looking and bright, mebbe four thousand for the pair.”

Daney always said she could . . . 

“John, please fill our guest's glass.”

His limbs numbed. He moved without feeling himself move. She could bear anything so long as her children . . . He poured the liquor and withdrew.

Numbers were mentioned, of slaves, ages, skills. Their prices. House slaves? John did not realize that
house slave
referred to him. He could not shut out Daney's face. It seemed to stare through the window. It seemed wet with tears, except they were as red as what had dripped off Caleb's ear.

The overseer pushed his chair back loudly and left the room. The trader smiled broadly at the master.

“Even if it don't come to war, you're right to sell now. Just the talk of war has drove the prices very tall. On the plantations, they want to increase production as fast as they can, before a war shuts down the shipping channels to Europe.”

“Sometimes, Mr. McElvane, circumstances make these decisions for us. I've grown old. The world is no longer what I would like it to be.”

The trader fidgeted on his chair. “Ah yes,” he mumbled and looked at the door almost longingly.

John guessed at the trader's impatience for the overseer's return. Orlett's absence was unnerving. Why had he gone? Why had the day fallen so still, with not even the birds chirping anymore?

“These days,” the trader said, “you can't judge no dependence at all in a man. There's a lot of sharps around. But I don't deceive any man if I'm awise of the fact.”

“I'm certain you don't,” the master said. “Mr. Orlett would not have invited you here if you were not to be trusted. We were prepared to go to auction in the village if necessary, but I prefer a more private arrangement farther afield. It is how I have always bought my slaves.”

John could no longer keep his tongue. “Master, you're not selling Jancey? You said if the thief was caught that you would not sell . . .”

“Circumstances change, John. Of course I meant what I said, but the times are conspiring against us.” He placed his cigar down as if it was made of glass. Just exhaling the cigar smoke appeared to tire him. “These decisions do not please me.”