AHMM, September 2009 Read online

  Zack's fear swelled up inside him again, in response to Joe's. There was still nothing overtly threatening in his manner, but Zack could see he was desperate. Desperate enough to lash out, maybe, like a cornered animal.

  "Please, Massa Todd,” Joe begged. “You're a good man. Everybody knows it. I want to come home. I got a family here. I want to be with them. Please say you'll help me."

  Zack forced calm into his voice. “Of course I will. I'll do what I can for you."

  Relief transformed Joe's features. “Oh, thank you, suh! Thank you! I'll stay close to home. I'll wait and see. I'll know when they find the man who done it. Thank you! Thank you!"

  Before Zack could say anything more, Joe closed the lantern's shutter.

  Sitting blind in the sudden darkness, Zack listened to him leave. He thought of chasing after him but didn't. He wouldn't have known what to do if he caught him.

  * * * *

  Zack slept late the next morning but only because it took him so long to fall back to sleep. When he awoke it was as if his thoughts had never been interrupted. The same questions were still running through his mind.

  If Joe didn't kill Hank, who did? Zack didn't know enough about Hank to guess. His father had hired Hank to be the overseer when Zack was off at college. Since his return, he'd learned very little about the man, certainly far less than might be expected for the only other white man on the plantation. He knew Hank's estranged wife lived in town, as did his brother Wade. Evidently Hank's wife had taken up with another man not long after kicking him out. Zack didn't know the reason for their split or her new lover's identity, having grown sufficiently apart from the townspeople by then to be left out of their gossip. He recalled hearing something about excessive drinking, but he wasn't sure what to make of it. He couldn't remember ever seeing Hank drunk. Then again, he'd never been invited to Hank's cabin those nights when he had Wade and a few other men from town over to play cards. All Zack could say about those once- or twice-weekly gatherings was that they never turned loud.

  All this assumed, of course, that Joe was telling the truth. Zack knew he was predisposed to believe him. He also knew that no one else was. But he didn't think he was being naive. Just the fact that Joe had stayed close to home was proof, of a sort. No slave with any sense would stick around after killing his overseer. He'd run north as fast he could. Zack hadn't spoken much with Joe in recent years but he knew he had a good head on his shoulders. Just the fact that he called him “Massa Todd” proved that. The not-so-bright slaves still called him “Massa Zack,” as they had throughout his childhood. They couldn't make the switch when he came back from college a grown man.

  To Zack's mind, the only foolish thing Joe had done was run away. But the more he thought about it, the less he could fault him even for that. Joe had suffered a moment of panic, quite reasonably under the circumstances. Zack felt he might have done the same thing.

  Lying awake last night, he'd resolved to ask Sheriff Hines about Hank the next time he saw him, to see if he could get any clues about who might have killed him. He wasn't going to mention that Joe was still in the area. Hines was a reasonable man, but he was closed minded when it came to his job—and the treatment of slaves. Maybe he'd be willing to entertain the idea that Joe was innocent after he had him in a jail cell. Maybe not. Zack remembered the look on his face yesterday as he led the posse away. It was steely and businesslike, the look of a man hunting a mad dog.

  No word had come from Hines about how the posse fared yesterday. Zack guessed they would have given up around nightfall. But until he saw one of them, he'd have to use the only resource available to him: his slaves.

  Around noon he put on his straw hat and stepped out into the beating sunlight. The slaves had come back to their homes for lunch. He headed for the slave quarters, stopping along the way at Hank's cabin. He thought something might be learned by looking around inside.

  It still took an effort of will to approach the door. Inside nothing was revealed to him by the plain furniture, the crockery on a shelf, the homespun shirt draped over a ladder-back chair, or the cast-off pair of brogans on the floor. As he moved into the room, he walked around the spot on the floor where Hank's body had lain yesterday. He realized what he'd done once he was past it. But he couldn't stop himself from doing it again on his way out.

  Preacher lived in the house next door. Zack stopped there to collect him, then walked directly to the last house in line, the one just before the church. That was where Joe's family lived.

  The door stood open in the heat. Zack knocked on the doorframe. In the comparative darkness inside he saw a figure turn toward him. A voice he recognized said, “Come in, Massa Zack."

  He stepped in, doffing his hat. Joe's wife Etta stood behind a rough-hewn wooden table in the middle of the room, kneading dough. Her skin looked midnight black in the dim light. Her old print dress and the bandana on her head were bleached pale by the sun.

  "Hello, Etta,” he said.

  "Hello, suh."

  "I'm sorry about your trouble."

  "Thank you."

  He looked around the room. This wood-framed building was built to the same duplex design as the other slave houses: Each family had a single large room with a sleeping loft above. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the light he could see this room was actually well lit by the brilliant sunlight filling the open windows. Belatedly he noticed another figure sitting by the empty hearth. It was Joe and Etta's ten-year-old daughter, Priscilla. Her eyes were fixed on him.

  "Hello, Priscilla,” he said.

  She just stared at him.

  "Say hello to Massa Zack, Priscilla,” Etta said.

  "Hello, Massa Zack."

  Zack turned back to Etta, who seemed engrossed in her kneading. Suddenly he couldn't think what to say. His heart went out to her. The two of them had known each other all their lives, both of them having been born and raised here. Because they were about the same age, he really began to notice her when they both entered their teens. Then as now she had this way about her, like all slaves did, the always-ready distantness. Sometimes that demeanor was enough to make his insides roil with guilt. Worse still was another glance she showed him sometimes, a penetrating look of bondage that went right to his white man's soul.

  He managed to say, “I hear there was a commotion outside last night."

  Etta didn't answer.

  "Yessuh,” Priscilla said.

  Zack and Etta both looked sharply at the girl. She recoiled from her mother's stare.

  "What did you hear?” Zack asked her.

  She stared at him mutely.

  "Did you hear an argument?"

  She didn't reply.

  Zack looked at Etta, but she had assumed a blank expression. He looked back to Priscilla and saw it on her face too.

  "What about it?” he asked Etta. “Who did you hear outside?"

  "I don't know, suh."

  "Did you hear Hank Dixon's voice?"

  "I don't know."

  Zack frowned. “I know you think you're helping Joe by keeping quiet, but you might not be. I'm willing to believe it might have been someone else out there with Hank. Someone else who killed him. If I can prove that, Joe could come back."

  She made no response. Her eyes never strayed from the dough. Her hands never stopped kneading.

  Zack said, “Your husband's life is at stake here. I need to know what happened."

  Still no response.

  He stared at her, his frustration mounting. Grimly he decided her silence proved one thing, at least: Joe hadn't talked to her since Hank was killed. If he had, he would have told her to say everything she knew about the man he heard arguing with Hank. Not for the first time, Zack wished he'd had the presence of mind last night to ask Joe if he could describe that man. As things stood now, he didn't even know if he was white or Negro. Probably white—slaves didn't argue with white men. Besides, some white men did visit Hank after dark.

  On that score, he asked Etta, “Wh
o were the men from town Hank used to have up to his cabin some nights?"

  Her hands froze. Suddenly the room was filled with tension. Zack looked around and saw it affected Priscilla, too, and Preacher, who stood mutely by the doorway. Priscilla sat unnaturally still while Preacher stood rigidly, a pained expression on his face.

  "What?” Zack asked them all. “What is it?"

  No one said anything. Etta fumblingly resumed her kneading.

  "Tell me!” Zack cried.

  No one spoke. Zack looked from one to another of them.

  An idea struck him, a perfect explanation for their silence: The man Hank argued with that night must have been one of his frequent visitors. These three recognized his voice. Maybe they even saw him. That was why they were afraid to name those men. To do so would be to implicate his killer.

  He demanded again that they tell him. But they wouldn't. He fairly begged them to give him the names, but they kept silent. Finally, trembling with frustration, he turned and stalked out of the house.

  He walked without picking a direction. His legs carried him out toward the north field. He stopped at its edge and stared blindly across it. When his frustration finally subsided, he began to see the hopeful side of this development. Now he had good reason to believe Joe's story. He just had to find out whatever Etta, Preacher, and Priscilla knew.

  Whatever they knew, the other slaves knew. Slaves didn't keep secrets from each other.

  He turned around and found Preacher standing a short distance behind him, looking away but clearly watching him out of the corner of his eye. Zack walked past him without a word, headed back toward the slave houses. Preacher followed.

  The other slave families proved no more forthcoming than Joe's, both on the subject of what they'd heard the night Hank died and who his usual visitors were. Zack knew they were lying on both counts. The first lie was especially transparent: Each of their homes had a window in the back wall that was open every night at this time of year. But he said nothing about it. He left the last family standing in nervous silence and headed for the manor house, listening to Preacher's footsteps behind him.

  As they reached the porch steps, Preacher said, “If we're all finished, suh, I'll go back to work now."

  "No, we're not finished. I need you to come inside with me."

  Preacher followed him inside. They went down the hall and into his study.

  "Close the door behind you,” Zack said as he moved to sit behind the big oak desk.

  Preacher did as he was told. He stood just inside the door, staring at the carpet.

  Zack studied him at length. Preacher was at least sixty, old enough to remember being brought over from Africa as a child; he'd heard him tell the story once. His long years of field work showed in his leathery skin and his lean frame. He had a keen mind, as proven by the fact that he'd taught himself to read. And he was wise, as befit someone who'd spent most of his life counseling others.

  Zack said, “I need you tell to me who Hank's visitors were."

  "I couldn't say, suh."

  "Yes, you could. And I need you to."

  Preacher didn't answer.

  "I know it's hard for you. I know how it is. Slaves are always afraid of being accused of spying on a white man. And with good reason. But this is different. You live right next door to Hank's cabin. You couldn't help but hear people coming and going. I just want to know who they were."

  Preacher stared mutely at the floor.

  "I know you know. And I know the others do too. You don't have any secrets from each other."

  Especially about something like this, Zack thought. From unguarded conversations he'd overheard as a child, he knew how slaves liked to gossip about white people. And they absolutely loved evidence that they were better Christians than a white man. So every one of his slaves would be aware of the gambling and drinking that went on at Hank's little gatherings. Those minor sins would be grist for their rumor mill.

  "I'm going to keep questioning them,” Zack said. “Sooner or later one of them will let a name slip. Probably one of the children. Priscilla, maybe. I'll get one name, then another. I won't stop until I get them all. You might as well just tell me now."

  Preacher glanced over at the table in the corner, where Hank's whip lay. Zack felt a wave of revulsion go through him at Preacher's apparent thought. The feeling was tinged with irony; he'd never whipped a slave in his life and Preacher knew it.

  He couldn't bring himself to pretend he was prepared to do it now. Instead he said, “You could save Joe's life by telling me. And spare the others the responsibility of giving me the names. Or the guilt of telling me by accident. You should do that for them. Take this upon yourself."

  Zack waited, watching emotions war on Preacher's face.

  Finally Preacher said, “Mr. Dixon's brother, Wade. He came around sometimes. And Colin Carleigh. Jacob Crowley..."

  Zack wrote down each name. There were eight of them, all men from town. The last one was Sheriff Hines, who according to Preacher visited Hank only rarely.

  "Thank you,” Zack said, meaning it.

  He considered the list. He didn't know any of the men very well. They'd lived in Evansburg their whole lives, whereas he was raised on the plantation. He didn't go into town much as a child, and of course now he went hardly at all. He couldn't guess how he might go about learning if any of these men had reason to kill Hank. Maybe his slaves could tell him something, although it didn't seem very likely they would, given how unwilling they were just to name Hank's visitors.

  He glanced up at Preacher again. Suddenly he looked frail. He was an old man, worn down by a lifetime of hardship. The overseer's job was probably a blessing for him. It was less strenuous than field work. But Zack had a better reason for wanting him in the position. If the plantation really could function without a white overseer, it would be nothing less than revolutionary. News of it would flash through the country like wildfire once the abolitionist press heard of it. And he'd make sure they heard of it.

  But that glorious vision depended on this pathetic figure standing before him now.

  "You did a good thing, telling me,” he said.

  "Yessuh,” Preacher said. He didn't sound convinced.

  "You may go."

  Preacher left without looking him in the eye.

  * * * *

  Day turned to evening and still no word came from Sheriff Hines. Zack began to worry that the posse was off on a wild goose chase. He told himself the men from town wouldn't stay out this long, shirking their other responsibilities. Maybe Sheriff Hines would but only if he were following a fresh trail. And how could he be if Joe was still in the area?

  Zack wondered where Joe was hiding. The maple woods seemed the most likely place. He thought, too, of Joe's promise that he'd know if the real killer were caught. It seemed the only way he could know that was if he were still in contact with the other slaves. And yet he obviously hadn't spoken to Etta since the killing. It was a puzzle.

  Zack sat in his study, pondering, as night fell. He decided he would go into town tomorrow. He'd come up with a couple of ideas about who might know of grudges against Hank. And he wanted to make some inquiries about Hank's wife, to learn more about her and especially who she was seeing. But first he'd stop in at Hines's office just to make sure he wasn't up beyond Richmond by now, chasing a ghost.

  A noise came to him through the open window. He turned toward it. The brightness of the lamplit room made the darkness outside impenetrable. He sat motionless in his creaking leather chair and listened for the sound again. It came to him faintly, fluttering on the wind. Then the wind shifted and the noise became clear. It was a woman's voice from far off, screaming.

  He stood and crossed to the window. Outside, shadows moved in the open doorways of the slave houses. The candlelight behind them showed heads turning to look away, up toward the church—toward Etta's house.

  Zack hurried to the back door, stopping by the hall closet to take out his father's old
flintlock musket. Once he was outside and heading toward Etta's house, he didn't hear the cries again, just the murmurs of the gathering slaves, their voices low and worried. Only the men had come out to investigate, standing half dressed in trousers and suspenders with no shirts or shoes. Zack rushed past them.

  As he approached Etta's house another voice reached him—a man's voice, angry: “Tell me, you bitch! Tell me!"

  Zack pushed through the loose group of slaves clustered around Etta's open door. Inside he glimpsed a white man with a pistol holstered on his hip, standing with his back to the door. He loomed over Etta, punching her. Etta cowered with her arms upraised, feebly trying to protect herself. There was a trickle of blood on her chin. Her eyes darted wildly to Zack as he stepped into the room.

  He raised the musket to his shoulder. “Let her go!” he yelled.

  Etta's assailant turned. Zack started. It was Hank's brother, Wade.

  "Wade! What are you doing here?"

  For just a moment Wade regarded him and the musket in his hands. Then he turned back to Etta. He shook her hard. “Where did he go?"

  Etta just whimpered.

  Zack gathered his wits—and refocused his aim. “Take your hands off her."

  Wade glanced back at him, scowling. “What are you going to do, shoot me? You gutless pantywaist."

  "I said take your hands off her."

  Wade turned to face him squarely. “This nigger's husband killed my brother! And she knows where he is. She just told me he was planning to escape that night. Now she's going to tell me where he went.” He glanced back at Etta. “Did he try and get on the Underground Railroad? Tell me! Who's helping him?"

  Zack fought to keep his voice steady. “Take your hands off my slave right now."

  "Oh, yeah. Mustn't hurt your precious slaves. My brother is dead! If you kept your slaves under control it never would have happened. Everybody knows you're soft on them. Hank was the only thing keeping them in line. One of these nights they're going to slit your throat while you sleep!"

  Zack's head swam a little at those words. With difficulty, he kept the musket pointed at Wade.

  "Well?” Wade demanded. “Do something! Whip the truth out of her!"