A Different Flesh (22 page)

“Call the guards!” a nervous man shouted, and several others took up the cry. Jeremiah ducked down an alleyway. He had seen enough of sims' brute strength on the farm to be sure he wanted to be far away if they started fighting.

The town did not erupt behind him, so he guessed the overseers had managed to put things to rights. A few words at the outset would have done it: “Coming through!” or “Go ahead; we'll wait.” The sims did not have the words to use.

“Poor stupid bastards,” Jeremiah said, and headed home.

“Mr. Douglas, you have some of the strangest books in the world, and that is a fact,” Jeremiah said.

Douglas ran his hands through his oily hair. “If you keep excavating among those boxes, God only knows what you'll come up with. What is it this time?”

“
A Proposed Explication of the Survival of Certain Beasts in America and Their Disappearance Hereabouts
, by Samuel Pepys.” Jeremiah pronounced it
pep-eeze
.

“Peeps,”
Douglas corrected, then remarked, “You know, Jeremiah, you read much better now than you did when you started working for me last summer. That's the first time you've slipped in a couple of weeks, and no one could blame you for stumbling over that tongue twister.”

“Practice,” Jeremiah said. He held up the book. “What is this, anyhow?”

“It just might interest you, come to think of it. It's the book that sets forth the transformational theory of life: that the kinds of living things change over time.”

“That's not what the Bible says.”

“I know. Churchmen hate Pepys's theories. As a lawyer, though, I find them attractive, because he presents the evidence for them.
Genesis
is so much hearsay by comparison.”

“You never were no churchgoing man, sir,” Jeremiah said reproachfully. He started to read all the same; working with Douglas had given him a good bit of the lawyer's attitude. And he respected his boss's brains. If Douglas thought there was something to this—what had he called it?—transformational theory, there probably was.

The book was almost 150 years old, and written in the ornate style of the seventeenth century. Jeremiah had to ask Douglas to help him with several words and complex phrases. He soon saw what the lawyer meant. Pepys firmly based his argument on facts, with no pleading to unverifiable “authorities.” Despite himself, Jeremiah was impressed.

Someone squelched up the walk toward Douglas's door: no, a couple of people, by the sound. It was that transitional time between winter and spring. The rain was still cold, but Jeremiah knew only relief that he did not have to shovel snow anymore.

Douglas had heard the footsteps too. He rammed quill into inkpot and started writing furiously. “Put Pepys down and get busy for a while, Jeremiah,” he said. “It's probably Jasper Carruthers and his son, here for that will I should've finished three days ago. Since it's not done, we ought at least to look busy.”

Grinning, Jeremiah got up and started reshelving some of the books that got pulled down every day. He had his back to the door when it swung open, but heard Douglas's relieved chuckle.

“Good to see you, Zachary,” the lawyer said. “Saves me the embarrassment of pleading guilty to nonfeasance.”

Hayes let out a dry laugh. “A problem we all face from time to time, Alfred; I'm glad you escaped it here. Do you own an English version of Justinian's
Digest
? I'm afraid the Latin of my young friend here isn't up to his reading it in the original.”

The volume happened to be in front of Jeremiah's face. He pulled it from the shelf before Douglas had to ask him for it, turned with a smug smile to offer it to Hayes's student.

The smile congealed on his face like fat getting cold in a pan. The youngster with Hayes was Caleb Gillen.

The tableau held for several frozen seconds, the two of them staring at each other while the lawyers, not understanding what was going on, stared at them both.

“Jeremiah!” Caleb exclaimed. “It's my father's runaway nigger!” he shouted to Hayes at the same moment Jeremiah bolted for the door.

Pepys's book proved his undoing. It went flying out from under his foot and sent him sprawling. Caleb Gillen landed on his back. Before he could shake free of the youngster, Hayes also grabbed him. The lawyer was stronger than he looked. Between them, he and Caleb held Jeremiah pinned to the floor.

Panting, his gray hair awry, Hayes said, “You told me he was a free nigger, Alfred.”

“He said he was. I had no reason to doubt him,” Douglas answered calmly. He had made no move to rise from his desk and help seize Jeremiah, or indeed even to put down his quill. Now he went on, “For that matter, I still have no reason to do so.”

“What? I recognize him!” Caleb Gillen shouted, his voice breaking from excitement. “And what if I didn't? He ran! That proves it!”

“If I were a free nigger and someone said I was a slave, I'd run too,” Douglas said. “Wouldn't you, young sir? (I'm sorry; I don't know your name.) Wouldn't you, Zachary, regardless of the truth or falsehood of the claim?”

“Now you just wait one minute here, Alfred,” Hayes snapped. “Young master Caleb Gillen here told me last year of the absconding from his father's farm of their nigger, Jeremiah. My only regret is not associating the name with this wretch here so he could have been recaptured sooner.” He twisted Jeremiah's arm behind his back.

“That you failed to do so demonstrates the obvious fact that the name may be borne by more than one individual,” Douglas said.

“You see here, sir,” Caleb Gillen said, “I've known that nigger as long as I can remember. I'm not likely to make a mistake about who he is.”

“If he is free, he'll have papers to prove it.” Hayes wrenched Jeremiah's arm again. The black gasped. “Can you show us papers, nigger?”

“You need not answer that, save in a court of law,” Douglas said sharply, keeping Jeremiah from surrendering on the spot. He was sunk in despair, tears dripping from his face to the floor. Once sent back to the Gillen estate, he would never regain the position of trust that had let him escape, and probably would never be able to buy his freedom either.

Hayes's voice took on a new note of formality. “Do you deny, then, Alfred, that this nigger is the chattel of Charles Gillen, Caleb's father?”

“Zachary, one lad's accusation is no proof, as well you know.” Douglas took the same tone; Jeremiah recognized it as lawyer-talk. A tiny spark of hope flickered. By illuminating the dark misery that filled him, it only made that misery worse.

Overriding Caleb Gillen's squawk of protest, Hayes said, “Then let him be clapped in irons until such time as determination of his status may be made. That will prevent any further disappearances.”

“I have a better idea,” Douglas said. He unlocked one of his desk drawers, took out a strongbox, unlocked that. “What would you say the value of a buck nigger of his age would be? Is 300 denaires a fair figure?”

Above him, Jeremiah felt Caleb and Hayes shift as they looked at each other. “Aye, fair enough,” Hayes said at last.

Coins clinked with the sweet music of gold. After a bit, Douglas said, “Then here are 300 denaires for you to acknowledge by receipt, to be forfeit to Master Gillen's father if Jeremiah should flee before judgment. Do you agree to this bond? Jeremiah, will you also agree to that condition?”

“Caleb, the decision is yours,” Hayes said.

“Jeremiah, will you give your word?” the boy asked. He waved aside Hayes's protest before it had well begun, saying, “I've known him to be honest enough, even if a runaway.” He slightly emphasized
known
, and glanced toward Douglas, who sat impassive.

“I won't run off from here, I promise,” Jeremiah said wearily.

“Get off him; let him up,” Caleb said. He did so himself. Hayes followed more slowly. Jeremiah rose, rubbing at bruises and at a knee that still throbbed from hitting the floor.

“May I borrow your pen?” Hayes asked Douglas. When he got it, he wrote a few quick lines, handed the paper to the other lawyer. “Here is your receipt, sir. I hope it suits you?”

“Be so good as to line out the word ‘absconder' and initial the change, if you please. It prejudges a case not yet decided.”

Hayes snorted but did as he was bid. Douglas dipped his head in acknowledgment. After taking up the money, Hayes said, “Come along, Master Gillen. If Alfred wants to play this game, we shall settle it in court, never fear. Oh, yes—don't forget the copy of the
Digest
your nigger was kind enough to find for you.” With that parting shot, he and Caleb swept out of the office.

Jeremiah stared miserably at the floor. Douglas said, “I suppose it's no good asking for a miracle. You don't happen to be a free nigger named Jeremiah who just coincidentally looks exactly like that lad's father's nigger Jeremiah?”

“No, sir,” Jeremiah muttered, still not looking up.

“Well, we'll have to try a different tack, then,” Douglas said. He did not sound put out; if anything, he sounded eager.

More than anything else, that made Jeremiah lift his head. “You purely crazy, Mr. Douglas, sir? They'll have me in irons and hauled away fast as the judge can bang his gavel.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Douglas remained ponderously unruffled.

“Shit!” Jeremiah burst out. “And why did you give your bond on me? I could've broke out of jail maybe, gone somewheres else. How can I run off now?”

Douglas chuckled. “Caleb Gillen's right: you are honest enough, even if a runaway. If that were me in your shoes, I'd've been out the door like a shot, no matter what promises I made. But I gambled you wouldn't, because I think we just might get you really free yet.”

“You're crazy, Mr. Douglas,” Jeremiah repeated. A few seconds later, he asked in a small voice, “Do you really think so?”

“We just might.”

“I'd give anything! I'll pay you. I've got 150 denaires saved up, almost. You can have 'em. If I'm free, I can make more.” Jeremiah knew he was babbling, but couldn't help it.

“You'll stay, knowing that if we lose you'll be re-enslaved?”

That was a poser. At last, Jeremiah said, “Even if I run, someone'll always be after me to drag me back. If we win, I won't have to look over my shoulder every time I sit with my back to the door. That's worth something.”

“All right, then. I'll take your money. Not only do I need it after going bond for you, but having it in my pocket will give you an incentive to stay in town.” Douglas looked knowingly at Jeremiah.

The black felt his cheeks go hot. Maybe he really was honest; once Douglas had given Hayes the money, it had not occurred to him that he could still run away. Once admitted, however, the idea was in his head for good. If things looked grim enough in court, he told himself, he might yet disappear.

For the life of him, he could not see how the upcoming hearing could do anything but send him back to Charles Gillen. After all, he was an escaped slave. He did not doubt his master could prove it. So why was Douglas willing to take the case before the judges?

When Jeremiah got up the nerve to ask, Douglas did not answer right away. He heaved his bulk up out of his chair, walked over to pick up the volume of Pepys the black had tripped on when he tried to escape. He examined it carefully to make sure it had not been damaged. Then he came over and slapped Jeremiah on the shoulder. “Be a man,” he said. “Be a man, and we'll do all right.”

True spring sweetened the air as Jeremiah and Douglas made their way to the Portsmouth courthouse. Jeremiah pointed up at the inscription over the entrance, the one that had baffled him when he arrived in the city. “What does that mean?” he asked Douglas.

“Fiat iustitia et ruant coeli?”
The lawyer seemed surprised for a moment at his ignorance, then laughed. “Well, no reason to blame you for knowing even less Latin than Caleb Gillen, is there? It means, ‘Let there be justice, though the heavens fall.'”

Jeremiah admired the sentiment without much expecting to find it practiced. If there were justice, he would not be a slave, but he had a fatalistic certainty he soon was going to be one again. Douglas's optimism did little to lighten his gloom. Douglas was always an optimist. Why not, Jeremiah thought bitterly.
He
was free.

A sim with a broom scurried out of the way to let Jeremiah pass. His spirits lifted a little. Even as a slave, he had known there was more to him than to any of the subhumans. His shoulders straightened.

He needed that small encouragement, for he felt how hostile the atmosphere was as soon as he followed Douglas into the courtroom. Hayes had made sure the case was tried in the newspapers constantly during the month since it began. Prosperous-looking white men filled most of the seats: slave owners themselves, Jeremiah guessed from the way they glared at him. Free blacks had only a few chairs; more stood behind the last row of seats.

Hayes, Charles and Caleb Gillen, and Harry Stowe were already in their places in front of the judges' tribunal. Jeremiah tried to read the elder Gillen's face. The man who had owned him for so long sent him a civil nod. He thought about pretending he did not recognize him, decided it would do no good, and nodded back. Hayes, who missed very little, noticed. He smiled a cold smile. Jeremiah grimaced.

“Rise for the honorable judges,” the bailiff intoned as the three-man panel filed in from their chambers. In their black robes and powdered wigs, the judges all seemed to Jeremiah to be cut from the same bolt of cloth.

To Douglas, who had argued cases in front of them for years, they were individuals. As the judges and the rest of the people in the courtroom sat, he whispered to Jeremiah, “Hardesty there on the left has an open mind; I'm glad to see him, especially with Scott as the other junior judge. As for Kemble in the middle, only he knows what he'll do on any given day. He has a habit of changing his mind from case to case. That's not good in a judge, but it can't be helped.”