Fairer than Morning (17 page)

He turned to look at Tom over his shoulder. “Leave me alone.”

Tom's shoulders hunched. He snatched up his pail and slammed the barn door on his way out.

After a moment, Will reached for the round-bladed knife. He wiped it on his pants and held it up to the light. It was very sharp—keen enough to cut invisibly.

He walked over to the saddle and laid his hand in the seat, admiring again the smooth richness of the leather. He could not believe that he was about to ruin this beautiful work. He would have to slice halfway through the underside of one of the billet straps—just enough so that the girth would hold when it was tightened, but give way under the stress of a ride. He tried not to think of what would happen to the lady when the girth gave way. It was not his choice. He was his master's servant, and halfway to the devil.

He lifted the heavy saddle flap and knelt down next to it. Holding the flap open with his shoulder, he pulled the billet out in his left hand. He hesitated, the blade bright, poised against the leather. He repositioned it to just the right angle
 
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The door swung open. He jumped up and back from the saddle. Mr. Miller, of all people. Will went cold, then hot. He had not moved fast enough. Mr. Miller would have seen him kneeling by the saddle. And the round knife was in full view, clutched in his right hand. He lowered it to his side.

Mr. Miller's forehead wrinkled. For a moment, they both stood in silence.

“What are you doing, Will?” he asked.

At that moment, Will would rather have slit his own throat than stand before Mr. Miller. But the saddler must have sensed something of the sort, because he walked to Will and gently removed the knife from his nerveless fingers. Will gave it up without a struggle, his face averted. He did not want to see the hurt and rage in Mr. Miller's eyes.

“You were going to damage the saddle.” It was not a question. Will braced himself for the blow he knew must follow. But Mr. Miller stayed motionless at Will's side.

“I didn't cut it yet,” Will whispered.

“Your master ordered it?” the saddler asked.

Will did not know what to say. Master Good would deny it. There were laws about criminal apprentices. Will had heard of indentures extended. When Mr. Miller told the judge what Will had done, would they bind him to Master Good for another five years? He would rather die.

“He ordered it. I did not have a choice,” he said at last.

Mr. Miller turned away. Now Will was sure that he would go first to Dr. Loftin, and then to the law.

The master saddler removed his hat and laid it on the worktable, his shoulders very straight in his gray coat. He paused, looking out the tiny box window above the table. “What course of action would you recommend I take, son?” His voice was tight, his words clipped.

“I—I don't know, sir.”

“Your master will no doubt use you terribly if he finds you have not carried out his orders.”

Unable to admit to his plight aloud, Will nodded.

“Should I turn to the law?”

His heart pounding, Will looked away, steeling himself for the inevitable.

“I think not. No crime has been committed here,” Mr. Miller said.

Will's knees went weak with relief. He braced himself with one hand on the stitching horse so it would not show.

“I will not punish you for your master's sins, though I'd dearly love to make your master answer for them. Instead, I'll immediately take the saddle with me to the doctor's house. You may tell your master you fulfilled his order. He will have no way of knowing whether the saddle is intact or not.”

“Thank you, sir.” His voice came out hoarse. He did not deserve this generosity.

“But I must tell you something, son.” Mr. Miller walked back to stand right in front of Will. Something about his scrutiny made Will feel exposed in all his weakness. He hung his head and looked at the straw-littered floor.

“I've seen something of bondage and cruel masters,” the master saddler said. He spoke quietly. “And I've seen enough of you to know you have a good heart.”

At this, Will's heart stung him, as if in reproach. The sting moved to his throat and his eyes. “My heart's not as good as you think, sir.”

There was silence for a moment. “We've all done things we regret, son.”

Will felt his lips tremble and he bit them hard.

“I can't say I've walked in your shoes, Will. But I know men older and stronger than you who have crumbled in evil hands.”

Will felt a light touch on his shoulder. His breath caught and he struggled against the upwelling of pain.

The saddler's words were slow, as if he wrestled to shape his thought. “What hurt those men most was when they saw the evil in themselves. They went into the darkness and couldn't find their way out. They thought they had no choice.”

Mr. Miller squeezed Will's shoulder. “Look at me, son.”

Will looked up, embarrassed at the tears that filled his eyes and spilled over.

The saddler's face was full of compassion. “You have a choice, no matter how it seems. There is a light that shines for those sitting in darkness and those in the shadow of death.”

The words sank like fresh rain into his parched heart.
For those sitting in darkness
. He felt as if a tiny pinpoint of light appeared then, at his very center, where nothing had glimmered for so long. The relief was so great that he had to close his eyes, the tears still trickling down.

Mr. Miller sighed. “I would to heaven there was some way I could stay and help you with your present troubles. But I must go back.”

Will opened his eyes again. He wiped his face on his sleeve and struggled against the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Miller stayed put for a moment as if lost in thought, then his eyes focused on Will again. “I would like you to do something for me.”

Will would refuse him nothing at this moment.

“I need a message taken across the river, and I would like you to carry it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe the errand may do you some good. You may take the doctor's coach, and I will secure Master Good's permission.”

Mr. Miller lifted the saddle and slid one arm through the gullet. “I'll go put this away safely, then I'll speak to your master. Meet the coachman in front of the doctor's house in half an hour.”

“I'll be there, sir.”

Mr. Miller picked up his hat in his free hand, then headed for the door. But he paused as he passed Will, his eyes once again full of perception so deep it was not quite earthly.

“No one can take your soul, son,” he said. “Souls can be given, but they can never be taken.”

Will held the letter in his pocket as the coach wound its way through the streets of Pittsburgh. He did not know what Mr. Miller had told his master. He did not much care. He was too grateful for the reprieve from punishment, for the luxury of a long coach ride, a respite from his labor. He had not dared wear his gloves for fear the master would see them, but the coach was a sight more comfortable than the outside, thanks to the foot warmer.

I should be clapped in irons, but instead Mr. Miller helps me
. His throat clenched and he swallowed.

The coach pulled up in front of a two-story brick home. Will climbed out and walked to the door, which was white save for an iron knocker. He rapped three times, and after a minute a well-dressed, dark-skinned man came to the door. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“I have a message for you, Mr. Washington.” Will assumed this man must be the one Mr. Miller had described as a “black gentleman.”

“Thank you,” the man said. He took the paper from Will's outstretched hand, pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket, and read it silently. Will wondered what it said.

Mr. Washington looked up from the note and eyed Will. “Come in, young man.”

“I can't stay long,” Will said. Too long an absence and Master Good might guess something was amiss.

“Mr. Miller has written to me here. He has arranged with your master for you to stay for a half hour or so without trouble.”

Mr. Miller had mentioned Will in his note? Perplexed, Will followed Mr. Washington, who was already several steps down the hall. They reached the end of the hallway and emerged into a kitchen.

“Wait here, please,” Mr. Washington said. A slender brown-skinned woman in an apron straightened up in front of the hearth. “Who is this, Enoch?” She had an open, pleasant face. The dress under her apron was fine, with a velvet collar. The lady of the house.

“A friend, my dear,” Mr. Washington said. “Young man, this is Mrs. Washington, my wife. Have a seat.”

Will obeyed, taking the indicated place on the kitchen bench.

“Grace, if you wouldn't mind scraping up something for him to eat, I'm sure he would not refuse.” He exited into the hall again.

“Looks like you haven't seen a good meal in a while.” Mrs. Washington opened the pantry and produced a plate with dried beef and two biscuits. The biscuits were soft and fresh. Will ate the first one in two or three gulps, but slowed down to savor every mouthful of the second. He had not tasted anything this good since his days at the Quaker farmhouse. He drank deeply from the glass of water she set beside him. The beef took some chewing but tasted delicious.

While he ate, Mrs. Washington put a kettle on the hook and stoked the fire. When his hostess wasn't looking, Will hid the last piece of biscuit and some jerky in his pocket for Tom. He wished he could also take him a cup of hot tea like the one Mrs. Washington set at his left hand.

Mr. Washington came back. He nodded approvingly at his wife when he saw Will with the tea and an empty plate. But Will was distracted by the others who walked into the kitchen after him.

The man and woman were dressed in farm clothes, though theirs were much cleaner than Will's. They each had a ragged hole where an ear should have been, a scar of a brand seared into their brown foreheads. Will tried not to show his shock.

The man sat down across from Will at the table. “I'm John Simon. This is my wife, Clara.” She took a seat on the bench beside her husband.

“Hello.” Will didn't know what else to say.

“Mr. Miller has done us much good,” Clara said. Her plain face was calm beneath its scars. “He wants us to tell you our story.” Will focused only on her bright eyes to keep from looking at the cross-and-circle scar above them.

Their hostess set down cups of tea for them and withdrew. Mr. Washington considered them for a moment, then followed his wife.

John Simon spoke first. “Mr. Miller wrote to say you have a hard master.”

“Yes.” Will found he could say it aloud to them.

“Our master was a hard man too,” Clara said.

“And a drunk,” John added. “I was born a slave, and so was Clara. We grew up working in the fields next to each other. We both loved the Lord, and we sang and we prayed together at night when we could sneak the time. One thing led to another, and we figured one day we should get married. So we did and life was hard, but we had each other.” He gave her a faint smile, and she returned it.

“But our master was a gambler and a drunk. One day at cards he gambled away one of his slaves to another planter. That man, Mr. Holmes, he got his pick of us. He needed another house slave to clean his house, so he picked Clara.”

A flicker of pain went across his wife's face, and she looked down at the table.

John cleared his throat. “I hollered at it, but it wasn't no use. The overseer knocked me down and they took me away. Then they took her away. And Mr. Holmes lived a good way off.”

Determination hardened his face so Will could almost see him, on the plantation, as he must have gazed into the distance that had robbed him of his wife.

“I wasn't going to let Clara go. God put us together, and no man would pull us apart. So I went after her. The first time the master caught me, he whipped me 'til I couldn't stand. The second time, he cut off my ear.”

Will repressed a shudder.

“Then he had Mr. Holmes cut off hers and send it in a box, to show me. He knew that would hurt me worse than anything he could do to me.”

How could he remain so calm? John was like a mountain, quiet and unmoved even after a thunderstorm.

“But I didn't give up.” John looked at Clara again. “I went for her one more time, and we ran for the North. We made it to Kentucky before the slave catchers got us in the woods.” Their locked gazes spoke of a terrible memory, and John fell silent.

Clara spoke up in a soft voice. “They took us back and branded our heads, in front of the other slaves. The master told us we needed a cross on our heads to remind us that if we loved the Lord so much, we needed to remember the Bible says slaves must obey their masters. And now we couldn't go anywhere, because we would be marked wherever we went.”