Promises to the Dead (4 page)

I looked behind me, fearing the old devil might be coming along the road as we spoke, but I saw nothing. Didn't hear hoofbeats either, just the everlasting drizzle of the rain and the soft murmur of the wind, bringing the salt smell of the bay to my nose.

"My brother William's taking a boatload of fish to Baltimore before dawn Friday. He'll be glad to take you two along with him. Most likely I can keep Perry safe till then." Miss Sally patted my head. "You go along home and get some sleep, Jesse. You look plain tuckered out."

***

It wasn't till I came in sight of my uncle's house that I remembered the turtle. I'd left the basket and the pole down in the woods, but I wasn't going back for them. Not now. Nor was I going to worry about a thrashing. No doubt my uncle was sound asleep, snoring up a storm, with no thought of me. Or that dang turtle either.

I crept to the back door and let myself in as quietly as a burglar. Not a sound, not a light. Five or six of my uncle's hounds slept in front of the kitchen fire, snuffling and snorting, twitching like they were dreaming of rabbits and foxes.

With two hounds following me, I tiptoed to the larder and stuffed myself on cold ham, biscuits, and cheese. Didn't forget to share some with the dogs either. Then up to bed I went, grateful to peel off my wet clothes and slide beneath the covers, warm and dry and safe for now.

But all too soon I'd be running off to Baltimore City with a slave child, going against everything I'd been taught. Perry belonged to the Widow Henrietta Baxter. That was the pure and simple truth. If I found the widow's horse running loose along the road, would I let it go on its way and say nothing? Of course not. Even if the widow treated the poor horse badly, I was bound by law to take it to her. It was the same with slaves. If you caught a runaway, you were bound by law to help his owners get him back. What folks did with their possessions had nothing whatsoever to do with the legality of things.

Up till now I hadn't given the matter any thought. In fact, I'd often daydreamed about capturing a runaway slave and turning him in for a reward. Of course, the slave of my fancies was always a big strong man with an evil reputation, one who'd cut his owner's throat and burned down the plantation house and was terrorizing the countryside. Catching a slave like that would be an act of heroism.

Somehow turning a little orphan boy over to the sheriff didn't measure up to the daring deed I'd imagined.

Then something else occurred to me. What if I got caught helping Perry? Would a bunch of men come for me in the night and hang me, like they done old Jacob Withers when he helped ten slaves cross the border into Delaware? Or would they be more likely to forgive a twelve-year-old boy?

Tormented by these thoughts and more, I burrowed under the covers. If only Uncle Philemon hadn't gotten that craving for turtle soup. If only I hadn't gone into the woods for shelter. If only Lydia had grabbed hold of some other boy.

But no matter how hard you wish things to be different, you can't change anything once it's happened. I was bound to go to Baltimore City with Perry. Whether I wanted to or not. It was my fate, I reckoned, and how it would all play out I had no idea.

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, I delayed going downstairs for as long as I dared, but by ten my empty belly drove me to the kitchen. Delia looked up from the dough she was kneading, her dark hands slapping it this way and that, punching it hard.

"Where in tarnation have you been?" she asked. "Your uncle had to go up to bed last night without that terrapin soup he was craving. Put him in a mighty foul humor, too. Good thing you wasn't here. He'd have whupped you good."

I picked up a piece of raw dough and rolled it in my hands like clay until it was as long and skinny as a snake. I longed to tell Delia the truth. As kin to Lydia, she ought to know what had happened. But I'd promised Lydia not to say a word to anyone—and that included her aunt. So, without raising my eyes from the dough, I claimed I'd been doing just what I'd been told—hunting turtles for hours in the marsh.

"I told your uncle April is too early for turtles," Delia said with some satisfaction. "You won't find them critters for another two, three weeks at least. Not unless you light a fire and make them think it's warm, and how you going to do that in the pouring-down rain?"

She clucked her tongue and turned the dough, slapping it silly. "Pure foolishness sending you on such an errand. It's a wonder you ain't half dead of fever."

"Where's Uncle Philemon now?" I asked, my mouth full of biscuit and ham.

"Oh, Colonel Abednego Botfield come by the house this morning. He and Mr. Philemon went into town together, all excited. Something to do with that fort down in South Carolina."

I'd heard enough talk to know what Delia meant. "Did the Confederates fire on Fort Sumter?"

Delia shrugged her broad shoulders. "I believe so."

My heart beat a little faster. "Are we going to war?"

"The colonel didn't share no news with me." Delia started humming to herself, a sure sign she'd told me all she planned to. Turning her back, she started raking up the fire.

But I couldn't let matters rest. "Do you favor the North or the South, Delia?"

She gave me a long look. "If you had the sense you were born with, you'd go on down to the marsh and find your silly self a turtle before your uncle comes home."

The marsh was the last place on earth I wanted to go, but I took her advice and headed out the door. Wouldn't do no good to hang around the kitchen plying her with questions. She wasn't about to say anything more about the war.

Didn't have to, really. No doubt she was for the North and that rascal Mr. Lincoln. If the Yankees won, she wouldn't have to wait for Uncle Philemon to die to be free.

Keeping an eye out for the colonel, I went down to the woods. My pole and basket lay where I'd dropped them the day before. Though I didn't dare linger, I took a quick look at Lydia's grave. I didn't think anyone would notice it, even in daylight.

For the rest of the morning, I poked around in the marsh, hunting turtles with my pole. The rain had stopped, but the sky and the water were the same dull gray and the wind was cold. Seemed spring would be late this year.

Around noon, I got lucky and caught me a turtle dumb enough to have come out of the mud a little too early. It wasn't a big one, but I figured it would do.

As I headed home, I saw Colonel Abednego Botfield riding toward me on the narrow path. It seemed there was no avoiding the man.

"Well, well, Jesse, we meet again." The old devil touched the brim of his slouch hat. I'd heard folks say he was once a fine-looking man, but his face showed the battering of time and the life he'd led. A scar here, a scar there, teeth as crooked as gravestones, eyes veined, the skin under them hanging in loose folds. He was smoking a cigar, and the reek of it was worse than the smell of marsh mud.

"Surely you ain't hunting turtles again today," he said in that low, drawly voice of his that made my skin crawl.

I held the basket up to show him what was inside. "Yes, sir. Caught one, too."

The colonel didn't bother to look at the turtle. "You seen that woman today? The one I asked you about last night?"

"No, sir." I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and studied my turtle like he was the most fascinating critter ever seen, though he weren't doing a thing but lying there all sealed up in his shell.

Colonel Botfield slapped the reins against the horse's neck, and nudged him toward me. The big bay rolled his eyes and stepped this way and that, swishing his tail.

"Easy, sir, easy," the colonel whispered. "It's just a no-'count scalawag boy. We could eat him for supper if we had a mind to."

The horse was so close I could feel the heat of his body and smell the sweet odor of his sweat. To keep from being trampled, I stepped off the path into mud up to my ankles. My heart was beating fast and loud, and I hoped to heaven the colonel couldn't hear it. It wouldn't do for him to know I was scared of him. Might make him even more suspicious than he already was.

Colonel Botfield grinned as if he found my predicament humorous. "I'll ask you once more," he said. "Are you positive you ain't seen Lydia and her boy? Tell me the truth now, for I'm certain she's hiding somewhere nearby."

"I told you last night I hadn't seen her, and I'm telling you the same today. I ain't no abolitionist." I scowled at him. "Now leave me be. I got to take this here turtle home to Uncle Philemon."

"Don't get sassy with me, Jesse Sherman." Before I realized what he was doing, Colonel Botfield leaned down and grabbed the front of my shirt, lifting me right out of the mud. The basket tipped and the turtle I'd worked so hard to catch fell out.

"Look what you done!" I shouted.

"Aw, now, don't cry, little girl. I'm just funning with you." Colonel Botfield let go then, giving me a push as he did so. I landed flat on my back in the mud. By the time I scrambled to my feet, the turtle had sunk out of sight in the marsh.

"I hope your uncle thrashes you good for coming home empty-handed again," the colonel said. "He was in a right rare old mood when I left him at the tavern."

Without another word, he thumped his heels against the horse's sides and rode off.

I cussed as hard as I could at the man's back, glad for the lessons I'd learned in such matters from my uncle, the poet of profanity. Then I buckled down and hunted that dang turtle for almost hour. They're slow-moving critters, and I hoped to get lucky and catch him before he burrowed too deep in the marsh. Which I finally did. Soon as I had him back in the basket, none the worse for his adventure, I lit out for home.

Delia seemed pleased to see my catch. "I'll get to work on that rascal right now," she said. "Ought to have him ready for supper tonight."

Not long after, Uncle Philemon came home, red in the face and smelling of the tavern. "Jesse," he shouted. "The war has commenced. The Confederates fired on Fort Sumter yesterday, and that dastard Mr. Lincoln is bound to call up the army against South Carolina."

Uncle Philemon paused to pour himself a glass of brandy. "A toast to the war," he cried, "and all the valiant men who are willing to fight for their rights."

I doubted he himself planned to be among that glorious number, but I kept my opinions to myself. It made no sense to rile him. We weren't clear on the turtle matter yet.

By the time Delia served the turtle soup, Uncle Philemon had just about brought the war to a conclusion. He saw victory for the South, of course, and the impeachment or maybe even the hanging of that villainous scoundrel in the White House.

When he finally ran out of things to say about the war and Mr. Abraham Lincoln, he turned to me. "By the way, Jesse, Abednego told me he saw you out in the rain last night, close by Miss Sally Harrison's place. Said you claimed to have been hunting turtles."

"Yes, sir, I was," I managed to say. "You sent me down to the marsh to find one, remember?"

"I don't recollect your bringing no turtle home last night."

I pointed at the tureen in front of him. "I had bad luck yesterday so I went out again today."

Uncle Philemon studied my face. His little spectacles reflected the candlelight. "Abednego told me you acted a trifle peculiar," he went on, "like you had something to hide."

"No, sir," I said. "It was cold and dark, and I was soaked through. I just wanted to go home, that's all—not stand in the rain jawing with him."

Uncle Philemon kept on staring at me, his eyes sharp despite the dim light. "Abednego's hunting a slave woman that run off from his niece's plantation. Young and pretty. Got a child with her—a boy, I believe he said. And one in her belly, too."

Delia was standing nearby, waiting to serve more soup. She gasped and almost dropped the ladle. "Mr. Philemon, are you speaking of Mrs. Baxter's house girl, Lydia?"

Uncle Philemon turned his head, obviously surprised to hear Delia speak up like that. "Why, what's it to you if I am?"

"Have you forgot Lydia's my niece?" Delia came closer to the table. "I knew Mr. Peregrine Baxter had died, but I haven't heard anything about Lydia running away."

"Well, it seems that's just what she done—run off a few days back. The Widow Baxter's got her uncle searching the marsh for her. Figures she's hiding down there. She's offering a big reward, wants her back real bad."

Delia drew in her breath. "Not him," she whispered. "Why, you know as well as I do that he's—"

Uncle Philemon gave Delia a look that silenced her. "Stories," he said. "Nothing but slaves' gossip. Even if it's true, Lydia don't mean nothing to him, her or the boy either. All Abednego wants is the reward."

Pausing to slurp up a spoonful of soup, he turned back to me. "The Widow Baxter's offering one hundred dollars to get Lydia and the boy back. That's a considerable amount."

I fidgeted with a crust of Delia's fresh baked bread. "Colonel Botfield might as well give up on her," I said, acting as if I cared nothing for Lydia's fate. "Most likely she drowned in the marsh."

"Oh, sweet Lord, don't let that be true," Delia prayed. "Lydia's young, just starting this life. She can't be dead."

I felt mighty bad for Delia, but there was no telling what Uncle Philemon would say if he got wind of what I knew and what I was about to do. So I kept eating, though by now I'd lost my appetite and had to choke my food down.

"I'll tell you true," Uncle Philemon said to Delia, "harsh as it sounds, the poor gal's better off dead. I hear Peregrine's widow gave Abednego Botfield orders to take her and the boy to Slattery's slave jail and sell them south. Don't know what your niece done to offend the widow, but her big belly just might have some bearing on it."

Delia hid her face in her hands. "I reckon I know who's responsible for that," she muttered through her fingers.

"I hear he fathered the boy, too," Uncle Philemon said. "Now the fellow's dead. Killed falling off his horse. Oh, it's terrible sad how fast misfortune comes to us all."

Delia glanced at me and frowned as if she'd forgotten I was sitting there, listening to every word. "You look poorly, Jesse. Why don't you go on up to bed and get yourself some rest?"