Soul Catcher (16 page)

Little Strofe would keep up a constant prattle with anyone who was game. He'd often get into friendly arguments with the runaway, as he was usually the only one who'd listen to him. For a long stretch they debated what was the better eating, possum or rabbit, and which was the preferred method of cooking each, with Little Strofe coming down on the side of fried possum while Henry favored rabbit that was done in a stew. Henry, it was obvious from his physique, was fond of almost any sort of food, and he wolfed down whatever was put in front of him without complaint.

"What do you favor, Mr. Cain?" Little Strofe asked him.

"I'd have to say I'm partial to rabbit, Mr. Strofe," he replied. "With some greasy-back beans."

"Oh, I d-do declare, I love them g-greasy-back beans."

Cain could remember their Negro housekeeper, Lila, cooking green beans in pork fat and bacon. Her Sunday ham with okra.

Grits and gravy. Collard greens. Sweet potato pie. She was a good cook. After his mother passed away, Lila became the sole maternal influence of his young boyhood. Without her, his child's world would have collapsed in a lonely heap. It was she who tucked his brother and him in most nights. Who bandaged a cut hand. Who made little treats for them. Who mended a ripped pant leg. Who spanked their bottoms when they cussed and chastised them if they sassed their father behind his back. "I won't be hearin' no talk about Massa Cain," she would tell them. It was Lila who sang the old plantation song when she was doing their wash down at the creek:

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Oh the stars in the elements is falling,

And the moon drips away in the blood.

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And yet, he took her for granted, as children usually take a loving parent. He knew, too, had always known, that she had her own boys who lived down in the slave cabins, just past the tobacco sheds and the hog pen. Cain saw them walking past the house on their way to work in the fields each day. Not much older than he. Her sons, her own flesh and blood. Despite this, she'd treated Cain and his brother as if they had come from her own womb. A part of him had always wondered about this, struck even his child's mind as odd, the way the intricate workings of the adult world often do to a child--the roundness of the earth, the illogic of death, how babies are made. But growing up often meant accepting what didn't make sense, including the maternal instincts of slaves for the children of their masters. One hot summer day, for instance, he and TJ had been out riding in the fields, and had come into the kitchen where Lila was fixing supper. She poured them some of her sweet mint tea and set out for them some molasses cookies she'd just made. Outside, her boys happened to be trudging past the house after their day in the fields. She scooped up a mess of the cookies and hurried out the back door to give some to her own children. When she returned, Cain could remember his brother expressing surprise that they liked cookies, too.

"Why, 'course they do," she had said. "They boys just like y'all."

* * *

Despite not seeing any signs of their being trailed, Cain kept a watchful eye to their rear. Several times he'd have the others ride on ahead while he stayed behind, on the lookout for Brown and his boys. Once, he even saw some half dozen riders advancing hard on them. From the scabbard on his saddle he removed his Sharp's, loaded it with the .52 caliber paper cartridge, adjusted the rear sight, and took careful aim at the leader. But as they drew near, none of them turned out to be the Brown clan. Nonetheless, Cain continued to keep a cautious eye over his shoulder.

As they entered the valley of the Hudson River, the land gradually flattened into broad, green, rolling pastureland. It was milder here, spring already having commenced. They came upon small dairy farms with black-and-white Holsteins and pretty Guernseys grazing in fields. Passing a field of cattle late one evening, Little Strofe suddenly jumped down off his mule and, holding a metal pot, climbed a stone wall and made his way over to a cow. "Ain't gone hurt you, bos," he said to the animal as he cautiously approached it. Then he started to sing to the animal, some song he made up off the top of his head. "You're my own true love, my darlin' big-breasted girl." Instead of bolting, the cow seemed mesmerized by the sound of his voice. When he got close, he stroked her tawny flank and talked soothingly to her the way he did to his dogs. After she'd accepted him, he squatted behind her legs and calmly proceeded to milk her into the pot. He used it that night to make flapjacks, and they drank the sweet buttermilk. Cain hadn't tasted anything so good in a long time.

After they'd eaten, Little Strofe headed down to the stream where he began to wash the pots and pans. Cain followed him.

"Those were good flapjacks, Mr. Strofe," he said.

"Thanks."

"May I ask you something?" Little Strofe stopped what he was doing, glanced up at Cain. "The other day when I asked why this runaway girl stabbed Eberly, you seemed to know more than you were letting on."

"Like I said, it w-weren't none a my business."

"I can appreciate that. But you see, if I'm going to catch this girl, I'll need to know everything I can about her. Why she ran and where she might be headed. You'd actually be doing Mr. Eberly a service if you told me."

Little Strofe scratched his beard, then glanced over toward his brother and Preacher, seated around the campfire. "It was on account of what he done with her young'un."

"She had a child?"

Cain thought back to his meeting with Eberly. How he'd asked him if the runaway had had a child she might be running toward, and how the old man had denied it.

Little Strofe nodded, went back to scouring the pots.

"What did he do with her child?"

"Sold it."

"Why?"

The squatting man jerked his shoulders upward. "I s'pose on account of her running off. To teach her a lesson."

"Is Eberly married?"

"Was. The missus she died a long time back. Afore I come to work for him."

Cain nodded. "Was the child Eberly's?"

Little Strofe stopped and looked up at Cain. "Wouldn't know nothing 'bout that, Mr. Cain. Like I said, it weren't none of my bidness. I do my work and keep my mouth shut."

"That's a good philosophy, Mr. Strofe."

He knew the man was lying but decided to leave it there for now. He wondered why Eberly had bothered to lie about her having a child. Unless, of course, it was his. It didn't matter to Cain a whit if, as Preacher had joked, the old man was having his way with the Negro girl. He'd seen plenty of that in his job. Hell, every mulatto, quadroon, or octoroon was the product of some lecherous master or overseer or slave trader. It wasn't anything new under the sun. Still, he wondered why the old man had lied to him. Perhaps it was just his sense of pride. There were those, Cain knew, who didn't like to be thought of as miscegenators.

* * *

They had to take a side-paddle ferry across Lake Champlain, which was still partially frozen over. Though it was clear and sunny out, a strong wind kicked up once they got out into the middle of the big lake, churning the water into violent whitecaps that forced the boat to pitch from side to side. The large paddle wheels made an infernal racket as they pummeled the water, tossing up a spray of frigid mist. As they crossed, they had to make their way past huge ice floes that lay submerged in the water like enormous whales. Now and then the ferry captain would have to turn the craft to avoid hitting one, and another man stood in the bow with a long pole to try to push them off. Cain noticed that the runaway Henry, who was manacled to one of the metal railings near the engine house, had turned gray from the rough crossing. He was leaning over vomiting into the gunwales. Cain grabbed the canteen from the pommel of his saddle and went over to check on him.

"Here," he said to Henry, handing him the canteen.

"'Preciate it, massa." The Negro had to tilt his head at an angle to drink. He drank for a while, took a breath, and drank some more, the water running down his neck and into his shirt. The swelling around his mouth where Strofe had struck him two days earlier had nearly gone away. During the ride east he hadn't put up any fuss, had proven to be docile and obedient, if somewhat too talkative for Cain's liking. Cain hadn't paid him much mind really. He figured the boy was the others' responsibility, his being the girl when they found her. Besides, he usually made it a point not to get involved with his prisoners, not to become chatty and friendly, not to learn their stories, why they had run or what it was like under a particular master or what they might face once back home. Sure he might talk with a slave, casual banter that passed the time on the often long journey home, but he would never ask him much about his life, and he certainly wouldn't offer anything about his own. He was never mean nor cruel to his charges, simply professionally distant in his dealings with them. In fact, he liked to think that he was both fair and reasonable in pursuing his job. As he viewed it, his obligation was to find his man as quickly and economically as he could, and return him without damaging the property and without getting hurt in the bargain.

"Are you all right?" Cain asked the Negro.

"Ain't never took to water much," Henry replied, glancing fearfully out at the churning lake.

"We'll be across shortly."

Henry nodded, unconvinced. "We get back, you put in a good word for me with the massa."

"He's not interested in you."

"Still, he gone be awful mad. Miss Rosetta taking off like that and me with her."

"I'll see what I can do." He looked out toward the Vermont side. In the air, a red-tailed hawk was being attacked by a pair of smaller dark birds that looked like swallows. The hawk was trying to get away and the two birds kept swooping down on him, throwing themselves at their larger opponent. Cain turned back to Henry. "Eberly seems like a reasonable man." Cain threw this last statement like a fly to a trout, not because he believed it as much as because he wanted to see what Henry would do with it.

The Negro shrugged his shoulders loosely.

"I don't really know him," Cain said. "That was just my impression."

This time Henry let out with a mouthful of sour air.

"Is he a hard master to serve?"

Henry looked up at him the way a Negro looked at a white man who was asking him to speak honestly about another white man: there was wariness in his eyes, the caution that you didn't talk about one white man to another because you could never trust them.

"Massa all right. Mostly. Got him a temper 'casionally."

"He ever whip you?"

"He has Strofe to do that."

"How about the girl?"

"Not that I knows of. He treat her like a jewel."

"A jewel?"

Henry nodded.

"You were pretty certain this Brown fellow will come after you?"

The Negro paused for a moment, then, almost working up to a smile, he said, "Oh, Massa Brown come after me all right. He come after the bof'a us."

Cain stared into the slave's eyes but knew he wouldn't get more than that. Then he headed back over to where his horse was tied. He fed Hermes some oats and then got out his copy of Milton and sat on the deck and turned his collar up against the strong wind. He put his glasses on and began to read.

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for how

Can hearts, not free, be tri'd whether they serve

Willing or no, who will but what they must

By Destinie, and can no other choose?

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Occasionally, Cain would look up from his reading. Some of the other passengers stared openly at the Virginians and their prisoner. In particular, they were curious about the one-eared, manacled Negro in their custody. Two well-dressed men in frock coats and tall beaver hats seemed to take a special interest in Henry. One was younger and gaunt, with a long scrofulous neck, the other older with a thick paunch and a wispy gray beard that hung from his face like Spanish moss. His eyes floated loosely in their sockets. The two men whispered between themselves, the younger one gesticulating and explaining something to his companion. Finally they walked over to Cain, the older one clutching the arm of the younger to steady himself on the pitching deck.