The Hearth and Eagle (20 page)

Hesper went along the passage into the kitchen. It was chilly in here, the little cookstove nearly out, and no fire in the great hearth. She lit a candle and put some more wood in the stove, and wished she might light the logs that “Looney” had piled in readiness on the big andirons. But Susan certainly would not hold with wasting fuel, when here it was almost May, and anyway if those niggers really showed up, and she had no idea how or when, it would be wise not to have too much light in here. She sat down in Gran’s old Boston rocker and watched the shadows flicker over the bright pewter on the oak dresser. The sounds of music and dancing came to her faintly, muted by the thick doors and the huge mass of the central chimney. Clearer than the music she heard the intermittent rattle of the shutter from the borning room; that meant some wind from the northwest. The iron spigot dripped plink-plunk into the stone sink, and the banjo clock gave forth its unhurried tick. She turned her head and watched the brass pendulum as it swung behind its glass window. It was past nine. They’re not coming, she thought, relieved. I won’t have to stay much longer. She continued to stare at the clock, tracing in the gloom the familiar painted pictures, a white and gold barkentine sailing on a translucent green sea, and above on the lyre-shaped neck a panel of stars and roses. The clock had come into the family with Mary Ellis, Roger’s mother, who had not survived his birth. I wonder what makes women die when babies are born, what happens exactly, thought Hesper trying to lighten the boredom of exile by forbidden speculation, and it was some seconds before her mind registered a new impression. There was a cat miaowing outside the back door.

Must be the Pickett’s Tom, she thought, mildly curious, but he wouldn’t be apt to come here if he was hungry. Susan discouraged cats. The miaowing continued faint and insistent, and suddenly she jumped from the rocker, listening. Cat! “Cat” was the password, but she had applied it only to Cat Island. Her heart beat against her ribs, she picked up the candle and opened the back door. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness but the barn wall and the shadow of the nearest apple tree. And there was silence. She strained her eyes but nothing moved. “Is someone there?” she whispered. No answer. Then she realized she should give the password, if indeed there was any truth in all this. “I thought I heard a cat,” she quavered into the darkness, feeling both nervous and foolish.

At once two cloaked and hooded shapes glided round the corner of the house from behind the lilac bush. She held the door silently and they went past her into the kitchen.

The taller shape bent close to her, peering from under the concealing hood, and she saw that it was an old bearded man, a white man. “Is it safe?” he whispered. She shook her head. “Then hide ’em quick!”

Hesper turned to the other figure, and with that glimpse beneath the hood, her daze shattered. The haggard golden-brown face was upturned in terrified appeal, the black eyes held fear so naked and defiant that Hesper gasped. And against the colored girl’s breast above the shrouding cloak lay a baby’s head.

Lord, this
is
real—the thought flashed through her like a galvanic shock; she pushed the woman and the baby toward the broom closet. These were real people in terrible danger. Her trembling fingers released the pin, she slid the panel back and gave the girl a candle. “Up the steps—” she whispered, “there’s food. Don’t let the baby cry. The slave-catcher’s here.”

The colored girl gave a stifled moan, then noiseless as smoke she vanished up the narrow stairway. Hesper slid the panel, dropped the pin, and shoved the brooms and musket back in place.

The old man stood in the dark, silent until she lit another candle, then he stepped forward, and his steady wise eyes ran over her. “They safe?” “I think so, nobody knows the hidey-hole, but—”

“You’re not in this alone?” he interrupted anxiously. “The brig’s waiting off the Island, the
Scotia
from Halifax, someone’s got to get ’em out there.”

“I know, we’ve arranged, Ma and a fisherman—”

He nodded quickly. “Then I’ll be oil, left the wagon outside of town in a covert. Should’ve got ’em off at Lynn, but the chase was too hot. So we had to use you people. Poor things—” he shook his head, looking toward the broom closet. “She’s the most pitiful of all those I’ve helped—God’ll help you to help them too. The cause is just.”

He gave her a smile of great sweetness and dignity and wrapped his cloak around him. The door from the taproom was thrown open with a bang. Hesper jumped, and her mouth went dry. The slave-catcher walked in to the kitchen.

“Pardon me, Miss—” he said, not looking at Hesper, but at the old man who stood motionless by the settle. “All of a sudden I had a fancy for a drink of water.”

I mustn’t show anything, I mustn’t—she clenched her hands on the folds of her skirt. “Well, take it then—” she said tartly, in her mother’s voice. “There’s the sink and a cup.”

Clarkson did not move. “You’ve a caller, it seems—”

Before she need answer, the old man shuffled forward, and spoke in a feeble whine, “I seed t’ young lass through t’ winder, she’s a pokin’ up t’ stove, so I knocks n’ axes her fur a handout. No har-rm in that—mister. Me pore ol' belly’s empty as a cask.” He seemed to have shrunk to half his size, his shoulders hunched, and there was a vacant look on his wrinkled face.

Gratefully accepting her cue, Hesper hurried to the stove and felt of the coffeepot which always stood there in readiness.

Clarkson stood his ground staring at the old man. His sharp lower teeth gnawed on his mustache, his fingers through a gap in his buttoned coat twitched on the handle of his pistol. Suddenly he swung out a long arm and grabbed the old man’s shoulder, yanking him into the full light of the candle. “God damn it, you old bastard, I’m sure I’ve seen you before. In Medford, that’s where. You’ve got a farm with a mighty convenient haycock on it, keep it filled with blackbirds, don’t you!”

Hesper’s cold hands grew clammier. She clattered the poker against the stove lid.

“Lemme be, mister—” quavered the old voice. “I ain’t done nothin’ but ax for some vittles. I ain’t got no farm no place. I ain’t got nuthin’.”

The fiddler in the taproom blared louder for a moment, and then the noise was shut off, as Susan came into the kitchen and closed the door.

She paused for a second taking in the scene. The slave-catcher bent menacingly over a trembling old tramp, and Hesper, white as the plaster wall, prying at the stovelid with the wrong end of the poker.

“What’re you doin’ in my kitchen!” She brought her fat freckled hand down sharply across Clarkson’s arm, which dropped involuntarily from the old man’s shoulder. “Quit bullying this pore old man.”

“So you know who he is!” cried Clarkson turning on her.

“Never saw him afore in my life,” answered Susan.

“I say you did! I say you knew he was coming, and you know what he’s brought. I’m going to search this house.” Clarkson jerked out his revolver, beside himself with fury. His arm tingled from the blow this woman had given it, her cool contempt enraged him.

“Sheriff!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Sheriff, come here!” But Ambrose was playing as hard as he could, and singing too, and many of the dancers sang with him—“As I was walking down the lane, down the lane, down the lane—”

“God damn that caterwauling nigger—” said Clarkson through his teeth, he looked at the three in the kitchen with him, and he dared not leave them. He cocked the pistol with his thumb, deliberated a moment, then shot through the west outside wall of the room. The old plaster starred and cracked a little around the black hole, the bullet buried itself in a stout oak upright beneath the clapboarding.

That brought them. The fiddle stopped. The sheriff ran in looking scared, and with him Johnnie, Nat Cubby, and as many of the guests as could squeeze through the entry. And it brought Roger too. He rushed out of his study to see his kitchen crowded with people, and a slimsy black-mustached fellow in the middle of them holding a smoking pistol.

“What
is this rumpus?” shouted Roger. “What’s the meaning of that shot?” His eyes were no longer vague, but bright with anger. He looked at the bullet hole, and his marred wall. “I’ll have you arrested!”

“Who’s this man?” Clarkson growled to the sheriff. The others crowded around open-mouthed.

“Why, that’s Mr. Honeywood. Ye didn’t oughta go shootin’,” answered the sheriff unhappily.

“Oh you’re
Mister
Honeywood, so I reckon you know all about it, but I’d be glad to clear your mind anyhow. I represent the law and I represent Mr. Delacort, owner of the Albemarle Plantation on the Santee River in South Carolina. One of his best nigger wenches lit out with her brat four weeks ago, and he’s commissioned me to find her. She’s a good breeder and smart too, worth two thousand dollars. I’ve reason to believe she’s hidden in your house.”

“Indeed she is not!” said Roger, quivering, but in a quieter tone. “You may take my word for it.” He glanced at Susan’s blank face. How glad she must be now that he had forbidden her to receive the fugitives.

Clarkson was a trifle nonplussed. This one spoke more like a gentleman than the rest of these oafs, and his voice had the ring of truth; still, the women might be trying something on their own.

“I’m going to search the house and grounds,” he said doggedly. He turned his back on the Honeywood family and the old man to confront the silent group of fishermen. A dozen pairs of eyes stared back at him, unwinking. “Any of you men lend me a hand?” he asked, “Can’t
all
be god-damn traitrous abolishers.”

Cap’n Lane gave an angry grunt, and his fists clenched, otherwise nobody moved.

“You?” said Clarkson at random, pointing at Johnnie with his pistol.

“Why, no—” said Johnnie, “I’d rather not.”

Clarkson scowled and pointed to Nat—“You then, you were eager enough to bring me here.”

Hesper held her breath and it seemed to her that the others did too. Nat stood beside Johnnie, staring at the slave-catcher. He shifted his feet a trifle. His eyes were speculative. “What’s there in it for me?” he asked.

“A hundred dollars if we find ’em—”

Johnnie swung around looking down at his friend. “Dirty money, Nat, I never thought it of you. I’m sure your ma’d not think it of you, either.”

A strange expression flickered across the sardonic face. Nat twisted his head and met Johnnie’s eyes, “You’re a soft fool—” he said very low, but he turned on his heel, shoved his way amongst the watching men, and strode through the outside door, slamming it behind him. The little bell jangled and faded to stillness.

“All right, all right,” said the slave-catcher, “I’ll do it alone. Sheriff, you keep ’em in the taproom. You know your duty?”

The sheriff nodded and coughed, staring at the floor.

“Well, get moving! And there’s any hanky-panky, I’ll set the federals on you, after I’ve done with you myself.”

The sheriff sullenly motioned with his hand, and the fishermen moved back into the taproom to be met by excited or frightened questions from those who hadn’t been able to understand what was happening.    .

“This is an outrage!” cried Roger, while Clarkson himself saw to the bolting of the doors. “You’ve not the slightest shadow of excuse—I told you there’s nobody hidden here.”

The slave-catcher twisted his pistol and paid no attention. Susan sat down on her regular stool behind the counter. Her face was white as Hesper’s and the freckles stood out between beads of sweat. The old man in the cloak huddled himself into a dark corner between the fireplace and a keg of beer. Ambrose still sat on his box, staring again at the beams, his fiddle quiet as Clarkson had ordered. Even Charity was subdued and had squeezed herself on a bench beside her mother.

“You—girl—” said Clarkson suddenly pointing at Hesper. “You’re coming with me. You can hold the candle, and you know the house.”

Hesper glanced at her mother, Susan gave a helpless shrug. Helpless, and she looked frightened. Ma! Ma couldn’t do anything, and she didn’t rightly know what had happened in the kitchen before she came in. Hesper felt an unexpected surge of pity, and then a headier intoxication. Her heart stopped pounding, warmth returned to her hands. She picked up a candlestick, and walked toward the slave-catcher.

“Come then—” she said, cool and easy. “And you might stop waving that pistol about. You’re not like to use it.”

Clarkson looked startled, and she heard Johnnie’s laugh. “Good for you—Hessie!”

“We’ll start with the outhouses—” commanded Clarkson, shoving Hesper ahead of him. She gave him a freezing look and he muttered something that might have been apologetic. He thrust the pistol back in his belt. They went through the kitchen door, having picked up a lantern from its shelf in the entry. Clarkson searched every inch of the barn and the hay loft, thrusting a pitchfork again and again through the scant heaps of straw, and disturbing only poor “Looney” who was asleep on a mat in a corner. He looked in the pigsty and even the privy, then returned to the house. He hadn’t expected anything of the barn, anyway—much too obvious for experienced agents like that old graybeard, if he
was
the man from Medford. Not quite sure. Not sure of anything except that two thousand dollars worth of human merchandise was secreted somewhere along this infernal rocky coast.

He hustled Hesper back to the kitchen, where she stood in the middle of the floor holding the candle while he opened cupboard doors, peered into the Dutch oven and the bottom of the china closet. Once he tapped the plaster wall on the north side between the kitchen and the lean-to, but the sound was dense and flat.

Then he opened the broom closet, and motioned her nearer with the light. Hesper’s courage ebbed, and her palms grew wet, but he scarcely glanced at the brooms and mop and musket in the shallow closet, and had he bothered to sound the false back, he would not have been enlightened. Lot Honeywood and his brother-in-law the pirate had built cannily. The oaken slab was nearly two inches thick and would give out no resonance.

Hesper went from room to room as he ordered her. They entered her father’s little study; she saw that when he had been interrupted by the shot, he had been working on the “Memorabilia,” and while she held the light for Clarkson, she read one line—