They were both black, as were all the men moving the ramp. But the two newcomers were wearing green uniforms.
Sheff had heard rumors about those uniforms. These were men in the Arkansas Army. It was real!
Some of his excitement must have shown. The old Indian chuckled softly. "Yep, that's them, all right. The Confederate Army. Arkansas Chiefdom, anyway."
"What are they doing here?" asked Sheff 's mother.
The Cherokee sucked his teeth for a moment. "I guess you could call it recruitment."
Sheff 's mother immediately frowned. "I don't want my boy signing up for no army!"
The Cherokee smiled again. But said nothing.
Less than an hour later, sitting behind his mother on a stool in a large office in New Antrim's largest bank, Sheff was mightily confused about most everything. But he understood why the old man had smiled.
"It's not fair!" his mother exclaimed. The words were half a protest, half a wail.
The man sitting on the opposite side of the biggest desk Sheff had ever seen just shrugged his shoulders. "No, I suppose not. But what's 'fair' got to do with anything, Mrs. Parker? You wanted your freedom, and you got it. But what 'freedom' means, right now, is the freedom to starve."
Sheff was too fascinated with the man himself to pay much attention to his words. His name was Henry Crowell, nothing spectacular. But to Sheffield Parker he was a living, breathing dragon, testifying in person that this new fantasy world was real.
First, because he was black.
Second, because he was the biggest man Sheff had ever seen.
Third, because he was wearing fancier-looking clothes than anything Sheff had ever seen anyone wear except a few of the richest white men in Baltimore.
Finally-most glorious of all-because he was the president of the bank.
He owned it!
Well, half of it, anyway. From what Sheff had been able to understand of the man's introductory remarks, the other half was apparently owned by the same Patrick Driscol who'd become a mysterious legend to Sheff.
"It's not fair!" Sheff 's mother repeated, trying, this time, for more in the way of sternness rather than simple misery.
Next to her, Sheff 's uncle shrugged. "I don't really mind, Lemon."
Mrs. Parker swiveled her head to glare at her brother. "So, fine. You're a full-growed man, Jem. What about my little boy?"
The man behind the desk chuckled, causing his immense chest to ripple the fancy cloth. "Don't look so 'little' to me, ma'am. He's not too tall, but he's powerful wide in the shoulders."
Now she glared at the banker. "It isn't fair!"
Crowell sighed and sat up straighter in his chair. Then, planting two huge hands on the desk, he leaned forward and spoke softly. Softly, but very firmly.
"Mrs. Parker, there is no magic here in Arkansas. 'Less you believe in the voudou business, but not even Marie Laveau claims she can conjure up food and shelter out of spiderwebs. You came here with nothing. No money, no tools beyond a few knives and such, no capital, no livestock, not much at all beyond the clothes on your backs-and those, meaning no offense, you couldn't sell even if you wanted to. They're not far removed from rags."
Sheff 's mother set her jaws. "We was poor to begin with. Then, what with havin' to leave Baltimore so sudden:"
"I am not blaming you, Mrs. Parker. Just pointing out the facts of life. How do you propose to survive while you start making a living?"
She started to say something, but Crowell cut her off.
"Never mind that. 'Survive' isn't the word I meant. I don't doubt you could 'survive,' but you'd be so dirt poor you'd be nothing but an anchor dragging behind this community. We don't need that, Mrs. Parker. The last thing Arkansas needs is dead weight. Meaning no offense, but that's what dirt-poor people are. Dead weight."
He pushed himself back from the chair a little. "Patrick established that as the very first rule, here-and all of us in the Iron Battalion agreed with him. Black people are welcome in Arkansas, but they've got to pull their weight. That's the main reason we set up this bank in the first place, back then. We'll loan people money to get started, but they've got to put up collateral. And if they've got nothing but able-bodied men in the family, then those men have to agree to serve a term of enlistment in the army."
"What if we were just women?" his mother asked, her eyes narrowing. "Did you and this fancy 'Mr. Patrick' set up a whorehouse, too? Loan us money if we put up our cunts for collateral?"
Uncle Jem winced. "Lemon!"
But all Crowell did was chuckle again. "No, Mrs. Parker. Patrick and I are running no brothels in this town. There are a couple, I'm told, but they're strictly private enterprise. To answer your question, if the borrowers are females only, we'll accept a job in one of the local workshops as collateral. But the terms aren't as good."
"What are the terms, Mr. Crowell?" Sheff 's uncle spoke a bit hastily, probably to keep his sister from another outburst.
The big banker looked at him. "Good as you could ask for. We'll loan any family three hundred dollars for every man who enlists, two hundred for every woman or boy or girl in a workshop. The interest is five percent, compounded annually. The loan has to be paid back monthly-but we'll waive the interest for the whole family as long as at least one man is serving in the colors. And for every man who completes a term of service satisfactorily, we'll knock a percentage point off the interest."
He glanced at Sheff 's mother and sister, and then at Sheff. "In your case, that means we'll loan you a thousand dollars even. No interest accumulates as long as either you or young Sheffield is still in the colors. Once both of you have finished your terms of duty-assuming you were discharged honorably-we'll start charging you three percent on whatever the balance is. The truth is, you can't find a better loan anywhere. Either here or in the United States."
Sheff had no idea if he was telling the truth or not, since what he knew about banking was that:well, it was a white man's business. He'd never known a black man who even went to a bank, much less owned one.
From the dubious expression on her face, it was obvious his mother was just as ignorant. But his uncle seemed satisfied. Not, probably, because he actually knew anything. But just because, as with Sheff himself, he was inclined to trust Mr. Crowell.
Crowell was famous, too, after all. And if most of that fame was due to his horrible mutilation, there wasn't actually any sign of it on the man himself. Not visibly, anyway, covered with that fancy clothing. Maybe he was a little fatter than he would have been otherwise. But it was hard to know. Men that big usually ran to fat, some, once they got a little older.
Sheff thought he was a nice man, though. Not that it really mattered. Even if Crowell had been poison mean, Sheff would have been inclined to take his word for something. The man was a banker. The only black banker Sheff had ever heard of.
"We'll do it," said Sheff 's uncle firmly. "Be quiet, Lemon. You've had your say, and you ain't my mother, even if you are older than me."
"I'm Sheffield's mother."
His uncle smiled, and nodded toward Sheff. "And so what, girl? I mean, look at him. You tried to stop your son, he'd just run away and enlist anyhow."
Sheff tried to look innocent when his mother gave him a sharp glance. It wasn't easy. He'd spent a good part of the past half hour trying to decide between two different ways he could run away and join the army. Daytime or nighttime.
There were advantages and disadvantages, either way. Daytime would be harder to make his getaway without his mother catching him, but he could probably enlist on the spot. Wherever the spot was. Nighttime, he'd have to wander around some in the dark.
"Would you do that, Sheff?" his mother demanded.
"No, ma'am. 'Course not."
She just rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in defeat.
By midafternoon, Sheff was in a state that bordered on sheer ecstasy. It was all he could do not to bounce up and down like a little boy.