From outside came the sound of gunshots, no surprise as the guard-women were prone to accidental discharges even when they weren’t terrified. Still, Smonk signaled for silence as voices clanged in the street and footsteps clumped over the porch. A breathless guard-widow burst in the parlor and reported that a nigger had stole the girl they’d captured. What should they do?
Unseen behind the door, Smonk touched the tip of his sword with his tongue.
Let them go, Mrs. Tate said. We’ll find them tomorrow.
The widow looked doubtful but nodded and took this order outside.
Meanwhile a flock, or a swarm—or whatever their group designation was—of bats had inexplicably attacked Walton and Donny, occasioning the understandably panicked horse to throw its rider. Walton’s boot was entangled in the stirrup which battered him along behind the horse as it fled, shrieking madly. When he’d come loose at last, the flying rodents pursued their equine target and left the human one stunned in the dust. The same had occurred with the late Onan, dragged as he’d been by his departing mount. The stirrups, in opposition to what that sales clerk had said, were obviously inferior.
Yet somehow unscathed he rose, searching his arms for pinprick bites, worried about the dread “hydrophobia,” sorry that his rifle had been scabbarded on his saddle and sorrier still that he’d surrendered his pistol to the horrific man in the wagon. Also, his sword was missing, as were most of the pieces of equipment from his extra pockets, victim to his being floundered over the terrain. He felt a passing anger at the tailor who’d assured him the pocket flaps were guaranteed “tip-top,” and wondered what the rotund Italian craftsman would think knowing the terrain over which his pants walked tonight.
A quick inventory revealed that Walton had retained only his medicinal flask, magnifying glass, fishing kit and whistle, which he brought to his lips but decided against blowing. Perhaps stealth might prove a better tactic out here in such sprawling wilderness. Even his goggles were gone. His compass as well, so he had no idea which direction he should go. Perhaps he ought to remain here, near the site of his fall, hoping to retrieve pieces of the valuable equipment on the morrow.
Wait! The North Star. Nature’s omnipresent Saint of the Lost. He gazed into the heavens and spotted that beacon of hope glimmering and counted it a small personal success. He wished he had his logbook. He rubbed his backside and thought of the bats and shuddered. Perhaps he’d best make haste. The full moon gave ample light for him to traipse through the “cane,” beyond which he could discern a copse of trees. He made this his target and began to run, hoping the shelter would remove the danger of another bat-attack.
In the copse, he soon lost himself in total darkness and became entangled in a crosshatch of spiderweb, ivy, vine, weed and briar, quite a morass. Walton shoved at the morass but it shoved back and he thought he felt spiders in his hair. In a panic, he began to flail his arms and bat his way through, an immediate mistake as a low horizontal limb at throat’s height laid him flat and knocked out his breath.
When he opened his eyes, he thought he heard voices. He rolled onto his belly, his neck sore and skin burning from its various cuts and abrasions, but his head felt clear, in fact very clear, and he knew the thing to do was steal closer to the voices without giving himself away. Remaining prone, he passed beneath the thickest of the thicket and presently the underbrush thinned to a civil level and he crept forward tree to tree, moonlight beaming through in columns.
Soon he’d spotted a campfire and, after discerning the wind’s direction by licking his finger and pointing in the air, he prepared to come in “downwind.” He’d have removed his hat had he had it. Instead, he separated each metal item from the other to avoid clinking and began to scuttle forward, noiselessly, soon raising his eyes over a fallen log to fix them upon the precocious Negro wagon-driver from before and, seeing her from the rear, what looked to be a bride with her clothing rent.
Walton’s heart began to pound; he forced himself to breathe deeply.
Here. Here was his chance. He raised his eyes to the trapezoids of twinkling sky the forest roof allowed him and experienced the sensation of having arrived at his destination after a long journey. He bore no doubt that he was a fool. A coward. A—there was no other word—fop. Yet what other fop was here, what other coward, what other fool? Who else to help this woman? To save her from the uppity Negro who even now seemed to be thumping her a coin. Attempting to buy this decent woman for a “thrill.”
Well, Phail Walton wouldn’t have it. He’d reached for his pistol but it was gone. As were his sword and rifle. His knife. Here he was on a mission of reconnaissance, armed with a fishing kit, whistle, flask and magnifying glass. Think, Phail, think! What would Mother do?
She’d take a drink. He removed the flask and unscrewed its lid and endured the burning scratch of alcohol down his throat. He endured another. What was he to do, Mother?
But it wasn’t his mother who seemed to lend wisdom: It was his own inner voice. Just calm down, Phail, it said. Take another drink and listen to the people talk. What are they saying?
They gazed at one another over the fire, the old nigger-man so openly, with such appraisal, it made Evavangeline fidget.
What’s ye name? she asked him, finally.
Ecsenator Isaac. Call me Ike. What’s yern?
She didn’t say.
He puffed his pipe and blew a smoke ring so perfect she nearly chased off after it.
Where ye from? he asked.
That’s what ever body wants to know.
Not ever body. Jest me.
I’m heading north.
You rather ride a horse or pony?
Not no horse.
He nodded. Why ain’t ye wearing that hat ye made from ye dress bottom back yonder in the woods?
She watched him.
No matter how many fellows ye lay with, he said, ye don’t never get knocked up. Do ye.
She shot him a snake’s gaze. You a damn fortune-teller?
Naw, miss. It’s jest…it’s jest something I need to tell ye. Something important. It’s gone sound crazy.
Be a dollar, she said.
He considered her, pipe raised halfway. A dollar for what?
Me to listen.
He brought the cob to his lips and the leaves in the bowl simmered and a line of smoke rose from the corner of his mouth and traced up his cheek and curled around the brim of his hat.
She looked at him and looked away and looked again. A dollar, she repeated. I don’t care yer a nigger. She lowered to her haunches across the fire from him and hooked her arms around her knees.
Well now, he said. Since you don’t care I’m a nigger. He extended his legs, longer than they’d seemed, his shoes store-bought and new, which she’d never seen on a nigger’s feet. He removed a leather purse from his pocket and unclasped it and over the fire flipped her a heavy silver coin which she caught and bit and raised to him as if in toast and then popped into her mouth and swallowed for safekeeping. It got lodged halfway down and she plucked at her throat and hacked.
Can I get a taste of yer—She pointed to the whiskey gourd by his log and he tossed it across the flames and she caught it and unstoppered it and smelled it then sipped politely.
Go on finish it.
She grinned and turned it up and he caught it back empty when she was done.
Thank ye, she said. Shit. She pounded her chest. Whoo. That’s some bust-head licker for a nigger to have.
Nigger’s got a lot more than that.