George Martin - Fevre Dream

Sour Billy looked at the slave catchers and nodded. “Go on.”

“They was awful stubborn, these two. Couldn’t get ’em to tell us where they was from for the longest while. Whipped ’em right smart, used a few other tricks I know. Usually, with niggers, you just scares ’em a bit and it pops right out. Not with these.” He spat. “Well, we finally got it out of ’em. Show him, Jim.”

The boy dismounted, went over to the woman, and lifted her right arm. Three fingers were missing from her hand. One of the stumps was still crusted over with a scab.

“We started with the right cause we noticed she was left-handed,” the man said. “Didn’t want to cripple her up too bad, you unnerstand, but we couldn’t find nothin’ in the papers, no posters out neither, so

…” He shrugged eloquently. “Got to the third finger, like you see, and the man finally told us. The woman cussed him out somethin’ fierce.” He guffawed. “Anyway, here they is. Two slaves like that, got to be worth somethin’ to us for catchin’ ’em. This Mister Julian at home?”

“No,” said Sour Billy, looking up at the sun. It was still a couple of hours shy of noon.

“Well,” said the red-faced man, “you must be the overseer, right? The one they call Sour Billy?”

“That’s me,” he said. “Sam and Lily talk about me?”

The slave catcher laughed again. “Oh, they did a powerful lot of talkin’ once we knew where they come from. Talked all the way here. We shut ’em up a time or two, my boy and me, but then they’d just start to talkin’ again. Some stories, too.”

Sour Billy looked at the two runaways with his cold, malicious eyes, but neither one would meet his gaze.

“Maybe you can just take charge of these two, and give us our reward, and we’ll be ridin’ on our way,” the man said.

“No,” said Sour Billy Tipton. “You got to wait. Mister Julian will want to give you his thanks personal. Won’t be too long. He’ll be back by dark.”

“By dark, huh?” the man said. He and his son exchanged glances. “Funny, Mister Sour Billy, but these here niggers said you’d say jest that very thing. They tell queer stories bout what goes on here after dark. My boy and I, we’d jest sooner take our money and leave, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It won’t be all the same to Mister Julian,” Sour Billy said. “And I can’t give you no money neither. You going to believe some fool story told you by a couple niggers?”

The man frowned, working his tobacco all the while. “Nigger stories is one thing,” he said finally, “but I knowed niggers to tell the truth once in a while too. Now, what we’ll do, Mister Sour Billy, is wait, like you say, for this Mister Julian to come home. But don’t you think we’re gonna let ourself be cheated.” He had a pistol by his side. He patted it. “I’m gonna wear my friend here whiles I wait, and my boy he’s got one too, and we’re both of us handy with our knives. You unnerstand? These niggers learned us all about that little knife you got hid behind your back, so don’t you go a-reachin’ back there, like to scratch on anything, or else our fingers might get a little bit itchy too. Let’s jest all of us wait and be friends.”

Sour Billy turned his eyes on the slave catcher and gave him a cold stare, but the big man was too stupid to even notice. “We’ll wait inside,” Sour Billy said, keeping his hands well clear of his back.

“Jest fine,” the slave catcher said. He dismounted. “My name is Tom Johnston, by the way, and that’s my boy Jim.”

“Mister Julian will be pleased to meet you,” Sour Billy said. “Tie up your horses and bring the niggers on inside. Careful on the steps. They’s rotted through in places.”

The woman started to whimper as they led her toward the house, but Jim Johnston gave her a smart crack across the mouth and she fell silent again.

Sour Billy led them to the library, and drew back the heavy curtains to admit some light into the dim, dusty room. The slaves sat on the floor, while the two catchers stretched out in the heavy leather chairs. “Now,” said Tom Johnston, “this here is real nice.”

“Everything is all rotten and dusty, Daddy,” the youth said. “Jest like them niggers said it’d be.”

“Well, well,” said Sour Billy, looking at the two niggers. “Well, well. Mister Julian ain’t going to be pleased you been spreadin’ tales about his house. You two earned yourself a whippin’.”

The big black buck, Sam, found the courage to raise his head and glower. “I ain’t scared o’ no whippin’.”

Sour Billy smiled just slightly. “Why then, there’s worse things than whippin’, Sam. Indeed there is.”

That was too much for the woman, Lily. She looked at the youth. “He’s tellin’ the truth, massa Jim, he is. You got to lissen. Take us outta here ’fore dark. You and your daddy kin own us, work us, we work real hard for you, we will. Won’t run away. We’re good niggers. Never would have run away, but for… for… don’t wait till dark, massa, don’t. It’ll be too late then.”

The boy hit her, hard, with the butt of his pistol, leaving a welt across her cheek and knocking her backward to the carpet where she lay, shuddering and weeping. “Shut your lyin’ black mouth,” he said.

“You want a drink?” Sour Billy asked him.

The hours passed. They went through most of two bottles of Julian’s best brandy, swilling it down like it was cheap whiskey. They ate. They talked. Sour Billy didn’t do much talking himself, just asked questions to draw out Tom Johnston, who was drunk and vain and in love with his own voice. The slave catchers operated out of Napoleon, Arkansas, it seemed, but they weren’t there much, traveling like they did. There was a Missus Johnston, but she stayed at home with her daughter. They didn’t tell her much of their business. “Woman ain’t got no reason to know about her man’s comin’s and goin’s. You tell ’em somethin’ or other, jest you don’t see if they don’t go and bother you about it if you’re late. Then you got to slap ’em around.” He spat. “Easier just to keep ’em guessing, so they’s grateful when you shows up.” Johnston left Sour Billy with the impression that he preferred topping nigger wenches anyway, so his wife was no loss to him.

Outside, the sun was sinking toward the west.

When the shadows lay thick across the room. Sour Billy rose and drew the curtains and lit some candles. “I’ll go and get Mister Julian,” he said.

The younger Johnston looked awful pale as he turned to his father, Sour Billy thought. “Daddy, I didn’t hear no one ride up,” he said.

“Wait,” said Sour Billy Tipton. He left them, walked through the darkened, deserted ballroom, and climbed the grand staircase. Upstairs, he entered a large bedroom, the wide French windows boarded up, the ornate bed shrouded by a black velvet canopy. “Mister Julian,” he called softly, from the door. The room was black and stifling.

Behind the canopy, something stirred. The velvet hangings were pushed back. Damon Julian emerged; pale, quiet, cold. His black eyes seemed to reach right out of the darkness and touch Sour Billy. “Yes, Billy?” came the soft voice.

Sour Billy told him everything.

Damon Julian smiled. “Bring them into the dining room. I’ll join you in a few moments.”

The dining room had a great old chandelier, but it had not been lit in Sour Billy’s memory. After bringing in the slave catchers, he found some matches and touched off a small oil lamp, which he set on the middle of the long table, so it threw a small ring of light on the white linen tablecloth but left the rest of the narrow, high-ceilinged room in shadow. The Johnstons took seats, the younger one peering around uneasily, his hand never leaving his pistol. The niggers held each other miserably at one end of the table.