James Nelson - The Blackbirder

Plato came running up, a sack over one shoulder, a canvas roll balanced on the other. It took Elizabeth a moment to recognize her own tent and clothing. She was not even aware that someone had packed it. “Mrs. Marlowe, we gots to go.”

The field was nearly deserted, more than half the people had already melted into the woods, heading in-country to some new, prearranged destination. Those who remained were gathering up the last of their possessions: cookware, food, scraps of clothing.

From the woods, not so far away, the pounding of hooves on the soft pine needles of the trail. A charge at the camp, an attempt to catch them before they disappeared again.

Elizabeth and Plato turned, ran toward the woods, toward the barely distinguishable trail carved through the undergrowth by animals or Indians or both.

Into the dark woods, the cool woods, nearly blind in the shadows after the brilliant light in the field. Plato just ahead of her, running with confidence, moving as if he were bred to woodcraft, Elizabeth with skirts hiked up, running, trying to watch Plato, the trail ahead, the hazards underfoot.

Behind them they could hear the horses. They had reached the meadow. She could hear voices, loud with outrage. “They are getting away, they are goddamned getting away!” A gunshot, at what she could not imagine, perhaps fired into the air in impudent anger.

Further into the thick wood. She could hear the stream to her right, quite a wide stream, could see the gap in the trees that its passing made. They were moving up a gentle hill, not too steep, but Elizabeth ’s breath was coming fast. She wondered how long she could maintain that pace.

And then her foot came down on some imperfection in the trail, a hole left by an animal, perhaps, or an overturned rock. She felt her ankle wrench to one side, twisting beyond where it was meant to twist, and the pine needles and the young ferns coming up at her as she fell.

“Uuff!” The breath was knocked from her as she hit the ground, her ankle, still caught in the hole, twisting harder. “Ahhhhhh!” She clenched her teeth, muffled the building shriek of agony.

Plato was ten paces ahead when he realized she was no longer behind him. He whirled around, ran back down the trail. “Mrs. Marlowe, Mrs. Marlowe, you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I am fine. Help me up.” She could run on the ankle, she was sure. It would hurt, but she could do it.

Plato wrapped a strong hand around her arm, lifted her. Not so far behind they could hear orders shouted across the field, instructions for the hunters to fan out, to head into the woods. Elizabeth stood on her good ankle, the twisted one held just off the ground. Not so bad. The pain was going away already.

“All right, all right,” she said, more to herself than to Plato. She put her wounded foot down, slowly, eased her weight onto it. Lightning shot through the bone. The pain rushed up her leg, wrapped itself around her brain, made her head spin, drained the strength from her body like pouring water from a bucket. She felt herself twisting as she fell, the muscles in her arms and her legs no longer responding to her wishes.

Plato eased her down and she leaned back on her elbows, gulping air. Her ankle was throbbing, thumping like a drum, but as the weight came off, her mind cleared and she could think again.

Plato looked back toward the field, his eyes wide, afraid, his face filled with indecision.

“Go, Plato. Go,” Elizabeth gasped.

“No, I can’t leave you…”

“I’ll be fine. They don’t want me…”

She didn’t know if that was true, actually doubted that it was. They would have her in jail for something-harboring runaway slaves, giving guns to Negroes, something-but at least they would not drag her from jail and hang her, she did not think.

Plato looked down at her, clearly unconvinced. He lifted the canvas tent from his shoulder, tossed it into the woods, flung Elizabeth ’s dunnage after it. He reached down and grabbed her under the arms and, in one deft, powerful move, hefted her up and draped her over his shoulder and headed up the trail.

Her ankle hurt unbearably, and for a moment the pain masked Elizabeth ’s pure outrage, but not for long.

“Son of a bitch! Put me down! Put me down right now, you bastard!” she hissed, but Plato wrapped his arms tighter around her thighs.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Marlowe, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Plato kept repeating, his genuine contrition quite at odds with the manner in which he was carrying her.

She could not recall a more humiliating moment, and she had had some fine ones in her short life. Her ankle screamed in pain with each jar from Plato’s long gait, her blond hair dragged on the trail and was kicked up by Plato’s heels as he ran. It was like the Rape of the Sabines. She could just picture her arse sticking up in the air right next to Plato’s face.

She thought about Thomas, how he would react if he saw this. Wondered whether he would laugh or beat Plato to death.

He would laugh, the son of a bitch, damn his eyes.

Plato moved off the trail, slowing as he threaded through the trees. The low branches and undergrowth tugged at Elizabeth ’s hair. And then the stream came into sight from Elizabeth ’s odd perspective. She craned her neck up, looked back in the direction from which they had come, but thankfully none of their pursuers were there.

Plato forged into the stream, his feet kicking water up into Elizabeth ’s face. She sputtered, spit, wiped her face. Across the deeper part, the water up to Plato’s knees, and then up against the stream. Plato was moving slowly now, fighting the current. It was cool and quiet, but for the sound of the water, and in the far distance Elizabeth could hear the hunters once again.

Up and up the stream, around the larger rocks that parted the water as it ran down to the piedmont. It was slow going. Elizabeth ’s hair dragged in the water. Her ankle was growing numb.

She was aware of Plato’s breathing, his gasping breath, his slower pace as he plunged uphill, upstream. He slipped, almost went down, but recovered and continued on.

They came to a dark place on the river, where thick overhanging branches draped down almost to the surface, in some cases actually in the water. The stream was twenty feet across. The water broke around a big rock and flowed past on either side, the saplings and larger pines crowding along the banks.

Plato ducked low. Elizabeth felt the branches sweep over her buttocks and back, felt the sharp pine needles through her clothes. Plato gasped, “I gots to put you down now.”

Before she could brace for the pain Plato swung her off his shoulder, held her in his arms as if she were a bride at the threshold, and then knelt down in the deep spot in the wake of the rock.

The water was cold, blessedly cold over her ankle, dulling the pain. She gave a quick gasp as cold water seeped under warm clothing. Plato sank down, down, the water coming over their waists, their chests. At last he was on his knees, still holding her, the water up to their necks.

The pine boughs draped over the stream and it was as if they were in a little room, with the rock forming one wall and the tree branches the other three and the roof as well. Peering out through the clusters of green needles, they could see into the woods on the far shore, maybe fifty feet.

“I can kneel on my own,” Elizabeth whispered, and Plato gently eased her down. Her ankle was hurting a little less and the water was a buffer to the jarring and it was not so bad. Her skirts were heavy, wrapping around her legs, and they made her awkward movement more awkward still. But finally she was kneeling as well, on a flat rock right next to Plato, half floating in the dark water, staring out of their little room at the patches of sunlight and shadow that dappled the woods.