Tim Bowling - The Tinsmith

John’s heart constricted. Then a rush of hot anger almost made him shout. But he swallowed the sound and stared at the overseer without blinking. Now it had come as Caleb predicted, and he knew there was no other choice. He hung his head and confessed that he’d taken the hog.

The overseer kept right on grinning and tapping his thigh with the whip. But the master spoke kindly.

“That’s not true, John. I know it isn’t. I didn’t realize that she meant anything to you. But it can’t be helped. I admit, she’s a handsome girl, but that’s why she’ll bring a good price at auction. I don’t wish to sell her, you understand. I have always looked after my people. But I will not be made a fool of in my own home, I will not be laughed at.”

John insisted it was true, that he had been hungry and wanted meat. He tried to describe the theft but it was no use; he had no wiles for lying.

“Sundown,” the master said. “Come, Jacob, we have matters to discuss.”

The master walked away. The overseer spat on the frozen ground and followed.

Caleb was in the barn, cleaning up after the killing. His faded, one-strap overalls were bloodstained, and even his hovering breath had a bloody smell. For a while they didn’t speak. Then John swallowed hard and in a rush told Caleb everything. After a long pause, during which the old man rubbed his grizzled chin and slowly opened and closed his eyes like an owl, Caleb said, “I didn’t think we’d get all de way to free without they’d be trouble.”

He laid the shovel by.

“Dey ain’t no hogs missing either. He jes need something to be missing. You go on and tell him I took it. Don’t argue now. You go on and tell him, you hear. Isn’t anyone should take a whipping to protect her but me. Isn’t she my child? You go on and tell him.”

“But, Daney,” John started to say.

Caleb rested a thick hand on John’s shoulder and smiled. But the smile was weak, the skin under the old man’s eyes bunched and flaccid. He spoke, however, with a fierce resolve.

“You jes leave that to me. You go on and tell him I took dat hog. Dat way, he won’t spect I’m jes trying to protect her. He trusts you. Sometimes I think he even believes you’se his own blood kin. It ain’t no fault of yours, it’s like he forgets, and why wouldn’t he, being a widow man all these years and lonesome. You go on and tell him I took it. He’ll believe it ’cause he wants to. He wants to believe you’re not like dis black nigger and all de others. He trusts you. Go on now. Don’t fret. It had to come and maybe dis will be de end of it.”

John didn’t believe Caleb about the ending, but he went back to the house and told. And just as Caleb said, the master believed him. Fumbling to undo a button at his collar, his tusk-white hands trembling, he gave up, sighed, and said, “I thought it might be him. Well, now. Thank you, John. Go into the kitchen and have Charlotte fry you some bacon, you’ve earned it.”

He didn’t want the bacon. He went outside instead and took several long, gasping breaths of the cold air and prayed that whatever was coming to Caleb wouldn’t be so terrible. Caleb had been whipped before; most of the blacks had known at least a few lashes from the new overseer. But this was bound to be the worst punishment yet, and Caleb wasn’t young anymore even if he was still strong and a good worker.

A hog’s fast, frightened screech split the air. The day moon over the barn was the mottled colour of the overseer’s cheeks. Beyond in the field a hawk dropped like a stone and rose up with a vole in its grasp. He walked on to the shacks.

The news was already out. From Charlotte probably. It didn’t matter. Daney’s face was all tears, she shook the whole length of her body.

“John, you know it isn’t true. How could you lie like that? You must have done it.” Her wide face broke. She yelled, “You did and you’re trying to protect yourself.”

Caleb held her against his chest and hushed her but she would not listen. She turned her head away from Caleb and continued. “You’ve never had to face this before and you’re afraid. Well, we’se all afraid, but that don’t turn us into liars.” She stared at him, her eyes widening. “You jes trying to prove you as white as he wants you to be.” She dashed her face against Caleb’s breast. Caleb motioned him to leave.

Outside, moments later, Caleb said, “It’s hard, I know, but it’s better if she believes it, if everyone does ’cept us. It’s our only chance. You wanted to take de punishment and you’re taking it. Dis is harder dan what I’ll get, but when it’s over and done with, I’ll tell her, jes her. If dey all know, den de master will know. And what happen den? We jes got to wait it out.”

When John hesitated, water coming to his eyes, Caleb stepped closer and placed a small, worn leather pouch in his hand.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “don’t you forget one thing. Dat woman nursed you, she’s as much of a mother as you’ve ever had. Right now she’s jes scared. Dat’s all.”

John stared at the leather pouch; it was feather-light but seemed to pull his eyes down and hold them. When he managed to look at Caleb again, the old man smiled.

“Dose are your milk teeth, son. At least de ones you brought to Daney when dey fell out. She figured she had a right to keep them because of all de sharp nips you give her when you was nursin’.”

John opened the pouch and emptied three tiny teeth into his palm. They were grey-white; two were square and cracked, another pointed and smooth. He could not believe they belonged to him, that anything remained of his boyhood self that he could touch. All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed with fear that he would drop them in the dirt and lose them. Carefully, he returned the teeth to the pouch, then slipped it into his trouser pocket. His eyes blurred with tears.

“You go on now,” Caleb said. “It’ll be all right. We jes got to wait it out.”

Then the old man walked into the shack, leaving John alone, the leather pouch strangely warm against his thigh.

He felt a hand on his brow and opened his eyes. A heavily bearded face, with deep grooves extending from each side of the broad nose to form a triangle with the upper lip, hovered over him. The lips were full and pale pink. When they formed into a smile, a thin gap showed between the man’s front teeth. He spoke softly but directly and held out a canteen.

“I know it’s soon. Much too soon. But it has to be now. Here, have some water. And listen. Do your best to take this in.”

He paused and looked over his shoulder toward the flap in the tent. The shadows of branches and leaves flickered above him, and one of the wounded men snored brokenly—it could have been any hour of any day.

“You have to go with the troops. As a soldier. Do you understand? You can’t stay here. An investigation has started. They’ll find you, and the civilians will know who you are.”

John had struggled to raise himself on his elbows, but he found the thin blanket over him as heavy as lead. He took the canteen and tipped it, and a splash of lukewarm water doused his cracked lips and his chin. Opening his mouth, he found he had nothing to say. He nodded instead.

“You have a new name now. Listen carefully. You are now William Sullivan Dare. He was a young soldier, new to the regiment, who was killed in the battle. From Maine. You’re that soldier now. Have you got it? William Sullivan Dare.”

John blinked rapidly. It was hot, sweat ran off his forehead into his eyes. From a distance came the trill of a bugle.

“William Sullivan Dare,” he mouthed.

“Yes, good.” The kind-faced man leaned over and gently placed a blunt, trembling hand on his shoulder. “You won’t have to go until you’re strong enough. But the sooner you start thinking of yourself as William Sullivan Dare, the better.”