Russell Banks - Cloudsplitter

I remember thinking on that first frosty morning home, as I walked the grounds and examined the outbuildings and livestock, that it would be a simple matter to make up for Father’s and my lengthy absence and set the place straight. And, in a sense, it was simple, but not the way I expected. I calculated thirty days of steady work for the five of us — three boys, Watson, Salmon, and Oliver, and two grown men, Lyman Epps and me. I had learned early in life from Father how to organize a crew and lay out the day’s work before breakfast, how to see each job through to the end before commencing another, how to make sure that each of us knew exactly what was expected of him for the entire day, and so on.

Father had never been easy with distributing authority of any kind anyhow, and he had failed to do it here also. Although, as usual, he had included in his letters long lists of things to do and when and how, he had simply left taking care of the farm to his family members and Lyman and Susan in a general way, without explicitly stating who was in charge of what and whom — so, in a way, it was more the Old Man’s fault than anyone else’s that the place had come undone. No family members were lazy or incapable. They had just needed a captain, or in this case, due to the captain’s absence, a first mate. Without one, they had been working at sixes and sevens, each person responding only to his or her immediate needs, laboring more against each other than with each other, with no long view of things, no plan. Every man or boy for himself.

I will set everything right with ease, said I to myself. I had finished my inspection of the place with a circuit of the barn and a stop at the privy, where I noted the need to remove the season’s night soil, and was about to return to the house and lay the kitchen fire for Mary before any of the others were out of bed. Between Mounts Tahawus and Mclntyre the sun had already broken the horizon, and rosy streaks of new light spilled across the rippled, silvery sky. Over towards the village, the clouds were opening up, and in the dark blue western sky the morning star and a crescent moon were slipping towards the horizon. I stopped and took it in. It was dawn — first light, a marvelous, cold, half-illumined stillness — and made a comforting, reflective pause between night and day, between autumn and winter.

I could make out the village from the belfry of the church and a few threads of chimney-smoke rising from a black line of spruce trees by the river. There was a glaze of frost on the distant, yellowed fields and on the leafless branches and stalks of the chokecherry and alder bushes along the road from town and on the roofs of the house and barn and the unfinished outbuildings — a pale caul or a shroud, I could not say which, but it made everything look fresh and clean. I gazed around me and inhaled the cold mountain air with pleasure, the first pure pleasure I had felt in many days, since the night of the formation of the Gileadites.

My anger was gone. Soon everyone would admire me and be glad that I had come back.

As I neared the house to go in, I heard from the direction of the village the rumble of wagon wheels on the frozen road and the clop of a slow-moving horse. Around the curve in the road there came the second Morgan, Poke, the mare, pulling our old wagon at a plodding pace, and up on the box sat Lyman Epps, evidently asleep. Until the horse, smelling the barn, I suppose, accelerated somewhat and jolted him awake.

From the doorstoop, I watched him for a moment, without his having yet noticed me. He was exhausted, slump-shouldered, and barely able to hold his head up; his skin color was flat gray, like pewter, and his hair stuck out from under his cap in short, knotty clumps, and he seemed older, almost middle-aged: he looked more like an escaped slave himself, a man on the run, than a conductor on the Underground Railroad. How dangerously thin, especially now, I thought, was the line between an escaped slave and a freed slave, between the Negro man who was chattel and the one who was free. And how wide the gulf that lay between a Negro man, slave or free, and me.

He put up the wagon and unhitched Poke and led her into the barn to water and feed her and brush her down, still without having seen me. I was oddly hesitant about following him and speaking with him; yet we had much to say to one another. I felt shy as a girl with him, anxious and worried, even worried about my appearance’.

Suddenly angry with myself, I strode across the yard to the barn determined to erase my self-consciousness and went in and greeted Lyman with false heartiness. “Hello, friend!” I loudly exclaimed. “Are you working late, or starting the day early?”

He smiled wanly and shook my hand. “Good to see you, Owen. When did you arrive?”

I told him of my return the previous day and jabbered on about my journey from Springfield. While I yacked and he listened, I helped him settle the horse and hang the harness, until finally I realized that he was standing at the barn door, politely waiting for me to finish so he could go into the house.

“I’m sorry!” I said. “Here I’m keeping you from your wife. And you must be hungry and want to wash, while I’m going on about nothing.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I just needs to sleep some,” he said, and yawned. “Pulled me a long ride last night, all the way back from Massena on them corduroy roads, you know. My backbone’s sore.”

“How many’d you take up?”

“A pair of ‘em. Two men. From near Norfolk originally, off a Chesapeake Bay plantation. One a preacher. Preached my ear off the whole way up.”

“You get them over all right? No trouble?”

“No trouble. No help, neither, but no trouble.”

“Well, you’ll have some help now,”I said, adding that as soon as we had the farm readied for winter, I’d be working the Railroad with him. “That ought to shame a few other white folks back into action,” I declared.

“I don’t know, folks is pretty scared now!’ he said. “But good. I could use some help moving those as comes along from time to time. There ain’t as many as before, you know. Not since the Fugitive Law.”

“The Fugitive Law!” I said, and spat, like an actor in a melodramatic show.

“But I expect with winter coming,” he went on, “we’ll see a last batch making a run for it. So’s they don’t get stuck hiding out in people’s attics down here till spring.”

“Right, right, of course. But first we’ve got to—”

“In fact,” he said, interrupting me, “Tom Grey over to Timbuctoo, you recall him? He told me of a family of five, maybe six, be coming through from Utica tonight or tomorrow. If they ain’t already arrived. You didn’t hear nothing ’bout that, did you? Tom said he’d send word over here soon’s they arrived.”

“No. No one told me anything. But first we’ve got to get this place in shape, Lyman.”

“Yes. Yes, I know,” he said, and turned to leave.

I reached out and grabbed him by the arm, more forcefully than I intended, causing him to stop and remove my hand as if insulted by it.

“I’m sorry;’ I said. “It’s just I need to talk to you about the work, Lyman. Fact is, you and the boys have let things slide a little far, I think.”

He turned to me, with his face cast to the side. I began nonetheless to list the various jobs and projects that lay before us and to put them in the order that we would follow, when I shortly realized that he wasn’t hearing me, was merely waiting for me to finish so he could go inside the house. I grew impatient with him. In a sense, this was his farm, too, nearly as much as it was mine, and he had certain responsibilities towards it, which he clearly was not interested in accepting. “Lyman, you’re not listening, are you?”