Tom Piazza - A Free State

He set his glass down rather deliberately — I sensed that he was feeling the brandy’s effects — and, cigar clenched in his teeth, reached to the bed and picked up his banjar and set it in his lap, strummed down softly and did his usual string adjustments as I poured myself another small shot of the brandy. I gestured an offer to him but he declined.

The banjar in tune, he began a jaunty rhythm on the strings and in short order commenced singing. I later wrote down the words as well as I could remember them:

Hoe cakes in the mornin’

Chicken at dinnertime

Whiskey when I’m thirsty

Heaven when I’m dyin’.

It’s a fine old world for some folks

And I take it as I can

Today I’m just a Darky

Someday I’ll be a man.

I went down South to see my gal

I did not go to stay

Patateroller caught me

And I could not get away.

It’s a fine old world for some folks

And I take it as I can

Today I’m just a poor old slave

Someday I’ll be a man.

They beat me and they cursed me

They tore off all my clothes

They put me in that cotton field

And called me Little Mose

They had a man to watch us

He sat astride a horse

I never did find out his name

We had to call him “Boss.”

It’s a fine old world for some folks

And I take it as I can

Today they call me nigger

Someday I’ll be a man.

At night I dream of Freedom

By day I dream the same

Someday I’ll go to Canaan’s land

And have a brand-new name.

It’s a fine old world for some folks

And I take it as I can

I’ll head up North where folks are free

And stand up like a man.

When he had finished, he avoided my eyes, made a few adjustments to the strings, reached for his cigar on the table, as I sat, groping for words. I was quite undone by the song, despite, or perhaps because of, the happy rhythm that accompanied the sad tale and set it into sharp and painful relief. What manner of person would be able to sing of such difficulties with such a mixture of mockery and rue? Of humor and resolve? Who could contain such contradictions within himself without going mad?

“Well,” I said. “Well, indeed.” I cleared my throat.

Not long afterward, we said our good nights. I headed upstairs with the bottle and the glasses, set them in the kitchen, and tried to tease out some scenario by which this brilliant and unusual young man could be induced to stay. I would get a message to Rochester, and I would think of a few other options.

In bed I drifted off on a lake, asleep, and found myself in a forest of straw, with the sense that a fire was consuming some distant tract and I needed to make my way quickly. As I did so I was compelled to discard my effects, and I jettisoned a series of indistinct objects, which were then spirited away by unrecognizable creatures. Sometime in the night I was awakened from this dream, or vision, by a sound, a scraping sound of some sort, coming from outside the house. It seemed to persist, and I shook off the residue of sleep, put on my robe, and went downstairs to see the cause, taking a good oil lamp with me.

I stood under our porte cochère , padded about some, and could discover no cause. Likely some animal, I thought, rummaging for food. Raccoons and possums ruled the nighttime hours. Sometimes the mornings as well. Or perhaps it was one of my dream creatures come to life. As there seemed nothing discoverable I went back inside, paused to listen at the door to the basement, heard nothing there, and went back to bed.

The next morning’s skies were the color of gypsum dust; snowflakes swept past the window as I took my breakfast and drank my coffee. Nicholas had brought the paper in, as usual, and I perused it until I heard, once again, the scraping noise that had awakened me in the night, along with some indistinct voices. I stood to investigate. Something — I cannot say quite what — impelled me to walk to our second pantry and open a door, behind which I kept two rifles and a pistol. I picked up one of the rifles and made sure it was loaded; then, satisfied, I went back to the side door and opened it onto the chill air.

Just down the driveway I saw a man I did not recognize and, past him a way farther down our drive toward the street, two useless characters whom I did recognize from the town.

“Who are you?” I said.

The one nearer me seemed to laugh slightly, and said, “Oh, hi. You’re Mr. Seward?”

He was a singularly unattractive piece of work, with a turned eye and a greasy-looking hat and coat, and his manner of address could hardly have been more rude.

“I am Senator Seward,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you, Senator. We heard that somebody we’re looking for is hiding in your house.” He smiled after he said this, as if he had delivered some piece of witty news. “I’ll bet you know who I’m talking about.”

Addie would tell you that I do have a temper. It does not flare up often, but when it is aroused it is frightening even to myself. Insolence, injustice, disrespect, will summon it from its shallow slumber, and it came upon me then with a force that demanded all my willpower to control. My grip had tightened around the rifle barrel, which I held by my side. I consciously relaxed it as much as I could.

“You,” I hollered to the two men who stood uneasily at the end of the drive, under the elms. “Collins and Shea. Get on your way. Now.” Without any further word they walked off at a good pace. I turned my focus to the figure in front of me. “You are trespassing upon my property,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I’m hired to find stolen goods, Senator. Those men are my deputies. .”

“Deputies!” I said. “As well deputize horse manure. Leave my property now and do not come back.”

The smile again. “Well, not so fast, there, Mr. Seward. The law says you have to help me, and anybody who doesn’t can get. .”

“I am a United States senator,” I told him. “I write the law. And the law is not intended to give free rein to vigilantes. I’m telling you a final time that you are on my property, and if you remain here, or return, I promise you an unhappy ending.” I leveled my rifle at him. “Get going.”

Behind me I heard Ella call my name, asking if everything were all right. I told her to go back to the kitchen.

“You’re not going to shoot me in the back, are you, Senator?” the figure said, with an ugly smile.

I was, I believe, angrier than I had ever been in my life. “Sir, I will shoot you in your head and claim self-defense if you are not gone by my count of ten.”

With a couple of steps backward he started moving off, and then he turned and headed down the drive without a backward glance. I stood there and watched him until he walked out of our gate and headed to the left, toward town. When I was satisfied that he was gone, I walked back inside and sat at the table, leaned the rifle against a chair, and tried to steady myself. Nicholas appeared, and I told him I was all right, and to replace the rifle in its rack, which he did. When I had control of myself, I rang and requested more coffee.

I composed a note to the Friend who had conducted our guest, to apprise him of the development, and then it occurred to me to wonder whether William had heard these goings-on. I rose, walked to the basement door, and went down the stairs, calling William’s name. I heard no answer.