Caleb (20 page)

“Understand,” Pompey said, pushing Caleb backward hard.

The crowd roared its approval. “Kill him, Pompey!” shouted a red-faced fat woman.

With unexpected energy and agility, Pompey suddenly launched himself at Caleb and began throwing huge punches. Caleb either caught them on his gloves or slipped away, always dancing just outside of Pompey’s range. Pompey put all he had into his punches. But the last thing that he wanted was for any of them to connect. Jardine couldn’t be worse than that devil Scroggins.

After more than a minute, Pompey was breathing hard. Caleb tied him up again and whispered, “You had about enough of this?”

“Yeah,” Pompey panted.

As Caleb pushed away, Pompey—with the crowd shouting him on—launched himself at Caleb again. As Pompey’s wild punch missed his head, Caleb delivered a straight right to the slave’s jaw. It landed with a loud thud, and Pompey fell. Moran pushed Caleb back and began counting. Pompey twitched at seven, but he stayed down.

“Eight, nine, ten!” Moran grabbed Caleb’s hand and raised it. Then, while the crowd was still shouting, Moran pushed him from the ring. Pompey stayed on the floor for a few minutes and then got up and looked around, wondering what to do next.

While Caleb headed to his compartment in the tent, Jardine jumped down from the apron and found Moran’s men just finishing bagging the collection of coins. To their disappointment, he took the heavy bag and said, “I’ll relieve you of that.”

In the stuffy little compartment, Caleb sat down on an old trunk and rested. He knew that he was but an exhibition away from having enough money to buy his freedom, but it was still hard to accept. Freedom had been a distant goal and a dream for so long that to be so close to it now was like finding a rainbow standing still rather than receding ever into the distance. He didn’t quite know whether he could believe it.

After fifteen minutes, one of Moran’s men came to tell Caleb, “It’s time. The colonel wants you in the ring.” When Caleb got there, the spectators were settling down on their benches, hawkers were selling snacks, and Mott was lounging in his corner. Once Caleb was in place, Colonel Moran went into a long speech, but neither boxer listened. They knew what was going to happen. In the first round, Caleb would display his defensive skills, daring the professor to land a telling blow and building up the pressure of the crowd and Mott’s frustration. The second round would be Caleb’s chance to show off his fighting skills as he tried to finish the little man off. At the end of the round, the smaller man would be on the ropes but would be saved by the bell. In the final round, Mott and the crowd would have their revenge. Mott would pursue the black man, punishing him for the first two rounds, and—to everyone’s satisfaction save those few who had bet on Caleb—the third round would end with a knockout. Mott’s honor and reputation would be vindicated, and the white race would reign triumphant.

The first round went as planned. As hard as Mott tried, he could not penetrate Caleb’s defenses. Every punch landed either on his gloves or harmlessly on his shoulders or upper arms. Toward the end of the round, Caleb got the feeling that there was real desperation in Mott’s punches, but that didn’t make them any more effective. When he went back to his corner at the bell, Jardine said, “Nice going, Caleb. You made a monkey out of him.”

As Caleb rested, the crowd was not so pleased. Some whites were beginning to mutter about the indecency of a black man being as slippery and cowardly as to refuse to stand up and fight. Others dared Caleb to hit a white man. When the bell sounded for the second round, all the shouts and cheers were for Mott. If the few blacks at the back of the tent were on Caleb’s side, they kept quiet about it.

Caleb leaped forward to show the crowd what he could do in the way of fancy punching, but was suddenly met with Mott’s terrific straight right hand, which barely missed the tip of his chin and scraped painfully along his left cheekbone. Before he could recover, Mott hit him with a left that jolted Caleb and then an uppercut that would have ended the fight right there had it landed.

Blindly, Caleb went into a crouch and tried to gather his senses, but the little man pursued him across the ring, landing stinging punches right and left and giving him no time to settle and defend. In Caleb’s corner, Jardine—who knew the fight plan—looked angrily at Moran, who was refereeing. Moran merely shrugged and watched as his fighter tore into Caleb. The crowd, loving this turn of events, was on its feet shouting for blood—black blood. But before Mott could do any more serious damage, Caleb managed to shake off his confusion and settle into a consistent defense. Once again, the smaller man’s punches mostly landed harmlessly, though Caleb’s arms and body were taking a considerable beating. Caleb was beginning to doubt that the second round would ever end, and he glanced desperately over at Jardine, who was wondering about the same thing. The timekeeper seemed to have gone to sleep over the bell. Slipping down from the ring, Jardine went over to the man and, hitching back his coat, showed him the butt of the pistol. Suddenly, the man struck the bell, ending the round.

“What the hell is going on?” Jardine demanded when Caleb had slumped onto his stool in the corner.

“I think,” Caleb panted, “that the professor has changed his mind. He couldn’t wait for the third round.”

“Well,” Jardine said through gritted teeth, “all bets are off. I want you to take that little bastard apart in the next round. But don’t hurry. I need a little time. Don’t put him away until you see me again.” Motioning to Caesar to take his place in the corner, Jardine got down from the apron and disappeared into the shadows behind the ring.

“What you gonna do, Caleb?” Caesar asked nervously, looking out onto a sea of excited and angry white faces.

“What do you think, boy?” Caleb said. “I’m going to fight for my life.”

In the opposite corner, Moran seemed to be arguing with his fighter. Caleb was grateful for the extra rest. But, finally, Moran threw up his hands in disgust and gave the timekeeper the signal to ring the bell.

Caleb got up warily, willing to let Mott set the pace. It was clear from the beginning that the little man wasn’t going to settle for a victory. He wanted to annihilate Caleb. The excited crowd demanded no less. Caleb would have been happy to follow the original script, but that had been torn up. Besides, he had Jardine’s instructions.

Waiting carefully in a defensive posture until Mott got within reach, Caleb suddenly lashed out with an open-handed slap that sent the smaller man reeling, leaving him unhurt but confused and embarrassed. The crowd was suddenly on its feet, red-faced with anger and shouting for Mott to kill the black bastard. Mott would have gladly done so had Caleb not gone back into his defensive tactics. Once again, the smaller man stalked Caleb all over the ring, daring him to slug it out. But Caleb refused, doing his best to look frightened. Whistles and jeers came from the crowd, along with a shower of small coins and rubbish. No one in the crowd was still sitting, and the blacks at the back of the tent had begun to slip away to their homes or the wagons of their owners.

The angrier the professor got, the more elusive Caleb became. Finally, his vision obscured with rage, Mott lost all control and began brawling rather than fighting. Forgetting the rules, he had only one object: to destroy the black man. Finally, working Caleb into a corner, Mott unleashed another low blow directly at his crotch. It would have put him down if Caleb had not again managed to twist his body and take the blow directly on the bone of his hip. Caleb felt the shock of the punch vibrate through his bones.

But the effect on Mott was even worse. First, his right arm went numb. Then it began to tingle and burn as if it were on fire. Hardly able to lift his arm, much less punch with it, Mott backed off, and the crowd began to jeer him as well as Caleb. The rain of missiles increased. Moran, though acting as referee, had no idea how to end this fiasco and still save his tent. Looking around wildly, he turned to signal the timekeeper to sound the bell ending the bout, but there was no timekeeper to be seen. Moran tried to get between the boxers, but the look in Caleb’s eye sent him away.

From the corner of his eye, Caleb saw that Jardine was back and trying to talk to Caesar over the roar of the crowd. Finally, Caesar slipped from the apron and disappeared. Catching Caleb’s eye, Jardine gave him a single emphatic nod and a flick of his head toward the back exit of the tent.

At this, Caleb literally leaped at Mott, brushing aside his defenses and smashing a quick series of punches to the head. Mott reeled, and it was only the contrary motion of Caleb’s punches that held him up. Suffering a final crushing blow, Mott fell to the canvas-covered floor. Without waiting to see if Moran would begin the count, Caleb vaulted over the ropes, missed the apron entirely, and hit the packed-earth floor running. Blindly, he followed Jardine’s back.

A couple of Moran’s roustabouts made feeble efforts to stop them, but then stood back. Suddenly, they were outside, and Pompey and Caesar were sitting on the driving seat of the wagon, both looking nervously in every direction.

“Go!” Jardine shouted as he and Caleb leaped into the back of the wagon. The pistol was in Jardine’s right hand. Caleb pushed Caesar aside and snatched the whip. Seizing the reins, he lashed the horses into a trot and then a gallop. Behind them, some men burst out of the tent but could do little but shout after them. Jardine hunched low in the back, ready to fire his pistol if need be. “Head for the turnpike,” he shouted to Caleb.

Within fifteen minutes, the horses were trotting along the dark and quiet turnpike, and the four men in the wagon began to relax. Caesar had taken back the reins, and Caleb, Pompey, and Jardine peered backward for signs of pursuers. Caleb imagined that he could still hear the tumult inside the boxing tent.

41

It was very late when they got back to Three Rivers. Caleb thought he could get to sleep without waking Drusilla, but the minute he touched the bed, she was wide awake. She sat up and lit the candle.

“You succeed?” she asked.

“What do you think?”

She looked at his cheek, which was still smeared with dried blood. “I think somebody been hitting you on the face. What he look like?”

“Like a floor carpet, last time I saw him,” Caleb said. “A white floor carpet.”

“You been fightin’ white men?”

“Just one.”

“That’s one too many,” Drusilla said.

“Well,” Caleb said, “he was the last one I’ll ever fight.”

“You got the money?”

“Master has,” Caleb said. “But I’ve got something else.” He reached for his back pocket and pulled out something wrapped in newspaper. He handed it to Drusilla. “Sorry there wasn’t time to get it wrapped pretty. We left Shreevesville in kind of a hurry.”

Drusilla undid the paper and pulled out a string of dark yellow-brown beads that weren’t a bad match for her eyes. Even in the feeble light of the single candle, they glowed richly.

“Man said they were called amber,” Caleb said. “It’s some kind of stone that washes up on the beach. You like them?”

“I like them,” Drusilla said, holding the beads against her breasts. “Going away present?”

“Just a present.”

The next morning, Caleb didn’t say anything about the money they had won, but he kept close at hand. Finally, as he was passing the door to the study for the sixth time, Jardine called him in.

“You want something, Caleb?” Jardine was trying to hide a smile.

“Yes, Master.” Caleb looked at him stolidly.

“Oh, all right,” Jardine said. “I was just joking with you. Draw up a chair and sit down.” He pointed to a chair in front of his desk.

Caleb looked doubtful.

“Go ahead,” said Jardine. “If you’re going to be free, you’ll have to get used to sitting down with white people again.” He paused. “But not too used to it as long as you are here,” he added meaningfully.

Once Caleb had sat gingerly on the chair, Jardine reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope. He tipped it onto the desk. Silver and gold coins spilled out.

“Last time I counted this,” Jardine said as he quickly sorted the money into two heaps, “it added up to twelve hundred and fifty dollars. That makes six hundred and twenty-five dollars each according to our agreement. That sound right to you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“So,” Jardine continued, “our
other
agreement was that I would let you buy your freedom for the same amount I paid for you—five hundred and fifty dollars—though you have to admit that you are worth more.”

Caleb didn’t say anything.

“But a deal is a deal,” Jardine said, and he lifted a sizeable stack of coins from one pile of money and put it on the other. “That leaves you with your freedom
and
seventy-five dollars on top. Not bad going for one summer, eh?”

“No, Master.”

“So that’s it,” Jardine said. “I’ll write you up a piece of paper explaining that Caleb, formerly the slave of Boyd Jardine of Three Rivers, is now a free man and all that means. You can have that later today, if you like.”

“That’s fine, Master,” Caleb said.

“Okay.” Jardine put his hand on Caleb’s remaining money. “You can have this now, or if you like, I can keep it for you until—”

“I’ll take it, Master,” Caleb said, “if you don’t mind.”

Jardine looked surprised, but he pushed the money toward Caleb. “Here you go, Caleb. You’re a rich man.”

Caleb took the coins and put them in his pocket without counting. But he didn’t get up from the chair.

Jardine looked at him. “I guess that’s it,” he said again, “unless you can think of something else.” He looked at Caleb inquiringly.

“There is one thing, Master,” Caleb said.

“And what’s that?” Jardine asked, beginning to look agitated. When Caleb did not respond, he added, “Well?”

“Pompey, Master.”

“What about him?”

“Pompey was a prize, Master,” Caleb said shortly but firmly.

“Well,” Jardine said, “I didn’t really want him, but I suppose he was. What of it?” He tried to stare Caleb down, but the slave sat impassively, refusing to meet his eye. Finally, Jardine spoke again. “So, Caleb,” he said, “you think that because you won Pompey in the ring you ought to have half of what he’s worth? Is that it?”

“Yes, Master,” Caleb answered quickly.

“If that doesn’t beat everything,” Jardine exclaimed, throwing down the pen he’d unconsciously picked up. “You’ve got your freedom, you’ve got another seventy-five dollars on top, and now you want half of Pompey’s value.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Well, how much do you think he’s worth?”

“Pompey’s mighty strong,” Caleb said. “A good worker.”

“That farmer in Shreevesville last night didn’t seem to think so,” Jardine pointed out. “He put Pompey up against a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar prize. Sounds to me like Pompey is a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar slave. If that, considering the way you punched him around.”

Caleb didn’t say anything. He just sat there.

“Well?” Jardine asked. “What do you have to say to that? You know, free blacks own slaves, too. You’re going to be free today. How much would you give me for Pompey?”

“I don’t want Pompey, Master.”

“No,” said Jardine, “and you can’t afford him, either. But say you did.”

“I reckon, Master,” Caleb said slowly, “that Pompey would be cheap at four hundred and fifty dollars.”

“You do, do you?” Jardine stared at him.

“Yes, Master.”

Jardine exhaled sharply. “So, Caleb, you expect me to take two hundred and twenty-five dollars from my pile here and give it to you for a darkie that I don’t even want?”

“Pompey’s a mighty strong worker. And he can blacksmith some,” Caleb said.

“I suppose he can cook and sew, too,” Jardine said disgustedly. “You know, Caleb, you ought to take up dealing in slaves. You’re a natural.” He started sorting through his of pile of coins, counting as he shuffled. Suddenly, he threw some in Caleb’s direction. “Two hundred dollars!” he exclaimed. “And not a penny more. Now get out of here. I’ll have your paper ready after dinner.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Caleb, picking up the money.

Later that day, the two again sat opposite each other in Jardine’s study. Jardine, ignoring Caleb, was writing with some care on a piece of fine white parchment. Now and again he referred to a big book open on his desk. Finally, finished to his satisfaction, he blotted the parchment, dripped some melted red wax on one corner, and pressed a big bronze seal into the wax. Jardine then set the document to one side to cool.

“There,” he said, looking up. “As soon as I get that certified over at the county courthouse, you’re a free man, Caleb. What are your plans? I expect you’ll be going north. There’s not much demand for ex-slaves from Boston here in Kershaw County, and I don’t imagine that you’re eager to stay.”

“No, Master.”

“But the question is,” Jardine said, “are you in a big hurry to leave?”

Caleb was confused by the question. “I don’t rightly know, Master. I’ve been thinking about being free for so long that it’s hard to believe that it’s finally happening. It’s all sort of sudden like.”

“I can believe it is, Caleb,” Jardine said. “And I’ll tell you something you may not agree with, but I don’t think you’re ready to be free.”

Caleb looked at him skeptically.

“I just don’t,” Jardine continued. “Oh, once we get this piece of paper stamped, you can tell me to go to hell and just walk out of here free as a bird with your two hundred and seventy-five dollars.” He looked sharply at Caleb. “And I expect you’ve got a few more dollars salted away, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master.”

“So you’re rich and free as a bird and you think you have no problems. Right?”

Caleb just looked at him.

“Wrong!” exclaimed Jardine. “You may not want to hear this, Caleb, but you don’t have the first idea of how to act like a free man. Not even a free black man.”

Caleb didn’t know what to say.

“Get up out of that chair, go out in the hallway, and count to five. Then, knock on the door,” Jardine ordered.

“Master?”

“That’s not so difficult, is it?” Jardine said. “Do it.”

Clumsily, Caleb got up and did as he was told. After he’d counted to five, he knocked on the big mahogany door.

“Come in,” Jardine said.

Caleb entered the room hesitantly, but before he could even get near the chair he’d been sitting in, Jardine jumped up and said, “That’s what I mean! That’s what I mean!”

Caleb stopped as if frozen.

“You walked into this room like a man trying to steal a chicken or a servant looking to clean up—anything but a free man calling on another free man,” said Jardine. “Now, let me show you what a free man would have done. Sit down in my chair there. The one behind my desk.” When Caleb hesitated, Jardine said, “Go on. It won’t bite you. Now you just sit there, and I’m going to show you how it’s done.”

Once Caleb was seated uncomfortably behind the desk, Jardine walked out into the hall, waited for a moment, and then knocked loudly on the door. After a pause, Caleb said, “Come in.” He added quickly, “Master.”

Without hesitation, Jardine strode into the study with his head up and his eyes on Caleb. He marched up to the desk with his right hand extended. “Good to see you, Caleb,” he said briskly, picked up Caleb’s hand, and shook it. Then he all but threw himself into the chair in front of the desk.

“See what I mean?” he said. “I didn’t hesitate, look shiftily around, or waste a single second wondering how I would be received. I knew that as a free man I would not only be accepted, but welcome. Of course,” he added, “if
you
behave that way down here, somebody will set the dogs on you. But, believe me, Caleb, when you get up north, folks are going to judge you by how you act. You act like a shifty-eyed darkie, they’ll think you’re a runaway slave no matter what that piece of paper in your pocket says. Some slavetaker will have you in chains and headed south in his wagon before you can say boo. Now, get out of my chair.”

When the two men had changed positions, Jardine leaned his elbows on the desk and said, “Tell you what, Caleb, I’ll make you a deal. If you’ll stay six months and train me a new Caleb, I’ll teach you how to act like a free man so well that people will think you were born free.
And
I’ll pay you fifty dollars a month as my household manager! That’ll give you more money when you get up north. Things are expensive up there. How does that sound?”

Caleb thought for a moment. “That sounds good, Master.”

“You’re damned right it sounds good,” Jardine said. “It
is
good. Is it a deal?” He held out his hand over his desk.

Caleb got up and shook it. “It’s a deal, Master,” he said.

“Now that that’s agreed, the first thing you have to do is stop calling me Master,” said Jardine. “It was fitting and proper when you were my slave, my property, but now that you are my free employee and servant, you’d better call me Mr. Jardine. Go ahead.”

“Master?”

“I just told you,” Jardine said. “I’m Mr. Jardine now. Give it a try.”

“Yes, Mr. Jardine,” said Caleb uncertainly.

“That’s better,” Jardine said. “Damn me if I won’t make a free man of you yet or die trying. Now get me a drink. This is dry work.”

“Yes, Mr. Jardine,” Caleb said with more confidence.