—Don’t tell me ’bout the cross every colored got to bear, she said. I want to know how you come to dreaming.
—I don’t know. I got struck as a child and I fall asleep sometimes on no account.
—Tell us another dream, then.
—I can’t think of none.
—Sleep on it, then.
—What about the code? Liz asked.
—In due time. Sleep, child.
—How can I sleep, knowing Little George might have at me now that I’m better? Liz said.
—Don’t you fret about him, the old woman said. Go back to sleep and wake up and tell me what you got.
She turned to the others in the room and said, This two-headed girl’s gonna bust us out. Big Linus, is you ready?
From the darkened corner of the room, the enormous nostrils of a large nose barely discernible in the darkness could be seen as the huge head pivoted to one side, the face still unseen in the dark shadows of the attic’s rafters. Liz heard a deep, baritone voice rumble:
—I been ready, the voice said. I been ready.
Two days passed. No dreams came. But, true to her word, the old woman, in fading health, told Liz different parts of the code.
—Chance is an instrument of God, she said.
—What’s that mean?
—It means God rules the world. And the coach wrench turns the wagon wheel.
—What’s a coach wrench?
—Don’t think, child. Just remember. Scratch a line in the dirt to make a friend. Always a crooked line, ’cause evil travels in straight lines. Use double wedding rings when you marry. Tie the wedding knot five times. And remember, it’s not the song but the singer of it. You got to sing the second part twice—if you know it. Don’t nobody know it yet, by the way. And find the blacksmith if you’re gonna marry. He’s doing marriages these days.
—Who’s he?
—Don’t matter who he is. It’s what he is.
—And what’s that?
—He’s part of the five points.
—What’s the five points?
—North, south, east, west, and free. That’s the fifth point.
—How you get to that?
—Gotta go through the first four—to get to the five. Five knots. Five directions. If a knot’s missing, check the collar. It’ll tell you the direction the soul is missing from.
—I’m more confused than ever, Liz said.
—Hush up, dammit! someone said frantically. Now y’all woke him up.
Liz heard the creaking of heavy feet climbing the stairs and turned on her side, waiting, trembling. A cone of silence enveloped the room. The trapdoor opened and Little George climbed up.
Liz turned to face the wall. A familiar inertia draped over her mind, covering her like a blanket, clamping over her more securely than the ankle chains that pressed against her flesh. She stared at a crack in the wooden floor beneath her nose, just where the wall met the roof. Between the wooden slats and the rafter, she could make out the head of a large, exposed straight pike, several inches long, that some long-forgotten carpenter had attached improperly, probably secure in the knowledge that no one would ever have their face close enough to the floor in that tiny, sweltering attic to notice it. She stared at the pike, blinking, not sure if, or even why, she was actually seeing it. She decided she was going mad, and guessed that it wasn’t gnawing hunger or physical pain that was driving her to insanity but rather the uncertainly of not knowing where her next round of suffering was going to come from. She laid her head against the floor, closed her eyes, and instantly fell asleep, dreaming of a story her uncle Hewitt told her long ago about a boy and his master.
Marse Goodsnake bought a slave boy home. He taught the boy all he knew. But the boy got smart and slipped off from Marse Goodsnake and found his ma again.
Marse Goodsnake came to the mother and said, I know your boy’s hiding round here, and tomorrow I’m gonna come for him.
The boy told his ma, Don’t worry. He ain’t never gonna catch me.
The next day the boy saw Marse Goodsnake coming, and he flipped a somersault and became a rooster. His mother threw him in the chicken pen with the other roosters. Marse Goodsnake became a fox and chased the roosters. The boy flipped a somersault and became a horse. Marse Goodsnake flipped a somersault and became a halter atop the horse. He drove the horse home, but when he stopped to let it drink from a creek, the horse flipped a somersault, leaped into the water, became a catfish, and swam off. Marse Goodsnake flipped and turned into a big fat crocodile and chased him allaround. The boy turned into a hummingbird. Marse Goodsnake turned into an eagle and chased him all over the sky. The boy turned into a wedding ring. Marse Goodsnake turned into a groom who talked the bride out of her ring. Finally the boy flew up in the air, became a box of mustard seeds, and busted into a hundred seeds that covered the ground. Marse Goodsnake jumped up and turned into an old hen with a hundred chickens that ate every seed but the last. They dug and dug for that last mustard seed, dug clear through to the other side of the earth, looking for that last mustard seed…
A loud creak snapped Liz awake. She realized she was chewing the hard floor around the heavy pike beneath her face. She had gnawed all around the outside of it and left the head exposed. She quickly grabbed the pike with her front teeth. With great effort, she pulled it from the floor, stuck it in her closed jaw, and flipped onto her back just as Little George stepped past the old lady next to her and arrived at her feet.
A deep bank of silence seemed to press the air out of the room. In the slivers of light that cut through the attic roof, she saw Little George standing before her—his torn shirt, his muscled arms, and the profile of his beautiful nose and eyebrows beneath a straw hat. His head swiveled in a large circle, taking in the room. His head stopped when it reached her. He stepped aside her and knelt.
—Brother, she said, I am not well.
—Don’t call me brother, Little George said.
His frame blocked her view of the rafters above. He was so tall he had to crouch to reach her in the corner. On his hips she saw the glint of several keys.
He gently ran his huge hand over her face.
—I knowed there was a pretty woman under all that pus, he said.
—Where am I? she asked.
—Don’t you worry, he said. You in the right place. Miss Patty’s gone out to find new customers. You got plenty time to say hi to Little George.
He reached his hand into the pot of water behind her and withdrew it. She heard herself gasping and felt soap rubbing over her face, stinging, cleansing, then her face wiped dry. She heard the soap fall back into the water, and heard him sigh.
The arc of the attic roof caused him to bend over awkwardly as he leaned over to run his huge hands over her. He ran his hand from neck to foot, pawing her through her tattered dress, then stopping at her ankle chains. She tried to wiggle away and he shoved her into place.
—You ain’t gonna need these for a minute, he said. He leaned over with his hands to unfasten her ankle chains. He undid the first, which was closest to him, and left the second fastened to the old woman next to her.
Liz immediately sat halfway up.
—Let my hands a loose at least, she said.
—Be quiet, he grunted, and that was all, for quick as he had said it, she sat up and in one motion placed her chained arms around his neck. Holding the pike between her front teeth, she drove her head into his beautiful neck full force, drilling the pike deep in, striking the Adam’s apple from the side.
His roar was muffled by the awful spurt of air and blood hissing out his exposed esophagus. With one violent thrust he pushed her off and tried to rise, but the very chains that limited her movements to his purpose now clasped her to him, and her weight pulled him down to one knee. He shoved her away again violently, but she was pushing forward so hard her head rebounded as if on a rubber string and, still bearing the pike between her gritted teeth, she jammed into his neck a second time, so hard that s
he felt her teeth loosen up and felt one give way, the pike disappearing from her mouth into the folds of his wriggling neck.
Suddenly she felt the weight of another body slam against her. She saw the tattered white dress of the old woman to whom she was fastened stick her mouth to George’s ear and bite. There was a muffled roar from Little George, who dropped to both knees now, flinging the old woman away from him with a huge wrist.
Liz tried to pull away from him now, panicked, but it was too late. She felt bodies slamming against her as the others, all of them, women, men, and children, descended into a desperate, pounding, biting, silent, resolute mass of animalistic fury. With grunts, squeaks, and heavy breath, they descended on the sole caretaker of Patty Cannon’s house, beautiful Little George, drove him to the floor, and squeezed the life out of him.
Still, Little George was a powerful young man and did not warm to death easily. They were all walking skeletons, weak from hunger, and he flung them off like butterflies. He managed to regain himself for a moment and stood, gasping in desperate rage, air whooshing out his mouth and the hole in his neck. Liz was still clasped to him like an appendage when she suddenly felt the two of them being lifted from the floor and saw the huge face of Big Linus near hers. She heard an awful cracking sound, and as she was gently lowered to the floor, her chained arms still embracing Little George, she felt the horrid sensation of life drain from him. The others swarmed him again with renewed vigor now, as if by beating his dead body as it made its way to the cooling board they could vanquish the killer within themselves, for they were murderers now and knew it; that knowledge seemed to drive them to even further rage, so that even as they collapsed into a tangle of kicking, punching arms and legs around the lifeless body of Little George, they turned and fought each other, fighting out of shame, fighting out of humiliation, fighting for his keys, and, mostly, fighting to get clear of each other.
—Get off me, Liz said. God help me, y’all, get off. I can’t breathe.
Yet, even she continued to strike Little George, punching and slapping him.
—Easy, the old woman hissed. Let ’em go, y’all. Let ’em go, children.
Her words had the desired effect. After a few more kicks and slaps, they rose away from him and, working quickly, grabbed his keys and freed Liz’s hands and feet.
She lay on the floor, dazed, as a tall man with trembling hands silently worked the keys to free the others. The mechanisms to open the chains were clumsy and unyielding. Several did not come off at all, and four prisoners left the room with iron ankles still clamped to one foot. But the job was done quickly, and by the time the mob rose up to depart, Little George lay on the floor shoeless and naked, gaping at the ceiling, his pants, socks, pipe, jacket, and straw hat now the property of others. Several of them took a few extra kicks and punches at him as they departed, though he was beyond feeling.
Liz lay on the floor, dazed.
—I can’t get up, Liz said. Help me, somebody.
But they were already gone, stepping over her and disappearing down the trapdoor. Only Big Linus and the old woman remained.
The old woman lay near the trapdoor, bent awkwardly, twisted in an odd shape. Big Linus gently reached over, grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her on his wide shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
—Leave me, Big Linus, the old woman said, her face twisted in agony. I can’t stand it.
Big Linus ignored her, swinging her around and descending down through the trapdoor.
The thought of being alone with Little George drove Liz to action. She rose on trembling legs, gingerly stepped over Little George, and followed the giant Negro down the steps, stumbling through the maze of the tavern’s dim rooms and outside into the backyard.
The glare of the rising sun jeered its greeting across the Maryland sky so forcefully that it seemed to suck the air out of her body, and Liz nearly collapsed from the sudden vacuum she felt. She saw the backs of the others fanning out across the high grass behind the tavern, running in different directions towards a nearby creek, men, women, and children, splashing across. She stumbled after the huge Negro, who carried the old woman towards the creek.
—Put me down, the old woman said. Put me down, Linus. I can’t go no more.
The giant Negro laid the old woman on the bank of the creek, turned around, gave Liz a long, angry look, then took off after the others, his huge frame slowly sloshing across the creek.
Liz approached the old woman who lay on the bank. In the daylight her face looked grey and streaked. Her eyes had bolts of red across each pupil.
—Good-bye, then, miss. I don’t even know your name, Liz said.
—I got no name, the woman said. Whatever name was gived me was not mine. Whatever I knowed about is what I been told. All the truths I been told is lies, and the lies is truths.
—What’s that mean? Liz asked.
The woman smiled grimly.
—I told you you was two-headed, she said.
Liz glanced at the others, whose backs were disappearing into the woods across the creek.
—Remember the code, the woman said. The coach wrench turns the wagon wheel. The turkey buzzard flies a short distance. And he’s hidden in plain sight. The blacksmith is handling marriage these days. Don’t forget the double wedding rings and the five points. And it ain’t the song, it’s the singer of it. It’s got to be sung twice, y’know, the song. That’s the song yet sung.
—I can’t remember it all, Liz said.
—Keep dreaming, two-headed girl. There’s a tomorrow in it. Tell ’em the woman with no name sent you.
—Tell who?
—G’wan, she said. Git.
—What you gonna do?
The old woman smiled grimly again.
—I’m gonna wait till y’all run off, she said. Then I’m gonna climb down this bank on my own time and lie in that water till my name comes to me. One way or the other, she said, I ain’t coming this way again.
patty cannon
There were fourteen slaves, including five children, who walked out of Patty Cannon’s attic the March morning that Liz had the dream that caused her escape. Six were caught within days, two of them died, including a child, but four made it to the clear, and those four spread the word through Dorchester County and its surrounding counties like wildfire: there was a two-headed woman, a dreamer, a magic conjurer, who killed Patty Cannon’s Little George, busted fourteen colored loose, and commanded the giant Linus to her bidding. Just calling Big Linus to her side alone was a feat of magic, the slaves recounted, for he was an evil, clouded devil. Even his master was afraid of him.
So the story went, over those next ten days, from cabin to cabin, plantation to plantation, farm to farm, driver to driver, horseman to horseman: Patty Cannon of Caroline County, the trader of souls, who was so devilish that she and her son-in-law, Joe Johnson, built their tavern on the borderline of three different counties, two in the state of Maryland and one in Delaware; that way, when authorities came to arrest them, they simply stepped into another room and authorities were out of their jurisdiction—got outdone by a colored woman. For the slaves of Maryland’s eastern shore, a peninsula lying between the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean connected by a labyrinth of creeks and rivers, this glorious news spread from lips to lips like a wild virus, growing by leaps and bounds as it went. Jokes were formed. Poems created. Songs were sung. Entire escape scenes reenacted, copy-cat plots formed. The laugh rang from cabin to cabin, and also the silent wish, muttered beneath their breaths in the timber forests and oyster boats where they worked and sweated in the hot marsh, that the colored woman, the Dreamer, had boasted that she would lead Patty Cannon, who struck fear into the hearts of white men from Crisfield to Kansas, out to the Blackwater Swamp where the Woolman lived. Only the Woolman, they muttered to themselves, could do what the Dreamer could not. Only the Woolman, an escaped slave, never seen but rumored to live in Sinking Swamp past the old Indian burial ground out near Cook’s Point, with
his wild children who ate each other for breakfast and led an alligator named Gar around on a chain, only the Woolman could take that witch to the boneyard.
Patty Cannon herself heard all this four days after the escape, while sitting in her tavern in nearby Caroline County, Maryland, on the border of Seaford, Delaware, surrounded by her men and her son-in-law, Joe Johnson, a short man with a long scar from one side of his neck to the other. She was a handsome woman, tall and limber, whose broad shoulders, shapely round hips, and firm forearms were nattily fitted into a large dress on which she wore a pistol holstered to one hip and a hunting knife to the other. She listened in irritated silence as her only remaining legal slave, Eb Willard, a Negro boy of twelve, recounted it to her.
She listened silently, intently, fingering a glass of beer, while her crew, all young men, sat around the table watching her, waiting for her reaction. There were five of them altogether: Joe, Eb, Odgin Harris, Hodge Wenner, and Stanton Davis, whose last name she wasn’t sure of. Stanton had used several, and she did not trust him. He was dark, swarthy, and looked, she instinctively felt, like he might have some Negro blood in him. That made him untrustworthy. She did not mind Negroes in her crew—in fact she preferred them for several reasons—but she liked full-blooded Negroes. Mulattoes, she felt, were deadly. She had nearly gotten smoked by one who’d served her in the past. She’d caught him red-handed stealing and he’d pulled out his heater, put it to her neck, and dropped the hammer on it, but it misfired. She beat him cockeyed and drowned him. The others, she felt, passed muster. She especially liked Odgin. He was young and hungry. Odgin listened to Eb’s recounting with intensity. The young man understood the implications of it all. They had all, he knew, lost a great deal of money.
—Ought we to ride out to Cambridge City now? Odgin asked. That’s where they’re likely to be.
—No, we wait, Patty said. It’s already done now.
Fourteen years of working in the business known as the Trade, roaming the marshy creeks, dark shores, and no-man’s-land of Dorchester, Sussex, Talbot, and Caroline counties for the colored souls foolish enough to steal off for freedom, had taught her the value of patience, discretion, and a kind of political diplomacy. She had rid the area of its most vile subject, slave stealers, in the most imaginative way. She had taken their trade from them. No slaves were stolen in Dorchester, Sussex, Talbot, and Caroline counties simply because Patty owned the market. No slaves were freed by hated abolitionists or swiped from good, God-fearing landowners because, quite simply, if there was any stealing to be done, Patty Cannon was going to do it. Anyone who dared intrude on her territory or stalk her stomping grounds simply disappeared, because Patty Cannon would not allow it. Those slave owners with troubling Negroes simply made deals with her and the problem was quietly fixed. It made for strange bedfellows: a silent, complicit minority of landowners and a frightened majority of whites who did not own slaves and had no say in the matter. It was delicate business. Much of it depended on her ability to conduct business discreetly. A breakout from her tavern was not quiet business. The delicate, fragile line of unspoken rules that existed in a world of human ownership and the neighbors’ knowledge of it, much of which depended on silence and discretion, had just exploded in her face. That, more than anything else, needed repairing.