toward the house, mentally prepared now, I hoped, to meet Tom Weylin. But as I approached, a tall thin shadow of a white man came toward me from the direction of the quarter.
“Hey there,” he called. “What are you doing out here?” His long steps closed the distance between us quickly, and in a moment, he stood peer- ing down at me. “You don’t belong here,” he said. “Who’s your master?” “I’ve come to get help for Mister Rufus,” I said. And then, feeling sud- denly doubtful because he was a stranger, I asked, “This is still where he
lives, isn’t it?”
The man did not answer. He continued to peer at me. I wondered whether it was my sex or my accent that he was trying to figure out. Or maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t called him sir or master. I’d have to begin that degrading nonsense again. But who was this man, anyway?
“He lives here.” An answer, finally. “What’s wrong with him?” “Some men beat him. He can’t walk.”
“Is he drunk?”
“Uh … no, sir, not quite.” “Worthless bastard.”
I jumped a little. The man had spoken softly, but there was no mistak- ing what he had said. I said nothing.
“Come on,” he ordered, and led me into the house. He left me stand- ing in the entrance hall and went to the library where I supposed Weylin was. I looked at the wooden bench a few steps from me, the settee, but although I was tired, I didn’t sit down. Margaret Weylin had once caught me sitting there tying my shoe. She had screamed and raged as though
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she’d caught me stealing her jewelry. I didn’t want to renew my acquain- tance with her in another scene like that. I didn’t want to renew my acquaintance with her at all, but it seemed inevitable.
There was a sound behind me and I turned in quick apprehension. A young slave woman stood staring at me. She was light-skinned, blue- kerchiefed, and very pregnant.
“Carrie?” I asked.
She ran to me, caught me by the shoulders for a moment, and looked into my face. Then she hugged me.
The white stranger chose that moment to come out of the library with
Tom Weylin.
“What’s going on here?” demanded the stranger.
Carrie moved away from me quickly, head down, and I said, “We’re old friends, sir.”
Tom Weylin, grayer, thinner, grimmer-looking than ever, came over to me. He stared at me for a moment, then turned to face the stranger. “When did you say his horse came in, Jake?”
“About an hour ago.”
“That long … you should have told me.” “He’s taken that long and longer before.”
Weylin sighed, glanced at me. “Yes. But I think it might be more seri- ous this time. Carrie!”
The mute woman had been walking away toward the back door. Now, she turned to look at Weylin.
“Have Nigel bring the wagon around front.”
She gave the half-nod, half-curtsey that she reserved for whites and hurried away.
Something occurred to me as she was going and I spoke to Weylin. “I think Mister Rufus might have broken ribs. He wasn’t coughing blood so his lungs are probably all right, but it might be a good idea for me to bandage him a little before you move him.” I had never bandaged any- thing worse than a cut finger in my life, but I did remember a little of the first aid I had learned in school. I hadn’t thought to act when Rufus broke his leg, but I might be able to help now.
“You can bandage him when we get him here,” said Weylin. And to the stranger, “Jake, you send somebody for the doctor.”
Jake took a last disapproving look at me and went out the back door after Carrie.
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Weylin went out the front door without another word to me and I fol- lowed, trying to remember how important it was to bandage broken ribs—that is, whether it was worth “talking back” to Weylin about. I didn’t want Rufus badly injured, even though he deserved to be. Any injury could be dangerous. But from what I could remember, bandaging the ribs was done mostly to relieve pain. I wasn’t sure whether I remem- bered that because it was true or because I wanted to avoid any kind of confrontation with Weylin. I didn’t have to touch the scabs on my back to be conscious of them.
A tall stocky slave drove a wagon around to us and I got on the back while Weylin took the seat beside the driver. The driver glanced back at me and said softly, “How are you, Dana?”
“Nigel?”
“It’s me,” he said grinning. “Grown some since you seen me last, I
guess.”
He had grown into another Luke—a big handsome man bearing little resemblance to the boy I remembered.
“You keep your mouth shut and watch the road,” said Weylin. Then to me, “You’ve got to tell us where to go.”
It would have been a pleasure to tell him where to go, but I spoke civilly. “It’s a long way from here,” I said. “I had to pass someone else’s house and fields on my way to you.”
“The judge’s place. You could have got help there.”
“I didn’t know.” And wouldn’t have tried if I had known. I wondered, though, whether this was the Judge Holman who would soon be sending men out to chase Isaac. It seemed likely.
“Did you leave Rufus by the side of the road?” Weylin asked. “No, sir. He’s in the woods.”
“You sure you know where in the woods?” “Yes, sir.”
“You’d better.”
He said nothing else.
I found Rufus with no particular difficulty and Nigel lifted him as gen- tly and as easily as Luke once had. On the wagon, he held his side, then he held my hand. Once, he said, “I’ll keep my word.”
I nodded and touched his forehead in case he couldn’t see me nodding. His forehead was hot and dry.
“He’ll keep his word about what?” asked Weylin.
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He was looking back at me, so I frowned and looked perplexed and said, “I think he has a fever as well as broken ribs, sir.”
Weylin made a sound of disgust. “He was sick yesterday, puking all over. But he would get up and go out today. Damn fool!”
And he fell silent again until we reached his house. Then, as Nigel car- ried Rufus inside and up the stairs, Weylin steered me into his forbidden library. He pushed me close to a whale-oil lamp, and there, in the bright yellow light, he stared at me silently, critically until I looked toward the door.
“You’re the same one, all right,” he said finally. “I didn’t want to believe it.”
I said nothing.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you?”
I hesitated not knowing what to answer because I didn’t know how much he knew. The truth might make him decide I was out of my mind, but I didn’t want to be caught in a lie.
“Well!”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I told him. “I’m Dana. You know me.”
“Don’t tell me what I know!”
I stood silent, confused, frightened. Kevin wasn’t here now. There was no one for me to call if I needed help.
“I’m someone who may have just saved your son’s life,” I said softly. “He might have died out there sick and injured and alone.”
“And you think I ought to be grateful?”
Why did he sound angry? And why shouldn’t he be grateful? “I can’t tell you how you ought to feel, Mr. Weylin.”
“That’s right. You can’t.”
There was a moment of silence that he seemed to expect me to fill. Eagerly, I changed the subject. “Mr. Weylin, do you know where Mr. Franklin went?”
Oddly, that seemed to reach him. His expression softened a little. “Him,” he said. “Damn fool.”
“Where did he go?”
“Somewhere North. I don’t know. Rufus has some letters from him.” He gave me another long stare. “I guess you want to stay here.”
He sounded as though he was giving me a choice, which was surpris- ing because he didn’t have to. Maybe gratitude meant something to him
after all.
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