WEST BROMWICH, THE MIDLANDS, 1871
The girl could not have been older than seventeen, and so Cal tried to ignore her. But she had come to the pub every night for the past week, and every night he had been there, too, at the same table in the corner, nursing his whiskey. It was evident that he had caught her eye because she had passed by his table several times every evening, and each time she passed, she lingered a bit longer in front of him, swirled her skirts a bit higher, and batted her long lashes in his direction. He supposed he stood out as a stranger in the village, something new and perhaps even exotic, and he felt certain it was time to move on. She was a pretty girl, but he preferred to keep to himself. She was too young for him and likely to want something lasting, besides.
Cal Campbell had not stayed in the same place for longer than a month in the last six years. He had struck out north from Andersonville, begging and borrowing food and clothing, stealing when he had to, and had booked passage on a British supply freighter as a deckhand.
He had landed in Liverpool and made his way to Maidenkirk, staying long enough to assure his family that he was alive and reasonably well. His father had given him a purse containing two hundred pounds and suggested that Cal move on. He understood. He was practically an American now, an embarrassment to his father.
At the train depot in Dumfries he had seen a man from a distance. The man’s teeth had been visible through his cheek, and there was something familiar about him. He wanted to get close enough to see that man’s eyes, to see the color of them, and when he realized that he expected them to be grey, he knew he had been followed.
Grey Eyes, the terrible guard from Andersonville, was alive. He was alive and he had followed Cal all the way from America.
Cal had hopped the first train going south and had changed trains three times that first day. He had been careful not to leave a trail and had watched behind him at every station. Grey Eyes was conspicuous and Cal didn’t think the guard could surprise him, but if he had followed him this far he would not easily give up. Still, Cal could lead him on a merry chase.
By the time Cal arrived in West Bromwich, he had lost track of the number of cities he’d lived in. The Black Country village was just another stop in the peripatetic life he now led. He planned to stay there for a week, perhaps two, then move on again. He wouldn’t stay anywhere long enough to give the grey-eyed American a chance to find him.
But the girl was interesting.
On the third night the girl made a play for his attention, he smiled at her. He hadn’t meant to. He couldn’t help himself. He immediately stood and left the pub, but he returned the next night.
And the next night.
Tonight he pretended not to notice the girl, but he saw her smile, trying to catch his attention, and he knew she was the only reason he was still in that village. He thought of Joe Poole and his friend’s ready smile and finally he began to understand that he was lonely. He had worked so hard to avoid human connections, to avoid anything that might make him weak or vulnerable, that he had neglected the small part of himself that still craved the company of others.
He knew he should move on, leave West Bromwich and never look back.
Instead, he stood and went to the girl and bowed.
“My name,” he said, “is Calvin.”
“It’s good to meet you, Calvin,” she said. “My name is Hester.”
42
What did he say?” Campbell said. “I can’t hear him.”
“He said he’s found the boy,” Hammersmith said.
“Oliver? He’s found Oliver down there?” The Scotsman looked stricken. He was panting, still out of breath after emerging from the midst of the blizzard just seconds earlier. There was a small gathering of men around the well. The blizzard had caused the seam to be shut down for the day, and some of the miners and their families had come out to see why one of the strangers was shouting down into the village well. Word had apparently spread, despite the storm, and the throng was growing. Hammersmith had said very little to any of them, but as more people were drawn to the spectacle, the first arrivals filled them in on the situation. Aside from these short murmured conversations, the villagers had been silent, riveted to the sound of Day’s distant voice. Hammersmith saw one of the miners reach out to pat Campbell on the back, as if comforting him.
“He’s mistaken,” Campbell said. “He must be. It’s dark down there. He doesn’t know what he’s found.”
“I hope you’re right,” Hammersmith said. Several of the other men mumbled in agreement. Nobody wanted Oliver Price to be at the bottom of the well. “Quiet,” Hammersmith said. “He’s talking.”
The crowd went silent and Hammersmith leaned far over the well’s lip, listening. He felt Campbell take hold of the back of his overcoat, steadying him, and Hammersmith grabbed the posts on either side of the well as insurance in case the bird-watcher intended to push him in.
“I didn’t hear you!” Hammersmith turned his head so that his right ear was out of the wind and concentrated on Day’s answering voice. The inspector sounded so far away that he might have been in the next village over. Hammersmith felt Campbell shift his weight behind him.
“Did he say anything more?” Campbell said. “What’s he saying?”
“He can’t climb back up,” Hammersmith said. “He’s hurt his shoulder and can’t carry the boy back up here.”
“Tell him to sit on the bucket and loop the rope around his waist. We’ll pull him up,” Campbell said.
“That’s not very steady. If he falls off the bucket, the rope could slip upward and strangle him,” Hammersmith said.
Campbell shook his head. He seemed impatient, less interested in Day’s safety than in what he’d found down there. “Then tell him to make a noose, a big loop of some kind, and get it up under his arms.”
“Sir!” Hammersmith bellowed into the darkness. “Tie the rope around you! Somehow! Do it so that you’re comfortable and so it will bear your weight!”
Hammersmith waited. He straightened up and looked around him. There were perhaps twenty villagers around the well now. Most of them men, but there were three women. Hammersmith guessed that their children had all been left safe and warm inside their homes. Everyone looked grim and anxious. And cold. Campbell was shivering. He was the only person there who wasn’t wearing a coat or a hat, or even a jacket. He must have come out in a hurry.
Hammersmith heard a faint echo and leaned back over the top of the well. He listened for a moment and then grabbed the rope and began to pull at the knot. He shouted over his shoulder, “He’s ready! Let’s pull him up!”
Campbell stepped forward and gently moved Hammersmith back out of the way, then took the length of rope from him. The other villagers stayed where they were, watching the giant Scotsman. Campbell loosened the bowline knot that Hammersmith had tied earlier and pulled the rope through the wooden pulley block until it was taut. Then he hauled the line up, hand over hand, more quickly than any three men could have moved together, the muscles in his massive arms and shoulders rippling with the effort. Hammersmith could hear the rope zinging through the pulley and could see steam from the friction rising in the cold air. It had taken Inspector Day a half an hour to get to the bottom of the well, with gravity on his side. It took Campbell five minutes to bring him back
