Alvin Jorneyman ttoam-4 Read online

  They wrote. They signed their papers. They handed them to the judge.

  “Please, return to your seats while I tabulate the results,” said the judge.

  Verily had to admire the way the judge showed no expression as he sorted through the papers. But it also frustrated him. Would there be no hint of the outcome?

  “I'm disappointed,” said the judge. “I had expected that the much-vaunted powers and the famous integrity of the Slave Finders would give me unanimous results. I had expected that you would either unanimously point the finger at one boy, or unanimously declare that the boy could not be one of this group. Instead, I find quite a range of answers. Three of you did declare under penalty of perjury that none of these boys matched the cachet. But four of you have named various boys– again, under penalty of perjury. Specifically, the four of you named three different boys. The only two who seemed to be in agreement both happened to be seated together, at my far right. Since you are the only two who agree in accusing one of the boys, I think we'll check your assertion first. Bailiff, please remove the hood from the head of boy number five.”

  The bailiff did as he was asked. The boy was Black, but he was not Arthur Stuart.

  “You two– are you certain, do you swear before God, that this is the boy who matches the cachet? Remember please that it is your license to practice your profession in the state of Wobbish that hangs in the balance, for if you are found to be unreliable or dishonest, you will never be permitted to bring a slave back across the river again.”

  What they also knew, however, was that if they now backed down, they would be liable for charges of perjury. And the boy was Black.

  “No sir, I am certain this is the boy,” said one. The other nodded emphatically.

  “Now, let's look at the other two boys that were named. Take the hoods from numbers one and two.”

  One of them was Black, the other White.

  The Finder who named a White boy covered his face with his hands. “Again, knowing that your license is at stake, are you both prepared to swear that the boy you named is an exact match?”

  The Finder who named the White boy began to stammer, “I don't know, I just don't, I was sure, I thought it was…”

  “The answer is simple– do you continue to swear that this boy is an exact match, or did you lie under oath when you named him?”

  The Finders who had sworn that the cachet matched no one were smiling now– they knew, obviously, that the others had lied, and were enjoying their torment.

  “I did not lie,” said the Finder who named the White boy.

  “Neither did I,” said the other defiantly. “And I still think I'm right. I don't know how these other boys could get it so wrong.”

  “But you– you don't think you're right, do you? You don't think some miracle turned that slave baby White, do you?”

  “No, sir. I must be… mistaken.”

  “Give me your license. Right now.”

  The miserable Finder stood up and handed the judge a leather case. The judge took from the case a piece of paper with an official seal on it. He wrote in the margin and then on the back; then he signed it and crimped it with his own seal. “There you go,” he said to the Finder. “You understand that if you're ever caught attempting to practice the profession of Slave Finding in the state of Hio, you will be arrested and tried and, when convicted, you will face at least ten years in prison?”

  “I understand,” said the humiliated man.

  “And you are also aware that Hio maintains a reciprocity arrangement with the states of Huron, Suskwahenny, Irrakwa, Pennsylvania, and New Sweden? So that the same or similar penalties will apply to you there if you attempt to practice this profession?”

  “I understand,” he said again.

  “Thank you for your help,” said the judge. “You should only be grateful that you were incompetent, for if I had cause to suspect you of perjury, it would have been prison and the lash, I assure you, for if I thought that you had willfully named this boy falsely, I would have no mercy on you. You may go.”

  The others obviously got the message. As the unfortunate man fled the courtroom, the other three who had named one boy or another steeled themselves for what was to come.

  “Sheriff Doggly,” said the judge, “would you kindly inform us of the identity of these two boys who stand identified by three of our panel of Finders?”

  “Sure, Your Honor,” said Doggly. “These two is Mock Berry's boys, James and John. Peter's near growed and Andrew and Zebedee was too small.”

  “You're sure of their identity?”

  “They've lived here in Hatrack all their lives.”

  “Any chance that either of them is, in fact, the child of a runaway slave?”

  “No chance. For one thing, the dates are all wrong. They're both way too old– the Berry boys is always short for their age, kind of late-blooming roses if you know what I mean, then they just shoot up like spring grass, cause Peter's about the tallest fellow around here. But these boys, they was already clever little tykes well known around town before ever the slave that cachet belongs to was born.”

  The judge turned to the Finders. “Well, now. I wonder how it happens that you appointed for slavery these two freeborn Black children.”

  One of them spoke up immediately. “Your Honor, I will protest this whole procedure. We were not brought here to be placed on trial ourselves, we were brought here to practice our profession and–”

  The gavel slammed down on the desk. “You were brought here to practice your profession, that is true. Your profession requires that when you make an identification, it must be assumed by all courts of law to be both honest and accurate. Whenever you practice your profession, here or in the field, your license is on the line, and you know it. Now, tell me at once, did you lie when you identified these boys, or were you merely mistaken?”

  “What if we was just guessing?” one of them asked. Verily almost laughed out loud.

  “Guessing, in this context, would be lying, since you were swearing that the boy you named was a match for the cachet, and if you had to guess, then he was not a match. Did you guess?”

  The man thought about it for a moment. “No sir, I didn't lie. I was just plain wrong I reckon.”

  Another man tried a different tack. “How do we know this sheriff isn't lying?”

  “Because,” said the judge, “I already met all these boys, and their parents, and saw their birth records in the county archive. Any more questions before you decide whether you'll lose your license or be bound over for trial as perjurers?”

  The two remaining Finders quickly agreed that they had been mistaken. Everyone waited while the judge signed and sealed the limitation on their licenses. “You gentlemen may also go.”

  They went.

  Verily rose to his feet. “Your Honor, may I request that these young men who were not identified be allowed to remove their hoods? I fear that they may be growing quite uncomfortable.”

  “By all means. Bailiff, it's certainly time.”

  The hoods came off. The boys all looked relieved. Arthur Stuart was grinning.

  To the three remaining Finders, the judge said, “You are under oath. Do you swear that none of these boys matches the cachet belonging to Mr. Cavil Planter?”

  They all swore to it.

  “I commend you for having the honesty to admit to not finding a match, when others were clearly tempted to find a match no matter what. I find your profession loathsome, but at least the three of you practice it honestly and with reasonable competence.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said one of them; the others, however, seemed to know they had just been insulted.

  “Since this proceeding is a legal hearing under the Fugitive Slave Law, I don't have to have your signatures on anything, but I'd prefer it if you'd stay long enough to sign your names to an affirmation that specifically states that this young man, the mixup boy named Arthur Stuart, is definitely not a match with the cachet. Can y
ou sign such a statement under oath before God?”

  They could. They did. They were dismissed.

  “Mr. Webster, I can't think what in the world you'd have to say, but since you represent Mr. Cavil Planter in this matter, I must ask you for any statement you'd like to make on this matter before I issue my finding.”

  Webster rose slowly to his feet. Verily wondered what the man could have the audacity to say, in the face of such evidence– what whining, sniveling complaint or protest he might utter.

  “Your Honor,” said Webster, “it is obvious to me that my client is the victim of fraud. Not today, your honor, for these proceedings have clearly been honest. No, the fraud was more than a year ago, when two Finders, hoping to collect a fee they had not earned, named this boy as Mr. Planter's property and proceeded to commit murder and get themselves killed in the effort to enslave a free boy. My client, believing them to be honest, naturally proceeded to secure the redress to which he would have been entitled by law; but now, I can assure you that as soon as my client learns that he was put upon most sorely by those Finders, he will be as horrified as I am by how close he came to enslaving a free child and, what is worse, extraditing for prosecution the young man named Alvin Smith, who it now seems was acting in proper self-defense when he killed the second of those malicious, lying, fraudulent men pretending to be Finders.” Webster sat back down.

  It was a pretty speech. Webster's voice was lovely to hear. The man should go into politics, Verily thought. His voice would be a noble addition to the halls of Congress in Philadelphia.

  “You pretty much summed up my summing up,” said the judge. “It is the finding of this court that Arthur Stuart is not the property of Mr. Cavil Planter, and therefore the Finders who were trying to take him back to Appalachee were not acting lawfully, and therefore the interference Margaret Guester and Alvin Smith offered them was legal and appropriate under the circumstances. I declare Alvin Smith to be absolved of all responsibility, criminal or civil, in the deaths of these Finders, and I declare Margaret Guester to be posthumously absolved in like manner. Under the terms of the Fugitive Slave Law, there may be no further attempt by anyone under any circumstances to bring Arthur Stuart into slavery regardless of any additional evidence– this action is final. Likewise there may be no further attempt to try Alvin Smith on any charges arising out of the illegal expedition undertaken by those fraudulent Finders, including their death. This action, likewise, is final.”

  Verily loved hearing those words, for all that language insisting that such actions were final had been placed in the law for the purpose of blocking any effort on the part of anti-slavery forces to interfere with the recapture of a slave or the punishment of those who helped a runaway. This time, at least, that finality would work against the proponents of slavery. Hoist on their own petard.

  The bailiff took the burlap bags off the boys' hands. The judge, the sheriff, Verily, and Marty Laws all shook the boys' hands and gave them– except Arthur, of course– the two bits they were entitled to for their service to the court. Arthur got something more precious. Arthur got a copy of the judge's decision making it illegal for him to be accosted by anyone searching for runaway slaves.

  Webster shook Verily's hand, quite warmly. “I'm glad things worked out this way,” he said. “As you know, in our profession we are sometimes called upon to represent clients in actions that we wish they would not pursue.”

  Verily held his silence– he supposed that for most lawyers this was probably true.

  “I'm glad that my presence here will not result in anyone entering a life of slavery, or of your client being extradited under false charges.”

  Verily couldn't leave that statement alone. “And you would have been sad to see him extradited, if this hearing had turned out otherwise?”

  “Oh, not at all,” said Webster. “If the Finders had identified young Mr. Stuart, then justice would have demanded that your client be tried in Kenituck for murder.”

  “Justice?” Verily didn't try to keep the contempt from his voice.

  “The law is justice, my friend,” said Webster. “I know of no other measure available to us as mortal men. God has a better justice than ours, but until angels sit upon the bench, the justice of law is the best justice we can have, and I, for one, am glad we have it.”

  If Verily had been tempted to feel even a glimmer of guilt over the fact that Arthur Stuart really was Cavil Planter's slave, by law, and that, again by law, Alvin Smith really should have been extradited, there was no chance of it now. Webster's narrow view of justice was just as truly satisfied by this outcome as Verily's much broader perspective. By God's justice, Arthur should be free and Alvin held to no penalty, and so the outcome had been just. But Webster's justice was as well served, for the letter of the law required the matching of the cachet to the slave, and if it so happened that Arthur Stuart had been changed somehow by a certain Maker so the cachet no longer matched– well, the law made no provision for exceptions, and so, as Webster had said, the law being satisfied, justice must also have been done.

  “I'm grateful to know your mind upon the matter,” said Verily. “I look forward to discovering, in my client's trial for larceny, precisely what your commitment to justice is.”

  “And so you shall,” said Webster. “The gold belongs to Makepeace Smith, not his former apprentice. So when justice is done, Makepeace Smith will have his gold.”

  Verily smiled at him. “It shall be a contest, then, Mr. Webster.”

  “When two giants meet in battle,” said Webster, “one giant will fall.”

  “And loud shall be the noise thereof,” said Verily.

  Webster took only a moment to realize that Verily was teasing him about his golden-voiced oratory; and when he did, instead of being insulted, he threw back his head and laughed, warmly, loudly, cheerfully. “I like you, Mr. Cooper! I shall enjoy all that lies ahead of us!”

  Verily let him have the last word. But in his own mind, he answered, Not all, Mr. Webster. You shall not enjoy it all.

  * * *

  No one planned a meeting, but they arrived at Alvin's cell that evening almost at the same, time, as if someone had summoned them. Verily Cooper had come to discuss what would happen during the selection of the jury and perhaps gloat a little over the easy victory in the hearing that morning; he was joined by Armor-of-God Weaver, who brought letters from family and wellwishers in Vigor Church; Arthur Stuart of course was there, as he was most evenings; Horace Guester had brought a bowl of roadhouse stew and a jug of the fresh cider– Alvin wouldn't take the cider that had turned, it dulled his mind; and no sooner were they all assembled in and around the open cell than the outer door opened and the deputy showed in Peggy Larner and a man that none but Alvin recognized.

  “Mike Fink, as I live and breathe,” said Alvin.

  “And you're that smithy boy who bent my legs and broke my nose.” Mike Fink smiled, but there was pain in the smile, and no one was sure but what there might not be a quarrel here.

  “I see some scars and marks on you, Mr. Fink,” said Alvin, “but I reckon from the fact you're standing here before us that those are marks of fights you won.”

  “Won fair and square, and hard fought,” said Fink. “But I killed no man as didn't require me to, on account of trying to stick a knife in me and there being no other way to stop them.”

  “What brings you here, Mr. Fink?” asked Alvin.

  “I owe you,” said Fink.

  “Not that I know of,” said Alvin.

  “I owe you and I mean to repay.”

  Still his words were ambiguous, and Arthur Stuart noticed how Papa Horace and Armor-of-God braced themselves to take on the powerful body of the riverman, if need arose.

  It was Peggy Larner who made it clear. “Mr. Fink has come to give us information about a plot against Alvin's life. And to offer himself as a bodyguard, to make sure no harm comes to you.”

  “I'm glad to know you wanted to give me warning,” said Al
vin. “Come on in and sit down. You can share the floor with me, or sit on my cot– it's stronger than it looks.”

  “Don't have much to tell. I think Miss Larner already told you what I learned before, about a plot to kill you as they took you back for trial in Kenituck. Well, the men I know– if you can rightly call them men– haven't been fired from the plan. In fact what I heard this very afternoon was to pay no nevermind to how the extradition was squished–”

  “Quashed,” offered Verily Cooper helpfully.

  “Mashed,” said Fink. “Whatever. They got to pay no heed to it, because they'll still be needed. The plan is for you not to leave the town of Hatrack River alive.”

  “And what about Arthur Stuart?” asked Alvin.

  “Not a word about no mixup, boy,” said Fink. “The way I see it, they don't give a damn about the boy, he's just an excuse for them to get you kilt.”

  “Please watch…” Alvin began, mildly enough, but Mike Fink didn't need to hear him finish saying “your language with the lady.”

  “Beg your pardon, Miss Larner,” he said.

  “Don't that beat all,” said Alvin admiringly. “He's already beginning to sound like one of your students.” But was there a bite in his tone?

  There was certainly a bite in Peggy's answer. “I'd rather hear him swear than hear you say 'don't' for 'doesn't.'”

  Alvin leaned close to Mike Fink to explain, though he never took his eyes from Peggy's face. “You see, Miss Larner knows all the words, and she knows just where they ought to be.”

  Arthur Stuart could see the fury in her face, but she held her tongue. It was some kind of fight going on between the two of them; but what was it about? Miss Larner had always corrected their grammar, ever since she tutored Alvin and Arthur together when she was the schoolteacher in Hatrack River.

  What puzzled Arthur Stuart all the more was the way the older men– not Verily, but Horace and Armor-of-God and even Mike Fink– sort of glanced around at each other and half-smiled like they all understood exactly what was going on between Alvin and Peggy, understood it better than those two did their own selves.