Alvin Jorneyman ttoam-4 Page 28

  Mike Fink spoke up again. “Getting back to matters of life and death instead of grammar…”

  At which point Horace murmured under his breath, “And lovers' spats.”

  “I'm sorry to say I can't learn no more of their plans than that,” said Fink. “It's not like we're dear friends or nothing– more like they'd be as happy to stab me in the back as pee on my boots, depending on whether their knife or their… whatever… was in their hands.” He glanced again at Peggy Larner and blushed. Blushed! That grizzled face, scarred and bent by battle, that missing ear, but still the blood rushed into his face like a schoolboy rebuked by his schoolmarm.

  But before the blush could even fade, Alvin had his hand on Fink's arm and pulled him down to sit beside him on the floor, and Alvin threw an easy arm over his shoulder. “You and me, Mike, we just can't remember how to talk fine in front of some folks and plain in front of others. But I'll help you if you'll help me.”

  And there, in one easy moment, Alvin had put Mike Fink back to rights. There was just a kind of plain sincerity in Alvin's way of speaking that even when you knew he was trying to make you feel better, you didn't mind. You knew he cared about you, cared enough to try to make you feel better, and so you did feel better.

  Thinking of Alvin making folks feel better made Arthur Stuart remember something that Alvin did to make him feel better. “Why don't you sing that song, Alvin?”

  Now it was Alvin's turn to blush in embarrassment. “You know I ain't no singer, Arthur. Just because I sung it to you…”

  “He made up a song,” said Arthur Stuart. “About being locked up in here. We sung it together yesterday.”

  Mike Fink nodded. “Seems like a Maker got to keep making something.”

  “I got nothing to do but think and sing,” said Alvin. “You sing it, Arthur Stuart, not me. You've got a good singing voice.”

  “I'll sing it if you want,” said Arthur. “But it's your song. You made it up, words and tune.”

  “You sing it,” said Alvin. “I don't even know if I'd remember all the words.”

  Arthur Stuart dutifully stood up and started to sing, in his piping voice:

  I meant to be a journeyman, To wander on the earth. As quick as any fellow can, I left the country of my birth, It's fair to say I ran.

  Arthur Stuart looked over at Alvin. “You got to sing the chorus with me, anyway.”

  So together they sang the rollicking refrain:

  At daybreak I'll be risin', For never will my feet be still, I'm bound for the horizon– oh! I'm bound for the horizon.

  Then Arthur went back to the verse, but now Alvin joined him in a kind of tenor harmony, their voices blending sweetly to each other.

  Till I was dragged from bed, And locked inside a little cell. My journeys then were in my head, On all the roads of hell.

  With the next verse, though, when Arthur began it, Alvin didn't join in, he just looked confused.

  Alone with my imagining, I dreamt the darkest dream–

  “Wait a minute, Arthur Stuart,” said Alvin. “That verse isn't really part of this song.”

  “Well, it fits, and you sung it to this tune your own self.”

  “But it's a nonsense dream, it don't mean a thing.”

  “I like it,” said Arthur. “Can't I sing it?”

  Alvin waved him to go ahead, but he still looked embarrassed.

  Alone with my imagining, I dreamt the darkest dream, Of tiny men, a spider's sting, And in a land of smoke and steam, An evil golden ring.

  “What does that mean?” asked Armor-of-God.

  “I don't know,” said Alvin. “I wonder if sometimes I don't accidentally end up with somebody else's dream. Maybe that was a dream that belonged to somebody of ancient days, or maybe somebody who ain't even been born yet. Just a spare dream and I chanced to snag on it during my sleep.”

  Verily Cooper said, “When I was a boy, I wondered if the strange people in my dreams might not be just as real as me, and I was in their dreams sometimes too.”

  “Then let's just hope they don't wake up at a inconvenient moment,” said Mike Fink dryly.

  Arthur Stuart went on with the last verse.

  The accusations all were lies, And few believed the tale, So I was patient, calm and wise. But legs grow weak inside a jail, And something in you dies.

  “This song may be the saddest one I ever heard,” said Horace Guester. “Don't you ever have a cheerful thought in here?”

  “The chorus is pretty sprightly,” said Arthur Stuart.

  “I had cheerful thoughts today,” said Alvin, “thinking of four Slave Finders losing their license to carry off free men and put them into bondage in the south. And now I'm cheerful again, knowing that the strongest man I ever fought is now going to be my bodyguard. Though the sheriff may not take kindly to it, Mr. Fink, since he thinks I'm safe enough as long as I'm in the care of him and his boys.”

  “And you are safe,” said Peggy. “Even those deputies that don't like you would never raise a hand against you or allow you to be less than safe.”

  “There's no danger, then?” asked Horace Guester.

  “Grave danger,” said Peggy. “But not from the deputies, and most particularly not till the trail is over, and Alvin prepares to leave. That's when we'll need more than a bodyguard to die along with Alvin. We'll need subterfuge to get him out of town in one piece.”

  “Who says I'll die?” asked Fink.

  Peggy smiled thinly. “Against any five men I think you two would do well.”

  “So there'll be more than five?” asked Alvin.

  “There may be,” said Peggy. “Nothing is clear right now. Things are in flux. The danger is real, though. The plot's in place and men have been paid. You know when money's involved, even assassins feel obliged to fulfill their contracts.”

  “But for the nonce,” said Verily Cooper, “we're not to worry about our safety, or Alvin's?”

  “Prudence is all that's needed,” said Peggy.

  “I don't know why we're putting our trust in knackery,” said Armor-of-God. “Our Savior is guard enough for us all.”

  “Our Savior will resurrect us,” said Peggy, “but I haven't noticed that Christians end up any less dead at the end of life than heathens.”

  “Well, one thing's sure,” said Horace Guester. “if it wasn't for knackery Alvin wouldn't be in this blamed fix.”

  “Did you like the song?” asked Alvin. “I mean, I thought Arthur sung it real good. Real well. Very well.” Each correction won a bit more of a smile from Miss Larner.

  “Sang it very well,” said Peggy. “But each version of the sentence was better than the one before!”

  “I got another verse,” said Alvin. “It's not really part of the song, on account of it isn't true yet, but do you want to hear it?”

  “You got to sing it alone, I don't know another verse,” said Arthur Stuart.

  Alvin sang:

  I trusted justice not to fail. The jury did me proud. Tomorrow I will hit the trail, And sing my hiking song so loud, It's like to start a gale!

  They all laughed, and allowed as how they hoped he could soon sing it for real. By the time the meeting ended, they'd decided that Armor-of-God, with Mike Fink to watch his back and keep him safe, would head for Carthage City and learn all he could about the men who were paying Daniel Webster's salary and see for sure if they were the same ones paying the river rats and other scoundrels to lie in wait to take Alvin's life. Other than that, everything was in Verily Cooper's hands. And to hear him tell it, it was up to the witnesses and the jury. Twelve good men and true.

  * * *

  There was a long line at the county clerk's office as Peggy came in for the first day of Alvin's trial. “Early voters,” Marty Laws explained. “Folks that worry maybe the weather will keep them from casting their ballot election day. This Tippy-Canoe campaign has folks pretty riled up.”

  “Do you think they're voting for or against?”

  “I'm not sure,”
said Marty. “You're the one who'd know, aren't you?”.

  Peggy didn't answer. Yes, she would know, if she cared to look. But she feared what she'd see.

  “It's Po Doggly who knows about politics around here best. He says that if it was all up or down on the whole Red business, Tippy-Canoe wouldn't get him a vote. But he's also been playing on the western pride thing. How Tippy-Canoe is from our side of the Appalachee Mountains. Which don't make much sense to me, seeing as how Old Hickory– Andy Jackson– he's every bit as western as Harrison. I think folks worry about how Andy Jackson, being from Tennizy, he's probably too much for slavery. Folks around here don't want to vote in somebody who'll make the slavery thing any worse than it is.”

  Peggy smiled thinly. “I wish they knew Mr. Harrison's real position on slavery.”

  Marty cocked an eyebrow. “You know something I don't know?”

  “I know that Harrison is the candidate that those who wish to expand slavery into the northern states will want to support.”

  “Ain't a soul here who wants to see that happen.”

  “Then they shouldn't vote for Harrison– if he becomes president, it will happen.”

  Marty stared long and hard at her. “Do you know this the way most folks know their political opinions, or do you know it as… as…”

  “I know it,” said Peggy. “I don't say that of mere opinions.”

  Marty nodded and looked off into space. “Well damn. Wouldn't you know it.”

  “You have a habit of betting on the wrong horse lately,” said Peggy.

  “You can say that again,” said Marty. “I kept telling Makepeace for years that there wasn't a case against Alvin and I wasn't going to get him extradited from Wobbish. But then he showed up here, and what could I do? I had Makepeace, and he had him a witness besides himself. And you never know what juries are going to do. I think it's a bad business.”

  “Then why don't you move to dismiss the charges?” asked Peggy.

  Marty glowered. “I can't do, that, Miss Peggy, for the plain good reason that there is a case to be made. I hope this English lawyer Alvin's folks found for him can win him free. But I'm not going to roll over and play dead. What you got to understand, Miss Peggy, is I like most of the people in this county, and most of the time the folks I got to prosecute, they're people that I like. I don't prosecute them because I don't like them. I prosecute them because they done wrong, and the people of Hatrack County elected me to set things right. So I hope Alvin gets off, but if he does, it won't be because I failed to fulfill my responsibilities.”

  “I was there on the night the plow was made. Why don't you call me as a witness?”

  “Did you see it made?” asked Marty.

  “No. It was already finished when I saw it.”

  “Then what exactly are you a witness of?”

  Peggy didn't answer.

  “You want to get on that stand because you're a torch, and the people of Hatrack know you're a torch, and if you say Makepeace is lying, they'll believe you. But here's the thing I worry about, Miss Peggy. I know you and Alvin was once sweet for each other, and maybe still are. So how do I know that if you get on the stand, you won't commit some grievous sin against the God of truth in order to win the freedom of this boy?”

  Peggy flushed with anger. “You know because you know my oath is as good as anyone's and better than most.”

  “If you get on the stand, Miss Peggy, I will rebut you by bringing up witnesses to say you lived in Hatrack for many months in complete disguise, lying to everyone that whole time about who you were. Covered with hexes, pretending to be a middle-aged spinster schoolteacher when the whole time you were seeing the smith's prentice boy under the guise of tutoring him. I know you had your reasons for doing all those things. I know there was a reason why on the night the plow was supposedly made, the same night your motherwas killed, you and Alvin were seen running from the smithy together, only Alvin was stark naked. Do you get my drift, Miss Peggy?”

  “You're advising me not to testify.”

  “I'm telling you that while some folks will believe you, others will be sure you're just helping Alvin as his co-conspirator. My job is to make sure every possible doubt of your testimony is introduced.”

  “So you are Alvin's enemy, and the enemy of truth.” Peggy hurled the words, meaning them to bite.

  “Accuse me all you like,” said Marty, “but my job is to make the case that Alvin stole that gold. I don't think your testimony, based entirely on your unverifiable claim as a torch that Makepeace is a liar, should be allowed to stand unchallenged. If it did stand that way, then every half-baked dreamspeaker and soothsayer in the country would be able to say whatever he pleased and juries would believe them, and then what would happen to justice in America?”

  “Let me understand you,” said Peggy. “You plan to discredit me, destroy my reputation, and convict Alvin, all for the sake of justice in America?”

  “As I said,” Marty repeated, “I hope your lawyer can do as good a job defending Alvin as I'm going to do prosecuting him. I hope he can find as much damning evidence against my witnesses as Mr. Webster and I have found concerning Alvin. Because, frankly, I don't like my witnesses much, and I think Makepeace is a greedy lying bastard who should go to jail himself for pedury but I can't prove it.”

  "How can you live with yourself, then, working in the service of evil when you know so clearly what is goodT'

  “It's also good for the public prosecutorto prosecute, instead of setting himself up as judge.”

  Peggy nodded gravely. “As so often is the case, there is no clear choice that has all the good on its side, opposed to one that is nothing but bad.”

  “That's the truth, Peggy. That's God's honest truth.”

  “You advise me not to testify.”

  “Nothing of the kind. I just warned you of the price you'd pay for testifying.”

  “It's unethical for us to have had this conversation, isn't it?”

  “A little bit,” said Marty. “But your pa and I go back a long way.”

  “He'd never forgive you if you discredited me.”

  “I know, Miss Peggy. And that would break my heart.” He nodded his good-bye, touching his forehead as if to tip the hat he wasn't wearing indoors. “Good day to you.”

  Peggy followed him into the courtroom.

  That first morning was spent questioning the eight witnesses who had been shown the golden plow. First was Merlin Wheeler, who rolled in on his wheelchair. Peggy knew that Alvin had offered once, years ago, to heal him so he could walk again. But Merlin just looked him in the eye and said, “I lost the use of my legs to the same men who killed my wife and child. If you can bring them back, then we'll see about my legs.” Alvin didn't understand then, and truth to tell, Peggy didn't really understand now. How did it help his wife and children for Merlin to go around in a wheelchair all the time? But then, maybe it helped Merlin himself. Maybe it was like wearing widow's weeds. A public symbol of how he was crippled by the loss of those he loved best. Anyway, he made a sturdy witness, mostly because people knew he had a knack for seeing what was fair and right, making him a sort of informal judge, though it wasn't all that common for both parties in a dispute to agree to get him to arbitrate for him. One or the other of them, it seemed, always felt it somehow inconvenient to have the case decided by a man who was truly evenhanded and fair. Anyway, the jury was bound to listen when Wheeler said, “I ain't saying the plow's bewitched cause I don't know how it got to be the way it is. I'm just saying that it appears to be gold, it hefts like gold, and it moves without no hand touching it.”

  Wheeler set the tone for all the others. Albert Wimsey was a clockmaker with a knack for fine metalwork, who fled to America when his business rivals accused him of using witchery in making his clocks– when he said the plow was gold, he spoke with authority, and the jury would entertain no further doubt about the metal it was made of. Jan Knickerbacker was a glassmaker who was said to have an eye to see t
hings more clearly than most folks. Ma Bartlett was a frail old lady who once was a schoolteacher but now lived in the old cabin in the woods that Po Doggly built when he first settled in the area; she got a small pension from somewhere and mostly spent her days under an oak tree by Hatrack River, catching catfish and letting them go. People went to her to find out if they could trust other folks, and she was always right, which made it so many a budding romance got nipped in the bud, until folks sort of shied away from asking certain questions of her.

  Billy Sweet made candy, a young and gullible young fellow that nobody took all that seriously, but you couldn't help but like him no matter how foolish the things he said and did. Naomi Lerner made a little money tutoring, but her knack was ignorance, not teaching– she could spot ignorance a mile away, but wasn't much good at alleviating it. Joreboam Hemelett was a gunsmith, and he must have had a touch of fire knackery because it was well known that no matter how damp a day it might be, the powder in a Hemelett gun always ignited. And Goody Trader– whose first name was rumored to be either Chastity or Charity, both names used ironically by those who didn't like her– kept a general store on the new end of Main Street, where she was well known to stock her shelves, not just with the things folks wanted, but also with the things they needed without knowing it.

  All through their testimony, about hefting the plow, about how it moved, or hummed, or trembled, or warmed their hands, the jurors' eyes were drawn again and again to the burlap sack under Alvin's chair. He never touched it or did anything to call, attention to it, but his body moved as if the plow inside the sack were the fulcrum of his balance. They wanted to see for themselves. But they knew, from Alvin's posture, that they would not see it. That these eight had seen for them. It would have to be enough.

  The eight witnesses were well known to the people in town, all of them trusted (though Billy Sweet was only trusted this far, seeing as how he was so trusting himself that any liar could get him to believe any fool thing) and all of them well enough liked, apart from the normal quarrels of small-town life. Peggy knew them all, better than they knew each other, of course, but perhaps it was that very knowledge of them that blinded her to a thing that only Arthur Stuart seemed to notice.