Furmidable Foes

14

December 1, 1787

Saturday

Occasionally bounty hunters got lucky and found their runaway slaves quickly. Martin and Shank, hired by Maureen Selisse Holloway, slogged along Virginia’s coast. They had contacts there in the shipyards. No one had seen Ralston, William, or Sulli. Plus, no captain would have carried them anywhere without a fee. So after ten days of slow going, they reached the Potomac River as they headed west. The ferrymen, always ready for a tip, hadn’t seen three young people matching the descriptions of the runaway slaves. If any had, they would have eagerly mentioned it. They didn’t lie because they knew Martin and Shank, and the two knew them. Shank, in particular, would get even. Martin’s vengeful streak proved more sophisticated, whereas Shank was physical. He’d lay you flat on the spot.

Along the way they bought a nice draft mare, Penny; a beat-up wagon; and a harness.

Patient—a necessary quality in that line of work—the two finally reached the Point of Rocks Ferry. The ferryman, Arch Newbold, recognized them as he reached the Virginia shore, discharging only two passengers.

“Arch, it’s Martin and Shank.” Martin greeted him.

“You look the same as you did last time I saw you.” He flicked his hand under his full beard. “Not me.”

“If I lived on this cold river, I’d cover my face, too,” Shank joked.

“It comes off in the spring. Winter started early this year. Not many travelers.” Arch frowned.

“Do you recall seeing three young slaves? A pretty woman and two fellows, one tall and thin, the other medium-sized. No telling when or if they reached the river, but this would have been before winter set in. We don’t know how they’re traveling.”

Tying up the ferry, no passengers on the dock, he motioned for the two to follow him to his shack. Sturdy, a small fireplace, a couple of chairs, it beat staying out in the cold.

The two sat in the chairs by the fire as Arch beckoned. He threw in another log.

“Feeding the fire. Helps.”

“Does, Arch.” Martin nodded, offering Arch a sip of liquor. Along with the horse and cart, the two bounty hunters bought crocks of liquor as well as thimbles, odds and ends.

Smiling, Arch swallowed, his eyes watered; he handed the crock back to Martin as he coughed. “What the hell do you have in there?”

“My secret.” Martin leaned back in the chair. “In my business I meet many people.”

“Guess you do.” Arch wiped his eyes.

“Don’t drink too much. Your legs will lock up on you,” Shank informed him.

“One draw will keep me.” Arch moved his booted feet closer to the small but vigorous fire. “Three young ones, worn out and hungry, I can tell you that much. They got here, counted out their money. I didn’t say nothin’. Didn’t have enough for all three.

“Fellow came down with a stubborn horse. Couldn’t get the animal moving and wanted to take horse and cart across the river. The shorter fellow turned out to be good with a horse. He crawled under the cart, saw the wheel was froze up, something in it, I think. He asked the woman for a thick stick. She found one and the tall, thin fellow tipped up the cart while the other one underneath dislodged it. The man, never saw him before or again, paid their way. Whatever he had in the cart he wanted to get over to Maryland. Didn’t seem like produce. The cart wasn’t too heavy for the tall fellow to tip so I figured it was something light, wool maybe. Lot of people got sheep, cattle. I’m not for anything I have to feed.” He laughed.

“So you’d say at least the shorter one could handle a horse?” Shank asked.

“Seemed like a good hand. Runaways?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t ask.” Arch shrugged. “If they can pay the fare, I take them.”

“I would, too,” Martin agreed.

“You know people over there?” Shank relaxed in the warmth.

“Couple I do. Couple of big farms. The farmhands might come down for an errand but mostly I stay to myself. Got a few regulars who cross once a month, but the people I see usually, I only seen them crossing once or twice.”

“What about back at the crossroads? Dry goods store. Think any of those folks are moving people through?” Martin saw the golden rays on the water outside the small window.

The sun was setting.

“No. Not any money in it,” Arch replied. “Be dark pretty fast now. If you go back, not but a mile, a small inn is there. Like I said, not many people traveling. You won’t have trouble getting rooms. Food’s good. Good stew.”

The two stood up, as did Arch. Martin shook his hand. “Thanks. If we do find those three, there will be a little something for you. Keep your eyes open, Arch.”

Arch felt a coin cool in his hand. “I will, I surely will.”

When Martin and Shank left, closing the door, Arch looked at the silver. “One dollar. Those three must be important.” He doused the fire, spread the ashes around with a fireplace rake, stepped outside, pulled up his collar, and headed for home. Only half a mile from the river on a small rise, he was glad to see it: Light shone from the front window. The wind was raw.

He opened the door. His wife, a well-padded woman, was stirring something in the pot over the fire. He walked up, taking off his worn coat, kissed her on the cheek, then held out his hand. The silver dollar shone among the coins.

“Arch.”

He smiled and sat down. Running a ferry proved hard labor and Arch wasn’t getting any younger.

“Two fellows, known them some, looking for runaways.”

“And they gave you a silver dollar?”

“And I’m going to get you that shawl you want.”

“Now, Arch, honey, it’s going to be a long, hard winter. All the signs are there. Wait until spring.”

“I want to see your pretty face against that color. What do you call that color?”

“Sapphire blue.”

He shook his head. “You’ll look”—he thought—“like the girl I married.”

She turned from her pot, laughing. “I will not.”

“You don’t have one wrinkle.”

Now she truly laughed. “Because I’m getting fat!”

They laughed together. Two people who didn’t have much but they had each other.