Soulcatcher: And other stories

Soulcatcher

IN THAT BOSTON MARKET on a Thursday in 1853, there were two men, one black, one white, who were as intimately bound, in a way, as brothers, or perhaps it was better to say they were caught in a macabre dance, one that stretched from rural South Carolina to Massachusetts over a period of three long months of hiding, disguises, last-minute escapes, name changes, and tracking leads that led nowhere until it brought them both here to the bustling open-air market perched near the waterfront on a summer afternoon.

They were weary, these two. Hunter and Hunted.

The Hunter paused just at the periphery of the market, breathing in the salt-laced air, looking at the numerous stands filled with freshly baked bread, a variety of vegetables, fish caught earlier that day, and handicrafts — wood carvings, colorful quilts, and hand-sewn leather garments-sold by black and white Bostonians alike. The Negroes, he noticed, including the one he was looking for, had set up their stands toward the rear of the market, separating themselves from the others. A gnarled, little merchant with a Scottish brogue, and wearing a yeoman's cap and burnoose, suddenly pulled at the sleeve of the Hunter's jacket. He pointed with his other hand at boots on the table beside him. Irritated, the Hunter shook loose his arm from the merchant's grasp, then moved on a few paces through the crowded market, tilting down his hat brim a bit to hide his face, and positioned himself to one side of a hanging display of rugs. From there he could see the Negro he wanted but was not himself in plain view. He reached into a pocket sewn inside his ragged, gypsy cloak, felt around his pistol — a Colt.31—and his fingers closed on a folded piece of paper. The Hunter withdrew it. He opened it slowly, as he'd done nearly a hundred times in the last three months in dozens of towns in North Carolina, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York, in daylight and dark, when the trail he was following went cold and he sat before a campfire, wondering how long it would be before he would collect his bounty. The paper had been folded and creased so often a few of the words on it were feathery. In the upper right-hand corner he saw the long-dried stain of dark blood — his brother Jeremiah's — and below it this notice:

RUN away from Charlotte on Sunday, a Negro slave named fRANK, well known about the Country as a craftsman, has a scar on one of his Wrists, and has lost one or more of his fore Teeth; he is a very resourceful Fellow, skilled as a smithy and saddle-maker, loves Drink, and is very often in his Cups, but surly and dangerous when sober. Whither he has run to, I cannot say, but I will offer $200 to have him returned to me. He can read and write.

AAPRIL 2,1853 JUBAL CATTON

From where he stood, the Hunter had a side view of a black craftsman seated before a table of wood carvings, talking to a nearby old Negress selling fish and a balding black man hawking produce. The Hunter was sure this was Frank. When last he'd seen him — just outside Norfolk — he was wearing Lowell pants and a jerkin. Today he was dressed better in a homespun suit. Under the table, he noticed, there was a flask, which the Negro occasionally lifted to his lips, then slid back out of sight. For a time, the Hunter was content simply to study him. He didn't want to rush. That's what Jeremiah always told him: You move too quick, you'll startle the prey. When the moment's right to move, you'll know. Now that he nearly had Frank trapped, the Hunter wished his brother could be there, at the market, for the catch. But Jeremiah was back in Charleston. Blind. When Frank bolted from Jubal Catton's farm, he'd stolen his master's Walker.44, and when they found him hiding in a barn, Frank fired at Jeremiah's face from five feet away, missing him — the nigger was a bad shot — but the blast seared his brother's eyes. Yes, thought the Hunter. He wished like hell Jeremiah was here now. They both still wanted that reward. But this runaway had made the hunt personal. During the first month he pursued Frank, his intent was to kill him. Then, as the weeks drew on, he realized slavery was worse than death. It was a little bit of death every day. It was even worse than being blind.

He would take him back, the Hunter decided. Jeremiah'd want it that way.

The Hunted reached under his table, grabbed the bottle by its neck, then drank just enough to take away the dryness in his throat. He never knew exactly why, but for some reason he'd always fought better drunk than sober. And it looked like he had a fight coming now, though he had thrown away his master's gun and had nothing to defend himself with but his bare hands. He thought, All right, if that's the way it has to be. He'd seen the white man — his name was Clement Walker — the moment he entered the market, or rather his nerves had responded, as they always did, when a soulcatcher was close by. He could smell them the way a rabbit did a hound. It was the way they looked at colored people, he supposed. Most whites didn't bother to look at you at all, like you were invisible. Or as unimportant as a fence post. Or if they were afraid of you, they'd look away altogether. But not soulcatchers. They wanted to see your face. Match it with a description on a wanted poster. Oh yes, they looked. Real hard.

That was how he'd spotted the Hunter. But he didn't need that sixth sense anymore to recognize Walker. The Hunted rubbed his left shoulder, massaging the spot where the Hunter had months ago left a deep imprint of his incisors — this, during their tussle after he shot at Jeremiah Walker. No question he'd know Clement anywhere. The man was in his dreams or — more precisely — his nightmares since he left his master's farm. Not a day passed when Frank didn't look over his shoulder, expecting him to be there, holding a gun in one hand and manacles in the other. It was almost as if he was inside Frank now, the embodiment of all his fears.

His first instinct had been to flee when he saw him, but Lord, he felt tired of running. Of being alone. That he'd not counted on when he ran for freedom: the staggering loneliness. The suspicions. The constant living in fear that he might be taken back to the tortures of slavery at any time. For months, he'd been afraid to speak to anyone. Every white man was a potential enemy. No Negro could be fully trusted either. But along the way he'd been fortunate. More so than many fugitives. He met white ministers who were conductors for the Underground Railroad, men who fronted as his master long enough for him to traverse the states of North Carolina and Virginia; and here, in Boston, he'd found free blacks — the very portrait of Christian kindness and self-sacrifice — willing to risk their own lives to help him. They were deeply religious, these Negroes. Lambs of Jesus, he thought at first. They put him up in their homes, fed him, provided him with clothes and a fresh start. Even helped him pick a new name. Jackson Lee was the one he used now. And he deployed those many skills he'd learned as a slave, plus his own God-given talent, to rebuilding his life from scratch. At least, until now.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Hunter moving closer, circling round toward the front of the market, keeping the waterfront at Frank's back, to cut him off if he tried to run. This time the Hunted decided, no. He would stay, dying here among free black people. He'd been to their churches, heard their preachers say no man should fear death because the Son of God conquered that for all time. And no man could be enslaved, they said, if he was prepared to die.

The Hunter stopped in front of his table. He looked over the carvings, picked up one of a horse, and examined it, the faintest of smiles on his lips. "You do right fine work"

"Thank you."

"I once knew a fellah in Charleston was almost as good as you."

"That so?"

"Um-huh.' The Hunter put the carving down. 'Nigger named Frank. I don't suppose you know his work, do you?"

"No," he shook his head. "Never been to Charleston. Lived here my whole life. "Vbu kin ask anybody here 'bout that." He tilted his head toward the balding man, then at the old black woman selling fish. "Ain't that so?" sir." The balding man held out his hand at waist-level, his palm facing down. "I been knowin' Jackson since he was yea-high."

The old woman chimed in, "That's right. He belong to my church."

The Hunter's eyes narrowed, he looked at both of them irritably, said, "I think you two better mind your own damned business," then he swung his gaze back toward the Hunted. "I ain't here to play games with you, Frank."

"My name is Jackson Lee."

"Right, and I'm Andrew Jackson."

Slowly, the Hunter withdrew his pistol. His arm bent, close to his side, he pointed the barrel at the Hunted. "Get up."

Frank sat motionless, looking down the black, one-eyed barrel. "No."

"Then I'll shoot you, nigger. Right here."

"Guess you'll have to do that then."

The old woman said, "Mister! You don't have to do that!"

"Naw," the balding man pleaded. "He from round here!"

Frowning, the Hunter took a deep breath. "I told y'all to shut up and stay out of this! It ain't your affair!"

In the market there came first one shot, shattering the air. By the time the second exploded, merchants and patrons were screaming, scattering from the waterfront like windblown leaves, tipping over tables that sent potatoes, cabbages, and melons rolling into the street. When the thunderous pistol reports subsided, leaving only a silence, and the susurration of wind off the water, the only figures left in the debris of broken displays and stands were the Hunter — he was sprawled dead beneath a rug he'd pulled to the ground as he fell — and the Hunted. There were also his new friends: The black fish woman. The balding man. Both were members of Boston's chapter of the Liberty Association, devoted to killing bounty hunters on sight. The balding man was Frank's minister. The fish woman was the minister's mother. They were the ones who'd taken him in. Helped him set up his stall in the market And they were much better shots than he was.

It was good, thought Frank, to have friends — hunters in their own right — like these.