I kneel down next to him. “It’s not for eating.” When I dip a rag and dab it on his back, he winces and grunts. “It’ll take some of the pain and keep it from infecting,” I say.

Copper, another field slave, comes in with a bowl of gruel for Jim. “You bring him laudanum from the Big House?”

I shake my head. “This will do him fine.” Already Jim don’t grunt when I dab his back and his breathing’s easier. “You sleep here with him?” In the corner there’s a heap of pallets and it’s likely one of them is his.

Copper nods.

“Put this on his back again if he wakes up in the night.” I set the bowl down and leave the rag floating in it. “And don’t let him eat till tomorrow.” I pull leaves out of my basket. “Boil water and put this in it and let him sip on it as much as he can take.”

Copper looks over at the big man drifting off to sleep. “How you know about all that?”

I get to my feet. “I got to get back before they finish eating supper.”

Leaving the slave huts, I keep my head down and walk fast as I pass the overseer’s cabin. I ease up my step as I walk by the empty paddock where they let the horses out during the day. When I get by the coach house where the blacksmith’s got himself set up, I slow my step. He’s set hammer, tongs, bellows, leather gloves and all kinds of metal working pieces on a tidy bench against the coach house wall, while his forge and anvil sit out in the open. I reach out and run a finger along the smooth metal of the anvil as I go by. It’s warm, like he ain’t been finished long.

“You know how it works?”

I jump, pulling my hand away. When I turn, he’s standing behind me, soot dusting his clothes and a leather apron draped round his neck.

“I didn’t mean no harm,” I say.

His eyes dance and his mouth pulls crooked across his face. “If it takes me hammering on it all day long, I guess it won’t fall apart if you touch it.” He unties his leather apron and, lifting it over his head, hangs it on a peg on the coach house wall. His hand is wrapped with the same bandage I made for him out in the storm.

“Your hand any better yet?” I say.

“I’ve never had an eye for doctoring. Maybe you could take a peek.”

I pull off his bandage. His gash is closed, but it’s red and raw. I run my fingers over the line to feel how the wound’s healing. There’s a bulge where the skin’s weaving itself back together. He pulls his hand flat, making the skin stretch, showing it clear.

“Well, look at that. That’s quite some healing touch you’ve got.”

“Best to keep the air on it now.” From my basket, I pull out a flask with the water of boiled walnut husks, and I pour it over his palm.