‘There ain’t no Johnnys in books.’ This is what George had said out in the curing shed four years earlier, just before the building on the wooden house began. Then George had said, ‘You just got to make up Johnnys.’ Ever since then, Jonathan had known just precisely what he was going to say at just precisely this minute: ‘From now on’ – and his voice betrayed none of the unexpected weakness his flesh had shown – ‘from now on,’ he said, ‘it’s Georges that got to be made up.’ Then he set off down the tracks toward Sweetbrier station.

Mr Finster watched him come into view. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘You’re covered with blood, and Missis Finster would never forgive me if I did not bend all efforts to make you appear respectable.’

An hour later the train going west appeared. Mr Finster said, ‘I’ll survey the land.’ The land surveyed, he said, ‘Third car from the caboose. Charming woman. Just talk politely.’ He took Jonathan’s hand in both of his, shook it, pulled the boy into his arms, embraced him, shook his hand again – and only then turned away. The door to the car was open. A woman stood inside cooking at her stove; a small boy clung to her dress and four small girls of various sizes sat sewing or playing at sewing in a far corner. The boxcar held furniture, the lumber to build a cabin, a cow, two pigs and a goat.

Jonathan drew in his breath. ‘May I ride with you, ma’am?’ he said.

She had a round, ruddy face and braids wrapped up in a crown on her head. She turned to look at him. ‘Whatcha got to offer, boy?’

13

How can a boy make sense of things like this? Even as bright a boy as my grandfather? Even as fiercely determined a boy – a slave no longer a slave but a Spartacus in mid-rebellion and a murderer, too? Even if they caught him, they couldn’t bring George to life again. But they weren’t going to catch him. How could they catch him? The faint hiss as the train pulled out of the station: was that the pistons all the way from the engine? The clanking: that was the link-and-pin coupling, wasn’t it? He turned abruptly to the woman next to him, the years of control over his face momentarily lost: triumph, delight and dread chased each other across it despite him.

She was cradling a small boy in her arms. ‘Runnin’ away, ain’t you?’ she said, smiling. ‘How old?’

Jonathan gestured that he was about sixteen.

‘Train don’t stop again ’til afternoon,’ she said. ‘My name’s Eliza Gowdy. This is Nathan Gowdy Junior – Netty. And over there,’ she looked at the four little girls, ‘Cassa, Carma, Levada and Lynn.’ The little girls lowered their eyes. ‘They don’t have much to keep them occupied,’ Eliza said. He sat down beside them, drew out a handful of hay from the pile that served the animals and began to twist the strands together, a few at a time. The little girls watched, peeping out at him over the small swatches of calico they held.