“What is it, old man?” Oliver leaned in.
“Perhaps Mrs. Younger could go inside so I, with your help, if I could just . . .”
Oliver finally understood the problem. “Polly, my dear, if you’d excuse us, Mr. Cornelius and I will be just a moment.”
As soon as she left, Oliver hoisted Cornelius up and supported him as he hopped a few feet toward the woods and left him leaning against a tree to do his business.
Cornelius cleared his throat to signal that he was done, and Oliver helped him back to where Polly had set a pallet out under a tree. After Oliver left for work, she brought him a piece of cold corn bread and a cup of cider.
“I’m afraid I haven’t much more to offer till dinner,”
she said. “Oliver brings us fish for supper and whatever else he can pick up that’s not too dear. My garden didn’t do so well,” she said, ducking her head. “I couldn’t get to the watering in the last few weeks of my confinement and Judy was watching at Mrs. Cook’s every day. Ollie was busy looking after Natty and me and, well, we lost the beans and squashes. I think we’ll save the turnips and pumpkins.”
“Thank you, Missus,” said Cornelius, chewing the bread. “This is plenty. Thank you kindly.”
Polly went indoors to nurse the baby and set some clothes on to boil. She returned after a while with a bowl of water and some cloths. “I don’t have poultices or anything like that, but I could clean you up a little. It might make you feel better.”
She spoke in tones she might use with a child and Cornelius bristled, wondering if she thought he was stupid.
But her hands were so gentle as she draped a cool cloth over his ankle; a sigh of relief escaped him.
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“Better?”
He nodded. “Thank you, Missus.”
The knee was not so easy to get at. Polly’s attempt to roll the trouser up hurt so much that she finally said,
“I think you must remove your britches, Mr. Cornelius.”
She went inside and returned with a thin blue quilt, turning aside while Cornelius struggled to get free of his pants.
After an agony of twisting and pulling, he finally got them off and lay back, panting and bathed in sweat.
“Oh dear,” said Polly, looking at his knee, which was twice the size it should have been. The compress helped a little, but as the day wore on, Cornelius felt the joint get stiffer and hotter. He pretended to sleep so Polly would leave him to his despair: a lame old African on his own might as well be dead.
Oliver returned bearing more than his usual number of bundles. After handing Polly a large fillet of mangled cod and a few carrots, he sat down beside Cornelius and fidgeted with a burlap sack. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, old man.
I went over to see Somes to warn him that you’d had a spill and might be a few days. But I saw his wife first and when I told her what happened, she said . . .” Oliver stopped. He would not repeat what she’d said. “She claims Mr. Somes had already decided to . . .”
Cornelius saved him the trouble of lying. “I won’t be going back there.”
“She gave me your things,” Oliver said, handing him the bag. “Maybe you can talk to Jacob when you’re up and about.” The two men sat in silence until Natty toddled over and climbed onto his father’s lap.
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“How’s my boy?” he whispered, nuzzling his fine blond hair.
After a while, Polly laid an old sheet on the ground and set their dinner on it. “It’s so much cooler out here,” she said,