Douglass’ Women (22 page)

I knew Freddy, wherever he be, be seeing the same stars as me.

Days turned to weeks, to months. I began to doubt. Happiness be hard when nobody be beside you to say “good night” when shadows fall or “good morning” when the sun rise.

Laying on my pile of quilts, feeling the wet summer breezes, I thought as much as I loved him, I was not, in Freddy’s mind, the woman for him.

By fall, I thought, if Freddy truly loved me, he would’ve taken me with him. True, a sea trip would’ve been hard. True, the new baby made my stomach weak. But I would’ve done it. I did it before.

Come winter, ice crusting over everything, I wondered: why Freddy not think of Canada? Still north. But not so far. If Canada be good enough for Miz Tubman and the Underground Railroad, why ain’t it good enough for him?

Would Miz Assing have gone to Canada? Naw, I answer. Miz Assing knew I surely would’ve followed.

Mercy. I started to cry. I mustn’t think of her. Mustn’t doubt what be in my heart.

I promised to love, honor, and obey. I would. He vowed to love and honor me. So he would.

Love be true
.

In the meantime, I took in laundry. I did a good job. Earned good money. I took Rosetta everywhere. Folks gave me an extra penny because of her. Rosetta liked playing in the soap when I did laundry. She be the cleanest, sweetest baby.

Our home be our small kingdom. I left it only for work. Or church.

I learned new hymns. Songs that sweeped my spirit into the sky. Preacher wasn’t Holy Roller. He talked plain, good sense. Didn’t have as much book-learning as Freddy. But he knew one book well enough.

Local abolitionists asked me to speak. Garrison must’ve told them who and where I be. I said, “No speeches. Raising my babies be enough.” I didn’t know if they ever saw such a determined black woman as me. But I wasn’t going to change my mind. I was afraid, too, if my friends found out who my husband be, everything good in Lynn would change. Like the Bedford folks, people might start thinking: “Why’d he marry her?” “How’d this fat, dark woman get picked?” “What she got to offer famous Mister Douglass, the runaway, ex-slave man?”

Always, I kept praying for Freddy’s safety. For my own. For Rosetta’s. For the baby’s-to-be.

* * *

One spring Sabbath, I be kneading bread when the Penny-man comes. I had to buy a quarter pound of tea before he’d speak my message! Such a cheat! All the while, I excited, jumping up and down like a child.

Penny-man cleared his throat: “Dear Anna, I was sick for a while but each day I grow stronger. I be happy you married. Kiss the baby for me. Kiss the new one when he come due. Mam.”

“That all?”

Penny-man tipped his hat. “Want to send a message back?”

“I don’t have money to spare,” I shouted, angry ’cause I’d bought too much tea. I rubbed my belly, feeling guilty and sad Mam had been ill. Was it her heart? Her head?

Penny-man climbed onto his wagon.

“Come back next time,” I hollered. “Try me next time.” But what could I ever say to change the fact of my leaving … change Mam’s sickness, change the fact that I was thousands of miles away? Unlikely to see her before she died.

I crossed my hands over my face. I didn’t want Rosetta to see me cry.

Next time, I wouldn’t let Penny-man force me to buy tea. Next time, I’d save money to send to Mam. A whole dollar. Wherever Freddy be, he didn’t need my money. No message had come. No Penny-man. No money wrapped in oil paper. No marks upon a page. I thought he didn’t need me.

My baby was coming. Miz Beasley rubbed my belly with chamomile. She pressed hard against my aching back.
Rosetta, while I labored, stayed with the Pastor’s wife.

“Can I send for the father?” Miz Beasley asked.

I laughed. Then, gasped at my pain.

“A man’s needed.”

“He can’t help birth.”

“Naw. But you’re gonna need looking after. Two babies plus taking in laundry be hard.”

“I’ll survive.” I shut up as pains started rocking me off the bed. “Sweet Jesus,” I murmured. “This be worse than Rosetta.” I couldn’t help thinking I did something wrong to have so much pain.

Pain visited me for three days, two nights. It stole my breath and ran like fire along my spine, across my belly, and down my legs. Sometimes I felt like rolling up and dying. But I didn’t ’cause of Rosetta. She needed me.

Miz Beasley pushed on my stomach. Next, she pulled and pulled. Later, she put lard on her hands, saying, “It’s got to be done, Anna. Bite hard on this.”

I bit on a piece of rope. Still my screams escaped, sliding out the sides of my mouth. I must’ve fainted.

But, at first, I thought I died. I woke and the room was quiet and dark. No more waves of pain, no Miz Beasley, and my stomach be empty.
I be floating in a dark sea, floating, following after Freddy. I see his ship just out of reach. Bones rise up, two by two, singing, “Better day if you believe in Jesus.”

I did. I did believe. Freddy be Samson-man sent to pull down the pillars of my heart. Even in Heaven, in the sweet hereafter, way over yonder, I be loving Freddy. Telling him to love our children. Even the ones he didn’t see. The ones he needed to see.

“Anna.”

“Freddy?”

“Naw, Miz Beasley. You need some water, child?”

“Where’s the baby?”

“Sleeping.”

“Ain’t dead?”

“Mercy, no. You had a rough trip, but the baby’s born.”

“Rosetta?”

“At Pastor’s house. Just fine. She already been in to see you. I told her you be sleeping. She sleeps now, too.”

I licked my lips, squeezed Miz Beasley’s hand. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Hush. You did all the work.”

She left for a minute, then came back carrying a bundle in a blue blanket. “He’s hungry.”

Oh, how handsome my son be. Thick curls like his Daddy. As perfect as a child can be.

The baby bit hard on my breast. I welcomed the pain for I knew both me and my baby be alive.

“What you going to name him?”

“Frederick Bailey Douglass, Junior.”

“My word,” gasped Miz Beasley.

“My word, too. This be his son.” Then, I let myself cry—with relief, joy, sorrow, pain—all my feelings tender. Now everybody knew I was not just me. I was an abolitionist’s wife.

I cried and cried while Freddy Junior took his Mam’s milk mixed with salty tears. Miz Beasley went to fix me broth. I kissed my son’s head. I wondered whether in this world he’d get to see his Papa.

“Freedom has the sweetest taste.”

—F
REDERICK
D
OUGLASS,
IN A LETTER TO
J
ULIA
G
RIFFITHS
, 1846

“He was always free with me. Wasn’t he?”

—O
TTILIE
A
SSING,
DIARY ENTRY
, 1865

England! We arrived triumphantly as lovers. Garrison’s letters opened doors. Douglass’ brilliance opened hearts.

The
Narrative
was extremely popular. People from all walks of life clamor for Douglass’ autograph. Whether it’s a coal miner, a duke, a don at Cambridge, or a sheep farmer, all seem enamored of an intelligent slave. Douglass’ words, too, touch Englishmen’s cold hearts and, without question, they can feel superior to their one-time colonists.

Douglass was generous and gracious to all.

He dressed like a gentleman now—silk cravats, perfectly tailored evening suits, leather boots, a walking stick, and tweed jacket. I gave him a gold watch and chain to wear inside his vest. I dared to place a lock of my hair in it, dared to have it engraved:
Ottilie to Douglass. With Love
.

Sometimes I caught Douglass standing before the cheval glass, fingering his pocket watch, admiring his new form. He was truly altered from the humble slave.

He visited the finest houses, currying favor with politicians, lords and ladies. During summer parties, it was nothing to serve champagne and lobster patties, dance the quadrille, and then listen to Douglass’ fire and thunder. The newest rage.

Douglass performed an open letter to his Master. He
spoke as if Auld were present, conjuring the spirit of this evil man, bringing slavery right into aristocratic homes.

His voice filling with pathos, Douglass struck a noble pose: “Why am I a slave?”

Voices hushed; china cups and saucers quieted; and the musicians laid down their violins and bows.

“When I saw the slave driver whip a slave-woman, cut the blood out of her neck, and heard her piteous cries, I went away into the corner of the fence, wept and pondered over the mystery. I had, through some medium, I know not what, got some idea that God, the creator of all mankind, had made the blacks to serve the whites as slaves. How He could do this and be
good
, I could not tell.

“One night, sitting in the kitchen, I heard some of the old slaves talking of their parents having been stolen from Africa by white men, and were sold here as slaves. The whole mystery was solved at once. From that time, I resolved that I would someday run away.”

“Hear, hear,” guests would shout. Ladies applauded with soft gloves. Douglass fixed his eyes on a point just above his audience’s heads.

“Mr. Auld, the morality of running away, escaping your cruel legacy, I dispose of as follows: I am myself; you are yourself; we are two distinct persons, equal persons. What you are, I am. You are a man and so am I. God created both, and made us separate beings. I am not nature-bound to you, or you to me. Nature does not make your existence depend upon me, or mine to depend upon yours. I cannot walk upon your legs, or you upon mine. I cannot breathe for you, or you for me; I must breathe for myself, and you for yourself. We are distinct persons, and are each equally provided with faculties necessary to our
individual existence. In leaving you, I took nothing but what belonged to me, and in no way lessened your means of obtaining an
honest
living.”

Then Douglass would bow, ready to answer questions. But there weren’t any. Women were too moved to tears; men stretched out their arms to welcome him in brotherhood. Everyone was committed to ending America’s slavery.

Lord Devers, one evening, even dressed as he suspected a slave owner dressed. Coarse cotton, thick boots, a straw hat. A corncob pipe. He pretended to be Auld while Douglass made his speech. He sneered and stomped (a twisted parody, I thought), and the aristocrats loved it. Douglass didn’t find it offensive, so I kept quiet. Just as I kept quiet that Douglass’ speech was a rewrite of the
Narrative
’s Chapter I. Except, he’d made himself more precocious. Without a doubt, Douglass was a rhetorician par excellence.

Each evening, flushed with his success, Douglass made love to me. I had no complaints. Except for Douglass’ strict instructions that I couldn’t touch him in public, or smile, or look at him too long, or give any indication of my affection. Nor could any of my paintings of him be exhibited.

To maintain appearances, we kept separate rooms at the Park Royale. Sometimes, on purpose, I refused to sleep in my bed. I curled up on the sofa, knowing, in the morning, the hotel maids would suspect I’d spent the night on the other side of the connecting door. I didn’t do it often. Douglass would’ve been furious if he found out. Nonetheless, refusing to mess my sheets was my own small rebellion.

Garrison wrote that Auld wanted Douglass to return.
He promised better keeping, a chance for Douglass to earn more money as a slave.

In the meantime, we’re seen together in all the best places. Having ices at Gunter’s. Visiting Lord Elgin’s marbles, the British Museum, Piccadilly. Riding in Hyde Park. Douglass even had an audience with the Queen.

London

Evenings when there weren’t any speeches, Douglass and I went to the theater. Douglass was charmed by Shakespeare. The intricacies of
Henry IV
, Parts I and II,
Richard II
, and
Julius Caesar
spoke to him beyond measure. But he’d no patience for
Hamlet
.

“No man would be haunted by such indecision,” he insisted.

Romances he disdained.
As You Like It
and
Romeo and Juliet
were useless to him. Even
Othello
gave little pause. “A weak man corrupted by emotions,” said Douglass.

“What of Desdemona?”

“She should’ve held true to her own course. Othello was irrational. Not worthy.”

“Romance defies logic.”

“Why should it?”

“I thought you loved the Romantic poets.”

“I do. But that’s poetry, Ottilie. Not life.”