Freeman (16 page)

“Cyrus weren’t no runaway slave.” It cut through the murmur like a wolf in a herd of sheep.

Prudence was alarmed. “Who said that?” she demanded.

In response, the crowd shifted itself around for a moment until it disgorged her, a tiny, ancient, mahogany-skinned woman. Her faced sagged in as if it was about to be sucked into her toothless mouth, her scalp peeked through the thin white crown of her hair, and she leaned on a stick for
support. But her eyes were clear for all that, and they regarded Prudence now with defiance.

“Knowed Cyrus,” she said. “Knowed him from a boy. He weren’t no runaway slave. I know you just saying what you been told. But it ain’t the truth. Ain’t even close to the truth.”

Nothing ever surprised Prudence. She prided herself on that. A thing might be unexpected, but she always rose to it, always met it head on, never let it push her back. But this…. Her mouth was open and filled with silence.

“Who was he, then?” Bonnie, still sitting atop the wagon, rescued her.

The old woman bared her gums in what Prudence supposed was intended as a smile. “He were the devil, that’s who he was.”

“I do not understand,” said Prudence.

“Expect you wouldn’t,” said the woman. “Cyrus were Marse Josh Campbell’s son.”

“He was the
master’s
son?”

“Yes’m. But ol’ Marse Campbell, he owned up to him. Lots of white mens, they wouldn’t do that, but Marse Campbell did. His wife ain’t give him nothing but daughters, you see. Seven girls. But they was this slave he owned named Ginny, she the one whose door he be knockin’ at after midnight, thinkin’ nobody know. She give him a son. And Marse Campbell, he loved that boy like he were mos’ white. His only son, you see? He ain’t never had much use for girls.”

“I see,” said Prudence. She was distantly aware of Bonnie, climbing down now from the wagon, coming to stand by her. Somehow, Bonnie always knew when she was needed.

“Sometimes, I think Cyrus thought he was mos’ white hisself. Even though he could have seen different in the mirror. Raised up in the big house, you see. Never slaved a day in his life. Now, how Mistress and all them girls felt ’bout that, livin’ up there with Marse’s black bastard son, I couldn’t tell you. Don’t think Marse much cared what no women think no way. And that boy was mean as a snake to the slaves. Mean just for the fun of it. Cussin’ at ’em, orderin’ ’em around, hittin’ ’em, siccin’ the overseer on ’em for no good cause. He even treated his own mammy that way, you hear me? She were my mammy, too, so I knew.”

“Cyrus was your brother?”

“Yes’m. I were six year old when he were born.”

“Oh, my goodness,” said Prudence. She felt ill.

“Cyrus, he near ’bout 24 when Marse Josh died. And in his will, Marse give Cyrus his freedom.” She sucked at her toothless gums. “Set him free, yes he did. Give him a piece of land and his pick of the slaves. But like I say, Cyrus ain’t knowed nothin’ ’bout handlin’ no slaves. Knowed about furniture like you say. His daddy taught him that. But he ain’t knowed nothin’ ’bout handlin’ slaves. He just like to whip on ’em, is all. Hated anything black, that boy did. Black as he was, he hated anything black.

“Finally the slaves, they got tired of it. Tried to kill him. Twice. Way I heard it, one tried to chop him with a hoe. Cut him pretty bad, then run into the woods. They ain’t never caught him. Two weeks later, somebody took a shot at Cyrus. Nobody know to this day who done it. But that when Cyrus decided he had enough. He hired hisself a caretaker to run the place and skedaddled up to the North. That’s the last I heard of him til you just ride up here now. And I’m sure you mean well, Miss, but I want you to know, Cyrus weren’t runnin’ from no slave catcher. He were runnin’ from
slaves
.”

Prudence’s thoughts spun like a wheel on a muddy road, seeking traction and unable to find it. The kindness of Cyrus Campbell, the compassion of a genial colored man who took in a frightened little boy who had nowhere else to go, was the story on which her family was founded. She supposed nothing the old woman said changed that story. It had not become a lie. Yet at the same time, it was no longer quite the truth. The gentle benefactor was a cruel slaver who had victimized his own. And if he was no longer what she had believed him to be, how could the Caffertys still be what they were? Cyrus Campbell’s good deed was the reason the Caffertys were who they were and did what they did. But apparently the thing she had thought bedrock was really only sand.

“No reason for you to know,” said the woman, as if Prudence had spoken her confusion aloud. Pity softened the deep lines of the old woman’s face. She regarded Prudence for a moment, then looked beyond her. “So, this gon’ be a school, then?”

Bonnie answered for her. “Yes,” she said, “this will be a school. Though I am no longer sure it will have Mr. Campbell’s name on it.” There was satisfaction in the old woman’s laugh.

“What y’all gon’ do ’bout them cots in there?” This was the man with the burning eyes.

“Cots?” asked Prudence. “What cots?”

“In the war,” said the man, “the rebs used this place. Made it a hospital for they wounded. When the feds come, they ’vacuated out in a hurry, left all them cots in there. We feared to touch ’em, ’cause we ain’t knowed if the rebs might come back. So them cots been in there, I guess, two years or more.”

“Show me,” said Prudence.

The man shouldered forward through the crowd, went to the loading door, and pushed the handles in the center. The two sides of the massive door fell inward, hinges creaking in complaint. Hot, stale air rolled out, covering the street like a blanket.

The space Prudence and Bonnie stepped into was cavernous. And just as the man had said, the light that entered from the windows at the top of the wall just below the ceiling fell in stripes across four endless rows of cots, all with bedding in disarray. The sight of them whispered a story: men had lain there and there and there, bandages on their heads, bloody stumps where their arms and legs had been, the air rent with their dying cries. The floor was strewn with clothing, most of it stiff and brown with blood, and with saws, books, pencils, pipes, glasses. There was a bucket in the center of the floor. It was filled with feet and hands, some of them already gone to bone, others with scraps of flesh still attached.

In unison, Prudence and Bonnie crossed themselves. Bonnie said, “My sweet Jesus.” Then a rat, gray as rainclouds, waddled out from shadow. It stood in the light near the skeletal hands, lifted its head, watching them. Prudence was seized with the sudden queasy realization that the missing flesh of the dead limbs had not simply decomposed. After a moment, the rat scuttled heavily away, disappearing beneath a stairwell that climbed up from the warehouse floor to a loft and what had once been a suite of offices.

“We shall have need of a cat,” said Bonnie, standing beside her.

Prudence shivered. “We shall have need of a great many things,” she said.

She had thought herself prepared, had thought they would sweep some floors, knock down some cobwebs, have the school open in a matter of days. Now she knew she’d had no idea of the difficulty that awaited her. And she had only been here 20 minutes. Twenty minutes, and everything had changed. What would it be like after 20 days?

“Miss, where you want us to put your things?” The drivers were standing in the warehouse door, just back of the crowd.

Prudence said, “In here, I suppose.”

The man grunted and, with his partner, got to work unloading the wagons. There were a dozen crates, all bearing unassembled desks from Campbell & Cafferty. There were several trunks filled with books. There were clothing and personal effects. All of it to be stacked into the musty space with—it dawned on her all at once—not even a lock on the door.

“So,” said the black man with the livid eyes, “What you gon’ do with them cots?”

Prudence stirred. “Discard them, I suppose.”

“Discard? You mean throw ’em out?”

“Or we could give them away, Miss Prudence,” said Bonnie, her tone one of helpful deference that irked Prudence’s ears and made her glance over. But there was no deference in her friend’s eyes. Instead, Bonnie’s eyes implored her. She understood the message.
Take charge. Take charge or everything is lost
. This crowd was judging her in this moment and the success or failure of everything they were here to do rested upon what happened now. Who would believe in her or her school if they thought her only a ditherer, made helpless by every surprise, reversal or misfortune?

“What is your name?” she asked the man with the fiery eyes.

He smiled the easy, beneficent smile of someone who has won a victory and can afford to be magnanimous. And Prudence realized he knew what she was about to ask and had been waiting for it. “My name Paul, ma’am. Paul Cousins.”

“Paul, I need a man to help me get this building together, dispose of these cots, find a mouser—no, two—to get rid of the rats, clean up the place, and then help to maintain it. Would you like the job?”

He grinned, made a show of scratching his chin. “Well, ma’am, that’s right nice of you to offer, but I don’t know.”

Prudence smiled a cutting smile. He had overplayed his hand. “Very well,” she said. “Is there another man who would like to earn two dollars a day?”

Every man’s hand bolted into the air at this. The offer was twice the going rate. Paul Cousins panicked, his hands coming up in a gesture that begged her to wait. “Ma’am, I ain’t said I don’t want the job.”

Prudence was aware of Bonnie turning aside to hide a smile. “Well, do you or do you not?” she asked Cousins.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. “I do. I do indeed.”

“Then I shall expect you to start first thing tomorrow. I will see you here and we will work out details.”

She addressed herself then to the mass of them. “We are going to begin classes here one week from today at eight o’clock in the morning. As I told you a moment ago, I am Mrs. Prudence Kent and this is Bonnie. We will be offering instruction in reading and arithmetic initially, with other subjects to be added. We will teach any and all who wish to learn. My father believed with all his heart that the enslavement of your people was an evil crime, in part because it deprived you of your God-given right to educate and better yourselves. Now that the war for your freedom is over, we are here—
I
am here—in hopes of restoring that right to as many as want to seek it. If you would allow it, we would like to be your teachers. Those who agree to that, please signify it by raising your hand.”

A little boy was the first, his hand shooting into the air, straining toward the ceiling. Then one by one, other hands joined his: men, women, little boys, little girls, some shooting up in the air like fireworks, some rising hesitantly as if weighted down. In the gloom of the old warehouse, hands kept going up.

Prudence said, “Bonnie, would you please get some paper and take down their names?”

Bonnie gave her a look and Prudence knew she was feeling it, too, despite herself. Satisfaction. A sense that somewhere, John Matthew Cafferty was proud.

“Y’all gon’ need a place to stay.” To Prudence’s surprise, the old woman was at her elbow.

“I suppose you are right,” said Prudence.

They had thought to sleep in the offices upstairs; one of the crates from Campbell & Cafferty contained cots and bedding. But she wouldn’t sleep in here until the place had been cleansed of rats and ghosts.

“Y’all stay with me,” said the woman. “Since my sister died, I got a extra room. My house just a few doors down. It’s the one with the flower garden out front. Probably not nice as you used to, but it keep the rain off. You come on when you finish here. I’ll have supper for you.”

“Thank you,” said Prudence. “I shall be pleased to pay you for your trouble.”

The woman shook her head emphatically. “No,” she said, pointing to where Bonnie stood surrounded by people waiting to give her their names. “The way you pay me is: you put my name on that list. I wants to learn, too.”

The sparkle in her eyes made Prudence smile. She was so old. How much longer could she expect to live? A year or two? Five maybe? But she wanted to spend those years seeking what she had been denied all her life. The dignity of her own humanity. She would learn vowels and consonants and numbers and calculations, the knowledge that proved she was not and never had been the dumb beast of burden she had so long been assumed to be.

Prudence had thought she had some notion of what it would mean, bringing education to former slaves. She realized now she’d had no idea. When it came to so many things, she’d had no idea. And for the first time in her life, she felt the simple contentment that comes from knowing bone deep that you are where you were meant to be, doing what you were meant to do.