Hunting Midnight (53 page)

By now I had been alerted to the seriousness of my wound by an incessant throbbing in my shoulder and elbow. My left hand had grown cold and my shirt was drenched with blood, but I couldn’t think about that now. We had to get away.

Parker, Crow, Frederick, and Taylor carried Weaver’s body to the gate of River Bend. Martha had said that she would much prefer for him to be buried outside the grounds of the plantation. The men took turns digging. By the river, the soil was easily dislodged. We buried him in his clothes, without a shroud. I said the Jewish prayer for the dead over him – the
kaddish.

With the rope we had left to us, we then bound the wrists of all the escapees. We started with the men and ended with the women, tying them tightly together, so that anyone seeing us on the road would believe that they were my prisoners.

I walked at the back. We would tell any patrols we met that I was marching them to Charleston for sale. I apologized to Morri for binding her, but she said, “If it gets me up North, you can put a bit in my mouth and brand me.”

Martha’s sobbing would not cause any suspicion, Morri told me, as it was not uncommon to see women crying on these forced marches to market.

And so we made ready to walk away from River Bend forever, leaving Crow, Lily, and Grandma Blue behind. Crow shook my hand and said, “Be very careful now, Mr. John.”

“And you go slow,” I told him.

In a solemn fashion, he closed the gate behind us, then headed back to the Big House with his arm over Lily’s shoulder.

After three miles, I was too depleted from loss of blood to go on. I remember Morri standing over me, but I could not take another step. My spirit had fled. I must have been delirious as well; I was sure I could hear Esther playing Bach on her violin.

Morri began speaking, but I could not understand her. I realized from her gestures that she wanted me to untie her, which I was only barely able to do.

There were many things I should have liked to tell her about her father just then, as I did not want to leave her with any unanswered questions after I was gone. But I did not have the strength. Instead, I told her about Mama’s gold coins sewn inside the lining of my waistcoat. She was to bribe whomever she had to in order to escape.

I instructed her to please apologize to my daughters and my mother for me. She was to simply leave me where I sat in the dirt, because I could not go on. And she was to take her father’s feather and not let it go.

She was begging me to keep going, but I told her that it did not matter. I was not sad. True, there was much I still would have liked to do, but I would make do with dying as well as I could – lying on my back and looking up at the Archer. All that concerned me now was that she find freedom.

After that I remember being seated with Benjamin and
another
man in his cellar. This other man had a long beard. He was reading to me from the Jewish mystical book, the Zohar. And what he said was this:

These
are
the
high
colors,
hidden
and
glowing
…

I asked him his name. He said it was Berekiah Zarco and that he had journeyed across three centuries to find me. All would be well. He would see me safely to the Promised Land.

Then he held his hand over me and began to whisper prayers, including the protective ones that Benjamin had given me when I’d last seen him in Porto.

LIV

Everything
Had
Always
Been
Waiting

A
n hour and a half into our journey, John started talking to himself. It was in Portuguese, so I didn’t get one darn word of it. Then he seemed to be speaking to his father, because he said the word
Papa
several times. He kept touching the feather my papa had given him to his eyes, like it was the only thing keeping him awake.

Later, when he stumbled, I discovered that his face was all sweaty and his eyes dull. Even just by the light of the moon, I could see him fading fast. I asked him if he wanted to stop for a while. I’d fetch him some water from somewhere. He didn’t hear me. He looked past me, and whatever he was seeing wasn’t anywhere near to South Carolina.

Then, after another mile, he fell on the ground, panting like there was a hole in his lungs. He said he couldn’t go on, that he was heavier than the whole rest of the world. I told him he was going to live if he’d just keep on going. Maybe I didn’t exactly believe that, but there are some times when you just got to give other folks encouragement. He said that he was not afraid of dying. He wished to just look at the sky and see my papa’s hunters. That would be enough. That and me making it up North.

The last thing he did before losing consciousness was thank me. It took me a whole day to realize that he was thinking just like my papa, and he wasn’t thanking only me. No, sir, I think he was thanking the world for everything he’d ever lived.

Some of the slaves were ready to leave him there, but I said I wasn’t taking another single step without him. “He may be a white man,” I told them, “but he’s got a memory. And that’s a precious thing I don’t aim on losing tonight.”

I undid everyone’s ropes, since that ruse was useless as dirt to us now. Frederick, Taylor, Parker, and Lawrence lifted John up and took turns carrying him two at a time. I don’t know how they did it, but those good black men carried him another seven or eight miles down the road.

No nigger fate blew the wind the wrong direction toward the patrols. No, sir. Not a single staring white face gaped at us from a gate or doorway. The planters were all either snoring away in their feather beds or up-country avoiding the sickly season. And sure enough, Captain Ott had kept his word. At Petrie’s
Landing
, three rowboats peered out of the marsh grasses at us like they’d been waiting forever for us to make up our minds to leave. Mimi ran to them and nearly fell in the water. I guess she wanted to make sure they were real. We all did.

We lay John on his back in the largest of the boats. His pulse was as weak as a whisper. I wished Papa was there to help him. Or at least to hold his hand while he died.

We rowed as fast as we could. Twice, our boat and one of the others got stuck in some mud. Then the boat that Backbend, Lucy, and Hopper-Anne were in hit something, popped a leak, and started sinking. They were screeching something awful. We rowed to them and pulled them in our boat before they drowned, but it was close. And maybe someone had heard them too.

Fifty yards from the
Landmark,
one of the British sailors spotted us. Then they lowered down a couple of rope ladders that we had to climb up. They were forced to tie John under his shoulders with ropes to haul him onto deck. Captain Ott met us there and shook each of our hands like we were coming to his house for Christmas dinner. I begged him to get the ship’s surgeon for John. I handed him the coins from the lining of John’s waistcoat.
But he patted my shoulder and told me to keep them for our new lives.

While the surgeon was operating on John in a small room below deck, we headed out to sea. John’s screams made me feel sick. Pacing outside the door where they were sewing him up, I had to sit right on the ground or risk falling over. A black sailor named Richardson, from a place called Hull, took me up to the deck, where I could breathe freer.

I guess those British folks had never seen so many black men, women, and children all together. They stared at us as if we’d been shipwrecked on a desert island our whole lives. And maybe they were right.

I sat by John’s bedside that night. I slept some, but I preferred being awake, because my dreams all seemed burnt at the edges.

He didn’t stir from his slumber, and I didn’t dare touch him, but I thought that if I whispered to him it might pull him back to us – back to life. So I told him some of the stories that Papa had entrusted to me and that he might have even heard before, when he was a boy. I was hoping that Mantis could save him, even if the surgeon and I couldn’t.

I thought that being free would fill me with joy, but I don’t think I was ever so tired as I was over those next days heading up to New York. I was weighted down with all the muddy soil of River Bend, clinging to every part of me.

In the early afternoon of our first full day at sea, John woke up, but he was real groggy. I made him drink a glass of water and eat some bread, since those were the surgeon’s orders. That evening his pulse started racing and his face was so hot I thought he’d burn to ash. At times, he got the chills too. When we were left alone I did what my papa used to do with me and spooned up behind him in his bed.

On our second day out to sea, his left arm grew
gangrenous,
the surgeon said. When I got a look at Dr. Brampton’s saw, I knew I hadn’t the stomach for what they were going to do to him, but
there was no other way to save him. John’s screams could have shattered all the glass in all the churches of South Carolina and still flown over the border with enough force to break all the crystal bowls in Georgia too.

I wasn’t allowed to see him that day, so it was only the next morning I could go in. From the way he looked at me, I could see he was back with the living. “Are we free?” he whispered. He spoke as if he didn’t dare believe we’d made it.

He made me cry – because there he was without an arm and he’d used the word
we.

John wanted to talk after that, as a way of forgetting what had happened to him, I think. So while he lay back in bed, we spoke about all sorts of things, including who might have betrayed us. I told him about Beaufort and the two men who’d helped us get our arms, Mr. Trevor and Mr. Rollins. He had a hard time believing that a Negro or mulatto would betray us.

“I don’t know about that,” I replied. “There’s plenty of us who just want to look good in a white man’s eyes.”

John said that Mr. Trevor might have needed to confide in a good many folks in order to get us our guns. Any one of them might have betrayed us and earned a few coins for his trouble.

One thing was for sure. Master Edward must have known for at least a few days what we had in mind. Maybe even for weeks. That was why he enjoyed having me flogged so much. He was getting revenge before the fact.

We reached New York Harbor two days later. John was fighting the pain as best he could but still couldn’t walk by himself, so Captain Ott had sailors carry him off the boat and put him in a carriage bound for his friend Violeta’s house. The rest of us walked behind. We had no bags, no money, no map. The folks in New York stared fierce at us, worse even than the British, and they whispered too. We were looking at them – and at the brick buildings, and at the carriages, and at the low gray sky, and at
the church spires, and at one another – as if this was all impossible.

But it was possible, sure enough. By this time, the astonishing thing wasn’t that we’d made it up North, but that New York had been here the whole fifteen years I’d lived at River Bend, just waiting for me to come. Everything had always been waiting.

LV

W
hen I woke to myself, I tumbled into a panic so wide and deep that I thought it would swallow me whole and never give me up. How would I go on without an arm?

I kept very still, but I knew that wishing to be the man I had been was useless – there was no magic that would take me back to that time.

The ache of not being whole made me so sick that I had to reach for my basin. Thankfully I was alone, so no one heard my sobs. I muffled them with my pillow, rocking back and forth like a child.

Morri came to me while I was in this fragile and confused state. I gripped her hand and asked if we were truly free, since that was the only thing I could think of that might make my loss
worthwhile
. She said we were, and she lifted my hand to her cheek. I was moved that she had come to trust me, but I was so envious of her completeness of body that I could no longer look her straight in the eyes.

After she left me and I had another good cry, I decided to try to imitate a man with two able arms. Over the next days at sea, despite the constant waves of pain breaking over my shoulder, I smiled while conversing with Morri, Captain Ott, and the amiable crew, as though my stump were but a superficial wound. I lifted my glass to the surgeon and thanked him heartily for his swift work on my behalf. I knew this was a lie I’d pay for sooner or later, but I could not show them my true feelings for fear of going mad with grief.

It was a tremendous relief, of course, that Mother would not have to visit my grave, that my girls still had one of their parents. Yet I knew I should have to rethink a great many things about
my life. And though I expressed my heartfelt thanks to Morri and the others when she told me how I had been carried by the slaves to the rowboats for the journey downriver, a shadowy part of me cursed everything and everyone.

Whenever any of the refugees came to visit me in my cabin, I wondered what being out of River Bend meant to them. Most spoke in happy voices, but they were plainly frightened of the prospect of a life where their own choices would command their destinies. Morri dropped my gold coins into my hand, saying that she’d not been obliged to offer any bribes.

Martha and her sons were disconsolate about having lost their beloved Weaver, and they only appeared in my cabin twice, to express their regret at my having been wounded and to join the celebration hosted by Captain Ott on our last night at sea. At our party, little Mimi asked if my arm had been given a proper burial. I did not know, I told her, but I hoped it was at peace wherever it was. Later, the surgeon told me it had been tossed overboard.

Sitting with Morri, I often pondered the mystery of Midnight’s disappearance. “We will start looking for your papa as soon as we get to New York,” I assured her.

“I’m afraid he’s dead, John. We have to face it.”

“No!” I shouted, letting my emotions escape my rigid control for a moment. “If he’s dead … if he’s dead, then why have I lost my arm? It can’t be!”

I was screaming so loud that Morri called for help. The surgeon came in and forced two spoonfuls of medicine into me. I fell into a slumber in which my regrets seemed to seep into everything around me. In one dream, Daniel and I were at the bird market in Porto. He said that my having only one arm was why I’d been unable to save him from drowning. When we returned to my home to eat supper with my parents, we realized we’d made a mistake: Our house looked more like a dank cave. We didn’t know where we were. Then Daniel said we were in the belly of a giant beast –
half-lion
, half-bird. We heard the wind howling outside, and we
knew we were flying, but we could not see where we were going.

My shame made me wish to lock my door the closer we came to New York, for I’d soon have to face Violeta. I regretted now not having made love with her before, as a whole man.

There are some women who are all efficiency when faced with the difficulties of others, and Violeta proved herself to be one of these gifted individuals from the moment I appeared on her doorstep. After her first gasp of horror at my misfortune, her great jade eyes awash with tears, she transformed herself into my nurse. “You are home now,” she said, bending down to kiss my brow, “and I shall see you well if it is the last thing I do.”

It’s difficult for me to speak about the initial relationships Violeta established with the former slaves of River Bend, since over those first three weeks I was largely confined to my room. I could not help but notice, however, that Morri became taciturn and fidgety whenever she and Violeta found themselves with me at the same time. I could see in the girl’s worried face that she had sensed the clash of emotions inside our hostess.

Whenever she or Violeta would ask about my feelings, I would lie, speaking of the amputation as insignificant compared with the suffering of those in slavery. Morri was reluctant to give her opinion but finally said, “I don’t reckon miseries can be
compared
, John. When I was at River Bend, it didn’t make me feel any better knowing there were white families that were also
dirt-poor
and stuck living in places they hated. I made believe it helped, sure enough – we all did – but it didn’t help at all.”

Four long and intimate letters from Mama, Fiona, and my daughters were waiting for me upon my return. Thankfully, all was well in London. Seeing their handwriting made me tremble with longing, and I assured them that I was well in my replies. To avoid later criticism from my mother, I did note that I’d had a
wee
mishap
in South Carolina. I said nothing more,
since bad tidings would only act as a summons, and I could not face my mother in my present state. As soon as I decided my next move, I wrote, I would send instructions to Esther and Graça. I warned them that I might soon be asking them to join me in New York.

There were times over the next fortnight of loneliness and physical discomfort when I was one heartbeat from begging Violeta to hold me or let me see her without her bonnet. But she never descended to her garden in the night as on my previous visit. If she had, I might have hobbled down the stairs to her and settled at her feet like Fanny. Outside, under the stars, I think I’d have been able to speak the truth.

What started me on a healthier road was a startling
correspondence
I received from Isaac and Luisa. Aside from news of their family and colorful drawings of woodpeckers done by Noodle and Hettie, it contained an article from the
Charleston
Courier
that characterized our flight to freedom not as an escape but as a
foul
and
grotesque
series of murders committed by the
ghost
of River Bend, who had been discovered – after all these years – to be Mr. Johnson the overseer! The reasoning behind this bold conclusion went as follows:

The body of Edward Roberson, Master of River Bend, had been found in one of the barns at River Bend, a knife in his neck. This was, of course, precisely how both Big and Little Master Henry were killed. Hence, the same villain must have been responsible. Additionally, Mr. Davies, an overseer at Comingtee Plantation, had died from a deep bayonet wound in his chest. It was written in the article that his presence at River Bend had been requested by Edward Roberson, as he had suspected his own overseer of plotting against him.

Mr. Johnson’s body had been found outside the First Barn, a bullet in his temple. This wound was apparently self-inflicted, since he gripped a pistol in his hand. His jaw had been broken, as though in a struggle with his employer, Mr. Roberson. Both men
had scrapes on their elbows and knees, possibly resulting from a fistfight. Mr. Roberson also had a nasty gash on his head, likely the result of a pistol-whipping given him by the murderous overseer.

The article affirmed that Mr. Johnson had undoubtedly taken his own life after killing Edward Roberson and the other
overseer
. Two Negro foremen had also been killed, likely for
remaining
loyal to Master Edward.

“
Their
affection
to
him
was
as
to
a
father,”
Mistress Anne had told the
Courier.

As to a motive, it was suggested that these were crimes of mad passion and greed. Mr. Johnson had been rumored for many years to be in love with Mistress Holly, the wife of Big Master Henry, the former owner. He had apparently sought to do away with Henry and his son in order to take control of both River Bend and its mistress. In his maniacal and unbalanced mind, he had imagined Edward Roberson as the last impediment to his plans to take control of the plantation.

There was no mention made of Joanne, Wiggie, and the other slaves we’d locked in the First Barn. Presumably, their lives had been spared.

In his letter to me, Isaac asked whether any of what was written in the article was true or if it was a concoction of the white authorities.

I found it all a tangled confusion and read it over many times, as though it were in a foreign language. Morri showed greater insight, telling me that the authorities would never have wanted it known that there had been a successful escape from a
plantation
. Such tidings would have struck fear in all the white residents of the South. In consequence, the planters and police had fabricated this story. Better have it known that it was a simple crime of passion and avarice than a successful Negro flight to the North.

“But how can they keep our escape a secret?” I asked her.

“They can’t. But if they don’t admit it happened, then the slaves will think of it only as a rumor and the white folks as a damnable lie. I’d reckon that’s how all our history is going to be written.”

It occurred to me then that similar unreported rebellions must have happened many times before, on plantations across the South. To this, Morri said, “I don’t expect there will be any record of any group of slaves having beaten them. Not a single printed page.”

So alert of mind did she prove on this and other occasions that I often shook my head in amazement at her being only fifteen years old. In my talks with her over the next few days about River Bend, I began to think of her as a friend – and truly her father’s daughter. Her presence, more than anything else, gave me back my true smile and voice, and I was pleased that when she looked at me now it was with affection.

We talked quite a few times about what she wanted to do with her life. I favored finding her a private tutor in history,
philosophy
, music, and other essential subjects, with the end goal of preparing her for a university education. But she believed I was getting far ahead of myself. She said she wished for something simple: to earn her keep. She’d always enjoyed embroidering, and together we thought of the possibility of her making clothing on consignment, as Francisca had.

I saw in her eyes that that would not have pleased her much. Thinking like Midnight, I said, “Just walk around the city. See what there is to see and it will come to you. I know it.”

Then, while I had her fond attention, I risked yet one more tumble with my heart and told her that I was hoping to adopt her. As she might have agreed to this simply to thank me for helping her escape from River Bend, I took both her hands in my one, squeezed them tight, and said, “It would ease my mind to know I have followed your father’s instructions. As I think you know by now, I am not only greatly fond of you, but I admire you as well. But, Morri, you must not say yes unless it is truly what you want, even if your father would have desired it. I hasten to add that I shall never try to replace him in your heart – never. Think on it and tell me what you’ve decided in … let us say, a month.”

Morri agreed, but in her eyes was the despair I’d provoked by
speaking of her father as in his grave. I knew, however, that he himself had given me no other choice.

There still remained the question, of course, of who had
committed
the murders at River Bend. Separately, Morri and I came to the same conclusion: Crow.

It had become clear to me over the course of my few days at River Bend that his spirit was not truly broken but hidden at most times deep inside him. After the slaves had escaped from River Bend, Crow must have taken his revenge.

Yet the doors to the bedrooms of Big and Little Master Henry had been found locked after they’d had knives plunged into their necks. Without the key, how had Crow entered?

Neither Morri nor I could answer that at first. But then I remembered the impressions of shells in clay he had shown me. I began to believe that he must have taken the bedroom keys from Big Master Henry or from Mistress Holly just long enough to make impressions in his molds, then had them fired by his blacksmith brother at Comingtee. Without my pressing him for information, Crow had told me that he’d also made
impressions
of silver dollars. I think he wanted me to guess the truth, so that those of us who escaped would know he had avenged himself.