Virginia Hamilton (3 page)

It was true, Anthony's skin was lighter than that of most property. And his mamaw was indeed a breeder woman. She was made to have a baby each year so that he Mars would increase his holdings. Still, nobody knew for certain whether Anthony was he Mars John Suttle's second son. Word along the cabin row was that the big, tall Walker was who he belonged to.

But Anthony knew nothing of this.

They rode. Anthony was in paradise. He could smell the pony. He could smell the scent that he Mars poured onto his pocket cloth each morning. A clean handkerchief it was that Anthony's mamaw had readied for him, all ironed and starched, just the same as she prepared his riding clothes. Nobody touched he Mars's clothes but Mamaw. And it was she who put the scented cloth in his pocket.

It wasn't an enormously large estate that Mars and Mistress Suttle owned. But it was big enough to keep Anthony and Mamaw and all her thirteen children. It kept his sister's and hers.

“If we havin' be someplace,” Mamaw said, “this ole place ain' worser than any.”

Soon paradise came to its end. When
he Mars questioned him about what he had seen, Anthony knew the time to ride was almost over.

“I seen all I wanted,” Anthony told him. “Yays-surah, I seen the chickens. I seen the cows and the horses. I seen fields and barns. Woods, too.”

“And what about the rest of my property, Anthony? What about them in the fields, watering the horses and plowing; those feeding the chickens and milking the cows. And your own Mama Janety householding for Mistress?”

Anthony took his time to think. He was smart, and so he remembered. “I seen all them,” he said carefully. He knew he Mars to be full of tricks. Anthony stayed alert and ready.

“You seen my own other property, Anthony?”

“Yays-surah!”

“Like cows and horses, what do you say, Anthony?”

“Yays-surah!”

“And what are they called, Tony, boy? What are they all called?”

“Slaves!” he said triumphantly. He'd got beyond all he Mars's tricks. And he was safe. “Slaves. They callum slaves.”

“Right you are, lad,” Suttle murmured, nuzzling Anthony's neck. But then, more sternly, he said, “
My
slaves, boy.”

“Yays-surah, they yo' slaves. They my slaves, too,” Anthony told him.

“Wh-what?” Mars Suttle peered down in shock at Anthony.

“Yays-surah! They Mamaw and sisterahs Janety and brotherahs Jims—all them chil'ren,” Anthony said. “They yo' slaves and they mine,
too.”

Suttle was so taken by surprise that he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Gawd Almighty! You mean …” he sputtered, “… you are the same … You think … they are slaves … but you …” He bellowed, shaking all over. “Well, that is one of the completest mistakes you've evah made, Tony, m'boy, Gawd in heaven, it is!”

Anthony was confused as to what he Mars meant. But since he knew the words “Gawd” and “Heaven,” he gathered it was at least partly Bible business.

“I will let it go for now, boy,” he Mars said. He laughed again to himself. “Perhaps we'll just use this terrible mistake for a prayer lesson.”

Because Virginia law forbade them to learn to read the Good Book, or any other book for that matter, John Suttle made it a strict rule never to have reading in the house in the presence of property. But he was forward-looking enough to allow churchgoing for his slaves; they attended the same Baptist church he did. There was a partition, of course, but property was given the opportunity to sing and to pray. Oh, they did love that!

“Lordy, wait till folks hear this one. Tony, m'boy, I knew you were keen witted but never so much as this! Haw-haw! You'll learn! Or die tryin'! I've hope for you, and profit, too. There's no limit to what you can be taught.”

He gave Anthony a pat on his head, pulled his downy curls a moment, and checked to see if there were lice near the scalp. “I see Janety keepin' you clean, hum?”

“Yays-surah,” Anthony said, sleepily enjoying
the attention. He leaned comfortably back against he Mars.

“Like you mama before you,” he Mars mused. “Respect and gratitude and strength of mind. Yes, my property! Mine!” He laughed, and without warning flung Anthony down from the pony to the ground. Anthony managed to cushion the fall somewhat by doing a somersault.

“Good lad!” he Mars said.

Anthony remembered to right himself and show no shock or pain at being tossed so brutally. He Mars waited. Anthony remembered what was important. Again he bowed deeply.

“And now you know, don't you, boy?” he Mars said. “Anthony, you my property, you belong to
me
. You my own slave chile.” Said with tight emotion. With that, he Mars turned the pony and rode away, more important things at once on his mind.

Anthony stared after him, half in longing and half in fear and wonder. The meaning of he Mars's last words would come to him slowly, over time.

3
May 24, 1854

THE INNOCENT CHILD
of five slipped away. Anthony
stirred. Layer by layer, he returned to his miserable time of manhood in the year 1854. He found himself with the ones who had seized him this night on Brattle Street. They had cuffed his hands with irons connected by chains. How had they done that?

But I was daydreaming, Anthony thought. He lifted his hands to look at the chains. They felt so heavy, he let them drop. “Wish all this was a dream, like that vision of when I was small,” he told himself. It was more like a nightmare. Chains!

The leader of the men introduced himself. “Call me Asa Butman,” he said. “I am Deputy United States Marshal and known for catching runaway property!”

The guards, growing rowdy, guffawed, and Asa smiled. “I caught a slave named Thomas Sims back in fifty-one,” Asa said, “and I held him in this very same room as I holdin' you, Burns.”

Anthony mumbled, “You said you arrested me
for stealing.”

Asa chuckled, then stopped when he saw Burns's shockingly maimed right hand. The skin over the protruding bone was drawn tight and shone like satin. Asa assumed, as did everyone who saw the hand, that the slaveholder, Charles Suttle, had abused him horribly.

Anthony saw Asa's eyes on his hand but didn't try to explain what had happened. For a fleeting moment he recalled the accident that had injured his hand when he was about thirteen. The awful memory paled next to the shuddering fear he faced now, and his thoughts raced over the events leading to his capture.

After work that day he'd been following Coffin Pitts over to the church pastored by Reverend Leonard Grimes, where Mr. Pitts was deacon. The church was new, and was known locally as the church of the fugitive slaves in Boston. Anthony had refused to go at first because he felt he had no right. He wrote to his church in Virginia seeking a formal release from its communion so that he would be free to join Reverend Grimes's church. But his Virginia pastor refused, saying that Anthony had disobeyed God's law by running away from his master. He was “excommunicated,” the pastor had written, “from the community and fellowship of the church.” Therefore, Anthony could join no other church, ever.

Back home Mars Charles had let him preach. Now he would be as nothing in the eyes of God.

I should have gone on with Deacon Pitts in the first place, Anthony thought. We had left the shop for the day. I had started home. And if
I hadn't had a change of heart and followed after him, there would have been the two of us. Maybe then the guards would have feared to take me.

I oughtn't to have written my church.

For he had written to his brother there in Virginia; the authorities must have got it out of his brother where he had gone.

Yes, and I am here in jail as proof.

Over the course of the evening, Asa Butman and his guards were friendly enough. Anthony appeared listless, although he listened to Butman's every word.

“Ever you hear tell of the Fugitive Slave Act?” Asa Butman asked him, leaning close. The guards listened.

Anthony raised himself slightly, blinking as though his brain was muddled. He knew how to pretend to be dull minded whenever it was to his advantage to hide himself and his feelings from the buckras.

“Now try to stay awake, Anthony,” Butman said. “Ya see, it's like this, m'boy. It is ‘Anniversary Week' here in Boston city. The ab-o-litionists—thems against slavery—and the woman suf-fra-gists—after the vote for womens—and the rest of them kind is having their yearly conventions.

“Every boarding place is crowded up,” Asa went on. “When what happens? Two upstanding gen'mens from Virginia, Colonel Charles F. Suttle and his slave agent, Billy Brent, ride right into town and set themselves up in style at the Revere House hotel. Now it's dangerous for them here with Boston full of their enemies. But by Gawd, m'boy, not one ab-o-litionist was looking the right way!”

The guards snickered, then laughed
outright. “And we took you, m'boy, right off the street, right under Deacon Pitts's nose! And we had a right,” Asa said. “That Fugitive Act means a runaway can get captured in any free state—even Massachusetts.”

“Hear, hear!” said the guards. They gave Butman light applause, for it was obvious he was showing off for Anthony.

“All the slave owner needs,” Butman continued, “is to supply a affi-davit saying who is the one wanted. In your case, you!

“Then the U.S. Commissioner, Judge Edward Loring, the speaker there at Harvard Law School,” Asa said, “he issues a fugitive slave warrant. It was given me by the Marshal, and I is the one arrests you.”

The guards applauded wildly. “And we helped him, we did,” one of them joined in. They were the
posse comitatus
, so named in the slave act as aiding the commissioner and the marshal in the execution of their duties. The marshal had assembled them and paid them well to help him keep the peace. All were lowlifes and petty thieves, the only kind of men who in 1854 would take on the task of capturing runaway slaves.

“Well, I reckon that Fugitive Slave Act fixes it for
all
you runnin'-away kind,” continued Asa. “ 'Cause now the Commissioner can issue a certificate to send you on back where you come from.” He grinned. “The Commissioner gets ten dollars if he convicts you, but only a fiver if he acquits.”

Anthony listened. He felt sick
inside. Asa's words broke his heart.

They will take me back! Anthony thought. There's law against me. Lord, I'm lost.

“There you have it, m'boy,” Asa said to him.

Anthony shrank in his shell, speaking to no one.

“Come on, m'boy,” Asa told him. “Have a drink and some food on me. Oh, don't take on so! It ain't half bad. You'll go back and take your whippin' and ole Colonel will forget all about it!”

But Anthony knew that if he went back, things would not go well for him at all. He dared not dwell on what would happen.

Where is Deacon Pitts? Does he not question where I be? Anthony wondered. And good Reverend Grimes? Oh, no. I did tell the deacon I wasn't coming to church. He never knew I followed him. Never saw me taken there in the dark. No one knows I'm caught!

Anthony cringed. He let his mind drift away on the floating pain inside him. And discovered the boy Anthony again, the innocent child.

4
Summer 1841

“HOW OLD ARE YOU
now?” Anthony asked the boy
.

“Almost seven.”

“Ah, yes,” Anthony said. “John Suttle dies all a-sudden about this time. That was the last pony ride you'll ever have.”

“I love pony rides,” said the boy. “When I'm good, he Mars let me hold the reins.”

“Missy Suttle will have charge of Mars John's slaves now,” Anthony told him. “She's not so kind. Beatings and threats! She'll sell some of your brothers and sisters to pay off debts.”

The child of seven sat by a stream, fishing. He had a swaddled new baby among the leaves next to him. It was his sister's newborn infant. What Anthony said frightened him.

Then, soon after, came another time of childhood. It was night, after the children had stumbled home in the dark from their labor. Anthony had given them water, sourdough bread with a little bacon and grease, and black molasses to sop the bread in. He'd taken the food from Mamaw's kitchen in the good house—his own name for he Mars and she
Missy's place. He remembered what Mamaw had told him when he'd asked for sweets and cake.

“Things change,” she had said. Tears were in her eyes.

“Somebody sick?” he'd asked.

“Yay-ah, somebody. Was,” Mamaw answered. And he knew. It came to him suddenly that he had not seen he Mars John Suttle for some time. That was both good and bad. It meant that Big Walker wouldn't be around so much. But it was bad that he never rode he Mars's pony now.

“He Mars gone away?”

“Mars gone an' set beside King Jesus. You 'member Jesus, Anthony, in church.”

“
A little talk wid Jesus make it right
.” Softly, he sang part of a hymn Mamaw had taught him.

His mamaw took up another melody. “
Way down yonder in the graveyard walk, I thank Gawd ah'm free at last!
” All at once she grabbed up the hems of her long skirts and commenced to sidestep and sway. “
Me and m'Jesus gwoin' meet an' talk, I thank Gawd ah'm free at last!
” She pranced forward and back.

Young Anthony laughed, joining in. Dancing in praise of the Lord was the way of the cabin row. “You lookin' like a gobbler with she feathers held low!” he told Mamaw.

She smiled. Three times she had jumped the broom, a custom in marriage, and had thirteen children. Life was hard, but it was still life. “
Some o' these mornins, bright an' fair
—come on, Anthony!”

“Comin'.” He stepped and pranced. Thumbs hooked to his sides, he kept his elbows back and his chest out. It wasn't easy keeping time with Mamaw. “
I thank Gawd ah'm free at last!
” he sang.