Walk Through Darkness (14 page)

William reached out toward him. He felt a sudden need to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. The captain grasped the tips of his fingers. He held them a moment, and, on that confirmation alone, he turned and left the room.

Adam appeared a few hours later, carrying a satchel that he set down in the corner. He spoke in motions, instructing William to raise his manacles. He unfastened them, a slow process, as the key was roughly cast and the lock of a primitive design. As William rubbed the raw flesh of his wrists, Adam retrieved the satchel. It was a leather pouch with a drawstring closure, soiled with some greasy substance layered on long ago to waterproof it. He opened it and displayed some of its contents: items of food, a cotton shirt, a bottle of some liquid. He thrust it into William’s abdomen and said, “Follow.”

William stepped into the maze behind Adam. Dark as it was, some faint traces of light filtered down into the ship. But this only served to disorient, casting the slightest indications of shapes, skewed angles and highlights that delineated the darkness all the more. He followed primarily by sound, but the man led him like an expert at such work. Each time William thought he had lost his course the other would rap his knuckles on a beam, whistle or simply scuff his foot across the boards. Each sound might have been coincidental, except that they came always at the right moment. Before long, William stepped into the bright light of the full moon. He hadn’t even had to climb a ladder, and yet still the blue light and open air was unmistakable. He was on
deck, with Adam close beside him. The man’s hand clamped around William’s elbow. He tugged him back into the shadows.

Two sailors stood against the railing a few feet away. Their backs were turned, and, judging by the casual way their conversation continued, they had noticed nothing. William felt Adam next to him. He could smell him and hear his breathing and sometimes feel the touch of his dry fingers. But the man just stood unmoving, ordering William to silence with the force of his own example. Five minutes later, one of the men ventured off toward the bow. And soon after that the captain’s voice was heard, calling to the other. The remaining sailor said something under his breath as he sauntered away.

Adam pointed toward the railing. “Go.”

William was into the moonlight and across the deck in an instant. He placed a foot up on the railing and looked back into the shadows out of which he had just come. At first, he saw nothing save an empty black space, a shadow that framed no man but was simply a void. Something in this caused him pause, a feeling that Adam’s disappearance had been too complete, too abrupt. Something left unfinished. But then the African’s hand darted out of the shadows, lit in bone-gray a black man’s hand rendered in highlight. With it his body was given substance. Of course he was there, waiting, watching, and, now, directing with a single pointed finger. William obeyed.

He turned and peered overboard. At first he thought he was meant to jump, but then he noticed a thick, knotted rope trailing from the deck down into the water. He clamored over the railing, tucked the neck of the sack under his armpit and began to shimmy down the rope. It was a bruising effort, trying to move silently as the hard knots of the rope dug into his thighs and chest and chin. When the bay began to lap at his knees, he clenched the neck of the sack tight in one hand and let go of the rope with the other. He went under, swirling and tumbling with the force of the water upset by the brig’s hull. A few moments
passed like this, with no notion of up or down, the water so chilly it sucked the air from him, his eyes open to the salt tinge but seeing nothing.

He hit the surface gasping. His legs kicked out to steady him, spinning him in circles as he tried to make sense of the world from this new level. The ship was already moving away. Its shadow blocked the view to the west. He watched it, eyes flitting from one section of the deck to another, listening for any cries of alarm. But none came and with each passing moment the winds and currents pushed him and ship further apart. He turned toward the shore and swam, doing the best he could to hold the leather satchel above the water, a free man for a third time and, finally, within shooting distance of his goal.

F
IVE
Morrison and the hound wandered two weeks without the slightest sign of the fugitive. Their luck changed one afternoon as they approached a small town west of Baltimore. The hound loped beside the man with her nose low to the ground. She had walked like this for miles without hitch, so the man took note of it when she paused. She raised her snout in the air. Whatever she smelled up there sent trembling waves of excitement from the base of her neck, over her back and down her thighs. Tilting her head back even further, she let up the howl that had long since become a signal between her and the man. She bolted toward the town. She didn’t wind through the traffic of the street, but instead followed the most direct route. She grazed the hind legs of a mounted horse, cut a circle of children right through its center point and bounded across two front porches.

But her final destination was none of these. It was a wagon, parked near to a general store and unattended. She leapt into it and patrolled
every corner of it. By the time Morrison reached her she knew she had come up empty. She tilted her head and howled, lowered it and searched the small space again. The man stood panting behind her, staring without comprehending. The hound swung around and met his gaze and in the exchange something clicked for the man. He called the dog down, calmed her, thanked her and led her away, avoiding the curious gazes of onlookers. The two stationed themselves a little distance away and sat watching. And they were soon rewarded.

A Negro stepped from the general store carrying an oblong box, which—judging by his posture—must have been quite heavy. He loaded it into the back of the wagon, then peered back toward the store. He seemed to consider re-entering, but then chose instead to lean against the wagon and study the day.

Morrison approached the man with his rifle shouldered. He halloed him from a few feet out, came in smiling and explained that he was looking for a runaway slave, all before the man had the chance to move or speak. He described the fugitive as best he could, his origins, recent whereabouts and physical characteristics. The black man listened to all of this with his head nodding, his features twisted with the outward contortions of deep thought. He was a misshapen creature, but in his eyes were glistening hints of guile that Morrison didn’t fail to notice. When he had heard all the man had to say he shrugged his shoulders.

I can’t even start to help ya, he said. I don’t have no truck with runaways. They ain’t kindly my kind of people, if you understand me.

But Morrison was sure he could be of some assistance. Had he not seen this fugitive? Or had he not heard of any that had? It was information he might be willing to pay for.

You might be what?

Willing to pay.

Is that right? The Negro looked back into the store. Let’s us talk a minute over yonder. He led Morrison a little distance away.

You say you got money to stake?

Morrison answered him by pulling a bank note from the inside of his vest.

The black man studied it close to his face, turning it over front to back. He licked it with the tip of his tongue, rubbed it with his thumb and checked it for scuffmarks. There were none. I mighta’ heard something bout that nigger, he said.

Is that right?

Yessir. I ain’t seen him myself but he’s been hereabouts.

Do you know where he went?

Well, let me jog my rememory a bit. The man bit his lip and screwed up his eyes. You say this here information is worth money to you.

You got the cash in your hand.

As if surprised by such an idea, the Negro checked his hands, palm and backside, making it clear that no such note was on his person.

Don’t try to play me, Morrison said.

The Negro considered this, looking from his hands up to the man’s face and then glancing back at the store. He lowered his hands. So, you say you’re looking for a nigger?

You gonna tell me something or am I gonna have to take that dollar back?

Just then a white man emerged from the store, arms laden with supplies. He scowled as he stepped into the sun and snapped his head from right to left until his eyes focused in on the two men talking. He didn’t take his eyes off of them as he walked to the wagon and placed his parcels in the bed. He set his hands on his hips and called the black man.

The man excused himself, saying he would be back directly. He shuffled over to the white, a strange, straddle-legged gait that moved him with surprising speed. The two men spoke beyond Morrison’s hearing. He had just begun to walk toward them when the white motioned the black up into the driver’s seat and struck out toward Morrison at a fast walk.

What the hell you talking to my nigger for? he asked, planting himself just a few inches from the tracker. You got a question for him you got a question for me is how I see it.

That’s fine, Morrison said. I’m looking …

But the other way I see it is that I ain’t got no interest in answering any questions. You hunting some nigger, I know that. Who ain’t hunting a nigger? I done hunted niggers all over this state and over a few others as well and one thing I learned from it is it ain’t no good answering questions. You might differ in your opinion cause you’re the one with the questions to ask, but that’s the way I see it. Now, we gonna go and you gonna leave us be. If you don’t I’ll be happy to stick that rifle up your asshole and fuck you full of lead. And I ain’t a poet. That there is a promise. It’s as simple as that.

The man spun and began to walk away.

Your boy’s got some of my money, Morrison said.

The man didn’t even turn his head to answer. Be glad that’s all you lost, he said. He mounted the wagon up over the bed of it and plopped down in the seat beside the black man. They were trundling forward before he had even settled himself.

Morrison looked to his dog and frowned. Aye, well … I believe they know something, he said.

The dog looked down the path at the back of the wagon and seemed to ponder this possibility.

Morrison’s plan was simple enough in concept, but he had no idea if the reality of it would prove likewise. He only needed one thing from town and that he bought at the general store. He didn’t even leave the town till dusk, but still he didn’t have far to travel. He came upon the men in the dead of night, the hound silent at his side. He stood at the edge of their camp taking in the scene. The two men slept atop their bedrolls on the ground: the black man with his mouth open to the sky, the white man on his belly, with his arms thrown out to either side as if to embrace the earth. The dying embers of the fire tainted all that followed with a crimson underlight.

Morrison slipped forward silently, low to the ground. He went to the black man first. He stood on the outside edge of the firelight, set down his rifle and positioned himself with both hands just inches from the man’s face. He glanced at the hound and saw that she was ready and then he began. He set the tip of a finger and thumb upon the black
man’s eyes and yanked them open. His other hand flipped over and tipped a powder into the man’s eyes, a mixture as thick and red and as hot as live coals. The man started to howl, but Morrison was up and away from him, rifle once more in hand. He leapt across the edge of the fire ring. Just as the white man began to push himself up, the tracker caught his chin with a closed fist. The man collapsed and Morrison was atop him, one knee pinned against the man’s spine and the muzzle of the rifle set against his temple. The man scowled beneath the pain of it, hissed and spit as best he could.

The black man howled and lashed out at the air and wiped his eyes with his fists. The hound dodged and feinted around him, barking and snarling and snapping her teeth. The man came up with a pistol aimed vaguely at the two other men. But before he could find a target the dog clamped down on his forearm and raked her teeth up and down the bones there. When she let go the man fell to the ground, groveling and pained and cursing. He did not rise again.

Morrison turned his full attention back to the white man. Now, he said, we have some things to talk about.

S
IX
The city dwarfed Annapolis, the only town William could compare it to. The place was a collage of smells and sounds like nothing he had ever experienced. He stumbled into it propelled by hope. He had reached the goal that had seemed so impossible, covered those miles of unmapped terrain and somehow found his destination. Now he would just find her. He only needed to pose the question to a friendly face. Or, failing that, he could plant himself at a busy spot on the street and wait. At some point, before too many days had passed, she would appear. Out on some errand, she would catch sight of
him from a distance, walk closer doubting her own eyes, then break into a run that ended in his embrace.

But after walking the streets for several days, he couldn’t believe she lived in such a place. It was a confusion of docks and piers, warehouses and factories. Smoke pipes belched plumes of slow rising filth. Soot covered windows. Sewers lay open to the air, their stink rising with the heat of the day. At first, he told himself he had entered the city via its most bustling district. He would have to measure its length and breadth and find some reason in it. His eyes flitted from structure to person to animal to the great tenement heights above him and the ash-laden sky. Foot traffic swarmed about him, people who moved with all the energy of ants at work. They dressed in fashions he had never seen, with hats and canes, with beards trimmed in all manner of shapes. They moved with a determination edged with threat. They shouted words that in the rapidity of their speech and inflection seemed like a different language. There were white men who spoke with lilting rhythms, others that barked their words and still others who communicated with a code comprised of gestures of the hands and arms, tiltings of their hats and scowls and grimaces. Coaches and omnibuses cut swathes through the traffic with reckless speed. Hooves churned past, the drivers red-faced, loud and heedless of the people to either side of the vehicles’ whirling wheels. There were carts of every shape and description: decrepit things on lopsided wheels pushed by children, long, flat beds drawn by horses, piled high with sides of beef peppered with flies, calf heads sweating in the sun, fruits and vegetables, balls of dough fried in fat and coated with sugar. Amongst and between these, gangs of children prowled, dirty-faced and ragged as slaves and just as lean. A white boy-child with a single eye stepped up to William and spat a question at him, something so incomprehensible that William turned from him and moved away, that eye following him and seeing him and still somewhere out there now waiting for him.

The city’s Negroes were also a puzzle to him. While most wore the clothing and demeanor of the working class, there were others who seemed to occupy each strata of society. Women and girls walked about in wide dresses, clutching satchels to their bosoms and lifting their hems above the filth. Still others mingled into groups of whites, talking and moving with mannerisms he couldn’t twin with any other Negroes he had ever seen. They all, no matter the class or age or sex, had a demeanor about them that was unfamiliar. Their spines were set firm and straight. And there was something else, an intangible energy in the air around them that hummed like a tuning fork just before it faded to silence.

He studied faces and backs, shoulders and arms, trying to find even the slightest hint of something familiar. And, despite the strangeness around him, this was easy to do. The world and its inhabitants were full of pieces of Dover. His breath caught at the sighting of a certain hue of flesh. The image brought back a certain afternoon, when he and Dover sat together on the beach of one of the Bay’s tributaries, talking of nothing in particular, but just sharing the day, learning about each other as a couple can only do once in their time together. A profile reflected in a shop window reminded him of the nights he hid in the bushes beside the house in which Dover worked, watching for her in the windows. And symbols of a more abstract nature took hold of him, as when he caught sight of a certain woman’s hat, intricate and white and wholly unfamiliar to slaves. Dover had never worn such a hat. For that matter, he had never seen such a headdress on any black person. Yet the sight of it cut him to the core and left him breathless, shot-through with longing. Whether this longing was for something he had forgotten or for something he had never yet experienced he was unsure.

Though he moved surrounded on all sides by humanity, he avoided direct contact. He once collided with a well-dressed Negro, a man clothed in a black suit, vest and top hat, cane in one hand and some sort of ledger in the other. The man
jumped back as if he had been assaulted, glaring at William with a look of loathing he had rarely encountered in other black men. The man looked him up and down, then he snatched a handkerchief from his vest pocket and proceeded to dab it across his jacket and vest. In an instant William felt himself awash in shame. He recognized all at once the pathetic sight he must be: the state of his clothes and his wild hair and speckled beard, the stains dripping from his armpits and neckline. He had never felt himself more a slave than he did in that instant, before that fellow man of color, never felt a greater need to explain himself. But the other man didn’t allow him even this. He clicked his tongue and moved past him, cane held erect in one hand as a warning.

That night he ate the last of the hard biscuits from the ship. They rattled around inside him, measuring the girth of his hunger. He huddled between crates in the lee of a warehouse, the water near enough that he could smell it in the air. He told himself again and again that Dover wasn’t far away. She was in this city. She had somehow made a home of this place, and if she had done that it couldn’t be all that bad. But each time he said this he doubted it more. As he drifted toward sleep, he was half-aware of floating out of his body and up over the city. He hovered above it, suspended in the air with a view that took in the landscape in its entirety. How painful that view, to know that Dover was within an afternoon’s walk in any direction. Or worse yet, that she strode down one street while he prowled the one just next to it. That she might sit in view of a window he passed, but that either, with their eyes otherwise occupied, might miss the other. He was so close to her, and yet he had never felt further away.

William spent his fourth city night hidden among the bracken of an alley. Rats nibbled at bits of his exposed flesh each time he stilled, keeping him balanced on a knife-edge of fatigue and
pain. He rose remembering his purpose and daunted by it. He crawled from the tiny lane an earlier version of the man that had entered it. The city air was so alive with smells that his hunger took on a life of its own and became his main obsession. His stomach churned and writhed at the slightest provocation, driven to frenzy by the scent of frying meat or the dry aroma from baking bread. There was so much around him and yet it was denied to him. He could stand a few feet away from a display of apples and pears and melons. He could imagine their textures within his palms and make out the slightest designs in their colorings and feel his teeth against those auburn skins. Yet there was a barrier between him and those foodstuffs. No one needed to remind him of this. It was nothing solid, nothing tangible, but it was a wall clearly enough, and he saw it evidenced in shopkeepers’ stares, in the sharp jerks of their chins in directing him onward. He heard it in their tongues and felt it surrounding the people pushing past him when he paused. All the world was aligned against him. He knew this now and wondered why he hadn’t before. And he was so tired, his body so heavy, the air so thick. He felt himself flagging and knew he needed to ask for help, but whom or how he couldn’t imagine. Some friendly face … But had he seen one since he had arrived here? Each face was the same in that he had never seen it before. No kin to him, no one known or known of, strangers all.

By noon he found himself standing in an area of parkland, rimmed on all sides by the cobbled streets, busy with pedestrian traffic. He leaned against a tree and half-tried to blend into it, one hand massaging his temples. He didn’t notice the two women strolling toward him until they were quite close. They were both dressed formally, one white and one black, and something in the look of the two of them struck him as familiar. The white woman’s dress billowed around her with great frills and girth, and she carried a parasol for no apparent reason. The black woman walked with her hands folded across her abdomen,
clutching a narrow purse in gloved hands. He listened to their voices as they approached, passed and faded. He didn’t discern any one particular word, but he noted the tones they used, the delicate phrasing of the white woman and the rich, familiar tone of the black woman. They passed within a few feet of William without ever noticing him. They carried on toward the edge of the park, leaving in their wake a scent that flooded William with an image of pale purple.

He was moving before he had thought out his plan. He mustered his energy and stepped out behind them. His head smarted at the movement, but he walked past them, out to a cross street, spun and placed himself in the path of the white lady. He lowered his head, eyes cast downward, face meek and yet anxious to be acknowledged. He didn’t move toward her, but his feet pawed the earth beneath him, like a horse nervous at the approach of a stranger. If the white woman noticed him she gave no sign. A few feet from him, she turned and smiled at another pedestrian, a man with a high black hat balanced on his crown. The two of them fell into conversation, leaving William poised in a strange pantomime with no audience.

The Negro woman had noticed him, however. She paused and, when the lady continued talking, she stepped back to William and looked him over. She was in later middle age, straight-backed, with wide-set eyes and a mole at the corner of her mouth. She wore a high collar around her neck, which she touched with the fingers of one hand before she spoke. “Can I ask what you were about to propose?” she asked.

William stared at the woman, momentarily losing his command of language.

The woman rephrased and repeated her question.

When he mustered the resources to speak, he said, “Do you know Dover?”

The woman frowned. She kept a little distance between them. “Who?”

“Dover. She a girl … Works for a family.”

“What family?”

“Carr. The family’s name is Carr.”

“No,” the woman said, “don’t know any Carrs.”

“You must know them.”

“I don’t know any Carrs,” the woman repeated. “Sorry.”

“Carr,” William said again, a little louder, as if her hearing was in question.

But the woman shook her head. Her lips curved in a way that were somehow refusals in and of themselves. “You might try …”

“Sure you know them. You just ain’t thinking right.” He took a step toward her, his fingers held out before him like nervous spiders, trying to spin something in the air between them. “The name is Carr. They live in Philadelphia. This Philadelphia, ain’t it?”

The woman’s eyes flicked toward the white woman, seemed to edge toward her as if they intended to slide away. “Yes, but I’ve told you …”

He knew he was losing her. His words weren’t right and he had to fix them. He wasn’t saying the things he meant to. He had to calm her down. Calm himself down and explain. She didn’t know him, didn’t know who he was or what he had been through.

“This woman don’t know you,” he said, realizing as he mouthed the words that he was speaking them and that he hadn’t intended to. Those words were for his thoughts, and now he had to explain that to her. Where were his wits? He motioned with his hands. The woman sprung back, her whole body tense and her face cold where it had been cautious a moment before. He stepped toward her, but again she leapt back. He tried to calm her, but his voice cracked and wavered and rose higher than he intended. The woman moved away. He would’ve followed, but he became aware of the many eyes focused on him. It seemed all the city had stopped to watch him: the white
woman with a gloved hand over the oval of her lips, a Negro, broad-shouldered and strong as a blacksmith, the Italian children on the stoop a little distance away, the carriage driver with his whip raised at the ready, the laborers standing with spades thrown over their shoulders, one of them with a smile wrinkling his lips. They all watched, and they all knew everything there was to know about him. They were all aligned against him.

That afternoon he stood outside a baker’s shop, staring through the dim porthole at the loaves of bread aligned there. There was an ache behind his eyes that throbbed and pounded and jiggled like his skull was a loose-capped pot of boiling water. He decided that the pain came because his eyes were famished. Eyes can feel hunger just like the rest of him, he thought. When he moved he did so without thought, leaping the four stone steps down to the entrance of the shop in one bound. But there was no grace in his movement. He landed on a crooked ankle and stumbled forward and smashed his lips against the doorjamb. He came up face to face with the baker and recognized the man’s intent. He turned as the man swung up a club. The weapon missed him by inches and splintered the doorframe in his place. He ran from there and didn’t stop moving till he had no choice for the pain in his ankle.