Chaneysville Incident (67 page)

“She had known, then, she told them, that it would be as she had planned. And so she refused to tell him, as she had planned, and accepted the pain he gave her when he forced her to tell, feigned remorse, repentance, touched him, gave herself to him. And then, when he slept, she rose and took the knife from the rafters. She roused him. And when he was awake, when his eyes were open, when he was looking at her, she cut his throat.

“And then, she told them, she had taken her children, her son and her daughters, and she had gone into the woods, and met the others, the ones with the strong minds and hearts and wills, and she had led them out of there.

“In the beginning, she told them, she had merely taken them north, navigating by the North Star, trying only to avoid pursuit. But in time she was able to make contact with the Underground Railroad, and then her route had taken on definition; she began to lead them not just to the North, but to a particular place in the North, where she believed the man she had loved would be.

“She had never forgotten him, of course; she had used the memory of him to free her, but that had been only a memory that had become less than that—a dream. But when she began to touch the Underground network the dream had come to life. For she heard his name, C.K. Washington, heard how he had been the bane of slavers from Virginia to Louisiana, how the prices on his head would buy a dozen slaves, but could not buy him. Then she had known not only that he was alive, but that the payment she had gone south to make had been made not once but many times. For she had recognized, in the pattern of his exploits, the workings of her own mind.

“And so she had bent her path towards the place where she hoped he would be. Where she knew he would be. Where she believed he would be. And, she told them, he was there.

“C.K. watched her face as she spoke, listened to her words and nothing else. But when she finished he became aware of the sounds of the others, the soft animated whisperings as they realized who he was. And he knew that she had done what he could not do, that she had provided the miracle. And as they had all composed themselves to sleep, he had known that when the sun rose they would be atop the mountain; that they would all be free.

“Now he lay with her against him, feeling the warmth from her, thinking beyond the dawn, beyond the last stages of their escape, to the life they would find somewhere, she and he and his firstborn son. His thoughts were not untroubled: he thought, too, of Lamen, his second son, and of Bijou. But the troubles were covered by the warmth he felt, the warmth that came from Harriette Brewer. He lay there, half-dreaming, listening to the breathing of the others growing easier as they drifted off to sleep, the snoring of the old man, the wheezing of the baby, and to the gusting of the wind outside, even that seeming to quiet, as though the storm itself were resting. And then he felt something change, some difference in the way she held him, not a motion, just a difference, a subtle softening of muscles, easing of posture, and he turned to her, slipping his hands, hands that seemed somehow too awkward, too rough, too dirty to hold her, around her shoulders. He tried to pull her to him, but he was too late; she was already there.”

I stopped for a moment, sipped the toddy, waiting, while the rest of it took shape in my mind. I became aware of her hand, warm, resting on mine. Not resting. Squeezing. I imagined the rest of it then. I put the cup down.

“The silence woke him. He did not know it at first. At first he thought it was some sound that had come into his sleeping to alarm him. But when he listened he realized it was not sound that had alarmed him, it was silence; the wind had died.

“For a few moments he lay there, listening, hoping that it was only a momentary hiatus, that in a minute, or two minutes, or three, the wind would spring up again, strong and violent. But it did not. The night was so quiet he could hear the chuckling of the creek, a steady dripping as the snow on the roof melted, the far-off barking of some farmer’s dog. He rose slowly, heavily, throwing the sleep from him as if it were a blanket, and went to the door. He stepped outside, expecting to shiver in the chill, but the night was relatively warm, the snow beneath his feet damp. The clouds no longer boiled across the sky—they merely drifted, thinning, it seemed, before his eyes. He stood there, wishing he did not know the patterns of the weather, that he could have stood there in blissful ignorance, seeing the clearing sky as a normal man would see it, a welcome event, a time of thanksgiving. But he was not a normal man. He was C.K. Washington, and he had a dozen exhausted slaves looking to him for salvation, and now there was no friendly wind to hide their trail, no bitter cold to keep the hunters inattentive, to keep the miller home. The wind had died, and now they would have to run, and run hard, before the daylight came and took away their last concealment.

“He waked Harriette Brewer first. She came out of her slumber quickly, violently; he held her arms for a moment until she realized where she was, releasing her when he felt her struggles stop and he heard her speak the words that meant she understood: no wind. He didn’t answer her, just moved to the others, waking them one by one, as gently as he could, hearing her moving too, waking the children, answering their sleepy protests with one-word orders that, despite their brusqueness, had good effect.

“They moved in ten minutes, turning eastward away from the mill and the main road, away from the mountain, for that route would not help them now. C.K. had to believe that Pettis would be searching for them, that by midmorning at the latest he would send part of his force sweeping up the valley, would find their trail. Then it would be a footrace, he and the fugitives racing to find concealment before the men and dogs found them. There was hope that the weather would change again, that the west wind would come to drift the snow and hide the path that they had taken, but that was a distant hope; their only real hope lay in covering ground as quickly as they could while darkness hid them, abandoning finesse, abandoning strategy, putting their hope in speed.

“And so he led them east. They went silently, falling in behind him, following silently in the trail he had broken, through the knee-deep snow, first Lydia, then Linda, the three of them taking the burden of breaking trail, making easier passage for the ones who followed: the old man, Azacca, helping the girl Juda with her wheezing baby, then the children, William leading them, followed by Lydia’s sons and Harriette Brewer’s daughters, with Harriette Brewer in the rear, keeping the children moving.

“He took them east for half a mile and then he turned and led them up a low hill, forcing himself to climb quickly, to make it look easy, to lead by silent example. He had felt his ribs ache with pain when he had to breathe hard, and wondered if, when it came time to run, he could run; but he bit back the pain and ignored the thoughts and forged on up the hill.

“They reached the ridge, and there he found what he had hoped he would find: a long expanse of almost bare ground just below it, the ground scoured almost clear of snow by the wind. He did not pause but pushed quickly on, not seeing or hearing but sensing their spirits lifting as they found the going easy. He brought the speed up steadily and knew that they were with him, could hear the breathing as they ran behind him, the soft squeaks as their feet hit the snow, and he had felt his own spirits rise. They were running swiftly now, and he knew that they could keep it up.

“And then he stopped. Stopped dead. Because he realized that they would not make it out of the South County by daybreak. They would not make it out of the South County at all. Because ahead of them, arrayed along the valley floor, was a line of lights, torches; Pettis had blocked the escape.

“He said nothing. He simply stood and waited as the rest of them came up to him, while they stopped and looked and understood. And then he turned and started back. But before he could take more than a few steps he felt a hand on his arm, and looked up to see Harriette Brewer pointing behind them, to another line of torchlight, this one moving slowly, steadily up the cove. Again he did not hesitate; there was a choice to be made and he made it and turned to the east, but there was light there too, not a solid line of it, but the beginnings of one, a line that extended as he watched it, as men struck matches and lit their torches. He stopped then, not daring to turn to the west, knowing what he would see.

“And so he took refuge in his thoughts, in counting the torches and figuring how many men Pettis must have hired. Perhaps half the men in the South County. Or all. And then he felt her hand on his arm and he looked down at her, not seeing her in the darkness, but looking at her anyway. She asked him how long they had.

“And then the horror of it struck him. Because her voice was different, was not the quiet, resigned voice of the woman who had told of planning and scheming to save her son from slavery. It was a small voice, a frightened voice, a cowered voice. A slave’s voice. The rest of them were silent, even the children, waiting for his answer, waiting for him to tell them there was hope, that there was a scheme, a path, a way. But there was none. And so he looked at the line of torches moving in the south, the line growing thicker and brighter as the men on the flanks joined in when their positions were reached, and he made his estimates and told them: half an hour.

“For a while they stood motionless, looking to the south, to the line of torches moving towards them. C.K. could sense them, hear them, knew when they began to move; when the boys, Daniel, Robert, and Francis, went silently, almost calmly, to their mother, standing in front of her, almost as though they would defend her from the lights; when the childless woman, Lydia, pushed the daughters of Harriette Brewer to their mother’s side; when the girl, Juda, began to nurse her baby; when the boy, William, came and stood in front of Harriette, close to him, but not touching him, not looking at him, just standing.

“And then he heard the old man, Azacca, humming softly, tunelessly, and then turning the hum into a wordless chant. He had listened then, and the others had listened. And the old man told them a story.

“It was an old story, he said, a story his father had told him. A tale of Death, some might say, but not those who knew the tale. Because as it went, the Great Sky God once, in the old days, had looked down and seen that men were not free, for they feared the Stillness That Comes To All. And so the Great Sky God had called for Papa Legba, the interpreter of the Great Sky God and the other gods, and had told him to take the message to men that the Stillness That Comes To All, that they called Death, was not an ending of things, but a passing on of spirit, a change of shape, and nothing more; that when the Stillness came upon those they loved, they should not fear or grieve, but rejoice, because the loved one had merely left the body that bound him to the ground and become a spirit who could fly wherever he willed. The Great Sky God had given the message to Legba, and told him to take it to men. But Legba was an old man, feeble, who walked with a cane. He was too fond of his pipe and his chair to make the trip. And so Legba had called to Rabbit, had told him to take the message. It was not a bad choice, for Rabbit was swift. But he was also stupid. And so, when he found the first man, a man with pale skin and straight hair and eyes as gray as winter, he had told him the Great Sky God’s message, and thinking his task was finished, had gone away.

“But the man with pale skin was not stupid like Rabbit. He had listened to the Sky God’s message and he had seen that if he lied to the other men, he could become the ruler of them. And so he went to the other men and told them that the Sky God had sent a message, sending it only to him…. But the other men would not listen, for they said, if the Sky God sent a message, why would he not send it to all? And so the pale man had gone away and thought. And when he had thought enough he came back and went to the other men who were pale as he was, and told them the truth. And then they all went together to the other men, the men with dark skins, and told them that the Sky God had sent a message to them. When the other men asked them why the Sky God would send a message to some and not to all, they said that it was because their skin was light, and that the Sky God said that meant they were better than other men, that they should interpret the meaning for other men. And then they told the other men that the Sky God said that when the Stillness came on men that they would cease to be; that their bodies would turn to dust and ashes, and that their spirits would be cast into a lake of fire to burn in torment forever—unless they did exactly what the pale men said. The men with pale skins all spoke the same, and the others became so frightened of the lake of fire that they began to do what the pale men said.

“But, the old man said, some of the men with dark skins guessed the truth. Those men did not fear the lake, for they believed that when the Stillness came upon them they would simply go away and live in a place where there were no men with pale skins who stole the spirit by telling lies. And so they did not do exactly as the men with pale skins said. And so they were beaten, and chained, and starved. But it did not matter. For they believed the truth….

“And then C.K. heard the sound, a sharp sobbing sound. It came from Juda. And he then he realized that there was something he was not hearing; the wheezing of the child. And so he was not surprised when he saw her go to the old man and kneel before him and lay the baby’s body at his feet.

“He knew, then, that they were watching him, all of them. Waiting for him to lead them. It came to him then that there was always escape, always, so long as one did not think too much, so long as one did not calculate too much; so long as one believed. And so he stepped away from Harriette Brewer and stood alone, and he took the pistol from his belt and held it high, so they could all see. For a moment he was not sure that he could lead them, was not sure that they would follow, but then he saw Harriette Brewer take her knife from beneath her shawl and hold it high, and then he heard her, heard her singing softly, then louder, heard the others join in, the words of the song growing, rising from the hilltop, floating down the incline, the words sharp and clear against the night: ‘And before I’ll be a slave I’ll be buried in my grave, and go home to my God, and be free.’ For a chorus or two, or three, the song was loud and strong. And then the song grew weaker, the voices that had raised it falling silent one by one, until at last there was only one voice, a strong soprano voice, carrying the song. And then that voice, too, fell silent. But the song went on. Because the wind had shifted again, and was blowing from the west; because now the wind sang.”