Crossing the River (6 page)

Pausing at the first tavern, Edward glanced through the open door and was pleased to discover the place mercifully free of clientele. He entered, removed his hat, and sat at the nearest table. He signalled to the boy with his cane, and he came quickly to him, over-delighted in a childish manner to see custom in the form of a white gentleman. Edward made his demands known and settled back to cast his mind forwards and backwards across this problem of his former slave, Nash. That he had banished not only Nash, but many of his other slaves, to this inhospitable and heathen corner of the world disturbed Edward. The boy arrived and delivered a foaming tankard of beer to Edward’s table, and Edward rewarded him with a generous coin. The buffoon smiled and capered into the comer, and Edward supped carefully at the beer, his elbow bending like a stubborn hinge. Perhaps, thought Edward, this business of encouraging men to engage with a past and a history that are truly not their own is, after all, ill-judged. The light in the candle flickered, shadows danced against the white stone wall, and Edward drew again on his beer. It occurred to him that perhaps the fever, the sleepless nights, the complex welter of emotions that he had been subjected to since his arrival in Africa, were nothing more complex than manifestations of a profound guilt.

In a vain effort to banish the despair of this moment, and hopefully ensure a peaceful night’s sleep free of demons, Edward raised his hand and once more summoned the boy to him. An hour or so later, his person much refreshed by consumption, and risking offence by leaving a tankard unfinished, Edward struggled out and picked his way down to the harbor. Once there, he gazed upon the tranquil sea, the moonlight sparkling on the water so that it looked like a liquid case of jewels. And then his attention was seized by the echoing of heels upon flaggings, and the loud protestations of a woman who declaimed lunatic phrases as though speaking some foolish part she had written for herself. Judging her an Irish whore by dint of her accent, Edward stared at her as she trembled in her cloud of wounded indignation, the thick powder on her face channeled with tears, her mouth set in a twist, and he felt pity and despair in equal part.

The following morning the braying of the traders and the incessant barking of dogs roused Edward from a troubling sleep. He fetched a deep sigh and cast a glance towards the small window, through which he could see that the clear, unclouded blue of the sky promised a murderously hot day, at least the equal of those he had already endured. He turned in the bed, careful not to disturb the mosquito netting, and realized that last night he had forgotten to pinch out the candle. A lump of misshapen wax overflowed the shallow dish. Then, a series of stifled coughs rattling through his body, Edward stepped urgently from the bed and first poured and then drank a glass of water. Perching on the edge of a chair, he soothed his dry throat with a further glass, and wondered if the boy Charles had left any message for him. Abandoning his desire for more slumber, he dressed quickly and sought out the innkeeper in order that he might make enquiry of Charles. Having located his host, he was informed by him that there was neither message, nor had there been any visit by Charles or any other, which caused Edward momentarily to panic and wonder whether the black bondsman had for some reason chosen to abandon him. Choosing not to dwell upon this unpleasant thought, Edward enquired after a club in which he might discover the company of white men and share with them some words, reasoning that if he was to be expected to pass yet more time in this savage environment, then he ought at least to be exposed to some of the pleasantries which civilized company can bestow upon a man’s otherwise wretched African existence. The negro innkeeper, his face suddenly closed and his eyes lowered, informed Edward that he knew of a colonial club whose members were, as he termed them,
masters
.

Armed with directions to this place, which lay not too far off, Edward set forth across the town, the sun hanging above him like a bright lamp. He could feel small beads of sweat forming on his forehead and trickling down his temples, and others sliding about the bridge of his nose and then down and under his chin to his collar. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed furiously at his face as he walked. Having located the door to the club, Edward raised the brass knocker and struck it three times with force. A black man, clearly of American origin, answered and asked after his business, to which Edward answered that he had been given to believe that this was a Gentleman’s Club for white people. As a visitor, he simply craved some companionship and some information as to how things went in these parts. Edward was surprised to discover the degree of hostility that this experience occasioned in his soul. Never before had he had to explain or ask anything of a colored man, and to have to do so now, and in order to gain access to the company of other white men, he found extremely difficult. The colored man listened carefully and then announced that he would soon return, a reply calculated to check, not encourage, enquiry. He closed in the door and left Edward standing in the street like a beggar.

Some moments later, the door was opened by the same fellow, and Edward was ushered into the comfortable and well-appointed vestibule of the brick house. Only when he surveyed the prints, and other wall décor, did it become apparent that this must be the abode of one of the principals of the American Colonization Society. Edward followed the servant into a drawing-room that was cluttered with books and papers, and well-finished with couches and loungers. Three white men, their skins grown dark through familiarity with the sun, rose as he entered, and hands were proffered and enquiries made. The already uncorked wine was poured into a glass, which was then thrust into Edward’s willing hand. Thereafter followed an engrossing session, in which a cautious Edward shared his circumstances with those that came and went, and sought from them similar stories all relating to the common question of how it was they had come to find themselves adrift and washed up on this furthest shore of civilization. Anecdotes and faint memories were traded, and some attempts were made to swell them into order with dates and places. Edward stayed for lunch, then coffee, but thought it wise to retire before dinner, for by now he was fearful that news of the personal tragedy that had recently enveloped his name might somehow have crossed the waters and reached the ears of these gentlemen. He reasoned that before the confessional urge took hold of any tongue, he should request his cane. Edward stood, thanked them most warmly for a splendid day, and made ready to return to his lodgings.

Slightly merry on account of the good wine, a contented Edward asked the innkeeper after Charles, only to be informed that up until this very moment there had been no sign of the young bondsman. Edward returned to his hot and airless room with a bottle of claret, his mood rudely transformed by this news. Slipping into an involuntary sleep, he found his mind populated with images of Amelia, her face decorated with pond-like sores where flies and other creatures drank greedily. As dawn began to break over Monrovia, Edward awoke in a sweat and thrashed the covers off himself. Tears misted his eyes, for indeed his love for Amelia had festered and become stamped with a self-pity that was near-cousin to self-loathing. He simply craved to be offered the unconditional love of a child, could she not understand this? He looked ashamedly at the mauve contusions that decorated the several folds of his skin, and realized that the years had descended and smothered him like a fog. What else now but to submit to the indifferent squalor of old age, and give himself up to his fears? Edward let his feet fall over the side of the bed and brush the wooden floor, then he decided that if Charles did not show himself by the end of the day, he would go in person to Madison Williams’s home and make enquiry. In the interim, he would do the next best thing, which was to spend another day in the company of his civilized countrymen.

As Edward dressed, his mind turned back again upon Amelia. Clearly she would have hated this Africa that Edward now felt marooned in. It had struck him, while at the club, that the lack of civilized white women in these parts would only have served to drive home her suspicion of all things African. Not only would curious, perhaps desperate, white eyes have traveled the length of her body, but black eyes would no doubt have made her the object of much unwanted attention. Edward ceased his wardrobe, fell to his knees, and prayed to the Lord that he might be forgiven for his indifference towards Amelia, for in truth no harm or misery had been intended. That she took it upon herself to sabotage her husband’s friendship with Nash by destroying the colored man’s letters was a painful discovery for Edward, but had he not found it in his heart to forgive her? Her accusation that in the wake of Nash’s departure he was now making a fool of himself by lavishing an excess of affection upon a new retainer, was this not again met with forgiveness? That she had subsequently chosen to flee his home, then her mind, then this mortal world at the instigation of her own hand, was a tragedy the responsibility for which could not reside at Edward’s doorstep. Surely his dear father understood this? A half-dressed Edward reached for his Bible, and clumsily fingered the pages until he reached the relevant verse. Thereafter, his wretched body burning with faith, he began to recite aloud.

Late in the morning, having left instructions with the innkeeper that he should, at all costs, delay Charles if he chanced to arrive during Edward’s absence, a somewhat despondent Edward stepped out into the street and followed much the same route as the previous day. When he arrived at the club, Edward seized the brass knocker and rapped three times, and the same colored man soon appeared before him. Only this time the man informed Edward that the members, having last night convened an extraordinary meeting which lasted into the small hours, had decided that Edward was not welcome, either as a visitor or as a member, should he choose to linger on these shores. Edward stared at the liveried servant and asked if he might be blessed with a reason, but the colored man, clutching self-righteously at his lapels as though they were a badge of some importance, simply eyed him with the manner of one who is happily charged only to deliver decisions and not to share with the unfortunate recipient the highways and byways that were explored in order to reach the proffered conclusion. Edward tarried a moment, scratched the skin under one eye, then, realizing that he was making little headway, turned on his heels, anxious that he should avoid having to suffer the ignominy of the door being slammed in his face.

Edward reached the inn, his mind in a daze, and discovered Charles standing with a travel-weary but finely dressed man whom he instantly recognized as Madison Williams. Immediately, Edward’s gloom abated, and he shook hands firmly with his former slave, who, by all appearances, appeared to be well suited to the life of a free man. Edward dismissed Charles with a proffered coin, but the young man looked a little forlorn and asked if there might be some other way in which he could be of service to the
master
. Clearly Edward’s curt dismissal had stung the young man like a lash, and the hurt that was now painted across his boyish face begged the older man to be kinder to him. Edward relented, and told him that he could, if he so wished, return tomorrow, and with this news a somewhat chastened Charles smiled, nodded cheerfully, and took his leave. Anxious not to waste any more time, Edward ordered the innkeeper to prepare food and wine for Madison and himself, which they would take in due course. With this request made, they retreated into Edward’s room, and Edward signalled that Madison should make himself at ease in the more comfortable of the two chairs.

As Madison sat opposite him, Edward could not help but note that his former slave’s person became suddenly very grave, the flesh frowning on his brow. Madison leaned forward. He spoke slowly and carefully, as though anxious that he should not be misunderstood. ‘Master, Nash Williams is dead.’ Edward recoiled slightly, as though he had been struck. ‘The fever called him home. And he is burned according to local custom. This much I found out in the place from where I am happily returning.’ A long silence deepened. Edward stared back at Madison and made no attempt to dam the tears which now flowed down his face. Eventually Madison stood. At this signal, Edward drew a hand across his cheeks. ‘I shall return,’ announced Madison, ‘with more news.’ Without waiting for further instruction, Madison withdrew and closed in the door behind him. Some moments later, the innkeeper knocked at the door with the requested food and drink, but Edward simply called for him to take it away and sank further into his grief. Nash Williams, the boy he had brought from the fields to the house, the boy who won his love, freely given, who would force on to him all the pain and confusion which finally proved too much for Amelia to bear, this Nash Williams was no more? And he, Edward, having traveled half the known world once again to be with him, what was he to do?

Edward spent the remainder of the day, and the full length of the night, sitting upright in the chair, his anguished mind questing in every conceivable direction, but forever stumbling into blind alleyways which proved to be swept clean of any meaning. In the morning Madison returned and found his former master in the same position in which he had left him, though Madison observed, by virtue of Edward’s vacant stare, that there had been a considerable decline in his mental state. He sat opposite Edward, but his former master gazed back at him as though he were not there. Madison spoke quietly and at length about Nash’s final country settlement, and about the many problems which Nash had to face by choosing to live among the natives, but Edward remained silent. For some time, they simply stared at each other, each one a prisoner of their innermost thoughts. And then Madison reached into his pocket and pulled clear a letter. He informed Edward that this letter had been placed into his hands by Nash on the understanding that Madison would personally give it to his former master, and to him alone, even though it was understood that this would mean crossing the sea and returning to America. Edward looked more intently now. ‘Did Nash not know I was coming?’ Madison narrowed his eyes. ‘You chose not to write to him.’ Madison paused. ‘And by the time I discovered him he was merely a few hours this side of death.’ Edward dropped his gaze. Then he whispered, ‘I want to go to where Nash lived.’ Madison bestowed a scornful glare upon his former master. ‘I have to go there.’ Madison said nothing. He held out the letter. ‘It is for you.’ He paused. ‘I promised Nash that I would deliver it to you personally.’ Edward took the letter and looked at the envelope. He squeezed it gently. ‘I have to go to where Nash lived.’ Madison climbed to his feet.