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Authors: Wendy Perriman

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BOOK: Fire on Dark Water
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We trotted down an endless hoof-beaten road under a dappled canopy of shade that was carved out of the eternal spread of trees far as the eye could detect. The trip ended up taking almost a month—on account of some swollen rivers and too-muddy pathways—but I enjoyed the lull of familiar custom and the companionship of the chattering Shane. At Edenton a violent thunderstorm stopped us for two days, so we unhitched the wagon at a wayside inn and waited it out in their barn. This gave the horses a chance to rest and allowed us time to dry out our clothes. And by now we’d reached a Romany understanding—as long as I was treated with the respect accorded skilled workers I wouldn’t be causing him no bother. When the ridge had dried sufficiently we trundled beside the sound toward New Bern, and after several numbing weeks we entered Wilmington, a bustling town clustered around a thronging harbor. We passed days of spectacularly colored beaches awash under fiery skies before we plodded into the swampy lowlands and crossed the marshes of Craven County.
When I noticed some perky pink plants growing haphazardly across the countryside I thought to ask Shane what medicinal purpose they might serve, for it occurred to me I needed to learn any magic this strange soil could yield. He scratched his scruffy face and said, “That’s indigo, so it is. Some say as it can cure the cough, but it’s mainly used for the blue dye made from the leaves.”
“You don’t think it helps the lungs any, then?”
He shrugged his neck and replied, “There’s many a remedy better than that.” It was time for us to break again for water, and when he’d tied the horses to a tree he rummaged around in the back for a small wooden box. “Give us a moment and I’ll show you. . . .” When Shane carefully removed the lid I saw a row of tear-shaped fruit in various stages of drying. The softest still wore glints of red and yellow skin, while the oldest had cured into sticky brown discs. “These be figs,” he explained, “from Florida.” I had no idea where Florida was until Shane indicated it was much farther south. He let me hold one as he continued, “They’re grand for the cough—when someone can’t shit—and for easing childbirth, bad mouths, and boils.” I stared at the squishy fruit, awed that something so small could render such bountiful relief. Shane then produced a waxy paper and put several of the cured rounds inside. He folded the package, thrust it toward me, and said, “See if you can’t find a wee empty casket back there. You’ll be needing to start your own medicine chest, that you will.”
I was overwhelmed by this generosity and murmured, “I don’t . . . Thank you. . . .”
“Aye, well don’t rabbit on about it.” He was equally embarrassed.
Now, on this particular journey I didn’t never see Charles Towne itself because before we got there we took the right fork at a large crossroads and set off alongside the Black River. Shane stopped to trade with a passing merchant and came back holding some crescent-shaped fruit. “Ever seen one of these beauties?” he asked. I held one of the fibrous moons in my hand and shook my head. “It’s a plantain,” he explained as he cut off the tip with his knife. I examined the pinkish fruit and noted the wooly texture. Shane indicated I should eat it so I put the entire piece in my mouth. It was sour and felt like I was chewing sawdust. I pulled a face and spat it out. My companion laughed aloud and said, “It’s not that bad when it’s ripe or well-soaked, and it’s a wonderful remedy for stomach upsets.” I stared at the remaining stump with new respect. “The leaves are good for the eyes,” he revealed. “And the boiled juice is given for back gripes and the worms.” He then handed over the other plantains he’d haggled to add to my growing collection. Apparently it wouldn’t do for a skilled employee to arrive at her station without tools. I almost felt like a proper apothecary.
Now, one evening as we plodded through twilight, Shane said he wanted to talk to me as a brother and he began explaining what some call
the birds and the bees
. Of course, I knew well enough about that lark yet pretended I was a maiden. I think he suspected I wasn’t—but he let me squirm and grimace as he explained the ways of men. Eventually he told how he’d once caught the Great Pox and been given the mercury cure—and how after that his wood wouldn’t harden—so as to assure me I was safe from his smutty musings. And then he passed on that intimate knowledge that has helped me from that day to this. “First off,” he said, “if you want to grab a man’s interest take care to suckle hard on his chest teats.” I giggled at the thought, but the earnestness on Shane’s face bade me stop and listen more closely. “And second,” he added, “to keep from getting ruined when you’re older you must pee and then wash yourself clean as soon as ever you’re done.” I nodded that I’d heard, even though I was skeptical that any such remedy would work.
Of course, throughout the whole trip Shane told me lots of grand stories—some real, some imagined—and the time passed by much quicker than it might have otherwise. And only once did I get myself in a panic, when we were stopped in the road by the strangest creature I’d ever seen. He was a leathery-faced man, with shiny black hair parted in two on either side of his berry-dark eyes that were painted one white and one black. I caught only a glimpse of this weird apparition before Shane pushed me backward over the bench and hissed, “Hide!” So I scurried behind the barrels of gunpowder and dragged the surrounding sacks to cover the gaps. From outside the canvas I heard a grunted command and the wagon instantly pulled to a halt. Muffled conversation drifted to the rear and I tried to breathe as quietly as able. Before long the cart began moving again but I stayed where I was until I heard the words, “How are you faring back there?”
During the rest of that afternoon I learned all about the Indian Massacre the previous year and discovered that the native I’d seen was a Catawba scout requesting information. Whatever Shane told him sent him away—but I could never entirely erase him from my curiosity. Now, according to my companion, the Tuscaroras were a nation who lived peacefully with the first white settlers up north. But when so many others followed (and took over their hunting grounds to build plantations), the natives turned angry and decided to make a stand. It all got messy—scores of Europeans killed—so the Southern whites (with the help of friendly tribes) went to their aid. Since then, several local incidents have threatened the fragile truce that could flare into full-scale warfare at any given moment. So for all the charm of the lush, calm countryside we were passing through—this wasn’t no Garden of Eden.
 
 
O
ur passage grew ever more dense and swampy but the marvelous birds and the otherworldly beauty made the night bugs almost worthwhile. Fortunately the mosquitoes didn’t seem to like me any but they gave poor Shane the odd nip or two. My favorite bird wore a little red crown that fluttered when he flew past the great white herons posing gracefully on the sandbanks. I spied the most enormous gaily painted butterflies imaginable, and heard strange eerie chirps from alien creatures that clattered like drunken grasshoppers. And the flowers! Huge clusters of red camellias . . . gaping white magnolias . . . I ain’t never seen nothing like it. And whenever we caught a view of the river itself it looked like a silver serpent wending its way through a tunnel of cypress and oak trees, all festooned with a feathery plant that Shane called Spanish moss. Best of all though—and it still takes my breath after all these long years—was sight of the rising moon set in a sky of pink and purple velvet. It was absolutely stunning. And then one day, out of the shimmering heat, came my first glimpse of the Black River Plantation that was to be my future home. We entered a distinctive stone gateway and drove the long shaded path to a large white house with a ceramic tiled roof, nestled in front of a cluster of huts, sheds, and barns. The place vibrated like a busy hamlet tucked away in a wasteland of wood and water. For, as I was about to discover, the rice harvest was in full swing.
Now, I didn’t know nothing about what a rice plantation would look like but in them early days (when they were still learning how to grow Carolina Gold) the place resembled a small country estate on the banks of a black tidal river. If you ain’t never seen rice growing before it looks like swampy fields of rye, cut through with dikes as I’m told they have in the Netherlands. Sweetness hangs in the sultry air. The fields are lush and copious. Then, of course, you find all the other things you’d expect on a farm—cattle and sheep, hogs and chickens, wheat and corn and vegetables. There’s an orchard bursting with ripening fruits, with plenty of deer and game lurking in the swamp. The river yields fish and fowl and turtles but—as in every Eden—you’ve to be wary of the snakes (and on this particular waterway of the log-sized alligators too).
William Cormac had built himself an unusual three-story federal-style home on a raised foundation of stone. The main floor consisted of two large rooms, each with its own fireplace and chimney off a long side hall that contained both front and back doors, entered from three granite steps framed with fancy porches. The upstairs mirrored the lower floor plan, with two huge bedrooms and a smaller guest room that contained a spinning wheel. From the landing a winding staircase led to an airy attic that extended the entire length of the building and was divided comfortably to accommodate all the white servants. The kitchen was located in a separate shed set back from the Big House to reduce the risk of fire, and a selection of scattered structures boasted a meat house, well house, chicken house, barn, stables, winnowing house, and rice mill. There were apparently eight slaves (with the darkest complexions ever) who worked the fields and lived in two wooden shacks set back at the edge of the woods. The white overseer—Mr. Bart Higgins—resided in the largest attic room with Mrs. Joy Higgins, the cook. And, as I was replacing the deceased housekeeper, I was given the smallest space above Miss Anne’s bedroom.
Now don’t get me wrong—Miss Anne had the most gorgeous chamber imaginable—but for me to have my own space with two tiny windows and a corded bed was unbelievable good fortune. I was ecstatic. After I’d said farewell to Shane (who went off to conduct his business around the plantation with Master William) I was left in the care of Mistress Mary. She was a thin, delicate woman, with long dark hair and vivid green eyes. I could tell she was shy and didn’t much like being boss lady, for she always treated folks graciously in the hope they would respond in kind. And generally they did—all excepting her daughter. Now, Annie Cormac was always a spoilt tetchy baggage there’s no mistaking. And I couldn’t never understand her. She had everything a bonnie girl could dream of—parents, money, social advantage—and yet she was wild as a pit viper. Her father pampered her every whim and the mistress couldn’t do nothing to save her. They gave her the finest home this side of Charles Towne, the most elaborate dresses, the costliest horses to ride, a ridiculously fluffy kitten too pampered to catch mice, and a series of tutors who only managed to teach the basics she chose to absorb. Oh, Annie could read and write and count (in fact, she was the one who taught me my letters), but she was far more interested in farming and horses—perhaps because she was trying to be the boy her father always wanted. Anyways, when she was supposed to be learning to be a refined lady she often outwitted the poor scholar assigned and snuck off down to the river to pester the men. So her father eventually gave in again and agreed to groom her to run the plantation. After all—he was much older than his wife—and they had no other heir.
Mistress Mary guided me round the farm and explained her expectations. She and I would take care of the house and any of the folks who fell sickly (so she was pleased to find me young and green and pliable) and when Mrs. Higgins brought over the meals from the kitchen my job was to serve the family and guests, then clear away the dishes. I would eat later with Bart and Joy in the kitchen and then help Bart take food to the black people out in the woods. The men there had no women to look out for them and they were always too exhausted by the end of the day to do much more than eat and sleep. It didn’t take me long to realize that being a white servant was one step up from being a slave—these folks had been bought forever and therefore belonged to the Cormacs, body and soul. I, at least, got to work and sleep in the Big House. My tasks were boring and sometimes arduous (making beds, scrubbing floors, beating rugs, polishing and cleaning), but I didn’t have to wade chest-deep in murky dangerous waters digging dikes and weeding rice plants. I didn’t have to thresh the crops with flail sticks or mill the rice with mortar and pestle. I didn’t have to toil in the fierce stinging sun wearing only a coarse long-tail shirt. It’s no wonder the master didn’t buy women for his fields. I ain’t sure they’d ever survive.
First time I laid eyes on Anne was later that day when she came in from steering the flatboat to the winnowing house. She was definitely older, a good head taller, and looked far stronger than either me or her mother. I stood silently by the mistress as the robust girl shot into the parlor shedding stalks and soil across the polished boards. Her mother pointed to the offending boots and watched as her reluctant daughter shucked them off her feet. Then she announced, “Annie—this is Lola, our new person.”
Anne looked me up and down with a disdainful sneer. Then she pointed to the dirty footwear and said, “Take those away and clean them.” I looked up at the mistress. Her face indicated that I was to obey so I picked up the filthy boots and took them outside to the river’s edge. All the pretensions of Nurse Blaise suddenly fell back to being poor little Lola, and at that point I realized this is how things were to be.
I guess if I’m honest I’d secretly hoped, being almost the same age and all, that me and Anne would be mates. I desperately missed my kinfolks at home, the gang back in London, Bristol’s cleverness and friendship, and Shane’s amusing banter. But Annie was one of them solitary souls who prefer to keep their own company. In many ways she was much older than her years but I saw right enough in her empty stare that there was something hollow inside her that all the sunlight of the Carribee wouldn’t never warm. And I still—to this day—ain’t got no idea why.
BOOK: Fire on Dark Water
9.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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