Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (111 page)

All our royal cousins, uncles, aunts, cranky Reba, start getting bolted to floorboards in the dark bottom of a high red boat. Didn’t nobody fight harder than Auntie, slugging. You never heard such cat shrieks, never seen a blur like her knobbed stick swung sideways wild. Aunt’s skull top come to about manliness level on a few sailors. Her stick sent them howling, doubled, back upstairs. We admired how Reba carried on. But, after, it come to my relations—not only did Aunt not like getting chained … she didn’t want to be chained onto
us
. This old one was so used to going off alone. Now being hooked, permanent, by hands/feets/round the neck, clampt like everybody else
to
everybody else, it must mean a extra little death for her.

Bleachnesses found that babies couldn’t be shackled right. Metal arm and leg manacles clamped too wide for trapping babies proper. So we got to crawl round free among the chained big ones, we was passed continual from hand to hand. Us youngests felt right free till trapdoors flap-flap shut. Then we all known we been locked down here with one plug of African night—another royal captive. They taking our homeland’s Lateness cross Tears, too. It almost give comfort to be hid down here so
in
it, spared
studying them spear-nose hair-bellies, kept from seeing the strangeness of a world all teary mist, the oddness of no vine, no tree. In first dark, Reba’s chains got to jingling, tests of how far each bond would let out. She starts throat-making red-bird sounds. Folks linked closest to Aunt was getting tugged here/there by her tries at usual freedom. Jerked sideways, they flat
told
her bout it.

Home rumors once said Reba—when she disappeared from out our sight (she mostly lived that way)—disappeared from out the jungle, too. Gone, except for a spirit marker left to help her find her place and come back solid when the crinched body needed seeing. Reba—not caring for the kind of smooching middle-village friction-care us others had to have—lived some freer, hidden. Now, we would see how far she got and did she vaporate.

Is Freedom not needing too much? Or maybe always having more than you can use? Tell me, Lady. I myself ain’t yet made its acquaintance, though this French goddess clock I’m dusting tells me my appointment with it’s close at hand.

Storm heave up our sixth day out, seventh maybe. Such sickness you never heared nor smelt. We didn’t rightly know what, besides the rocking, kept making us so ill. By then, won’t nothing in you
to
throw up. Still, you did and did and did till you spitting out bile itself. Seem bile be the very last of brown-black Africa wearing off. Leaning forward, spent, you did and did heave, feeling emptied of all home dyes. In shadow, the King (hoping to get our minds off sickness) now try explaining
why
the boat ones looks so awful. He claim that they been staring at the sky so long (up where nobody can’t go). Cold sky done hooked deep into these animals’ up-aimed eyeholes. But us? see, we been gazing down at our own brown river and home earth for so many years, we been adopted by both. As a type of honor, each one’s turned us—eyes and all—towards they own personal family shade.

Folks commenced to blaming Reba even louder when a bigger rain blown and bob and slap us round all day. Storm’s sounds! Thunder unhitching right overhead, every plank in this here tub trying and decide whether to stay hooked to the others for one more roll, or float off and take its chances alone. The ropes was all whining-biting with the strain, white voices screaming orders at each other or the wind. And every bit that red dye done scrubbed off, Lady Listener What’s Forgot to Play Piano. (I takes that as a token of respeck, being the princess I am.) Dye done dripped all salty in on us, down through curved boards and straight. Blood-red wet be drumming over me, sucking Momma’s bosoms. Her breasts’d started drying up from not getting enough drink nor food. Our Queen so thirsty, she now gulping all the red paint droplets what fall in reach. Hands out, her mouth be stretch wide open in the dark, eyes mashed so tight-shut. My Queen don’t care do this downpour red be poison or no. (Maybe hoping it
were.)
She lift her face to where she think that, back in our country, over the jungle of clear streams, long vines, and loose monkeys, a rightful sky’d yet be.

Me, I kept curled, dreaming bout the milk wall-safed in sweet free village coconuts. Bleaches fed us something like what we calls oatmeal nowdays. It got served in one long wood trough, one slid by ropes down our narrow footwalk. I say “served” … a word I learnt from you. Some joke, speaking “served” bout a trough pulled over chains that bound every adult ankle. Our court folk had to bend forward cross they own legs’ bolts, then each’d drink it, head in, sadsacks sucking up a soup what sounded made out of the kidnapped African dark itself. Bad form. Picture it.

A week into chains, some hungry kinsman call, “Oh, Auntie, down there on the end? Kindly pass us that seed choker from round you baggy neck. We gone soak them pods in tears. Seeds gone swole all up, be right good to nibble. They’s leastways solid.—I plans to share. Give over, everybody’s favorite.”

“Come kill me for it, you. I done had a sign. Reba here, she saving this back.”

“Why for? We hongry, witch breath. What matter’s more than food?”

“Plenty. These seeds be messengers. They wearing me.”

He yell, “Listen, how that bitch be acting ever crazier than to home. She the mud-face what teased us onto this.”

Right after our daily feedings, kin commenced they loudest rattling of chains. See, broth just didn’t fill you. Were mostly water. Every day us waited for this mash to make things better. Every day after it failed to half help, us roared, tried breaking bonds.

Reba, she say nothing. Our tribe magic seem all spent. But, soon enough, things changed, luck it shift. Our old pride, it soon down-deepened.

Aunt Reba made it happen.

MASHED
in irons (minds free-wandering, everything else right much the opposite), us’d hear Bleach-faces singing they tribe songs. A strange hooted heron language. They played one reedy whistle, plunkt something rigged with strings. Didn’t even use no drums! They sure needed schooling. White song sounded thin as the gruel whites slopped our way.

Two older Blank ones come down, stare around and pointed, unlocked three our young womens. Took the girls with early breasts poking out at sassy angles couldn’t nobody living in this down-pull earth keep high-riding for long. Bleachnesses didn’t even choose the royal sisters us considered our most beautiful. (No-colors have they own odd unperfect idea of what bout us look good.) Off went handpicked girls, each just shrieking for our King to save them, please. He done nothing. Him said not one word as they got pulled, fighting kicking, towards day. Both doors slammed shut. Sunk down here in home night, we had to set, eyes open in the dark, and listen
at our three maidens screaming so. One sailor had a wood post to support he un-leg. We heared him thump around, chasing. We heared other white-bodies laugh. We heared that tree leg strike and knock, tackling and holding down one princess onto deck. His wood foot beating, beating as she screech so bad. Sound like he drubbing her to gruel.

Two days later, when Bleach chanting start again, we got quiet in our chains, guessing that by now our three tribe girls be floating dozens of blue-green miles underneath the Tears of Something Even Bigger. Then we heard own maidens giggling, our home girls trying and hum along with the putty-faces what wanted nothing but to harm us all.

King announce in his boominest boss bass, “Ladies only doing that to throw them water-bodies off guard, soon girls gone slip down here and save us.” Reba—chained at the very end, keeping even more to one side, slouched in on herself, chains tensed up off her neighbors, still holding that stick upright in stale air like she bout to go land strolling—she just cackle at the King’s explaining. “Reba say, first: Let them save theyselves.” Others (mostly ladies) moan, agreeing.

Then we keened for our lost maids-in-waiting to the Queen. Us call they full names upwards, encouraging. Our three missing was probably being touched by the white blotter hands of twenty-some bleachnesses, our dark girls might be losing color now—one handprint, one wet mouth bite at a time—our girls maybe having they very lives leach/sapped by all that white male bleach spread, spilled, shot, and burning on the deck.

WHEN
we still lived aloose, each time Reba turn up in our village, all peeve, snub, and mumble, folks
would
gather at they own risk. They drawn close, but only in groupish knots to see Aunt’s truest skill. After being axted a question, Reba’d reach down and blind-touch some feeble part of her tough hide. The snakebites’ shiny scars lumped in either palm, a long spear wound in she side that someway, pure miracle, healed over after enemies raided when Reba won’t but nine years old—back when the world itself were all unmemorized names, fresh paint. Aged to slowness now, face both open and decided, she’d prod her own flesh wounds. Then—eyes closed—our spinster would tell-tale her old hurts’ freshest answers. Like the star charts you keep forever reading out you Fashion Quartlies, ma’am—no wound ever says the same fact two days running. And, look here, Missy, folks generally
believe
whatever Auntie tell them do. Be it for their stomach dropsy, a bad son, or a hut what’s smoke hole ain’t been drawing right on windy days.—She alone. She know. She, alone, know.

—So, yeah, Miss Reba had what everbody
claim
they want. But—still nodding from her pointy answer—folks might then study this old walking-away toadstool, all folded in and cranky, folks see her over-with breasts that’d never invited one drop of milk into theyselves for giving on to others. And, spying this never-kissed stump—three-toothed—living freedom out,
you sure had to wonder, Mistress Mine, What’s the point of being free if you gots to go off and do it all
alone?

SAY WHAT
? But I don’t
wants
to quit my dusting. You done owned me seventeen years and you never thought to tell Cassie “quit” before! Only with Yanks headed here to spring me, only now does you grow milk-of-human-kindness mushy. This shade of white is new to me. Listen, if you think Castalia’s going to slack off for her last someteen minutes of your ownership, you out you silly gourd.

Oh, I know you ain’t
all
bad. (When the chips is down, all the wicked say that.) I
know
you been giving me the party dresses you gets tired of but, answer me this, where is I going to
wear
them? Green watermarked silk with lace side panels—should I slip it on for a corn husking? Bad form. I done caught that disease from you: Knowing what’s “put on,” “climbish” and “too free and easy.” But except “climbish,” except heartsick for “freeish,” Lady, you ain’t left me much to be.

OUR KING
, using he deep rich voice, flexing chained arms overhead, he say he’d about
had
it. He finally shout, It time for our own best warrior guards to spring out of hiding, get they tailbones down here fast, set us free, “Now!” Everybody rustled to bossy regal life again—loving hearing our most royalest person roar so.

“Free us!” King bellowed good, and others start to chanting it, us children too. “Free!” sound so fine, no matter that the bleachnesses didn’t know our word for it. King act like a king what always gets his way (though we knowed he chained as tight as us). We tilts forwards, each eye open in this rocking, whining stink-dark. All waiting for our guards’ brave shouts, for a scuffling as they kilt off unkind Bleaches. Came no sound. Except. The slapping. Of more water hills. Then more.—Our guards sure is staying quiet though us give them time aplenty. Finally you hears the King fall back against his metal links, a great ramshackle crashing like his proud feelings been powerful hurt by such rudeness from tribe serving folks. (See, ma’am, good help’s always been real hard to find!) And—Lady Whalebone Stays, was right then that all our tribe’s rich magic seemed clean over. Our saving ceremonies had gone silent as The Sound You Couldn’t Name. Our Our-selfness felt spent the way sweet water, dropped into the salted stuff, be right off ruint.

To fill the time, my Daddy King, he axted us to describe our missing village, act like some lost-and-found. King figured if—even in this wet dark—we spoke our local truth true enough, maybe it might save us. Each elder soon added on a fact till it seem you really
could
be walking back to the safe-beaten center of our home. Somebody would recollect how one crazy yellow dog always slept in this certain doorway and how, after a week’s snooze, when the cur finally built up decent spunk, he’d stand and chase
hisself in total circles. Always. Some boy say, “That dog ain’t
ever
been right in the head.” Then—out of this being-lugged-away scrap of African shade—tame mild laughs rose up from loved ones. Folks talked in order of their chaining. Odd, but I recalls that order of folks’ answering. The one real thing had shrunk down to my kin’s voices, laughs. Voices stayed our shields and totems—we was chained but
they
won’t. Even now when I thinks back to the home time before Red bamboozled us, I someway recollects our group along the same two rows where we sat chained. Soon every child add on one knee-high fact about our missing village—everybody say a picture. Our tale-told darkness, it were full of pain but full of Equalness.

All us spoke but Reba. She just snort like belittling this whole boat and us ones too.

Mrs. Got to Have She Marmalade from England, they can do a lot of badness to you. They can hurt you and hide you and cart you off from where you always knowed the rules, but maybe the worst deed be how easy they can switch you inside out—I mean: set you gainst youself, gainst each other. Happen on day ten/twelve. Packed in this foul spot, one lonely husband, chained to the row just opposite his wife’s and missing her terrible, call out that all he want to do is touch her breast, just one she breast be plenty. Bolted in this bunch, he feel so alone. Breast’d help. Shy, she whisper then—with him so far off—call louder—yeah, she wouldn’t mind. Soon others try and get at others for to feel and rut. Chains clanking. Childrens soon shrieking. Soon folks do like animals—try anything for comfort.