Second Daughter (2 page)

Fatou knew that the master would do as he pleased, but knowing that she would rather die than leave me, she went to talk to him. “Baas Hogeboom, I'm grateful that you want me to serve our Meesteres Annetje, but please, baas, I can't leave my little sister.”

“You will if I say so and if your Meesteres Annetje so chooses.”

“I pray you don't make me go away. I can't, and I won't go without her.”

Colonel Ashley knew that his bride had her mind set on Fatou, and that Fatou was determined to starve herself to death if she had to leave me. He decided to buy me, too. When he looked at the men, to choose one of them, he chose Brom. The colonel paid forty pounds for Brom, fifteen for Fatou, and eight for me.

I wondered what would happen to us as I watched the tears roll down Fatou's face while she put our things in a strong wooden box that our father had made. She packed our mother's scarf that she had wrapped me in to carry me on her back; our mother's dark skirt and white blouse that the meesteres had given her; a bonnet and some soft shoes with tiny beads, a gift from a woman who lived in the forest; wooden shoes and a homespun dress and coats that each of us had received from the baas. Carefully she also wrapped roots and leaves and placed them in a basket.

It didn't dawn upon me that I was leaving, until I had to say good-bye to Olubunmi. I screamed and cried and clung to her as the baas pulled me away and firmly placed me in the cart that was filled with boxes, crates, and bags—gifts for Meesteres Annetje. Olubunmi cried aloud as she followed us until the new baas made her return to the farm. Fatou held me close and our tears wet our clothes.

2

For many weeks we rode and walked along streams, through green valleys, thick forests, and over mountain trails. Then one day Fatou aroused me from weary sleep; we had arrived in a place near Sheffield, Massachusetts. The valley of the Housatonic River spread before a child's eye a beauty that I could never have imagined. Among the evergreen pines and spruce trees the yellow and gold leaves of the aspens shimmered in the distance. As we descended into the valley the guide pointed out high hills and Mount Bushnell, and the tall towers of Mount Everett east of us. On the lower slopes the red, yellow, and brown leaves of the birch, oak, and sugar maple trees brightened the valley.

We wound our way down into that beautiful valley to Sheffield, a street city. Finally we came to a house made of planks instead of bricks like the one we left in Claverack. It was a well-built, big house that hugged the shore of the dark, slow-moving Housatonic River that wound through the plain.

I remember the people who came to greet us. The baas and meesteres were swept up by many from the village. They all called him master and her Mistress Anna and so we began to call him master and her Mistress Anna, too. Not as many dark faces as we knew at Baas Hogeboom's were in this place. Here, there were many more African men than women. Only two women: Sarah and Nance. The older one, Nance, was short and plump and her smile, which showed more gums than teeth, was warm and genuine. She took one look at Fatou and said, “Yo' looks. Ah thinks maybe Ah know you befo'.”

“But where?” I asked in a language more Dutch than English. Sarah, younger than Nance but older than Fatou, looked at me, surprised that I should speak so to Nance.

“Oh, Ah oft' time think dat when Ah see mah kinfolk in dis land far from home. Ah look at 'em and wonder, is she from mah village? Or, is he mah brother's son who was stole in a raid and done come a slave of a Mande whose daughter he married? Us Af'icans is like li'l seeds that float in de air far 'way and land close to de other not knowin' dey from de same pod.”

I had heard the women back in Claverack say similar things and, remembering, I said, “And you could marry your clan brother, right?”

“Aissa!” Fatou called. I saw the alarmed look on Sarah's and Nance's faces and wondered what I had said wrong. “She talks too much,” Fatou sighed.

“I would say she hears one thing and understands ten,” Sarah said, and laughed.

“I wuz ramblin',” Nance said. “G'wan, git yo' things and come wid me.”

We soon learned that Sarah did not belong to the house. She was free, lived in the village, and hired herself out as a seamstress, cook, and housekeeper. However, when the greetings had died away, it was Sarah who picked me up and took me into the cellar, gave me a good scrubbing, and dressed me in clothes that were much too big. When Fatou had bathed herself, the clothes she wore were much too small. They had not expected such a big, tall girl.

I waited in the very large keeping room, or kitchen, while Fatou went with Nance to see the rest of the house. A fireplace covered a whole wall. Many iron pots and brass kettles hung on or near it. There were tables and cupboards. One table in the center of the floor had one side folded; on the other side was a drawer that looked like a shiny half barrel underneath with a round button on it near the tabletop. I grabbed the button and pulled. The shiny part was filled with flour used for making bread.

Beautiful, bright blue-and-white dishes filled a cupboard near the fireplace. I had just climbed onto a low chair nearby to see them better when the mistress entered the room. Not saying a word, she lifted me from the chair, took me into a corner, and forced me down on my bottom so hard that I let out a yell. Quickly, she put her hand over my mouth and nose. I struggled to breathe, but her grasp tightened. I bit her.

She tried to let go, but I held on and my sharp teeth cut into the palm of her hand. She screamed for help and the master came, followed by Fatou and Nance. Nance ran to the mistress and placed a cloth over her bloody hand. From the hearth, the master grabbed one of the green sticks on which the pots were hung over the flame. Fatou seeing his anger, cried, “Oh, master, wait, wait, I'll take the blame. I don't know why she did this, but it's my fault.” Fatou looked frightfully scared.

The master didn't wait. He whipped me on my backside and legs until I could no longer feel the pain. After putting the stick aside, he and the mistress left the room. Both Nance and Fatou looked at me and cried. I felt so ashamed. My first day in this big house and I had made my sister and new friend cry. What had I done for the mistress to want me not to breathe?

“Oh,
mijn zusje
[my little sister],” Fatou cried. “What did you do? Do you want to be sold away from me? I can't keep you if you are not a good girl. We're servants to the master and mistress; you had better remember that.”

“I only wanted to see the dishes,” I cried.

“You bes learn dat de mistis is boss in dis house,” Nance said. “Never, never, harm the mistis if you want tuh live.”

Fatou took me to our room. She rummaged in a basket and came out with some roots and leaves that she pounded. Then she bathed my sore bottom and legs and put on them the plaster of roots and leaves. After she had covered me with a homespun cloth, she gave me a drink that made me drowsy. I remember her picking me up, but I don't remember being put in the bed I shared with her.

Fatou and I slept in a building that adjoined the house. Our room and Nance's and those of all the other slaves were in that same building. Its slanting roof made low ceilings, and only thin walls divided our space from the others. Even though our room was just big enough for our small bed and the basket and box Fatou had packed for the journey, we were glad to be together.

Fatou's tea made me sleep for two whole days. I awoke with not too much pain from the beating. Fatou stood over me. “Wake up. The master wants to see us.”

She hurriedly dressed me, washed my face, and pulled me along to the big house. The mistress met us at the kitchen door, “Your master wants to speak to you, girl, not this wretched child.”

Before Fatou could answer, I said, “She can listen to him better if her mind is not on me.”

“Please, meesteres.” Fatou spoke softly and evenly.

Mistress Anna gave in and led us up steep stairs into a big room with high windows that let in light but, even in the day, lamps were lit. A long table had chairs around it. The walls, the color of honey, were shiny like the big dark desk behind which the master sat. A fire sparkled in a fireplace right next to a glassed-in cupboard that held fancy glasses and pitchers.

The master looked at us briefly and returned to a paper in front of him. “From this day you, the older, will bear the Christian name Bett, and you, the younger one, will be called Lizzie. You will not be called by the heathen names Fatou and Aissa ever again.”

I started to speak, but Fatou squeezed hard on my shoulder as she said, “Kind master, I like the name Bett, but can I please call my sister by the name our mother gave her?”

“I have given the two of you honorable Christian names. You will be called by those names and none other. Now, I do not like to punish my servants but, as you know, I will not hesitate to do so if you do not respect your mistress and abide by the rules of this house. Bett and Lizzie, you may go.”

From that day, others called me Lizzie. In the thin four walls of our room, secretly, I remained Aissa.

3

The days went by. Snow covered the hills and the rising towers of Mount Everett far away to the east. When the morning chores were done, Bett and I were free to explore the place. I shivered as we walked around, Bett looking for the herbs and roots that must grow here, too. We discovered many things on the land, among them beautiful white rocks that Nance called the cobble. The sound of Ashley Falls could not be heard because the noise of the saws and planes of the master's lumber mill filled the surrounding areas. Both black and white men were working there.

I stayed close to Bett as I walked past, near the white men. Their long hair was unkempt, their light eyes deep in their heads. I had never seen such faces—some sad, some mean, and others with eyes that reflected nothing. All were dressed alike in homespun jackets and leather trousers; the blacks seemed better cared for than the whites.

One day, Josiah Freeman, a black man, stopped his work and came to speak to us. Later I learned he was called Freeman because he was not a slave, but a free man. More than six feet tall, he was not muscular, but well built. He wore his mahogany hair in locks. His dark skin was smooth and his face hairless. He had a deep voice and a stern look, but when he spoke his smile showed strong, even white teeth.

Fatou lowered her eyes, as if lost for words. She stood with her hands down, her fingers interlocked.

“You do have a name, don't you?” Josiah asked.

“Her name's Fatou. Mine is Aissa.”

Fatou quickly placed a tight hand on my shoulder and said, “No, she doesn't understand. We don't have those names. I'm Bett. She's Lizzie.”

He laughed. “You can trust me. I'm a friend. So we have first and second daughters here.”

“My little sister is finding it not easy to give up her name. But she'll learn. I hope the learning is not too painful for her.”

Josiah told us that he lived just outside of Sheffield on the road to Stockbridge and came to work in the mill. He took care of the machines, sharpened the saws and planes, and supervised the cleaning of the place.

“Who are these men?” I asked.

“They are slaves,” Josiah said.

“No, the white ones.”

“These men were put on ships sailing out of Europe. Some were homeless street wanderers, some were thieves and murderers released from prisons, and some are from insane asylums. When they landed in America, farmers and merchants paid the ships' captains a price of passage and got free labor for a term of four or five years. They're called
term slaves.
”

“They don't get much care, do they?” Bett asked.

“No. African slaves are better taken care of because the master owns them for life and at least wants to keep them healthy. Some of the termers, though, are hardy, hard-working people who, soon after their freedom, buy slaves.” He changed the subject and looked Bett in the eye. “I am sure I will see you again. What shall I call you?”

“My name is Bett.”

“I'll see you, Bett,” he called out to us as we walked on.

Away from the mill were large lots where the master's cattle huddled together to keep warm, their breath giving off puffs of steam. Brom worked among the cattle. “
Hoe gaat, het broertje?
[How are you, little brother?],” we called to Brom.

“Goed. Hoe gaat het mijn zusje?
[Good. How is my little sister?]” Always glad to see his sisters, he laughed and talked with us in Dutch. Far away from the house, he and Bett also spoke in their language. I understood some words and loved the soft rhythmic sound, but Olubunmi had forbidden my learning. Bett asked Brom about Josiah. He did not know him very well, only that Josiah was well respected, liked among the men.

Brom told us how happy he was not to have to work in the fields or in the mill. As a Fulani, he had not known that kind of labor.

“Dag! Tot ziens
[Good-bye! See you again],” we said as we left him and walked on through a field where wheat and flax had grown, that now lay fallow. We came upon a man working near the building where our homespun clothes were made from the sheep's wool.

“Good morning,” Bett said. When Bett saw that he spoke no English, she said
“Goedemorgen.”
He did not understand her Dutch either. She then spoke to him in Fulfulde:
“Jam, wurro waalii?”
Tears of joy rolled down his cheeks as words rolled off his tongue. As we were leaving him he said,
“Tiigaade!”
Bett answered,
“Imo jeyi hoore mum!”

“What did you say to him?” I asked Bett.

“I asked, ‘Did your community spend the night in peace?' That is our way of saying an early morning greeting.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“That he is a Mandinka with the Christian name Zach Mullen. As we were leaving he said, ‘
Tiigaade
—hold on steady.' And I said to him, ‘I will hold on to my freedom.'”