The Kingdom on the Waves

by M. T. Anderson

  He was at some several hundred yards’ distance from us, alone in a paddock, running back and forth, followed by a clutch of men.

  It appeared a children’s game: the running boy, the others circling to meet him.

  I ceased my flight; and he turned this way and that, darting to elude them until he was surrounded.

  He raised up his bayonet. They sliced at him with their blades. He did not resist them, but simply dropped his musket — and a blade ran across him. He squealed high and shrill, and I saw the blood spread upon him.

  Clutching my musket, I ran back toward him; and was stopped in my progress by Pro Bono, who, sensible of the pause in my flight, had returned to see what delayed me.

  “You can’t,” he said to me. “You can’t, Prince O. There’s twelve of them or thirteen.”

  They were lifting Pomp between them. Others stalked away, in search of more prey.

  Bono dragged me back behind a great bush and swore. I maintained I had to return and aid my friend.

  “You ain’t going.” Bono held my arms.

  “I have struck you before,” I said.

  “Let us get reinforcements,” said Bono; which now I see was but his way to distract me from my course, but which then, in my disordered state, seemed excellent advice.

  And so we ran, loping past paddock and hedge.

  Down upon the dock, some twenty of our Regiment were in the two launches waiting against the Serjeant’s return, with, every few moments, a figure running across the slats from the shore, dimmed by the rain.

  We reached the water, though well upriver of the dock. I was in close pursuit of Bono. We saw Serjeant Clippinger in the bushes before us. I followed upon the others’ heels, the last in our line, and we cut along the shore toward the launches.

  ’Twas then we saw the force of men from the barn step forth from the parterre and proceed to the end of the dock, standing, a terrible brood, with their weapons raised. They stood between us and our boats. They had not spied us, but they knew we lingered, and they blocked our route to safety.

  One of the launches pushed off and hung in the waters. Someone upon the boat called for a volley, which offensive yielded no results, the powder now being soaked beyond all ignition.

  The band of rebels stepped forth upon the dock, and the second launch lit off from the shore, hanging close, lest Clippinger should reappear.

  We were now gathered, a small group of us — Bono, Olakunde, Clippinger, Privates Harrison and Ackerman — hanging back amidst some bushes; and Clippinger said, “Mark, the Crep will fire her guns and make short work of these ruffians.” He nodded his head at the rebels. “Speak you to a nine-pounder, my friends.”

  We waited in the rain, and the two launches drifted upon the Rappahannock, and still the Crepuscule made no move to aid.

  “He is alive,” I said to Bono. “He was wounded, but I vow, he still lives.”

  Bono bade me hush; but nothing in my breast permitted me hush.

  We crept some feet forward toward the dock and there waited. We were not awarded with any comfortable view, for the launches put forth their oars and made their way back toward the ship.

  We were abandoned.

  I presented to Bono that we must return up the hill and liberate our friend; to which he replied that I would be no such fool. I would not be denied, but set off; and found Bono following, hissing warnings at me.

  We had not gone far — Bono all the while expostulating and decrying me for an idiot, would get us slain — when we perceived that we should have to expose ourselves to cross the paddocks and reach the spot where last we had seen our companion. We made our way around the edge of the meadow, keeping low, and saw, with the lessening of the rain, men moving about up at the house. We could not espy Pomp, living or dead.

  We were spotted then; there were shouts and calls, and we retreated down toward the shore, pursued.

  We rejoined Clippinger. We hunched there half-hidden, the six of us, as the Crepuscule stood inactive on the river.

  The men gathered at the farm were begun a sweep to ferret out any who had not regained the launches — we could hear them call to each other. One unfortunate they found — I know not who — and we heard him begging for mercy as they led him away. We heard them approach, and fled along the riverside, stepping through high grass and bramble.

  For perhaps half of an hour, we fled thus. A state of greater wretchedness could hardly be imagined. I thought of the wetness — always the wetness — which pervaded all; that was foremost in my thoughts; for in times of greatest strife, the mind oft relucts to animadvert upon things most awful; and so, the chilly scald of my shirt hung across me, the reek of metal in the air, the slap of leaves across my face — these were the objects of my notice.

  We came to a tributary of the river — we knew not its name — surrounded by a great area of marshy ground, and with difficulty made our way along it, often sunk to our knees in mud and brackish water.

  ’Twas then we heard, as from a distance infinitely far, the crack of the Crepuscule’s guns, too minute to serve us to any purpose. We squatted in the mud and rested. We did not speak, the six of us, but maintained a gloomy, shuddering silence.

  In — I know not — an hour, perhaps two — we heard dogs come to tear us out, and once more rose and moved. ’Twas a warm evening, and we were now so involved with the rain that it no longer cloyed. We felt naked to the elements.

  At some time, the rain ceased, but now all was black, and our progress slow. We tripped and could make little headway, and sticks cut at us and the mosquito-flies now encircled us mercilessly and ate at us. We fell and rose and wandered on.

  They came for us through the woods — lanterns and dogs — and we ran as best we could. The dogs tumbled across the hummocks and cried out for our blood. We could not see them but their Cerberus tumult filled the black wood and wearied us still more.

  We were trapped by them, and each ran our way through the tall grasses; and I saw a faint gleam as two bodies charged past me, and Bono darted the other way, and I perceived that Bono had leaped into the tributary river to cross it. This I did too, with my musket clutched absurdly in one hand, and clutched in my head, the fevered hope that once crossed, the river should absolve us of scent, and the dogs lose us.

  No sooner had I plunged into the river and, with convulsive strokes, my hand still holding my musket above the water, set out to cross it, than I saw Olakunde following Bono. He being unable to swim, he was holding tight to his drum, which held him aloft, while Clippinger thrashed at the water beside him.

  We swam behind Bono until we had crossed the river, and then drifted silently, heads only above the water, bodies below crouched and twitching along the mud floor. We heard the dogs flood up and down the far shore, where we had stood.

  I do not know what became of the other two who fled. I have not heard of them from that day to this, whether they found their own escape, or were taken by our pursuers.

  May God have mercy upon them.

  And so Bono and I, Clippinger and Olakunde lay that night in the mud of the marsh, flies thick upon our heads, roots around our fingers, guns lain in leaves upon the shore. We were sundered from our party, lost even to those who were lost upon their island fastness, and the country was alive with those who hated us, and wished nothing more than to teach us of our subordination.

  We hid beneath trees in the marsh. We could not cease shaking.

  We had nothing which had escaped drenching: no victuals, no bedding. The flies and mosquitoes bit at us mercilessly.

  And I could only reflect, that were Pomp there, he should know of the ways of the marsh, and tell us what might save us from their sting.

  On Midsummer Night, Pomp once related, on Midsummer Night, you can find out who going to die soon. You know this? This is true. You take yourself down to the church-porch, and you sit yourself there, and at midnight, all the spirits of those people going to die during the year, those spirits all come to the graveyard
and knock on the church door. The first spirit who knock, he the first to die, and the second to knock, he die second. They all stand in a line, like for rations. Truth.

  Truth? I said. Absolute truth?

  He laughed. Truth!

  Pomp declared that a man of his parish — a youth well known to him — undertook this summer frolic with two maids upon whom he doted; the amorous youth believing that such a scene of horror was well calculated to draw one maid or the other into his arms. But he saw not the spectacle; for come eleven, he had fallen soundly asleep, and was insensible; and come twelve, his two giggling companions fell silent and gaped in awe as his own spirit rose and knocked first upon the door.

  There it is, his own ghost — tap, tap, tap. And he wake up, all frowzle-headed, and ask why those girls disturb him. He says, “Why you wake me up with your tapping?”

  But they can’t tell him. And the ghosts, they is all disappeared. So the girls don’t say nothing, staring at each other all affrighted.

  And a month later — this is true — month later, he was dead of a putrid fever.

  I tell this tale in memory of Private Pompey Lewis, friend Pomp; who I still ardently dream shall sit beside my grandchildren and speak of kindly horrors.

  Grasping at my arm, covered with twigs, he spake to me; I heard the violin all around us; I awoke.

  I lay upon the ground. ’Twas still night. To Bono I whispered, “We must go back and see whether he lives.”

  “They are gone,” said Bono. “Pomp, Harrison, they are all gone.”

  “We can return.”

  “Prince O.,” said Bono, “he ain’t there anymore. You know that. They took him somewheres. They have their places. The lead mines, out in the west. That’s the new fashion. You know it. The Sugar Isles.”

  “They might still be stationed at the house.”

  “They ain’t at the house. And this ain’t one of your romances. You go back there, you die or you get caught.”

  I knew he was right; and yet, I could not quiet my fancy: We burst into the barn and held their fearful guard at bayonet-point until they surrendered Pomp’s location — we sought him out, crawling blue through the night — the crows called warning — then the sortie — his face full of delight as we hacked off his chains — gladdened — the flight back to Gwynn’s.

  And instead, I thought of him in the mines which have been decreed as our fate if we are caught. He may shovel there in that interminable dark, unable to stand; otherwise, crouched upon his knees, sliding upon his belly, with no air to breathe; he who should be at our side.

  And this I thought: Dear God — protect him — bless him, for living or dead, he shall soon be beneath the earth.

  And I myself could not breathe; I choked; I rose; I could not find air in that clenched tunnel, that throat of stone.

  O Pomp — chief usher of horrors — you who sought out death in tales, you who relished death most — now you are engulfed by your own terrors — and I, who am helpless, pray for thee.

  We rose before the dawn. There was little sleep had by us.

  Our course was clear, without Serjeant Clippinger declared it: We could not seek out the fallen; did we wish to remain at liberty, we must find our way to Gwynn’s Island; and did we wish to return to the Island, we must seize upon a boat. No other mode of conveyance was practicable, the whole of Gloucester County, across the channel from the isle, being invested with rebellion. They gathered there thickly to oppose our Regiment, and ’twould be mere folly to attempt to pass through them. A route by water was our only expedient.

  I suggested that we had, in our flight, run west; and had then stumbled to the north as we fled through the swamp and its tributaries. We could not hazard making our way back along the shore, eastward, toward the mouth of the Rappahannock by foot, for we should have to return through the farm where we had met with the ambush. Clippinger, confounded by the geography, had begun to curse and batter trees. Bono, Olakunde, and I determined we should progress left, to the southwest, that we might meet with the shore of the Rappahannock upriver from where we had disembarked, upon which banks we hoped to come upon some craft which should serve our purposes. The Serjeant received our recommendations without comment.

  We began our march.

  We soon perceived, however, that we could not long continue in our present state. The first instance of a road, we stepped forth and had no sooner set to walking upon it than we heard distantly a team of horses approaching. “There is times,” muttered Bono tartly, “when you wish your shirt don’t say, ‘Liberty to Slaves’ in great letters on your chest.”

  Upon this head, nothing could be clearer. We retreated into the woods.

  We could progress no further as we were without drawing the eye of suspicion. Serjeant Clippinger was in great confusion as to how we should proceed, remonstrating (when any suggestion was offered) that we had brung him to this pass, and we should keep silent while he thought. Reluctantly I admit that I can give no superlative portrait of his powers of command, and lament that for the verity of this record, I must, on the contrary, record instances wherein Serjeant Clippinger did not show himself as ready and honorable an officer as his superiors might wish.

  Nonetheless, he was our commanding officer. We awaited his orders, a force greatly reduced and impatient for activity. Delay yielded only his intelligence that Death, death, we might as well skip across the moon as walk through town without a challenge.

  To this, I proposed that we take up a ruse suggested by our fellows in the Regiment when they had fled to His Lordship’s service: that we should array ourselves as if we were escaped slaves being led to justice; in which deception we should be infinitely aided by the presence of a white man. I expatiated upon the virtues of this measure: We should be able to walk with impunity through town and past plantation without exciting suspicion, and so make our way south, back to the banks of the Rappahannock, where we might secure a vessel to make good our return to Gwynn’s Island.

  This plan was not thought entirely without merit by our number, and we spake of how best to effect it.

  Bono, Olakunde, and I removed our shirts immediately — garments thrown off so with such celerity, when once donned with such pride. Stripped now, half-naked, we did not look conspicuous, being no more indecent than many of the slaves who labored in the fields around us. Our breeches were our own, and varied, and did we walk without shoes, we could pass as a miserable coffle being led back to captivity or to some new scene of degradation.

  The habilement which posed the greatest challenge to us was Serjeant Clippinger’s, for his uniform was distinctly that of an officer of the King’s Army with some scant Regimental trim fastened upon the facings to mark him as attached to the Royal Ethiopians. In no wise could he proceed out of the woodland dressed thus.

  We cast about through the woods, noting the disposition of houses around us. One had a great array of slaves; and at length, we decided to approach one, claiming that we had newly run away, and request he bring us clothing. Serjeant Clippinger hung back, for the presence of a white man would do nothing but alarm a slave queried in such a manner.

  The slaves were engaged in the tobacco fields, weeding. Bono and I crawled along a row and put ourselves in the way of one man who stooped there, suckering plants.

  “Brother,” whispered Bono, “look’ee, brother . . .”

  The man regarded us with a look of anger. “An’ you run now,” said he, “I don’t shout for the overseer.”

  Bono begged, and the man raised his head and put his hand to his mouth, awaiting some move to holler.

  We left precipitously, and he, glaring, turned back to his work.

  We were sick with fear. We hid for more hours in the wood, our bites swelling.

  Later, we sought out a house where a man lived, it seemed, alone.

  He was a farmer of small means in a modest house. We could not risk alarms, and he resisted, screaming murder; we threw him down when he attempted to close the door to us,
and Bono held his bayonet ready to prick the man’s eye and warned, “If you cry out again, sir, we shall kill you. — We shall kill you. — You cry out, and I swear I will stab you through the eye and into your brains. You listen.”

  “We’d be fools not to kill him anyhow,” said the Serjeant. “If he raises the hue and cry, we’s dead as a dog in ditch-water.”

  The man begged our mercy.

  “No need to kill him,” said Bono. “We’ll tie him and hide him.”

  We having fetched breeches and a plain shirt, I tore another shirt into strips and bound the man’s hands.

  “No one will find me,” he pleaded. “Don’t. Ain’t nobody comes here.”

  “A gag,” said Bono.

  We gagged the man and hauled him into his loft, where we left him lying, entombed by heat, eyes expressive of the greatest terror.

  But my conscience would not allow me to leave him thus. A day or two, and he might be dead.

  Against the impatient expostulations of the Serjeant, we brought the man down from the attic and dowsed him with water, that he might not suffer so greatly from the heat. We left him beneath his bed, bound tightly to its legs.

  How awful it is to contemplate the accidents that determine one’s fate. But for breeches and a plain shirt, this man’s life should not have been at hazard.

  I see him still, begging, “No one will find me.”

  We did what we did, and I shall not linger on it.

  While Clippinger changed into new breeches and shirt in the little house, we went outside to search for rope; and finding a length, Bono tied Olakunde and me together.

  Thus arrayed, we set out again: two captives, a master, and his man.

  All night, we walked as a coffle of the dead. Olakunde and I were roped together, our hands bound, and Clippinger and Bono behind us, driving us. Our muskets were slung in a sack which Bono carried. We wore no shirts nor shoes.