'Til Morning Light

by Ann Moore

  Hopkins gave her a ghastly smile, one that obviously hadn’t been used in years, then bowed rustically and backed out of the kitchen, leaving Grace to wonder what had just occurred. She shook it off and set her mind to the tasks that lay before her, losing herself in the simple pleasure of familiar work.

  By late afternoon, the loaves were out of the oven and sitting on the sideboard cooling, and the ducks were spitted and roasting over the fire, the scent of which was driving the dogs mad—Grace had to hold them back with her foot every time she opened the back door. Jack had returned from the pond as wet as if he’d actually gone swimming, so Mary Kate had dried him off and changed his clothes, and now both children sat before the hearth, playing draughts.

  Enid had been noticeably absent from the kitchen all afternoon, and Mary Kate had seen to the chickens without her. So they would all sit down to dinner at the long table, and Grace knew it was bound to be an awkward meal. She could not let go of the day’s conversations, and of her time spent with Abigail. She felt drawn to the woman and yet was also deeply troubled by her. Despite Hopkins’ protestations, the housekeeper clearly had a hold over her mistress and it was an unnatural hold, at best. Grace was beginning to understand that she must have a further conversation with Doctor Wakefield to make sure he knew how poorly his sister fared in Hopkins’ care. And yet, the household had been like this for … how long? Years, Hopkins had said. They had functioned this way for a long time, and who was she to come and change things? Hadn’t she promised to maintain a peaceful home life for the children, and didn’t that promise outweigh any obligation she might feel to her employer? Aye, she told herself. It did. She would try to keep her nose out of whatever odd routine had been established, though Missus Hopkins need be none the wiser. Grace liked the fact that the housekeeper might be wary enough of her to stay out of her way, and if she could get a clean house for the doctor in the bargain, then that was good enough for now. Grace stood and stretched her back, hands behind her, pressing down on her hips. Whatever the truth was, Hopkins was ultimately right—it wasn’t Grace’s concern, and she needn’t go out of her way to make it so.

  Twelve

  Abigail Wakefield woke in the middle of the night, her heart pounding. She hated the dark, but the fire never lasted an entire night and they never left a lamp burning in her room—not even a candle or matches—for fear she’d stumble against it and catch the entire place on fire. Hopkins put all the lamps out herself before retiring each evening, leaving Abigail to face the dark alone should she wake after the embers had burned themselves out. Usually, she swallowed enough laudanum, wine, whiskey, or a combination thereof to ensure she slept through the night, but lately it hadn’t been working; lately she awoke despite the fog in her head and lay there in the dark, fighting desperately against the memories that would not be silenced once they realized she was vulnerable to them. They marched across her mind’s eye in a steady progression, whether she wanted them to or not, and the worst was when a single scene froze, forcing her to examine its every corner.

  The worst, of course, was the hanging. The lesson, they called it back home: We’re going to teach that boy a lesson, they’d say; that black nigger, that yellow gal, that mulatto chile … all of them needed lessons, it seemed, all of the time. The lessons were usually administered in the form of whippings—for laziness and thievery (notorious among Negroes), lying (born to it, all of them), debauchery (they couldn’t help themselves, but still a good master would try to beat it out of them)—but runaways and horse thieves might find themselves hobbled, though owners hated to damage their own property, and transgressors who had committed even greater evils got the noose. Thomas had gotten the noose, the ultimate lesson in Thou shalt not. Lynching was what it was, Abigail knew—hanging a man who never set foot before a judge, who was never found guilty, who was tried and sentenced and executed in the dead of night, under cover of darkness, the executioners masked to protect themselves from … what? They were cowards, Abigail knew. Lynching was the act of cowardly men.

  Lynched, she thought. To hang a man from a tree and leave him there to swell and rot like overripe fruit. She knew it happened on plantations all through the South, but usually women were protected from the sight of such brutality—white women, anyway. Abigail had never seen a lynching, though she’d stumbled across the aftermath once or twice and had imagined how it happened. But this time, this time they made an exception—did they suspect, she often wondered, or were they merely so full of pride that they wanted to share their vengeance with her? After all, they were doing this for her, weren’t they? They were avenging the honor of a daughter of the South whose innocence had been corrupted by a man who, though free, was no more than the lowest animal in their eyes; what that man had done to one of theirs was not only wrong—it was evil. Evil. The word they used. What they said to her—she’d been ruined by Evil. She parted her lips now, in the dark, heard the crackle of dried spit in the corners of her mouth, felt the split in her lower lip reopen, probed it for blood with the tip of her tongue, thought of forbidden fruit, what they said to her. It was all so very horrible, and her hands fumbled for the bottle beside her bed, desperate to drive it away because it could not be undone but nor could it be borne.

  She had screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed until they yanked the wagon out from beneath him simply to stop the echo of her screams crashing through the hot, fetid summer night. They had looked at one another, those men, unnerved by her shrieks, but taking it as proof of the madness she’d suffered at the hands of her attacker.

  They had been eager to avenge her maidenhood—oh, yes, so eager and willing to put this presumptuous Negro in his place, his place in the ground—but then they could not meet her eyes the next time they saw her; could not meet her eyes at a dinner party or on the dance floor; could not look at her in church, where they went to pray for protection from Evil. She’d begun to realize that they could not look at her without thinking of her body being overpowered by that young Negro buck, and it shamed them because they considered themselves civilized men. But it excited them, too—oh yes, it did—and she knew it and they knew it.

  Her father could not look at her; her brothers brushed past her on the veranda, in the hall; their wives made every excuse to leave the room when she entered. The slaves, once friendly, now kept their eyes on the floor and answered her reluctantly, if at all, when she spoke to them; she had taken one of their own—she knew that this was what they were thinking—a free man, a promising young man, a man who was going to make a difference someday. What had she been playing at, this wealthy white girl, tempting a poor Negro boy? Didn’t she know they’d lynch him? They’d had no right, of course, to lynch anyone, especially a free man, but—and here a dry, joyless laugh escaped her—white men could do as they pleased in the South. Maybe white men could do as they pleased anywhere in the world, but she didn’t know anything about the rest of the world, only about the South. Only about the men in the South. And because she knew about them, about the power they held over everyone in their worlds, the slaves were right—what had happened was her fault. It was her fault.

  And when she realized that, the world tipped sideways and she fell off. She could no longer eat at dinner parties, could not even lift her fork; could not dance, for its requirement of lightness was something she had lost forever; could not follow the service in church, so filled was her heart with the begging of God for understanding, for forgiveness, for redemption. But God had known it was her fault, too, and her words had fallen on deaf ears. She’d done everything she could think of in order to atone, but how could anything make up for the loss of a human life? She’d proceeded with a plan that only proved how really stupid, foolish, and ignorant she really was—no wonder God could not, or would not, bring her relief.

  But He had brought Agnes Hopkins, and Hopkins had shown Abigail the way to redemption. God did not want her prayers, her words, her petty atonements—that was too easy; God wanted proof of Abigail’s rem
orse, evidence of her suffering, before He could relieve her guilt, before He would forgive her. And so she had put away that which she loved most in the world, that which she had fought so hard to keep, put it away in a safe place until she could claim it with a cleansed soul. And she had spent years making her penance, had given up the world, starved herself, suffered the necessary abuse heaped upon her by the one doing His will, had given herself over so that her own stubborn pride and sinfulness might be torn from her. But now, as she was finally drawing near the prize, a devil had entered the house in the guise of a simple cook, determined to wrench her away from God’s servant and win her soul for Satan, thereby to be separated forever from those she loved.

  Abigail’s heart began to pound, and she sat up, clutching the blankets in her bony fingers, eyes wide in the dark. She would have to be wily to pass this last test; she would have to summon every ounce of strength left in her decimated body and fight until blood oozed like sweat from her pores. Help me, she whispered into the gloom, help me lest I be forever damned.

  She listened for a moment to the hiss and whisper of the dark, listened until it began to make sense to her. Yes, she answered the voice in her head. Yes, she nodded, faster now, the end in sight. Thy will be done. Be done at last.

  Thirteen

  Morgan awoke suddenly to a stillness he knew well, and to a crisp, clean scent in the air that undercut the close smell of smoked meat. He lay for a moment, orienting himself, looking up toward the top of the birch-lined wicuom, out through the hole at the peak, where tendrils of smoke from the rock-ringed fire pit escaped. Lying there in the dim light, he could also smell the fragrance of the fir boughs that covered the floor of the wicuom, over which the women had laid mats of woven reeds, and then fur robes. Because winter was coming, they had begun to line the walls of the wicuom with reed mats as well, and a collar for the smoke peak had been made ready for installation at the first sign of bad weather. Morgan took another deep breath, then rolled over and squinted at the shaft of light coming through the door flap. Yes, he was right. The bad weather had arrived.

  Père Leon, snoring contentedly, lay buried beneath his own fur robe next to Morgan on the men’s side of the wicuom.

  “Father.” Morgan shook the priest’s shoulder until he snorted and rolled over. “Wake up, Father,” he said quietly. “’Tis snowing.”

  Père Leon opened his eyes immediately and looked at his new friend.

  “Huh,” he grunted, mumbling something else in French, then threw off the robes and crawled over the older sleeping men to the flap. He pushed it open, and Morgan saw even more clearly that, though the snowfall was still light, the ground had already been covered.

  Around him, thirty members of Aquash’s family still slept; above them all hung long sausages of moose intestines stuffed with fat, meat, and berries, the scent rich and flavorful in the close environment. Morgan’s stomach rumbled and, outside, the dogs began to whine for their breakfast.

  Père Leon crept back and, shivering, wrapped the warm robe around his shoulders. “We must go today,” he said decisively, “or stay for the winter. Which would not be so bad,” he added, sniffing the fragrant air.

  Morgan shook his head. “I must get to America.”

  “Then dress yourself, my friend, and say your good-byes.” Père Leon called to Aquash, who woke immediately and came to him. He spoke to her, pointing to the flap, then nodding as she replied.

  She went to Nacoute’s place among the men and roused him, waking the others in the process. Grunts and yawns were replaced by a few words here and there as the Indians woke up and greeted one another, dressed and checked the weather for themselves, then gathered their children and began to prepare food for the morning.

  Morgan pulled on his pants and stepped from the wicuom to relieve himself in the woods; the sky was gray and bright, snow flurries swirling around him. Squirrels were running madly up and down tree trunks, storing away what might well be their last food supplies before winter, and a pair of foxes, their pelts bright against the snow, moved stealthily past, eyeing the man who eyed them back. The forest was muffled this morning, and there was a sense of urgency in every flash of wildlife he saw. Shivering, Morgan returned quickly to the tent, passing Père Leon, who was on his way out. He reached for his shirt, but before he could put it on, Aquash stopped him. She pointed to a pile of Indian garments she had placed on his blanket—winter clothing, it appeared—and he watched closely as she demonstrated the order in which each piece should go on.

  She handed him a pair of thick moose-hide leggings that had been painted up the side with triangles, circles, and scallops mostly in black but with a touch of yellow, red, and white around the cuffs; the Mi’kmaq wore these leggings under loincloths, but Aquash had attached them to a seat so that they more resembled the European trousers to which he was accustomed. Over his thin linen shirt, she helped him pull on a long tunic of sealskin that would keep him warm and dry, also painted, though not as intricately as many he’d seen in the camp. His boots were long worn through and his woolen socks threadbare, so he was grateful for the fur-lined moccasins she handed him; they were long, a tube of skin from a moose leg, sewed across the toe, rubbed with seal oil so that they were both supple and water-resistant. Around these she wrapped bands of leather to keep everything in place. And last, she handed him a robe of rich warm beaver fur that had a belt at the waist and fell to just below his knees. For his head, there was also a cap of beaver with flaps to cover his ears. He recognized the cap; he had seen Aquash working on it last night, stitching the pieces together with a bone awl and strands of dried animal sinew, just as she had the moccasins.

  All the while she dressed him, Aquash did not meet his eyes, and Nacoute stood nearby, holding Morgan’s gun and knapsack, his baby sister bundled near his feet. Now that the moment had come, Morgan struggled with how to say good-bye to these three people for whom he’d come to care so deeply. Sensing his anxiety as she sensed every emotion that floated around her, Aquash finally looked up and laid her hand upon his cheek. She smiled reassuringly at him, then took his hand and led him out of the tent, Nacoute following.

  Although Morgan had met many of the Mi’kmaq during the past four days of celebration, he had not thought there were as many as this; it seemed that more than one hundred gathered now in the clearing between the wicuoms, the men glancing at the sky and nodding, their women calling out shyly and smiling at him.

  “They have all come to bid us good journey,” Père Leon told him. “Here is their headman, Aquash’s grandfather.”

  An elder, dressed in his finest robe, came forward and put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder, looking deeply into his eyes and speaking slowly. Morgan did not avert his gaze even as he listened to Père Leon translate.

  “He says, thank you for bringing Aquash and her children home to her people. You are a good and brave man, and your name will be one of honor among them.”

  Morgan shook his head. “Tell him it is Aquash who was brave, Nacoute who showed courage.”

  Père Leon spoke to the old man, who listened and then motioned for Aquash. She came to him, the baby, Marie, in her arms, and Nacoute by her side. And then he spoke to Morgan again, peering so closely into Morgan’s eyes that Morgan was sure he could see into his soul.

  “He says that Nacoute and Aquash have told him the story. He knows the story.”

  The old man nodded, his eyes never leaving Morgan’s face.

  “You have given him back his beloved granddaughter, his great-grandson, and his new great-granddaughter, and for this, he will sing of you every year when the first snow falls.”

  When Père Leon finished, the old man smiled and stepped back, and Nacoute took his place. Morgan had to fight the urge to embrace the young man, a move he knew would be wrong in front of all these braves. Nacoute reached into his tunic and pulled from it a leather pouch on a strap; this he removed and opened, pouring out its contents into Morgan’s hand. Morgan turned it over and felt it
s smooth edges—it was the carving of a bear, done in bone, possibly of the bear itself. He listened as the headman spoke again and Père Leon translated.

  “He says this is Nacoute’s spirit-helper, the great and mighty bear who wants only to be left alone in peace but will fight to the death for her cubs.” The priest paused while the old man spoke again. “Though the boy cannot talk, the old man understands what you are to him. Nacoute has said through his mother that there is only one man he thinks of as his father, and that man is you.”

  Morgan regarded the young man before him. “Tell him”—he stopped and cleared his throat. “Tell him that he honors me, and that I could ask for no finer a son.” He wrapped his fingers around the bear and brought his fist to his chest. “I will carry him always here.”

  The priest translated, and all the heads in the crowd that listened so raptly began to nod with pleasure.

  Morgan put the string around his neck and tucked the pouch into his tunic. Aquash stepped forward and kissed his cheek; he kissed hers in return, and then the baby, and then there was a rush of gifts—a moose bladder filled with creamy fat, a sharp hunting knife in a coyote tail sheath, a pipe with a stone bowl and a pouch of native tobacco, a hemp bag of smoked salmon, two long moose sausages, a birch-bark container for holding and boiling water, and pieces of chert and iron pyrite for sparking a fire.

  Overwhelmed by the generosity, Morgan turned to Père Leon.

  “Say to them that they are like the people from my country far, far away, and I pray that the God of my people will bless them.”

  Père Leon translated his words, and the Mi’kmaq cheered in the way that was their own, waving the travelers off. Morgan waved farewell to Aquash and Marie but could not find Nacoute in the crowd though he scanned it again and again.