Peggy could see so much in other people’s heartfires that she hardly was acquainted with her own.
She thought of herself sometimes like that lone lookout boy at the tip-top of a ship’s mast. Not that she ever saw her a ship in her whole life, except the rafts on the Hio and one time a canal boat on the Irrakwa Canal. But she read some books, as many as ever she could get Doctor Whitley Physicker to bring back to her from his visits to Dekane. So she knew about the lookout on the mast. Clinging to the rigging, arms half-wrapped in the lines so he didn’t fall if there was a sudden roll or pitch of the boat, or a gust of wind unlooked-for; froze blue in winter, burnt red in summer; and nothing to do all day, all the long long hours of his watch, but look out onto the empty blue ocean. If it was a pirate ship, the lookout watched for victims’ sails. If it was a whaler, he looked for blows and breaches. Most ships, he just looked for land, for shoals, for hidden sand bars; looked for pirates or some sworn enemy of his nation’s flag.
Most days he never saw a thing, not a thing, just waves and dipping sea birds and fluffy clouds.
I am on a lookout perch, thought Peggy. Sent up aloft some sixteen years ago the day I was born, and kept here ever since, never once let down below, never once allowed to rest within the narrow bunkspace of the lowest deck, never once allowed to so much as close a hatch over my head or a door behind my back. Always, always I’m on watch, looking far and near. And because it isn’t my natural eyes I look through, I can’t shut them, not even in sleep.
No escape from it at all. Sitting here in the attic, she could see without trying:
Mother, known to others as Old Peg Guester, known to herself as Margaret, cooking in the kitchen for the slew of guests due in for one of her suppers. Not like she has any particular knack for cooking, either, so kitchen work is hard, she isn’t like Gertie Smith who can make salt pork taste a hundred different ways on a hundred different days. Peg Guester’s knack is in womenstuff, midwifery and house hexes, but to make a good inn takes good food and now Oldpappy’s gone she has to cook, so she thinks only of the kitchen and couldn’t hardly stand interruption, least of all from her daughter who mopes around the house and hardly speaks at all and by and large that girl is the most unpleasant, ill-favored child even though she started out so sweet and promising, everything in life turns sour somehow … .
Oh, that was such a joy, to know how little your own mama cared for you. Never mind that Peggy also knew the fierce devotion that her mama had. Knowing that a portion of love abides in your mama’s heart doesn’t take away but half the sting of knowing her dislike for you as well.
And Papa, known to others as Horace Guester, keeper of the Hatrack River Roadhouse. A jolly fellow, Papa was, even now out in the dooryard telling tales to a guest who was having trouble getting away from the inn. He and Papa always seemed to have something more to talk about, and oh, that guest, a circuit lawyer from up Cleveland way, he fancied Horace Guester was just about the finest most upstanding citizen he ever met, if all folks was as good-hearted as old Horace there’d be no more crime and no more lawyering in the upriver Hio country. Everybody felt that way. Everybody loved old Horace Guester.
But his daughter, Peggy the torch, she saw into his heartfire and knew how he felt about it. He saw those folks a-smiling at him and he said to himself, If they knew what I really was they’d spit in the road at my feet and walk away and forget they ever saw my face or knew my name.
Peggy sat there in her attic room and all the heartfires glowed, all of them in town. Her parents’ most, cause she knew them best; the lodgers who stayed in the roadhouse; and then the people of the town.
Makepeace Smith and his wife Gertie and their three snot-nose children planning devilment when they weren’t puking or piddling—Peggy saw Makepeace’s pleasure in the shaping of iron, his loathing for his own children, his disappointment as his wife changed from a fascinating unattainable vision of beauty into a stringy-haired hag who screamed at the children first and then came to use the same voice to scream at Makepeace.
Pauley Wiseman, the sheriff, loving to make folks a-scared of him; Whitley Physicker, angry at himself because his medicine didn’t work more than half the time, and every week he saw death he couldn’t do a thing about. New folks, old folks, farmers and professionals, she saw through their eyes and into their hearts. She saw the marriage beds that were cold at night and the adulteries kept secret in guilty hearts. She saw the thievery of trusted clerks and friends and servants, and the honorable hearts inside many who were despised and looked down on.
She saw it all, and said nothing. Kept her mouth shut. Talked to no one. Cause she wasn’t going to lie. She promised years before that she’d never lie, and kept her word by keeping still.
Other folks didn’t have her problem. They could talk and tell the truth. But Peggy couldn’t tell the truth. She knew these folks too well. She knew what they all were scared of, what they all wanted, what they all had done that they’d kill her or theirself if they once got a notion that she knew. Even the ones who never done a bad thing, they’d be so ashamed to think she knew their secret dreams or private craziness. So she never could speak frankly to these folks, or something would slip out, not even a word maybe, it might be just the way she turned her head, the way she sidestepped some line of talk, and they’d know that she knew, or just fear that she knew, or just fear. Just fear alone, without even naming what it was, and it could undo them, some of them, the weakest of them.
She was a lookout all the time, alone atop the mast, hanging to the lines, seeing more than she ever wanted to, and never getting even a minute to herself.
When it wasn’t some baby being born, so she had to go and do a seeing, then it was some folks in trouble somewhere that had to be helped. It didn’t do her no good to sleep, neither. She never slept all the way. Always a part of her was looking, and saw the fire burning, saw it flash.
Like now. Now this very moment, as she looked out over the forest, there it was. A heartfire burning ever so far off.
She swung herself close in—not her body, of course, her flesh stayed right there in the attic—but being a torch she knew how to look close at far-off heartfires.
It was a young woman. No, a girl, even younger than herself. And strange inside, so she knew right off this girl first spoke a language that wasn’t English, even though she spoke and thought in English now. It made her thoughts all twisty and queer. But some things run deeper than the tracks that words leave in your brain; Little Peggy didn’t need no help understanding that baby the girl held in her arms, and the way she stood at the riverbank knowing she would die, and what a horror waited for her back at the plantation, and what she’d done last night to get away.
See the sun there, three fingers over the trees. This runaway Black slave girl and her little bastard half-White boy-baby, see them standing on the shore of the Hio, half hid up in trees and bushes, watching as the White men pole them rafts on down. She a-scared, she know them dogs can’t find her but very soon they get them the runaway finder, very worse thing, and how she ever cross that river with this boy-baby?
She cotch her a terrible thought: I leave this boy-baby, I hide him in this rotten log, I swim and steal the boat and I come back to here. That do the job, yes sir.
But then this Black girl who nobody never teach how to be a mama, she know a good mama don’t leave this baby who still gots to suck two-hand times a day. She whisper, Good mama don’t leave a little boy-baby where old fox or weasel or badger come and nibble off little parts and kill him dead. No ma’am not me.
So she just set down here a-hold of this baby, and watch the river flow on, might as well be the seashore cause she never get across.
Maybe some White folks help her? Here on the Appalachee shore the White folk hang them as help a slavegirl run away. But this runaway Black slavegirl hear stories on the plantation, about Whites who say nobody better be own by nobody else. Who say this Black girl better have that same right like the White lady
, she say no to any man be not her true husband. Who say this Black girl better can keep her baby, not let them White boss promise he sell it on weaning day, they send this boy-baby to grow up into a house slave in Drydenshire, kiss a white man’s feet if he say boo.
“Oh, your baby is so lucky,” they say to this slavegirl. “He’ll grow up in a fine lord’s mansion in the Crown Colonies, where they still have a king—he might even see the King someday.”
She don’t say nothing, but she laugh inside. She don’t set no store to see a king. Her pa a king back in Africa, and they shoot him dead. Them Portuguese slavers show her what it mean to be a king—it mean you die quick like everybody, and spill blood red like everybody, and cry out loud in pain and scared—oh, fine to be a king, and fine to see one. Do them White folk believe this lie?
I don’t believe them. I say I believe them but I lie. I never let them take him my boy-baby. A king grandson him, and I tell him every day he growing up. When he the tall king, ain’t nobody hit him with the stick or he hit them back, and nobody take his woman, spread her like a slaughterpig and stick this half-White baby in her but he can’t do nothing, he sit in his cabin and cry. No ma’am, no sir.
So she do the forbidden evil ugly bad thing. She steal two candles and hot them all soft by the cookfire. She mash them like dough, she mash in milk from her own teat after boy-baby suck, and she mash some of her spit in the wax too, and then she push it and poke it and roll it in ash till she see a poppet shape like Black slavegirl. Her very own self.
Then she hide this Black slavegirl poppet and she go to Fat Fox and beg him feathers off that big old blackbird he cotch him.
“Black slavegirl don’t need her no feathers,” say Fat Fox.
“I make a boogy for my boy-baby,” she say.
Fat Fox laugh, he know she lie. “Ain’t no blackfeather boogy. I never heared of such a thing.”
Black slavegirl, she say, “My papa king in Umbawana. I know all secret thing.”
Fat Fox shake his head, he laugh, he laugh. “What do you know, anyway? You can’t even talk English. I’ll give you all the blackbird feathers you want, but when that baby stops sucking you come to me and I’ll give you another one, all Black this time.”
She hate Fat Fox like White Boss, but he got him blackbird feathers so she say, “Yes sir.”
Two hands she fill up with feathers. She laugh inside. She far away and dead before Fat Fox never put him no baby in her.
She cover Black slavegirl poppet with feathers till she little girl-shape bird. Very strong thing, this poppet with her own milk and spit in it, blackbird feathers on. Very strong, suck all her life out, but boy-baby, he never kiss no White Boss feet, White Boss never lay no lash on him.
Dark night, moon not showing yet. She slip out her cabin. Boy-baby suck so he make no sound. She tie that baby to her teat so he don’t fall. She toss that poppet on the fire. Then all the power of the feather come out, burning, burning, burning. She feel this fire pour into her. She spread her wings, oh so wide, spread them, flap like she see that big old blackbird flap. She rise up into the air, high up in that dark night, she rise and fly, far away north she fly, and when that moon he come up, she keep him at her right hand so she get this boy-baby to land where White say Black girl never slave, half-White boy-baby never slave.
Come morning and the sun and she don’t fly no more. Oh, like dying, like dying she think, walking her feet on the ground. That bird with her wing broke, she pray for Fat Fox to find her, she know that now. After you fly, make you sad to walk, hurt you bad to walk, like a slave with chains, that dirt under your feet.
But she walk with that boy-baby all morning and now she come to this wide river. This close I come, say runaway Black slavegirl. I fly this far, yes I fly this river across. But that sun come up and I come down before this river. Now I never cross, old finder find me somehow, whup me half dead, take my boy-baby, sell him south.
Not me. I trick them. I die first.
No, I die second.
Other folks could argue about whether slavery was a mortal sin or just a quaint custom. Other folks could bicker on about how Emancipationists were too crazy to put up with even though slavery was a real bad thing. Other folks could look at Blacks and feel sorry for them but still be somewhat glad they were mostly in Africa or in the Crown Colonies or in Canada or somewhere else far and gone. Peggy couldn’t afford the luxury of having opinions on the subject. All she knew was that no heartfire ever was in such pain as the soul of a Black who lived in the thin dark shadow of the lash.
Peggy leaned out the attic window, called out: “Papa!”
He strode out from the front of the house, walked into the road, where he could look up and see her window. “You call me, Peggy?”
She just looked at him, said naught, and that was all the signal that he needed. He good-byed and fare-thee-welled that guest so fast the poor old coot was halfway into the main part of town before he knew what hit him. Pa was already inside and up the stairs.
“A girl with a babe,” she told him. “On the far side of the Hio, scared and thinking of killing herself if she’s caught.”
“How far along the Hio?”
“Just down from the Hatrack Mouth, near as I can guess. Papa, I’m coming with you.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am, Papa. You’ll never find her, not you nor ten more like you. She’s too scared of White men, and she’s got cause.”
Papa looked at her, unsure what to do. He’d never let her come before, but usually it was Black men what ran off. But then, usually she found them this side the Hio, lost and scared, so it was safer. Crossing into Appalachee, it was prison for sure if they were caught helping a Black escape. Prison if it wasn’t a quick rope on a tree. Emancipationists didn’t fare well south of the Hio, and still less the kind of Emancipationist who helped run-off bucks and ewes and pickaninnies get north to French country up in Canada.
“Too dangerous across the river,” he said.
“All the more reason you need me. To find her, and to spot if anyone else happens along.”
“Your mother would kill me if she knew I was taking you.”
“Then I’ll leave now, out the back.”
“Tell her you’re going to visit Mrs. Smith—”
“I’ll tell her nothing or I’ll tell the truth, Papa.”
“Then I’ll stay up here and pray the good Lord saves my life by not letting her notice you leaving. We’ll meet up at Hatrack Mouth come sundown.”
“Can’t we—”
“No we can’t, not a minute sooner,” he said. “Can’t cross the river till dark. If they catch her or she dies afore we get there then it’s just too bad, cause we can’t cross the Hio in the daylight, bet your life on that.”
Noise in the forest, this scare Black slavegirl very bad. Trees grab her, owls screech out telling where they find her, this river just laugh at her all along. She can’t move cause she fall in the dark, she hurt this baby. She can’t stay cause they find her sure. Flying don’t fool them finders, they look far and see her even a hand of hands away off.
A step for sure. Oh, Lord God Jesus save me from this devil in the dark.
A step, and breathing, and branches they brush aside. But no lantern! Whatever come it see me in the dark! Oh. Lord God Moses Savior Abraham.
“Girl.”
That voice, I hear that voice, I can’t breathe. Can you hear it, little boy-baby? Or do I dream this voice? This lady voice, very soft lady voice. Devil got no lady voice, everybody know, ain’t that so?
“Girl, I come to take you across the river and help you and your baby get north and free.”
I don’t find no words no more, net slave words or Umbawa talk. When I put on feathers do I lose my words?
“We got a good stout rowboat and two strong men to row. I know you understand me and I know you trust me and I know you want to come. So you just set there, girl, you hold my hand. there, that’s my hand. you don’t have to
say a word, you just hold my hand. There’s some White men but they’re my friends and they won’t touch you. Nobody’s going to touch you except me, you believe that, girl, you just believe it.”
Her hand it touch my skin very cool and soft like this lady voice. This lady angel. this Holy Virgin Mother of God.
Lots of steps, heavy steps, and now lanterns and lights and big old White men but this lady she just hold on my hand.
“Scared plumb to death.”
“Look at this girl. She’s most wasted away to nothing.”
“How many days she been without eating?”
Big men’s voices like White Boss who give her this baby.
“She only left her plantation last night,” said the Lady.
How this White lady know? She know everything, Eve the mama of all babies. No time to talk, no time to pray, move very quick, lean on this White lady, walk and walk and walk to this boat it lie waiting in the water just like I dream, O! here the boat little boy-baby, boat lift us cross the Jordan to the Promise Land.
They were halfway across the river when the Black girl started shaking and crying and chattering.
“Hush her up,” said Horace Guester.
“There’s nobody near us,” answered Peggy. “No one to hear.”
“What’s she babbling about?” asked Po Doggly. He was a pig farmer from near Hatrack mouth and for a moment Peggy thought he was talking about her. But no, it was the Black girl he meant.
“She’s talking in her African tongue, I reckon,” said Peggy. “This girl is really something, how she got away.”
“With a baby and all,” agreed Po.
“Oh, the baby,” said Peggy. “I’ve got to hold the baby.”
“Why’s that?” asked Papa.
“Because you’re both going to have to carry her,” she said. “From shore to the wagon, at least. There’s no way this child can walk another step.”
Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Page 3
