After he had sung just one verse, another slave, who Alex whispered to Hannah was named Quashee, interrupted him, grumbling that the song was in the language of enemies of his own people. Tony made a face and looked ready for an argument, but then Quashee offered to sing a song he had learned from an Irishman in Savannah.
As he sang, Quashee played a small hand-drum, while Cuffee accompanied him on a stringed instrument made from a gourd, and Tony kept time by thumping on the ground with a large stick. As the energy of the music picked up, Sukey leapt to her feet, and to the shouts and cheers of the others, started to dance energetically.
Extending an encouraging hand toward Alex, she brought him to his feet. “You dance, too, Cato!” she cried, and Alex was so overwhelmed with her joy, he forgot to be shy about performing in public. As the others clapped along, he danced wildly, throwing his limbs in all directions. Suddenly, he dropped onto his belly and did the worm, his head and bottom bopping up and down as he propelled himself across the dirt floor. The others laughed and applauded, Hannah most loudly of all.
When the song ended and Alex scrambled to his feet, Sukey hugged him around the shoulders, laughing. “You dance good, Cato!”
“Way to go, bro!” Hannah agreed. She felt a little weird to be partying with slaves while sitting on a dirt floor in 1752, but she was mostly happy to be out from under the constant scrutiny of the Gordons.
Now the musicians laid down their instruments, and the atmosphere became more subdued. Tony and Cuffee took up small white clay pipes, stuffed them with tobacco, and lit them from straws dipped into the fire. Alex sat down by the fire and rested his head in Sukey’s lap. Hannah felt a pang of jealousy, although she wasn’t sure who she was jealous of.
“Tell us a story, Tony,” Alex pleaded. “The one about the white witch . . . .”
Tony laughed. “No, I’ve told that one too many a time. Here, I tell you another one. There was this man called, uh, Pompey walking through the swamp, see, and he hears another man calling behind of him. So he calls back to him, ‘Hey, brother, who are you?’ But the other man don’t answer.
“Now he starts to worry that this man means to rob him, and he starts walking faster. But the other man walks faster too.
“Soon he is running for his life, and the man is chasing him through the woods. Pompey is jumping over stumps, and getting torn by thorns as he pushes through the trees, but that man behind him never gives up.
“Now, Pompey sees the sinkhole in front of him, and quickly, he slides in, under the water, and holds his breath. But then he realizes he’s out of his depth, and he can’t swim, and he has a vine wrapped around his foot. He’s going to drown. He splashes and thrashes, and just then, the man who was following him catches up with him, and Pompey sees that he’s an old man. He’s huffing and puffing, and he tries to throw Pompey a branch to save him, but Pompey can’t reach it.
“And just as his head comes above the water again, he gets a look at the man, and he is shocked to see that the man is him, only old. The old man on the bank calls out, ‘I try to save you, but I still can’t swim.’ The very last thing that Pompey sees is the old man vanishing before his eyes.”
“Is that true?” Alex asked, his eyes huge.
“So says the man who telled it to me,” Tony said impassively.
Alex shuddered, but Hannah was not impressed. “Come on, it can’t be true. Like, if Pompey did drown, how would anyone know the story?”
Tony laughed at that, as if to say “Good point!”
Alex yawned, and that set off everyone else. Soon, all the merrymakers except Hannah, Alex, and Sukey had melted into the night with goodbyes. Then Sukey rubbed at her forehead.
“I got a terrible headache,” she muttered. “Maybe tomorrow I go into the swamp, see the white witch, and she give me some medicine.”
“There really is a white witch?” Hannah asked, curious. “She’s not just a story? Like Glinda, the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz?”
Alex turned to his sister. “This witch is like a sort of African doctor who lives in the woods,” he said. “People think she has great powers, and she gives them, like, herbal supplements so they feel better. Don’t mention her to the Gordons, though. Nobody tells the white people about her. I think she must be a runaway, and they might try to capture her.”
“They don’t try,” Sukey murmured sleepily. “She’s not a runaway, and anyway, they afraid of her. She might put a curse on them.” Then, abruptly, she said, “It’s late. I’m going to sleep now.” She lay down on the straw, and pulled a thin blanket over herself. “Cato, you put out the fire when Hannah leaves.”
Hannah whispered to Alex, “Is Sukey African? I asked her where she was from, but I didn’t understand what she said.”
Alex drew a stick through the smoldering remains of the fire, sending up tiny ash clouds. “Not exactly,” he said. “She’s half-Indian, half-African. I’m not really sure what that means—she was a bit confused herself. But it seems like her entire tribe was on the run for a long time, trying to get away from being enslaved, and a lot of different people joined them on the way. When she was young, she was captured by Creek Indians, and they sold her to Mr. Gordon.”
Hannah was puzzled. “That’s strange. I didn’t know that Indians sold slaves. Heck, I didn’t know that Indians could be slaves.”
“Yeah, I thought that was weird, too,” sighed Alex, “but there are definitely Indians who are slaves, and some of the slaves I’ve heard about are Mustees. That means they’re half-black, half-Indian, like Sukey. I guess it doesn’t happen so often any more, Indians selling slaves, but it still happens.”
“Freaky,” Hannah said, intrigued. “Has Sukey got any family?”
“Just Tony, I think. He’s her son. A couple of her other kids escaped years ago, and the youngest one here died last year,” Alex said. “She has a couple of grandkids at Mr. Gordon’s plantation in South Carolina, but she never sees them. She asked Mr. Gordon to take her with him when he visits his son, but he’s not done it.” He added with a smile, “She says she wants to adopt me.”
They heard Sukey’s quiet snores from behind them. “She must be pretty lonely,” Hannah said quietly. “She’s the only woman here, right?”
“Yeah,” Alex whispered. “Unless you count Mrs. Gordon, but they never really talk to each other, and Sukey likes it that way. We’re all scared of the Gordons.”
“I was thinking about that,” Hannah said. “Here we all are, stuck out in the middle of nowhere, everyone just trying to get by, and nobody wants to know anybody else. There’s no communication. Nobody trusts anybody here. Has anybody tried talking to each other?”
“That’s not true,” Alex objected. “All the slaves here trust Sukey. But it’s hard for us to want to know white people like the Gordons when they want to get rich off of everyone else, and they don’t care who gets hurt.”
“That’s not fair,” Hannah said. “I mean, they’re not my favorite people ever, but they’re not so bad when you get to know them. I’ve never seen Mr. Gordon be really mean to anyone.”
“That’s what you think, Hannah,” Alex said sharply. “But you’re white. What do you know about what he does to black people?”
“What do you mean, I’m white?” Hannah said. “So are you. Most of the time.”
Alex sniffed contemptuously. “Not right now, though. Hannah, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Just watch out for Mr. Gordon, that’s all I’m saying.”
There was a pained silence. Then Hannah said, “Man, I thought Georgia was kinda strange in the twenty-first century. But this is just . . . beyond.”
Alex exhaled sharply. “Yeah. It’s too bad, because Georgia’s much prettier now than it is in our time. I love looking around. I can’t get over all the wildlife. I went downriver with Sukey one day, and you should see the size of some of the trees. They’re huge, like California redwoods.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “I dunno, that just doesn’t do much
for me . . . . I can see why the Gordons are more interested in moving to Charleston. At least there’s good shopping there, I guess.”
“There’s something else strange here . . .” Alex said. But then he lapsed into silence.
“What?” asked Hannah
“Nothing. Forget it.”
But his sister wasn’t so easily put off. “Oh, come on Alex, what?”
He looked embarrassed, but reluctantly he said, “There are the spirits.”
“The what?”
Alex felt himself blush. “See, I knew you would say that. Never mind.”
Hannah smirked at him. “Okay, you can tell me. I promise not to laugh.”
Alex fidgeted awkwardly. “Everything has a spirit, Hannah,” he said. “The animals, the trees, the rocks.”
Hannah couldn’t help herself. She laughed so loudly at him, Sukey stirred in her sleep.
Alex made a face at his sister and said defensively, “It’s true. You’ll see.”
“Uh-huh,” said Hannah, folding her arms. “Right.”
Embarrassed, Alex changed the subject. “What’s happened to the Professor?” he asked Hannah. “Do you think she got lost?”
“I have no idea,” she replied, staring blankly into the fire. “But . . . hey, wait a minute . . . You know how that skeleton you guys found was wearing a ring? Mrs. Gordon is wearing it. The exact same ring they showed on TV.”
Alex sat up straight. “No! For real? I didn’t notice! Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Yeah, positive. Brandon said it was, too.”
“Then I guess we found the dead person,” said Alex. “Do you think Mrs. Gordon will die soon?”
“Don’t get too excited,” Hannah said. “I hope not. Brandon said that the skeleton might have been murdered.”
Alex frowned. “Wow. I hope that doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
“Of course not,” said Hannah crossly. “It’s not like any of us are psycho.”
“True,” Alex said. “But you’re a convicted criminal, right? They might suspect you.”
Hannah’s brow puckered. That was a scary thought. “Anyhow,” she said, glancing over at Sukey, who was snoring gently, “there’s no point in worrying about that. The big question now is if we should run away.”
Alex looked at her with concern. “Didn’t you notice Cuffee?”
“No, can’t say I did,” Hannah said, poking with a stick at the remains of the dying fire. “Why? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Most of his left foot is missing,” Alex said solemnly. “And his back is covered in scars, like it’s made from rope or something. When he ran away after he got here from Africa, they caught him and beat him half to death and then they cut off his foot with an axe to make an example of him.”
Hannah shuddered, and then had a thought that made her cringe inwardly. Hesitantly, she said, “When you say they, Alex, who exactly are we talking about?”
Alex looked into her eyes. “Mr. Gordon, Hannah. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Mr. Gordon whipped him and cut off his foot. If anyone is a psycho around here, it’s him.”
His sister gasped.
Chapter 7: WORK AND WONDERS
As the dawn’s light crept around the rough wooden shutters, Hannah rubbed her eyes, rolled over, and stumbled to her feet. Dressed only in a shift, the long shapeless garment she wore night and day, she grabbed a pot to fetch water for the morning coffee and cornmeal mush. But then she realized she should dress before going outside: Even though her shift covered her from neck to toes, it was still considered underwear. So she would have to dress properly before she went outside to pee and fetch water, or risk scandalizing everyone. With a sigh, she returned the pot to the floor, and struggled into her petticoat and shortgown. The shortgown was held together at the front with straight pins, and she had to insert them carefully to avoid pricking herself as she worked. The shawl she pulled around her shoulders wasn’t really necessary for warmth: It was for modesty, and it had the added advantage of draping over the pins, reducing her risk of hurting herself. Hannah had asked Mrs. Gordon for buttons, but buttons cost money, and Mr. Gordon wouldn’t consider buying them for his convict servant.
Hannah decided not to wear stockings because she only had one pair, and she had stopped wearing shoes except for church on Sundays. Mr. Gordon had told her that if her shoes wore out, he would not replace them. They cost more money than he wished to spend. So Hannah decided to wear them only when she absolutely had to. She went barefoot the rest of the time.
After she lit the fire and drew the water from the well and poured it into the outdoor cauldron, Hannah sat down close by the tripod on which the cauldron hung over the fire. Waiting for the water to boil, she chewed thoughtfully on a piece of wiregrass. In modern-day Georgia, she never sat on the grass because of the fire ants, which seemed to be everywhere, and which ganged up to bite people in lots of places at once. But she hadn’t yet seen fire ants in 1752, and she had wondered why. She had asked Alex about them last night, and he told her that they were accidentally brought into the South on a ship from Brazil in the 1930s. Which was an Alex kind of thing to know.
Outdoors had always seemed incredibly pointless and boring to Hannah. If she was to be honest with herself, she thought, she hadn’t liked to go outside in California either, not even on the most beautiful day. Hannah’s grandmother liked to drag her and Alex down to Aquatic Park on San Francisco Bay for a scenic walk by the tiny beach. Soon after they arrived, Hannah would always get bored and drift off to look at the jewelry sold in the little booths on Beach Street. Why would she want to admire the view anyway? The bay was nice, but all around them were cars and pylons, and people inline skating and riding on Segways. What was so scenic about that? Even Alex always quickly lost interest, and persuaded Grandma to take them to Ghirardelli Square for ice cream instead. So much for the Great Outdoors.
But in her travels in time, Hannah started to feel differently about being outside. Now, she craved the outdoors when she wanted to be away from work, and noise, and people, and confinement within four walls. Outside, her problems felt less overwhelming.
A chilly breeze told Hannah that fall was arriving. She hugged her knees tighter, and gazed into the distance, wondering calmly what on earth she and the boys were supposed to do to get home. There was always some purpose to their travels. It was never easy to spot, but on their previous trips, the Professor had shown up and offered hints and advice. Vague though her guidance was, at least it was something. But she wasn’t here. Not this time.
Now, in the still quiet of the morning, Hannah decided that Brandon was right: To get home, they had to solve the mystery of the skeleton’s identity. The skeleton is obviously Mrs. Gordon, Hannah thought, so all we have to do is wait for her to die, right? She never looks healthy, so how long can that be? But then Hannah remembered that Mrs. Gordon was probably going to be murdered. And she felt guilty for wishing her dead. With a sudden chill, she wondered whether Mr. Gordon was to be her killer.
The blade of wiregrass Hannah had been chewing fell from her mouth. She reached down and wrapped another around her finger, and yanked it from the ground. Tugging at the wiregrass from both ends, she thought to herself that it was like wire: round, not flat, and so tough it could almost be used to mend things. Now, that was a practical idea . . . . She was a practical person, she decided. Not, she thought smugly, like her silly brother, always with his head in the clouds, believing that junk about spirits.
Hannah shook her head. Alex would believe anything he was told, she thought condescendingly. Maybe what people had told him about Mr. Gordon being violent wasn’t true, she thought. She was certainly having a hard time believing it herself. The other slaves were probably just pulling Alex’s leg. He was so naïve.
She was glad that Sukey was looking after her brother. And his work wasn’t too bad, either. At least he didn’t have to pick cotton, probably because nobody in 1752 seemed to grow it. Anyway,
he was fine. If anything, it was she, Hannah, who had the tough job. But what else was new?
Even before the vestry meeting began, Brandon could tell that Mr. Osborn was very nervous. Over and over, he checked the inkwells and quills, as if somehow the ink would dry up and the quills wear out all by themselves.
Finally, he asked Brandon to take over the note-taking while he spoke during the vestry meeting. Brandon agreed, although the prospect made him almost as nervous as Mr. Osborn.
“Of course, the gentlemen of the vestry will need to approve you in that task,” said Mr. Osborn, mopping his brow with a cloth handkerchief for the third time. He flinched at the sound of hooves, and a horse whinnied outside. Mr. Jones had arrived, and Mr. Gordon’s horse followed moments later. The other men trickled in during the next half hour or so. Brandon couldn’t help but notice how hard it was to measure the passage of time when he didn’t have a watch.
Once the gentlemen of the vestry were all seated, Mr. Osborn formally proposed that Brandon take notes.
Mr. Jones, the chairman, gave him a benign look. “I should have no objection, sir,” he said, “since we approve the minutes and may make corrections if our recollections differ from the account the boy gives us. Provided he proves competent, his acting in that capacity should prove no obstacle to our business.”
The others nodded.
Brandon supposed that they would not have given their permission if they had known he was black. In fact, the question would never have been raised in the first place. He was fascinated to see how differently he was treated as a white boy. But he also felt a sting of resentment because of it. It wasn’t fair, he thought, that as a black kid, he spent his life always trying to prove himself. All he had to do as a white boy was just exist and do nothing bad, and everyone assumed the best for him.
Early in the meeting, Brandon figured out why Mr. Osborn was so nervous. The vestrymen were a seriously scary bunch. All the men wore wigs and severe expressions, so that their gathering looked like an English law court.
Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3) Page 17
