Chesapeake

by James A. Michener

  Before Swain could retake his seat a man Bartley had never seen before leaped to his feet with un-Quaker force and launched into a vigorous plea that the meeting commit itself to a course exactly opposite to what Mordecai had proposed. He proposed that Quakers urge slaves to run away from their masters and then assist them in fleeing to freedom in Pennsylvania. Bartley could feel a stir of excitement sweep Third Haven as the man spoke, and he whispered to his father, “Who is he?”

  “Very strong-minded man from Miles River. Name of Starbuck.”

  And then, as Bartley looked more closely at the impassioned speaker, he saw, sitting in the row opposite, in the women’s section, a young girl of exceeding beauty. She had wide, dark eyes and light-brown hair, and was wearing a gray dress with a white collar and a blue-and-yellow bonnet. She and her mother were gazing so steadily and with such pride at the speaker that Bartley guessed they were his family; he could not take his eyes away from the Starbuck girl.

  She was younger than he, he supposed, but her face showed unusual maturity and great firmness of character. As she listened to her father speak she leaned forward as if to urge him on, but Bartley saw that her mother, almost as pretty as she, placed a restraining hand on her elbow, pulling her back into a more ladylike posture.

  He heard no more of the debate. No matter, he thought. It would continue in dull repetition for the next twenty years. He could see only the Starbuck girl, and if he listened intently he fancied that he could hear her breathing. She was the most compelling human being he had ever seen, and he was dizzy from watching her.

  At the noon break he surprised himself by walking boldly up to her and asking, “Is thee Speaker Starbuck’s girl?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Bartley Paxmore. From Patamoke Meeting.”

  “I know,” she said, and the fact that this incandescent girl had taken the trouble to find out who he was quite immobilized him. He stood there in the sunlight, on the meeting-house steps, and could think of nothing to say.

  “Would thee like to take lunch with us?” she asked, and when he fumbled for some kind of answer which would indicate that he had no packed lunch of his own, she said quietly, “We always bring more than enough,” so he joined them.

  It was a feast. The Starbucks had five children, two of them married, and after introductions had been made Bartley had to say, in acute embarrassment, “No one told me thy name.”

  “Rachel,” she said.

  It was of Rachel he now thought on his long run to the north. From that day three months ago she had filled his mind; indeed, he could think of nothing else but her superb figure in the gray dress, moving among the trees at Third Haven, her pretty face tucked in under the blue-and-yellow bonnet. Memory of her captivated him, and he could see her in the waves as they sped by his boat; he could feel the pull of her smile in the lines leading to the sails. He had never before heard a name so totally appropriate, so euphonious as Rachel Starbuck.

  He spent that summer’s night moored to a fallen tree on the shore opposite St. Michaels, and since he could not sleep, he watched the vagrant lights of the little fishing village, the comings and goings of men with lanterns, and he thought: Soon I shall have a home of my own, and I shall go to the barn at night to fetch the eggs for Rachel. And the image was so felicitous that he broke into song:

  “She’s the bonniest lass in the field.

  I’m the ruggedest man in the fight.

  To me those lips their kisses will yield.

  The robins sing, ‘She is thine tonight’ ”

  He chuckled: Father would berate me if he heard me singing such military words. And then the moving lights across the broad river began to vanish, and all were asleep except him, and his heart beat like a hundred hammers, because ere this new day ended he would be docking his boat at the home of Rachel Starbuck.

  He reached the farm at eleven in the morning, and the two younger Starbucks spotted him as soon as he pulled his boat toward shore. “It’s Paxmore!” they shouted, and their cries brought their sister to the door, and when she saw who had come, she knew at once what his mission was. Without pressing down her apron, or in any way prettifying herself, she walked down the path to meet him, holding out her hand to bid him welcome.

  He was faint with emotion and could scarcely voice his words. “Is thy father home?” he asked abruptly.

  “He is,” she said.

  Without saying another word, Bartley Paxmore strode to the farmhouse, entered and sought out Micah Starbuck. In the Quaker tradition, he addressed the older man by his first name. “Micah, I have come to ask for thy daughter.”

  The abolitionist put his fingers together and drew his mouth in as if to whistle. “Well,” he said to Paxmore’s surprise, “she’s got to go sometime. What does thee say, Chick?”

  Rachel reached out and took Bartley’s hand. “I think I’m ready.”

  “We’ll give notice to the meeting on Sunday,” Starbuck said, and it was as simple as that. When Prudence Starbuck came down from work she had been doing upstairs, she was informed of her daughter’s engagement. “We’ve heard thee’s a fine young man, Bartley,” she said.

  “Thank thee, Prudence,” he replied. Things that he had dreamed of with such ardor were happening so fast, he became quite dizzy and did not know what to do next.

  “And now thee may kiss her,” Micah said, and Bartley trembled and leaned forward awkwardly and kissed Rachel on the cheek.

  “Thee’ll do better later on.” Micah laughed, and Bartley felt his knees begin to buckle and he asked, “May I sit down?”

  No matter what happened in the ensuing years, Bartley Paxmore would remember that at the age of eighteen he had been so in love with Rachel Starbuck that when he touched her with his lips he almost fainted. He had come forty-seven miles unannounced to claim her, drawn as if by a score of magnets, and the fire of that day would never burn down to gray ash.

  Next day the Starbucks arranged to have the announcement of the engagement read at two successive meetings, with the marriage to take place as soon thereafter as possible. This meant that Bartley had best stay at the farm during these eleven or twelve days, and what happened accidentally on the sixth day changed his life.

  The family was at supper, some hours before dusk, when Micah heard an unusual commotion near the hen coops, and when he sent his youngest son to investigate, the boy returned and stood stiffly in the doorway, his feet planted together, his hands at his side as if reporting significant news to a king or a general.

  “Another black man. Hiding in the rushes.”

  No one spoke, but all rose quietly to watch as Micah left the room. After a brief absence he returned and said simply, “Thee knows what to do.”

  Supper was forgotten as each member of the family moved quietly and purposefully into action. Prudence, the mother, swept all the food on the plates into a bowl, which she handed to Rachel. “He’ll be starved,” she said, and Rachel left. Mrs. Starbuck and her other daughter moved about the room, arranging things to create an impression of casualness; from past experience they knew that on this night their home would be harshly inspected. When she was satisfied that things were right, she stood before Bartley and said almost sternly, “It now depends on thee.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “Control thyself. Thee may have to endure strange insults, Bartley. Is thee strong?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Trying isn’t good enough,” and she instructed Rachel, “Watch over him.”

  After some time Micah returned to the house. “He’s been beaten horribly.” When his wife asked If she should poultice him, he said, “No, he can live with what he has. We’re taking him to the other woods.”

  What this meant Bartley did not know, but what happened next astonished him. Starbuck took his youngest son, a boy of ten, and said, “Thee will stay with him, Comly. And at dawn thee’ll lead him by the baók roads to Pidcock’s farm on Wye Island.”

  “Yes, sir,” the
boy said, and went upstairs, returning with a sweater, which he tucked under his arm, for it was not yet cold.

  “Thee,” Starbuck cried peremptorily to his intended son-in-law, “grab a spade and bury those disgraceful rags. Spread cow manure over the spot to hide the scent.”

  In this accidental manner Bartley Paxmore found himself involved for the first time in abetting the flight of a runaway slave. At Peace Cliff his family had been philosophically committed to exterminating slavery in general; the Starbucks were willing to risk their lives to aid an individual black man. Actually, he caught only the briefest glimpse of the slave who caused this commitment. Starbuck had ripped away the man’s rags and was about to hand him a pair of sturdy pants and a woolen shirt, but now the slave stood naked in the twilight, a powerful man not much over twenty, his sides and back cut with lashes. They looked at each other for only a moment, face-to-face in shadows, and then Starbuck told his ten-year old, “Guide him to the far woods.” And the child said, “I’ll take him up the middle of the stream, to throw the scent in case they bring dogs.” And the slave was gone.

  Now the Starbucks gathered in the kitchen to wait. They sat in prim silence, and Bartley thought: This is another Quaker meeting. But soon they heard the sheriff shouting and footsteps running toward the house. The slave-trackers kicked open the door and began crying, “Where’s the nigger?”

  Three snarling dogs entered on a leash, and Bartley was distressed to see that they were in charge of a Patamoke man who would know him, old Lafe Turlock from the swamps, gap-toothed, lean and hungry for the reward he would get if he caught the runaway. He hunted slaves because he hated them, ever since one had slain his cousin Matt during the mutiny of the Ariel, and he boasted, “I got me the best nigger-huntin’ dogs on the Eastern Shore. Give my dogs a shoe or a shirt, and they’ll track a runaway to Canada.” Instinctively Bartley moved behind Rachel to prevent Lafe from spotting him.

  The sheriff said, “We know goddamned well, Starbuck, that you help niggers run to Pennsylvania. But this time we aim to get our man back. He belongs to this fine gentleman here. Paid four hundred dollars for that buck, and he’s entitled to recover.”

  The owner stepped forward, a wiry man in worn and ragged clothes, carrying in his left hand a bull whip, the rawhide folded twice and dangling easily at his knee. His teeth were black from chewing tobacco and his slouch hat drooped low about his eyes. “I’m Herman Cline, Little Choptank, and you, goddamn you, yo’re hidin’ my nigger.”

  “Describe him,” the sheriff said.

  Looking directly at Starbuck, Cline said, “Answers to the name of Joe. Big man with scars on his back.”

  “There would be scars,” Prudence said quietly.

  The three men turned toward Mrs. Starbuck, their eyes flashing the hatred they felt for such an intruder, and Herman Cline asked, “Where you got him hidden?”

  “I’ve seen no slave,” Prudence said.

  “You swear to that?” the sheriff asked.

  “I will.”

  The sheriff laughed. “ ’Course you will. Because they kept the nigger out with the chickens.”

  “Let’s get goin’,” Lafe said, pulling his dogs into position. So in the fading light the slave-trackers inspected the chicken yard and the barn and the fields, looking assiduously for telltale signs. At one point the dogs passed directly over the spot where the clothes lay deeply buried, but they detected nothing.

  Suddenly the sheriff whipped about, caught Bartley by the arm and shouted, “Who in the hell are you? Some northern agitator?”

  Micah started to explain, “He’s come to marry my daughter—” but Lafe Turlock broke in, “I know that one. He’s a Paxmore. Very bad lot.”

  “Another goddamned Quaker!” the sheriff growled, shaking Bartley as if he were a recalcitrant child. “Where is he?”

  “Who?” Bartley asked, trying to break free.

  “Don’t you wrastle with me!” the sheriff bellowed. “I’m the law!” and he struck Bartley across the face.

  This was too much. Bartley formed a fist and would have smashed it in the sheriffs face, but Micah had foreseen this possibility and caught the young man’s arm to restrain him. “Lucky for you, son,” the sheriff said menacingly. “You touch me just once, I gun you down. Now where you got that nigger?”

  “Mr. Starbuck,” Cline said in his whining voice, “we’re reasonable men. We know my nigger is on your property. I seen him swim across the Little Choptank, and Lafe here seen him row across the Big Choptank in a stolen boat.”

  “That’s right,” Lafe said. “My dogs picked up his scent and led us right to your doorstep, Mr. Starbuck. You got that nigger, and we know it.”

  “That runaway belongs to Mr. Cline,” the sheriff said. “And I have me a court order directin’ you or any other loyal citizen to help me recover Mr. Cline’s property. If you choose to disobey the laws of this land—”

  “What is thee doing?” Micah shouted. And Bartley turned to see that Lafe Turlock was about to throw a lighted brand into the barn.

  “You hand over that nigger,” he threatened, “or up goes the barn.”

  The sight of flame, and the possibility that a barn of good timbers might be burned, outraged young Paxmore. With a leap he broke away from the sheriff and threw himself upon Turlock, carrying him to the ground, where he pinned his arms, knocking away the brand. This so angered the sheriff that he jerked at his belt to free his gun, but Micah prevented this drastic action.

  “There is no slave on this property,” he said calmly.

  “Like your old woman, you’d swear to anything,” the sheriff said, almost pleased, in a way, that Micah had stopped him from using the gun; he did not want to kill young white men.

  “I think he’s in the woods over there,” Lafe said, dusting himself off and recovering his dogs.

  “Why don’t your goddamned dogs find him?” Cline cried in a burst of petulance.

  “Because they prob’ly led the nigger up the stream. To kill the scent.”

  “Then get your damned dogs in the stream to find it again when he climbs out,” Cline groused. Turlock ignored the stupid suggestion; never had he worked on a slave chase with a more unpleasant man. Normally a hunt was more like a festival, with drinks and eats and each man urging the others on, and all encouraging the dogs. But Cline—he was a mean one.

  It was now dark, and the slave-trackers were frustrated. “Let’s go back to Patamoke,” one of the men suggested, but the sheriff would not quit. “Ever’one into the kitchen,” he ordered, and when the Starbucks were seated, he said, “Goddamnit, we know that nigger is here somewheres. I personally seen him run onto your property, Starbuck, like he knowed that if he could reach here, he was safe. By the time it took us to reach here, you hid him. And by God we’re gonna find him.”

  And they proceeded to ransack the place, turning out every chest. Once the sheriff grabbed the smallest Starbuck girl, screaming at her, “You took food out to him, didn’t you?”

  “No,” she said. “He wasn’t ever here.”

  In the end the men had to admit defeat, but the sheriff warned Micah, “I’m gonna keep an eye on you. Because I know you help niggers escape north. And that’s against the law—the law of Maryland, the law of the United States and the law of common decency.”

  Herman Cline looked at Mr. Starbuck with pleading eyes, and when he realized that this would accomplish nothing, he turned on Lafe and sneered, “You and your damned dogs.” He had paid Turlock ten dollars—without recovering his slave.

  As the trio departed, the sheriff took Paxmore by the arm. “Son, you was near killed this night. You’re marryin’ into a bad lot. One of these days I’ll be throwin’ you in jail.”

  The marriage took place on Monday afternoon following the second Sunday. Quakers from many farms assembled at Third Haven, women to the left, men to the right. There were two rows of facing benches; on the upper sat two elderly men and two women of about the same age. They were not relate
d. The men wore their hats. On the lower row sat Bartley Paxmore, bachelor of Peace Cliff, age eighteen, with his hat on, and Rachel Starbuck, spinster of Miles River, age sixteen, wearing a blue-and-yellow bonnet.

  For the first twenty minutes of the ceremony no one spoke. Some flies, trapped in the meeting house, buzzed lazily but gave no offense. Outside, the birds of summer chattered, but at such a distance that they could hardly be heard, and they, too, gave no offense. Men and women looked straight ahead, recalling other marriages in which they had participated, but no one moved.

  Finally Bartley Paxmore rose and intoned those fateful words which send a tingle up the spine of any Quaker: “In the presence of God and these our friends’ assembled, I, Bartley Paxmore, take thee, Rachel Starbuck, to be my wife ...” There was more, arranged as each particular meeting determined. On this day Paxmore said, “For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.” Trembling, he sat down.

  After a long pause Rachel rose and said clearly, “In the presence of God and these our friends assembled, I, Rachel, take thee, Bartley ...” Her promises were somewhat different, and when they were made she sat down.

  After a protracted silence the young couple rose and Paxmore placed a gold ring on her finger and kissed her. Then they sat, and again there was silence.

  Twenty minutes passed, and then one of the old women on the facing bench rose and said in firm voice:

  “Marriage is a holy sacrament ordained by God and precious in His sight. But it is also the union of two lively young bodies, and if we forget that, we lose the mission of God. Rachel and Bartley, find joy in each other. Have children. Have laughter in thy home. Love each other increasingly, for when the ardor of youth is gone, the remembrance of great love will continue and make all the years of thy life glorious. In this meeting house today are many old couples whose lives have been made bearable and fruitful because of the passion they have known each for the other, and it will be so with thee when thee looks back fifty years from this day.”