Seeking Eden

by Ann Turnbull

  I was thinking as I talked. Antony would need to stay hidden. He was black – recognizable. The hue and cry would begin early tomorrow morning. He’d do best to lie low for a while…

  Kate tightened her arms around me. “I’ll come with thee,” she said.

  “What? No! That won’t help.”

  “I want to come. I want to be part of this. Then my father must blame both of us, not just thee.”

  “The more people, the slower we’ll be, the more dangerous for Antony,” I said.

  She saw the sense of that, yet she still resisted me a while. I loved this recklessness in her. It surprised me, for I’d thought her strong-willed but sensible. But it seemed I must be the one to use common sense, and I would not risk putting her in danger, or being accused of inciting her to run around with me in the woods at night.

  “Thou can speak in my defence when I get back,” I said. “I’ll need an advocate.”

  I hugged her close, aware of the enormity of what I proposed to do. I was George Bainbrigg’s apprentice, entrusted with the keys to his counting house and the protection of his property. I would be breaking that trust, and yet I felt sure I was justified.

  “Kate,” I said, “I love thee.”

  “I love thee too, Jos – and will do, whatever comes of this.”

  “Will thou marry me, when we’re of age?”

  “Oh, yes! Yes, I will.”

  We kissed, and clung together, and kissed some more. I held her hard against me, felt the beating of her heart.

  A door opened and closed near by – Isobel’s. We both tensed.

  “I must go.” Kate was trembling.

  We kissed again, this time in farewell. I felt myself burning up with love and desire and fear of what was to come.

  “I’ll watch for thee coming back,” she said.

  I opened the door a crack; we listened; no sound came from the landing below. Kate slipped out, and ran on silent feet downstairs.

  The sun had set and my room was now in partial shadow. I sat on the bed and tried to suppress thoughts of Kate and our declarations of love and the feel of her unbound hair and her soft curves. I needed to think clearly about what I must do.

  The keys were in their box on the parlour wall, where I had replaced them after locking up the offices and the outer door of the counting house. All the keys were there, including the one that would open Antony’s prison. I knew the name of Patience’s buyer. I knew approximately where he lived. It seemed to me that I should go with Antony, help him find Outram’s place. But I saw at once that I could not. I had to be back by morning to confess to my master. I could not leave Kate to take the blame. Would Antony understand a map, I wondered, if I drew one? I was unsure. But he would know what I meant by “west”; I could set him on his way.

  I didn’t think about how he would stay hidden or evade capture, or what he would do when he found Patience. I only knew I must give him that chance.

  I took out my Bible and read from it awhile. Then I sat and waited on the inward light as the light in my room faded and the house slowly fell quiet.

  Twenty-one

  He heard the key rattle in the lock and was waiting for me. The first blow from his head caught me off guard and I staggered against the door. The next hit the side of my face. It was dark. I could see only the vague shape of him.

  “Antony – Tokpa – wait… I’ve come to help thee.”

  I grabbed him by the upper arms, tried to push him off. His wrists were tied; surely I could overpower him? My head was ringing. He kicked me, then slammed forward again with his shoulder.

  “I’ll let thee out!” I shouted. “I’ll untie thee!”

  He drew back, breathing heavily. He would do anything to break free. But now he was uncertain whether to trust me.

  “I have my master’s keys,” I said. I could taste blood; my lip was split and swelling. “Thou can escape now – if thou wish it.”

  “Escape?”

  “There will be punishment if thou’rt caught. I can’t protect thee from that. But if thou’ll risk it – if thou want to find Patience…”

  “I will find her.”

  “Then I’ll show thee the way. Let me untie thy wrists.”

  I heard him turn around. The darkness hindered me and I fumbled with the knots, but at last the rope fell to the floor. I kicked it away.

  He turned to face me, rubbing his wrists. “I hurt thee. I am sorry.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, though I wondered how I would look to my master in the morning.

  But morning and its retribution were a long way off.

  “Come,” I said. “Let’s go, while we have the dark.”

  Tokpa

  This forest is strange to me; it’s not like the forest near my home, where the ancestors live. There are spirits here. I hear them and smell them. I don’t know if they are friendly.

  Jos says we must trust in the Light. But the forest is dark; the moon is wasting and the stars have hidden their faces.

  At first I was afraid and fought Jos when he came to fetch me. With my hands still tied I kicked and butted him and almost knocked him down. I thought I was about to be sold. Jos said no, he was my friend; he had always been my friend; he had come to help me escape. I knew he too was afraid: I could smell his sweat and hear his quick breathing. He untied me. He gave me bread and meat. Then he led me out of that bad place where I’d heard Miata cry to me for help – cry that she carried my child in her belly – out into the cold night and along the silent streets, past the dark huts of his people, into this forest.

  To Jos, all forests are strange. He stumbles, snaps twigs, and is scratched by thorns. Night birds utter cries of alarm as we pass.

  I put a hand on his arm. “Wait.” When we wait, the darkness lightens, and we begin to see. “Now step,” I say. “Feel first with thy foot. Step lightly.”

  We reach a sheltered place near a stream. I hear its voice as it runs over stones.

  Jos says, “There are fish here; I’ve seen them in the daytime.”

  He tells me I should hide in these woods until they stop searching for me, then find a way to cross the river. He gives me a piece of paper with marks and pictures on it. He says it is a map he has drawn for me. In the faint light his finger makes a journey across the map. He tells me what the marks mean. He says with this map I can find Miata.

  I say to him, “Jos, thou’rt my brother.” We embrace each other, and he asks God to take care of me. Then he leaves. For a while I hear him, noisy, breaking branches; then I am alone.

  There is thick undergrowth here. I crawl beneath it and shelter till sunrise wakes me. The morning forest fills with the voices of birds. I walk to the stream, strip naked and bathe. I wash away the smell of the ship, the prison room, my own fear.

  I look at the thing called a map. I make a little bag of bark pinned with thorns. I fold the map small, small, and put it inside. Then I make a plaited cord of grass and hang the bag around my neck. This bag will protect me and take me to Miata.

  I shall wait here, as Jos told me. I’ll lie low, make a hide of leaves and branches, catch fish, find grubs and leaves to eat.

  But first, I will make an offering to the spirits of this place.

  Twenty-two

  At first, as I walked back through the dark woods along a dimly discernible track, with the wind in the trees and the rustlings and squeakings and strange animal cries of the forest all around me, I felt elated, full of a sense of mission and success, of joy that my friendship with Antony was restored, that I had set him free as far as I was able.

  Of course I knew he was not safe; and I realized his pursuers would know where he was likely to be going. It had been a mad thing to do, looked at from the point of view of common sense, and likely to lead him into danger. But he knew that. He would dare anything to be free.

  It was only as I came onto the road that led towards the inhabited streets near the waterfront, into the world of counting houses and commerce, that I
began to think how I would explain myself to George Bainbrigg and what might come of my actions.

  I would tell him straight out, I decided. He must not be the one to find Antony gone, leaving me to confess and apologize afterwards.

  The thought of telling him was daunting. And yet he knew my feelings and must surely be able to see what was so clear to me. I remembered untying the rope that bound Antony’s wrists and touching, as I did so, the calloused skin and hard ridges caused by the shackles he had worn on the slave ship. It could not be right, I thought, for any man to be confined in that way – and surely my master must acknowledge that? I believed he knew it already in his heart.

  When I returned to the house it was still night. I unlocked the kitchen door and went in. Hob rose from his bed in the lobby with a small pleased woof of recognition. He padded towards me, and his wagging tail thumped my leg.

  “Good dog, Hob,” I whispered. “Quiet, now.”

  I took off my shoes and crept into the parlour and replaced the keys, then made my way to the stairs. These were lit by moonlight from the landing window. I climbed up, past the first-floor landing, around the next bend – and there was Kate, curled up where the turning stairs widened against the wall, wrapped in a blanket, asleep. She must have been determined to be here when I returned but had fallen asleep on the watch. I felt great tenderness for her as I looked at her small bare feet and the way she slept with her head propped awkwardly against the wall.

  I knelt beside her. “Kate…”

  She woke with a gasp, and I put my arms around her and hushed her. “It’s done. He is safe – for now.”

  “Oh!” She sat up, pulling the blanket close. Her hair hung in loose curls over her shoulders and I felt it brushing my hands. “Jos – thy face! What happened?”

  “Nothing. Don’t fear.”

  “But—”

  “Go back to bed,” I whispered. “We mustn’t be caught here.”

  We stood up and kissed – cautiously, because my lip was painful. Then she slipped away while I hastened upstairs.

  In the safety of my room I looked out of the window and tried to gauge what time of night it was. I thought dawn could not be far off. I wanted nothing more than to lie down on the bed and close my eyes, but I had a fear of falling into a deep sleep and not hearing the sounds of morning in the household. I knew I must be at the counting house as usual when my master arrived, ready to face him.

  I opened my Bible, but the small print danced before my tired eyes. And when I closed them and tried to wait on the light my head drooped, and several times I slept and jerked awake. It was a relief, at last, to hear the first fragments of birdsong and to see the furniture in my room become slowly visible in the grey early morning light.

  I waited till I heard Isobel stirring in the next room, then stood up and poured water from the jug into my washbowl. My face in the mirror showed a blackening bruise and my swollen lip was going to make it difficult to speak clearly. I washed myself, brushed dirt and bits of leaf from my hair and outer clothing, and put on clean linen. At first I yawned hugely, over and over again, and struggled to suppress it. But once I was ready to go downstairs I grew tense in anticipation of the trouble I would soon be in, and all tiredness vanished, leaving me sharp and alert.

  Isobel and Mary were in the kitchen.

  “Thou’rt early,” Isobel said. Then she saw my face. “What…?”

  I invented an accident in the yard, going out to the privy in the dark. I could see she did not know whether to believe me, but she merely asked, “Will thou have some pottage?”

  “Yes, please.” I tried to smile and appear normal.

  “Thou’ll be hungry. Scarce had owt to eat last night, thou and Kate.”

  I ignored this remark, with its implicit invitation to reveal more, and merely said, “Excellent pottage, Isobel,” and made sure to eat it all.

  I swept the counting house thoroughly that morning, and made sure my master’s desk was ready – the inkwell filled, paper, sand and quills to hand. I tidied and dusted the sales area and put everything in good order. Upstairs I cleared away the evidence of Antony’s occupation, folded the blankets and stood the pallet back against the wall. Down below I heard someone come in; but it was only Zachary. I went down and greeted him, repeated my story about the privy, then sat at my desk and made up the double entries in the books for yesterday’s sales, including that of Patience to John Outram. But as I wrote, my hand trembled and I felt a fluttering in my stomach.

  George Bainbrigg soon came in. I heard him go into his office, calling out good morning to me through the connecting door. He sounded in good humour, as if he had put behind him the unease that had hung over us all at supper last night.

  “The buyer – Isaac Shore – could be here soon,” he said, as he came into my office. “Hast thou brought food and beer for Antony? We should give him something to eat, before—”

  He stopped short at the sight of my face.

  A wave of fear flooded me. “Antony is not here,” I said.

  “Not here…?” His eyes opened wide in alarm. “He’s escaped? He attacked thee? Where was Zach? Why didn’t thou run and tell me at once?”

  “I let him out last night. I helped him to get away.” My heart was pounding.

  “Thou let him out?”

  He stared at me, then strode to the door and ran upstairs as if unable to believe what I was telling him. He flung the door open, saw the empty room and came down in a fury. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Thou unlocked the doors?” He sounded incredulous. “When?”

  “Late last night. About midnight.”

  His face turned dark. He stepped towards me and I thought that for all his godly principles he would strike me. I flinched.

  “Jos,” he said, breathing heavily, struggling to control himself, “I’ll have the buyer here at any moment. Where is Antony?”

  “Truly,” I said, “I don’t know. He went out, into the night.”

  I would not tell him that I had guided Antony, or where I had taken him. Instead, I began to talk quickly, to steer away from that subject. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to harm thy business. But – I had to do it. Antony was heartbroken when they took Patience. I betrayed him yesterday—”

  “Heartbroken! Betrayed! Thou sound like a broadside balladeer!” He turned to the door. “I’ll alert the sheriff and raise a hue and cry. He can’t have got far yet. We’ll catch him. I’ll go there now. Thou must wait here; I forbid thee to leave – is that clear? And if Isaac Shore arrives, tell him nothing until I return.”

  He was gone only a few minutes, for the sheriff’s office was near by. I paced around, afraid for Antony, afraid of George Bainbrigg’s anger, and with a mounting need to justify myself to him.

  When he returned he said grimly, “The hunt is on. As for thee, Josiah, I entrusted thee with my keys” – and now I felt his anger building – “with my keys, and my books, and the conduct of my business. It was thy duty to obey me and protect that business.”

  “I had a higher duty to protect Antony,” I said – and felt at once that this sounded pompous and self-righteous.

  “But thou hast not protected him!” He was shouting now, and I trembled before his anger. “Thou hast turned him out into a countryside he’s never seen before, where his black face will make him stand out and lead to his capture in no time. And how dost thou think the buyer will feel when he finally gets his hands on him? The lad will likely be punished – and all to satisfy thee and thy tender conscience!”

  I tried to speak, but he interrupted. “I’ve no time for thee now. We’ve that order for sugar for the Boston run. Go and help Zachary bring the hogsheads out.” And then he humiliated me by calling out, “Zach! Make sure Jos is kept busy! Find him work!”

  Zachary, who must have heard most of our conversation, disregarded my surly manner and involved me in manoeuvring barrels with him.

  “Big trouble, eh?” he said.


  I nodded. I had no idea whether he understood my actions, or approved, but his friendliness comforted me.

  Soon after, the buyer arrived, and I hovered near the top of the stairs and listened to the two of them talking as they went into the office. I heard the sharp rise in Isaac Shore’s voice and knew my master had broken the news. I felt guilt then – more than I had felt at depriving him of his property – for I knew how difficult it must be for him to explain. When they emerged the other man still sounded aggrieved, while my master was trying to smooth things over, reassuring him that the matter would soon be resolved.

  “He cannot have got far,” he said, as they parted. “I will send news to thee immediately when I have him back.”

  Zachary had also stopped work to listen.

  “I set Antony free,” I told him.

  Zachary nodded. “Every man should have a chance of freedom. Took it myself, once.”

  “But – thou weren’t a slave?”

  “Bondsman – indentured servant. Not much different. I ran away from a bad master. Hid out in the Maryland swamps for two weeks before they caught me.”

  “And…?”

  “I was beaten, five years added to my term. Then he sold me. I’ve been sold on twice.”

  Light dawned on me. “Thou’rt still indentured? To George Bainbrigg?”

  “No.” He smiled, showing gappy teeth. “I was, but my bond ended almost a year ago. I work here for a wage now.”

  I had become aware that many people in Pennsylvania kept indentured servants, but had not thought that George Bainbrigg was one of them. I must have looked shocked, for Zachary said, “He’s a good man, our master. He treated me fairly. Paid me what I was due at the end. That’s why I’ve stayed on a while. But come the fall, I plan to leave and set up on my own. Rent a plot of land. Get married.”

  “Married?”

  He laughed. He knew what I was thinking. “I’m not so old! I lodge with a widow, Ulla. Swedish woman. She’s got two little lads. We’ll be wed; have our own farm; children, too, God willing.”