by Walsh, Dan
She found him folding the cut sails he’d passed out the night before, facing away from her. Crabby sat dutifully by his side, admiring every move he made. Micah bent down to pick up another, patted her head, and said, “That’s my girl.” Her tail instantly responded.
“Micah,” Laura said. “Are you all right?” Crabby turned and ran toward her. Laura bent down to greet her.
Micah turned also, much slower. Laura’s heart fell as she saw the swelling on his face, especially around his eyes and mouth. She noticed him blinking back tears.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, seeing she noticed.
“Don’t be,” Laura said. “I couldn’t believe how that man treated you.”
Micah gently shook his head. “That not be the reason for these tears. I just been here thankin’ the Lord, is all. How he been so good to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I thought she be gone for sure.” He looked at Crabby. “Didn’t think I’d get to Missuh Maul in time. Then I’d be all alone. But the good Lord spare her, and me too.”
“Aren’t you upset? That man beat you so badly.”
“I been beat worse, more times than I know, with nothin’ to show for it. I’d take five more like it to save her, she been so good to me.”
Laura couldn’t believe what she heard. How does someone experience what he just did and within an hour find any good in it, let alone enough to shed tears of joy? She wanted to understand more about this unusual man. She had never spoken to a slave before.
“Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” she said. “And Crabby too.” Quietly, she said, “You mind if I ask . . . has Captain Meade ever beaten you?”
“No, Cap’n been good to me. He do talk mean sometimes, but I ’spect he have to, keep order and such. But he’s the best massah I ever have.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Cap’n even read his Bible. Showed it to me once, all beat up and worn.” He smiled. “Like me.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “He reads the Bible, but still . . . he owns you?”
An odd expression came over Micah’s face, like he didn’t understand the question.
“Hey, Micah,” a voice boomed down from the hatch.
“Yessuh, Cap’n?”
“Smitty needs you, time to serve up chow for our guests.”
“Yessuh, be right there.”
Laura sat on the wooden steps connecting the main and forecastle decks and looked down at her bowl, half-filled with gray mush. She’d only eaten two spoonfuls and could hardly imagine downing a third. It put one in mind of oatmeal, less the cream and sugar, less the nutmeg, less the flavor. She’d heard someone call it gruel, which seemed entirely appropriate.
She forced another mouthful.
Dreadful.
Aboard the SS Vandervere there had been three distinct tiers of food and lodging: first class, second class, and steerage. Even in steerage the food appeared to be several classes above what the crew of the Cutlass ate.
The gruel did remind her of something pleasant: the most perfect oatmeal she’d ever tasted. But instead of dinner, it had been served at breakfast. What was it, two weeks before? She and John were aboard the SS Sonora, the Vandervere’s sister ship, which had taken them down the Pacific side of their journey. Every bite had overflowed with flavor.
They sat at this lovely round table, just the two of them. White linens, china bowls and cups, sterling silverware. The success of John’s hardware store had enabled them to travel first class, something she had never done. It was midmorning. They had slept in. The waters were perfectly calm as far as the eye could see.
“John, isn’t this moment amazing?” Laura said. “I have never been this happy. I didn’t know a joy so complete was even possible.”
He reached across the table and took her hand, sipping his coffee with the other. “I don’t have words to say. I thought long and hard about where to go on our honeymoon. Narrowed it down to a half-dozen choices. I wrestled the hardest with this one. But now . . .”
“It’s perfect, John. I love it.” She squeezed his hand.
“Laura.” He looked deep into her eyes when he said this. “For me, it’s not the ship or that incredible view out there. Or even this very fine bowl of oatmeal.” He smiled. “It is being here with you. Doing all this with you. Adding to our love, moments like last night, with you now as my wife. It’s . . . I have no words.”
She leaned forward and they kissed.
“See that man?” he whispered, pointing to a man standing alone against the rail looking out to sea. “That’s who I was, what I’d be doing on this ship right now without you.”
Just then someone began coughing loudly, jolting her from these pleasant thoughts. As she reentered the present, she saw it was a woman standing alone against the rail of the Cutlass, about the same distance as the man John had pointed to. Laura turned to her right, as if she might see John sitting across the table where he belonged.
Oh, John.
She quickly ate another spoonful of gruel. It was revolting, but it had the power to force her thoughts elsewhere. She looked around at the other women and children on deck. Everyone with a bowl wore the same disinterested expression. She knew she needed nourishment, and only that knowledge kept her eating until it was gone.
When she finished, she got up and walked the bowl back toward the table they’d set up to dish it out. It was obvious there were far more mouths to feed than bowls available. A number of passengers stood in line; their faces suggested they’d heard the early reviews about the gruel. Laura saw Micah had been reassigned and was now cleaning the bowls being turned in. Instead of handing hers in, she joined him and began to clean them too. He smiled and stepped aside.
“Ma’am, that’s Micah’s job.”
She turned to face a gray-bearded man she assumed to be Smitty, the cook. “I’d like to help,” she said.
“Well, I don’t think the captain would approve.” He slopped down another bowlful of gruel. “You heard him. Y’all are guests.”
“We may be, Mr. Smitty. And we are very grateful to you, but how do you think we feel taking all your food and not even lifting a hand to help?”
Smitty’s eyebrows raised. “I . . . well, I suppose it’s okay then. But if the captain comes by, you will tell him you insisted?”
“I certainly will,” she said. “The quicker we get these bowls clean, the faster people can eat, right?”
“I suppose.”
No more was said. She continued helping Micah. A few minutes later, more ladies volunteered. In short order, everyone was fed, all the bowls and spoons cleaned, everything put away.
She decided to walk out to the bow and take in the sunset. It was hard not to acknowledge the wonder. Aboard the Sonora and Vandervere, almost every night, the Almighty had painted the most elaborate scenes across the sky, the brightest array of colors, each blending seamlessly into the other. Laura and John had never missed one, right up until the evening the storm had begun.
It amazed her, so many combinations of color, some she’d never imagined could share the same canvas. Then to see a mirror image of it all repainted on the face of the sea, especially on the Pacific side, where the sea had been calm every evening. Every ten minutes or so, the colors would shift and a new version would emerge, equally dazzling. She and John would stand there together, taking it in. Sometimes holding hands. When there was a breeze, he’d stand behind her and wrap his arms around her shoulders.
Tonight, it was as if the sky was on fire. Without a doubt, the most beautiful sunset thus far. How could the Lord, she wondered—why would the Lord—who could create such astounding images, why would he mar these same images by forcing her to view them alone?
She looked to her left. The rails along the western edge of the ship were lined with women, all captivated by the same humbling scene.
And like her, they too were alone.
Remembering.
9
“My, my, ain’t that
a sight to see.”
Laura turned and saw Micah over her right shoulder, his face beaming, eyes wide and bright.
“Don’t get to see many sunsets. Usually down in the galley cleaning up after supper. They all disappear ’fore I finish. Expect I have you to thank for that, ma’am.”
“Me?”
“You started helpin’, then the other ladies joined in. Next thing, we’s all done and I got nothin’ left to do. Figured with so many, I’d be cleaning till morning. Cap’n say I can come up here a spell.”
“Well, I’m glad I could help. But you don’t have to thank me, Micah. I was raised to help when there’s work to be done, especially if I had a part in making the mess.”
Micah smiled, still staring at the sky. “Be nice if more folks thought that way.”
“Where’s Crabby?”
“Well, she gonna sleep well tonight, her belly all full up. Lot a’ ladies didn’t finish their supper—can’t say as I blame ’em—but Crabby, she ain’t picky. She eat like a goat, so she a happy goat ’bout now.” He pointed at the sunset and said, “Gonna be a nice mornin’ for us.”
“How do you know?”
“The sky say so. All red and lit up like that. Ever hear the sayin’, red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky at mornin’, sailor take warnin’? Don’t always turn out that way, but the three years I been out here, works most of the time.”
“You’ve only been at sea three years? What did you do before that?”
“That . . . well it’s a long story, most not worth tellin’.”
His face grew serious. Laura felt bad for asking. She should have realized how hard his life had been compared to hers, or any free person for that matter.
“Tell you one thing, though,” he said, smiling again. “I never eaten fancy food, but on land I sho’ ate better than this gruel we get out here. Don’t seem like the Lord meant people to eat such as that.”
Laura smiled. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Keep askin’ myself the same thing, every spoonful. Then I say, Micah, man’s gotta eat. And I remind myself, each day passes gets me closer to that banquet Jesus promises in the Bible. I ’spect I’ll be eating mighty fine every day after that.”
“Do you have a Bible?”
“No. Couldn’t read it if I did. But my son Eli reads. Reads right well, like he been to a fine white school. Used to read me from the Bible every night back in Fredericksburg.”
“Where is Eli now?”
“They come took him away.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He sighed heavily. “Readin’s what did it. Got caught teachin’ some black folk by a fire in the woods. Somebody in the big house saw flames through the trees, thought the woods was on fire. Lord knows where he is now.”
She couldn’t begin to fathom such a thing. “It is so wrong . . . what’s happening to your people.”
“Well, ma’am, kind a’ you to say so.”
Micah looked back at the sunset. So did she. Most of the flaming reds and yellows had shifted to subtler pinks and grays. The sun had dipped below the horizon. When she looked back at his face, he was smiling again.
How was that possible?
Ayden Maul was almost finished.
As soon as he’d seen the sunset and how all the ladies reacted to it, he instantly went below deck and seized his chance. By now, like ladies are apt to do, they’d all staked their claim to whatever little corner of the hold they’d slept in last night. He knew some had kept their gold in pouches tied to their waist, like that woman who got him in trouble with the captain today.
But not all.
He found dozens more pouches, carpetbags, and money belts, all sloppily buried under blankets and shawls. All filled with gold nuggets. Some of the carpetbags even contained little gold bricks. A staggering sight. He made mental notes of the largest caches. At the right moment, he would slip down here again and take a handful from each one.
Who’d know? No way to prove how many nuggets were in each lady’s spot, or how many he’d have taken. He figured, added together, he’d leave this sorry ship with thousands of dollars.
He’d finally live the kind of life he’d always dreamed of. And it was all just sitting here, like ripe apples ready to pluck. Maul wasn’t a praying man. But he might just ask the man upstairs for a few more marvelous sunsets like tonight.
Then another thought. Why wait till then?
He listened a moment. Nobody making their way down the hatch steps. He walked back to three of the biggest carpetbags and grabbed a handful of nuggets from each one. That’s a better plan, he thought. Grab a little every chance he got.
Then he’d come back for the mother lode the night before they pulled into New York.
10
John looked down at the raincoat. It was a grim task, the most disturbing thing he had ever done.
“Are you all right?” Ramón asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know it was hard,” said Ramón. “But if we’re careful and a worse storm doesn’t come and overturn the raft, the water in this raincoat might just buy us another day.”
The storm earlier that afternoon had terrified them as it passed by, but the lightning strikes never hit close enough to cause any real harm. Sadly, John had witnessed one man die from the sheer terror that it might. The storm had pelted them with a driving rain. The lightning had flashed and the thunder exploded all around them. But the winds were slight and, if anything, the rain seemed to calm the waves. Every man except one had his mouth wide open to drink in the fresh water.
On the outskirts of the group, one poor fellow started screaming, louder with each clap of thunder. After ten minutes, he let go of the door he’d been clinging to and swam away. Those nearby yelled for him to stop. John saw the whole thing. Where did the man think he was going? It was madness. He had swum about fifty yards when his arms began to move slowly. A few more strokes, and they stopped. Then they flailed wildly above his head, and he began to sink below the waterline.
John slipped off the raft.
“John,” Robert yelled. “What are you doing? Come back.”
John swam toward the man. The raindrops felt cool on his sunburned arms. He wished he could stop and drink them in. But he kept on.
When he finally reached the man, he understood why the man hadn’t gotten far. John found him floating facedown, wearing a large raincoat. The sleeves and pockets must have instantly filled with water. John turned him over, but it was too late. His eyes stared straight up at nothing, his mouth wide open. John lifted his head above the water and shook him; he didn’t know what else to do. Of course, the man didn’t respond. His expression didn’t change.
John swam back to the big raft, pulling the man behind him. At first, he didn’t know why. Clearly the man was dead. No one paid him any attention along the way. They all looked straight up, mouths wide open, drinking in the rain.
“John,” Robert said as he drew near. “What are you doing, is he alive?”
John didn’t answer until he got within a few feet. “I was too late.”
“Then why bring him here?”
Now John knew why, but he didn’t want to say. He unbuttoned the man’s raincoat then carefully pulled his arms free from the sleeves. “Robert, here . . . take this.” He lifted up the coat.
“I see,” said Ramón. “A wonderful idea. We’ll form this into a large bowl.”
By the time John climbed back on the raft, a half inch of fresh water already covered the bottom of the coat. John was exhausted and allowed the other men to catch the rain. He laid back, opened his mouth wide, and drank it in. A part of him knew he should feel sorrow for the drowned man. At least a tinge of guilt for how quickly he’d removed his coat and cast him aside. He at least should have said a prayer, but he didn’t have the strength. For the next fifteen minutes, he just lay there drinking in the rain.
Thirty minutes after that, the men stared at the most amazing sunset, form
ed by the remnants of the passing storm. John sat up and joined them, strengthened by the rainwater and the cool night air.
No one spoke.
The fiery sunset took him back to a similar scene in San Francisco: walking with Laura along the bay, just south of Rincon Hill. The colors spreading across the sky now were almost identical. But it wasn’t the sky he remembered most about that evening. It was how nervous he was. He and Laura had been on numerous dates, but so far they had never held hands.
He had decided this would be the night.
He had held her hand in certain approved moments: as she stepped up or down from a carriage and, ever so briefly, when he said good night at the end of each evening. Even then, it was so hard for him not to linger when he did, to hold on a moment too long. But he had always let go, as a proper gentleman should. He didn’t want to presume. Laura had never shown an ounce of flirtation so far. He was very glad of that.
The worry now was . . . if he did take her hand in his, what if she pulled back? If she felt he was being too forward at this stage? At times, she had been hard to read. He didn’t blame her; it was the bane of their upbringing, the consequence of living under so many rules of etiquette and manners. A lady must be this way; a lady is never that way. A gentleman never does this; a gentleman must always do that.
Here they were, living in San Francisco, a new land, entirely free of such rigid boundaries, but they seemed chained by them still, as if sitting on a porch swing with their mothers peering through the curtains.
John remembered a strong wind had been blowing that evening. Laura had to hold her hat on with one hand. They’d been looking out at the bay as they walked. But the sunset quickly took center stage. John turned to face it.
