Now I was praying to Thea’s Almighty like I ain’t never prayed before.
“There’s no good flesh left on you, boy.” Farnsworth was shaking his head. “Looks like somebody’s whip has already taken care of you.” He gave Clem a single shove. He swung open the smokehouse door and walked out into the night with his whip trailing behind him.
A small group of us rushed to Clem. I knelt to pick up Clem’s shirt. When I handed it to him, he didn’t take it He just kept his eyes ahead, still hardly blinking.
The other men started to leave the smokehouse, till it was only me and Clem alone with the pork parts.
When everybody was gone, some kind of demon got a hold of Clem. He started talkin’ crazy. Talkin’ out of his head. His words flung into the empty darkness in an angry, mixed-up stream. Some of what he was saying made sense; some of it was gibberish. But there was no mistaking that Clem was speaking with a sure force—with a fever. He was trembling, spit flying when he spoke.
“Gots to go,” he said. “I’ll run till my feets fall off. North . . . North. Freedom wants me. Callin’ my name, freedom is. Open wide, freedom, Clem’s comin’— runnin’, fightin’, scratching’, bitin’ to find you.”
Clem was hugging himself. He was rocking with the heat of his own words. “Oh, freedom, you so sweet. I gots to get to you. Gots to!. . . Will find you, freedom— will. Any, any way I can. Won’t stop till I do. Comin’ to you, freedom—soon. Gettin’ me free.”
Clem crouched to the dirt floor. Under the single flickering light of my lantern, the dangling smokehouse meats made odd shadows against the stone walls. Clem pressed the heels of both hands to his forehead. He started to weep softly. “Gettin’ me free.”
I knelt beside Clem. This wasn’t no demon dream. Thomas Farnsworth was a haint, come to life—come to my life.
Mama wasn’t gonna wake me this time from night terrors and calling out in my sleep. All that I was seeing and feeling was real. A real I didn’t want to live, even though I had me plenty of doubts about leaving Parnell’s.
I helped Clem on with his shirt. He was still rocking and weeping. It was me who spoke next. “Gettin’ we free.”
25
Summer
December 24, 1862
GOODNESS LANDS!
I ain’t never seen the likes of all the fancy footin’ that graced the Bates parlor on Christmas Eve. All day it had been raining a cold, icy rain, but that didn’t dampen the party one bit.
Miss Penelope, she was a sight. She was dressed in a watered silk gown the color of honey. Glistened like honey, too, that gown did The whole room glistened.
Mama and I had dressed Missy Claire for the evening. Missy had chosen the emerald green with flounces. It was her first pick, and the best pick of all. Under the light of the parlor candles she was a true emerald. (The whole time spent at her vanity she’d complained to Mama about the rain. She’d urged Mama to make her curls tight enough to stay put.)
After Missy Claire was fully dressed, Mama and I left to go to the Bates plantation, before the cotillion was to start. Miss Penelope told us we were to work ’longside the Bateses’ house servants. She gave all of us a starched apron, and laid out each of our duties for the evening.
“Kit, I’m putting you in charge of the hors d’oeuvres. Arrange them as you would tea cakes, in spirals.
“Thea, you’ll help serve the spirits. Make sure the glasses of my guests stay filled. At midnight, my husband will propose a holiday toast. As the hour approaches, see to it that each guest has a champagne flute filled and ready to raise.
“Summer, you’ll be responsible for arranging all the confectionery items.”
I didn’t know what “confectionery items” were, but I nodded. “Yessum.”
It wasn’t until Miss Penelope left the room that I learned what I was supposed to do.
Mama said, “White folks always got to have fancy words for everything. All Miss Penelope had to say was for me to put the snacks real pretty on the tray, and for Summer to take care of the sweets.”
Thea said, “I been servin’ the spirits my whole life. And anybody who’s walkin’ with the Holy Spirit knows true spirits ain’t found in no whisky glass.”
I tugged at Mama. “I’m the one doin’ the sweets?”
Mama set me clear, right quick. “You’re puttin’ the sweets out for the cotillion company, that’s all That don’t mean tastin’ or dreamin’ on them sweets. Tonight’s sweetnesses is for Miss Penelope’s party, not for you.”
“But, Mama, it’s Christm—”
“You hard of hearin’, child?”
I slid my hand into my apron pocket. “No, Mama.”
I turned toward the larder to fetch a tray. But Mama stopped me short. “Summer, before you go gettin’ all long in the face, let me give you something that’s as sweet as any tea cake.” Mama came up close behind me. She wrapped me in one of her hugs. She held me in that hug for a good, long squeeze.
With my arms folded inside of Mama’s, I squeezed, too.
Mama kissed the top of my head. “Merry Christmas, Summer,” she said softly.
Even though I wasn’t allowed to taste none of the party sweets, I could sure dream on the sugared apple slices and honey-pears I was to serve throughout the evening. And I’d already put my eye to the crystal urn filled with hard candies that sat near the pianoforte in Miss Penelope’s parlor. Them candies looked too pretty to eat. But, oh, they still set my mouth to watering.
The Bates home had a funny little clock that hung at the top of a long staircase. That clock had a regular face like the had clock at Missy Claire’s home. But Miss Penelope’s clock was shaped like a house, and had a bird living inside—a chirping dolly bird that popped out on his nest!
First time I caught sight of that bird-clock was when it gave eight sudden chirps. That thing popped out all a’sudden, then jumped back, then popped out again, one time after another. Then that dolly bird stayed in its house while the clock chimes rang eight. Soon after, Miss Penelope’s guests started comin’ on.
The men came in frock coats and white gloves; the women in plumes and jewels and curls, and enough flounces to fill a hayloft. Each guest brought an ornament for the Bates Christmas tree. There was everything from whittled doves to bows of lace.
Thomas Farnsworth made a fine escort for Missy Claire. She was a whole head taller than her brother, but he had a way of mixing comfortably with people that must have rubbed off on Missy Claire, who I hadn’t seen be as social since her days in the Arts and Letters Society.
Two guests were missing at the cotillion: Master Gideon and Doc Bates. And it was clear that ’most everybody at that party had an opinion about their absence. The opinions were quiet, but definite. I heard all kinds of whispers and hushed-up pity talk about Master Gideon. At least Parnell had him a good reason to be missing. But Doc Bates’s absence was a mystery. Nobody, not even Miss Penelope, knew where the doctor was.
As I moved through the cotillion with my tray of sugared apple slices, I heard Miss Penelope telling folks that her husband had most likely made a “necessary exit” to tend to one of his patients. She said this was “typical of a doctor’s duty,” and that it was the duty of a doctor’s wife “to understand the inevitable,” even on Christmas Eve.
But I don’t know if Miss Penelope fully believed all what she was telling people. She was speaking the words and smiling, but her eyes said different.
As Mama hurried to fill another tray of fancy snacks, she told Thea, “That woman’s hiding behind a doily of self-deceit.”
Thea had just filled a new round of glasses. “She don’t have the foggiest clue where her husband is.”
By the time the bird-clock chirped ten, the cotillion was in full swing. One of Miss Penelope’s house slaves— Ferd was his name—was playing the pianoforte. And another nigra—his name was Piper—played a fiddle. Not a sassy fiddle, the kind you jig to. He played a slow tune that floated on the night. White folks’ music. It was pret
ty music, though. Made me feel warm and easy inside.
The music must have warmed the party guests, too, ’cause they danced. Danced real proper-like. Straight-back dancing. White folks’ dancing. Even Missy Claire danced a time or two.
The Bateses’ Christmas tree, covered with decorations, looked like it would grow right up to heaven if you peeled back the ceiling. Even that tree in all its finery seemed ready for a straight-back dance.
Mama and I were standing off by the staircase when Mama elbowed me. “Stop gawkin’,” she said.
But I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen grandness like what was at that cotillion, and I didn’t want to miss none of it.
Miss Penelope kept on telling her company the doctor would be home soon, that he would never miss the midnight toast, even for the sake of some sickly soul.
Now, I don’t know much about numbers or tellin’ clock time by the clock’s face, but I do know that two clock hands—one on top of the other—pointing straight to the sky means it’s either high noon or midnight. Last I had counted the birdie’s round of chirps, it had been eleven. Since then, I’d kept watching the clock hands. Kept watching the mama hand work its way to the baby hand, gettin’ closer on midnight.
Stid no Doc Bates.
Finally, when the mama clock hand was a hair’s breadth from her baby, the doctor showed up. Seems he came out of nowhere. Just joined the party like he’d been there all along, eating sugared apple slices, enjoying fiddle music, and drinking spirits.
The birdie-clock gave twelve chirps. The cotillion guests gathered round Doc Bates, near the pianoforte. The doctor’s face was flushed, and his hair looked windblown, but he didn’t seem to be wet from the rain.
He took a flute glass from Thea’s serving tray. A flute of golden bubbles. The fiddler rested his bow. Miss Penelope hushed her company. She was grinning fully. Doc Bates raised his flute.
“Respected guests”—while Doc spoke, Miss Penelope had her hand to her heart and was taking a breath of relief—“here we stand to celebrate the birth of new life, the birth of our Savior. As we toast the coming of Christ, let us ponder the true meaning of salvation. To be truly saved is to conquer that which binds us— the hates, fears, and prejudices that stand as vexations to the soul.
“Tonight, let us ask ourselves, ‘Do we love every man and woman as we love our own kin? What about the men—and the womenfolk—who are serving us tonight, and every other night? Do we see them as equal beings under the eyes of God?’
“There will surely come a day, my friends, when our maker will judge each and every one of us for the injustice of slavery. He may be judging us now. It is for this reason that I urge all of us to remember the Scripture that asks, ‘For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’”
Doc Bates lifted his flute even higher. “Merry Christmas to all.”
Now it was Mama who was gawking. Mama and Thea and me, too.
A strange silence hung among the guests. Not one of them made a move to salute the doctor’s toast. Miss Penelope, her grin was gone. She was scowling and looking all bug-eyed at her husband. There was shame on her face.
I lowered my eyes, and when I did, I couldn’t help but notice the doctor’s shoes. They were soaked and muddy.
Finally, Miss Penelope cleared her throat. She lifted her flute of golden bubbles, bubbles that matched her dress. Her teeth were tight together. She said, “Yes, Merry Christmas to all.”
Mama and Thea and I stayed till nearly daybreak cleaning up. When we returned our aprons to the hook inside Miss Penelope’s scullery, I was truly sad.
Outside, the rain had cleared. Sun pierced a patch of clouds with raspberry bands of light. It was a bright Christmas morning, but for me, all the gleam of Christmas was over. I knew that as soon as we got back to the quarters, I would be left with the emptiness of expectations. I’d be left to wish on hard candy, lace bows, and fiddle music. Like every Christmas I had ever known, here came another one without shiny presents or a party to fill my day. At least I was good and tired, and I could look forward to the gift of sleep.
Back at the quarters, Mama went right to her prayer place. I fed to my pallet, curled myself to a baby’s way of sleeping, and tucked my hands between both knees. Couldn’t sleep, though. There was a lump under my pallet, right near my head. I thought it was the kerchief I’d balled up some days before. But when I turned back the pallet, there, gazing right up at me with black-button eyes, was a corncob dolly! She was tiny, no bigger than my hand. She had hair made from what looked like the strands of a horse’s tail. That hair was sewn and braided, and beautiful. She even had little lips. Berry-juice lips, it looked like.
Sweetest little thing, that dolly. Sweeter than a whole mess of hard candy. I loved her right away. I hugged her to me. Hugged her so close, I could have near to broken her little cob body.
Didn’t even have to think on a name. Her name was Cornelia. Cornelia, my Christmas dolly. I never stopped to wonder where Cornelia came from. I just held her and held her.
All my weariness, my bone-tired, went away with the joy of Cornelia. It was a good thing, too, ’cause Thea was summoning us for Christmas Day prayers.
I was still wearing the house dress I’d worn to the cotillion. I tucked Cornelia into my pocket and headed toward the meeting quarters, where Thea was waiting.
When I got there, Mama had her face to Thea’s shoulder. Soon as Thea saw me come in, that’s when she told everybody gathered that Rosco and Clem were gone.
26
Rosco
December 24, 1862
CLEM AND ME, WE HELD HANDS. We were racing time. We had to get as far as we could from Parnell’s before dawn showed her face. Before morning betrayed us with her light.
Clem and I had fled as soon as Mama and Summer had left for the Bates cotillion. Between the two of us we had a single haversack with a half-dried ash-cake and a hunk of salt pork wrapped inside.
This was the blackest night ever. No moon. No stars. No Diamond Eye to guide us. And that rain! It was a prickly winter rain, slamming down hard as nails.
We took the backwoods behind the smokehouse. Steep woods, thick with underbrush, heavy with mud. Didn’t matter none how steep them woods were or how prickly the rain. Clem and me were gettin’ us free. We ran till there wasn’t no more hill left, till the land lay flat again. We made it to a clearing, a spread of field that opened onto the headwaters of the Rappahannock River.
The wind in my chest was going sharp. I let go of Clem. With the back of my hand, I wiped the wet from my face. “Clem, I need to stop a moment. I gotta get my breath.”
“Ain’t no time to stop, Rosco. We’re at Holly Glen, where they caught Marietta and me. It’s too wide open here to stop runnin’ now. Just up yonder we’re comin’ to a narrow place in the river, where help’s waitin’. Keep with me, now, Rosco. Keep with me.”
For some reason, I was thinking on Summer then, wishing I could see the surprise spreading across her face when she caught sight of the corncob dolly I’d made for her. I let thoughts of Summer’s happiness fill me. Something ’bout seeing Summer’s smile in my mind made my breath come easier. “I’m with you, Clem.”
Clem led me to an abandoned shanty, pulled me inside, and we crouched together in a potato hole. I’d never seen dark like this. Dead dark. I tried to blink it back, but all my eyes allowed me was black on black on black. Clem was whispering, “Now we stop—stop and wait.”
I felt safe next to Clem. Safe in the warmth of being close to him. I closed my eyes and settled to the black stillness all around. Summer came to me again, this time as a memory. The memory of learning letters. The sweet recollection of one nigra girl’s wish to read. Even with Summer’s up-jumpy way, she was startin’ to see words.
I thought on a lot of things in that hole. I thought on Lowell’s courage, and on Master Gideon Parnell, who had been lucky enough to witness his son’s bravery, even if he couldn’t recognize it.
Strong as strong gets. Mama.
I remembered then what Mama told me—the best way to feel safe in darkness is to speak words that comfort you.
The one word that was there for me right then in that potato hole was the word that had always brought me peace: Mama.
So, I prayed silently in the name of my mother, hoping Mama’s strong-as-strong-gets would fill me up and keep me going, like it always did.
Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . .
Clem was trembling beside me. Trembling and sniffing back the cold night. Now I took his hand and gave it a squeeze. I wanted to tell Clem to find his own special word to say, but I thought it best we not speak.
Seems we were in that hole till the end of forever. What we were waiting for, I didn’t fully know. But Clem knew. I knew he knew. And I trusted him.
My legs were folded firm beneath me. Just as they were giving in to the numbness of sleep, a lantern shone into the shanty. Its tiny light swept once over us, then back again. Clem tensed. I kept with my unspoken prayer.
Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . .
The light glowed again. Quick, then gone. But this time a whistle came behind it. A soft whistle from somebody’s lips. Two short, thin spots of sound, then quiet.
Clem and me, we were still as stone. The pattern rose again— lantern, whistle, quiet—and once more after that. Lantern—whistle—quiet. On the third time around, Clem whistled back, low and fast.
The light moved closer, and stayed. It brought on the shadow of a man. A voice sprang up in the dark. “Who goes there?”
Clem’s body loosened at the voice’s call. He slid his hand from mine. Now the lantern’s flame hovered above us, casting the man into greater darkness as he lowered his lantern toward the potato hole. “Who goes, I say?”
Silent Thunder Page 12
