Glory Over Everything (27 page)

“Might do, you tell me 'bout what you got goin' on, so I knows what you lookin' for.”

“I was with a woman and she became pregnant,” I began. “Her father found out about my . . . past . . . and threatened to kill me if I didn't leave Philadelphia.”

“The girl white?” he asked. When I nodded, he blew air through his teeth. “Then it good you gettin' outta town.”

“I don't know what I was thinking to get involved with her. I knew better, but I couldn't help myself.”

“Yup. It like that for me first time I see Pan's mama. She got hold a me and no talk was gonna get me out. Thing is, now she gone, she still got a hold on me.”

“Caroline died, too,” I said. It was the first time I had said those words, but they still had little meaning.

“She do? When?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“Uh,” he grunted as though I had kicked him.

“She was married,” I added, deciding to confess all.

He rubbed his face before his next question. “And what 'bout the husband? He lookin' for you, too?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask her about him. I didn't want to know. We didn't even discuss what could happen if she had a child. She knew nothing about me—nothing about my past.”

“You 'fraid she find out, she walk away?”

I nodded. He had hit the mark.

“Mr. Burton, I got to sleep now. My head's hurtin' and I's done in,” he said before he lay back on his bunk.

Though Henry soon slept, I couldn't. When I had sat beside Caroline at Stonehill as she slept, I had imagined the two of us living a life together. It was so sweet a dream that now it would not quit me. Why hadn't I planned it sooner? Would she be alive had I done so? And would the child be alive? I thought back to the black-edged note from Mrs. Cardon. How I wanted to believe that it had been a lie, but I had seen for myself how ill Caroline was. No. She was dead. The word now struck me like a hammer to my chest.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Henry sat back a distance, as a manservant would, while I stood on deck staring out at the Chesapeake coastline. The weather was mild, and as we drew closer to Norfolk, familiar Virginia scents came in on the soft breeze. Unexpectedly, wave after wave of homesickness struck. Nostalgia for my old home swept over me. I thought again of how close Tall Oaks was to the area of North Carolina where I hoped to find Pan. Perhaps after I found him, when he and Henry were safely on their way back to Philadelphia, I could travel the day or two it would take me to arrive at my childhood home in Virginia. Surely Lavinia had been overcautious in her warnings about Rankin. Wasn't he already an old man when I fled twenty years ago?

As the boat docked, Henry rushed over to push me aside and vomit into the water. Others attempted to disregard his miserable retching as they filed off, while I gathered our things and Henry tried to recover himself.

On the next part of our journey, we were to board a stage, but Henry was unfit for the road, so I got us settled into a tavern close to the water but on the outskirts of town. There I hoped to give Henry a chance to recover before we set off once more.

On the second day, late in the afternoon and while Henry slept, I walked into town to seek out the post office. Enveloped by the warm spring sun, I felt such a sense of longing for my childhood home that I wanted to weep. Though my home was now in Philadelphia, everything about Virginia felt like mine. Here was May as it should be, thick with honeysuckle scent and lush trees bursting with green. As I neared the post office, I quickened my pace. Robert and I had agreed that if he heard any early news, he would post it to me in Norfolk. Though I knew that was unlikely, I was nonetheless disappointed to find no letter from him.

On my return to the tavern, I found Henry had worsened; his eyes were glazed with fever and his speech was incoherent. I sent for a doctor who suggested only that Henry be given rest. Five days later, his condition had worsened to such a degree that I left him only for meals and to walk out for the mail.

One afternoon, concerned and frustrated, I left for the mail earlier than usual and went the short distance into town to join a small group of farmers and tradesmen who had gathered to await the mail's arrival. We first heard the shout and the whip, then the steady dull thudding of what I thought were horses' hooves. But I was wrong. A coffle of slaves came around the corner, driven forward by two men on horseback, one who whipped the air as though driving cattle.

The double row of chained Negroes thumped by at a slow but steady pace. My chest began an aching pound when, in the midst of the dark-skinned prisoners, I saw a face almost as white as my own. He was stumbling in his struggle to keep up with the others, and when a whip caught him on the shoulder, I flinched as though it had landed on me. Outraged, I looked toward the slave driver who had dealt the blow. He was a small man, and his dirty brown hair hung clumped around his face. Though his hat sat low, there was something about the set of his jaw that looked familiar. The closer he came, the more certain I felt I knew him.

Taller than many, I stood above the crowd, and as though he felt my stare, the rider looked up and met my one good eye—or was it my black eye patch at which he stared? When I clearly saw his face, I caught my breath. It couldn't be! Although our last encounter had taken place some twenty years before, it took only one brief moment to recognize Jake, Rankin's son. To judge from his openmouthed expression, he recognized me, until a stumble of his horse and a shout from the other driver had him turn back to his duties.

The coffle soon rounded the corner, but I was left with the memory of my last encounter with Jake.

T
HE AFTERNOON WHEN
Marshall had me removed from the big house, Rankin took me down to the quarters where, mute with fear, I was bound to a row of other slaves. We were mercifully left to sit under some trees and out of the direct sun but were watched over by a heavily armed slave trader until evening, when another man took his place. Although he looked as rough as the first man, Jake was younger, and because of that I appealed to him. “Listen,” I said, “there's been a mistake, and I need your help.”

“There's been a mistake?” he said. “And what kinda mistake is that?”

“They're calling me a Negro, but that isn't the case. Just look at me. Do I look like a Negro?” I pulled open my shirt to expose my white throat and neck.

He shifted uncomfortably, then turned to walk away.

“I say,” I shouted after him. “I insist that you release me! I am not a Negro and therefore cannot be treated like this!”

He came back and stood above me, looking down. “You that Jamie from the big house?”

“I am,” I said hopefully.

He gave a low laugh. “Then you just a dirty nigga like the rest of 'em.”

One of the slaves to whom I was bound suddenly growled. “And how you know this, Jake? How you know he a nigga?”

Jake stared at the man. “You shut up!”

“He as much a nigga as you, Jake? It looks to me like he even whiter than you. Uh-huh, he sure do! This boy look even whiter than you!”

Jake kicked out, his booted foot connecting with the man's head; the man righted himself from the blow and spoke again. “But then he don' sell his own brother, like you do me, do he, Jakie?”

I wasn't certain what might have happened had the slave trader not pulled Jake back. Later in the day, when Rankin made his return, I saw the unmistakable likeness between Jake and his father. Then I looked at Jake's darker-skinned brother, bound with the rest of us to be sold. Rankin was selling his own flesh and blood.

A
FTER THE COFFLE
was gone, one of the townsmen spat into the silence and then asked a question. “Anybody know who that was bringing them through?”

“Man named Jake. Has that tracker Rankin for a daddy. You know the one. He's older than dirt, but he's the one to call, you got a man missing. His boy Jake takes the rough ones from up here and then sells 'em further on down, far as Georgia.”

One of the men gave a chuckle. “They weren't going to slow down for that yella one.”

“It's the yella ones that give the most trouble.”

“Those the ones that got a little education. You don't see none on my place. I don't like to deal with 'em.”

“Simple enough,” said another. “Ya just gotta work any notions outta them. You get heavy-handed enough, they come 'round.”

It was a warm day, but I was cold from fear. Had they not seen the look of recognition that Jake and I had exchanged? How much time did I have before Jake told Rankin about me?

I dared not draw attention to myself by leaving before the mail arrived. When it did and brought a letter from Robert, I hurriedly slipped it into my pocket before I rushed off to tell Henry that we needed to leave.

B
UT
H
ENRY'S CONDITION
had grown more critical. After the doctor arrived a second time to examine Henry, he took me aside. “Look,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “sometimes we get attached to these old buggers, but this one isn't going to make it. Don't bother to call me back here or what you'll spend is more than what you'd need to replace him.” Hearing the little value he placed on Henry's life, I was reminded how I had done the same. Though I had taken Pan in, I had not involved myself further with Henry, always afraid that my secrets might be discovered.

Still, I doubted the doctor's words. Though I was concerned for Henry, after the doctor left, all I could think of was Jake. Had he recognized me, and if so, was it possible that he would get word to Rankin, or worse, double back and come looking for me? I crouched down at Henry's bedside. “Henry! You need to get up. We need to get out of here!” I said. When he didn't respond, I clutched his shoulder and gave him a shake. “Henry! Henry!”

Slowly, his eyes opened.

“Henry! We need to leave!” I repeated. “We have to get out of here!”

He tried to force himself onto his elbow but failed, and I had to lean down to hear his whisper: “You go. You go for my boy.” He closed his eyes.

“No! You have to come with me!” I said stubbornly. Again he tried to lift himself, but even with my help, he was unsuccessful. His extreme weakness forced me to reconsider the doctor's words. Was Henry dying?

All of my life I had felt trapped but never more so than now. My instincts were pushing me toward the door, telling me to save myself. But this was Henry—the man who once saved me. I had abandoned Caroline. I could not do the same with Henry.

I paced the small room as I fought mounting anxiety. Finally, when Henry slept, I left for the outdoors to walk aimlessly while trying to formulate a plan. I knew I should go back, but the idea of sitting with Henry as he lay dying was almost more than I could bear. If he did pass, what was I to do? Did I have the courage to go on my own to find Pan?

When I found myself at the water's edge, I stood in the thick mist coming in off the waves. The grasping cry of seagulls only deepened my dark mood—the blackest since Caroline's death. I couldn't swim, and I had the thought of giving myself over to the water. Yet there was Henry. I remembered again how he had rescued me. He had asked for nothing in return, save my looking out for his son. No, if Henry were to die, I must see that through. That much I owed him.

Meaning to wipe dry the mist from my face, I reached into my jacket pocket for a handkerchief. There, I found the unread letter from Robert. I broke open the seal and read:

Dear Sir,

There is no easy way to say this. I am in possession of your child.

I read again the words. Finding it difficult to breathe, I sat on a nearby log to fill my lungs with the thick sea air. Then I began again:

Dear Sir,

There is no easy way to say this. I am in the possession of your child. Without the knowledge of her husband, Mrs. C. brought her to your home the evening of your departure. The lady implored absolute secrecy but requested that you write to her in a year's time to let her know of the child's health. She wept so fiercely and then left so abruptly that I had no time to inform her of your absence.

Immediately I sent out word for a lactating mother and found one who was willing to stay with us under these unsettled circumstances. She is a Negro, discreet and healthy, and having lost her own child, she is a willing nurse.

Your child is a girl and as fair as was her mother. Because of it, I call her Miss Caroline, and will do so with your permission until you decide otherwise. I assure you that she does not leave my side but for the nurse's necessary care.

I had a daughter, and she was alive! It was no longer the mist that dampened my face. I used my handkerchief to wipe dry my tears before I read what remained of the letter.

There was still no offer on the Burtons' home. Thinking it prudent, Robert had settled the nurse and the baby in the small house that we had bought under his name, and he wanted my approval on the monies spent.

Then I could read no more, for I was running to tell Henry of my news.

O
UR LODGING DID
not cater to the elite. I had purposely found a place that cared little about who shared my room. As I rushed through the tavern, I waved off the few patrons I had met who called out for me to share a drink. Our room was up two flights, and because I took two steps at a time, I was panting when I threw open the door. Across the small room, Henry sat slumped on the rough pine floor a few feet from his low bed. While I was out, he must have roused himself, for he was partially dressed, as though preparing for travel. His head lifted when I called out to him, but then dropped again. How wretched I felt at the sight.

“Look here,” I said to Henry as I helped him settle back in bed, “I shouldn't have said what I did. I was upset. We'll wait here until you get better—until you have your strength back.”