Glory Over Everything (41 page)

“Then why you look like you about to bring it back up?” he asked.

“I'm just getting used to the fine flavor,” I teased, and was rewarded with a flicker of a smile. “Come on.” I handed him one, taking another for myself. “If your daddy ate these to survive, so can we.”

The next one went down more easily. Though the taste was bitter and the texture appalling, I forced down a few more of the large globs. Pan ate two. When we knelt to drink water, a sizable grasshopper landed between us, and Pan snatched it up. “He ate hoppers, too, but the legs got spikes and got to come off first.” He plucked off first the head and then the legs. “Here,” he said. I was unsure if the offer was a token or a challenge, but I knew it was edible and accepted it. It crunched as I chewed and I swallowed plenty of water to get it down.

“Not bad,” I said. “Now let's find one for you.”

“Maybe later,” Pan said, and again gave me a ghost of a smile.

Our stomachs rumbled, but we retained the food, so we gathered some grubs and huckleberries for Sukey. She chewed and swallowed some berries but refused a second grub. As though the effort had taken all of her energy, she closed her eyes and let the babe slip down beside her, where it lay mewling. Finally, I took it from the cave.

Pan followed me to the water's edge and watched over my shoulder as I lay the bundle down to unravel the soiled petticoat. A ray of sun broke through the green canopy to cast golden light on an infant so minuscule that I might have held her in my one hand. Her wrinkled body squirmed as she squinted against the sun, while the sparse downy hair on her head stood out like that of a newly hatched bird. Unexpectedly, my heart twisted with tenderness.

Her umbilical cord had been tied off with a strip of fabric. Again I marveled at Sukey's determination to save her child's life. The cloth around the baby's bottom was crusted to her. “You got to get her washed off,” Pan said, testing the water with his hand, “but you got to do it quick.”

“Get ready,” I said, lifting her up and dipping her in to soak while Pan rubbed her clean. Her little breaths came in surprised puffs while her extremities reached out in an odd quivering stretch. “Best get her out now,” Pan said.

On impulse, I slipped her shivering body inside my torn shirt to warm her against my own skin. Pan fetched another piece of clean petticoat, then lined it with soft moss, fashioning a clout before we swaddled her into a bigger piece of cloth. Through it all, the tiny bit of life made soft mewling sounds.

Sukey slept on. We kept the babe with us and sat under the pine to study the now fresh-smelling bundle. As she looked out, I was astounded to see curiosity in her large dark eyes. When she mewled, Pan reached over to pat down her hair. “You sound like a kitty,” he said. “Let's call her Kitty.”

“Don't get too attached,” I warned. “I doubt she will live.” She gave a huge yawn, and when I gently tapped her tiny chin, her fingers quivered up and grasped mine. In spite of my own warning, I felt my heart give over.

T
HE AIR DURING
the day was hot and often humid, but it did not rain, and the days passed swiftly as I sought to care for the four of us. I gave to Pan and the baby what was left of the bear grease and fought to keep from scratching at the oozing raised red rash that covered my legs and arms. While my unshorn facial hair served as a barrier against the biting flies and hoards of mosquitoes, my torn and tattered clothing did not. As Sukey weakened, the baby increasingly became my focus. Each day she survived felt like a victory.

In spite of my best efforts, by the third day Sukey was no longer lucid. Pan had found an old turtle shell, and though she drank water from it readily, she always turned her face away from the grubs. The morning I found three duck eggs, I rushed in with one for Sukey, but was disheartened when she turned her head in refusal. I later cracked open all three, and Pan and I gratefully swallowed the rich nutrients, a welcome change from the usual grubs, grasshoppers, and huckleberries.

By the fifth day, Sukey refused even the berries. Thinking it was the effort to chew that stopped her, I chewed the food myself before pushing it into her mouth. That almost ended in disaster, for the paste dropped back in her throat and choked her. Though I was able to have her cough it up, the episode left her drained. When I cleaned her that evening, fresh blood, a great deal more than usual, soaked through the packed moss.

The following morning Sukey was no longer responding, though she still swallowed water when I put it in her mouth.

Kitty suckled vigorously when I held her to Sukey's breast. I wondered if she was getting enough nourishment, and as her mother's life ebbed away, I argued with myself about what to do. Should we just leave and try to save Kitty? How many hours could a baby survive without milk? Yet I could not abandon Sukey while she was still alive; at night there were too many carnivores about. Finally, on the sixth day, Sukey provided the solution.

Around noon, while Pan gathered grubs, I took Kitty for another feeding and there discovered that Sukey had died. I had sensed her death coming, but the reality of it shook me. Clutching Kitty, I scrambled from the cave and called for Pan.

He came at a run. “She's dead,” I said abruptly. “We have to leave.”

He hung his head for a moment, then lifted it again. “We got to bury her,” he said.

“We can't. We have no tools. And you know she would want us to take care of Kitty first. We need to find some milk for her as soon as possible.”

“How we gonna do that?” he asked.

I handed Kit to him as I reached for the primitive basket that I had fashioned from the plentiful reeds in preparation of our departure. “I don't know, but we don't have a lot of time,” I said. I lined the basket with plenty of moss and then added what was left of Sukey's petticoat. Settling Kitty in the basket and tucking my jacket into the waist of my tattered trousers, I announced that I was ready to leave.

Pan looked lost and walked back to the entrance of the cave. “At least you got to say something,” he said.

“You're right,” I said, joining him. I tried to think of some words, but when I lowered my head, nothing came. The baby squirmed, and while I readjusted her, Pan grew impatient. “You can say something nice about Sukey, and then I suppose you can ask my mama for some help, but she don't seem to be around since I got took.”

“How about your daddy?” I asked, feeling more comfortable invoking Henry.

Pan shrugged.

“Sukey was a good woman—” I began.

“But now we need some help,” Pan interrupted. “Daddy, if you see us out here, you got to get us some help.” His voice choked at the mention of his father, and my own eyes blurred. I looked up and took in the beauty of the long green swags and red flowering vines that draped across the cathedral-sized trees. Under this protective canopy, an unexpected peace washed over me and gave me newfound strength. Through Pan's sobs, I spoke out in a strong voice. “Henry and Sukey,” I said, “you were both brave and good, and because of it, we know you are with the Lord. Please ask Him to help us out.”

I was rewarded for my effort when Pan rubbed his face dry and looked up at me. “You did that good, Mr. Burton,” he said. “Now we best get going!”

I
DECIDED WE
would go north to the cross-canal, but there, instead of going east to the large canal, as instructed, we would turn west, where I had been told civilization was close by. I didn't know what story I would tell, but our only hope to save Kit lay in that direction.

As we traveled, I felt that we were being watched. The night before, wolves had sounded particularly close, and I worried that they were stalking us now. I didn't allow myself to think of what might happen to Sukey's body back in the cave.

As before, we fought the endless vegetation, and while Pan kept up the pace, he traveled silently. Alone, I might have despaired, but saving both Kit and Pan gave me purpose, so I plunged ahead, using the moss-covered trees and bits of sunlight for direction. A few hours into our trek, we came to a dry spot where I decided to check on a silent Kitty. I held my breath when I lifted her still body from the basket. “Kit, Kit,” I called, tapping her satin face until she gave a weak cry.

Pan grabbed hold of my arm so abruptly that I almost dropped Kit. “Mr. Burton!” he whispered as a short Negro man stepped out from the trees. “He got a knife!” Pan pointed to the long curved weapon the man carried.

“Don' mean no harm!” the aged man said, quickly sheathing his weapon and attaching it to the cord that held up what was left of his pants. “I's Willie,” he said. “Been watchin' you. What you doin' with that baby?”

“She needs milk!” I said.

“Come, we get some,” he said, and motioned us forward.

“Let's go,” I said to Pan.

The old man turned southeast and moved so quickly that had we not been so determined to keep up, we might have lost him. Within a half hour, we arrived at a large island. There, back in the woods set three small huts, similar to those of the quarters on a plantation, but these were built up on stilts. Under the shacks, chickens pecked in the dirt, and a staked goat bleated out a greeting to Willie. An old woman, seated in the doorway of the largest hut, gave me a startled look.

“Peg! Come!” Willie waved her over. The old woman hesitated until she saw Pan. Then she set aside the basket she was weaving and came forward.

“Please! She needs milk,” I said, holding Kitty out. My heart sank when the baby's little arms flopped down.

“Do you have some milk?” Pan pleaded. The woman leaned forward for a better look, then abruptly went for a bucket that hung from the side of the hut. In a few minutes, Kitty was slurping warm goat's milk through a small piece of swamp reed.

“Can't she have more?” I asked when the feeding stopped.

“Fir's we got to see if she can hold it down,” Willie said to me.

“Like he know what he talkin' bout,” Peg mumbled to herself. “Give me that chil'.” She snatched Kitty from my arms. “Give the boy somethin' to eat,” she directed Willie, her deep, gravelly voice all the more surprising because of her tiny frame.

“Can Mr. Burton have something to eat, too?” Pan asked, and the woman gave me a dark look before she walked away.

I was concerned for Kitty, but Willie waved me forward. “She take care a that baby. She jus' don' like to see no white man here. Come.” He led us over to a fire pit. From a large black pot, he ladled out simmering stew into bowl-sized turtle shells, then handed us each a rough wooden spoon. Pan looked as though he might weep at the sight of the nourishing stew, and we both ate with relish while Willie disappeared into the hut. When Pan went into the woods to relieve himself, I sat back against a tree and closed my eyes in momentary contentment.

Suddenly, I was thrown to the ground. Though it was futile, I fought a ferocious-looking Negro, one who was twice my size. When he flipped me around to face him, his long tangled hair fell forward into his unshaven face but didn't conceal the hatred in his dark eyes. Willie and Peg, with Kitty in her arms, rushed from the house. “Pete!” Willie called. “Let him go!”

“What this white man doin' here, Willie?” the large man shouted.

“He lost, but he got two little niggas with him,” Willie said.

“Oh, he gon' be lost, all right,” Pete replied with a harsh laugh.

I groaned when his knee dug into my stomach. A knife pricked my neck, and I closed my eyes. Let it happen fast, I prayed.

“Let him go!” Pan flew out from the trees to strike at the large man's back. Pete caught Pan with his elbow and sent the boy flying while he twisted what was left of my shirt and pulled me to my feet.

“What you doin' out here?” he asked, pinning me against a tree.

I spat dirt from my mouth. “I'm trying to get up north! We came from a place south of here. There are patrollers after us.”

“South a here? You talkin' 'bout Southwood?” Pete asked, and I nodded. “You hear that, Willie? He say he comin' up from Southwood!” I had long since lost my eye patch, and Pete studied my useless clouded eye. “So you that one-eyed man they sayin' is black! There men all over the canal lookin' for you. They give big money for you. Where's the gal you was runnin' with? Name a Sukey?”

“She died,” I said.

Pan pointed to Kitty in Peg's arms. “That's her baby.”

“And who's you?” Pete asked.

“I got took for a slave,” Pan said, “and Mr. Burton is taking me home.”

Pete turned back to me. “You say Sukey, the one who run that sickhouse, she die, and that's her baby?”

“Yes,” I said, unexpectedly hopeful. “There's a man who lived somewhere close to this swamp who went by the name of Doc McDougal.”

“Ol' Doc. Yeah, we know a him, don't we, Willie?”

Willie nodded.

“He has a friend, Mr. Spencer,” I added. “If you can get word to Mr. Spencer of our whereabouts, I'm sure he could help us out.”

“How you think anybody gonna get you outta here? They huntin' you like a dog,” Pete said.

“Look,” I said, pleading now, “I came down here to find the boy. He was stolen from Philadelphia.”

Pete grunted, then he and Willie exchanged a furtive glance.

“Please,” I begged, “I need your help.”

“We'll see” was Pete's answer.

D
URING THAT FIRST
week, as Kitty adjusted to the goat's milk, Pan and I grew stronger from the hearty stews cooked by Peg. The woman liked no one and especially disliked me, but Pan trailed her as a boy might a mother. Soon she was favoring him and even taught him to milk her beloved pet goat, the only living creature she seemed to care about.

Willie usually left early in the morning to hunt or forage for food. Though Pete left each day as well, he was more secretive about his doings.