by Avi
That would require me to go inside Fitzhugh’s house. Need I say it: my fear was that he would be there.
Chapter Sixty-Two
My Return to Fitzhugh’s House and What I Discovered.
I retreated to the nearest island and worked to gather up my courage. It was dark when I finally waded out of the swamp and ventured onto firm ground, which I knew as Fitzhugh’s plantation. In so doing I was reminded how I came off the Owners Goodwill onto land.
I was wet from my waist down, hungry with an uneasy pain in my chest. All that said, uppermost in my thoughts was this: Would the old man be here?
I moved with caution through the dark woods, watching and listening for any hint that would tell me if Fitzhugh or anyone else was about. I did hear noises: snaps, rustling of leaves, quick cracklings, which always caused me to halt. But I neither saw nor heard anything to alarm me, or so I told myself. Even so, I had to force myself to move forward. Thus, I pressed forward, my eyes constantly shifting over the landscape, ever ready to flee.
It wasn’t long before I crept out from beneath the protection of the trees. The moon and trembling stars hung in a cloudless sky, providing just enough light that I could see. That meant, as I was all too aware, I was likewise visible. The air was cool enough to make me shiver, but I suspect it was caused by great unease.
I pressed on slowly—my body half-stooped—until I came upon a field of tobacco, which I recognized as the farthest from the old man’s house. The large leaves were brown. When a finger of breeze stirred them, they crinkled like old parchment paper, the sound grating on my nerves.
I halted and surveyed the field. Weeds were abundant. The tobacco had not been tended.
When I reached the next field, or what should have been the field, it was not there. It was a sullied patch of land, a black scar burned to nothing.
I stood still. From my vantage point I could see the entire plantation. As for Fitzhugh, I saw no sign, but reminded myself how devious he was.
I moved on and saw another field of standing tobacco. Then another that was burned. The pigsty was empty, which I took as another good sign.
I continued on toward Fitzhugh’s house but went past it to the stable. There was no horse. That eased me more.
Do not be fooled by good signs, I told myself. I think the words came in Bara’s voice.
I stepped around to the front of the house and studied it from a safe distance. Under the moonlight, it appeared as before, in a state of shabbiness, no worse or better than it had been. I studied it. Most unusual: The door stood open. No light came from within. Though nothing suggested Fitzhugh was about, I reminded myself that if he was there, he would be sleeping—and his pistol would be by his side.
Did I really need to go in? I asked myself and just as quickly gave myself the answer: I had to get the paddle.
I approached the door and listened, as before, intently. I heard nothing. I finally put my hand to the door and gave it a small shove, so that it groaned. The familiar sound made my stomach squeeze.
I waited. Nothing happened. The smell of rum floated out. That stopped me too. But the door was open enough that I could stick my head through and look about.
It was darker inside, of course, but my first observation suggested it was deserted.
Emboldened, I pushed the door farther in and stood upon the threshold. I could see no evidence that anyone was there. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, I saw that the furniture, such as it was, was tumbled. The musket that always hung on the far wall was gone. The chest lid stood open. Some withered apples lay about. Cold ashes were on the floor. The bed was turned over and empty. The place had been ransacked.
Bolstered—but with my heart thudding in my ears—I went to his chest and looked within. To my great relief the paddle was still there. I gathered it up. When I saw the fishing spear I took that, too, elated to have it.
With a feeling of great release, I moved out of the house and set off at a half run—paddle and spear in hand—toward the bay and the wharf. I was halfway down the slope when I came upon a mound of earth. Though the light was gloomy I could see the ground had been newly dug. Though it looked like the approximate shape of a grave—I was reminded of Clark’s grave—there was no marker. But on top of the mound was Fitzhugh’s battered hat.
Did he lie buried there? I did not know, but I suspected as much.
It held me for a moment. Had he died in the fire? Or was it his fury that killed him after Bara and I had run? Let me confess, no feeling of reverence or forgiveness came from me. No joy either. But I did something I had never done, and hoped to never do again: I spat upon that grave. I wanted to believe he was gone, and was being given his deserved punishments elsewhere. I pondered what would be the worst retribution: I decided upon an eternity alone, in the company of himself.
I hurried on.
I reached the wharf. The canoe was there. It took some struggle and strength—but I had gained in that, and managed to pull it free. I set it into the bay water. I placed the paddle and the spear within. Finally, I crawled in myself.
Trying to remember what Bara had taught me—wishing with yet another painful surge of emotion that he was with me—I paddled out into the bay. Its waters were dark but calm. Once offshore, I turned my little ship in what I believed was the direction that would lead me to Philadelphia, Black Horse Alley, the bakery of Master Isaac Bell, and Charity.
Chapter Sixty-Three
My Voyage up the Chesapeake Bay.
At first, my lack of skill, plus my eagerness to get away, caused the heavy canoe to meander and sway precariously so that more than once I was sure I must capsize. I took some moments to remind myself of what I had done, that I could take care of myself, that I had learned many skills. I can do this, I kept telling myself. I am not the boy who was in Melcombe Regis. I further told myself that I needed to be calm and resolute and kept on making advancement in my paddling skills with every stroke.
Happily, the bay, though vast, was unruffled, and the moon provided all the light I needed to be rewarded by progress.
I did allow myself to think how astonishing that I was where I was. Not long ago, what I was doing, being in America, in a canoe, upon the vast Chesapeake, perfectly alone, would have been utterly impossible to imagine. Life, it is commonly said, is full of possibilities. Let it also be acknowledged: Life is also full of impossibilities. Who is to say which enriches one more?
As I moved up the bay I kept close to the shore. Now and again I saw a wharf much like the one owned by Fitzhugh. I saw buildings, too, dark in the night. There were small islands, but whether occupied or not I did not know.
I paddled until I was too tired to paddle more. Then I edged into an empty shore, a place where forest reached the bay. I pulled the bow of the canoe on land, lay down within it, and instantly slept.
I woke to a different kind of day. The sky was gray. The waters of the bay were unsettled with a wind blowing hard from the north. Feeling I had gained enough skill to continue, I pushed the canoe into the water, climbed in, and began to paddle. With an eye to the weather, I continued north, but made sure again to stay close to shore. The water chop and the wind made the going hard.
It was not long before the sky grew darker, and the wind increased to such violence that the bay waters tossed and turned, white and foamy. Rain began to fall in torrents. My canoe began to dip and spin, and my efforts to control it only made things worse. I decided to aim her for the shore, only to have the canoe roll when hit by a broadside wave and spill me out.
Call it fortune that let me depend on my new strength and skills. I did not lose my grip on the paddle, and that helped me remain afloat. Even so, for a moment I had no idea where I was or the location of the canoe. As I struggled and looked about the churning water, I was struck behind by the canoe. It was not so hard a blow, and my primary response was relief. I spun about an
d with my free hand gripped the canoe. Still holding the paddle with my other hand, I kicked my legs so that I moved toward what I could see through the rain was the shore.
In a matter of moments my feet touched bottom, which allowed me to stagger forward, the canoe still in tow. As the rain and wind lashed me, I pitched the paddle into the canoe and used both hands to reach land. Once there, I dragged the boat up, rolled it over, and crept beneath. The rain drummed over my head but I was safe.
Yes, I was cold and wet, but I was protected from the worst of the sudden weather, which did not last so long. There was something much more: I reminded myself I had survived in England, came across the ocean on a prison ship, survived convict labor, escaped from Fitzhugh, came through the swamp. I had secured Fitzhugh’s canoe and paddle and used them. I had survived yet another storm.
All of this allowed me to remind myself yet again I was not what I had once been. I no longer felt as if I was a boy. I was in command of my free life. There would be—I promised myself—no more unexpected turns.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Ever Closer to Philadelphia.
In the morning, I came out from beneath the canoe to look up to a gray but rainless sky. The squalls had passed on. I was alive; I had the canoe and the paddle. All I had lost was the fishing spear when the canoe capsized.
Though still fearful of discovery, I set out with the canoe upon the bay once again. Before long I perceived one of those small islands and aimed for the smallest, since I could see that there were no people on it.
I came ashore, pulled the canoe up high among some bushes, and hid it. It was then I allowed myself to feel my full exhaustion. Without much thought, I lay down on the ground and slept.
I think I slept for most of the day. When I woke, it was with great hunger. I searched about and found some of the plants that Bara had taught me I might eat. Then I recalled his oysters. I waded into the water, got on my hands and knees, and searched on the sandy bottom. It was less a case of my finding them, as they found me when I felt a sharp pain.
Gingerly I rooted about, found the object I wanted, and pulled up an oyster some seven inches long. I searched again with greater care and found three more. Then—again as Bara had done—I banged them together, shattering the shells. This time I ate without revulsion, indeed with elation befitting my deep hunger.
Bara, I thought, once again, you have taught me how to save myself.
I made myself stay on that island for a whole day, so as to regain my strength and gain a sense of security.
The next morning, much refreshed, I returned the canoe to the water and with some six oysters in the bow I continued my voyage north.
In the days to come as I paddled, I did see people, but none seemed to take much notice of me, a person in a canoe going slowly northward upon the vast bay. Was I not the perfect image of this brand-new world?
I went by many islands, small and large. I saw porpoises. In the sky, birds were plentiful. Now and again I saw fish, either in the water or leaping. Many a time I wished I had the spear.
On those broad waters were also sailing ships of different sizes, some quite big, others small. I must have been observed but no one hailed me or required me to come ashore. Did they consider me with a spyglass? I had no idea.
Since I no longer wore my iron collar, I told myself I would not be apprehended as an escaped convict. Nonetheless, I took the precaution to invent a story I could tell if I were stopped and questioned. I decided to say that my (invented) master—a Mr. Trigg—had gone to Philadelphia, and being his servant, I was belatedly required to join him.
I pushed on, one day after another. Surely, my skills increased since there is no better teacher than a desire to arrive somewhere. By way of a bonus, I observed magnificent dawns of deep pinks as well as splendid sunsets of reds, purples, and oranges. When nights advanced, I searched for small islands, and after making sure—as best I could—that they were uninhabited, took myself on land. Dawn had me moving again.
For six days, I journeyed north. It was only after all that time that I began to notice that the bay was narrowing. I continued to maneuver my way in a northeast direction—the way I wanted to go—until I found myself in what I supposed was a river. By that time, I was no longer fearful of people, and once, twice, I pulled to shore and spoke to those laboring in the fields.
“Can you tell me how I can reach Philadelphia?” I would ask.
They would point, tell me how far, seventy miles, fifty, thirty, and I would paddle on.
At length, the river I was on—the Elk River, I had learned—became too small for me to paddle my canoe any farther. At that place, I simply abandoned the little craft and left it for others. Then I proceeded northward along roads that seemed well used. Since I continually asked my way, I encountered many farms and some people. How I must have appeared to them, in tatters, filthy, I could hardly imagine.
What I gained by it all was an understanding that I was truly approaching my goal: Philadelphia. By then I had also learned to give a better explanation for my isolated travel. Now my story was that I had been shipwrecked somewhere near Annapolis, and thereby separated from my Philadelphia family, and was trying to reach my true home. That allowed me to account for my tattered clothing. Of course, I was not being honest in giving such an account, but I assuaged my discomfort by telling myself that it was not entirely untrue. To say I had been shipwrecked—considered as a metaphor—had much reality to it.
“How come thou here?” I was asked more than once.
I would tell my shipwreck story, and must have done it well, for I was treated well. I thus learned that nothing encourages an inventor of tales to embellish more than food and kindness.
Thus, I made my way to the shores of the wide Delaware River until, as I continued to walk my way north by that great flow, I beheld, albeit at a distance, the city of Philadelphia. Just to see it filled me with a sense of excitement.
Charity was there.
I could have no doubt: my journey was almost at an end.
Chapter Sixty-Five
In Which I Finally Come to Philadelphia Only to Experience Yet Another Unexpected Change.
It was in the late autumn of 1725—almost a full year after all these events began, which I have chosen to call my unexpected life—when I reached Philadelphia, the second largest city (London being the first) in the entire British world. I reached it at night, but I continued to trudge along, utterly determined to find my sister that same eve, knowing that to see her face would fill the sky with brightness. I could hardly keep from running.
Guided by such lights as there were, I walked along Water Street by the Delaware River, and thereby entered the big city. I considered pausing and waiting till the morning. I was far too impatient. I was all but there!
Though Philadelphia was not fifty years old, it had a population of some eleven thousand. I found it laid out in perfect squares, and while the streets were unpaved, they were lined with rows of small, plain houses mostly built of brick. It was far advanced over Annapolis, and much more orderly than London. The Delaware River bankside was thick with wharfs and many ships. Indeed, what I immediately saw, though it was night, was that Philadelphia was a crowded, prosperous city with a sense of purpose.
Only a few people were upon the streets. Wishing to know where Black Horse Alley was, I approached one, then two people, only to have them look at me and no doubt appraise me as without merit for they pointedly told me to keep my distance.
Only then did I fully acknowledge how shameful I must have looked in rags, bare feet, hair longish, filthy with dust and grime. The murk of night could only have added to my frightfulness. It made me that much more eager to find Master Isaac Bell’s bakery and my sister.
My assumption was that Charity had found employment there, and as was often the case, lived with her master and perhaps mistress. I would throw myself upon
the baker’s mercy and plead for an audience with Charity. Never mind the hour. I could not wait.
As I was wandering about in a blind search for Black Horse Alley, I observed two men on the street walking side by side, each with a lantern in hand. Burly fellows, they seemed sober men going about some business. One of them also had a cudgel.
I approached them. “Sirs,” I called. “A little service.”
They halted, lifted their lamps, and considered me gravely.
Before I could say one word more, one of them said, “Who art thou?”
“And it please you, sirs, my name is Oliver. I was shipwrecked somewhere near Annapolis and separated from my family, and am trying to reach my true home, which is here in Philadelphia.”
“And where is thy home?”
“Black Horse Alley.”
“Dost thou live there?”
“Since I was born, sirs.”
“Then how can thee not know where it is?”
“It’s . . . it’s dark, sir. And I’m . . . very tired.”
“Have thee run away from home?” one of them said, to which the other added, “Or your apprenticeship?”
“No, sir, I . . .”
“There is a law against vagrancy,” said the first. “And we are the night watch.”
Their hostile tone shook me. I was so near to all my purpose, my final goal, the finding of Charity, only to be rudely blocked.
On the instant, I realized I had blundered. I had lied. Gone to the wrong people. The folly of what I had done—for I had brought this on myself—was as if I had picked up a stone, swallowed it, only to have it lodged in my throat. It was unbearable. Infuriating to the extreme. I could not bear it.