by Cathy Gohlke
Slocum pushed her away. “Get off me or I’ll lash you, too, Sara. This young buck will learn one way or another who he answers to!”
Slocum laid the lash on three more times. Three more times I stood frozen to the ground, seeing what William Henry must have seen Mr. Tulley do to his pa, seeing what William Henry had died to stop. Jeremiah didn’t cry out. It was the slaves around him that screamed for mercy. When Slocum raised the whip a fifth time something snapped inside me.
I barely remember grabbing the whip from Slocum’s upraised hand. I saw him trip, and must have forced him, with all my weight, to the ground. I remember raising the whip to beat him into the dust, and his wide eyes, the stark white fear there. I remember the catch of breath around me. I wanted to beat him like Sol Tulley had beaten Joseph. I wanted him to feel the bleeding pain that William Henry had felt when the train hit him. I wanted him to know what it was like to be Jeremiah. But Ma pushed between us.
“Robert! Robert!” Her face was a blur to me. “Get hold of yourself!” She came into focus. I held the whip in the air. She pried it from my fingers. Jed Slocum wiped blood from his mouth and stumbled drunkenly to his feet. She turned on Slocum. “Robert is right, Mr. Slocum. This is not the time. We are expecting an important guest momentarily and I do not want an uproar. Tend to these matters later, if need be.”
I saw the humiliation and white-hot anger war in Slocum’s face. I jerked away from Ma, ashamed that she’d spared Slocum, ashamed that she could even think about her house or guest now. Still shaking, I untied Jeremiah.
“Jeremiah! Oh, my Jeremiah!” Nanny Sara wailed as she helped me lift him.
“I’ll tend to you later, Boy!” Slocum threatened. I think the threat was for me as much as for Jeremiah.
“Nanny Sara!” Ma called. “I need you in the kitchen now.”
“Just as soon as I tend my grandbaby, Miz Caroline.”
“Let someone else do that. Rev. Goforth will be here any minute, and I want supper on the table.”
My mother’s selfishness made me sick, but I knew better than to push her. “Go on, Nanny Sara, I’ll take care of Jeremiah. I’ve seen it done.” Nanny Sara’s eyes filled as they looked full into mine.
Jeremiah leaned heavily on me and I wondered how many lashes he’d taken before we got there. I laid him as gently as I could on his pallet. One of the quarter slaves found a candle for me and another brought clean rags and a basin of water. Gently, I peeled Jeremiah’s shirt from his back. Some of it pulled unwillingly in strips, already glued to his flesh by stripes of his own blood. I ground my teeth to keep the wail from escaping my throat. I’d seen Aunt Sassy tend Joseph Henry’s back after the first time Sol Tulley beat him, but I wasn’t prepared for the crisscross of old scars plastered across Jeremiah.
“Why you helpin’ me?” Jeremiah whispered, when at last he could talk.
How could I answer? Suddenly everything that Pa and Joseph Henry and Mr. Heath and William Henry had done to help runaway slaves became clear to me in a way that I hadn’t seen, even after Jacob’s death. It wasn’t just important. It was life and death. Liberty or death. And that is what William Henry meant. I said aloud, “You’d best steer clear of Slocum. He’s got it in for you.”
Jeremiah gave a wry grunt. “He won’t stop till I’m dead or sold. Doesn’t matter which to him.”
I couldn’t figure it. It went without saying that the mixed children running around Ashland’s quarters belonged to Slocum. Why would he want so much to hurt his own son? “Isn’t Slocum your father?”
Jeremiah turned slightly to catch my eye, even though he winced in pain. “No.”
“But all the other—” I stopped.
“All the other mulatto babies is Slocum’s. All five years old or younger. That’s about the time he figured he could have his way and Masta Marcus not bother with him.”
“But you must be my age, or older. If not Slocum, then who?”
Jeremiah pushed himself up and looked me fully in the eyes. “Who you think? Who else be white on this plantation?”
And then I knew why the brown eyes looked out of place in Jeremiah’s face. Because the oval face with the chestnut hair should have had blue eyes, like my mother’s, like Grandfather’s. “When?” I whispered.
Jeremiah lay back down on his stomach. He recited a story he’d long known. It sounded like a litany from church. “When Miz Caroline run off to marry Mister Charles. My mama helped her get away. Masta Marcus go crazy. He beats his slaves till he learn it was Granny Sara’s daughter, Ruby, what helped Miz Caroline get away. He take Ruby that very night, no matter that she never been with a man. He take his way with her. He lock her in the attic and do her over and over again every night for ten days, and there ain’t nobody to stop him. Then he send her back to the quarters and vow he never want to lay eyes on her again. Nearly killed her. Nearly killed Granny Sara. When the birthin’ time came he swear Ruby a whore until I come out near white as him.”
I wanted to throw up, but the bile stuck in my throat. “What does he say now?”
“Say now? He don’t say nothin’. He won’t lay eyes on me if he can help it. Soon as she could walk again he sold my mama away. I don’t even know what she looked like. Gave me over to a wet nurse and Granny Sara to raise.”
I sat back on my heels. “So that’s why Grandfather promised Nanny Sara—promised her what?”
“To let me live and that I not be sold. That’s why Mr. Slocum hates me so much. He know I the one slave he’s not allowed to sell off or kill. It eats at him. But I question Masta Marcus remembers his promise.”
“He remembers,” I said, thinking of the night Slocum returned with Jacob and Jeremiah. And then more pieces of the puzzle fit together. “Your name is Ashton.”
Jeremiah grunted. “I don’t want that name. My name is Jeremiah. What a slave need two names for anyway?”
I thought of William Henry. “A last name is a proud thing. William Henry, my best friend—your friend—always went by two names. When his pa was freed he had to choose a last name for his family. He chose ‘Henry’ because of a man named Patrick Henry that made a speech once. In that speech he said that life was too dear to be bought with the price of chains and slavery. He said, ‘Give me liberty or give me death.’ He wanted freedom that much.”
“Was Patrick Henry a colored slave?”
“He was white. But he wasn’t really free. They had to fight a war before he got free.”
“We got no war, and Masta Marcus ain’t never gonna free his slaves like your Mr. Heath.” And then he softened some. “So that why William Henry go by two names. I wondered. He the first free Negro my age I ever knowed.”
I knew I had to tell him. Jeremiah was William Henry’s friend, too. “He’s dead.” Jeremiah lay still, but rigid, like a cat ready to spring. “What you mean, he dead?”
And so I told him everything, just as it happened—about the runaways and the dog skunking, and the watch, and Jake Tulley, and William Henry and the Underground Railroad, and my dream, and the train—every word.
Jeremiah went limp. His tears fell silently. In all his hard time since I’d known him, it was the first time I’d seen him cry. But he cried for William Henry. And that made me cry for all the evil—the Jake and Sol Tulleys, the Jed Slocums, the Marcus Ashtons of this world. I despised them all and I could not understand how a God of mercy could let such wickedness go on. Jeremiah sighed long and winced from the pain of it. “Well, I ain’t free and I ain’t dead, but I’m gettin’ close.”
“Don’t say that.”
Jeremiah shook his head. “Slocum won’t give up till—”
“Then you have to work on getting free.” The words came out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. It was as if Jeremiah and I both knew I’d gone too far. I cleaned the rest of his cuts and patted in the salve someone had pushed inside the door. But we didn’t say another word.
My head pounded as I climbed the steps of the big house. I let myself in t
he front door quietly. I couldn’t face Nanny Sara just now, or Ma. I needed to think on all that had happened, on all that I’d learned.
Voices raised in argument came from Grandfather’s study. The door stood ajar, and even though I didn’t want anything to do with Grandfather just then, I couldn’t resist the pull of the other voice, Jed Slocum.
“Selling Jeremiah makes sense, Mr. Ashton. There’s a buyer in town now. He’s making deals and will run a coffle south just after New Year’s. The boy is nothin’ but trouble. He riles up the other slaves.” There was a pause. “We’re running short after this year’s poor tobacco harvest. A good price on him could help square things.”
“That north field wasn’t tended, Slocum. If you’d spend as much time watching over the fields as you do in the quarters chasing every skirt—”
“That’s not the problem. It’s those lazy—”
“According to my nephew it’s a good deal of the problem! But we’re getting off the point. I promised Sara I would never sell Jeremiah. He’s not just any field hand.”
“All the more reason to get shed of him. Sara’s gotten too mouthy for anybody’s good. She makes it hard to keep the others in line.” Slocum hesitated. “I’d best ask you, Mr. Ashton, does Sara run Ashland, or do you?”
“Don’t be impudent, Slocum. Sara doesn’t run Ashland, and neither do you!” I heard Grandfather slam something on the floor. “It is a worry what with that Harper’s Ferry affair. It has us all spooked. Thank God those slaves can’t read! We need to keep a firm hand just now.” Grandfather’s footsteps echoed across the floorboards. “Well … I have wanted to give Caroline a little something extra for her house decorating.”
“He’d fetch a good price, long as nobody knows how uppity he gets.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“Don’t think too long. We’ll miss the opportunity.”
I couldn’t listen to any more. I went to my room, leaned out the window, and threw up.
THE STRIKING OF the downstairs clock dragged me from my pit of sleep. Three o’clock? Four o’clock? The stench of vomit on my shirt and the sour taste in my mouth jerked me awake. I remembered Ma shaking me, coaxing me awake for supper, then telling me to rest. Like a black bell tolling against my head it came back to me: Slocum’s beating of Jeremiah, and me grabbing the whip to beat Slocum to the ground, the revelation that Grandfather had violated Jeremiah’s mother and sold her south after Jeremiah’s birth, all for helping my own mother elope with Pa, and Grandfather’s plan to sell Jeremiah, his own son. I needed to talk with William Henry. Then I remembered that William Henry was dead, and a mountain of pain crushed my chest all over again. I needed Pa and Mr. Heath, who worked every day to stop this kind of craziness. I wanted the world turned right side up.
I pulled myself up and reached for the water pitcher. Empty. The burning in my throat matched the pounding in my head. I slipped out my door and felt my way down the staircase, trying not to wake anyone. I wondered if every room in this God-forsaken house held ugly secrets, then pushed the thought away because even if they did, I did not want to know them.
I pulled the back door behind me and found the well in the dark. Lowering the bucket, I willed it not to knock against the stone sides. Frozen grass blades and pine needles shot prickles through my bare feet, but I welcomed the pain as a rival to the one in my head. I gulped the icy water too fast. It burned my throat and I heaved in a fit of coughing.
That’s when I looked up and saw the light from Grandfather’s study window. I imagined him sitting there, smoking one of his expensive cigars, drinking his brandy, and making plans to sell Jeremiah, his own blood—my own blood—so he and Ma could decorate this stupid house. The fear and disbelief and grief that had numbed me fell away. Anger and shame for my grandfather exploded in its place, plugging every hole burned in my heart. I did not try to harness the red-black rage eating my body, my fingers, my mind. With no plan in my head except to tell the old man just what he was, I rounded the house, stumbled through the front door, and threw back the door to Grandfather’s study.
“Yes? May I help you?” The voice wasn’t Grandfather’s. I blinked in the lamplight that shielded the face.
“Grandfather?” I stammered, taken off guard.
“Ah. You must be Robert,” the voice said, followed by the rising of a figure from behind the desk. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you.” Hesitation. “I’m Andrew Goforth.”
I came stupidly to myself. “I was expecting to find my grandfather here.”
“At four in the morning? I didn’t realize he was such an early riser. I mustn’t presume to use his study if he might be down.”
“No—I mean, no, he isn’t an early riser.” I pushed my hair from my face. “I saw the light and thought—I meant to speak with him.”
“I see.” But he didn’t.
“Sorry. I—sorry.” I turned.
“Before you go, Robert, I want to say something. I heard of the—events—in the yard just before I arrived yesterday.” I didn’t turn around. I was in no mood for another Southern “gentleman’s” lecture, especially a slaver hiding behind the Word of God. He hesitated. “I simply wanted to offer my hand and commend you for your act of mercy. It was a brave thing you did, and compassionate.”
I turned to face him, not sure I’d heard right. I met his outstretched hand and mumbled, “Thank you.” My armor of anger cracked.
“It is rarely easy to live obedient to our conscience or our calling.”
There was that word, calling, again. “Are you the preacher?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “I’ve practiced law these last few years, and have only recently heard the call of God.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you have your own calling?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I don’t mean anything, particularly. Only that it is refreshing to meet someone so young with strong convictions and compassion for his fellow man. I was trying to encourage you, but I gather I’m bungling the job.”
“No. I’m just not—not used to—” I stopped. I looked him square in the eye. “Do you believe that it is right to break laws that hurt people?”
“I’ve spent much time with the law, Robert. And now I spend much time with God. I can only repeat our Lord’s words, that we render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and unto God that which is God’s.”
“What if we’re not sure what belongs to God and what belongs to Caesar?”
He removed his spectacles and polished them on his vest. “Ah,” he sighed, “there is the dilemma. I think we can only pray to be led of the Holy Spirit for that, and perhaps, to rely on the leading of those we trust as God’s instruments.”
“Like you?” I challenged.
“No. I am an instrument in training.” Rev. Goforth walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Lamplight reflected in its dark glass. “I believe your ear is as finely tuned to the Spirit’s leading as mine, Robert. ‘Be still,’” he quoted, ‘“and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.’” Then he returned my gaze. “Ask yourself if the voice you hear exalts God or belittles Him.”
I felt that a blindfold I didn’t know I wore was being pulled from my eyes. Maybe it was the early hour, or the strangeness of finding this man, so different from Grandfather, in his study at just this time. But a little of the creeping in of wonder and strength I used to feel when William Henry was beside me, egging me on, returned. I stepped up. “I had a friend—my best friend. He was colored.” Rev. Goforth didn’t flinch, so I went on. “But I have to know—do people with colored skin in this life go to the same heaven as those with white skin? Does God make a difference between colored and white once He’s looking at our bare souls? What is a soul, anyway? And if color doesn’t matter then, why does it matter now? Does slavery end with death? Then, is death a good thing?”
Rev. Goforth didn’t answer. He knelt on the carpet between us and reached for my hand. Dizzy, I we
nt down on one knee. “Loving Father,” he prayed. “Robert and I come to You, broken by this life. We long for that promised day, when there will be no more death or sorrow, no more crying or pain, when things as we know them are passed away. We are ready, Lord, to be instruments of Your peace, soldiers for Your kingdom. Show us the way. Bind Robert’s broken heart, Lord. Cast out his sorrow and the dark spirit of fear. Fill him with Your Spirit of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. Make Your will clear to him and give him strength of character to go forward in Your name. Give him a thirst for Your Word. Guide him by the examples of the faithful found therein. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”
Small shards of anger fell away, like broken panes of glass. I felt, for a moment, like Moses, standing on Mt. Horeb, staring into the burning bush—as though Grandfather’s study had turned into holy ground. Rev. Goforth stood, placed his hand on my shoulder, then turned away. “I’ll be here at five every morning. If you want to join me for prayer, you are welcome.”
I couldn’t speak. I walked to my room, feeling strange in my own body. I didn’t have answers to my questions, but for the first time it seemed like maybe there could be answers, and that maybe Rev. Goforth could help me find them. I felt like I’d walked through fire these last weeks, that nobody could ever take anything away from me again, nothing that mattered nearly as much as what had already been taken. So, I got down on my knees and prayed. For the first time since William Henry’s death, I talked with God without fighting Him. And I believe He heard me.
I kept my distance from Grandfather and I kept my early morning meetings with Rev. Goforth over the next few days. We prayed together. Sometimes I prayed. That was new to me. At home, Pa had always prayed out loud. At night, when I was little, Ma made me recite prayers. But now I came to the God of heaven alone, and we talked.
Rev. Goforth didn’t answer my questions straight on. But he gave me things to read, and more to think about. Once I asked him if the Lord might ask me to do something that He might not ask of somebody else, and he said, “Abraham was asked to leave his country for a new land. Moses was asked to lead a nation from bondage. Joshua challenged the Israelites, ‘Choose you this day whom ye will serve … but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.’ The Lord does not require us to be obedient on behalf of our brothers, but He requires us to choose for ourselves. We are responsible before God for our actions, or our lack of action—no one else’s.”