by CP Patrick
“Is that them?” I asked. Every bump against the shelter sounded like my parents knocking to get inside.
“No, Sebastian. It’s just loose items outside hitting the shelter. Try not to worry,” Mr. Archambault added. “I promise to leave the deadbolt unlocked as long as possible.”
A few moments later, when the wind caused the shelter to sway slightly, Mr. Archambault went and locked the door, shutting us all in tight. Our parents were locked out for good.
I didn’t blame Mr. Archambault. He had a wife and three small children to protect as well as two other families who sought refuge with us. And the D’Aubignes had a newborn baby girl. I understood everyone’s lives could not be risked on the account of our parents. But I was still sad.
The shelter rattled as the wind blew against the wooden boards, trying to find a way in. It was a frightening sound, but not as frightening as the screams of the people who remained outside. Those who didn’t make it to their places of refuge. I prayed my parents were not among them, that they had found a safe haven somewhere.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Sebastain,” Mr. Archambault said. “Your father is smart. I am certain they realized they wouldn’t make it back in time and hunkered down where they were.”
I knew they would not make it back to the Archambaults until the storm subsided. All I could do was hope they survived.
The hurricane thrashed about violently, attacking the Archambault’s storm shelter from every angle. I had been in other storms, but I had never heard rain come down so hard and the winds howl so loud. We were inside the eye of the hurricane. Father always called it the belly of the beast. We could feel its power as it devoured our island.
Mr. Archambault worried the shelter might rip apart at any moment.
“Gather close together,” he instructed. He sat on the floor next to his wife as his children assembled close to their father. Even though they were afraid, being with their father made them feel safe. It made me long for Father even more.
“Do not go near the door, Sebastian,” Mr. Archambault said to me sharply. Perhaps he was afraid I would try to open it for my parents in a moment of desperation. But I would do no such thing. I was afraid to move.
We listened to the ocean crashing against the shores. The hurricane seemed angry with us. The sounds of the wind and rain were interwoven with the fervent screaming of those stranded outside. Cries circled around the Archambault’s storm shelter as the wind tossed about our friends and neighbors. Trees, wood from houses, anything not bolted to the ground or built to withstand the wind flew about the island, hitting the shelter randomly.
Each bump and thud caused us to jump and the women and children to scream. The wind wailed like a frightened woman. It howled and whistled as its wrath rained down on Cheniere Caminada.
It seemed the hurricane would never end. Would the screaming never cease? Sammy covered his ears with his hands and rocked back and forth. The storm shelter rattled and swayed in the wind, and the roof buckled as the wives clung to their husbands and the children clung to their mothers.
And because we only had each other, Sammy and I held each other close. I longed for our parents to be with us, to hear my mother’s calming voice. I tried my best to comfort him.
“There, there, Sammy,” I said repeatedly. “Everything is going to be all right.”
But everything wasn’t all right. The inside of the storm shelter grew darker until we were encased in blackness. We could make out the forms of each other and hear the cries of the children, so we knew were still alive. In time, we seemed to tolerate the darkness. Even the children grew silent as we listened to the storm swirling around us. And I believed we would have been fine. Until we saw her face.
“Look there, Sebastian,” Sammy whispered to me. “Look there above!”
If he was gesturing, I could not see his hands, and so I looked up. And there on the storm shelter’s ceiling was the face of a Negro woman.
“My Lord,” Mr. Archambault called out.
The women began to scream as the Negro woman looked down at us. Her dark eyes were angry, and as she opened her mouth, she howled with the storm winds. The shelter grew cold, and I could feel Sammy shivering in my arms.
“In the name of Jesus, leave this place,” Mr. D’Aubigne shouted. He ordered her to leave us, to take fear in Jesus and return to Hell where she belonged. But she remained.
“Close your eyes, Sammy,” I whispered. “Just close your eyes!” I did the same, peeking periodically only to see the Negro woman still looking down on us with angry eyes, her voice wailing with the winds.
Eventually, the winds ceased, and the rainfall became slow and steady before ending all together. As abruptly as it had begun, the hurricane was over. Still, we were afraid for Mr. Archambault to open the door. His storm shelter was beaten with wind and rain and seemed a bit unstable. One wrong move might cause the entire dwelling to collapse on us.
We were also afraid of what we would see. Once the howling wind moved on, we could hear more clearly the cries for help, the moaning of people. Some were calling out the names of those who they had become separated from during the swirling, wet madness. Our parent’s voices were not among them.
Of course we could not stay in the storm shelter forever, so Mr. Archambault went to open the door. Only, it would not budge. He was a strong man, and he pushed with all his might, but still the door refused to open.
“Come and help me,” Mr. Archambault said to Mr. D’Aubigne.
Stepping away from his wife and children, Mr. D’Aubigne went to help him open the door. They grunted as they pushed with their shoulders and hands, their voices showing the extent of their effort. Neither man mentioned the Negro woman. And I knew better than to ask.
Finally, the door pushed open. It was a small crack, but the sunlight came rushing in, the bright light blinding us. We could feel the fresh air, and through the crack, we discovered what made opening the door such a challenging effort. Dead bodies were piled amongst the trees and debris. They fell into the storm shelter as the door opened further.
An island that yesterday was a bustling, thriving community was now gone. There were a few structures barely standing. The rest were fallen to the ground or blown away as if they had never existed at all. On the dwellings that still remained, the roofs were caved in, the sides of houses collapsed, like a ramshackle deck of cards.
Dead bodies lay all about the island—men, women, children, and young infants. The storm had not been kind or courteous to the young or old. Those near death cried out for our help, but we could not move, over feet cemented to the ground in shock. The sand was littered with the dead, like human seaweed washed ashore. Many of their eyes and mouths were open. They looked surprised the storm had taken their lives.
Those of us who were living could only stare at the destruction, not knowing what to do first. The hurricane had leveled the land. God had wiped away the island with His omnipotent hands, and there was nothing left. And Cheniere Caminada was so far away from the other parishes, we wondered if anyone would ever learn of our devastation and come help us.
The men recovered from their shock before the women and the children. Samuel and I stood and watched helplessly as the men began to take action. I wanted to look for our parents, and yet I did not want to look for our parents. As my eyes adjusted to the carnage, I could see how terrible of a hurricane this had been. I knew our parents did not survive.
As we ventured outside of the storm shelter, not only were bodies strewn all over the sandy beaches, but the dead and barely living seemed to be everywhere. They were floating in the ocean where they had been washed out to sea.
Trees leaned toward the earth from being battered by the wind, their trunks and branches bent and broken and tangled with the bodies of our neighbors. The branches held the people of Cheniere Caminada by their hair and clothing.
It was too much carnage for the adults to see, let alone children. Samuel cried as I held him close.
“There, there, Sammy,” I said.
I tried to comfort him and sound like our mother.
“Everything will be fine.”
But would things ever be fine for me and Samuel? Our parents were gone, among the sand, ocean, or trees.
The men were stacking the bodies of the dead, trying to distinguish them from the survivors. I heard Mr. Archambault say, “I know they are children, but we need their help. They can help us dig graves.”
My eyes caught his, and I knew he needed us. The people of Cheniere Caminada needed us.
Mr. D’Aubigne handed me and Samuel large sticks and told us to dig shallow holes in the ground. The men moved body after body, stacking them next to the shallow graves and throwing them inside as soon as we were finished.
Burying the dead was necessary to prevent the spreading of disease and sickness. It was painful, sad work, and we cried as we dug graves and listened to the moans and weeping all around us.
“Mr. Beauchamp,” Mr. Archambault said.
He was standing over the dead body of a tall, thin man dressed rather smartly. The man’s navy blue suit fit precisely over a crisp white shirt. It was the kind of suit my father only wore to church and funerals.
Mr. Beauchamp’s shiny black shoes were only outdone by his shimmering gold jewelry. There were gold chains about his neck, and rings of gold sat on his fingers. Mr. Beauchamp appeared to be in a deep, peaceful sleep. But I knew he was not sleeping. I knew he was dead.
Mr. Archambault said to Mr. D’Aubigne, “Come over and help me now. No need to bury these good things. Like they say, you can’t take your possessions with ya’.”
Sammy and I watched as the men stripped Mr. Beauchamp of his clothing, shoes, and jewelry before throwing his naked body into a shallow grave. This scene was repeated many times on any man, woman, or child who wore something of value.
Time passed slowly, so painstakingly, many of those who had survived the hurricane were now among the dead. We started to believe the neighboring parishes were also destroyed and that no one would ever come to our aid.
People rationed food and water and continued to dig holes, larger ones, for the dead were beginning to decay, and it was easier to dig large graves for many bodies. We needed to bury them before disease infected us all.
My mind and body were numb as I helped throw bodies into shallow mass graves. I was certain someone had found our parents’ bodies. They had buried them quickly so Samuel and I would not be subjected to the memory of our parents among the dead. Still, as I touched the dead bodies, I could imagine my parents laid along the beach or their bodies hanging from the trees.
At night, it was hard to sleep. The sound of the hurricane still howled in my ears. Would it return and take the rest of us away in a swirl of wind and rain? I wondered if the screaming I had heard during the storm was the wind, or the cries of my parents being washed out to sea. Sammy remained at my side, and understandably so. We only had each other.
When we saw the relief boat on the horizon, we all cheered. News of our disaster had reached New Orleans, and the Picayune sent a steamer to aid us, The Emma McSweeny. Never was I so thankful for food and fresh water.
The doctors checked us to make certain we were healthy, and while Sammy and I were fine physically, mentally we would never be the same. Reporters took sketches of us at the scene and asked us questions.
“What was it like?” one reporter asked me. “Can you tell us what the hurricane was like?”
“The winds howled and screamed as if they were angry with us. The rain came down as if the heavens had opened.”
“You have survived quite a storm, young man,” the reporter encouraged. “You are lucky to be alive. Do tell, if you can, what was the worst part of the storm?”
I was quiet while I thought of my response. And then, I spoke of what I remembered the most.
“Well I suspose when we first opened the storm shelter door and I saw all of the dead bodies. That was something awful. And losing my parents. Knowing they are dead and that I will never see them again. And the Negro woman. Perhaps the worst part of the storm was the Negro woman who watched us and screamed as the hurricane almost washed us away. Even now that we are safe, I cannot forget her face.”
15
i showed myself
Beaufort, South Carolina (1893)
Some places just filled with more hate than others. Cities and towns where soon as you step on the land you can feel hate creeping up through the soles of your feet. Burning hatred. Pulsing through your body and causing tiny hairs to rise on the small of your back. Next thing you know, you so hot that your body turns cold. Those tiny hairs freeze up on your skin like early morning frost.
Hot. Then cold. That’s the sign. It’s funny how the body knows where it ain’t wanted. Folks need to learn to watch for that hot-cold feeling. They need to listen to that voice inside saying,
“Run quick now. Your kind ain’t welcome here.”
Might save them some trouble.
At the Davis Plantation, hate lived in the soil. Crops grew hate, and folks ate it right up. White bellies full of hatred for Black skin. Slaves wishing they could peel off each layer of flesh in the hopes they would turn White and be free. Trees grew strong and tall, their big green leaves helping the wind blow hate all across the land.
I used to think the Davis Plantation was the only place hate lived. It seemed to sprout out from the ground and cover the fields. It lived in the air of the slave quarters and dripped from the moans of slaves every night. Hate spewed like fire from the angry voices of White men and rained down its fury through the overseer’s whip. Every day, hate cracked the air and split the skin on the backs of slaves. It grew in puffs of cotton and hid among the tall stalks of sugar cane. Everywhere I went there hate was.
Slaves new to the Davis Plantation had stories about the hate they escaped. Somebody always had a story worse than the last. Wasn’t long before they realized they hadn’t gotten away. Folks learned quick the Davis Plantation was just as full of hate as everywhere else. No way to outrun it. No way to out-love it. No way to outlive it. Hate just is, and it’s always gon’ be.
When I was with Mama and it used to rain, she’d always say, “God crying.”
Mama had a way of making every word sound like a song. I was scared of storms, so whenever it rained, she’d rock me in her arms and sing-talk to me. Some of my favorite memories are being with Mama during storms, her brown skin soft and warm like fresh bread wrapped around me.
“His tears gon’ wash the land and make everything all right,” she’d sing-talk. “Don’t be afraid of God’s tears and thunder. Don’t worry now.”
And Mama would always remind me, “God know what He doing.”
Well, I kept waiting for God to make everything right. With each storm, I prayed God would figure out a way to take away the hate. Wanted God to drown it in a big puddle. Or wash away all the evil people like He did with Noah and the flood. But after every rainfall, hate was still there. Hanging on like dew.
I used to wonder what was taking God’s tears so long to do the job. Since Mama said God knew what He was doing and all. Truth be told, God’s tears ain’t got no power. Mama told me them words to make me feel safe. God ain’t got the power to cleanse places where hate run deep. Even God ain’t strong enough for that.
Seems like God’s tears ain’t do nothing but soak the hate deeper into the ground. Nourish the dirt so more hate can grow. Massa’s hate covered us in thick dust that lingered on our skin. Hate sat in our hair, coating each strand and itching our scalps. And not just the slaves who were old and weary, those working the fields. Hate covered us all. Even the children.
It sure is something when folks learn about slave children. Folks don’t want to believe there were children who suffered and died. It’s easier to imagine children enjoy childhood, even slaves. Children are supposed to laugh and play in the sunshine. They should sleep under warm blankets at night.
It’
s easier for folks to think, ‘Slave children might have suffered some, but not too much.”
Perhaps this was true for some slave children. Not for me, though. I suffered more in my short life than I was happy. I died right there on Davis Plantation. And stayed there after my death. Even after the Massa packed up and moved away. And I was alone for many years.
One day I was playing in the cotton field. It’s one of my favorite places. That’s where I used to work with Mama. I’d stand right by her side and help her pick white clouds of cotton. Sometimes she’d look at me, and we’d share our secret smile. If she winked, that meant the overseer wasn’t nearby, so I could take a little break. And every so often, if Mama found a time when no one was looking, she’d reach down and kiss me on my cheek.
Awiti showed up right there in the middle of my memory. I saw her walking across the cotton field wearing a long white dress. First thing I thought was how pretty she was.
She walked up to me like she could see me and said, “My name is Awiti. What’s your name, young man?”
“Amos.”
And I went back to running through the puffs of unpicked cotton. I wished I could touch them again, feel their softness in my hands.
“What happened to you, Amos?”
“Oh, Missus Awiti,” I warned, “you don’t want to know what happened to me. It ain’t nothing kind.”
“Yes I do, Amos. Tell me. Please.”
My death was a memory I tried not to think about often. I didn’t really want to tell Awiti what happened to me, but she insisted. Said she had to know. So I told her how it all began. And how it ended.
One night, Massa came to Mama’s cabin and said, “Come here, boy.” He gestured for me to take his hand. “I need you to do something real special for me.”
“Yes, Massa.”
I was proud he picked me to do something special. I hugged Mama and walked straight to Massa. He was a tall man, even taller than my pappy who was sold away. Massa took me by the hand, and we walked to the big house. That was my first time inside the big house. I wanted to touch something, to see if things was real, but I didn’t. I was never one to get into trouble.