Ruth daren’t take her eyes off the young militiaman. His fat horse was careless with its hooves, but Ruth daren’t back away.
“Ho!” Cathecarte Puryear shouted to the empty market. “Return to your Masters!”
Wheelbarrows lay overturned. A droverless mule had dragged his cart where he could nibble spilled beans. Palmetto fronds drooped in the heat.
Sweat escaped Ruth’s armpit and trickled cold down her side. “Some trouble this mornin’, Master Cathecarte?” she inquired brightly.
“Trouble! You goddamned right!” (Reflexively) “Excuse my language.” He sheathed his sword, took a deep shuddering breath, and quoted, “ ‘A soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath . . .’” His fingers wandered over his misbuttoned jacket. “Return to your Master,” he said calmly.
“Mistress Ravanel?”
“Who? To your damn Mistress, whoever she may be. Any nigger found on the streets is liable to . . . liable.” He unbuttoned a button and rebuttoned it.
“You gonna have to start from scratch, Master,” Ruth said.
He looked at her but didn’t see her.
“The buttonin’, I mean. You gots do ’em one at a time, bottom to top.” Her hand snaked out to take that plump yam and jam it in her apron. “I done paid for this,” Ruth lied. “This am my yam.”
“A yam,” he said. After a moment he mused, “On this day, in solitary grandeur, a yam . . .”
“Master?”
“Poetry. The sublime Byron as corrupted by a humble Charleston poetaster.”
“Master, you don’t got be afraid. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
He shook the cobwebs out of his head. “You? Hurt me? ‘All we see is but a dream within a dream’? Go. My patience has limits.”
Apron rucked up to her hips, Ruth dashed across town fast as she could, and she wasn’t the only runner. Blacks and whites fled public places. Saddled, bridled horses were dragged into stables, doors slammed behind coaches, shutters pulled shut, and doors double-bolted.
The yam would feed her family, and Ruth still had two pennies and a half dime. Ruth fought a strong urge to discard the yam. Yes, she’d stolen it, but that stall keeper wasn’t coming back. She’d abandoned her barrow, hadn’t she? Ruth might have stolen more, but she hadn’t. Ruth turned in to Anson Street. The yam in her apron pocket was guilty-heavy as a brick.
She wouldn’t name the Dread. The spirits had warned Dread was coming, but she hadn’t heeded. Now she murmured, “We get by like we always has,” but her mouth was dry as dry bones.
Ruth hesitated at the door. Her own door! Sun had cracked the blue paint around the doorframe, and chips flaked off. Why had she neglected to renew it? She choked down a moan and leaned her forehead against warm, rough wood.
Her hand balked at the latch. In her entire life Ruth had feared nothing more than opening her own front door. Dread was waiting inside.
Sun streaming through the window formed a yellow-white rectangle on the far wall. Jehu sat with his back in a corner, head lowered into his hands. Martine was clamped to her father’s knee.
When her eyes met her husband’s, Ruth wanted to flinch. Tears spewed.
“All us coloreds,” Jehu said dreamily. “Goin’ out free. Think on it, darlin’. My own shop. Might be I’d hire a ’prentice. Rich folks in Haiti got to have staircases too, don’t you know? No more bowin’ and scrapin’ ’count he white and I nigger. White man and colored man just the same. Good worker gets ahead, lazy man fail.” Jehu paused and in Denmark Vesey’s familiar voice said, “We is goin’ out free.”
“Oh, Jehu,” Ruth said. “But you is free.”
“‘Free colored’ ain’t free. We gonna rise up like Moses and board ships like Noah’s Ark and sail on down to Haiti. All us coloreds, black and tan, gonna be free. Behold the day of the Lord cometh . . .”
“Who you kill?” Ruth whispered.
“Masters same like Pharaoh: Pharaoh ain’t gonna let Moses’s people go.”
“Mistress Ravanel? Colonel Jack?”
“I knows where Langston Butler sleep.”
In a rush Ruth laid their cook pot, forks and spoons, tin cups, Martine’s other shirt, Jehu’s church jacket, and her church shoes on a blanket she rolled and tied. “You carry Martine. Got to leave your tools.”
“No!” he shouted. “Took me six years gather them tools, and I ain’t leavin’ ’em.”
“We sure as hell ain’t leavin’ Martine!”
When Martine whimpered, Ruth kissed the top of her head. “Honey, you soppin’. I swear Papa ain’t been carin’ for you.”
Jehu’s eyes were blank, as if he didn’t know who Ruth was.
She managed a smile. “Sweet man, we gots to go. We gots get out of Charleston. We gots to run!”
“But, Ruth,” he explained patiently, “we can’t run. Gullah Jack come by just now. Somebody done informed the Masters, and they called out the militia, and militiamen guardin’ city gates. Denmark, he try to run but couldn’t get out. We catched, Ruth. They done catched us.”
She wanted to slap his face. “You never even been to Haiti. I has!” She found a clean nappy. “Honey, I changin’ you and then we gonna eat a fine yam.”
In a softer voice Ruth said, “Clay pot can’t wrestle iron pot, Jehu. You already free. Why you doin’ this?”
The man she loved said, “I couldn’t pretend no more.”
* * *
Sunday, they didn’t go out to church and Ruth cooked horse oats. Jehu couldn’t eat, so she saved his bowl for later.
Jehu honed his chisels and plane blades. Martine clung to her momma; hot, sweaty, and afraid. When Martine finally dozed off, Ruth walked across town; she was the only colored on the street. Although militiamen eyed her suspiciously, she walked fast with downcast eyes, and they didn’t stop her. She breathed easier after she slipped through a familiar alley into the Ravanel yard. She rapped on the back door.
Maybe they hadn’t heard. She knocked louder.
After a long time there was a footfall, a rustle, and a metallic click. “Who is there?”
“I Ruth, Colonel Jack. I needs ask you.”
The door opened just wide enough for Colonel Jack’s red-streaked eye to examine her. When he was sure Ruth was alone, he opened the door and lowered the hammer of his pistol. “Ruth.”
“I need talk.”
“Yes? What might we talk about?”
“Reckon you knows.”
“No, I don’t ‘reckon’ I do. I am told our servants planned an insurrection. I believe they planned to murder us in our beds. Perhaps you’ve heard something about that?”
Ruth nodded numbly and lowered her head for his reproach. Instead, he sighed, shook his head, and ushered her inside. “Goddamned fools. In God’s name, what were they thinking?”
The boot room was crowded with hunt jackets and riding boots, and it smelled of leather dressing. Colonel Jack swigged from a flask and breathed fumes on her. “Secrets aren’t secrets if more’n one man knows,” he said as if instructing a child.
“What will—”
“Oh, they’ll be hanged. No doubt about it. Can’t go round murdering Masters, you know. Frances and Penny don’t venture out, and I go nowhere without pistols. Cook’s father, Jarod, was my manservant in the war, but I’ve locked her in her room and we dine on tinned biscuit. Who can we trust, Ruth? Who? Why are you here? It’s not safe for any colored to be wandering about . . .” Colonel Jack gasped. “Dear God. Not your Jehu . . .”
“Colonel Jack . . .”
He held up a hand for silence. “You mustn’t. Please don’t say anything you wouldn’t want a judge to hear.”
“But, Colonel . . .”
“Ruth, you’re a fine Mammy. Frances sings your praises. Yes, I know, I know . . . But don’t put me
in a position . . . I cannot be put in a position where—”
“Master Jack, what I gonna do?”
Colonel Jack took another swig, wiped the flask’s mouth, and offered it to her. “Best cure I know.”
Ruth blinked. “I took the pledge, Master. I temperance.”
“Barley does more than Milton can to reconcile God’s ways . . . Ruth, I am sorry if . . . No! Don’t tell me. There’s naught I can do, and I do not wish to know!” He wore a lopsided smile. “Since you’re here, would you . . . ? Penny is frightened out of her wits . . .”
In the stifling family room, little Penny ran to Ruth and clung to her legs. The shutters were bolted, curtains drawn, and the room stank of a chamber pot wanting emptying. Clothes, dirty and clean, festooned every chair, and Colonel Jack’s sword belt and musket lay atop the table.
Frances Ravanel’s eyes were red from crying.
“My Jehu—”
Colonel Jack snapped. “Not one more word.”
“I—”
“You, Ruth? Surely not you!” Frances gasped.
“No, Missus, I didn’t . . . No, I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout ’nothin’.” She wailed, “He never tell me!” Of its own will, Ruth’s forefinger twirled a curl of Penny’s hair.
“Aren’t they Christians?” Miss Frances said. “I told Jack they are Christians and they wouldn’t . . . So many whites leave town in the hot months. The Bees are in Southern Pines, my cousins are in Table Rock, North Carolina, so many friends are gone. Do you think the plotters counted on their absence? How clever! Who would have thought illiterate coloreds could concoct such a plot? Or might wish to? Didn’t their plot originate in a Christian church? I suppose they were trying to be kind: if they rose up when most whites weren’t in Charleston, they’d have fewer to . . . murder.”
“Missus—”
“Governor Bennett’s Rolla; do you know Rolla?”
“No’m. I mean I seen him at church, but we never talked.”
“Rolla serves Governor Bennett. Were it up to Jack, our social life would be nothing but racetracks and the Jockey Club, but sometimes I do like to get out, and dear Jack obliges me. Rolla has served me at Governor Bennett’s dinners. ‘Have more this ham, Missus Ravanel, you always partial to it.’ Governor Bennett is fond of Rolla. He considers Rolla part of the Bennett family! When Rolla was arrested, he confessed to his part. Apparently . . .” Mistress Ravanel frowned. “Apparently Rolla is fond of the governor, because Rolla said he couldn’t kill the governor with his own hands. He would have asked another plotter to kill him.”
The Ravanels were immobilized by amazement. To think. Such a thing.
Ruth whispered, “I never . . .”
Frances used her handkerchief to dry Ruth’s cheeks. “I am carrying my second child. I didn’ tell you because . . . because . . . Didn’t you suspect?”
“No, Mistress.”
“I have miscarried twice. I would dearly love to give Penny a sister or brother to play with. I wonder who was designated to murder Penny and me.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Ruth’s hand fell dead at her side, and Penny put her thumb in her mouth and started to cry.
On July 2, Peter Poyas, Ned Bennett, Rolla Bennett, Betteau Bennett, Denmark Vesey, and Jess Blackwood were hanged.
Days passed. Long days passed. Ruth sold her wedding ring for food. Martine didn’t whimper or fuss. They didn’t go out. They spoke in whispers.
Jehu told Ruth, “Some men never learn what they’s cut out to be. I’m lucky.” Ruth went into the other room so he couldn’t see her cry.
Without speaking of hope because it was too tender, they were starting to hope.
Though militiamen patrolled the streets and the Cow Alley church was locked, the river plantations were back at work. Trunk gates had been raised and rice flooded for the sprout flow. The market reopened, though Charleston Rangers patrolled it and coloreds bought or sold and didn’t linger.
Tuesday, they came for Ruth’s husband. Although the door was locked, they kicked it in, passing through the blue doorframe as if it didn’t matter. Seven white men, armed with swords and pistols: afraid of one unarmed Negro. Their leader demanded, “Jehu Glen?”
“Jehu Glen, stair builder.”
“Why should we give a damn about that?”
Jehu’s head raised, and for one proud moment, he was her Jehu again. “’Count I do.”
When they took her Papa, Martine sobbed so helplessly Ruth thought her heart would break. “You gots to smile,” she said. “World treat you better if you smiles. You got to hide whatever you truly feelin’, child. They kills you if you don’t smile.”
That night, while the moon was high in the sky, Ruth left Martine asleep and slipped across Charleston to the Butler yard. Horses snored or shifted their hooves in the stable. Ruth creaked a door open on narrow stairs climbing into darkness.
The moonlit upper room was studded with men sleeping on straw mats. “Hercules?” she whispered.
The nearest sat up, chest gleaming in the moonlight. “Damn, boy,” he grumbled. “Now you womens comin’ in here!” He lay back with a grunt.
A shape became Hercules, naked except for the rag clutched before his loins. “Damn, gal.”
“I . . .”
“I hear ’bout Jehu. I sorry.”
“He just wanted—”
Hercules snapped, “We all wants!”
She nodded to the sleepers. “Please.”
He followed her down into the moon-drenched yard.
She searched Hercules’s face for the impudent boy, but that boy was gone.
“I ain’t got nothin’ for you, Ruth. You gots to sell Jehu’s tools . . .”
“Jehu’ll need them when he come home.”
Hercules blew a puff of air through his lips and said, “I got two bits hid. I fetch it.”
As he clumped around, someone whined, “How’s a man to sleep in this damn commotion?”
Another voice said, “Close the goddamned door. Night air bring fever.”
When Hercules came down again, he wore ragged britches. “What you heard?” Ruth asked.
“They hanged Preacher Vesey, Peter Poyas . . .”
“I knowed that. Arybody know that. What you heard?”
Hercules paused. “White folks afeared. Don’t know who was for Vesey and who wasn’t. They afeared. Master Langston, he sleep with pistols by his bed. He done told me ’bout pistols so’s I could warn off ary nigger what wants kill him.” Hercules’s unexpected boyish smile. “I says, ‘None of us want kill Master Butler. We satisfied niggers.’”
“What you heard?” Ruth repeated.
“In the sugarhouse they askin’ who else was with Vesey. Most don’t talk. Vesey never say one word. Peter Poyas said nothin’ though they whipped him till he couldn’t stand. Gullah Jack says arything they wants hear.”
Muggy and hot. A night bird called. Fireflies blinked cheerless messages.
Hercules said, “Might be they sell some of ’em ’stead of hangin’. Master Langston say hangin’ coloreds same like hangin’ money.”
“What was they thinkin’? They surely wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout my Martine nor none of they wives ’n’ children. They surely wasn’t.”
Hercules shrugged. “Me, I likes horses.”
On July 12, Jack (Gullah Jack) Pritchard and Monday Gell were hanged.
Ruth did not know if she dared wear shoes. Her plain churchgoing shoes were sober as Sunday morning but . . .
Her small wood crucifix: she knew better than wearing that. These days, Charleston was not a good place to be a Negro Christian.
Many Masters had been uncomfortable with their slaves’ Christianity. Yes, they wanted them weaned from heathen superstitions, and as confessing Protestants Maste
rs believed every Christian should be able to read his Bible, but literate Negroes were dangerous.
A few devout planters overcame their fears, but most contented themselves by preaching to illiterates. A favorite text was St. Paul’s: “Servants, be obedient to them that are your Masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of heart, as unto Christ.”
Philadelphians who’d encouraged Reverend Brown’s Cow Alley church were (as the Charleston Courier noted), “Philanthropic and openhearted white clergy who excited among our Negroes a spirit of dissatisfaction and revolt.” Low Country Masters breathed easier when that Cow Alley church was torn down.
In less fearful times, Ruth’s church shoes (and her crucifix) would have signaled the docility Master Butler expected. Though she couldn’t scrub off her black, scrubbing proved her desire to do so. Ruth’s white blouse was starched stiff as a board, her checked kerchief was spotless. Her full skirt was mouse brown, and she was barefoot. Bringing Martine was chancy—what if the child acted up? But Mercy would be summoned by the child, and Ruth’s only hope was Mercy. No matter if young Master Langston Butler hadn’t had one single merciful thought in all his days. No matter what HAD happened! Only mattered what WOULD!
Coloreds couldn’t testify for other coloreds, only against them. Although most of Vesey’s conspirators kept silent, Gullah Jack hadn’t been the only man who named others to avoid the hangman.
Ruth hated those men worse than she hated the men who’d hanged Vesey and would judge Jehu this very morning.
Since Ruth couldn’t testify before the court, she’d testify outside the court! Martine was scrubbed to a fare-thee-well and her hair plaited in neat cornrows. Whites thought a black in fine clothes was insolent, but Martine was charming. White men could whip a colored man bloody but be charmed by his child.
They waited just down Meeting Street from the Butlers’ front door. Martine sat on the curb instructing her rag doll, Silly. Yesterday, Ruth overheard Martine warning, “Silly, be good! Bad niggers hanged!”
The brick sidewalk held the night cool though the morning sun scorched the sky. Inside town houses, servants went tiptoeing from room to room, closing sunny shutters and opening shady ones to catch the errant breeze. What would white folks do without us? Ruth wondered. Who would open and close all those shutters if we wasn’t here to do it?
Ruth’s Journey Page 16