The Blackbirder

by James Nelson

  It was amazing. Elizabeth could hardly believe how the people settled into their new life out in the woods, living like Indians, hunting, gathering edible plants, tending fires. Less than a week after fleeing Marlowe House and it seemed as if they had been living in that clearing for a year or more.

  She tried to help. She wanted to be a part of it, in a useful way, but the other women seemed to feel it was their job to take care of her, to not let her expend any effort.

  And she quickly discovered that there was precious little that she could do in any event that would have been of help.

  She was not without skills; she could write a neat, round hand, could organize a formal dinner with the skill of a field officer, could lay out, plant, and tend a gorgeous garden. She kept all the books at Marlowe House with great accuracy. She could satisfy a man in any way he might wish – intellectually, socially, carnally – but none of those skills found a practical application there in the Virginia woods.

  It was embarrassing. Even more so when she recalled how she had been certain these people could not get on without her.

  All this she considered as she walked back up the now-worn trail from the stream to the camp. In her hands, two buckets, the water sloshing over her skirts and soaking through to her skin. It felt good in the heat of the summer morning. The smell of the pines was pungent. Birds flashed by, here and there, no longer concerned by the presence of these new creatures of the forest.

  From the fields, the peal of children laughing, women singing at their work.

  ‘Here, Mrs Marlowe, let me get that.’ It was Plato, stepping up behind her, easing the buckets out of her hands even as he spoke.

  ‘Plato, no, I am perfectly capable.’ She held tight to the handles, tried to pull the buckets back. Water spilled over the rims.

  Plato pulled against her. ‘Please, Mrs Marlowe, it ain’t proper …’

  ‘Plato, damn it …’ At that, the young man let go of the buckets, just at the moment that Elizabeth had redoubled her efforts at pulling them from him. She stumbled back, knew she was going down, tried to retain her dignity in that instant when her balance was lost, but it was too late. She landed hard on her posterior, the buckets tumbling over, soaking her completely.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’

  ‘Mrs Marlowe, Lord help me, I—’

  ‘Never you mind, Plato.’ She struggled to her feet, fending off Plato’s help. Her wet, heavy skirts clung to her legs. She kicked one of the buckets out of her way, ignored the pain that shot through her toe.

  Plato looked miserable, desperately unhappy about what he had done, quite at odds with the Plato of a few moments before, strutting around the camp on guard duty, one of Thomas’s best fowling pieces over his back, a brace of pistols thrust in his belt.

  Awkward as he might be in rendering domestic help, Elizabeth was impressed with the skill he had displayed in the kind of Indian-style warfare that they had been carrying on with Dunmore and the others.

  It was a war that she and the other women had only heard about. It took place miles from the camp and involved not fighting so much as leading the searchers and their dogs on wild-goose chases.

  ‘Here, let me fill those for you again,’ Plato said, bending over and grabbing the buckets. Elizabeth had been about to do the same, and if she had not anticipated Plato’s move they would have knocked heads. She was grateful that she had seen it coming; slamming their skulls together would have been the end of it for her.

  Plato grabbed up the buckets, smiled, and was heading for the stream when they heard a commotion at the far end of the camp, something happening. He dropped the buckets again and he and Elizabeth trotted off, Elizabeth holding her skirts up from her ankles, much encumbered by the heavy, wet cloth wrapping around her legs.

  Two of the scouts were back, Wallace and George. Ashanti. Skilled woodsmen. They could move like deer through the thick bracken, disappear into the undergrowth. They had been a big part of keeping the white searchers away.

  Now they came trotting into the camp with an urgency that they had not displayed before, waving the others over to them. They were already talking when Elizabeth reached the edge of the crowd.

  ‘They coming again,’ George said. ‘No dogs. Saquam is leading them.’

  A murmur ran through the crowd gathered around the scouts.

  ‘Who is Saquam?’ Elizabeth asked Plato.

  ‘An Indian. A scout. The white people call him Powhatan.’

  ‘Why is he helping Dunmore?’

  ‘Don’t know. Money, I reckon. Saquam has friends who slaves. He’s helped some escape, but he’ll do pretty much whatever someone will pay him for.’

  Caesar spoke up. ‘Body of me! Saquam will find us, all right. Dunmore and them others couldn’t, with their dogs, but Saquam can.’

  ‘That right,’ Wallace said. ‘We go, try to lead them off, but you get ready to move. Get ready to move fast.’

  The scouts turned and headed back for the woods and the group surrounding them broke like a flock of birds taking flight. People ran to their tents and began knocking them down, began gathering up supplies, loading up the few horses they had. Amazing, to see the speed and coordination with which the camp was broken. Elizabeth had never felt so useless.

  ‘Queenie, Queenie.’ She stopped the former cook. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘No wheres, I hope. Maybe them men can lead that Dunmore away again, and we can set back up. But if we gots to move fast, well, we ready, and we have another place, higher up in the hills, about six miles. We can keep going, right back into Indian country.’

  Elizabeth watched the former slave as she lashed her tent into a tight bundle. They were being pushed further and further back. Was this the answer, to keep retreating? Could they just live like this forever? She certainly could not. And if these people went to the woods for good, then for all practical purposes Dunmore would have achieved his goal of eradicating them.

  Something had to be done, some new route explored. But what?

  And then, a muffled shout, a swirl of activity at the far end of the meadow. George, racing across the tall grass, waving his arms, pointing toward the far woods.

  ‘They coming, a mile away, or less. We ain’t gonna fool them, Saquam know we here, he’s leading them right along! We gots to go, go!’

  Then Tom was standing on a pile of tents, calling, ‘Them with muskets, come here! We set up for them, drop them when they come into the clear, slow them down some!’

  ‘No!’ Elizabeth pushed through the people until she was standing next to Tom. ‘No! No killing! Listen to me, you have done nothing wrong, and when Mr Marlowe gets back you will be able to go back to your homes. But if you shoot white people, you will never be able to return!’

  Murmuring voices, glances exchanged back and forth. Would they think that this was the limit of her dedication, that when it came to killing those of her own race she would no longer side with them?

  If some did think that, they were not the majority. Someone yelled, ‘Let’s go! No ambush!’ and heads nodded and the people dispersed.

  Tom met her eye, gave her an angry, distrustful look.

  ‘It is better this way, Tom. I gave you the guns to hunt and defend yourselves. An ambush is not a defense.’

  He held her eye a moment longer, then turned and walked off.

  Plato came running up, a sack over one shoulder, a canvas roll balanced on the other. It took Elizabeth a moment to recognize her own tent and clothing. She was not even aware that someone had packed it. ‘Mrs Marlowe, we gots to go.’

  The field was nearly deserted, more than half the people had already melted into the woods, heading in-country to some new, prearranged destination. Those who remained were gathering up the last of their possessions: cookware, food, scraps of clothing.

  From the woods, not so far away, the pounding of hooves on the soft pine needles of the trail. A charge at the camp, an attempt to catch them before they disappeared again.

&n
bsp; Elizabeth and Plato turned, ran toward the woods, toward the barely distinguishable trail carved through the undergrowth by animals or Indians or both.

  Into the dark woods, the cool woods, nearly blind in the shadows after the brilliant light in the field. Plato just ahead of her, running with confidence, moving as if he were bred to woodcraft, Elizabeth with skirts hiked up, running, trying to watch Plato, the trail ahead, the hazards underfoot.

  Behind them they could hear the horses. They had reached the meadow. She could hear voices, loud with outrage. ‘They are getting away, they are goddamned getting away!’ A gunshot, at what she could not imagine, perhaps fired into the air in impudent anger.

  Further into the thick wood. She could hear the stream to her right, quite a wide stream, could see the gap in the trees that its passing made. They were moving up a gentle hill, not too steep, but Elizabeth’s breath was coming fast. She wondered how long she could maintain that pace.

  And then her foot came down on some imperfection in the trail, a hole left by an animal, perhaps, or an overturned rock. She felt her ankle wrench to one side, twisting beyond where it was meant to twist, and the pine needles and the young ferns coming up at her as she fell.

  ‘Uuff!’ The breath was knocked from her as she hit the ground, her ankle, still caught in the hole, twisting harder. ‘Ahhhhhh!’ She clenched her teeth, muffled the building shriek of agony.

  Plato was ten paces ahead when he realized she was no longer behind him. He whirled around, ran back down the trail. ‘Mrs Marlowe, Mrs Marlowe, you all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am fine. Help me up.’ She could run on the ankle, she was sure. It would hurt, but she could do it.

  Plato wrapped a strong hand around her arm, lifted her. Not so far behind they could hear orders shouted across the field, instructions for the hunters to fan out, to head into the woods. Elizabeth stood on her good ankle, the twisted one held just off the ground. Not so bad. The pain was going away already.

  ‘All right, all right,’ she said, more to herself than to Plato. She put her wounded foot down, slowly, eased her weight onto it. Lightning shot through the bone. The pain rushed up her leg, wrapped itself around her brain, made her head spin, drained the strength from her body like pouring water from a bucket. She felt herself twisting as she fell, the muscles in her arms and her legs no longer responding to her wishes.

  Plato eased her down and she leaned back on her elbows, gulping air. Her ankle was throbbing, thumping like a drum, but as the weight came off, her mind cleared and she could think again.

  Plato looked back toward the field, his eyes wide, afraid, his face filled with indecision.

  ‘Go, Plato. Go,’ Elizabeth gasped.

  ‘No, I can’t leave you …’

  ‘I’ll be fine. They don’t want me …’

  She didn’t know if that was true, actually doubted that it was. They would have her in jail for something – harboring runaway slaves, giving guns to Negroes, something – but at least they would not drag her from jail and hang her, she did not think.

  Plato looked down at her, clearly unconvinced. He lifted the canvas tent from his shoulder, tossed it into the woods, flung Elizabeth’s dunnage after it. He reached down and grabbed her under the arms and, in one deft, powerful move, hefted her up and draped her over his shoulder and headed up the trail.

  Her ankle hurt unbearably, and for a moment the pain masked Elizabeth’s pure outrage, but not for long.

  ‘Son of a bitch! Put me down! Put me down right now, you bastard!’ she hissed, but Plato wrapped his arms tighter around her thighs.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Marlowe, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Plato kept repeating, his genuine contrition quite at odds with the manner in which he was carrying her.

  She could not recall a more humiliating moment, and she had had some fine ones in her short life. Her ankle screamed in pain with each jar from Plato’s long gait, her blond hair dragged on the trail and was kicked up by Plato’s heels as he ran. It was like the Rape of the Sabines. She could just picture her arse sticking up in the air right next to Plato’s face.

  She thought about Thomas, how he would react if he saw this. Wondered whether he would laugh or beat Plato to death.

  He would laugh, the son of a bitch, damn his eyes.

  Plato moved off the trail, slowing as he threaded through the trees. The low branches and undergrowth tugged at Elizabeth’s hair. And then the stream came into sight from Elizabeth’s odd perspective. She craned her neck up, looked back in the direction from which they had come, but thankfully none of their pursuers were there.

  Plato forged into the stream, his feet kicking water up into Elizabeth’s face. She sputtered, spit, wiped her face. Across the deeper part, the water up to Plato’s knees, and then up against the stream. Plato was moving slowly now, fighting the current. It was cool and quiet, but for the sound of the water, and in the far distance Elizabeth could hear the hunters once again.

  Up and up the stream, around the larger rocks that parted the water as it ran down to the piedmont. It was slow going. Elizabeth’s hair dragged in the water. Her ankle was growing numb.

  She was aware of Plato’s breathing, his gasping breath, his slower pace as he plunged uphill, upstream. He slipped, almost went down, but recovered and continued on.

  They came to a dark place on the river, where thick overhanging branches draped down almost to the surface, in some cases actually in the water. The stream was twenty feet across. The water broke around a big rock and flowed past on either side, the saplings and larger pines crowding along the banks.

  Plato ducked low. Elizabeth felt the branches sweep over her buttocks and back, felt the sharp pine needles through her clothes. Plato gasped, ‘I gots to put you down now.’

  Before she could brace for the pain Plato swung her off his shoulder, held her in his arms as if she were a bride at the threshold, and then knelt down in the deep spot in the wake of the rock.

  The water was cold, blessedly cold over her ankle, dulling the pain. She gave a quick gasp as cold water seeped under warm clothing. Plato sank down, down, the water coming over their waists, their chests. At last he was on his knees, still holding her, the water up to their necks.

  The pine boughs draped over the stream and it was as if they were in a little room, with the rock forming one wall and the tree branches the other three and the roof as well. Peering out through the clusters of green needles, they could see into the woods on the far shore, maybe fifty feet.

  ‘I can kneel on my own,’ Elizabeth whispered, and Plato gently eased her down. Her ankle was hurting a little less and the water was a buffer to the jarring and it was not so bad. Her skirts were heavy, wrapping around her legs, and they made her awkward movement more awkward still. But finally she was kneeling as well, on a flat rock right next to Plato, half floating in the dark water, staring out of their little room at the patches of sunlight and shadow that dappled the woods.

  It was no more than a minute or two before they heard them, men coming up the trail, talking loud, voices of hunters who had no fear of being hunted themselves.

  ‘Keep your eyes open, keep your eyes open, them Negroes is hard to see!’ someone yelled, and then the sound of brush being beaten and then ‘What’s this! Mr Dunmore, over here!’

  Elizabeth met Plato’s eyes but neither spoke. The hunters had found the tent and the dunnage. They knew they were on someone’s trail.

  ‘Come along, come along! Spread it out!’ Dunmore’s voice, and then men crashing through the undergrowth, coming closer. Elizabeth and Plato sunk a bit lower in the water until the stream lapped over their lips. Elizabeth was conscious of her breathing, aware of the noise it made, forced herself to take shallow, silent breaths.

  They could see figures moving through the woods, following the stream, making a great noise as they went. They were on foot – the horses could not penetrate that thick wood – and they had no dogs, which was a relief. Elizabeth could see homespun coats, ba
ttered hats, and then the white coat and white breeches of Frederick Dunmore.

  And another man. Elizabeth did not see him right off. Unlike the others he did not stand out in the woods, but seemed to blend into the browns and greens, squatting, examining something on the ground. Buckskin clothing, long black hair. Saquam, the one the whites called Powhatan. Better than a dog at tracking, less likely to be fooled. She felt her stomach sink, felt a flash of panic, willed herself to be calm.

  ‘Hold up, hold up!’ Dunmore roared, and the men stopped, no more than fifty feet from where the fugitives hid in the stream.

  Dunmore pulled his long periwig from his head, revealing dark stubble beneath, and wiped his brow with his sleeve. It was the first time Elizabeth had ever seen him bareheaded. ‘God damn your eyes, Powhatan, I thought you said we could surprise these niggers and take them in the field!’

  Saquam stood, and with elaborate care turned to Dunmore. ‘I said no horses. You ride horses through the woods, no surprise anyone.’

  ‘Yes, well I say you did a damned poor job leading us to their camp. I can’t say I’m certain where your loyalties lie, but I’ll tell you this much. If we don’t get any of those black bastards you’ll see not another penny.’

  Silence, save for the water rushing down the streambed, the breeze in the canopy overhead, the heavy breathing of hunters recovering their wind. Saquam turned and moved up the riverbank, slowly, stepping silently, looking at the ground as he moved. Thirty feet away, then twenty, and at last he reached the bank opposite them, ten feet at the most.

  He knelt down, scooped water into his hand, drank, then scooped more and ran it over his head. He looked up at the trees overhead. Elizabeth watched, taking tiny breaths, motionless as she could be in the current. An odd expression came over the Indian’s face, a puzzled look. He glanced up from the stream, his eyes sweeping along. And then he was looking straight at them, his dark eyes piercing through the tree boughs, searching into the dark. Fixed on Elizabeth, on Plato.

  And then, to Elizabeth’s surprise, he cocked his eyebrows, as if to ask ‘What are you doing there?’