The Blackbirder

by James Nelson

  ‘Van der Haagen.’ Madshaka grinned at the horrified, terrified Dutchman. ‘You think you get rid of your partner by hitting him on head, selling him like a common slave?’

  ‘Madshaka, no … it was Stevens who done that.’

  Madshaka threw back his head and laughed, a genuine laugh, because it amused him greatly to see Van der Haagen writhing, just like Stevens, even though he had not yet thrust a dirk into the factor’s gut. ‘You a worm, Van der Haagen, a low worm, and you sell me out just like Stevens.’

  At that the Dutchman had sense enough to shut his mouth, understanding that denial was futile and only negotiation could save him now. From the compound beyond the factor’s door they could hear the former slaves chanting, shouting, singing their triumph.

  ‘Very well, Madshaka. Kill me, if you will, or tell me what you want.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think I kill you. But I think we be partners again. But it be different this time, what say you?’

  ‘I am certain we can come to some understanding …’

  ‘I certain too. But I have business first.’ He stepped to the far wall and took down a big ring of keys, then turned to his men, who were crowding the room near the door, and said, ‘Look after these men. Hold them here until I return.’ He spoke Kwa. There was no need for any other language because all of the men in the room were Kru, like himself.

  Madshaka stepped out and he shouted to the rest of his people, a great bellow that cut through their voices of triumph. He congratulated them on their victory, their great victory, and they cheered him.

  He told them that they were the chosen of the gods and they cheered again.

  And then he told them that it was time to see to their brothers. He led them at a trot across the wide courtyard to the big trunk that took up a good portion of the factory and would be filled with slaves awaiting buyers.

  He waved his cutlass over his head, led the charge to that big, familiar door. He found the key on the ring, thrust it into the lock, twisted it, and felt the lock pop open. With a practiced hand he pulled it from the hasp and swung the big door open and called to his men, ‘Go! Go and help your brothers from their chains! Fulfill your destinies!’

  And with a great cheer the men poured in through the door, shouting in triumph, the final triumph, ready to free the others as Madshaka had freed them.

  And when the last of them had passed through the door, and only Madshaka was left outside, he swung the big door closed again. It hit the heavy frame with a shudder, a deep booming sound, and Madshaka slipped the lock through the hasp again and clicked it shut, a sound of finality.

  And then despite himself, he laughed again, a deep laugh, a genuine laugh, a laugh to release all the laughter he had suppressed for all these weeks of fooling all those simpleminded people.

  It was the true final triumph, he knew, and it was his.

  Crouching on the dry mud wall, lost in the shadow midway between two of the torches, King James watched the drama in the courtyard.

  He watched the butchering of the white guards, watched Madshaka peel the Kru off from the rest of the people, watched him disappear into the big house. And then, some moments later, he watched Madshaka lead the people into the trunk, springing his trap.

  Beside him, Joshua, Good Boy, Cato, Quash, muttered their horror, their shock, but James remained silent, watching. There was no shock in his heart, no horror. This was just the way of things.

  They had reached the wall with the rest, clambered up, but James had not let his people from the Northumberland go any farther. Instead, they had stayed on the wall, retreated to the shadows, and watched.

  James had agreed to accompany Madshaka, had let Madshaka think he was swayed by the big man’s goading. But it was not that. James wanted to know what Madshaka’s real intentions were. He knew better than to let Madshaka out of his sight.

  He had come ashore with Madshaka, had followed him into the woods. But he was not such a fool that he would follow him into this slave factory. And he would not let the people he loved follow him either. James had sensed that something was out of alignment. He had smelled the trace odor of a trap.

  From where he crouched, a cable length away, James heard the sound of the heavy door slamming shut, even over the cheering of the fools who, on Madshaka’s urging, had rushed right into a prison. He heard the deep sound of Madshaka’s laugh and it was the laugh of a victor.

  James shook his head. Did Madshaka think that he was in the trunk along with the others? Probably. He would not think his triumph so complete if he knew that James was still free.

  Madshaka had played them all for fools, had arranged this, step by careful step. James cursed Madshaka and his genius, and cursed himself for having not killed the man a month before.

  But it was not too late. As long as he could still draw breath it was not too late. In his hand the familiar heft of a cutlass, beneath his dark skin, muscles that were tensed and ready, in his head a mind that was sharp and clear again. He was in command now, of himself, of his tiny force of men. He would call the tune, and Madshaka would dance.

  But not there and not then. He would need more favorable odds to beat Madshaka, more favorable than what he saw in the compound below him.

  He turned to the others. ‘Come on.’ From his crouched position he leapt down to the ground outside the factory wall, heard the thump of the others landing beside him. Half bent and running, they raced back to the tree line and James led them back to the trail.

  At the head of the trail they paused and looked back at the factory. The shouts of triumph had been replaced with a caterwauling of dismay and anger and despair. They listened for a moment, and then they turned and disappeared into the dark shadows of the forest.

  CHAPTER 26

  It took Elizabeth half a day to see as much of Boston as she cared to, as much as she ever wished to see.

  After a tolerable dinner, she and Billy Bird made the rounds of the churches, asking after Frederick Dunmore, meeting with the same reticence, bordering on hostility, that they had received from the very first minister with whom they had spoken.

  Billy pointed out that at least their reception indicated that there was something in Dunmore’s past that was too unsavory to speak of, at least for those they interviewed to speak of to strangers.

  And strangers they were. She and Billy did not fit in, she could see that. The clothes that she wore were unremarkable, perhaps even a bit conservative, by Virginian standards – mantua skirt looped up to reveal the petticoat beneath, a Steinkirk cravat around her neck, a straw bergère hat – but by the standards of Boston she felt brazen, overdressed. Billy Bird was something of a peacock in any company, of course, and between the two of them their foreign look put people on their guard.

  ‘Perhaps you are right, Lizzy,’ Billy said when she made this observation over supper. ‘Bloody Puritans. Tomorrow I shall see about outfitting myself in their dreary black garb. Mayhap I will get me one of these minister’s outfits, pass myself off as a man of the cloth. Do you think God would strike me dead if I did so?’

  ‘I am surprised that God has not struck you dead yet. But no, I do not believe you could convince anyone that you are a pious Congregationalist minister, not for all the black cloth in Boston.’

  Billy sighed. ‘I reckon you are right,’ he said, and there was a hint of resignation in his voice, a touch of pessimism that Elizabeth was not accustomed to hearing, and it made her gloomier still.

  ‘Well, no matter,’ Billy said, brighter now, ‘damn these ministers and churchmen, I say. Tomorrow we shall go poking about the fellows that print the newspapers. I know the gentleman who prints the Boston Gazette. He is apt to be a bit more talkative than these morose preachers.’ But Elizabeth knew that he was not nearly as optimistic as he sounded.

  They went for a stroll after supper, down Cornhill Street to Winter and then up to the edge of the Common. Elizabeth viewed the city with a perverse fascination, as if she were afforded a glance at
her own past life in London and Plymouth, the elegant and pampered life of an expensive whore. That was the life she escaped by coming to America as the ersatz bride of Joseph Tinling, but prostitution, she discovered, was only a little more horrific than the hell that Tinling put her through before he died.

  Now that was over, done with.

  But being in the narrow, crowded streets of a city, even a small one such as Boston, made all those memories and their concomitant emotions stir again, and she was able to step back and observe them, as if they were happening to someone else.

  ‘Let us go back to the inn, Billy. I’m tired,’ she said.

  ‘Very well, my dear.’

  Billy reversed direction, and with Elizabeth on his arm he led the way back. The sun was setting and the streets were in the shadows of the buildings that hemmed them in and the crowds of people had diminished by half. It was nearly dark by the time they returned to their room and Billy opened a bottle of wine he had brought with him from the Bloody Revenge.

  ‘This was for celebration, but perhaps we will use it to ease the strains of a long day, what say you? We can get another tomorrow, when we shall no doubt have something to celebrate.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Elizabeth took the proffered glass, gratefully, drained the wine and handed it back. Even as Billy was refilling it she wondered if they might send down to the kitchen for another bottle.

  An hour later they did just that, and soon Elizabeth felt the sharp edge of her disappointment and frustration dull, felt a warm optimism creep in around the edges, and though she told herself it was only the drink, she was happy to find that she did not care.

  It was warm in their room, but a cool, gentle breeze was wafting in from the open window, carrying with it the tangy smell of the waterfront, and the occasional sound of a wagon rolling by or the muted conversation of men passing below on the street. The two candles that lit the room danced in the moving air, giving a dreamy quality to the place.

  It was not at all the thing, of course, sitting in a room – a bedroom – with Billy Bird, drinking, laughing. She was a married woman. She wanted Thomas, she missed him. She wanted comfort, strong arms around her. Billy was not Thomas, not by miles, but he was handsome and charming.

  And then a knock on the door, a rapping, soft, hesitant, and they both jumped. Billy cursed softly and Elizabeth wondered if he was angry with himself for being caught unawares or angry with the person knocking for having destroyed the jovial mood that just might have lured her into his bed.

  Both, no doubt, though it was no sure thing that she would have treated him to her favors, nor was Billy caught entirely unawares. He snatched up the loaded pistol he had set on the small table by the window, eased the hammer back, and gestured for Elizabeth to move out of the possible line of fire.

  He stepped over to the door just as the person on the other side knocked again, a bit harder. He put his hand on the iron latch and pulled it up and swung the door open, the pistol at his side, hidden but ready.

  Standing in the hall, framed by the door, was a black woman, a familiar face, but it took Elizabeth a moment to place her.

  ‘Sally?’ It was the Reverend Wait Dunmore’s charwoman.

  ‘That right … Mrs Marlowe?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Please, come in,’ Elizabeth said. She could not imagine being more surprised to see anyone. She had not given Sally another thought since leaving the Middle Street Church.

  Sally stepped timorously into the room. Billy closed the door behind her and then, with that flamboyant egalitarianism of his, lifted the bottle they had been consuming and held it up for Sally’s inspection and asked, ‘Wine, with you?’

  Sally looked at the bottle, looked at Billy, and she seemed to be wondering if he was serious or if he was mocking her or if he was insane. After a moment’s scrutiny she apparently decided that he was at least serious, if not a bit insane, and she nodded her head. ‘That would be nice, Mr Marlowe. Thank you.’

  Mr Marlowe? It took Elizabeth’s wine-soaked brain a moment to recall that Billy had introduced himself to Dunmore as Thomas Marlowe, another of his irritating verbal pokes in the ribs.

  Billy poured a glass, handed it to Sally, gestured for her to sit. He topped off Elizabeth’s glass and his own. ‘Whatever brings you here?’ he asked, once Sally was settled.

  ‘I …’ she began, nervous and not a little frightened. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear … you was asking about Frederick …’

  ‘That’s right. Frederick and I were boyhood friends, dear friends, but I have not heard from him in many a year and I was interested in finding what he was about.’

  Sally sipped her wine, regarded Billy Bird over the rim of her glass. When she was done she spoke, and her voice carried more confidence this time. ‘My family been the property of the Dunmore family for three generations. I been with the Dunmores since I was born. My memory’s a lot better than the old Reverend, and I don’t remember no Thomas Marlowe, neither.’

  A pause, and not a comfortable one, and then Billy said, ‘Is that why you’re here? Has old Dunmore sent you to poke around, try and find some secret reason for my asking about Frederick?’

  ‘No. The Reverend don’t know I’m here. He thinks I’m abed and I reckon it’ll go hard on me if he find out I ain’t.’

  Silence again, and Elizabeth considered whether she believed her. Yes, yes, she did. She did not think Sally was lying. And apparently Billy did not either, because he did not snatch the glass from her hands and kick her out. Rather, he said, ‘Very well. Why are you here, then?’

  Sally took another sip of her wine. ‘You was asking about Frederick, and it didn’t take no scholar to figure you know he done something and you was trying to find out what that was. Why you wants to know?’

  Billy met Elizabeth’s eye and he raised his eyebrows and she took that to mean he considered the telling to be her decision.

  ‘My husband and I are from Virginia,’ Elizabeth began, then looking at Billy, added, ‘My real husband. This man is a friend.’

  Sally registered no reaction to this utterly improper situation, so Elizabeth continued. ‘My husband freed the slaves on his plantation and has allowed them to remain and work for wages. Frederick Dunmore, who now lives in Williamsburg, has been persecuting our freed Negroes, has forced them to flee into the woods for their safety.

  ‘I came to Boston in hopes of finding some secret from Dunmore’s past that I could threaten him with revealing, to dissuade him from his heartless campaign against our people. It is a craven plan, and base. I am aware of that and I do not care. I am absolutely at my wit’s end.’

  Sally was nodding and staring thoughtfully into the flame of the nearest candle. ‘Virginia, so that’s where he end up. The rumor was he gone to London, but now he back …’

  Billy Bird said, ‘There, we have been truthful with you. Will you tell us what you know of Frederick Dunmore?’

  Sally looked up, as if startled from her thoughts. ‘I’ll tell you. I’se the only one will tell you. It’s so shameful you won’t find no white person will talk about it, and Frederick being the son of that pious old Reverend Dunmore. You keep on asking around, you’ll find yourselves run out of town on a rail.’

  Sally paused, collected her thoughts, began again. ‘Frederick left Boston five years back, left near everything, save his money. He was a merchant. One of the most successful in the city. Rich as a king and after only fifteen years or so in business, starting with the little money the old Reverend give him.’

  ‘He left all that behind? His business?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Left right before the sheriff was going to arrest him.’ She paused again. ‘They accused him of killing an old woman, an old slave woman, named Isabelle. In a rage. Killed her with his bare hands. Strangled her.’ She swallowed hard, clenched her fists. ‘She was my great-grandmother, and he killed her.’

  Elizabeth sat motionless, watched the emotion tearing Sally apart, even after half a decade. It was incredibl
e, this crime she was describing, it seemed too much to believe, even for a bastard like Frederick Dunmore.

  ‘But why would he do that?’ Elizabeth asked softly. ‘Why would Frederick Dunmore murder your great-grandmother?’

  Sally looked up, and now the tears were running down her cheeks. ‘It was on account of what folks were saying. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the thought of it, and I reckoned he blamed her.’

  Sally sobbed, wiped her eyes, swallowed hard. ‘He found out, he heard, that she was his great-grandma too.’

  Elizabeth and Billy were silent, trying to digest this. Sally sobbed, and through the tears said, ‘He couldn’t stand it, the bastard, the bastard, damn his black heart …’

  Finally Billy spoke. ‘Let me understand you. You are saying that Frederick Dunmore’s great-grandmother … was a Negress?’

  Sally looked up, nodded, then cleared her throat and straightened her back and forced herself into some kind of composure. ‘I’m saying that was the rumor. Richard Dunmore, that was Frederick’s greatgrandfather, story was he had a child by his slave and that child, named Isaac, was almost white and so he raised it like his own. And that child was Frederick’s grandfather.’

  ‘And that’s true?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Frederick, he always hated Negroes. I don’t know why, but he always did. Some people is like that. When he heard that story, he went crazy. Went to my great-grandma, she the only one of them still alive then, demanded the truth. Then my great-grandmother kept saying it wasn’t so, and he didn’t believe her and he killed her, he was so mad. My cousin Mary, she heard the whole thing. Once they come looking for Frederick, he run off. Rumor was he gone to London, like I said.’

  The three were silent for some moments. Elizabeth realized she was shaking her head. It was incredible, too much to believe. What sick passions must drive a man like Frederick Dunmore? How much of his persecution of Marlowe’s people was driven by his own self-loathing?