by Peter Troy
Well looky here what’ll happen when you even thinka tryin’ t’run off from dis here place.
The man holding Micah’s shirt placed it by the dogs’ noses. And immediately they began to lurch at Micah. While the men held the ropes loose enough so the dogs could almost bite him. And Micah stepped back toward the door. So the men let go some more of the ropes. Until Micah was pinned in by the dogs. Barking. Lunging at him.
See how fas’ dey get that scent, boy? One of the men shouted over the barking. They’d be on toppa ya ’fore ya got half a mile away!
An’ ya know what we do when we catches ya?! The other man said.
He ain’t never got the whip, boys. Dunmore said. Maybe we better give’m a little taste of it so he don’ go gettin’ no ideas ’bout goin’ nowhere.
The Embrys pulled the dogs back. Tied them to trees maybe twenty feet away. And Dunmore pulled Micah down off the porch, pressed him against one of the posts that supported the roof. While one of the Embrys walked over with a rope, pulled Micah’s arms around that post so he was huggin’ it. Tied Micah’s arms together at the elbows, so he couldn’t move at all. And the other one unraveled the whip that was wrapped around one shoulder.
Micah had seen one of the field hands whipped at Les Roseraies when he tried to run away. The man was whipped forty times in front of all the other slaves. Massa Leroux left just before the overseer performed the punishment. Once he’d spoken to the slaves about how running off was a poor way to repay his kind treatment of them. But Dunmore didn’t seem like the type to shy away from any punishment. And before Micah could form the words in his head, wantin’ to tell his new Massa he’d never do such a thing, he heard the whip being wound up by one of the Embrys. Then a loud hiss and the crack of it against his bare back. Like fire streaked across his skin from rib to rib. Then winding up again, and another. And another. And another. The pain of each of them worse than the one before it. Opening the previous wounds all the more, and making their own mark, too.
Feel that, boy? Whichever Embry wasn’t doing the whipping said. Didn’t wait for a response from Micah, who was tryin’ to catch his breath. Now mos’ folks pay us two hunnerd dollars to chase down one o’ dere runaways. But Mr. Dunmore here, seein’ how he’s a good fren’ an’ all, why we do it for almos’ nothin’ at all. We do it wit’ pleasure. You unnerstan’?
Yessuh. Micah said quickly. Hoping there’d be no more demonstrations. But he heard the whip warm up and lash across his back again. And then again.
That’s six. Dunmore said, moving close up to Micah now. Imagine what it’ll be like when it’s sixty—if’n you ever even THINK a’runnin’ anywhere. You unnerstan’?
Yessuh … Yessuh.
You my inheritance, boy. He said. An’ I’ll chase you down all th’way t’Africa if I hafta.
Then the other Embry came and untied the knot. Handed him back his shirt as Dunmore told him to get inside and finish his work. Sleep on the kitchen floor when it was done. And Micah could feel the trickles of blood stick to his shirt soon as he put it back on. ’Til it was pressed right against the wounds. Clinging to his back as the blood started to dry.
When he was done with his work, he glanced outside to see the Embrys and Dunmore seated on the porch. Passing the jug back and forth. Slowly, he slid his shirt over his shoulders. Felt the wounds open up again as he pulled it away from his skin. Then cupped his hands and dipped them into the water he’d just used to do the washin’. Carried them carefully up past his left shoulder. Turned them over and let the water drip down his back. Stinging all the way down. But then some relief. Did the same over the other shoulder. Then wiped up what had spilled on the floor.
Dunmore had made him arrange some hay in the corner when the cookin’ was done. Told him that was his bed. And now Micah lay down on it. Belly first. Exhausted. The bits of straw like little pins against the bare skin of his chest. So he pushed himself up to his knees, placed his shirt down over it. And lay back down. Settling his left cheek, the one Dunmore hadn’t hit, against his arms. It had been years since he’d cried. And it felt like it would almost be a relief to him now. But he refused to allow it. ’Cause that’d be a victory for Dunmore. Like he was broken.
And no.
There’d be none of that weakness. Just cold, unfeeling, survival. Through whatever might come. Like the mule he now was. And nothing more.
MARY WILKENS
RANDOLPH COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA
SEPTEMBER 7, 1853
Gertie steps in th’crick first an smiles like it’s th’most natural place t’be in the whole world, middle of the night or not. She ain’t so good at convincin you the way she usedta do wit’ things you was scareda at first. An maybe it’d be enough to keep you right there on the side of that crick shakin yo’ head like you was still a little girl didn’t wanna go an work in the fields if’n Gertie wasn’t comin wit’ you. But there’s somethin bout the way she smilin, like she almost never do anymore, an it’s funny too that she gotta be th’one tryin to get you to come inta th’water, when she’s usually tellin you to get outta th’crick behind yo’ cabin. An ’tween her smilin an how silly it all seem right then, it’s like you almost forget th’hurt in yo’ belly an everything what happened in the last two days. Almost.
So you take off yo’ shoes an step on inta Deep River for the first time eva. It’s colder than that crick behind the cabins you always playin in ’til Gertie comes t’fetch ya. But that cold is just the thing t’wash off th’hot you both been feelin from walkin all this way, farther away from you an Gertie’s cabin than you ever been in yo’ life.
Dat’s it Chil’, you doin good, Gertie says. Less keep movin now. Ain’ gonna let you fall.
An she reaches out her hand to you, an the two of you start takin little steps at first, then stretchin ’em out. You can feel th’water runnin faster when you get farther away from the edge, an you wonderin why you goin backwards again, back underneath that bridge over Deep River you jus’ crossed not more’n five minutes ago. It’s all you can do not t’ask Gertie why you goin this way, but she told you when you started out that you wasn’t allowed t’do no talkin a’tall ’til she said it was okay, an she whispered it wit’ such a scoldin look that the scare’s still followin you round.
When the river starts gettin a little higher, almost up to yo’ sore belly now, Gertie wraps her good arm all th’way inside of yo’s, an you wanna tell her it’s okay, that you so usedta walkin in that crick backa the cabin that you ain’t gonna fall. But then it’s Gertie that slips a little, an she squeezin yo’ arm tighter t’keep her standin up, an you start t’think that maybe it’s you helpin Gertie up Deep River, an not th’other way round. Ain’t but a few more steps ’fore Gertie’s breathin gets almost as loud as the sound of the river runnin past, an you wonder why you can’t talk still, just a whisper anyhow, since it’d be quieter than Gertie’s breathin.
Hold on … Chil’ … she whispers, an stops walkin altogetha.
You okay Ger—you start t’ask ’fore she’s shushin you wit’ whatever breath she got t’use.
So you watch her breathin for a while ’til it gets a little softer, like it ain’t hurtin her each time she take in an let out some air. An then you start feelin the coolness of that water on yo’ fingertips from th’arm Gertie ain’t holdin onto, an it’s like you back in the crick behin’ yo’ cabin almost. Driftin, almost sleepy, like you get sometimes playin in that crick, an you start noticin how beautiful this place is, wit’ th’moonlight spillin through th’trees an across th’river like little bitsa magic. An you watchin yo’ spread-out fingers cuttin little streams on toppa th’river, watchin the moonbeams doin they dance, an you get to thinkin that maybe this is what it’ll be like for you an Gertie now. Just a little cabin near a stream somewhere, an th’two of you wit’ nothin t’do but tend to th’field an maybe some chickens an a garden an lotsa time t’spend standin in a river just like this. An you smile just thinkin of it, lettin th’cool water pass over you like
it’s washin away th’last day an more. An it’s only th’good dreams now, th’ones wit’ you an Gertie an th’cabin ’longside a stream, an th’field, an th’garden, an maybe some chickens …
Dis ain’ far enough, I knows it, Gertie says, breakin the quiet an shakin her head. We ain’ no more’n two hunnerd yards pas’ dat ol’ bridge. Dey gonna bring ’em dogs back round dis far when dey cain’t find us.
She’s still breathin hard, but you walk on for a few more steps, slower’n before, almost restin after every new one. It ain’t long ’til Gertie’s breathin loud an heavy again, an she stops cold.
Cain’t go … no fartha … in dis river, she says, an nods over to th’shore. When you both on dry land again, Gertie puts her hands on her knees an breathes in an out almos’ like a dog pantin, quick as it is. An you sit on th’ground to take a pebble from th’river outta yo’ shoe, ’til Gertie tells you t’get up right off in a sort of yellin, outta-breath whisper.
Don’t give ’em dogs … nothin more to … smell ya wit’ …, Gertie says, an you stand up an take off yo’ shoe balancin on one foot, just to get at that pebble.
’Fore long you’re off again, walkin much slower’n before, but faster’n you had in th’river. It goes on like that for hours ’til th’first signs of mornin begin lightin up th’tippy topsa th’Caraway Mountains, an for th’first time you can see how close you are to ’em now. They seem so much bigger’n they do from th’cabin, an you could stand an watch th’sun climb over Deep River ’til them mountains get all lit up. But Gertie won’t have none of that.
Dey’s Hick’ry Crick over dere, she says, pointin across Deep River at a smaller stream runnin into it from th’other side. Leas’ ways I hope dat’s it, she says. ’At mean we gotta cross over agin jus’ up ahead.
An this time it’s you walkin into th’river first, reachin yo’ hand out t’Gertie. She smiles a little an says, guess yo’ belly feelin better, as she locks her good arm inside yo’s an steps carefully into th’water again. An it do feel better from th’not thinkin on it so much, thinkin bout th’river an the mountains and dancin moonbeams an such. Th’current’s faster’n before but not so deep, runnin just above yo’ knees when you right in the middle of it. Still, Gertie’s breath starts gettin loud again, an she stops when you still a ways from th’other shore.
Come on Gertie, you say, figurin it’s okay to whisper when the river and Gertie’s breathin makin all this noise anyhow. Put yo’ hand over my shoulder, you say, like you the one takin the lead now.
An Gertie doesn’t say nothin, just smiles a little, an slips her good arm aroun’ yo’ shoulders, leanin on you for those last few steps. When you reach th’other shore, this time it’s Gertie floppin to th’ground soon as you get there. She lays flat on her back, gaspin for breath wit’ one arm across her chest, an you figure it’s okay for you to at least sit down, dogs or not.
You okay, Gertie? you ask, an she don’t say nothin, just breathes out wit’ a mmmmm that’s ’sposed to say she’s okay. You don’t say nothin for a while after that, lettin Gertie catch up to her breath.
What we do now? you finally say when Gertie’s sittin up.
Bout haf mile up yonner dey’s a spot … ’tween two great big rocks … where we kin res’ some. Maybe sleep a momen’, too, Gertie says ’tween breaths.
An then you up again an walkin slower’n ever as th’sun keeps climbin in th’mornin sky. There don’t appear to be a cloud anywhere to be seen, an you thinkin bout what a beautiful day it’s gonna be, ’til Gertie says that it ain’t no good since some rain’d do real nice right bout now. You start t’ask her why, but she shushes you right off, tellin you folks gonna be bout now that th’sun come up.
You find th’rocks just ’bout where Gertie said they’d be, an she looks off in every direction ’fore you step inside. The ground’s cold an damp, but Gertie sits down an stretches her arms out to you. So you sit right beside her, just like you did when you was littler.
How you know bout dis place Gertie? you whisper, figurin you safe from folks now in these rocks. How you know how t’come all dis way?
You jus’ gots … t’listen t’folks, she says wit’ a laugh while she’s breathin. We ain’ th’firs’ ones … come dis way. Now … close yo’ eyes, Chil’.
You can feel th’thumpin of Gertie’s heart as you lay yo’ head on her chest, but you close yo’ eyes anyway, lettin sleep finally catch up to you, hopin’ yo’ dreams be bout th’days what’ll be comin’ for you an Gertie, an not the days that passed … least not th’last two days, anyhow.
RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA
SEPTEMBER 9, 1853
When Gertie used to tell you bout yo’ Momma an Daddy, she’d always say they was parta th’stitchin you was makin every day, whether you know’d it or not. She’d say they was th’mos’ important part, next to th’Lawd Himse’f who was doin th’stitchin in th’first place. An even though you couldn’t rememba yo’ Momma an Daddy none, Gertie’d tell you they was there all th’same. Big bitsa thread that’d only show up when you was old enough to unnerstan’ these kindsa things fo’ yo’se’f.
You knew yo’ Momma had hair that was sorta straight an dark as a midnight sky when th’moon was sleepin, like Gertie said, an that yo’ Daddy was a determined man what hardly never smiled, but when he did, it was as fetchin as a baby’s laugh. You knew that Gertie looked after yo’ Momma sorta like a big sister’d look after a youngin, an when Momma an Daddy jump th’broom, it was Gertie stood beside Momma. Then, when Momma an Daddy got sold off ’cause Th’Massa lost alotta money buyin’ lan in a place called Texas, Th’Massa was kind enough t’let Gertie look after you, th’way yo’ Momma asked. An that’s why you spent all those years wit’ Gertie, doin almost all yo’ growin up wit’ her.
These are th’kindsa things you’d think on when you started workin in th’fields wit’ th’resta th’hands. It’d make them long days seem much shorter, rememberin all these things bout th’three of them, yo’ Momma an Daddy an Gertie together, back before you was even born. Big bitsa thread in yo’ stitchin, what you’d someday come t’unnerstan.
But sittin here this mornin, it’s all you can do t’keep those kindsa thoughts away, what wit’ how th’bad memories from th’last few days is all round you, cuttin those threads to pieces, it seem. They won’t go away, an sleep won’t turn them into dreams so you at least can wake up an think for a moment that that’s all they was. They just run through yo’ mind over an over, th’overseer Mista Grant doin what he done, then Gertie an you runnin off so you wouldn’ get sold off ’steada Massa Wilkens havin t’send Mista Grant on his way like Th’Misses wanted him to. An there’s Gertie slumpin over in Deep River, an gaspin for air when you fin’ly made it ’cross onto dry lan. An then there’s them dogs, th’sounda them, a sound somehow bein a thread in yo’ stitchin, tearin up them other threads an leavin ’em all a’tangled. Then ’fore you know it, you flopped on th’backa one of th’men’s horses, wit’ th’saddle pressin on yo’ sore belly. An there’s Gertie fallin over an over as th’men drag her behind anotha horse, an then her sideways, too, on th’ground though, holdin up her good arm an sayin, Take me Lawd, Take me Lawd, Take me Lawd … three times jus’ like that ’fore th’Lawd seen fit t’take her home … an away from you.
Th’look on Massa Wilkens’s face when the men brung you back home, an the Misses shakin her head when th’men say Gertie’s dead an wasn’t nothin they could do bout it … they all partsa that stitchin somehow since they fillin up yo’ mem’ries like they ain’t never goin away. Th’firs’ time you saw a train turned out to be th’firs’ time you got to ride in one. Only there’s nothin happy bout that bitta thread, th’way they chained you to th’wall like a calf, sittin there wit’ a few other colored folks chained up too, angry or scared or sad looks on all they faces. An all those threads so big in yo’ mind now that it’s like you can’t see past them to th’ones from before, th’good ones. An sleep don’t come a’tall that first night away from Gertie.
Next mornin you unhooked from th’traincar an brought round backa th’buildin an chained to a long row of slaves, th’ones from th’train an others you never seen before. They’s maybe twenny of you, maybe mo’, all hooked to one great big chain connected to metal spikes in th’ground, wit’ th’men an boys startin roun’ one side an you near th’other end wit’ th’women an girls. There’s a slave girl who looks not much older’n you comin round tellin th’women an girls to strip off all they clothes an hand ’em to her. She don’ look like she too happy bout th’job she gotta do, but she do it all th’same, an when one of th’women won’ strip down like she told to, a white man walks up to her an rips off her dress wit’ one great pull. An you do what you told to, straight off then, so he won’ come up to you an do th’same.
Th’men an boys are strippin down on th’other side, only it’s a man collectin they clothes, an then two white men comin round past ’em, one of ’em carryin a bucket wit’ water an th’other dippin a sponge into it an splashin it over all th’slaves ’cept th’ones what collected they clothes. You tryin to cover yo’sef up wit’ yo’ hands an arms, shamed an all, thinkin how Gertie mus’ be shamed up in th’Ever Afta, t’see you like this. But then you see that ain’t nobody lookin at you, wit’ th’resta the slaves all just starin straight at th’ground, an th’white men an th’two slaves collectin th’clothes jus’ goin bout they business. An you figure that they all as shamed as you is, th’slaves leastways, an it don’t make no point lookin at someone else’s shame when you just as shamed too. So you stare at th’ground like th’resta them.
Th’white men wit’ th’bucket an sponge come up to you an it ain’t no more than two seconds for ’em to splash some water on you wit’out even noticin you there practically. You been so caught up watchin th’ground, an then th’men wit’ th’bucket an sponge, that you never even notice th’other white men what follow right behind ’em. It ain’t long ’fore one of them steps in fronta you an puts his hands on yo’ neck, flippin yo’ chin up wit’ his thumbs. He spreads yo’ eyes wide open an looks at ’em for a moment, then forces open yo’ mouth an looks at yo’ teeth some. Then he’s on to th’next one, an you watch him go down th’line. But then, before a minute’s up, here come two more men wit’ anotha bucket, only this one’s filled wit’ lard, an one man holds it while th’other scoops out a hanful an smears it up an down th’lengtha yo’ body wit’ both his bare hands. He runs th’lard over yo’ arms an legs, an you can’t help but thinka Mista Grant an what he done, an how it feels too much like th’same thing. Only this man don’t seem no more interested in what he’s doin than if he was dressin a pig for market, an he ain’t but a few seconds ’fore he wipes a little on yo’ face an cross yo’ lips, then opens yo’ mouth an wipes some over th’fronta yo’ teeth, an he’s done an on to th’next one. An you left to cover up an stare at th’ground again. Shamed, an greasy from animal fat, makin Gertie cry an yell up in th’Ever Afta fo’ sho’ if she gotta see you like this.