For the most part I had been confined in the hold on the Deliverance, chained to an iron ring bolted to the floor. At that time, I had not feared the sea, or thought of drowning, for I could think of nothing but being sold down South, where I knew we were headed. But now as we were told to crowd together onto the deck, chained to nothing, I remembered the pitch and sway of the other ship, and as I walked the plank to the deck I felt unsteady, frightened that this river might swallow me up and take my life in desperate saturated breaths.
I was not the only slave who feared the water. Few of us could swim. The activity had been discouraged, and in some cases, forbidden, lest we get any ideas of drifting downriver away from our captivity. As we vied to distance ourselves from the edge of the boat, a collective moan rose from our ranks like a wave. It was not unlike the moan I had heard as I was being whipped, except that this moan was punctuated by the bellowing of cows, the bleat of calves, the whinny of horses and mules, and the occasional plop of steamy animal shit onto the deck.
“Sit down. Sit down,” Holmes hollered. “Every one of you just sit down. You won’t fall off.”
We sat like obedient dogs. In spite of my fear of drowning, I allowed myself to be edged away from the center, angling closer to the railing that Chloe might be able to sit next to me when Wilson brought the house slaves down.
The sun now crested the horizon and pinked the mist that lay on the water. I peered through this mist to the shore, but was unable to see much of anything. The dock, a tree at the base of the levee, Holmes standing at the end of the quay, now looking in the same direction as I was, his hands on his hips, the whip coiled and held to one side. Waiting. We were all waiting, and watching the shore as the mist changed from pink to yellow to cream, and then I heard Master Wilson’s voice. “Come on now, Katy. Come on. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Texas is a fine land; now come on.”
Katy. I remembered the name. She was the woman Chloe had said made biscuits that were not as good as hers. I tried to peer through the mist but could see nothing.
A female voice cut through the fog. “Katy, come with me, honey. I be with you. Boat ain’t gonna sink. Massuh make sho of that.”
Master Wilson hollering again, “You don’t get a move on, Katy, I’ll shoot you here on the spot.”
“Katy,” the woman pleaded. And then, “Naw, Massuh. She jest scared. Katy, come on now.”
From the other side of the levee a pistol fired, and I felt the girl next to me quiver. A cow plopped a pie out right behind me, and it splattered onto my shirt. “Lord have mercy,” a woman whispered. The pistol fired again.
“Shut your trap,” Holmes yelled, stomping back onto the deck, “or I’ll whip every damn one of you.”
We shuddered quietly together, watching and waiting. The group that Master Wilson led suddenly came in sight through the mist at the end of the dock, like a congregation of ghosts. I peered hard to make out Chloe among them, and at last I saw her, walking slowly, one arm draped around the shoulder of a woman who was crying into her apron.
The group was herded onto the boat with the rest of us. The invisible boundary that had always separated field slaves from house slaves could no longer be upheld, and I saw Chloe scanning the faces, looking for me. I coughed and she looked my way, her eyes finding mine. She picked her way toward me, still holding on to the other woman, whom she pushed down to sit. And then Chloe boldly sat down beside me reaching under her apron to brush my thigh with her hand, and then letting that hand wander to the bodice of her dress, to a small rip where a button had pulled off. She fingered the rent cloth. She was wearing, I noticed, new shoes. The woman beside her buried her face in her apron, and her back heaved up with each silent sob. “Hildy,” Chloe said to me in a hoarse whisper. “Katy’s mama. He done shot Katy, Persy. I believe she dead.” Beside her Hildy let out a wail.
Wilson stood before us now. He held up his hands like always. “Now listen here,” he said. “Some folks have run off, and I’m just going to have to leave them behind. That’s right. I just got to leave them here because I need to protect the rest of you. Those folks staying behind,” Wilson continued, “God rest their souls. God rest their souls, that’s right.”
Hildy let out another long wail.
“Shut that bitch up,” Holmes yelled, and Chloe roped her arm around Hildy’s shoulder and pulled her closer until she fell into a soft whimper.
Wilson kept on with his little speech. “No one is looking after them now. They got no home, no food, no master. How do you think they’re going to survive?”
Chloe shifted closer to me so that the length of her thigh lay against the length of mine, one arm still around Hildy, and the fingers of her other hand still on the bodice of her dress, prowling nervously for that missing button.
“They’re going to live,” Wilson continued, “for as long as they do live, in the swamps, hunted down by the Yankees. If the Yankees don’t get them, the swamp fever will, while the rest of us get on to the safety of Texas.”
The crew moved about, starting the engines up. Smoke billowed from the smokestack. There was the feel of machinery firing up beneath the deck. The whistle blew long, three times. Chloe pressed her leg into mine. I dared not look at her, but I leaned her way, my shoulder against her shoulder. The ropes were untied from the dock and the steamboat pulled out into the current. The engine chugged. All around me the slaves started moaning and crying again. Chloe let out one small mewl and then fell silent.
Holmes paced across the deck. “Sit still and shut up,” he yelled. “Y’all be all right. You don’t fall in, you can’t drown. You know what’s good for you, you’ll just sit still.”
Wilson did not pace. Nor did he look at us. Instead he stood at the stern, his hands gripping the railing, his eyes watching the shore retreat as the boat pulled away. The engine churned, and the paddles slapped the water, and still Wilson stood there and the boat moved farther and farther out into the river, until we were far enough out to see beyond the levee to Sweetmore. The newly planted cane fields, the barns and sugarhouse, the wrought iron fence surrounding the graves of Wilson’s wife and son, the quarters, the big house with its chimneys rising into the air, smoke still puffing out of one, like a lady waving her handkerchief goodbye.
I suppose if there was ever a moment to feel something for Master Wilson, it would have been this one. You may take it as a testament to the cruelty of my heart that I felt nothing for him as I watched his back, his coattails billowing in the breeze, his empire receding from his life, possibly forever.
“I cain’t swim,” Chloe whispered.
“Me neither,” I whispered back.
Her body began to tremble. She leaned into me now with all her weight. Her fingers still wandered the bodice of her dress, searching for that button.
We were far out in the river now. Sweetmore was barely recognizable, and still Master Wilson stood and looked its way, and then he turned, turned away from Sweetmore, away from the shore he was leaving to scan the faces of his slaves. He pulled a pistol from his shirtwaist and pointed it at us, letting it roam across our entire group. “Naw, Massuh. Nawsuh, Massuh.” The pleading came from our ranks as if we were one. We cowered before him. “Naw, Massuh, naw.” And then Chloe buried her face into my shoulder and began crying and Wilson pointed the pistol at me.
“Stand up, Persy.”
“Yassuh.”
I untangled myself from Chloe’s grasp and stood. Hildy lifted her head and began sobbing uncontrollably.
“Come over here by the railing,” Wilson said.
“Nawsuh.”
“No? Are you disobeying me?”
“Is jest I cain’t swim, suh. I scared.”
“ ‘Is jest I cain’t swim, suh. I scared,’ ” Wilson mimicked. “Get over here by the railing.” His voice was low and flat. Chloe stopped crying. I could hear her breath held, as I could hear all the slaves not daring to breathe, lest they, too, be chosen. “Get over here,” Wilson said again, and th
en he leveled the pistol at Chloe.
“Yassuh,” I said.
As I moved, the gun moved with me, away from Chloe until I was positioned against the railing and the pistol pointed solely at my chest. Master Wilson’s hand was as steady and unmoving as a cane kettle.
“Sir,” I heard Holmes say.
“Shut up,” Wilson snapped, and he wheeled and pointed the gun at Holmes, “or I’ll shoot you too.”
Holmes held his hands up and backed away, and Wilson again turned and pointed the pistol at my chest.
“He’s my nigger. I reckon I can shoot him if I want to.”
The engine churned on indifferently. The paddle wheels slapped at the water. A cow bellowed. The Confederate flag flying above us slapped its lines against the pole. And then I heard Chloe’s voice. “Naw, Massuh. Naw.”
Wilson spun and pointed the gun into the group of slaves. “Nawsuh, Nawsuh,” they pleaded. While his back was turned I caught sight of Chloe, but she was not looking at me. She was looking at him. She had pulled away from Hildy and was kneeling, her hands clasped together as if in prayer, but it was not God she beseeched. “Massuh,” she said. “Massuh. I do whatever you ask me. Please leave him be.” Someone snickered behind Chloe, and Wilson laughed, if you could call it that.
“Sir,” Holmes tried again, coming up beside him. “We’ve had our fun now, sir. I’m going to need your help with these niggers.”
Wilson turned and pointed the gun at him and again Holmes held his hands in the air and backed away. And then the gun was on me. The boat churned farther and farther away from Sweetmore. Sweat trickled down my face, gathered beneath my arms and along my back. Wilson laughed again. “Persimmon Wilson,” he said, and then I saw his finger squeeze against the trigger and I heard the gunfire and felt a stinging in my shoulder and I fell backward over the railing and plunged into the river.
The water enveloped me and I felt the wake of the boat as it pulled away. I sank deeper and deeper. I beat my arms against the river, and something lifted me to the surface, where I gulped air before sinking again. A red trail of blood billowed away from my right shoulder, like a scarf. Something brushed against my leg and I kicked it away and again I popped above the surface and gulped another measure of air before sinking. I sank and kicked and punched at the water until somehow I made surface again. Each time I did, I saw the boat pulling farther and farther away from me until it was a tiny speck and then gone. And then I saw, in one of my mad gulps for air, a log lazily floating my way. I sank again and when I rose next above the water the log had gone by out of reach.
My lungs strained for air, my limbs cramped, my right shoulder ached dully now, and my arm felt like a club that I could not detach myself from. I resurfaced and sank, and resurfaced and sank, plunging again and again into the river, and breaking the surface again and again. Twice I saw logs or pieces of wood float toward me, and twice they drifted beyond my reach.
The sun was higher now. The mist had burned off. The brightness hurt my eyes whenever I surfaced, and it seemed that every time I plunged below, I submerged deeper than before, and that to rise again required more and more fight, until I felt I could fight no longer. I broke surface once more and the day seemed less blinding, and finally I slipped cozily, peacefully into letting myself drop.
I remember looking up at the sun shafting through the water and I thought, how beautiful. How beautiful this place is. It was exquisite the way the light flashed, the beams of sunlight gleaming all around me. One strand of light landed on my face and I remember feeling warm and comfortable. Particles of dirt and vegetation drifted in front of me like a dance performed solely for my entertainment. A few fish gathered around and watched my descent, their mouths opening and closing, their gills folding in and out, their eyes watching me, one swimming up to me and taking a cautious nip at my finger. Something bumped against my body. A fish nibbled at my finger again. Another took a tug at my hair. And then I heard Chloe’s voice.
Biscuits. Pies. All kinds. Blueberry, peach, apple. With crusts all buttery and flaky.
I thought I felt her hand against my thigh. I thought I felt her tongue tracing the scars on my back. Something floated in front of me and I lazily put my hand out to it. A piece of paper. It unfolded itself before me. I gazed at the writing there, only it was not writing. It was marks. Chloe’s marks. Chloe’s signature. Chloe’s note. I reached out to touch its message as I had done so many times before, but beneath my fingers the marks seeped away from the paper in rivulets of ink. I watched the note drift up, away from me, above me to the surface, into a slant of muted light. And then I remembered Chloe kneeling before Master Wilson, pleading with him, promising him anything he wanted from her, if only he would not hurt me.
I spoke to my legs. I spoke to my arms. I spoke to the dull ache in my right shoulder. I even spoke to God and then suddenly I was moving upward again. I broke through the surface, gasping for breath, and just as I did so, something bumped into my chest, and whatever it was, I grabbed it and wrapped myself around it and began to drift downriver, coughing and sputtering, spitting up water and gulping for air.
There are things I know now that I did not know then, things that I must tell you that you may understand this story, understand that Chloe was never who you think she was, understand that, yes, I killed Master Wilson, but I did not kill her husband.
I know now that when I went into the river Chloe screamed, that she jumped up from her begging and ran to Master Wilson and beat her fists against his back. I know now that while I floundered in the river Wilson grabbed Chloe and held her against the railing, held her by her hair and forced her to watch me thrash and flail until I sank and was not seen again.
And I know now that when Master Wilson and his livestock and his slaves reached the opposite shore they stayed the night at another plantation, the slaves and livestock in a barn with Holmes watching over them, Master Wilson in the big house talking to his host and hostess. I imagine the woman of the house, her pale white hand fluttering with emotion at her bosom as Master tells his tale of woe. I imagine a lamp held by a slave as he is led to a comfortable bedroom upstairs. I imagine his bed; dark polished wood, a mattress soft and puffy with comfort, a white counterpane folded gently back for his solace.
I do not have to imagine Wilson rising from that comfortable bed in the dead of night. I do not have to imagine him lighting a lamp or making his way to the barn where his slaves were kept. She was crying when he came for her, crying over my death, and he took her into a stall, and he raped her, just as he had done that first night at Lidgewood. I do not have to imagine this, for Chloe told me its truth.
As she sat in the straw still sniffling and buttoning the bodice of her dress, he reached out and fingered the cloth with the missing button torn away and he said, “You can have it this way, Chloe, or we can make other arrangements.” And then he gripped his fingers around another button and yanked it off, dropping it onto the straw.
Halfway to Texas Chloe left the coffle of slaves she traveled with and she climbed onto the wagon seat beside Master Wilson and she became his “wife.” This is how it happened that her skin became lighter to you, that she became white in other people’s eyes, that she became your “Mrs. Joseph Wilson.”
From that moment forward Chloe was transformed into a white woman. And once she was white, Chloe could never be anything else to you.
I do forgive her. She only wanted to ease her own life. She believed that she would be a slave forever. She believed that Master Wilson would rape her forever. She believed that if she became his “wife,” he might be gentler to her; she might have things such as clothes, and furniture, and a big house like Sweetmore. At the very least, she could ride in the wagon and would not have to walk to Texas with the rest of the slaves. She believed I was dead, but I was not dead.
The wood I clung to in the river was slick with algae. I grasped my fingers around its rim, for strangely, it had a rim. The top was rounded, and underneath it was hollowe
d out, and as my fingers felt along, I realized that this thing that had saved me, that had drifted, half-submerged, into my body just as I broke the surface gasping for breath, was an old dough bowl turned upside down. I lay my head on my craft and fell asleep and as I did I heard Chloe’s voice once more: Biscuits. Pies. All kinds. Blueberry, peach, apple. With crusts all buttery and flaky.
IT WAS NIGHT when I awoke. I lifted my head but could see nothing save the faint light of stars reflected in the lapping water. I could feel, though, that I was no longer adrift. A hard twisting form pressed against my back. I reached out with my left hand and felt along it, judging it to be a spine of tangled branches and logs that I had caught against. I dropped my legs deeper into the water, searching for solid footing. My feet sank into mud, and then I was wading, pushing my bowl in front of me, coasting it against the shore like a little boat, and then I climbed onto the beach, where I collapsed facedown.
When next I woke it was to the heat of the day. I rolled over and gazed at a cloudless sky. I sat up and looked around me. At my back were trees and thick vegetation. In front, the river lapped peacefully against the shore. I recognized nothing. I probed at the wound in my shoulder, and a sharp pain rocked through my arm. My joints ached. My skin felt hot. I collapsed again onto the ground, curling against the dough bowl and clutching it to my chest as if it were a woman.
The day passed and as the sun left the earth, a deep and gelid cold crept from the ground into the very marrow of my bones. I curled into a ball, hugging what little warmth I had into me, wafting in and out of consciousness. Then I found that I was walking, then crashing through the underbrush. Behind me I heard branches snapping and the crunch of boot against ground. I stopped moving and leaned against a tree. The sound stopped. Sweat bloomed on the back of my neck and across my chest. I reached up and wiped the moisture from my brow. I heard the bell ring. Too sick, Massuh, my own voice said. Too sick to plant cane, suh.
The Life and Times of Persimmon Wilson Page 12