I was conducted by a soldier to a warehouse requisitioned by the Ethiopian Regiment as a barracks, and there presented to a white serjeant by the name of Clippinger, that he might transact the enlistment. He asked me a great number of questions — viz. “Where d’you come from? Name of your master that was?”— to which he did not mark the answers, they being transcribed by his Corporal, a Scotsman named Craigie of a rough look and the letters G.R. branded upon the flesh of his forehead.
“Your name?” said the Serjeant.
“Octavian,” said I.
“Your surname?”
I considered. I would no longer be called Gitney. “I have none,” I said.
“And ye don’t have no master.”
“I have no master, sir,” said I, “except the King.”
To the tattooed Craigie he said, “Write ‘Octavian Negro.’”
“While I would not trouble the Serjeant, I would beg —”
“What then?”
“If it please you, sir, put down nothing for the surname. I would rather be called nothing than be named only for my race.”
Serjeant Clippinger gave an insalubrious smile. “Octavian Nothing?” said he.
I regarded my name. Knowing not who I was, it seemed a fair enough appellation.
“Octavian Nothing,” I agreed.
And thus it was inscribed.
So terrified was I that some irregularity would interfere with enlistment — some unforeseen objection — I perhaps answered with too great an exactitude, too punctilious a range of detail — desperate for approbation. When he asked, “Whether ye fought previous,” I thought in terror of my service with the rebels, and answered, “I have — through circumstance, not design — thrown in my lot with a regiment of — previously — but only as a slave — fought with — or built fortifications for —”
“Sweet Christ. No sermon, boy. A yea, a naw — no more, hear?”
I said, “Nay,” and his questions continued. I stared bewildered at the young Serjeant’s face — dazed not by his words, but by his features, his speaking mouth, his pimples; for in the last moments of my bondage, I was cast back into my years as a sort of half valet — unable to hold any thought but that I should hate to shave him, for that he would suffer cuts and scold. He asked his questions, and after each, I drew the razor down his pimpled cheeks in my helpless fancy, and saw him bleed.
And then I found that the time for questions was through; and he bade me place my hand upon my heart.
’Tis the moment, thought I — but scarce could understand it.
There was no ceremony to the oath he bade me swear. He, presuming I could not read, spake phrases regarding my loyalty to the Crown, and I repeated them without sense of their meaning — be faithful and bear true allegiance . . . His Majesty, King George III . . . crown and dignity . . . abjure the works of Rebellion . . .
And yet, those words were of infinite potency: for until then, I was a slave, though fugitive, bound by the laws of my country to Mr. Gitney and his house; but having spake the words of loyalty to my King, having been inducted into his service, my bondage, inherited from my mother, was, in accordance with the Governor’s proclamation, at long last dissolved.
At the final word — which was God — I baulked, and could not speak — and choked the word —“Gah”— sensible that in the space of open vowel, with the tongue touched to palate on the d, the oath would be complete, the enlistment accomplished, and I could never again be legally taken — and twice I stuttered — entertaining a hectic fancy that I should never speak it out, and so must remain bonded — gagging — but there it was — spoken — and Serjeant Clippinger was already turned half away, having accepted my first assay as sufficient.
As were it some spell (for such it was, that burst through chains that stretched from America’s shores to the palaces of London, the fastnesses of distant Oyo, fetters that bound together ships’ ledgers and the firearms of kidnappers and the combs with which I plaited Mr. Sharpe’s damp hair) I imagined the air should crack, the Atlantic sky yield forth its cataracts, and Hell itself howl misery.
Serjeant Clippinger hummed and hunted through papers. He held out a roster for me to sign, and indicated how to draw an X. I took his quill, and wrote my name.
Octavian Nothing, Negro. Private, Major Byrd’s Com.
Nov. 21st, 1775.
O Lord — who hath taken mercy upon the afflicted — praised be Thy name.
The room was but an accounting room, with desks and rectangles of sun; and yet it was in that room that the curse fell from me, the curse of sixteen years, borne with me from my mother’s womb — and for the first time, I knew freedom.
The Serjeant gave me then my uniform, which was but a shirt of coarse cloth, emblazoned upon the breast with the words, Liberty to Slaves, to be worn with my own breeches. The stitching of the motto was none of the finest, being accomplished by women attached to the Regiment who did not know letters; but still it was with awe that I received it, thanking him with bows and courtesies.
He received these marks of gratitude with distaste, cutting short my thanks to order me out of the room.
I have spent the afternoon in getting matters settled; being presented to the others of my mess, awaiting judgments upon my situation by sundry officers, and seeking out the Assistant to the Quartermaster to obtain my blanket, rucksack, and such other accoutrements as we are required to purchase on account.
In the warehouse, on the street before it, in the nearby square where the Regiment paraded — as I make my way through these places, I see everywhere Negroes in uniform — and on each breast, that triumphant and defiant motto, Liberty to Slaves.
I cannot suppress my rejoicing, and grin full on at these soldiers; who some, regard me in puzzlement; others, in scorn at my excitement; and yet several have returned my idiot jackanapes smile, as if to say, “I know, my friend. . . . I know.”
As a free man, I am dressed far more meanly than I was as a slave, when I wore silks and lawn; and yet, there could be no finer raiment than such a shirt as this, though the smock be coarse as hum-hum.
I supped with my mess. Despite their welcome, I could not bring myself to speak much at our meal, so sensible am I of my youth and inexperience, so anxious am I for their approbation.
Two others of my age, called Will and John, were today enlisted, having just arrived in the morning through the swamps. Two days ago they fled their master, having heard news of Lord Dunmore’s proclamation, and have spent the last two nights in flight across plantations.
But four hours ago, they were fugitives, creeping in bushes, hearts apound, danger surrounding; and now, they sit giddy with escape, surrounded only by companions, drunken on the airiness of flight, recounting mishaps.
“We got apart,” said John. “There was dogs, and we got apart.”
“We has a sign,” said Will.
“A sign — we has this sign — if we get apart.”
“Wild turkey call. Our sign. Wild turkey.”
“So John gets apart during the dogs.”
“No, Will gets apart.”
“I say: John gets apart, and he hide in the bushes.”
“And Will crawls —”
“I hear the wild turkey.”
“He crawls.”
“I crawls to the turkey.”
“He make the call back. He whispers me, ‘John! John!’”
“And ain’t no answer.”
“He make the call again. Then, ‘John!’ He say, ‘John!’”
“Ain’t no answer, ’cause it was a wild turkey.”
“In the bush.”
“A actual wild turkey.”
“And Will’s there, whisper and whisper, turkey and turkey, and the turkey come out, and I’m laughing behind him.”
“He laughs! On the ground! I ain’t laughing, though.”— But laugh they both did, now in safety. They waved their fingers before the embers of our fire.
Sensible that I should speak and join t
he frolic, I opined that I should like to hear their especial call, having never heard human imitate that animal’s cry.
John nodded, put his hand to his mouth, and made a fierce noise, at which much of the mess was astonished.
“Sweet Lord,” said Will. “Ain’t no turkey.”
“That’s my turkey.”
“Never no turkey. You got a harbor seal there.”
“Harbor seal!” said John, and threw his arm around his companion in danger, and they laughed so hard that the tears ran down their faces.
And all the company laughed with them; for most were drunk; and we who were sober — we still wore shirts on which it said, Liberty to Slaves.
November 22nd, 1775
First day of service; my hands are weary with digging. We were awakened before dawn to begin a fortification of the town. This day spent in the construction of earthworks.
Our situation, I find, is thus: Williamsburg — its Palace and its House of Burgesses — lies utterly abandoned by all royal authority, and is now the haunt of rebels. As we have heard, His Lordship the Governor resides here in a ship off the shore of Norfolk, surrounded by his small fleet. He victuals himself and his little army by sending out small sail with landing parties to seize upon such provisions as are necessary — flesh and fowl — from rebel farms and plantations.
Though the rest of the countryside is, say some, a scene of riot, we are strongly placed here in Norfolk, with excellent approaches by sea and a control of all approaches by land. The Army hath raised stockades and breastworks to the south — to secure the road whereby goods are brought from the Carolinas — and to the east.
The rebels hath marched upon us here, spewing their calumnies and declaring their hatred for Lord Dunmore, our liberator, and for this Ethiopian Regiment; but they have been halted by our troops in the swamps below this place, where they remain, facing our stockades. They menace and wait to advance. Many of our number still speak with joy of our victory in the swamps securing the avenues to this town. Norfolk’s situation may be as perilous as the investment of the Army in Boston; but there is more taste of triumph here in the air of the barracks than there was in the very feasts of the decorated officers on Marlborough Street.
My own lodgings here are humble: There are thirty-five of us laid in a warehouse by the wharves. There is but one fire-pit in the room, and the draughts are troublesome. My sleep was fleeting, and my bones, when I rose, sore.
I write this at the supper hour. It has been twenty minutes writing. I find myself concealing my quill from the gaze of curiosity.
I yield to discomfort; the arm aches. I set the quill down.
November 23rd, 1775
Morning — occupied in digging earthworks.
I have received a note from Dr. Trefusis, who is settled at a tavern in town. At the next available opportunity, he will seek me out — as I am not permitted to roam the streets.
This day, received my firelock. Our Regiment is armed from rebel stores seized in raids earlier this month. Mine is an old Charleville musket. Curious to consider that, were it not seized, this very musket had been used against us. The stock hath been polished by the enemy’s hands.
Afternoon, drilled without powder. Corporal Craigie, the Scotsman with his forehead branded, called out the commands, saying we maun needs listen well or we shall surrender in confusion. I listen, but succumb to anxiety — lose all distinction between left hand and right — fumble the musket — find myself marching into my companions.
The gun makes not the soldier.
November 24th, 1775
This day, all hands to digging a fosse.
Afternoon, drilled: for two hours, the loading of the guns, and for another two, exercises in the fields, facings, wheelings, evolutions. I am the worst of soldiers.
No word come of Pro Bono. None have heard of him here.
The snoring in the barracks is considerable. I am in some difficulty to sleep. The air is frigid and floor unyielding.
November 25th, 1775
Snowed this day, so we could neither drill nor build our earthworks. We engaged in some few brief exercises, but were ragged in our showing. Several of the men have no shoes, protecting their feet with rags wound around them only, and their discomfort was extreme. When we returned to the barracks, they lit a great fire to thaw the ice around their feet and lay shivering, arranged radiant around the flames. There being no chimney in the warehouse, we were obliged to open a window at the upper story to release the smoke, which also swiftly draws out the warmth.
I fear sleep tonight will be difficult.
It is rumored that a great force of rebels approaches from the Carolinas. I am told by Will that I should not fear Carolinian numbers so much as Virginian sharpshooters, who, armed with rifles, can far outreach the musket in range and fatal accuracy. Their uniform is simply their hunting-shirts, on which, it is said, they have embroidered the words Liberty or Death.
The fear of these shirtmen expressed among our ranks is so great that they might themselves be messengers of Hades, for they appear in the tales of those who have fought them in earlier battles as faceless and invisible, a loud crack and a death, and they are gone.
We spent much of our day without activity. For a time, we were entertained by Will and John’s ready store of wit and comic roguery as they engaged each other in kicking games. (“Stand still! I get two on your shin!”—“Not true! Don’t count!”)
The wind made its moan about the walls of our rude barracks, and we all fell silent, thinking perhaps on the rebels who await us. Without employment, we had little to do but listen to the boards rattle. At length, our dinner being completed, I took the opportunity to read in Virgil.
After a time, I glanced up from the trance in which the tale had engaged me to find the men of my mess staring mistrustfully at me and at my book.
“You read,” said one fellow, and it was not a question; but an announcement of that fact, so that all might know.
Covered with blushes, I hid my volume, but they knew it was there, this artifact of the conqueror.
November 26th, 1775 — Sunday
This day, continued work on earthworks and drilled on the square. I am apprehensive about the use of the firelock, and pray I acquit myself well in the day of trial.
In Boston, we should not undertake such labor on the Sabbath.
The inhabitants of Norfolk turned out to watch us drill, alarmed by our volleys. Upon their countenances, looks of apprehension. For some hours, they surveyed us. The men wear red rags sewn to their chests, which has been lately required of them as proof of their oaths to the Crown and to Lord Dunmore. I do not venture to say whether their hearts are as stalwart in our support as their chests suggest. I perceive that they little relish the marching of Negroes before them with firearms.
Boys call out names as we pass on the streets.
Addendum — next day
At the barracks last evening, a grand ball, which convocation was attended by soldiers of all companies and by many of the women attached to the Regiment. These Sabbath-day dances are the long custom among the plantations and farms of this Colony; but I have never seen the like. My delight may be imagined.
The music was loud and joyous in the extreme, sung, beaten upon drums, and played upon simple lutes and chitarrones; the dancing, though marked with great bizarrerie in its movements, was intoxicating in its strangeness and exhilarating in its exultation; and, despite what I had been told at the College of Lucidity of the dancing of slaves, it was executed with complete propriety: There was no intermingling of the sexes, but each maintained its separate steps and songs. There was great commerce and discussion between each dance, often beyond the scope of my understanding, the whole room a very Babel of rich tongues and alien conversation.
Though most speak English as their mother tongue, there are some, newer fetched from their country, who spake two languages or three before ever they heard our British speech. When I think upon their excellence of part
s, their facility in the vaguaries of our Anglo-Saxon cant, I am ashamed at the pride with which my masters regarded my own slender accomplishments.
Some here have not spoken their own tongue for ten years, for twenty, separated in the auction-yard from their countrymen and sequestered, that they might not conspire; and now they are reunited with those who know not merely the same verbs, but the same cities, the same rivers, the same gods; and so everywhere one hears English overthrown with delight, and alien discourse entered into with ardor.
When in English, ’twas thus: “No, sir, this, this — Aye, you, this”— There was much negotiation, and a tune played or sung, taken up by others, learned by those newly hearing it. Observing these exchanges (and too timid to speak or sing), I at last understood the full breadth of their endeavor: These drummers, these dancers were ripped from nations more distant from one another than Lapland and Spain, speaking a wealth of tongues, praising different gods; singing different songs with instruments only alike as violin is to viol. And in the thatched quarters of the plantations had these people of disparate nations gathered once weekly to sing their songs in a foreign land, though they are but sojourners here; not the songs of one nation, but the music of many, sung in as many tongues. Each plantation hath thus strummed and beat out its own peculiar suites, its own lively airs, its customs negotiated through use. These plantation festivals are become an act of general composition, wherein dances are forged from the rites of different cities, tunes taken from one kingdom and given new words in the language of another, codified if applauded through weeks of repetition. And here, in Lord Dunmore’s Regiment, the singers meet and exchange and bicker over variations, all eager to have their song known.
Some sang burlesques upon their masters. Others honored Lord Dunmore, our liberator, most generous of Governors, bravest of commanders. One of the regimental drummers played most miraculously upon a drum of his own fashioning. Those near me informed me that he made the drum speak, and that it chanted the praise-songs of his people in ancient times and their exploits martial.
The Kingdom on the Waves Page 10