Douglass’ Women

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  I felt sorry for Anna. Standing with her baby clutched to her breast, she looked so vulnerable. Fierce too. How can a woman be both?

  Frau Douglass didn’t want to be left behind. How could I blame her? I, too, would’ve wanted to stay with my husband.

  When Douglass touched her arm, Anna grew hard. Like Medusa’s victims.

  Douglass shifted his weight and, over his shoulder, I glimpsed her eyes. Such naked emotion. Such power. She was pleading with him. Saying nary a word. Yet, even from a distance, I felt her yearning. Not visible in the rest of her body but visible in her eyes. Brown like a doe’s.

  I thought: How can Frederick refuse? He’ll have to take her with him. What kind of heart could leave such love behind?

  I felt inexplicably sad. I turned. Garrison was looking at me, speculative. Inquiring. How dared he watch me! I spoke sharply.

  “Why does no one ever call you Lloyd? It’s a more interesting name than Garrison.”

  “Fräulein Assing, you of all people should know that actions are more interesting than mere words.”

  I flushed. “What are you implying?”

  “For the moment, nothing.” Then, his lips thinned with perverse satisfaction. “We have a slave to protect. Do we not?”

  Douglass was coming toward us. It was like I saw him anew: handsome, certainly; resolute, of course. But such sadness rested upon his shoulders. I wanted to care for him. Hold him close and give him comfort. Anna was gone, disappeared into the kitchen. But I understood her need of him. I felt my own desire like some tidal wave, pulling me into its undertow and rendering me breathless. Douglass was like some hybrid god. More beautiful than plain African, more beautiful than plain American.

  The current had been there all along, pulling, shaping me toward new shorelines. First, America, then New Bedford. But geography was nothing compared to my heart—compared to the heat stirring in my blood.

  Mama taught me to praise feelings: “The idea of love has its own beauty.”

  But what was the source? Was it the man Douglass who stirred me? Or the idea of his enslavement that made him so appealing?

  As in the best art, the man Douglass revealed himself in his Narrative. Emotions ironed into words didn’t lie. Sometimes, I had to stop reading and cry. Sometimes, I pressed my lips to paper wanting to soothe his hurts. Such injustice that such a gifted man should be a slave. How could I separate intellect from the concrete, the tangible Douglass? How could I separate my love of his ideas, from my response to his body? Sinew, blood, flesh. If Mama was a heroine of her own life, then Douglass, surely, must be his own hero. I am his companion-in-arms as he meets a new trial. A new test of courage.

  Douglass drew ever closer, despair etched on his brow, and I responded with trembling and dampened palms. I mustn’t be a schoolgirl. I was an intelligent woman committed to the cause of uplifting colored men and women from slavery. I exhaled. Clasped my hands.

  Abstract and physical. Spiritual and carnal. All one.

  “Let us sit down and plan,” said Garrison.

  At some point, tea appeared. But I was lost exploring new sensations within me. I was conscious of little things. A scar on Douglass’ hand. His blunt fingertips. His lips parting as he spoke to Garrison.

  Plain table, plain room. Serviceable. The candles had a strong odor and made much smoke. Not more than a peasant’s cottage in Germany.

  I remembered Douglass striding the stage. This room wasn’t good enough for him. I remembered him moving gracefully, forcefully, abandoning the podium, bellowing his rage, then sweetening his prose with reason. The totality of him moved me.

  “So, this is it,” said Douglass.

  “Yes,” answered Garrison. “I can provide letters of introduction. As for funds, Miss Assing has been generous.”

  I heard my name from a great distance. A spider illuminated by flame.

  “London it is,” said Douglass, his voice muted, dry like paper.

  “You can still speak to the cause. Excite our European allies,” said Garrison.

  “Yes, and I will write. Articles. Essays. Dispatches.” His tone was firm.

  “Good man.” Garrison shook Douglass’ hand. But when he would’ve released it, Douglass didn’t let it go.

  “Will you care for my family? I do not want my wife taking in laundry.”

  “Yes. I’ll see to her,” Garrison said quickly.

  Too quickly, I thought.

  “Tonight, Frederick, you must see to yourself,” urged Garrison. “Get to the ship at the farthest end of the wharf. The Marie-Therese. Do not sleep here tonight. Too dangerous.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Leave now. This instant, if you can manage it.”

  “You cannot mean it?”

  The haste was troubling. It was now becoming real to him—he was once again escaping. A runaway.

  “I do mean it. Unless you wish to be recaptured.”

  “I’d rather die.”

  I covered his hand with mine. “It’ll not come to that.”

  (God help me. I almost rested my cheek atop his palm.)

  Once the decision was made, things happened quickly.

  Garrison began writing letters of introduction. Douglass began selecting papers, books, stowing them into his black portmanteau. His energy was focused, but watching his hands, I could see the slight tremors. At times, he paused briefly and stared. Arrested by some private vision. So his fear subtly presented itself. His vulnerability made him all the more appealing.

  I spoke impulsively. “I’ll come with you. You can pretend to be my servant, if need be. My slave, if questioned. No one would doubt my word. No one would dare take from me what’s mine.”

  “Yours?” mocked Garrison.

  “A figure of speech, Garrison. I have funds. Plenty enough to bribe and smooth the way. Funds, too, in banks in Germany, Europe.” I was lying. I had money. But not unlimited.

  “I had no idea, Ottilie. Such largesse.”

  I ignored Garrison. “I speak several languages. Douglass, you may need an interpreter if the abolitionist cause expands. The French, are they not already sympathetic? And, in Germany, I can assure you of a warm welcome. I can translate your Narrative, translate your story for the European community to understand.” My words came fast as though they’d been stored inside me, waiting to spill forth. Waiting to signify that I, too, could be useful.

  “Pack lightly, Douglass. Let’s be on our way.”

  He looked at me, his bushy brows arched high. “As you wish, Miss Assing. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, your good sense.”

  I felt as though the room were spinning. Garrison steadied me by locking hold of my elbow. I could barely settle my breathing.

  Douglass went into the bedroom. The door still open, I saw him pulling clothes from the dresser, stuffing them into a bag on the bed. I thought: Black; White; German Jew; Christian Mulatto; European; African and American. Male, female. What a pair we make!

  Anna came from the kitchen and gave a great cry when she saw Douglass packing. She rushed into the room, threw one arm about him while her other held their baby. Douglass removed her hand from his neck. I couldn’t hear his words, but I saw Anna collapse, fold like a rag doll, slouched on the bed. Douglass kept packing.

  A clock ticked. Days seemed to have passed but the clock told it was only a half hour. A half hour of terror in a slave’s life. A colored family home.

  Douglass grabbed his bag and marched from the room.

  “Freddy,” Anna moaned. But she didn’t move from her stooped posture on the bed and Douglass didn’t stop walking.

  Garrison patted Douglass on the back. “Good man.” He opened the front door and the two, having thrown on their coats, walked out into the rain. I found my wrap on the hall peg, but I couldn’t yet leave. The silhouette of Anna on the bed, her head bowed over her child, struck me. Mother held me so. I felt as though I were a child swept back in time.

  Then, Anna lifted her head and notes rose from her throa
t that almost had me weeping. Lullaby, spiritual, I don’t know which. It was a soulful music that made me shudder.

  “Fräulein, hurry.”

  In the darkened rain, from inside the transom, Garrison was calling me and still I rushed forward into Anna’s and Douglass’ bedroom. It was so simple, so small. Few adornments, bare walls. The bed quilt, I could tell, had been stitched with care.

  Neither the baby nor Anna moved. A still life like in one of my paintings. I could see Anna’s stout form well enough, her belly curving with another child.

  “Here,” I said. And laid beside her a miniature I’d painted of Douglass. Her fingers, like claws, gathered it up.

  I left a pouch, too, on the bed beside her.

  “A gift for you.”

  Her brows raised. And I was certain I saw … jealousy—no, hatred. Raw feeling such as I’d had for those who tormented, placed obstacles before me.

  “For the baby, then.”

  I left quickly, swinging on my wrap, walking into the rain, onto the porch step. Douglass and Garrison were in the carriage. The driver tipped his hat and the horses neighed impatiently.

  I looked back. Anna, her baby, were as I’d left them. Like a narrowing of a telescope, I could see them at a seemingly great distance. Far, far away, mother and child, alone on the bed, in a home not theirs, with few possessions, the stink of tallow, and a parlor table scattered with the mess of half-finished tea, paper and ink, a chalkboard with lessons halted in midstream… .

  I felt sorry for them.

  No, I felt sorry for her.

  I thought: How could a fair God have it so? Douglass leaving her and going with me?

  Shame on me, for if there was a God, I was glad. Glad to be the one going. Glad, at this moment, to be more useful to Herr Douglass than his wife could ever be.

  Quietly, I shut the cottage door.

  At Sea

  If anyone spoke of how “odd” it was for a colored to have a first-class cabin, to have meals brought in, and chamber pots changed by cabin boys, I gave them a haughty look, replying: “My servants are my business.” The crew thought me eccentric. And if eccentric meant buoying and sustaining the freedom of another man, then so be it. Garrison was to make overtures to Auld to secure Douglass’ freedom. My promise was to keep Douglass safe and in good spirits. But while I rejoiced, Douglass’ misery was palpable. Being hunted, being on the run again, enslaved him as surely as steel.

  Once I felt compelled to go to Douglass’ room. I hadn’t seen him for days and I became obsessed that some harm had come to him.

  “Herr Douglass. Herr Douglass.” When he didn’t answer, I became alarmed. Since all thought Douglass my servant, I had an extra key. I unlocked the door. All was dark, but as I pushed the door farther, I saw Douglass slumped over his desk, his arm dangling, his pen on the floor. I rushed forward, anxious to assure myself that he was all right. I wildly thought: he’s dead. Ironic to escape slavery, only to die crossing the sea.

  The lamp was askew, but there was enough light to confirm Douglass was alive. His chest rose. He’d fallen asleep, exhausted. I leaned over him, eager to see his new writing. Like a truant schoolboy, he’d written Anna … Anna … Anna … Anna …

  I felt wicked. An unwanted intruder.

  I didn’t sleep all night. I worried when Douglass awoke, he might guess I’d been near. Might guess I’d seen his private longing.

  In the morning, he seemed to have shaken his malaise. Like he knew we’d crossed into international waters. Knew he was beyond bounty hunters.

  He was an impressive man. Much admired, striding on the deck for his morning and evening constitutional. Mannerly, he tipped his hat but initiated no conversations. He kept his dress somber, his hands deep in his pockets or else clasped behind his back. Indeed, no one could say he wasn’t a gentleman. After a time, even the sailors gave him their respect. Begging his pardon, asking if he required anything.

  He was like some king.

  I enjoyed those days. Strange, at sea, in a confined landscape, I felt freer than I’d ever felt in my life.

  Watching Douglass relaxed me. Such a figure he was, blocking the horizon. Hope, which had allowed him to survive slavery, reasserted herself. When Douglass smiled, I felt there was no finer pleasure. I stretched myself to be my most charming, most witty self.

  Sometimes we sat in deck chairs, side by side, saying nothing. Yet, how companionable we were! Douglass watched gulls swoop to fish, then rise high into the sky blending with thick, swirling clouds and sunlight. I preferred the sea: the foam, the crests of waves, the changeable currents. Such mysteries in the deep. Mysteries in my own heart.

  One dawn, after a restless night, I wrapped myself snugly in my shawl and stood at the rail, staring into the water. Slivers of silver darted just beneath the waves.

  A woman’s body rose and fell with the waves. Oluwand? But I thought it could be Mama, too. Reborn as a mermaid, celebrating her daughter’s love.

  Shivering in dawn’s chill air, I was the happiest I’d ever been.

  I’d tried to keep away from Douglass. Particularly, once his daughter was born. I’d left New Bedford and found an apartment in Hoboken. “The best of Germany away from Germany,” or so I was told. I’d rather have lived in New York, but it was too expensive.

  I secured an agent and painted. Wrote articles for Morgenblatt. And spent my evenings debating with German radicals. It was pleasant. But time and again, my heart betrayed me. I felt compelled to return to New Bedford. Or else travel to conventions, abolitionists’ meetings, wherever Douglass would be speaking. And I felt compelled to paint his face. Huge canvases with his riot of shoulder-length hair, his bushy brows, and amber-colored lips. His gaze was never quite right. Too piercing. Too dull. Flat, not alive with intelligence enough. I tried to imagine his eyes alive with love. Had I seen him look at anyone with love? I tried hard to paint him looking at me.

  The Greeks believed the moon exerts a pull on the waves, altering the tides. So, too, Douglass’ pull over me. Black and brown had always been sparse on my palette. But in my apartment, before the bay window, I mixed new oils—darkened shades to capture his warmth.

  Douglass was the Greek slave the Romans would’ve ennobled.

  In my stateroom, we discussed nearly everything. While the ocean swept by, outside my porthole, we spoke of the injustice of the Fugitive Slave Act. We spoke of Goethe, Shakespeare (I promised to take him to his first play), and the U.S. constitutional amendment that counted a slave as three-fifths a man. Often, Douglass became morose. It was my job to rally him.

  “I should’ve stayed in New Bedford.”

  “And be caught? Think of the cause.”

  “While Anna bears the burden?”

  “Gladly, I would think.”

  Douglass stared into his port. “Colored women have always carried a large burden.”

  “Being free, Anna’s load is lighter than yours.”

  “Are you betraying your fair sex?”

  “No. But an honorable life is lived by principles. You, yourself, have said this.”

  “‘All men are created equal.’ So fighting for freedom means that I abandon Anna? My child?”

  “But all men aren’t equal. All men should be free, yes. But few are equal to you, Douglass.”

  “You are my defender?”

  “Always.”

  “At what cost?”

  I lowered my eyes. “When did anything worthwhile not require sacrifice?”

  How prophetic! I should’ve climbed over the ship’s rail. Traveling with another woman’s husband. Feeling not the least guilty. I should’ve remembered some penance would have to be paid. When had anything worthwhile not come at a price?

  I was drowning in his company. Both readers and thinkers, I thought us fast friends. Two people joined in a common cause. Isolated for three months, on a ship, in the middle of the sea, we were both foreign—outside ourselves, our cultures.

  Two weeks before docking in Portsm
outh, I invited Douglass to dinner. We’d had a fine evening despite the lack of fresh food. We enjoyed our dried beef and potatoes as though it were pheasant with mushroom and wine sauce.

  “How did you choose the name Douglass?”

  He laughed. “An accident, really. I thought to use the name Johnson. But, in New Bedford, everybody colored seemed to be named Johnson. A friend was reading Scott’s Lady of the Lake. A character was named Douglass. Seemed as good a name as any. Better than most.”

  “Why not Graeme? He was the lover?”

  “But Douglass was the statesman. Graeme languished in prison.”

  “But he weds the lady in the end.”

  “Still, I’d rather be the noble Douglass.”

  “The brave, strong leader.”

  “Of course.”

  For dessert, we shared crackers, cheese, and port. Though I must admit, we drank far more than we ate.

  “I admired your ‘Parody’ at the end of the Narrative.” Castaway, I stood and recited:

  “Come, saints and sinners, hear me tell

  How pious priests whip Jack and Nell

  And women buy and children sell

  And preach all sinners down to hell.”

  “I’m flattered. You memorized it.”

  “How could a just God allow your enslavement?”

  “If Anna was here, she’d say—”

  “What?”

  He looked down, swirled his port. “She’d say, ‘God works miracles in His own time.’”

  “Do you believe in miracles?”

  “Of my own making.”

  “You don’t believe in God?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just don’t believe in slaveholding gods.”

  “If anything, I think love will be my salvation.”

  “Ah, like the good shepherd.” Douglass laughed.

  “‘Come live with me and—’”

  “‘—be my love.’” I laughed with him. “You, too, admire the good shepherd’s wooing?”

  “Indeed.” It was Douglass’ turn to stand:

  “Come live with me and be my love And