by Esi Edugyan
8
TITCH COULD NOT begin his experiment without one last element, he said.
“Workers, Washington,” he explained to me. “Carriers, draggers, lifters, haulers, strong arms and strong wrists. We cannot carry the apparatus on our own, can we?”
And so we found ourselves in the entrance of Wilde Hall, quietly sweating. The air smelled of tea leaves, as if the house rugs had been recently cleaned. Titch had grown impatient; I watched him pace the scuffed parquet, the wood creaking faintly under his steps. He would then return to me and pause to lay a soft, tentative hand on my shoulder. His eyes kept drifting to the far corridor. Time seemed to slow, distend around us.
I do not know how long we waited. At last a silhouetted figure flitted distantly across a corridor. Titch called out to it.
His voice seemed to drift off into the shadows. There came a pause, then Gaius materialized from some unseen place, his uniform crisp as an English envelope. Seeing him, I thought he must possess more bones than the average man, so full of knots and angles was he. I imagined I could hear the light crack of his joints as he approached.
His fine, hard face stared up at Titch, betraying nothing.
“What is the holdup, man?” said Titch, his face red and tense. “We have waited fifteen minutes now without explanation. Or refreshment. Is my brother unwell?”
“No, sir.”
Titch snorted. “Well?”
“I did not know you were here, sir. I daresay Master Erasmus has not known of it, sir. Have you been received?”
“Would I be standing here if I had? Where is he?”
Gaius glanced at me, and for some seconds it seemed he did not know me. How did I appear to him now, after all these weeks away with Titch—had I changed at all? He gave no indication. I longed to inquire after Big Kit, but it was not possible. Abruptly, Gaius gave me a terse, almost invisible nod with his chin. To Titch, he said, “Master Erasmus is regrettably occupied this afternoon. We have been instructed to inform any callers that—”
“I am no caller,” Titch snapped. “I am his brother. Remind him for me.”
“Sir,” said Gaius, with a deferential dip of his head.
“Tell him if he does not greet us, he will very much regret his next dinner with me.”
“Very good, sir,” said Gaius.
But he had not moved, and stood still with his face averted. I understood he did not wish to risk the master’s wrath. A long silence passed.
“Oh, hang this,” Titch muttered. “Where is he? Is he upstairs? Come along, Washington.”
He strode from the reception hall deeper into the house. I jogged along behind him, past a sitting room heavy with velvets, the chairs undersized and delicate, the sideboards monstrous with detailed scrollwork.
We descended a wide, curving staircase and emerged into a corridor half-filled with shadow. At a small table against one wall stood a girl with a stringy rag in her fist, wiping at a blackened candlestick. I did not at first recognize her, with her newly softened posture, but then she turned, and I saw the beige richness of her skin, the strong cheekbones. It was Émilie, her face framed by the crisp white bonnet hovering like crumpled paper upon her hair. She paused at the sight of me, then shyly lowered her eyes.
My face grew hot and I glanced instinctively down, and that is when I saw it: her rounded belly, pressing against the starched fabric of her scullery whites.
I could not keep the shock from my face; I stared and stared. It was a common-enough occurrence at Faith for a woman to be taken with child, though actual births were rare, given the conditions in which the mothers toiled. But this I had never expected, Émilie being just eleven, and beautiful and inviolate and God’s own angel. It was a slap to me that the father might be any man on the land, even the master himself. I watched Émilie’s stilled hands on the brass candlestick, and I felt a wrenching inside, a sadness so bracing I had to look away.
Titch sensed nothing of our discomfort; he was impatient to get on with his day. “Well?” he demanded. “Where is he?”
Émilie turned and glanced very deliberately behind her at a door left ajar. A blade of light fell from it. Inside was a small, narrow room, a laundry, stinking bitterly of soda and wet wool. And at the far end of it, facing us but hunched over a creaking table, stood Erasmus Wilde.
He was wielding a large, black, hissing artifact, built of iron, leaning his weight into it. I saw, as we neared, that he was pressing it across a blue cotton shirt. It was then he glanced up.
But how astonishing to see him like that, engaged in so low a labour, his face strangely attractive in its distraction, the full bottom lip, the eyes colourless as a glass of water. I glimpsed a sort of brittle prettiness in his features, a delicacy.
But then the master smiled a sudden, tight smile, and the moment passed. “Christopher,” he said softly. “You have been waiting.”
“I have.”
The master shrugged. With two hands he lifted the iron monstrosity to one side of the shirt. “I instructed that Gaius boy to dismiss you. I ought to crush his skull and find better help.”
“He did warn us you were occupied,” Titch said, wrinkling his forehead. “Do not fault him. I had not realized how pressing your business was.”
“Ah, very droll,” said Master Erasmus. But he did not smile. “You are surprised to see me so engaged?”
“Nothing surprises me,” said Titch. “It is my iron constitution.”
“Wonderful,” said the master. “Amusing.”
We stood, no one speaking for a long moment. Steam gasped from the iron’s underside.
“Well?” said Titch.
“I am waiting to see if your wit is quite worn itself out. Now what is it you want of me?”
“Not laundering, certainly.”
“That is what your nigger calf is for,” the master said pleasantly. “Why else did I lend him?”
Titch nodded, raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Now you have struck on my very purpose. I am here because I require more hands.”
“Indeed,” said the master. “For your balloon contraption, I assume?”
“My Cloud-cutter, yes. It is as you foresaw.”
The master tipped the black-faced iron up and spat onto its surface; it gave but the faintest hiss. The smell of rusted metal filled the room. “You have killed my heat,” he said distractedly.
“I ask but fifteen men only. I will accept strong women among them, if it would serve you better. Fifteen workers, Erasmus. And I will need them only for the time it takes to transport and assemble the cutter on Corvus Peak. A week. Perhaps two.”
“Corvus Peak?”
“Its altitude will do nicely, I think.”
“Corvus Peak is no small expedition, little brother.”
“Which is why I ask for the additional labour.”
The master pursed his lips. “This Cloud-cutter, as you call it—remind me, now. It is rather dangerous, is it not?”
Titch paused. “Dangerous?”
“Mm.”
“Anything is dangerous without proper precautions. Riding in a carriage is dangerous.”
“Hardly to the same degree.”
“It will be tethered at each ascent, Erasmus. And only myself and the boy will go up in it. I expect the risk should prove minimal to any others.”
“The boy is my property.” This the master said without even a glance at me. “Did you not tell me once this contraption could prove explosive?”
“Previous models have, yes,” said Titch, a wariness entering his voice. “Not my own design, not this design. The gas is relatively stable, so long as it is carefully handled.”
“And you trust the niggers to handle it so.”
“The men will be supervised, brother.”
The master spread his empty arms wide, shrugg
ed. “Regretfully, it cannot be done,” he said simply. “I cannot lose fifteen niggers. The field hours alone make it impossible. No.”
Titch did not appear surprised. “How many?”
“How many what?”
“How many men can you spare?”
“I tell you it is considerable revenue that would be lost. I could part perhaps with one.”
“Not sufficient. Did you not say that while I was here I would have use of some of your resources for my experiments? Did you not say that?”
The master grunted. “I did not mean to the detriment of profitability.”
“Profitability,” Titch scoffed.
Master Erasmus made a sharp gesture at me. “Watch your tone.”
“Do you believe them capable of understanding, then?”
“I believe them capable of mischief. I believe them capable of malice.”
The bolts of the ironing table creaked plaintively as the master began to fold his shirt. In the dust-swarmed room I could suddenly hear the high, nervous humming of Émilie at work in the outer hall.
“Twelve, then,” said Titch.
“Two niggers, no more.”
“Ten men.”
The master gave a long, tired exhale, as if struggling to keep his patience. “We are not exchanging apples in Madame Aileen’s orchards, Christopher. We are not seven years old.”
“Ten men and women, Erasmus, and I shall ask nothing more of the field labour.”
“Ten niggers, then. But only at the end of their workday.”
But that is our time, I thought. The sole waking hours that belong to us. I remembered those short hours as the calmest time of day in the huts. We all of us would gather to eat, tell stories.
Titch was shaking his head. “That is un-Christian, brother, the Negroes need their rest like anyone. What good would it do them to work for me in the dark? There would be injuries. And what good would they be to you during the day, tired from working twice, half of them injured—”
“And so?”
“Nine, then. But relieved entirely from other duties for the duration of my project.”
“You seem rather sanguine about how hard you will be working them yourself, Titch. Where is your famous conscience now?”
“I will be answerable to that. Will you lend them?”
“Five, was it?”
“Nine.”
The master sighed. He frowned at his iron, pausing a long while. He seemed to be slowly recalling something. Clearing his throat, he said, “Yes, nine, so be it. You are nothing if not persistent, little brother. Listen to me, there is a matter of real importance I have been meaning to raise with you.”
Titch cocked his head, peering down at his brother. He waited.
“Five evenings ago I received a letter postmarked Kingston. What business could be coming from Kingston, said I. Well, it seems cousin Philip could be coming from Kingston. He threatens us with his imminent arrival.”
“Philip?” Titch’s eyes narrowed, and he fell abruptly silent. It was as if he had been told a visitation were upon him, as though a ghost, not a man, would appear. “Philip is here? Whatever for? Philip. My god.”
“Indeed.”
“Did he write of his purpose? He would not have sailed for pleasure.”
“Nothing gives him pleasure. I’m sure we shall learn of it soon enough.”
“Philip in Kingston.” Titch closed his eyes, a faint line of worry rising between them. He shook his head. “And this is the first you are hearing of it? It is a mighty risk he takes, waiting so long to inform us of his arrival.”
“Ah.” The master smiled a cruel smile. “He did write some weeks ago, but I did not believe his intentions serious. It appears I was mistaken. He did not move so fast when we were boys.”
Titch frowned at his brother, said nothing.
“Fat as a Liverpool wharf rat, he was.” The master laughed. “And so dour, so morose. Good god, I hope the poor man doesn’t attempt to kill himself. I would rather he killed me—I’d no longer have to suffer his moods.”
“He comes by it honestly, in any case,” Titch said a little sharply.
“Well,” said the master. “I shall require you to collect him in Bridge Town when he arrives.”
“Consider it done. Is that all?”
“And I shall require you to lodge him.”
Titch stood blinking some moments. “Have you not a single room to spare among the five wings of Wilde Hall?”
“They are all under repair, brother.”
“I see.”
“He will eat and eat and brood and eat and he will be sick every morning. I have not space enough for the drama.”
“Erasmus.”
“I could always lodge him with the niggers,” the master grinned.
Titch did not smile at that. “He is to stay how long?”
“I am told three months. I do not believe it.”
“He will not last a fortnight,” said Titch thoughtfully. “Deliver me those nine men and you can consider the matter settled. I will welcome Philip with a full plate and bottles of wine.”
“He does love a spectacle, our cousin,” said Master Erasmus, distractedly running a hand over his pressed shirt. “Now, may I continue with my day unmolested?”
* * *
—
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Erasmus Wilde delivered, as promised, nine wasted slaves, his sickliest possessions.
Titch began the venture by granting them a day’s rest, offering them a simple meal of maize and cod and clean, cooled water. Then, the next morning, he set them the task of cutting a workable trail through to the base of Corvus Peak, and only then did they begin to carve out a path halfway up the scree. A rough pulley system was constructed and set into place for hauling the instruments and heaviest objects the last of the distance to the top. Titch now spent his days among them. I would see them always from the corner of my eye as I worked at Titch’s various ongoing experiments. I would be fishing worms in a field, my nape stinging with sun, and I would see by the side of my eyes women and men flickering on the slope, carrying on their heads rolls of wicker, baskets of cloth, newly forged iron bolts that winked against the blueness of the sky. And though they were far away, I imagined I could hear them talking, the scorch of their bronzed voices. I thought of Big Kit. But she was not among them.
Of the nine, most of whom knew me and who averted their eyes from my person, I spoke only to James Madison, “Black Jim” as he was known. But when I asked after Big Kit, if she had no secret missives for me, he stared silently back with dark, pebble-like eyes. I understood then that to his thinking I had been swallowed whole by the white man’s world as even Gaius and Émilie were not. My eyes burned with the shame and anger of his rejection. The pain of it was bracing.
Slowly the trail was cut, and the strange, monstrous parts of the Cloud-cutter began to be transported towards Corvus Peak. I watched as heavy crates were hauled away by four people at a time, as sacks filled with iron ingots were thrown over shoulders. There were long ropes of varying thickness, and boxes of glass instruments that could not be dropped, and tarpaulins and oilcloths and great twists of fabric. I observed it all in wonder.
But all work ceased on the morning of Mister Philip’s arrival, for Titch did not trust his workers beyond earshot. The night before, Titch had eaten in preoccupied silence, and then, exhaling harshly, glanced at me in surprise and asked me to dust and make up an extra room. I felt a sudden dread; I had feared from the first that this odd, peaceable domesticity with Titch must end. I understood now, no matter his cousin Philip’s temperament, there would be less tolerance and more severity with another white master in the house. I felt a rope of fear uncoil in my stomach.
We set out in the carriage after breakfast, Titch insisting I ride inside with him. “You d
o not take up very much space, Washington, it is all right. Do close the door firmly.” He wore on his face the pinched gaze of a man meeting a punishment directly.
“Is he so very bad, Titch?” I asked.
Titch smiled in alarm. “Bad? Oh, Washington, have you been troubled all this while? Heavens no. Philip is a fine sort. A little melancholy, it must be said—well, very melancholy—but on the whole a rather sporting fellow.”
Titch fell to staring out the window at the passing fields; he did not appear entirely at ease. The carriage bumped and rattled along the roadway. He fixed his green eyes on me. “We three, Erasmus, Philip and myself, we played together and entered society in the same years. But a distance grew up between us as our lives and duties took over.”
Titch’s shoulders swayed as the carriage rounded a corner and began a slow descent. The sun was baking in through the windows. They did not open.
“Philip is very decent, very decent.” He smiled to himself, a distracted, sad smile. “For a long time now he has refused to shake hands, so frightened is he of being touched. Molecules, you see. He believes there are molecules about that will make him ill. My mother is the same way. No, Philip is lovely, on the whole. Only somewhat low-spirited, perhaps, and with a hearty appetite. If I hesitate, I suppose it is only from a general dread of company. We all of us wish for it, in our solitude, but on the eve of a great visit, we shudder.”
He drew out a slow breath, and in the silence there was the clatter of hooves on the dirt road. It was a beautiful day, the light blaring out over the rustling crops.
“Mine is a strange family, Washington, stranger than most, I think.” Titch clasped his hands in his lap, his hat upended on the seat beside him. His dark hair was mussed. I glanced out at the passing slave huts, dirt-hued and roofless. “I think I mentioned that Mother and Father are not well-suited. It is not the fate of my class to marry for affinity. We all have our duties, and must fight for our freedoms.” He looked at me, and blushed. “Well.” He was silent a moment. “My father takes a mechanical view of the world. He believes that man can know everything there is to know if only he can unlock nature’s secrets. And he has discovered much, it’s true, but the one thing that has defied all his powers of inquiry is my mother’s heart. He simply cannot begin to understand her. This I have much sympathy for, as I cannot fathom her either. She is almost irrationally headstrong. She claims it is because she was born in the north of the country, where the rain is very cold and does not let up all year.”