Trouble the Water_A Novel

by Jacqueline Friedland

Cora Rae fixed Gracie with a look of defeat. “He said my idea was ridiculous, that there would be no reason for Douglas to escort me. And,” she added with a look of puzzled distress, “he said he heard that Douglas already accepted the invitation to the ball anyway. With a guest of his own.”

  21

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  Clover’s eyes drifted over the cramped space she had been sharing with Thelma for the past seven years. With two straw pallets pushed together in the center of the floor, there was just enough foot room for a person to scuttle past on either side. There was a crooked table in one corner that someone had built for Thelma before Clover’s arrival and two wooden pegs poking out from the wall that they used for hanging damp clothes. It was fitting that white folks called these shacks the slave “quarters,” Clover sneered, each cabin being fat enough for only one quarter of a person, it felt like. And then they would go shoving two, three, sometimes even four folks in just one hut. The massa also gave them each a patch of dirt outside their cabins and told them they could tend a garden of vegetables. There weren’t no tending on the dried-up land by the cabins though. If there were, the massa would have planted his own crops there, not tossed it all like a gimcrack to his niggers. In the dim candlelight, she could hardly see the weeds growing in the corners of the dirt floor or the cobwebs that she brushed from the ceiling nightly, only to find them restored to order each morning. No, Clover wouldn’t miss it here. Save for Thelma.

  The sound of pebbles splattering against the cabin door signaled that a man had arrived, and it was time for her to get moving. Thelma raised herself off Clover’s cot.

  “Seems it’s gotten to the twinkling hour. You best get on,” Thelma told her as she bent to retrieve Clover’s small sack of clothes. “If you gone make it, you’ve got to hurry on your way.” She handed the bag to Clover and then blew out the candle on the side table, just as she did each night before they went to sleep. “I’m gone lay me down here to pretend some sleep now. I’ll be praying for you from the moment you walk out that door.” Thelma gave Clover a quick, strong hug in the dark cabin and turned away.

  “Now go on. Before this old lady gets too weepy and spoils your whole clearing out. And don’t you let that baby come to life until you get where you going.”

  “Thank you, Thelma. Thank you and God bless.” Clover said nothing more, else she might have erupted into tears at leaving the only person who had ever mothered her. If she made it to freedom, she would never see Thelma again. Thelma was too aged, too seasoned to ever run from slavery. And anyhow, fugitives had to lay low even after they made it to free states, unless they wanted one of the slave catchers to sell them back to their jilted owners. Lord, but Clover knew there were slave chasers aplenty out there. She was going to be peering over her shoulder for the rest of her days if she aimed to stay out of bondage for keeps. Neither Thelma, nor anyone else in Charleston, would ever know where she landed. Not if she did this right.

  Clover stepped cautiously outside, scanning in every direction to ensure she was alone. She had repeated the instructions so many times with Thelma, reviewing, reviewing. They’d been told that she’d hear tapping on her door when the coast was clear. She was to wait three minutes and then hurry herself, alone, to the property’s eastern edge. After that, the sounds of the owl would tell her which way to march. So long as she continued to hear an owl hooting, that meant it was safe to slog on. Otherwise, she was to hustle back to her cabin and wait for another day and new instructions.

  The night’s waning moon left little light by which to navigate, but Clover was glad for the cover of darkness. She could make out the other slave quarters, everything still and hushed, all the occupants surely abed at this late hour. She glanced regretfully toward Dicky’s cabin at the end of the little lane, hoping he’d find the courage one day to run off, too. Not that she was fool enough to think they’d find each other again if he did. Meantime, he’d have to choose another house slave to banter with behind the kitchen, another girl to stare at like maybe she carried stardust in her pockets.

  Clover started toward the eastern property line, crouching down as low as her belly would allow, the bulge of the baby kissing against her shaking thighs with every step. She listened for the owl sounds, wishing her thumping heart would settle down and allow her to hear better. Although she tried to watch for branches on the ground, anything that might produce a loud snap, the darkness was too strong. She could only step gingerly and hope. Suddenly she heard a dog’s sharp bark, and she froze. Only a few steps into the night, and the end had come already? A moment later, the dog barked again, and she realized it was far off, somewhere else in the Charleston night.

  She let out her breath in a shaky torrent of relief and tried to steady herself. In the cool night air, the droplets of sweat along her brow felt like her fear coming to life, telling her to turn around and clean forget it. Swabbing her face with her sleeve, she steeled herself to continue on. She had the baby to think of now. She began creeping forward again, every step taking her baby farther away from a life of bondage.

  Clover had been directed to pass through several shadow-filled properties before risking herself on the open street, to follow the owl through the proper yards. Now she heard only the rustling of leaves in the wind, then the silence of the night. She paused her steps, praying for patience, for God’s grace, and she waited. And then a faint hoot. She continued towards the owl’s ghostly call, worrying that the soft hooting she followed wasn’t actually coming from the men who’d been sent to help her. What if it was just a damn owl? Either way, she knew she was heading east, in the direction of the Ashley. There was no turning back now.

  She reached the property line and gingerly opened the wrought-iron gate that separated the Cunninghams’ parcel from the Wentworths’ land, so far removed from the big house. She uttered a silent thank you to Abel for oiling those hinges a few days earlier and closed the gate behind herself to avoid leaving clues about which way she had gone. Keeping flush to the shrubbery surrounding the property line, she continued east, wondering how that owl would know if she was following. She couldn’t say what she would do when she reached the street if no one was waiting, but now that she had left the Cunningham land, the biggest risk would be slowing down.

  If her eyes were serving her right, there was an opening toward the dark street, not too much farther along from where she lurked. She listened again for the owl, fighting back the tears of her panic. In the silence that greeted her, she made the decision to continue forward, owl or no. She wouldn’t wait like cowering prey to have a net thrown over her again. As she stepped onward, moving faster now in her resolve, she heard a rustling and then a whisper.

  “Pssst!”

  Clover spun around in the darkness, searching for the noise.

  “Pssst,” it called again. Then she could make out movement behind a shrub a few feet ahead of her, and she hurried over.

  “Get down lower,” a man instructed. Clover recognized him as one of the older free blacks who sometimes made deliveries to the Cunninghams’ home. He was small, like a child almost, but even in the dark, she could make out the sinewy muscles in his neck. “You ain’t gone be able to bring the bag,” he whispered, nodding toward her gunnysack. “Put any money you’ve got inside your clothes, and the rest you’ve got to leave behind.” When Clover hesitated, he added, “Child, there’ll be people to get you what you need along the way.” Clover reluctantly relinquished her bag, thinking of her spare dress, the thimble she kept for luck tucked at bottom, the two potatoes, nearly all her worldly possessions. The man dug a hasty hole with his hands and buried the sack beneath the lush shrubbery.

  At the sound of a horse clipping against cobblestone not far from where they were hiding, Clover gasped and tried in vain to somehow make herself smaller.

  “No, girl,” the man told her. “He right on time. This is just right.”

  The horse reached almost to the spot where they were
huddled and then came to a quiet stop.

  “Come now,” her companion looked about and then started toward the street, motioning with his hand that she should follow.

  As Clover crept around the tall shrubs she saw that one man was waiting, sitting on the driver’s bench of an old-fashioned covered wagon. He turned his head in her direction, and she lost all the air in her lungs. The man was white.

  “Hurry now,” her companion whispered. “Climb up in back.” This couldn’t be, that a white man would be saving her from bondage. She didn’t want to get into his wagon, for whatever he might want with her couldn’t be good, but she couldn’t tarry in the street either. She would have to surrender herself now, knowing her fate was in God’s hands. So she scurried around back, where her dark companion helped support her as she thrust her cumbersome frame into the nebulous interior.

  She was barely inside before the wagon started moving. She hastily sank to the wagon floor to avoid toppling over and peeked out the back opening to see her first chaperone retreating into the darkness. She had thought he’d be coming with them. Now she was alone with the white man. No one had warned her of a white man as part of her plans, and she worried it might be a trap. She wondered if she should jump, try her luck on her own.

  She shimmied deeper into the buggy, up near the front, and pushed her eye against the wagon’s canvas cover, stealing a fast glimpse out from the sliver of space where the fabric met the wood. As best she could tell from her limited trips around Charleston, it did seem they were still heading east, toward the river, a lone wagon in the viscous night. She put her hand on her tight belly. She couldn’t go jumping anywhere if she didn’t want to hurt her child, and so she would have to trust that man up front. She wondered what he would say, how he would explain their late-night drive, if somebody thought to stop them.

  Crawling around in the dark, she felt several large barrels in the wagon, the kind meant to carry whiskey. She crawled behind the cluster of cylinders, figuring that in any scenario, she should snatch the advantage of being hidden from sight. As Clover situated herself, they drove on at a leisurely pace. She estimated that the slow pace was meant to avoid suspicion, but she wished the driver would hurry her out of Charleston faster, if that was even what he was doing.

  Finally, the wagon stopped, and Clover’s breath caught in her throat as she tried to keep calm, wondering what was coming next. She heard the driver hop from his seat, and then he was standing there at the wagon’s back opening.

  “Come on out now.” He spoke gruffly, and Clover wondered at her options. She peeked through the chasm of two barrels and saw that he was waiting with his hand extended, in a kind gesture it seemed. Still, she faltered. He stepped closer in and told her, “Speed is of the essence, young lady. People live or die by the swiftness of their strides hereabouts. Come now, you’re at the next stop.”

  With no choice but to comply, Clover hurried off the wagon into a dark, forested area. She hoped the dense foliage and large weeds meant they were near the marsh, as they were meant to be. The man tethered his horse to a nearby tree and began walking deeper into the thicket.

  “This way,” he spoke quietly, but didn’t whisper.

  As they proceeded deeper into the woodland, Clover’s panic grew.

  “You sure this the right way, sir?” She continued to follow him at a brisk pace.

  “Sure it is,” the man told her. “You feel the ground getting softer under your feet, swampier? That’s the river coming. Now you just stay calm and keep hushed up. We’re getting closer to where you need to be. Chin up, girl. You’re on the road to freedom now.”

  Surprised by his familiar way with her, she failed to contain her growing curiosity.

  “Begging your pardon, but why you helping me, sir? What’s a white man gone get from helping a slave girl like me, except for a heap of trouble?”

  The man stopped and turned back to Clover.

  “I ain’t white.” She could hear the conspiratorial smile in his voice. “My grandmamma was black as wrought iron. Just all the other white blood I got in me is enough so I can pass. Comes in handy sometimes it does.” He turned and started walking again. “Watch those low branches now.”

  Clover wanted to ask him more questions. Was he free then, and living in Charleston? Or did he come down from somewhere else just to help her out? But remembering herself, the peril for both of them, she followed in silence. They labored through the brush, their steps growing louder as the ground heaved with water and muck beneath their feet. Clover could feel herself tiring, but she didn’t dare stop. Finally, she could see the riverbank.

  “This is it for me now,” the man told her. “Godspeed, girl.” Without another glance at her, he began retreating, falling back to the path they had just finished tracking.

  “Wait, that’s it? You just gone leave me here?”

  “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “Take a minute, and you’ll see.” He waited not another breath before disappearing into the darkness.

  Clover balked at having been abandoned. Wasn’t there supposed to be someone helping her the whole way? She’d never make it herself. Not now, when she’d been relying on getting the help. There was only going to be one chance, and this was it. She had to figure something out before she got discovered. She wanted her freedom badly enough to outrun Satan himself if she had to. Suddenly, she heard another owl calling out nearer the river. She walked toward the sound and nearly toppled over the next man who was waiting for her.

  “You late,” whispered an elderly black man. Clover could see another younger fellow crouching by his side. She felt her heart pounding so hard that she wondered if her chest might explode.

  “He just left me, that man. I didn’t know where to go.” She whispered through her shock.

  “That’s the way of the Underground,” the younger man said. “Everybody’s safer if people only know the one role they got to play. When your leg of the journey’s over, you get out before you meet the next fellow. When nobody knows nothing, there ain’t nobody to rat out.”

  “This way,” the older man directed her.

  Clover hurried behind them to a spot on the riverbank. The weeds and brush remained thick despite their position on the shoreline, as though the river had invaded the space of a forest that wouldn’t recoil. She looked toward the water, where a sliver of moonlight reflected just enough to prove the river’s existence before the water blended into the dark sky, all the way to oblivion, as far as Clover could see. Both men started clearing over-growth and weeds until they revealed a hidden raft, not much larger than the wagon in which she had been riding. It was a rickety looking thing, but it was Clover’s only hope. They all three climbed aboard. As they pushed off into the murky river, steam rising off the water into the cool air around them, the younger man handed Clover a coarse wool blanket.

  “Best you be keeping that babe warm.”

  She covered herself with the blanket and settled into the raft. She didn’t know where they were taking her from here, or why it made sense that they were floating south down the river. She knew only that these two men must have a plan, like those she’d met before them. Collectively, the group had gotten her this far, after all. She had to stay strong now, for the baby, and for Thelma and Dicky, who were counting on her to get to safety. As she pulled the blanket tighter around herself, around her swelling middle and her child’s future, she watched the Carolina shore passing by in the moonlight, and she wept.

  22

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  1846

  Douglas opened the door separating his shipping office from the familiar pandemonium at the wharf and scanned the scene before him. Despite the solitude he’d enjoyed at his desk, the atmosphere outside was dominated by the usual flurry of raucous activity. The harbor was crowded with ships of every shape and size, many readying for new journeys, even if they had only just arrived a mere day earlier to deposit their cargo or passengers. Douglas watched the frenzy of stevedores
and porters, mostly free blacks, hauling sacks and barrels to and from sailing vessels. So many men engaged in repetitive tasks. It made him think of Samuel Milton, standing hours at a weaving mill, engaged in much the same type of repetitive, endless labor. He began to make his way toward the market, navigating around pushcarts and stepping aside for oscillating men stacking bales of cotton. Abby also, he reflected, had spent too many years secreted in a dark factory, sentenced to a life of prepping and spinning fibers. It was mindless drudgery, for which she was entirely too fine. He and Samuel had agreed that Abby would remain in Charleston a year, but then what? He didn’t want her to go back.

  All morning, he had stayed focused on shipping business, rather than allowing himself to puzzle over the many recent distractions in his life. After the hours he’d just spent arranging sailing schedules and reviewing export revenues, he was rewarding himself with this stroll toward the market, glad for a break to purchase some refreshment. Now that he offered his mind the freedom to roam, his thoughts drifted back to the Montrose ball and the invitation he’d accepted the day before.

  Poor Lisbeth and Charles Montrose probably had not the slightest idea what to make of his response to their invitation. He had chosen it almost at random from amongst the stack of neglected mail on his desk, where surely another thirty invitations, all nearly indistinguishable from each other, had lain beneath it. The very same people who shunned him for nearly a year pre-ceding the fire now invited him to events with a fervor bordering on compulsion, as though he had become the city’s most sought-after social guest. It was as though his neighbors were offering him a collective apology through excessive invitation.

  Douglas had failed, deliberately, to respond to a single solicitation since the accident. He was amazed that the cards continued to pour in, but he supposed that was typical for Charleston. None wanted to be first to disregard the wealthy eccentric recluse. And what was the harm, they must have figured, since everyone knew Douglas never actually attended these events. He tried to imagine the stunned faces of old Charles and his fusty wife when they opened his reply card and found a positive response.