Crossing the River

by Caryl Phillips

  The room had a heavy, musty smell, the drapes having been pulled against the world for three whole days. Edward, as though suddenly conscious of his lamentable appearance, heaved himself into an upright position, rubbed a hand into his face, and then, with some difficulty, stood and made some efforts to stretch. Madison remained standing by the door, unsure as to whether or not he wished to witness this spectacle. Then, through a small chink in the drapes, a slither of light hit Edward and, taking this as a signal, he drew back the coarse material and flooded the room. Madison lifted his arm to his face and awaited his cue, but for the moment at least Edward chose to remain silent. He carefully positioned himself at the foot of the bed and, as he pulled on his leather shoes and strapped them into place, he observed Madison out of the corner of his eye. Madison chose to ignore him, and instead looked all about himself, studying the sparsely furnished room. There was something about the small room, the many hours of darkness having cooled the air and created a welcome respite from the familiar heat, which suggested to Madison that whatever business had to be carried on in these parts had been concluded. Madison knew, without his former master saying anything, that Edward was ready to leave. He expected an announcement.

  Edward cleared his throat and spoke slowly, but forcefully. ‘I wish,’ he began, ‘to be taken immediately to where Nash Williams conducted his affairs.’ Madison looked hard at Edward. Detecting Madison’s opposition, Edward repeated himself. ‘I wish you to conduct me to the Nash Williams settlement.’ Madison nodded once, careful to make his nod an acknowledgement of his understanding the words, and not an agreement to act upon them. ‘Well?’ asked a suddenly animated Edward. ‘When do we leave?’ ‘Perhaps in a day or two,’ suggested Madison. ‘How long do you wish to tarry there?’ Edward snorted in disbelief, and then laughed out loud. ‘A day or two! We leave today. And I will tarry there as long as I desire.’ Madison adjusted his posture, and then explained to Edward that should they leave immediately they would inevitably have to spend this coming evening in a settlement between the capital and Nash’s own former place of residence, for the distance was simply too great to be covered in what remained of this day. A river canoe would have to be engaged, and a navigator found. Supplies would have to be purchased. Precautions taken. Madison listed off the various stages of preparation that still needed to be passed through, but even as he spoke he could see that nothing was going to deflect the smiling Edward from his chosen course. The man’s mind was fevered with determination.

  The river wore a rutted frown where their slow progress had disturbed her sleep. To either side the somber banks, cluttered with trees, shrubs and vines, were pressed by a thick, brooding undergrowth that was heavy with years. As dusk approached, the heat still hung low like a ceiling above their heads. Madison uttered some words in the local language and the native helmsman, a reed of a man who could clearly boast no association with books, and whose liquor-stained breath announced his common mode of recreational activity, began to paddle towards the northern shore. The mosquitoes redoubled their attentions, and Edward crushed another against his blotched arm and asked if this place was to mark their journey’s end for this day. As the canoe neatly avoided the clean stones, and fetched up on a muddy shelf, Madison replied that he knew of a settlement hereabouts where, according to his calculations, they should receive a peaceful welcome. However, he advised Edward that perhaps he ought not to mention the true purpose which lay behind their visit, for there were those who would not consider a pilgrimage to the site of Nash Williams’s demise an honorable journey.

  Madison followed a stamped-in path through the tall grass, and Edward, ignoring the irritating bite of a nail in his boot, and the native tracked close behind. A little more than one hundred paces from the river bank, Madison stopped suddenly and pointed through the bush towards a village. Tall brown huts were huddled together within a clumsy fence, and a faint wind lifted human voices and stirred Edward’s curiosity. Choosing not to speak, Madison edged forward through the drooping foliage and into the heart of this village which, much to Edward’s consternation, was soon revealed to be not a native settlement, but one populated by Americans who spoke English. The primitive nature of the conditions shocked Edward, who until now had not the slightest notion of the poverty-stricken rural existence which enveloped those Christians who chose not to settle in and around the capital town of Monrovia. Men, women and children appeared to be living alongside hog, goat and fowl as though family members, and Edward had never before witnessed such scenes of squalor, not even on the worst-run plantations in his native America.

  Night fell quickly, the sky bereft of stars, the moon hidden behind drifting clouds. Fires were lit and the bush closed in as though a cloak were being draped around them. Madison left Edward alone with the native, and withdrew to negotiate for some shelter in which they might pass the night. An exhausted Edward slumped to the ground and removed the offending boot. Madison soon returned and informed his former master that there was only one small hut available, and they had been encouraged to share it. However, continued Madison, if his former master wished, he would happily sleep outside with the native. Edward would have none of this. Madison sat down on the dirt beside Edward and reached for a gourd of water. He drank deeply and then enquired if Edward were hungry, for the settlers would soon be roasting a goat. Pleading excessive fatigue, Edward insisted that he simply wished, if possible, to retire. Madison put the gourd to one side and, sensing the white man’s discomfort, he helped him to his feet and together they crossed the strangely quiet village until they reached their lodgings. Once there, Madison deposited Edward at the mouth of the wooden hut, and then he moved off to relieve himself in the bush. Edward watched Madison’s dark, glistening, sweat-filmed skin until his former slave was swallowed up whole by the blackness of the night.

  When Madison returned, Edward was already undressed and basking in the glow of the lamp. Two straw cots lay next to each other, and an uneasy Madison looked around at the personal articles which littered the hut. In order that he might mask his discomfort, Madison spoke quietly as he unbuttoned his clothes. He asked Edward if there were any real purpose to their visit in a practical sense, or if this was nothing more than a tribute to Nash? Or perhaps a promise that was being kept? Edward listened intently to Madison, his eyes fixed upon his former slave. Madison removed his shirt. And then Edward shared with Madison his intention of taking the children of Nash Williams back to America and offering them the possibility of a proper Christian life amongst civilized people. Madison turned away and said nothing in reply. Outside the hut the nocturnal screeching and sawing began to build towards its terrifying nightly pitch. Edward asked the semi-clad Madison if he thought the children would return with him, and how many there were, and how many wives did Nash truly possess? Madison drank in all of these questions, and then turned back and stared directly into the face of his former master. Half of Edward’s face lay shrouded in thick shadow, the other half changed hue and shape according to the nature of the dancing flame. As Madison moved to answer this volley of questions, Edward reached up his hand in a gesture of silence, and then leaned forward and took Madison’s hands in his own. He spoke softly to Madison of how far he felt from home, from those like himself, and how he desired to be once more among his own people, both white and colored. Madison stared back and said nothing in reply. And then he felt the pressure increase upon his hands, and Madison took this as a signal to speak. ‘No,’ he said. The word echoed around the small hut, its weight and purpose obscuring the sounds of nature without. And then, after what seemed an eternity, Edward Williams gave up Madison’s hands and lay back on his straw cot.

  Shortly before noon the following day, the native helmsman leapt nimbly from the canoe and hoisted it up and on to a narrow strip of shingle. On the river bank lay scattered the rusting remains of tools and old field equipment. Edward and Madison waded ashore. They stood at the water’s edge and listened to the strange creaking of the trees. Then
Edward watched as his former slave found a secure footing and hoisted himself, by means of a strong vine, up and on to the summit of the muddy bank. With some aid from both the native and Madison, Edward was able to follow. There, spread before him, he could now see the litter of brown cones that constituted the final Nash Williams settlement. Madison took the lead and ushered Edward forward and into the unkempt filth of the place. Everywhere he turned, Edward’s eyes were assaulted by natives who squatted idly, their bodies resting awkwardly on their foundations, like their infantile shacks. Edward attempted to paint his face with a thinly benevolent smile, but realized that he was ill-equipped to disguise his true feelings of disgust in the midst of this specter of peopled desolation. A seemingly undisturbed Madison shepherded Edward through the dried and drying mud, until they stood outside of the house of Nash Williams. Madison pointed at the straw grass hovel, encouraging his former master to enter, but Edward stepped back in revulsion. What could possibly have occurred in the Christian soul of his Nash Williams to have encouraged him to make peace with a life that surely even these heathens considered contemptible? Again Madison gestured to Edward that there was nothing to block his path should he choose to step forward and enter, but Edward recoiled. His eyes climbed to the sun, which had now reached its highest point in the sky, and for some moments they stood together in silence. Then Madison pulled an over-large handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his damp brow. Edward looked across at his former slave, and hoped that this man might usher him towards some understanding of the disorder that lay hereabouts. But Madison had about his person an air of nonchalance. And then it struck Edward with a terrible force. He was alone. He had been abandoned. Madison would not even meet his eyes. ‘Madison?’ His former slave ignored him. Recognizing the hopelessness of his predicament, Edward opened his mouth and drew deeply of the foul air. He decided that he would sing a hymn, in order that he might calm his beleaguered mind. The natives stared at him, and watched as the white man’s lips formed the words, but no sound was heard. Still, Edward continued to sing his hymn. The natives looked on and wondered what evil spirits had populated this poor man’s soul and dragged him down to such a level of abasement. Their hearts began to swell with the pity that one feels for a fellow being who has lost both his way and his sense of purpose. This strange old white man. Madison turned away.

  II

  WEST

  Curling herself into a tight fist against the cold, Martha huddled in the doorway and wondered if tonight she might see snow. Beautiful. Lifting her eyes without lifting up her head, she stared at the wide black sky that would once more be her companion. White snow, come quickly. A tall man in a long overcoat, and with a freshly trimmed beard, chin tucked into his chest, looked down at her as he walked by. For a moment she worried that he might spit, but he did not. So this was Colorado Territory, a place she had crossed prairie and desert to reach. Hoping to pass through it quickly, not believing that she would fall over foolish like a lame mule. Old woman. They had set her down and continued on to California. She hacked violently. Through some atavistic mist, Martha peered back east, beyond Kansas, back beyond her motherhood, her teen years, her arrival in Virginia, to a smooth white beach where a trembling girl waited with two boys and a man. Standing off, a ship. Her journey had been a long one. But now the sun had set. Her course was run. Father, why hast thou forsaken me?

  Lucy would be waiting for her in California, for it was she who had persuaded Martha Randolph that there were colored folks living on both sides of the mountains now. Living. According to Lucy, colored folks of all ages and backgrounds, of all classes and colors, were looking to the coast. Lucy’s man had told her, and Lucy in turn had told Martha. Girl, you sure? Apparently, these days colored folks were not heading west prospecting for no gold, they were just prospecting for a new life without having to pay no heed to the white man and his ways. Prospecting for a place where things were a little better than bad, and where you weren’t always looking over your shoulder and wondering when somebody was going to do you wrong. Prospecting for a place where your name wasn’t ‘boy’ or ‘aunty’, and where you could be a part of this country without feeling like you wasn’t really a part. Lucy had left behind a letter for her long-time friend, practically begging her to come out west and join her and her man in San Francisco. It would make the both of us happy. And although Martha still had some trouble figuring out words and such, she could make out the sense in Lucy’s letter, and she reckoned that’s just what she was going to do. Pioneer. She was going to stop her scrubbing and washing. Age was getting the better of her now, and arthritis had a stern hand on all parts of her body. She would pioneer west. Martha pulled her knees up towards her and stretched out a hand to adjust the rags around her feet. She blocked up the holes where the wind was whistling through. Stop. The doorway protected her on three sides, and she felt sure that she should be able to sleep here without disturbing anyone. Just leave me be. But she felt strangely beyond sleep. As though her body were sliding carelessly towards a kind of sleep. Like when she lost Eliza Mae. Moma. Moma.

  Martha unglued her eyes and stared up into the woman’s face. ‘Do you have any folks?’ It had started to snow now. Early snow, huge, soft snowflakes spinning down out of the clear, black sky. ‘You must be cold.’ It was dark and, the woman aside, there was nobody else in sight. When they had set her down here, they had told her that this was Main Street, as though this information freed them of any responsibility. But she did not blame them. A few saloons, a restaurant, a blacksmith, a rooming house or two, indeed this was Main Street. ‘I have a small cabin where you can stay the night.’ Martha looked again at the woman who stood before her in a black coat, with a thick shawl thrown idly across her shoulders and a hat fastened tightly to her head. Perhaps this woman had bought her daughter? Was Eliza Mae living here in Colorado Territory? There was no reason to go clear to California if Eliza Mae were here in Colorado Territory. Eliza Mae returned to her? ‘Can you get up?’ The woman stretched out her gloved hand and Martha stared hard at it. Eliza Mae was gone. This hand could no more lead her back to her daughter than it could lead Martha back to her own youthful self. A small cabin. This woman was offering her some place with a roof, and maybe even a little heating. Martha closed her eyes. After countless years of journeying, the hand was both insult and salvation, but the woman was not to know this. ‘Please, take my hand. I’m not here to harm you. I just want to help. Truly.’ Martha uncurled her fingers and set them against the woman’s hide-bound hand. The woman felt neither warm nor cold. ‘Can you stand by yourself?’ Inside of herself, Martha laughed. Can this woman not see that they abandoned me? At least they had shown some charity and not discarded her upon the plains. But stand by herself? Martha Randolph. Squatting like a filthy bag of bones. Watching the snow. Don’t know nobody in these parts. Barely recognizing herself. No ma’am, she thought. I doubt if I’ll ever be able to stand by myself again. But no matter. I done enough standing by myself to last most folks three or four lifetimes. Ain’t nothing shameful in resting now. No ma’am, nothing shameful at all. She squeezed. The woman’s hand squeezed back. ‘Can you stand by yourself?’ Martha shook her head.

  I look into his eyes, but his stare is constant and frightens me. He shows no emotion. ‘Lucas?’ He turns from me and scrapes the wooden chair across the floor. He sits heavily upon it. He lifts his hands to his head and buries his face in his cupped and calloused palms. Eliza Mae runs to me and clutches the hem of my dress. The light in the lamp jumps and the room sways, first one way and then the next. I pull Eliza Mae towards me and hide her small body in the folds of my dress. Lucas looks up. He opens his mouth to speak. His face is tired, older than his thirty-five years. The weight of yet another day in the field sits heavily upon him. But not just this. I run my hand across Eliza Mae’s matted hair. On Sunday I will pull the comb through the knots and she will scream. Outside, I can hear the crickets, their shrill voices snapping, like twigs being broken from a tree. ‘M
aster dead.’ Eliza Mae looks from me to her father, then back to me. Poor child, she does not understand. ‘Lucas, we going to be sold?’ Lucas lowers his eyes.

  The sun is at its highest point. The overseer is looking across at me, so again I bend down and start to pick. Already I have the hands of a woman twice my age, the skin beaten, bloodied and bruised, like worn-out leather. The overseer rides his horse towards me, its legs stepping high, prancing, almost dancing. He looks down at me, the sun behind him, framing his head, forming a halo. He raises his whip and brings it down on my arm. I don’t hear the words that fall from his mouth. I simply think, Master dead. What now? I bend down and again I start to pick. I can still feel his eyes upon me. And the sun. And now the horse is turning. It dances away from me.

  I stand with the rest of the Virginia property. Master’s nephew, a banker from Washington, is now our new master. He has no interest in plantation life. He holds a handkerchief to his face and looks on with detachment. Everything must be sold. The lawyer grabs the iron-throated bell and summons the people to attention. Then the auctioneer slaps his gavel against a block of wood. I fall to my knees and take Eliza Mae in my arms. I did not suckle this child at the breast, nor did I cradle her in my arms and shower her with what love I have, to see her taken away from me. As the auctioneer begins to bellow, I look into Eliza Mae’s face. He is calling out the date, the place, the time. Master would never have sold any of us. I tell this to my terrified child. Slaves. Farm animals. Household furniture. Farm tools. We are to be sold in this order. I watch as Lucas soaks a cloth in cold water. He comforts me and places it first on my forehead, and then on that of his child. Last night he came to me, his eyes grown red with drink. He confessed that death would be easier. This way we are always going to be wondering. Always worrying. His voice broke and he choked back the remaining words. Then he took me in the circle of his arms and laid me down. Until the old horn blew to mark the start of a new day.