“Got to see Eden.”
“She wid Miss Susan ove’ in th’ east wing tryin’ yo’ chair.”
This was the worst possible news, for that was where the escape material was hidden. Not knowing what he might have to do, he hurried into the east corridor, and as he entered the room saw Miss Susan steering right for the cupboard containing the gun and the knives. “Miss Susan!” he blurted out. “I got tuh talk wid Eden.”
“Come right ahead,” she said, almost with gaiety, and showed him how competent she was becoming by wheeling about and leaving the room. As soon as she was gone, Cudjo whispered in an ashen voice, “Mr. Cline, he come afo’ time tuh git you.” They looked out one of the small windows and saw a sloop at the wharf and the slave-breaker walking up to consult with Uncle Herbert and Mr. Starch.
Eden did not falter, nor did she utter a cry. She merely grasped Cudjo by the arm and whispered, “They nevah gonna take me.”
“Let me think,” Cudjo said. “You hush. I got tub think.” She could almost see the host of ideas running through his mind, and for the first time realized that he had other capacities beyond his ability to master machines. “Ain’t nobody gonna touch that pistol, ’cause maybe they search us. Ain’t nobody gonna run away, ’cause we has got to follow a plan.” His right fist trembled as he banged out the alternatives. Then, as he stared at the menacing sloop, he thought he saw a solution. “Eden, sun gonna go down pretty soon. Cline, he not gonna sail back tonight. He be sleepin’ here wid Starch. You an’ me we jes’ settle down. Darkness comes, we wait one hour. Then we steals the boat and gits goin’.”
Ignoring his counsel against any suspicious act, Eden went to the cupboard and took one of the knives. “We try your plan, Cudjo. But if’n it doan’ work, ain’t nobody gonna take me.”
Breathing deeply to control his apprehension, Cudjo kissed her and went back to the forge. He was right. Mr. Cline had completed the purchase of Eden and the two fractious girls, but since it was growing dark, he was invited to spend the night with Mr. Starch; the fugitives had their reprieve. But just before sunset Mr. Cline told Uncle Herbert, “I’d like to satisfy myself that this here Eden is still of breeding age. I don’t want to take home somethin’ that’s too old to be of service.” So Uncle Herbert dispatched two slaves to the big house with orders to fetch Eden.
But when the messengers reached the mansion they were halted by Tiberius. “Yo’ stan’ back. Mastah Paul just send a man to fetch Cudjo, an’ I ain’t movin’ from here till he git back.”
When Cudjo learned that he must go to the big house, he started to tremble, not that he feared for himself, but he could almost see the sanguinary events that might soon take place. That he would support Eden to the hanging tree, he had not the slightest doubt. Secreting a sharpened file in his pant leg, he walked quietly to the mansion.
There old Tiberius was grumbling to the slaves who had been sent to fetch Eden. “What take you so long, Cudjo? You in trouble! You git in here!” And he led the way to the sunroom. Pushing open the door, he shoved Cudjo inside.
There sat Mr. Paul and Miss Susan, and near them was Eden, and when Cudjo stole a glance at her, she gently touched her bodice, indicating that her knife was ready. He allowed the fingers of his right hand to rest on the sharpened file; she nodded, waiting for the signal.
None came. Clearing his voice, Paul Steed said softly, “My wife and I are so glad to see you.” With a gesture of his right hand he added, “You may sit down.” Cudjo hesitated; he had rarely sat on a chair, and never on one covered in brocade. Paul laughed and said, “Sit down. It won’t bite.” So the two slaves sat on silk.
“My wife and I have been thinking about you,” Paul said quietly. “We’ve never known anyone kinder than Eden.” He nodded toward her. “And last week Miss Susan proposed ...”
“What I proposed ...” she started to say, then abruptly turned and wheeled herself about the room, braked the chair and ejected herself into an upright position before Cudjo. From this standing position she said, “We propose, Cudjo, to manumit Eden. And you we shall allow to buy your freedom.”
Freedom. The word sounded like thunder in his ears, yet it had been said so gently by the very people they were prepared to kill. In deep confusion Cudjo looked at Eden, but she sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes cast down.
“It’ll work this way,” Paul said in his slow, scholarly manner. “We manumit Eden with this paper, which we shall both sign tonight. She is freed, in grateful appreciation of the extraordinary services she has provided my wife.”
“I free?” Eden asked quietly.
“You are free.” He coughed, for what he had to say next was both painful and embarrassing. “We both owe you a great deal, Eden. In a dark period of our lives—”
“What Mr. Steed is trying to say,” his wife broke in, “is that we want to repay you for your loving kindness.” Before Eden could speak, she added, “Of course, I very much want you to stay on and help me. I still need you, even with Cudjo’s new chair.”
Paul had control of himself again, and said, matter-of-factly, “We’ll pay you a small salary, which we’ll hold for you. And when it reaches three hundred dollars, you can buy Cudjo’s freedom.”
“I already got twenty dollars,” Eden said.
“You have twenty dollars?” Paul gasped.
“Yes. Since I born I save every penny.” She made a gesture with her hands, as if catching something. “ ‘Here, Eden, for holding the horse.’ ”
“My advice would be, hold on to those dollars. You’ll need them when Cudjo sets up for himself.”
“What you mean?” Eden asked.
“When he’s free you’ll go to Patamoke, likely, and he’ll work in the boatyard, likely. Or maybe as his own carpenter.”
“When I be free?” Eden asked in a firm, unexcited voice.
“You are free now,” Paul said. “Cudjo will be free shortly ... when you’ve earned his price.”
And having said this, he produced a document of manumission which he and his wife had agreed upon, but before they could sign it, there came a loud fracas at the door, and Uncle Herbert accompanied by Mr. Starch entered the house and demanded of Tiberius where the girl Eden was. Voices were raised, and soon Herbert came bursting into the sunroom, with Mr. Starch close behind. “There you are!” Herbert cried with some petulance. “Why didn’t you respond when the slaves came?”
Paul and Susan were dismayed at this intrusion, and the former said, “Really, Uncle Herbert, my wife and I were having—”
“We’re not interested in you or your wife,” Herbert said insolently. “What we want is that girl.”
“For what purpose?” Paul asked, twisting his head with difficulty to look at him.
“Mr. Cline wants to inspect her. To see if he thinks she can breed.”
“What?” Susan asked from her chair.
“She’s been sold to Cline. Leaves in the morning.”
“You dare not sell my slave.”
“Mrs. Steed, this girl isn’t your property any longer. Hasn’t been for years. She’s owned by Mr. Steed, and I’ve decided to sell her.”
Before Susan could protest this astonishing information, Paul said quietly, “There was no consultation with me.”
“Of course not,” Uncle Herbert said condescendingly. “Mr. Starch and I never bother you with details. We run the place and do what we think’s best.”
Paul stood up, and suddenly his shoulders squared and his voice firmed. Looking his uncle directly in the eye, he said, “Uncle Herbert, you and Mr. Starch no longer run the plantation. Your responsibility ends as of this night.”
“But, Paul, I’ve been showing Mr. Starch how to handle things when I—”
“When you what?”
“When I retire. I’m sixty-seven, you know.”
“And you have just retired.” Moving briskly, he went up to his uncle and grasped both his hands. “You were of great help, Uncle Herbert, in the days of my confu
sion. Devon would have collapsed without you. But now the confusion is ended, and so is your tenure. You must leave the island tomorrow.”
“But Mr. Starch requires—”
“He requires nothing. Do you think I’d place Devon in hands like his? Mr. Starch, you have left my employment. I’m sure Mr. Herbert will find a place for you on one of the Refuge plantations.”
“But, Mr. Paul—” Starch began in a whining voice.
“I’ve no need of you, Mr. Starch, nor of anyone like you.”
“Who’s to run the plantation ... and the stores?” Uncle Herbert asked, a fat, pompous old man undergoing an intense deflation.
“Me,” Paul said. “With my wife’s help.”
“Your wife?” As if drawn by magnets, Herbert and Starch looked at the fragile figure in the chair, but as they did, she set the brake, activated the lever, and to their astonishment rose to an upright position and without assistance walked to them.
“Yes,” she said, “we’ve ignored this magnificent plantation for too long.”
Uncle Herbert started to comment, but his words gagged in his throat. Finally his eye fell on Eden. “Well, the sale of that one’s been concluded. Mr. Starch, keep her under guard tonight.”
But when the overseer moved toward the slave girl, Paul cried, “Stand back, damn you. Starch, I said you’d left my employ.”
“What’re you going to do about the girl?” Uncle Herbert asked.
“We’re about to manumit her,” Paul said, and with slow, patient force Susan walked to the desk.
“But we’ve already sold her! Paul, this girl is a troublemaker.”
“I know she is not,” Paul said quietly.
And then Herbert lost his control. “Better than anyone you know her—and you should damned well be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am,” Paul said. “I have been for fourteen years.” Susan took-his hand and said, “And now we shall sign the paper. Uncle Herbert, since you were technically in charge of Devon when this document was drawn up three days ago, I should think it wise to have you witness it.”
And she asked Eden to wheel the chair closer, and she sat down, obviously fatigued, took the pen and signed away their property rights in the slave girl. Paul dipped the quill in the ink and signed. Then he motioned to Uncle Herbert, who huffed and hawed until Paul said quite sharply, “We want your signature, Herbert. Your last official act on Devon.” And when the gray-faced man reluctantly signed, Paul said, “You look very tired. I should have relieved you of this tedious burden three years ago.”
Mr. Starch, who was outraged by everything that had happened, could be silent no longer. “To behave like this in front of two slaves ... By God, sir, it’s indecent” And he stomped from the room.
“He’s right,” Herbert said, looking with disgust at Eden and Cudjo. Then, turning his back on them, he stood facing Paul and Susan. “I did my best to save your plantation.”
“You were needed,” Paul said. “But now Devon requires a new kind of leadership.”
“And you think you’re prepared to provide it?”
“I do. With Susan’s help.”
Scornfully, Herbert turned to her. “He certainly gave you good leadership, didn’t he? Headfirst down the roof.”
“The years pass,” Susan said quietly. “Passion is spent and wisdom prevails. We’re going to make Devon even a greater plantation.”
“Not with him at the head,” Herbert snapped, and with disgust at the weaknesses of his family, he stomped from the room.
After he slammed the door, there was an awkward silence. Paul knew that he should never have spoken thus to a white man in the presence of slaves, but it had been done, and Eden, understanding his thoughts, began tidying the room, as if this had been an ordinary day. “Cudjo, neaten them books.” And as the two slaves moved about, Paul said, “Tomorrow our work begins.”
And Eden said, “Tomorrow could we be takin’ my paper an’ carryin’ it to the courthouse? An’ it be wrote in the book?”
“Oh yes!” Mrs. Steed cried. “I’ll sail with you.” When her husband looked up in surprise, she said, “I feel so much better, Paul. And I want to see these people married. I insist that Eden start her new life correctly.”
Paul nodded, and when Eden glanced at him she saw that in his eyes there was that same enigmatic look she had seen the night previous, when he had so frightened her. And she realized that it could never be deciphered: he had beat her, and loved her, and set her free.
She would not thank him for his generosity. Arranging the final pillow, she stalked from the room, but Cudjo went to each of his benefactors, bowing his great torso and saying, “We thanks you.”
They slept at the forge that night, bewildered, torn apart by a confusion of emotions they barely understood. Toward dawn Cudjo asked, “Afore we sails to Patamoke, mebbe I goes to cubboard. Git shed o’ the pistol an’ knives.”
But Eden had a different vision: “Never. Some day we gonna need ’em.”
VOYAGE TEN: 1837
IT WAS A TRIP THAT HARTLEY PAXMORE WOULD REMEMBER for the rest of his life. By 1837 roads of a rough, inadequate nature linked together the small towns scattered across the Eastern Shore; it was now possible, though hardly comfortable, to drive a wagon from Patamoke to the county seat at Easton.
But those isolated homes that stood at the remote ends of peninsulas were still accessible mainly by boat. Of course, rude trails led up the middle of each peninsula, but it was difficult for a horse to negotiate them. From the Paxmore house at Peace Cliff to Patamoke was an easy seven-mile sail; using tortuous land trails, the distance was a rugged thirteen miles.
So when young Paxmore, eighteen years old and self-reliant, decided to leave Peace Cliff to visit a settlement at the headwaters of the Miles River, he naturally elected to go by the small sloop-rigged boat his family owned. He told no one of his plans or his departure. He simply went down to the dock at dawn one Thursday morning and set forth.
It was not until dinner—that is, the midday meal—that he was missed. Younger children were sent running to the dock, and they returned with the expected news. “Emerald’s gone!” they shouted, and when the meal resumed they asked many questions as to where Bartley might have taken it. His gray-haired parents stared straight ahead, refusing comment, but toward the end of dinner George Paxmore could contain himself no longer. Slapping his big right hand on the table so that the dishes jumped, he cried, “I will be danged!” and hurriedly left the table lest he explode with laughter.
Elizabeth Paxmore tried to quieten the children, who burst forth with a dozen questions. Amy, the youngest girl, was of the opinion that he had gone to Oxford to buy hogs, at which suggestion her mother smiled. But she would not tell the children where, in her opinion, their brother had gone.
He was, at that moment, breasting Blackwalnut Point at the southern tip of Tilghman Island, setting his jib and mainsail for the long run to the north. He lolled in the rear of the boat, tiller tucked under his left arm, the toes to the sails lashed close to his right hand. The wind was coming so briskly off the port quarter that he was able to keep the Emerald well on course. And there he sat through the long afternoon.
From Peace Cliff to the head of Miles River was a distance of forty-seven miles, and he would not be able to cover this before nightfall, because the course, like all on the Eastern Shore, required many different headings, and for a considerable distance he would sail due south in order to make north. What might happen to his wind in that stretch, no one could predict, but it would certainly be a combination of reach-and-beat for the last twenty miles.
He was not concerned about the necessity of spending the night in his boat. He would merely move inshore, tie the bow to some projecting tree and catch what sleep he could. He was not hungry now, nor would he be at sunset, for his mind was so agitated that to think of food would have been repugnant.
He had seen Rachel Starbuck only once, at the Yearly Meeting of Quakers held in the rev
ered old meeting house called Third Haven in Easton. The Paxmore clan had not tried to reach the meeting by cart; they had piled into the sloop, left the Choptank at Oxford and made their way up the glorious Third Haven Creek and into Papermill Pond, where they tied up to the dock belonging to Mordecai Swain. They walked to the meeting house and as they entered, Bartley groaned. The perplexed Quakers were still debating the problems of slavery, for the outlying meetings were well behind Patamoke in grappling with them, and families like the Paxmores had to be patient while the others caught up. But Bartley was astonished to hear Swain arguing from the front bench that Quakers must do nothing to alienate the great plantation owners who still held slaves in bondage:
“In the long run, dear friends, and it is the long run we must bear in mind, we shall never succeed in abolishing slavery unless we have the open-hearted cooperation of those good Christians who now own slaves. We have convinced ourselves. Now we must convince them, and we shall not do so by proclaiming the destruction of their property rights.”
In uttering the phrase property rights Swain had unthinkingly adopted the vocabulary of those who defended slavery—“This slave is my lawful property and you cannot deprive me of his labor”—and the meeting rebuked him. Three different speakers chided him for falling into error, after which he rose again, speaking in a soft, conciliatory voice:
“It is precisely because slavery is protected by law as an inviolate property right that we face difficult problems when dealing with it. All sensible men, North and South, agree that it is immoral. But it is also legal, and it is this legal justification which ensures its persistence. To combat it, we must use only legal means. And that requires convincing slaveholders that society in general has changed, that what is legal should now become illegal. It is a matter, I insist, of persuasion.”
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