Seeking Eden

by Ann Turnbull

  “It is hard to be young,” she said. Her voice was abrupt, nervous. She rarely speaks in Meeting. “You are full of desires you cannot act on and ideas that sweep you away and beliefs that no one else seems to share. We need to rein in our young people, to keep them from too much contact with the world. And yet we must encourage that spirit, that challenge… We need to encourage them in their adventurousness, to see the light in them, to allow the spirit to fill them like the wind in a ship’s sail; for sometimes God speaks through children…”

  She spoke a little longer, faltering somewhat, then sat down. Her face was flushed.

  This was about me, I thought; I had stirred her to this. I felt she was on my side, perhaps defending me to George Bainbrigg. Others spoke – among them some visiting Friends from Maryland – but my attention strayed; I did not attend to what they said.

  When the meeting ended George Bainbrigg got up and began talking to the Maryland Friends. He kept Kate firmly at his side, and she gave me a little shake of her head. But then my father began moving towards him, and he placed Kate with Isobel and Mary before turning aside to talk to my father. I was deeply anxious to know what the two of them were saying about me; but even stronger was the urge to speak to Kate – and now I had an opportunity. I took Betty’s arm and said, “Come!” and we moved quickly across the room.

  I held out my hand, and Kate took it – a brief clasp: “Oh, Jos…” Then she said, “Betty!” and embraced my sister.

  Isobel turned to me. “We are very sorry, Jos – Mary and I. Sorry to lose thee.” She spoke stiffly. I felt her kindness towards me, and yet I knew she must be shocked and unable to sympathize with what I had done. To her the slaves were savages, and her loyalty to her employer was absolute.

  “I thank thee, Isobel,” I said. “And I wish…”

  I struggled to know what to say next – but before I could speak further George Bainbrigg came towards us, clearly eager to gather up his womenfolk and be gone. He nodded to me and said a polite “good morning”, but then he turned away, and they left. I caught only a last quick glance from Kate over her shoulder.

  Nevertheless, I had hope. Isobel would surely allow me to talk to Kate, even if she would not leave us alone together.

  Next morning I was at the front early. A news bulletin was posted there every day, but today it still showed the “missing – runaway servant” message I’d seen before. The Frances lay at anchor in the river, and George Bainbrigg’s counting house was open and busy, but I did not venture near.

  “No news?” my father asked, when I returned.

  I shook my head. Perhaps, I thought, Antony had found Patience. Perhaps they were together now, somewhere hidden.

  My father showed me around the bookshop and printing works. The new shop was to be at the front of the house, with a drop-down shutter to form a counter on the street, while the print works was in a separate building behind the house, with its own entrance as well as a covered passage from the kitchen.

  Betty joined us as we went into the print shop.

  “I’m to work here,” she said. “I’ll be the apprentice – the printer’s devil.” She wore a look of happy anticipation.

  It was hard to imagine that clean, empty space filled with the sound of a press and all the bustle of a print shop. But some tables had already been moved in, and my father had brought wooden font cases with him from England and set them up. Everything else was waiting to be unpacked, except the press, which had yet to be built.

  So we’d have my father, my mother who had worked as a printer in London, Betty as apprentice; and all three of them could take turns to mind the bookshop. And then there was the skilled typesetter who was coming from London. All we needed now was a man to operate the press.

  “You’ll have me until I find a new employer,” I said.

  The thought came to me that perhaps no other merchant would want me. Merchants talk to one another. And merchants who are Friends, who go to Meeting, are closer still; and Philadelphia was a small place. Perhaps I had lost my reputation within less than a year of my arrival in the colony. For me, it might come down to manning the press after all.

  But none of these thoughts was uppermost in my mind. That was focused on Kate. As soon as we had eaten our midday dinner I went upstairs, changed into clean linen and polished my shoes. There was nothing I could do about my bruised face, but I combed my hair, brushed my beaver hat and put it on, tilting it slightly to shade my face – though not too much, for Friends are warned against the vanity of wearing brims tilted at rakish angles. When I was happy with my appearance I set off for Walnut Street.

  George Bainbrigg would be out now, at his counting house or at the Society’s hall.

  Isobel answered my knock. “Jos,” she said, resignedly.

  From the open kitchen door came Hob, wagging his tail. He bounded towards me, pushing his head against my legs. Mary hovered in the doorway. At the sight of me she flushed red and looked anxious. I vaguely wondered why; but it was not Mary I had come for.

  I glanced about. The parlour door was closed. Hadn’t Kate heard the commotion?

  I straightened up and looked Isobel in the eye. “I’ve come to see Kate.”

  “I’m sorry. They’ve gone. Sailed before noon.”

  “Sailed?” All the bounce went out of me. “Who?”

  “Those Friends from Maryland. She’s gone back with them. Her father’s orders.”

  “Maryland! But – she never said! She talked to my sister yesterday. Why didn’t she tell Betty?” I was knocked hollow with shock and disbelief.

  “He sprang it on us this morning.” Isobel sighed. “We scarce had time to pack her things. Her linen wasn’t ironed and ready, and I’d clothes waiting to wash for her. Men – they don’t realize…”

  “When will she be back?” Why hadn’t I come this morning? What a fool I was! I’d waited, and missed her.

  “I don’t know.” Isobel looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and reproach. “His friends offered. And he says the change of company will do her good.”

  “The change from my company?”

  “Aye.”

  A silence fell.

  Her face softened. “Thou’d best go, Jos. The master might call back at any time.”

  So I was not welcome, even on the doorstep.

  I turned to leave. The dog was still there and thought I was about to take him for a walk. He gave a little bark of anticipation.

  “No, Hob.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Isobel. “Mary! Hold the dog. Let Jos escape.”

  I patted Hob goodbye. Mary reached to hold him; our hands brushed together, and I felt her put something – a folded piece of paper – into mine. I looked up, startled, but she had averted her face and was already taking the dog away – “C’mon, then, old dog” – and I quickly pushed the paper under the edge of my sleeve, nodded to Isobel and went out.

  It was an address, scribbled in haste: “Jerome Richmond’s house at Herring Creek, Anne Arundel County, Maryland. Write to me there. I’ll write when I can. I love thee. K.”

  Tokpa

  Now I see the two men clearly. They squat on the ground like my people, and eat with their fingers. They are brown-skinned, and their black hair hangs below their shoulders; one of them has feathers tied into his hair. Under their mantles they are bare-chested and hung about with strings of beads and small pouches. Their faces are strong and fierce, and if I were not hungry, if I did not need to cross the river, I would hide from them. But they have a canoe.

  I stand, and step forward, opening my hands to show I mean no harm.

  They look up, startled, and seize spears. I let them see that I am alone and unarmed. I speak in English: “Please, I need help. I must cross the river.” I point to the canoe and then to the far bank.

  The older man signals to the other to put down his spear. They talk rapidly to each other in their own language. Then they beckon me forward, motion to me to squat. They put fish on a platter of l
eaves and offer it to me.

  The food warms my stomach. In a mixture of speech and gestures I explain to the men that I want to cross the river, to find Darby Creek, John Outram’s plot. I remember those names that Jos told me. When I say “Darby Creek”, I see that they know it. But they question me. Where am I from? Why am I a fugitive? I tell them about Miata. “We are slaves. Slaves of the white men.”

  They talk some more. The younger one looks at me: at my hair, which is so different to theirs, my dark skin. He touches the little drum that I have kept slung from my belt ever since I left Barbados. I can see that he likes it. I untie the drum, and give it to him. He examines it, to see how it is made. I know he wants to tap out a rhythm, but the forest is listening. He fastens the drum to his belt.

  The older man begins speaking to me. His English is hard to follow, but I listen carefully and watch his gestures and find I can understand. He tells me, “Our people are the Lenni Lenape. We have lived long in this land. We are at peace with William Penn’s people. We want no trouble. But we will take you across the river. We will guide you to Darby Creek. No more. We will not help you steal back your woman.”

  I thank them. When we have cleared away all trace of their camp they take me in their canoe across the river. On the far side they hide the canoe and we walk on through the forest.

  They are hunters and trappers, these men; young, strong men – two brothers. Their faces are watchful; they miss nothing. They belong in the forest, like me. I know that when I am gone they will hunt.

  We come to a creek that runs sparkling over rocks and stones. They tell me the name of this creek is Karakung.

  “But the white men call it Cobb’s Creek,” the older one says.

  We cross at a shallow place. Now the two men become more cautious. I see that some of the land ahead of us has been cleared for farming and staked out in plots. There are large tracts of woodland between the plots and we move through these until they show me, ahead, the line of another creek, bordered by willows.

  “Darby Creek,” says the younger brother.

  Distant figures are moving about. There are carts and horses. I hear the sound of an axe chopping wood.

  “We will leave you here,” says the older one. “We do not know this man John Outram, but many white men settle around this creek.”

  They turn back, promising to watch for me if I return, and vanish silently into the woodland.

  Now I am alone, and ahead of me lies the white men’s land. How will I ever find Miata? I am afraid to ask any of the white men. They will know I am a runaway and send word to the city, to George Bainbrigg. I move closer, cautiously, from tree to tree, until I am within breathing distance of a man working his plot. He does not see me.

  He has servants – I see them come and go – but no black people. I move on through the woodland to another plot, then another, always watching and listening. I know how to stay hidden in the forest, making no sound; but I need help, and I see no one I dare ask. Perhaps Outram’s plot is on the other side of the creek? The shadows grow long.

  I come to a place where I see a servant girl close by in a yard, gathering up clothes that had been spread on the bushes to dry. Her basket is almost full; in a moment she will take it indoors. She is a white girl, but this may be my last chance. If I speak to her, will she help me – or will she scream and bring people running?

  I take a chance, creep close to the fence, call softly, “Sister!”

  She turns, and sees me. Her eyes widen. She glances back at the house, then walks towards me. She looks scared.

  “Sister!” I say again. “Help me? Please?”

  “What do you want? You a runaway? You want food?”

  “I look for my woman, Miata.”

  She begins to shake her head.

  “John Outram bought her.”

  “Outram? Two, three days ago?”

  “Yes!” My heart leaps. She knows.

  “Go that way.” She points. “Four plots, all new, all along this creek. The fourth is Outrams’. I heard they got a black woman.”

  I thank her, and go before she is caught. I travel along the line of the creek, keeping to the woodland, count four plots, stop near the last. There is a yard with hens scratching in the dirt, a dog tied up. The house smells of new-cut timber. I wait till the light goes. The dog hears or scents me, and barks; I move further away. A light appears and glows within; people’s shadows move. I think: I will stay here, under this tree, till morning. But then I see the door open, a bar of light in the yard; someone steps out.

  Miata! Even in the half-dark I recognize her from the way she moves. She has come to round up the hens and shut them away. I hear her calling them.

  I don’t go close because of the dog; but when she has shut the hen house and turned to go back indoors, I give a low whistling call. It’s the call of a bird of our homeland and we used it at the Crosbies’ as a signal.

  Miata’s head goes up; so does the dog’s. She quiets him and creeps towards the fence. I meet her there. We reach out, touch each other, clasp hands.

  “Miata.”

  “Tokpa.”

  Tears run down her face.

  “They hurt you, Miata?”

  “No! I cry because I’m happy to see you. So happy. How…?”

  “Jos helped me escape. But they are searching for me – I must stay hidden. Miata, this land, this forest – we can hide here, we can hunt; we can live. Come with me!”

  She puts a hand on her flat belly. “Soon I’ll begin to grow big. When the time comes I’ll need women to help me.”

  I tell her about the forest people, the Lenni Lenape. “They will help.”

  She says, with a nod towards the house, “She doesn’t know yet about the baby.”

  “Outram woman?”

  “Mmm.” She grips my hand. “Tokpa, I’m afraid to run. But I’m afraid to stay here. They could sell my baby – take it away from me.”

  “You think they will?” The thought fills me with horror: my child, my first-born, sold away.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “They own me. They can do anything.”

  She looks at me. I know she is fearful. But she says, “I’ll go with you.”

  We make a plan. She’ll come out at night, when the Outrams are all asleep. I settle under a tree and wait.

  The moon is high when she appears. The dog stirs, but he knows her; she quiets him.

  I help her climb over the picket fence and we move quickly away, into the woodland. When we are out of sight of the settlements, deep in the forest, we stop and embrace.

  Twenty-four

  “Jerome Richmond’s house at Herring Creek…”

  I wrote at once to Kate. Ships left frequently for the southern provinces – but how long would it be before she received it? I remembered seeing Maryland on the map in George Bainbrigg’s office: it was far away; you’d have to sail down the length of the Delaware to the sea, then into Chesapeake Bay… I could only write; I could not go after her. She was lost to me until he chose to bring her back. They’d lived in Maryland, Kate had told me, before coming to Pennsylvania, and had friends there – among them, no doubt, the people we’d seen at Meeting yesterday. Kate probably knew them well – must have done, if her father had sent her away in their care. I imagined him telling them of his troubles with the runaways and how his apprentice had turned Kate against him. There had been a woman in the group; no doubt she’d offered to take charge of Kate. I felt a great resentment of this woman.

  But Kate had gone unwillingly; that was clear. And she’d somehow cajoled timid little Mary into slipping me a message without Isobel seeing. Her father would not be able to keep us apart. We’d write. We’d wait. And if he thought this separation would weaken our love for each other he was mistaken.

  I thought of those other two. Had Antony found Patience? Were they safely away? I longed to feel I had done the right thing in freeing Antony.

  Tokpa

  We find shelter under some tr
ees; stay there till daylight. Miata has brought food and blankets, and we make a shelter of bent branches and lie wrapped together all night. I put my hand on her belly but I can’t feel the baby – “Too young! Too soon!” says Miata, laughing – but I believe he is there with us, an unborn spirit, all three of us Kpelle, far from home. Miata and I kiss and talk and ask the spirits of this land to watch over us. We hear animals snuffling and grunting, but they don’t come near. In the morning we make a small offering of food to the spirits before we leave.

  The day is fair and warm. We hear no pursuers. We feel happy. We wash in a stream and gather cherries to eat. We follow a trail. I think it is a trail of the Lenni Lenape people. It leads west, along the creek. We will go far from the new city, I decide. We will live in the forest, and the Lenni Lenape will be our neighbours.

  Miata grows tired, and we stop to rest beside the trail. I remember how I lay low for a day on the other side of the river and my pursuers passed me by. We would be wise to do that again, I tell Miata. We leave the trail and find a sheltered place by the creek. Miata brings out the last of the food: cornmeal cakes and berries. She lays this food carefully on fresh leaves, and offers it to me. We eat, and talk quietly together. But all the time I keep watch and listen. I know men will be out searching for us now. Once, in the distance, I hear voices, and dogs barking, and my heart beats fast; but they are far off, and the sound grows no louder.

  As night falls we feel safer. We huddle under the shelter of a fallen tree and wrap ourselves close in the blankets, trusting the spirits to protect us again.

  Next morning we rise early and brush away all trace of our camp. Miata rolls up the blankets and ties them for carrying. We walk on. The trail leads deep into the forest, and we hear all around us sounds of birds and running water. Squirrels leap from tree to tree above us. Once, coming into an open glade, we startle several deer that run with a crash of branches into the cover of the trees. I know these sounds might alert our enemies. We pause, and listen, but hear only birds and rustling leaves. I think: Once we are far away from the white men’s settlements, once we are among the Lenni Lenape, we will be free. We will hunt. We can survive in this forest. And I stride out. I feel like a free man already.