by Jodi Daynard
“I drank too much, and now I ’ave a ’eadache.”
“Poor Cassie. Have you no remedy you can take?”
“Oh, yes. I take ’eet already. ’Eet doesn’t work.” Here, she gave me a sheepish grin.
“And—and the others? They had a good time?”
“Oh, dey all have a fine time. Linda, she dance with Johnny till Cuffee can’t hold da bow no longer. Dey keep beggin’ ’eem for ‘one maw, one maw.’”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Cassie. Truly.” I kissed her on the cheek and let her get on with her work. I then quietly repaired to my chamber, where I allowed myself an hour of exquisite misery, replete with copious tears.
On Thursday, July 18, the Declaration of Independency was read from the western steps of the State House on King Street. To many, it was a vindication of all our suffering. Those Rebels whom my family had so long derided were now our leaders. This was now their country.
My family reacted to the news with silent dismay. Uncle Robert paced his house as if it were a prison. Were it not for us, he would surely have fled. But the confiscation of homes was escalating; soon, his physical presence was all that stood between us and homelessness. When, the following week, my uncle was asked to swear his loyalty to the Cause by signing the Association Test, he refused, rendering his position even more precarious.
Papa, however, signed it, much to my surprise. When I asked him why, he shrugged and said, “It is useless to swim against the tide—eventually, one will tire, and all will be lost.” But one night that same week, I overheard Papa arguing with Uncle Robert about it. In this argument, Papa sounded far less pragmatic than he had with me.
“We would do well to avoid this topic, Robert,” I heard Papa say. They were in his study, but the door was only partly closed. I stood in the hall, barely breathing.
“I’ve a right to be proud of my son, Richard. Just as you are.”
“Just so. I am vastly proud of Jeb. If I could take back our bitter arguments, I would. Surely you can appreciate that I begin to resent those warmongers who killed my son. I begin to think I lacked vision . . .” Papa’s voice trailed off.
“Vision? Of what, pray? A Rebel victory?” Uncle Robert laughed derisively.
“A vision not of war, Robert, but of eventual peace,” Papa said. “A vision of how we might be—better.”
Uncle Robert sneered, “As if anything could be better than the Empire! Honestly, Richard, I find your shift in attitude most worrisome.”
My father did not reply, and as he left his study, I snuck off to the kitchen, unperceived.
Just as the people celebrated in the streets, the smallpox invaded. It spread quickly. A smokehouse and guard were established at the great swamp. Everyone coming in to Portsmouth had to be “smoked.” We ourselves did not set foot abroad.
I recall only with difficulty those weeks in the summer of ’76. While it was a time of vast unrest without, within Uncle’s house there was only tedium, genteel discomfort, and mounting tension between Papa and Uncle Robert.
Mama forbade the Whipple slaves to enter our home. Without Dinah’s sweet and youthful energy, without Cuffee’s music, the house was doubly dull. I had not enough to occupy myself and began to feel quite low. Then, on September 22, we were awakened by a loud rapping on the front door. I peered out my chamber door to see Uncle descend the stairs in his robe and bare feet. Soon there came a piteous groan.
Mama emerged from her chamber. “Brother, what is it? What news?” she cried from the top of the stairs. We all emerged from our chambers. A messenger had arrived from New York. There had been a terrible fire, and my cousin, Lieutenant George Chase, had perished. I had moved out into the hall and heard Mama shriek, “Oh, poor Brother!”
“An act of God, Margaret,” Papa replied with some conviction. Mama took this as consolation, but in it I heard an almost spiteful sense of vindication.
For many weeks, the house lay draped in somber black bunting. The pendulums of the clocks were removed. We wore black armbands and jet mourning rings that Uncle Robert brought back from New York. He had been unable to bring the body of his son with him, however. Our Committee of Correspondence, the local Rebel governing body, determined that doing so might cause a riot, the truth of which I did not doubt.
It was never known who started the fire that decimated half of New York in September of ’76, but recriminations on both sides were bitter. As for what happened to my cousin, it was said he had left his ship and gone into a building to help his fellow officers. But I subsequently heard that this building was in fact a house of ill repute, and that Cousin George had been a frequent patron of it.
After Uncle Robert returned from New York, he spoke little. His once portly body lost flesh. Each morning, Cassie brought him her most special tisane and bathed him. She spoke to him soothingly, and I marveled at how she could be so kind to the man who at best ignored his slaves and, at worst, whipped and humiliated them. Indeed, Cassie was so kind to this sad specimen of a man that one day, as he sat in a steaming tub in the kitchen, he grinned at her as if she were the only good thing left on earth.
Mama was certain that her brother had gone soft in the head. She spoke to him as if he were a child: “Shall Brother have a walk today?” Or “Shall Brother come with me to market?” Uncle Robert always looked at her with a blank gawking stare and said, “I shall go with Cassie, this afternoon.” The town soon began to take note of old Uncle Robert strolling into town with little black Cassie by his side.
In the kitchen one morning that autumn, as Cassie made an apple crumble, I asked her why she was so kind to Uncle Robert. She looked at me sternly. “What dey teach you at meeteeng, Miss Eliza? I tink maybe your ears is plugged wit’ wax.”
“I only meant that—”
“I know what you meant. You tink I owe him nutteeng. That he’s not a good man. But only tink how alone ’ee is. Not a soul in de world care about ’eem. I could not treat a dog so.” She clutched at her neckerchief and I was about to interject a word when Cassie, warming to her subject, continued, “When it hurt inside you like dat, dat’s a good ting. Dat pain open your uncle’s eyes. He see Cassie now.”
“Sees you?” I smirked. “One more day of such kindness, and my uncle shall be hopelessly in love with you.”
“Pshaw, dat won’t nevah happen.”
“Why not? You think no master has ever fallen in love with his slave?”
But Cassie would hear no more such talk.
“Out! Out!” She shooed me away. But, leaving the kitchen, I wagged a finger at her.
“We’ll see, Cassie. We’ll just see.” An apple came flying toward my head, but, thankfully, I ducked in time to miss it.
In November, Congress ordered the building of nine ships of war: five enormous brigs of seventy-six guns, three ships of seventy-four guns, and a smaller ship of eighteen guns. Our town soon became an anthill of frenzied industry. Watkins was sent once more to Badger’s Island, this time to lay the keel of the Ranger.
Watkins, Cassie informed me, had now risen through the ranks not merely of the slave community but also of the shipyard.
“Dey say he become master shipwright now dat Colonel Langdon has gone off. He very busy now, but after meeting he like to walk with Linda.”
Linda, Linda, Linda. Ever since the Negro elections in June, Cassie had been narrating in tiresome detail the growing romance between Linda and Watkins.
“Yes, dey love to walk about town after meeting. Out to da windy point past the ferry. Oh, you should see dem, Miss Eliza. A more beautiful pair of niggers you nevah seen.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said sourly, “though I myself have discerned no special understanding between them.”
“Dat because dey keep it a secret,” she whispered. “You know de master wouldn’a want no black babe around here. Not dees days. He knew, he’d maybe sell Linda. Maybe even sell Johnny.”
I frowned. “Mama is quite attached to Linda now. And Uncle Robert would
be a fool to sell Watkins—”
“Dat may be. But you know I speak the truth. You know dey sell us when dey want.”
Oh, I did know it. I suffered greatly to remember Toby, and Cassie fell silent. But while it pained me to see Cassie absorbed in unhappy recollections, I was grateful for her silence upon the vexatious topic of Watkins and Linda.
21
THE DARK WINTER MONTHS PASSED SLOWLY THAT year. There was little to do, and even less to eat. I spent most of my time in the kitchen, with Cassie. During this time I only rarely saw Watkins, and I became convinced that he cared as little for me as I did him. My fleeting interest had been a product of loneliness and depression, nothing more.
One cool, early morning in March of ’77, I awoke to the sound of the birds making a ruckus outside my window. The sun had not yet risen, but the birds seemed insistent that I rise. With a great sigh, I obliged them.
Cassie was already up and preparing breakfast. As I entered the kitchen, she was peeling potatoes so sprouted they looked like giant spiders. I took one and attacked Cassie with it, making as if to bite her neck, when I was startled half to death by a knock on the back door. I turned to the window, to see a Negro boy standing there, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
He was a skinny youth of perhaps nine or ten. The boy’s eyes were clear and bright, his face long and sensitive. He was not familiar to me, and for a moment I assumed he was on some sort of errand. Then, moving closer to the window, I noticed his feet were wrapped in torn, filthy rags. A tattered sack slung from one shoulder. This was no local slave child.
“Cassie,” I whispered. Cassie turned, frowned, and, catching the vagrant in her sight, was on the verge of shooing him away when she changed her mind and opened the door a crack.
“What do you want, child?”
The boy said nothing.
“To whom do you belong?” I asked, kneeling down to face him.
Still nothing.
“Well, then, what’s your name? Surely you must have one?”
Cassie whispered, “’Ee look like my Toby.”
“A little bit,” I admitted. “But his eyes are not so dark. They are almost green.”
She regarded the child at arm’s length. Her mouth turned down with indecision, which made her look unusually dour. The poor child stood stiffly, no doubt certain that we’d push him back into the miserable world.
“Well, what shall we do with him?” I asked aloud. “We must at least feed him.” I motioned for the child to come in and sit on the chair. I then poured him a glass of milk. Cassie looked at me dubiously, then shook her head.
“Come on, Cassie,” I urged her. “The child needs a bath.”
With reluctance she set a large pot of water on the coals. The boy took fright at this, as if he believed we might boil him to a tender, edible consistency.
After he had eaten, Cassie went to undress him while I stood sentry by the kitchen entrance. We saw, to our horror, weeping, fresh scars, thick as my small finger, all down his back. We said nothing, but Cassie’s chin trembled as she helped him to step into the tin pail. He felt the water with his fingers before carefully stepping inside.
“Child, where do you come from? How did you get here?” I asked. Nothing. I said, “Well, but at least tell us how you arrived at our house.”
I saw his mind working. For, though mute with fear, I knew from his eyes that he understood us.
“Next door.” He shrugged. “What call themselves Whipples. A girl was out front, and when I tell her what I did, she pointed here. She said there was a good white lady—here.”
“Me?” I said, turning to Cassie.
“Well, it in’t me,” she replied.
After his bath, warm, dry, and full, the child closed his eyes and was asleep before Cassie had set him down upon her bed.
“Poor little fellow,” I said, turning to leave. “I don’t see what we are supposed to do. I don’t see how we can keep him.”
“No,” Cassie agreed. “Master Robert, he barely keep us.”
“Then—what can we do, Cassie? We can’t set him to the wolves. You saw him when I asked where he was from. He’ll never tell us. I suppose we must find out to whom he belongs.”
“And den?” she challenged.
“I don’t know. Let me think.”
My frock was wet all down the bodice, and I wished to change out of it. “I must go. I shan’t be long. Reveal nothing to anyone. And if he wakes, for goodness’ sake, entreat him to be silent.” Cassie nodded, and I left her alone.
I was in a heedless rush when I nearly collided with Mama on the stairs.
“Why, Eliza, you’re soaking wet!”
“Yes. I was attempting to . . . wash a soiled pair of stockings.”
“Wash stockings?” she exclaimed. “Why on earth? Really, Eliza. What do we have servants for?”
“It was a trifle. Phoebe was busy with the silver, and Cassie is just making breakfast.”
“Well, hurry up and put something on. You’ll catch your death like that.”
“Yes, Mama.” I moved to my chamber, changed out of my frock and donned a dry one. My heart beat so quickly that I grew short of breath. The child could not long be hidden, but I knew not what to do, nor whom to approach.
I sat upon my bed and stared out the window. The child had been deeply frightened—but was it from the whipping, or something else? If we turned him out, he would take to hiding in the woods. He could not last long out there.
I spent near an hour on the bed, thinking it over. I strove to recall what I had been taught at meeting. Was a sin committed for some greater good yet a sin? I wished I had paid more attention. But it was no use. The lofty precepts of theology were of little use to me at that moment.
I then turned my brains to our current troubles. In the war against our motherland, did our men not kill for a greater purpose? There must be such a purpose, I believed, for otherwise our actions would be inexcusable. My reasoning was hardly canonical, but it would have to do.
I rose and approached my uncle’s chamber across the hall. I heard him clear his throat and knew he was within. I knocked.
“Who’s there?” he said, startled.
“Cousin Eliza, Uncle Robert.”
“Well, come in.”
I entered my uncle’s chamber. He was sitting by the window overlooking Deer Street. He had a benign, contemplative air. His body had wasted away, and he looked far older and more fragile than when we first arrived. For a moment, I imagined he had no strength to deny me anything. I even allowed myself to imagine that he had softened. I came directly to the point.
“Uncle Robert, a child has appeared at our door, a poor Negro child who has been whipped to within an inch of his life. We could not wrest the name of his master from him, but I have no doubt that he has escaped from hell itself. I should like to keep him. For a time, at least.”
“Certainly not,” Uncle said without hesitation. “I have no means of feeding an extra mouth. Besides, God knows to whom this child belongs. I should by rights report him.”
Nothing moved save his mouth, but I had heard the force of will behind his breath. Uncle Robert may have loved Cassie, but his feelings toward slavery had not changed.
Some moments passed between us in silence. Twice I moved to leave my uncle’s chamber. But my heart pounded in my ears and would not let me slink away like a miserable coward. I turned to my uncle and asked God to forgive me for what I was about to do.
“Uncle Robert,” I began. “I am sorry to give anyone pain, but I must admit that I am privy to the tragic nature of poor Cousin George’s death—I speak of the house in which he died. To put it plainly, I know the circumstances.”
Uncle’s mouth gaped at the mention of my cousin’s secret. Had the Devil himself entered my breast? His face told me it was so. I continued:
“I shouldn’t like to imagine his excellent name besmirched and ridiculed among the good people of Portsmouth—and perhaps beyond.”
&n
bsp; This time, as Uncle Robert looked up at me, I saw the dart of pain lodge in his breast, and I swooped in to take my advantage: “The boy may apprentice under Watkins, at Colonel Langdon’s shipyard. They sorely need workers there now. Only think how, in but a few years’ time, you shall make a good return on his indenture.”
My uncle looked up at me without a word; his legs had ceased their restless pumping, and I do believe my willingness to blackmail him in this way came as a shock to us both.
“Uncle,” I softened my tone, “I am not insensible to the fact that you have taken us under your wing these two years. I know not how we would have survived without your aid. You are a good, Christian man and shall reap your rewards in the next life. Or perhaps even yet in this.”
The fog in Uncle Robert’s eyes cleared. Never would he have thought me capable of such villainy. He turned from me with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Well, have your nigger child if you must. Only keep him out of my sight. And if anyone is to go with less food because of it, let it be yourself.”
I curtsied deeply and left the chamber. Once in my own chamber, I felt my heart pound wildly. Yet no shame tainted my exultation, though the battle had been a dirty one.
It was just after eight the following morning when, taking up a shawl for me, a blanket for the boy, and an old canteen borrowed of one of the stableboys, I walked out the kitchen door heading for the ferry. The poor child was reluctant to leave the house. Tears pooled in his round eyes. Desperate for Cassie, he ran back into the kitchen and emerged a moment later grasping a small doll she had made for him out of an old rag and buttons. He held it as if it was the only thing he fully trusted.
Cassie stood in the doorway. She said, “Dat doll have powerful magic. He protect you.”
She proffered a sack, and I took it. Before leaving my uncle’s house, however, and with Cassie remaining in the doorway, I crouched down and held the child by his shoulders.
“I know you’re frightened,” I said. “But we plan to keep you safe and take care of you. It would be much easier for us if we didn’t have to call you ‘boy’ or ‘you there.’ Yes, it would be far easier if we had a name to call you. You need not use your old one, you know,” I encouraged him.