Delia Sherman

by The Freedom Maze

  “Huh,” said Africa and walked faster. “Anybody else hurt?”

  “Two men died. But Ned’s fine.”

  “And Poland?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “Huh.”

  At the Quarters, Africa ran up to the cabin next to hers and banged on the door. “Rhodes! Rhodes! Sorry to wake you, but I need your menfolk’s help. My baby’s been hurt.”

  The door opened, and Rhodes appeared, followed by two young men. Blinking and yawning, they followed Africa to the hospital and waited on the porch while she and Sophie went inside.

  “Afternoon, Dr. Charles,” Africa said brightly. “I hear you got a ’mergency on your hands. May be I can help you out. Pete, Ireland”—she called over her shoulder—“pick up that sheet and tote my Canny home.” She turned to Dr. Charles. “It was a Christian thing you did, sending for me, Dr. Charles. A hurt child is best with her own ma, and you got enough on your hands with them men to tend. With your permission, China can see to the cooking for a spell. China’s a real good cook. I trained her myself.”

  By the look of him, Dr. Charles was thinking fast. “As long as you keep an eye on these men as well. They’re going to take a lot of nursing, and Aunt Cissie can’t do it all herself.”

  “Of course, sir.” Africa bobbed a grateful curtsey and hurried off.

  Sophie was slipping out the door when Dr. Charles’s eye fell on her. “Sophie,” he called sternly. “Africa’s leave of absence doesn’t extend to you. We need every hand at the sugarhouse. You hear me, girl?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sophie, and ran out of the hospital straight to Africa’s cabin.

  There wasn’t any doubt in her mind that Africa needed her help more than Mr. Akins did. Mr. Akins had more important things to think about than Sophie. Still, she’d probably blown her chance of going back to the Big House as sky-high as the vacuum evaporator. And she didn’t care one bit.

  Canny’s burns might not have been extensive, but they were deep.

  As soon as she got her home, Africa dosed her with a spoonful of dark liquid from an earthenware bottle, wrapped her in a sheet soaked with water into which she’d rubbed basil and wild watercress, then sat singing over her softly. Sophie fetched jars and rags and chopped ham and okra to add to the gumbo and watched out for Saxony, who was just beginning to stagger around and get into things.

  At the end of the afternoon shift, Flanders returned from the fields with the news that Ned and Poland wouldn’t be coming home until tomorrow, if then. When he’d sluiced off his crust of cane sap and dust, he knelt beside his sister’s pallet and stroked her hand.

  Africa touched his shoulder. “Don’t go weeping before there’s a call for tears,” she said. “Come eat your supper and don’t lose hope.” She gave her son’s shoulder a shake. “Yemaya ain’t fixing to let our Canny die.”

  Next morning, the sugarhouse was still like a kicked anthill, with everyone running every which-way, doing whatever came to hand to clean up the mess. Sophie took a twig broom and set to work sweeping little bits of metal and rubber, cane dust and leaves out into the yard. With the crushers still and the steam boilers cold, the hum of voices was like cicadas in July.

  “Machine ruint anyways,” said a man scraping hardened syrup from the floor. “All burnt to hell and gone.”

  The man working beside him flashed a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Hush you mouth. Devil always listening when you talk ’bout sin.”

  “I ain’t saying whose fault it was.”

  “Guilty man think everybody know where the pig hid.”

  The first man shrugged and scraped harder. Sophie coaxed a pile of dark amber chips into the yard, came back in for more. Somebody had lit a row of lanterns up on the platform. By their light, she saw Dr. Charles, Ned, and Mr. Akins standing in a row in front of the leaking cylinder. With their legs apart, their arms folded, and their heads to one side, they looked so much alike Sophie would have laughed, if she’d had the heart.

  She moved a little closer to listen.

  Dr. Charles unfolded his arms. “How long do you reckon it’ll take to fix, Ned?”

  “Two-three day to patch it, sir, another day to check them pipes and all—I ain’t so sure ’bout the valve. It look fine—”

  “It is fine,” Mr. Akins interrupted. “There warn’t nothing wrong with it in the first place. Just a little clog, and I already done cleaned that out.”

  “Ned, you’re the sugar boss. What do you think?”

  “Might do if we lowers the pressure some. But a mended axle ain’t never so strong as a new one.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this one, I tell you.” Mr. Akins locked eyes with Dr. Charles, then looked away. “Anyway, a new one will take weeks to come from Chicago, if it comes at all. We can’t afford to shut down for weeks.”

  Dr. Charles rubbed his hand over his hair. “We can’t afford to lose more men, either. I’ll have to talk it over with Mrs. Fairchild, but I suspect we’ll decide to use the old one—at a lower pressure—until a new one arrives. And resign ourselves to a smaller yield. In the meantime, we’d better check the other pans and the steam coils and all the pipes and valves. I don’t want any more clogged pressure valves.”

  Mr. Akins assured him that the whole apparatus had been taken apart and checked under his own eye overnight.

  “When did you last sleep?” asked Dr. Charles. “Never mind answering, I can see you haven’t been off your feet all night. Go to bed, man. Ned and I will see to what needs to be done.” And he turned his back on Mr. Akins.

  Sophie, along with everyone else within reasonable earshot, had been listening to this conversation in a state of semi-suspended animation. As Dr. Charles was dismissing Mr. Akins, they edged quietly away. They exchanged glances, though, glances that said as clear as words, Mr. Akins in big trouble, Dr. Charles mad as a hornet, Oak River Plantation coming on hard times, maybe we get sold off to a worse master, what we going to do?

  Chapter 18

  Two weeks after the explosion, things were back as close to normal as they were going to get. Dr. Charles had fired the boilers up again, and the grinding was limping along, after a fashion. One of the men in the hospital had died, but the other, a man called Cuffee, looked like he was going to get better.

  Under Africa’s care, Canny was starting to heal. The cabin always smelled faintly of the basil and rosemary she put into the cool baths she gave her, and of the rum and tobacco she poured into bowls set under the designs she’d drawn by the door and the hearth.

  As soon as she washed off the sugarhouse stink, Sophie went to sit with Canny while Africa went to tend Cuffee. On her pillow lay a doll Africa had sewn out of burlap stuffed with black moss. It was dressed in blue calico and had a string of cowries hung around its neck. Canny called it Yemaya, and said the design by the hearth, the one with the stars and the little crosses, was Yemaya’s vévé. When Sophie told Canny stories about New Orleans—stories she didn’t even believe anymore—sometimes she thought the doll was looking at her.

  Along about nightfall, Ned and Poland finally came home. Since Africa was bathing Canny, Sophie dished up bowls of the everlasting gumbo while Poland, tired as he was, bounced Saxony on his foot and sang.

  Howdy my brethren, How d’ye do

  Since I been in the land

  I do mighty poor, but I thank the Lord sure

  Since I been in the land

  Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Since I been in the Land!

  When he stopped, Saxony crowed and bounced on his foot to let him know she’d like him to do it again. Poland groaned. Sophie grabbed the baby under the arms and swooped her through the air, making buzzing noises. Saxony squealed happily and squeezed the air with her plump hands. Ned laughed and told her to stop her foolishness. Even Africa smiled.

  “I sure be glad you-all having such a fine time,” said Antigua, “with my little sister knocking on death’s door.”

  Sophie swung Saxony down onto her hip. Saxony, balked o
f her game, yelled angrily. Antigua crossed the cabin, snatched the baby from Sophie’s arms, rested her cheek on her wooly head, and sobbed.

  Africa took Saxony and handed her, still yelling, to her father. “Ned, see if you can quiet this one before she frets Canny. I declare, there’s nothing like girl children for giving a mother gray hairs.” And she gathered her oldest daughter into her arms.

  By the time Antigua’s sobs had trailed off, the baby was gnawing peacefully on a piece of sugarcane and Sophie was standing as far out of the light as she could, hoping she wouldn’t get sent away.

  “Now you got that out of your system,” said Africa, “you want to say what’s wrong?”

  Antigua shrugged her mother’s arm away. “Ain’t nothing talking can fix. I better go now.”

  “Go?” Ned asked. “You just got here. Stay, eat supper with us.”

  “Miss Liza be wanting me,” muttered Antigua. “I don’t get back right smart, she pitch a fit for sure.”

  “Then what you come all the way down here for? You needing a tonic?”

  “No.”

  Africa took her daughter’s face in her hand and looked at her steadily. Antigua jerked her head away. Africa said, “You’re in some kind of big trouble.”

  “No, no trouble.” Antigua avoided her mother’s eyes. “Not if I gets back right smart. Just fretting over Canny getting hurt. And Miss Liza’s sore as a ’gator in a trap these days.”

  Sophie knew she was lying. They all knew. When Miss Liza was being fractious, Antigua was more likely to make a funny story out of it than cry. Sophie hadn’t seen Antigua cry since she’d found her in the Oak Cottage storeroom with . . .

  “Beau Waters!” Sophie exclaimed.

  Antigua went still as a hunted rabbit.

  Ned turned to Sophie. “What about Mr. Beau?”

  “Nothing, Pa,” Antigua said. “Sophie just working her mouth. I ain’t had no truck with Mr. Beau Waters.”

  Sophie watched Antigua twisting up her apron, heard the hopeless, flat tone of her voice, and decided the time for secrets was past. “But he had truck with you. I saw him, remember? In the storeroom at Oak Cottage?” She turned to Africa. “He was trying to kiss her.”

  Antigua turned on her furiously. “You just hush you mouth, Sophie, or on my Bible oath, you be sorry you’s ever borned!”

  “You hush your own mouth, girl.” Sophie had never heard Ned sound so stern. “I wants to hear what Soph got to say.”

  “Nothing! She don’t know nothing, telling tales to look important, Miss High-and-Mighty yellow bastard!”

  “Antigua!” Africa shot her daughter an old-fashioned look. “Shame on you. What you thinking of, talking ugly like that!”

  “Maybe it ugly, but it true,” Antigua protested. “She a white man’s bastard, and her mother nothing more than a whore, like Jezebel in the Bible that the dogs ate. I go drown myself in the bayou before I birth a white man’s child.” And she broke down into sobs again.

  Africa turned to Sophie. “Well, Sophie. Maybe it time to hear the whole story.”

  Sophie told them everything she could remember about what had happened in the Oak Cottage storeroom, riding-crop and all. “He got back at me by saying he’d seen me at Oak Cottage that Monday.” She turned to Antigua, who was glowering at her. “I’m so sorry. I guess I just made everything worse by hitting him. I’m sorry about breaking my promise, too. But I had to tell.”

  Africa and Ned exchanged a long look. “You did right, sugar,” Africa said. “You did right to whup that Beaufort Waters, and you did right to tell us about it. There’s some things shouldn’t be kept secret.” She hugged her daughter. “You come out back with me, baby, away from all the menfolks. We going to have a little talk.” And she led her out into the night.

  In the silence that followed, Ned and Flanders sat at the table and tucked into their gumbo. Sophie, who wasn’t feeling hungry, ladled out a bowl and took it into the back room in case the noise had wakened Canny.

  It had. “What Anti creating about?” she wanted to know. “And where Momi? I wants Momi. She ain’t sung over me yet.”

  “Your Momi’s seeing after Anti now, but she’ll be in directly. Now, you eat your gumbo, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  “’Bout Bouki and Compair Fox?”

  “You know those stories better than I do. This is a brand-new one, just for you. Once upon a time, there were three bears who lived in the swamp . . .”

  The story flowed out of her just like she was remembering it. By the time Miss Goldy had jumped out the window of Massa Bear’s Big House, Sophie had spooned most of the gumbo into Canny’s mouth. She brought her some water and sang to her until she slept, then slipped into the front room to find Flanders darning socks and Ned sitting by the fire with his corncob pipe, his face ashen with weariness.

  Ned looked up. “She’s asleep,” said Sophie. “Will Antigua be all right?”

  “I surely don’t know, honey,” Ned said heavily. “It in the Lord’s hands now.”

  Sophie thought that the Lord might have taken an interest sooner, maybe before Beau Waters had a chance to be born. But all she said was “Amen” and went to rake ashes over the fire to bank it down for the night.

  “Leave it, Sophie,” said Africa from the front door. “Time to sleep. You, too, Flanders. Ned, we got us some talking to do before the shift bell ring.”

  Antigua was with her, miserable and red-eyed. Sophie looked from her to Africa and Ned’s carved-wood expressions.

  “I ain’t going to sleep,” Flanders said.

  “Me, neither,” said Sophie. “I want to help.”

  Africa frowned. “You-all can help by not being a nuisance.”

  “If Antigua’s going to run away,” said Sophie, “she’s going to need help.”

  “I ain’t heard nobody saying nothing ’bout running away,” Africa said.

  “It’s the only thing she can do,” said Flanders.

  “Besides,” Sophie added, “she’s always wanted to.”

  “Ain’t you the wise woman?” said Antigua, but she no longer sounded furious, just tired half to death. “Let them stay, Momi. It ain’t no use nohow. If I dies in the bayou or I dies running North, at least I be shut of Mr. Beaufort Waters.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Ned. “Ain’t nobody going to die. You gots to run, I sees that. But you ain’t going to get far if’n you don’t have a plan. Sit down, now, and we talk about it.”

  He sat in his chair by the fire. Everybody else took up their usual stools around the table, except Antigua, who paced like she couldn’t bear to be still.

  “I ain’t got time to talk,” she said. “If’n he even look at me again, I kill him dead.”

  She meant it, and Sophie didn’t blame her.

  Africa fetched tin cups from the mantel and the coffee pot from hearth. “Here, baby,” she said, handing Antigua a fragrant cup. “Drink this. We’ll think of something.”

  “The trick to running away,” said Ned thoughtfully, “is you don’t run right off. You hides somewheres on the plantation until they tired of looking for you close to home, turned they eyes North—maybe a month, maybe more.”

  “She don’t leave the plantation, how you going to keep the dogs sniffing her out in time for a whupping before sunset?” Flanders asked.

  “I gots a plan for that,” said Ned. “Somebody take a pair of the runaway’s britches or some such and drag it towards the swamp, keeping to the trees like a runaway would. When he come to the water, he wade upstream a ways and drop the britches. Meantime, runaway climb on somebody back and ride to the hiding place so he don’t leave no scent. Dogs follows the britches to the swamp, maybe they finds them and maybe not. But they sure as shooting don’t find the runaway.”

  Africa’s face was a study. “You got it all figured out, sure enough, and I’d never of thought of it, not if I lived to be old as Methuselah. Flandy can use Anti’s petticoat to set the trail, and you can carry her to this hiding p
lace of yours. Where was you figuring to hide, Ned, when you up and run off from us?”

  Ned shook his head. “Well, that the fly in the ointment, sure enough. There ain’t nowhere on this whole plantation one man could hide for more than a day or two, let alone all six of us.”

  As Africa and Ned smiled at each other, Sophie remembered last summer, when Old Missy had sent her down to the yard. “I know one,” she said.

  Four sets of worried eyes turned to her. Antigua jumped up and grabbed her arm. “What you talking ’bout, girl?”

  “A hidey-hole, under the summerhouse in the maze. There’s a way in behind the camellia.” Sophie looked from one face to the other. “You really don’t know about it?”

  Antigua laughed. “We surely don’t. Black folks ain’t allowed in that maze, except the gardeners—and one nosey, high-yellow house slave, seemingly.”

  “Who got her wits about her,” Flanders said.

  Ned scratched his chin doubtfully. “This hidey-hole—you sure nobody know about it ’cept you?”

  Sophie considered. “Well, the mattress is rotted out and the lantern’s all rusted, so I guess it’s been a while since anybody used it. And the hole is real well hidden.”

  Africa shook her head. “Too risky. The gardeners probably know, and Old Hurley, he’s real tight with Old Missy. Old Hurley hears Antigua’s disappeared, he tell everything he knows, sure as Sunday morning.”

  “Old Hurley can’t hardly remember his own name no more,” Ned said. “We safe enough.” He touched Africa’s hand. “The summerhouse Antigua’s best chance, Africa. I say we take it.”

  Africa closed her eyes a moment, then nodded briskly. “Then we better get going. First bell going to ring soon, and if you ain’t in the sugarhouse by second bell, the fat be in the fire for sure.”

  Once the decision was made, things started to move very quickly. Antigua took off her petticoat and gave it to Flanders, who disappeared with it. Africa bundled food and water into a blanket, thrust it into Sophie’s arms, and hugged Antigua hard. And then they were out in the chill, clear night.