Her friends looked on like a pack of jackals. “You mean Jacob? Naw, he was born free, down in Ocracoke. He’s got family there still.”
“And do tell, do you keep him around to wait on y’all? Or are you actually friends with him?” She seemed serious, but with someone like Maddie, you could never rightly tell.
“Sure, Jacob is one of my best friends. He’s a real jack o’ trades, that one. He’s a pilot and boat builder, and he can fish most folks out of the water. You should get him to tell you some of his yarns—they’re famous ’round here.”
Maddie snorted the air through her little nose. “If only we could understand his African gibberish.”
Red piped up. “We don’t usually speak with niggers, unless it’s to tell them where the work is.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and clenched my jaws. I hadn’t heard that word in many years, and I wished to God it had been snuffed out along with slaving.
Then, out of the blue, Abby said, “Stop it, you all.” And there was something in her schoolmarm manner that bade the cussed fools to shut up. “During that storm we had a few days ago, Jacob tried to resuscitate a drowned man, a man Benjamin here had pulled to land all on his own through the stormy sea. I saw it all right before my eyes. Jacob is a good man, a hero.”
They all stared at Abby with dead eyes. They were trying to make sense of her little speech, but I could tell they were having a devil of a time. I doubted they’d ever heard a planter’s girl step up for a Negro before.
Then Abby looked over at me with proud eyes. And with that one look, I knew that she had been acting so off-put because of the present company she was keeping. She was ashamed of them, but couldn’t say so.
I thought the whole thing was done with, but Maddie declared, “Getting pulled from the sea by Benjamin might be a real treat, but getting resuscitated by a Negro—you’ve got to be joking! I’d rather die!”
I snorted. “I doubt the sailor would have cared what color the man trying to save him was.”
Then Red said, “Seems to me like he died because a Negro was working him over! Should have been a white man doing that kind of work.”
I hollered, “Now, you can’t talk that way out here, folks. It ain’t like on the mainland. And it shouldn’t be like that there, either. What the hell is wrong with you Edenton folks?”
At that, I turned to leave them, even though it didn’t feel right to leave Abby there on her own.
Maddie whined, “Awww, Benjamin, come back, now. Lordy, we didn’t know you were such a nigger lover!”
I squirmed all over and walked on fast, ahead of the bumping cart on the pathway, ’til their liquored snickerings faded away. There was no telling what those uppity folks put the blacks through back in Edenton. I doubted they were freer now than they were before the war ended.
I shook my head in disgust. Out here, Jacob was as free as any man, with work to do and money to be made. Not too long ago we were out on the ocean fishing for blues, and he said to me, “I’m one lucky man, to be born and bred on the Outer Banks. On this here boat, on this here water, I’m free to do as I please.”
And I had to agree with him. During the war, I had seen many runaways smuggled to Union territory on the boats of black watermen just like Jacob. With nothing but cotton sacks pulled tight over their only possessions, they’d hide in cotton bales or trunks on the boats. Then they’d hide out in the swamps ’til things died down, a whole town of runaways living on the lam.
That’s how bad they wanted their freedom. And the Banks was a better place than most for them.
But now I saw what Abby was up against, with friends like those folks. They were likely all in the same club as her pap. I thought she was real brave to try to go against the tide like she was. But the more I thought on it, I was afraid for her, too. That tide was mighty high, maybe too high to get over on her own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Benjamin Whimble
July 25, 1868
… but it occurred to my thoughts, what call, what occasion, much less what necessity, I was in to go and dip my hands in blood, to attack people who had neither done nor intended me any wrong—who as to me were innocent …
—ROBINSON CRUSOE
SATURDAY MORNING WAS GROWING MERCIFUL HOT WHEN I MET UP WITH Mister Sinclair on the docks. He didn’t even want to fish today, and I had planned a nice outing on the ocean, hoping to catch a breeze, as well as some sea bass.
The change in plans made the hairs stand up on the scruff of my neck. This threatened to become a custom.
He pulled on my elbow. “Come on. Let’s get a drink at the hotel. It’s too damned hot out here.”
I’d never actually set foot inside the hotel. It was a place for rich vacation folks, mostly. Folks exactly like Mister Sinclair. Even me and Pap conducted our fishery trade around back.
“I don’t think I’m dressed proper for that. Don’t I need shoes?” I asked, hoping to waylay the man.
But he just snickered. “Not if you’re with me.”
On the way, he curled his arm around my shoulders, weighing me down even more. He said softly, “Ben, you heard of a man called Elijah Africa?”
I nodded, a lump growing in my gizzard. His red beard looked like red ants feasting in the sunlight. “I heard of him, sure. He’s the preacher of a church on Roanoke Island. Every Sunday the church is packed to overflow, every colored man, woman, and child coming to hear his sermoning. Some say on a good day you can hear his voice clear across the Roanoke Sound.”
With a name like Elijah Africa, I thought even white folks might want to see what he was all about. But I just knew Mister Sinclair wasn’t all perked up about the man’s sermoning.
Mister Sinclair talked real quiet now, as we walked through the hotel, a-bustle with folks getting ready for their outings. “He’s the one we’re looking for. This preacher—Elijah Africa—is not who he says he is. He’s a bad man, Ben. The worst of the worst. We think he’s a runaway slave called Elijah Bondfield. But we’ve got to make sure before we take him.”
“What do you think he did?” I choked out.
“Back in fifty-nine, he killed his master and mistress with a hatchet. He’s been on the run ever since.”
My eyes bulged. “Lord almighty! And you think a killer like that has turned preacher?”
His put his finger to his lips to shush me, even though the hotel tavern was empty so early in the morning. “You can see why folks want him caught. We ’ll take him down, then the rest of the darkies that follow him will go down with him. I’d say Jesus himself handed him to us, it’s so perfect.”
I wasn’t so sure Jesus would involve himself in all that muck, but I kept that to myself. Mister Sinclair walked over to Jeb Mitson, the hotel desk man, and gestured with him for a bit. Then he came back with a grin on his face. Soon after that, Jeb came running over with two glasses of whiskey, straight up.
Mister Sinclair took a big drink, then waited for Jeb to skedaddle. “None of us knows what he looks like, except the dead man’s oldest son. Trouble now is, we’ve gotten so many different descriptions of the reverend that we can’t be too sure he’s the one we want.
“People say he’s as tall as me, the biggest Negro they’ve ever seen. Then others say it’s just his girth that sets him apart. Then others say it’s his manner of presenting himself, real uppity. It’s made us wonder a bit.
“’Course, my comrades want to string him up first and check for identification later. The reverend is trouble any which way you cut it. But Hugh—he’s the Bondfields’ oldest son—really wants to keep him alive, if you catch my meaning. And you can’t blame him. He’s been dreaming about his revenge for years.”
The whiskey tasted like poison in this warm room. I said, “What did the man look like then?”
“Hugh remembers him to be real tall. ’Course, he was just a boy back then. But he did recall Elijah’s holier-than-thou demeanor. Apparently he was always trying to learn.” He looked at me like he
was about to give up the secret of a magic trick. “The only thing he remembered for sure that could set him apart was the brand of the letter B on Elijah’s right shoulder blade. Hugh’s daddy branded all of his slaves, for just such an occasion as this.” He glanced around and whispered, “You think you could set eyes on that brand for me?”
I rasped, “How in tarnation you expect me to do that? I ain’t in the habit of laying eyes on half-naked men! Why don’t you get one of your own people to look on him?”
“Look, I told you I need a local man, someone to blend in and move around like he knows what the hell he’s doing. We don’t want to scare him off. It took us this long to find the bastard, and we damn sure aren’t going to let him loose again.”
He held his glass back and shot down the rest of the whiskey. His breath, when he whispered at me, smelled of stale onions, tooth rot, and alcohol, the nauseatingest scent I ever sniffed. “The men involved in this are upstanding leaders—state politicians and attorneys-at-law and such. They can’t be sneaking around some little island, peering at Negroes. You understand? We can’t be implicated in this.” He smiled a wicked devil kind of smile at me. “I’ve been helpful to you this summer, haven’t I, Ben?”
I nodded. “I appreciate it all, Mister Sinclair. Don’t want you thinking I don’t. But …”
He turned his face away from me then. “Are you shirking your responsibilities to me, Ben? Because if you are, I can take away everything I’ve given you, like that.” He clapped loud, making me jump. “My friend needs me, and I need you.”
He snapped his long fingers at Jeb and ordered another round.
I said under my breath, “What are you going to do with him if you find out he’s the one?”
“That’s something you don’t need to know. We’ll take care of our own business. We don’t like to involve the authorities, usually. They’re too soft these days to do hardworking white folks justice.”
That didn’t sound good at all. The whiskey simmered in my stomach and my damp shirt was all sticky on my back. I mumbled, “I still ain’t got the foggiest notion of how to sneak a peek at his backside, Mister Sinclair.”
He laughed. “You’re a clever boy. Just figure it out, will you?”
He leaned back on the stool, stretching his long back. “I’ll be staying at the cottage, you know. Crops are growing up now, and I aim to enjoy myself for a couple of weeks. Come find me when it’s done. And listen, don’t let on to him what you’re doing, and be quick about it. Justice is waiting on you.”
Justice, he said. I truly wondered how I had gotten into this fix. This was some low-down, tricky kind of work, only fit for the world’s scummiest scofflaws to carry through. It made me mad, thinking Mister Sinclair wanted me to do it. He must think I’m desperate.
But I reckon I was, at that. I wanted that Hatteras job like I’d never wanted anything before. And I wanted to keep seeing Abby, and learning how to read and write. Didn’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t meet up with her on the porch anymore. I figured if I did what he wanted, the debt would be paid and I’d never have to worry about this mess again.
And too, Elijah Africa was right respected around these parts. He might not be the man Mister Sinclair wanted after all. From what I’d heard, those kind of men had been known to make mistakes in their pursuit of “justice.”
I said my farewells and slipped off the stool and out the door. ’Round the back of the hotel I hurled up the whiskey into a patch of sea oats. It smelled undigested, pure liquor, and I featured that little patch of green choking on it and dying a quick, painless death by the end of the day.
Sleep was not easy coming that night. Pap was blowing air out his mouth every other second—sounded like a snake hissing at me. He’d like to slumber the days away if he could, life was stringing him out so.
But me, I just rolled around on my pallet, wracking my brain for a way to help Mister Sinclair. The man meant business, that much was clear. Taking my leisure just wasn’t an option. But how to get sight of a naked Negro was a new and different kind of dilemma for me, and my brain just wouldn’t latch on to an idea. The only thing I could figure to do was to peep at him through his cabin window.
But I didn’t have the slightest idea of his daily habits. I reckoned I’d have to watch him for a good while. Watch him without him knowing I was watching him. It was the only way I could think of doing it.
So without catching a wink, I went over to the island before Pap even awoke, so I wouldn’t have to tell him lies about where I was off to.
I took the old dory boat and rowed around to the western side of the island. I docked at an old Union pier and set to walking toward the colony, not really knowing what-all I was scheming to do.
It was Sunday morning, a sunny day with birds singing and water slapping. But I had no appreciation of the beauty, like I usually did. I felt sick all through my guts, to tell the truth. I felt like a puppet, and the evil spirit of Mister Sinclair was working the strings. I wouldn’t wish the feeling on my worst enemy.
I soon found myself at the Sheltering Oaks Baptist Church. With a big sigh, I crouched myself in a stand of thick oak and holly trees, where I had a view of the comings and goings. Didn’t know what else to do but wait ’til the service started.
Wasn’t the first time I’d done such a thing, watching animals go about their lives from a secret spot. Just like hunting, really. And I was damn good at hunting.
I recalled the first time I took Mister Sinclair duck hunting in Currituck, back in November. He had surprised me with his skill, near about killed as many birds as I did on my best days. He fired his gun over and over, steady and quick, and I saw the splashes of the canvas-backs hitting the water. He recharged again and again, black smoke lingering around him. He just wouldn’t stop ’til he was sure they were all dead.
He was so pleased then that he booked my services for the summer. Now that first hunting adventure seemed like some kind of fate for us. I wish I’d never met the man, but then I wouldn’t have met Abby. And that is what Abby would call “ironic.”
’Round nine o’clock a whole bunch of black folks came ’round to the front of the church. Squinting through the twisted branches, I counted about a hundred of them. They were a mighty scraggled lot. Unshaven, raggedy old clothes, bare feet, skinny limbs everywhere you looked. Only a couple of the women folk had bandannas and bonnets, and the rest were bareheaded, their snarled hair blowing free.
But they all seemed in right happy spirits. Laughing and talking and singing made their way to my ears, and the folks weren’t even in the church yet.
Then I saw the preacher stroll up, hands full of papers and Bibles. Even from my spot, I could see he was right tall and strong-armed and as dark as a ripe blackberry.
He greeted the folks kindly, patted the children on the heads and gave them some sweetmeats from his coat pocket. They all followed him into the church like they were pups following the scent of cooked meat.
When I heard his voice boom out his sermon through the church windows, I had a hell of a time featuring him to be the killer Mister Sinclair said he was. That voice was like God himself. The man was meant to be a preacher—no one else could have sounded as right as he did.
After the sermon, he led a chant in his low, deep voice, and the Negroes answered him in the same tone. It wasn’t really singing so much as shouting and, every once in a while, moaning. I heard them stamping their feet and clapping their hands in time to the song. It was miles apart from any church song I’d ever heard.
Just when I thought they were done, and moving on to some other kind of worship, they’d start up again, in a new and different tone of voice, sometimes sad, sometimes happy.
And I thought it to be true, what I’d heard about hearing those voices clear across the Roanoke Sound. Jesus Christ could hear them, clear up in heaven. I reckoned that was the point of it all.
Listening to the noise, I forgot my problems for a minute or two. The birds in the trees a
bove me took off on account of the jollification. And then I was up in the warm blue sky, looking down at myself, my poor body sitting in a tight spot. I had pity for that body and for what he felt he had to do to get ahead in this world.
When the service was over, I watched the folks stream out of the church and spread out down the island. The preacher took his time moving on, though. He talked to folks for a good long while before he made his way toward the colony proper, younguns and mamas in tow.
I followed along in their dust, slowly and with my cap down over my eyes. They soon met up with Lincoln Avenue and meandered down the lane for a while. No one took any notice of me, just like Mister Sinclair had reckoned. Finally I saw the reverend go up to a house about midway down and walk in and close the door. Folks called their good-byes to him as they continued on down the lane. I’d found his house, I figured.
It was a tidy-looking cabin, and his garden was one of the few that was free of weeds. I caught sight of some real nice tomato plants. I thought of the preacher building that house with wood he split himself, and I tried to block out the hopeful feeling he must have had as he hung the doors on their hinges.
I looked around for a good spot to watch him from. All along the back of his plot were some scrubby yaupon bushes and red cedar trees, the ones that weren’t fit to fall under the ax. Could hardly see the sound through the hedge, it was so heavy. Preacher probably left it all there to protect his yard from overwash. It all looked like a pretty good hideout to me.
I backtracked a bit up the lane, then walked down the slope of sand along the sound and snuck into the brush from the back. I burrowed into the thick part of the bushes quick, the fallen leaves pricking my knees and palms as I crawled. Scared a couple of meadowlarks out, their tweetings fussy and trespassed against.
And there I sat, cross-legged as a Indian, peering out of yaupon bushes like I didn’t have a lick of sense about me. Felt like I was in a fever dream. Couldn’t even think straight, my whole head pounding like a drum. What was I going to do, catch him running buck naked around his backyard?
Diann Ducharme Page 14