Hunting Midnight

by Richard Zimler

  “We must leave now,” I told Morri.

  “Now?! We can’t do that – it’s too soon.”

  “No, what we cannot do is wait for them to catch us.”

  I told her then to tell Weaver and the others to get ready. As she had originally planned, we would first take Mr. Johnson, Master Edward, and the two black foremen prisoner and lock them in one of the barns. I believed I’d thought of everything essential until she said, “Martha, Weaver’s wife, is at Comingtee with their children. They expect us to leave tomorrow. We can’t go without them.”

  *

  As the curfew bell had already rung, Weaver was back in his cabin. Morri and I found him there and she asked him to slip outside with her. He took the bad news stoically and went back in to make a plea to Saul, Sweet-Pea, and Drummond for their help. Regretfully, they refused. Nevertheless, Weaver, Morri, and I agreed on a plan. We would go to Mr. Johnson’s cottage and take him prisoner. Using his keys, we would fetch rope from the First Barn or the Big House and tie him up, then proceed to take the two foremen prisoner. Lastly, we would restrain Master Edward and carry him to the barn as well. Then Weaver would run to Comingtee to bring back his wife and children.

  Morri fetched us two swords from under the piazza. While she waited outside the kitchen, Weaver and I crept along the path to the overseer’s house, which was between the Big House and the wooden bridge over the Cooper River to Comingtee. His door was locked, but a side window was open. It squealed when I eased it up. With our hearts pounding, Weaver and I awaited the sound of Johnson stirring from his bed. Hearing nothing, I eased inside over the sill. Weaver held a lighted candle, but a lamp on a table inside already cast a yellow light through the barren parlor. A staircase led up to the open door of the bedroom. Weaver joined me.

  Mr. Johnson had to have heard the creaking of our footsteps on the bare planks of his floor. I gripped my sword in both hands as hard as I could. When he appeared on the stairs, I would run for him and slash my blade across his legs. He’d likely get a shot off at me, but Weaver would be able to take him before he could load a second ball.

  So tight was I holding my sword that my wrists were aching. Despite the heat, I felt chilled to the bone. Surely a minute had passed by already without a sound.

  My sword upraised, I went up the stairs and peered in the doorway. The bed was empty. It was too dark to tell for sure if Johnson was standing in a corner waiting to put a bullet into my head. I slashed my sword before me and jumped inside the room.

  No one was there.

  Weaver then had the good sense to go to the window. About two hundred yards away was the bridge to Comingtee. By the light of the moon we could see two men seated there. One appeared to be Johnson. Both men had muskets.

  *

  Mr. Johnson and his colleague were plainly standing guard between the two plantations. Obviously, Master Edward had been told by whoever had betrayed Morri that Weaver’s family was hoping to join us. On this last night before our scheduled departure, they undoubtedly intended to prevent any communication between the two plantations.

  As we rushed down the stairs, I was convinced that our hopes rested on Master Edward being as overconfident as he had always seemed. For if more than these two men were concealed around the plantation, waiting to spring on us, then all was truly lost.

  A change of strategy was required. We would first have to subdue the black foremen and make quick work of them; if they succeeded in screaming, they would alert Johnson and his friend on the bridge to their plight. We needed a numerical advantage. Weaver would have to risk waking the slaves in the next cabin: Backbend, Parker, and Randolph.

  Morri ran into the Big House to fetch Crow. They returned together with a length of rope. Weaver and Crow then went to the second slave cabin to get the other men. Morri and I remained outside. As her resolve seemed to be failing, I assured her we still had surprise on our side and that it would see us to victory. She said she hoped hanging was a quick way to die.

  The two black foremen were given the privilege of sleeping alone in half of the ground house cabin. Weaver was the first in. He, Parker, and I dove for Copper, the stronger of the two, while Backbend, Randolph, and Crow went for Nighthawk. It is a difficult thing to subdue a frightened man who knows that he is despised, and I received a nasty kick in the jaw from Copper. Parker had to punch him twice in the gut to take the fight out of him.

  When we had his massive hands tied behind his back, he strained at his bindings with such ferocity that I feared he’d kill us all if he were to break free. A towel was forced in his mouth and tied tight around his head with twine.

  Nighthawk gave up much quicker and accepted the gag without a fight. Crow told him he would not be killed, and he plainly put his faith in that vow.

  Morri had been standing guard. She did not believe that Master Edward or Mr. Johnson could have heard our struggle. We carried the two foremen back behind the First Barn and left them there, bound tightly together on their bellies, their feet tied back to their hands.

  Wiggie, who slept in the Second Barn with his beloved carriages, must have been roused by our struggle and trudged to the door in just a nightshirt, rubbing his sleepy face. When we told him of our plans, he said it was madness and that we ought to confess ourselves to Master Edward immediately, which prompted Weaver to insist on tying him up. Wiggie assured us that he would not tell, but we could not risk it. While Weaver and Parker were at their work, tears ran down the coachman’s cheeks. Morri apologized for us. We left him with the two foremen.

  I asked Weaver to go now to the boat landing and row across the Cooper River. From there, he could make his way on foot to Comingtee without being seen by the men on the bridge.

  Weaver assured me he would be back with his family in less than two hours. Morri, Crow, and I then walked to the Big House to take Edward prisoner.

  Crow had informed us that the Master was likely still in his bedroom with Joanne, the young cook who’d replaced Mary-belle. “He’s playin’ hide and seek with her,” he’d said.

  When we barged in, we found him standing behind the girl. At first, they looked at us in horror. Then Joanne reached for a blanket and covered her modesty.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Edward bellowed.

  “Put on your trousers. We are going for a walk to the barn, where you will remain for a time. You will not be hurt.”

  “But this is preposterous! A white man like you helping the niggers … You will be hanged.” When I shrugged, he said, “Stewart, you are completely and utterly mad!”

  “Put on your trousers.” It made me giddy to give him orders.

  “This is treason.”

  “Aye, it is, but nevertheless you will do as I say.”

  “You are betraying your race.”

  “My race?” I laughed. “Sir, it is a trifle more complicated than that. You see, I am a Portuguese–Scottish Jew who was raised in an atheist household believing that he was a Christian by birth and whose most beloved friend was an African Bushman.”

  “Still, you are a white man.”

  “Your trousers, sir – put them on.”

  I instructed Joanne to clothe herself. Petrified, she didn’t move.

  “Joanne,” Morri said sweetly, “we are leaving here – leaving River Bend. You are welcome to come. Do you hear me, girl?”

  “I’s … I’s staying with Massa Edwood,” she stammered. “I’s stayin’ where I belong.”

  “Then you grab a hold of that dress of yours and come with me. You won’t be hurt. Come on. Just do as I say.”

  Joanne rushed away with Morri.

  “You will hang too, Crow,” Edward said. “You are aware of that, I suppose?”

  “I reckon so, sir.”

  “I might just cut off your balls too.” He made a fist. “How would you like me taking those from you? I’ll have Lily prepare them as oysters. What do you say to that, nigger?”

  Suffering Edward’s threats the entire time, Crow b
ound his owner’s hands tightly behind his back.

  “You’re hurting me, nigger!” Edward shouted when Crow tightened the knot.

  “Open yaw mouth, Master Edward.”

  He had a polishing rag ready to stuff inside. But Edward clenched his jaw closed.

  On his dresser there was a repulsive ceramic statuette of a Negro child being peed on by a dog, with the inscribed motto: The Rainy Season Down South. I am not proud of what I next did, but I picked up the statuette and said, “If you don’t let Crow gag you, I shall use this to convince you. Mind you, I shall break it either way, but it can either be on the ground or over your head.”

  If he had not smirked and told me to be damned, I do not know if I would have carried out my terrible threat.

  “Step back, Crow. Now open your mouth, Edward!”

  He would not. Hence, with all my force, I brought the statuette straight down upon his head. Shattered pieces flew in every direction. It was of harder clay than I had imagined, and Edward’s legs buckled. Blood trickled at his temple. I had opened a mean gash.

  I was immediately ashamed of my actions. But I did not wish to betray my regret. I ordered him to get his mouth open as wide as it would go. Groaning, he complied.

  “No matter what you are thinking,” I said, “you will not be mistreated if you obey me. We shall only lock you in the barn, nothing more.”

  *

  With Edward’s key, Morri unlocked the door to the First Barn. Once we had the Master, the two black foremen, Wiggie, and Joanne bound so that they would not be able to stand or crawl, we locked them inside.

  Weaver came panting back to us. All of us were standing there outside the barn by now – every slave on the plantation. Those who had decided to remain behind at River Bend were too restless to wait at their cabins.

  “I can’t get ’cross,” Weaver moaned. “Dey’s taken de boat.”

  He explained that the boat had been rowed to the opposite bank.

  “Why didn’t you just swim across?” I asked.

  He hung his head and told us he didn’t know how.

  “Can any of you?” I asked.

  When no one spoke up, Weaver said, “I gots to stay behind.”

  “No, you’re coming with us,” Morri declared.

  “Ain’t no way. You-all gots to go wit’out me.”

  “You goin’, Weaver,” Lily said. “Dey all know you’s involved. You stay behin’, you gonna hang.”

  “I can’t leave Mart’a and my sons.”

  Parker suggested that all of us ought to rush the men on the bridge at once, but his wife, Christmas-Eve, said they’d likely put balls in at least two of us and she didn’t want to risk one of them being her husband.

  “None of us wants to die,” Morri noted. “But we have to do something – and quick.”

  It seemed to me now that I had always known I would have to enter the water again one day. I was surprised, in fact, it had taken so long. A part of me even wanted to.

  *

  At the river’s edge, I slipped out of my shoes, socks, trousers, shirt, and waistcoat. Blades of moonlight reflected off the hard dark surface of the water. I imagined that it was deep, muddy, and cold, and that its arms would receive me greedily.

  Weaver and Morri were with me. The others had stayed back at the barn.

  “Is the current generally a swift one?” I asked, handing her my white feather.

  “It can be. But tonight” – she looked across the water – “tonight it doesn’t look so bad. You say you can swim pretty well?”

  “I haven’t had a swim in twenty-five years. We shall see,” I said, smiling.

  A rush of fear overwhelmed me as my foot met the chilly surface. The river was thick with resistance as I took my first strokes. Then I imagined Daniel calling to me from the other shore: Stop thinking, goddamn it, and just swim, you little mole!

  Which is what I did. Anxiety kept me afloat and moving fast. On reaching the other shore, I shook myself off like Fanny. Daniel laughed at me, but I was happy to have him on my side.

  Then I rowed as best I could back to River Bend, forty paces downriver from where I’d started. Weaver and Morri rushed through the woods and marsh grass toward me.

  Weaver crouched into the boat as I dressed in my dry clothes. We agreed to meet at the piazza in two hours, at a quarter to midnight. He told us to leave without him after that, for it would mean he had failed to reach his family – or been caught on the way back to River Bend.

  *

  On checking the carriages in the Second Barn, we found that Master Edward had further outmaneuvered us. Each of the back wheels had been locked with two thick chains. None of Master Edward’s keys opened them.

  When we entered the First Barn to remove Wiggie’s gag and question him, he told us that only Mr. Johnson had the key. We knew then we would all have to walk. Morri estimated that it was twelve miles to Petrie’s Landing. We could reach there in three to four hours if we made good time.

  Fifteen Negroes and a white man traipsing down a rice-country road were sure to raise hot suspicions in any passing carriage. But forging through the woods or proceeding along the river’s edge would be impossible, according to Morri, since the overgrowth was woven thick and the swamps impossible to cross without being able to walk on water.

  She went to her space under the piazza and got the last of the swords. We also took pikes, spades, and flails from the Second Barn and handed them around. As we would have to wait now for Weaver, we lumbered back to the Big House. The fear of death that I saw in Lily’s face made me think of my daughters. I would not have wished them to think I’d simply vanished, as I sometimes believed about my father. Turning to Morri, I said, “If things end up going wrong … After I have been hanged, I would like you to write to my children at that address I gave you in New York. I would like you to tell them that I did indeed die. You must tell them you are absolutely sure of it.”

  “Me? John, I’m afraid you’re not thinking right. Don’t you know they’re going to hang me too? And long before a white man.”

  *

  Crow led me up to Master Edward’s bedroom, then went with Morri to keep the other slaves calm. From the window there, I had a clear view of the bridge leading to Comingtee. Mr. Johnson and his colleague had not stirred. From the way they sat, I believed they might even be sleeping. Watching them, I understood that we would have to capture them as well. For if they were to discover our absence before dawn, they might blow the alarm and set their dogs after us – and alert the patrols too.

  I went to my room and packed my feather, arrow, and sketchbook, along with Midnight’s letter to me and the scrolled illustration done by Berekiah Zarco. They could bury me with those if I was caught.

  Weaver returned at twenty minutes before midnight, with Martha, his two sons, and the girl Sarah in tow. They were all frantic, but Weaver believed they’d not been seen. All was quiet at Comingtee, he assured me.

  I set off with them to join Morri, Crow, and the other slaves, leaving Lily behind at the Big House. But before we reached the cabins, two white men, each carrying a musket, appeared from out of nowhere. One of the men was Mr. Johnson. I didn’t recognize the other, but I later learned he was Mr. Davies, an overseer at Comingtee. They must have slipped away from the bridge during the two or three minutes I’d spent talking to Weaver and his family. They’d probably heard – or spotted – them rowing over to River Bend.

  “And where might you be headed, Mr. Stewart?” Johnson asked me, grinning. It was plain that he would enjoy shooting me.

  I sprang for him. I remember hearing his shot and feeling a thud in my left shoulder, as though I’d been hit with a plank of wood. In my rage and fear I did not hear the second shot, fired by Mr. Davies.

  When I bulled into Johnson, I sent his musket flying. I had taken the breath from him too, and while he was doubled over, I dove at him, clouting him twice upon the jaw, as hard as I could. Helpless, he covered his face with his hands and groa
ned that he could not breathe. I stood back from him and retrieved his musket. As I rubbed my bloody knuckles, he begged me in a quavering voice not to kill him.

  Gazing to my side, I then discovered that Weaver lay dying on the ground. The ball from Mr. Davies had pierced an artery in his neck. The blood was spilling over him, and Martha was wailing. Frederick and Taylor had managed to overpower Mr. Davies and had already speared him with his bayonet. He, too, lay dying.

  Working quickly but silently, we moved the body of Mr. Davies into the Second Barn; we would not have wanted our prisoners to see his blood-soaked corpse. We gagged Mr. Johnson, causing him so much pain in his broken jaw that he begged us not to through his tears. I am not proud to say that I cared nothing for his comfort at that moment. For with his popping eyes he plainly wished to tell me that I would be a dead man if he had me in his power for but a moment.

  *

  By now I had been alerted to the seriousness of my wound by an incessant throbbing in my shoulder and elbow. My left hand had grown cold and my shirt was drenched with blood, but I couldn’t think about that now. We had to get away.

  Parker, Crow, Frederick, and Taylor carried Weaver’s body to the gate of River Bend. Martha had said that she would much prefer for him to be buried outside the grounds of the plantation. The men took turns digging. By the river, the soil was easily dislodged. We buried him in his clothes, without a shroud. I said the Jewish prayer for the dead over him – the kaddish.

  With the rope we had left to us, we then bound the wrists of all the escapees. We started with the men and ended with the women, tying them tightly together, so that anyone seeing us on the road would believe that they were my prisoners.

  I walked at the back. We would tell any patrols we met that I was marching them to Charleston for sale. I apologized to Morri for binding her, but she said, “If it gets me up North, you can put a bit in my mouth and brand me.”

  Martha’s sobbing would not cause any suspicion, Morri told me, as it was not uncommon to see women crying on these forced marches to market.