Not surprisingly, none of my owners had my shackles removed. They must have sensed that I would try and run away as soon as I was free of them. I heard myself called mulatto and quadroon and octoroon, and "fancy-house whore from New Orleans," and even "high-class house slave." I found the last appellation the most amusing. To each and every new owner, in fact, to everyone who would listen to me for just two minutes, I told the story of my wealthy husband and my abduction. I promised my listeners rich rewards if they would return me to New Orleans. They would all look at me pityingly, and soon I became known as the "crazy fancy-house slave from New Orleans." They treated me like a slave because I looked like I had never been anything else, and because I wore chains on my wrists and ankles. Nothing I said could persuade them otherwise.
Starker planned to take me to Wheeling, West Virginia, and trade me for furs, which he would then take back to New Orleans and sell at a handsome profit. We reached Wheeling at the end of June, 1813. Starker hurried me towards the wharf where the fur-trading warehouse stood, and he cursed me because I couldn't walk any faster. I pointed out that the shackles on my legs, which had cut and bruised my flesh so badly that I could feel the blood oozing around my feet as I walked, were the real impediments to my progress, and I suggested that he have them removed. He cursed and cuffed me, and seemed enraged when I continued to smile calmly and shuffle along at a snail's pace behind him.
Wheeling seemed to be no different from so many of the frontier towns I had seen on my journey up the river from Louisiana. The buildings were little more than shacks, and streets were hard earth or muddy channels, depending on the weather, and towering forests and mountain ranges came right up to the fringes of this mean civilization, making me think that these Americans were not so far removed from living like savages after all. The men were crude and loud-talking, and the women, when there were any to be seen, were gaunt and tired-looking. A goodly proportion of the populations of these towns seemed to be transients who spoke with undimmed hope of finding a better place and a profitable role in this vast, untamed country.
We passed a smithy, which I eyed hopefully, a saloon, and a few stores. People stared at me as we shambled along. I saw no pity in their eyes, only curiosity. We reached the warehouse and Starker dragged me inside. Furs were piled in bales and sorted according to grade and type, and several men were walking around the piles, picking up pelts, examining them, arguing with each other about their cost and quality.
"Damn you," Starker said under his breath, "we're too late. This is the tail end of the season, the dregs! The best quality furs are gone, gone, and it's all your fault. You damned bitch. I knew I should have left you to those two bastards at Cairo. You're so damned slow—"
"It's not my fault you wasted all that time plowing me when you should have been traveling," I said with a superior smile. So great had been his last-minute hurry to get to the trading center that we hadn't even had breakfast that morning.
He slapped my face and barked at me shrilly for talking back to him. The other traders fell silent for a moment, and turned their heads to see what was going on. As soon as they saw that it was only a man beating his slave they returned to the business at hand, and once again the sounds of commerce filled the air.
Starker dragged me from trader to trader. Each time he offered me in exchange for a good-sized bundle of furs, the owner would shake his head and say, "Sorry, fellow, hard money only." He grew more and more irritable as the day wore on. Finally he left me sitting on a bale of rabbit skins near the door while he went across the street to the tavern.
A burly, black-bearded man stepped into the vast room. He carried a pile of pelts on his back, not rabbit, but muskrat, beaver and mink. He was almost as tall as Garth, but he was thick and broad where Garth was lean and hard and he must have weighed half again as much. His face was red and furrowed with seams and scars above his beard, and his eyes were small and so pale in color that they seemed to disappear into his head. He wore the usual odd combination of clothing for a frontiersman: a fur cap, a stained deerskin coat with fringe at the bottom and on the sleeves, a knife in the belt, some rough woolen trousers and heavy black boots. He looked around the warehouse. When he saw me he set down his bundle and came over to me. He took a stance in front of me and studied me wordlessly through his pale eyes. There was something in his gaze, something inhuman and cold, that frightened me, but I looked at him boldly and fearlessly.
I lounged on one elbow on my soft perch. "Would you like to see my teeth?" I asked tartly. He made no reply. "What's the matter?" I twitted him, growing braver in response to his silence, "haven't you ever seen a woman before?"
His eyes flickered. "Who owns you?" he asked. His voice was deep and rasping. The sound seemed to reverberate through the enormous chamber of his torso before it came out of his mouth like rumbling thunder.
This time I made no answer, but swung around on my bale so that my back was to him. He chuckled.
"You stink to high heaven, girl," he said. I heard him walk away.
Starker came running up. "Who was that man? Who were you talking to?"
"Some filth who says he wouldn't give you three rabbit skins for me," I said.
"You're a goddamn liar," Starker hissed. "I'm going to ask him myself."
I shrugged elaborately and lay down.
In a few minutes Starker came back with the man in tow. "Get down," my owner squawked. "He wants to look at you."
"He's already had his look," I said sullenly. Starker yanked at the chain between my legs. I felt the blood drain out of my face and I bit back a yelp of pain. "All right, all right," I said grudgingly. I slid off the bale and faced them boldly. "I don't smell any better up close," I told the bearded man. "You might want to step back a little."
He bared his teeth in what I took to be a grin, but Starker squealed and hopped up and down. "Hold your tongue, you black bitch," he said in my ear, "or I'll beat the daylights out of you. Mr. Hennessy's gonna give me his furs for you, and by God if you spoil this I'll kill you!"
I turned my head slowly in his direction and spit right in his eye. Starker howled with rage and blotted his face, then drew back his hand and swung at me. The bearded man caught his arm and bent it backwards. Starker wriggled helplessly in his grasp like a worm on a hook.
"Don't do that," the big man said. "I don't pay for damaged goods. My pelts are in better shape than she is right now. Take 'em and get out of here. Come on," he said to me. "Let's go."
I followed him out of the warehouse, dragging my chains. He made a face at them and said, "We'd better get those things off you. I can't stand the noise."
He took me to the smithy, and he and the blacksmith pounded and hammered at the rusted irons for nearly an hour until I was free of them. With every stroke, every blow of the hammer, I cringed and quivered but told myself that soon I would be free, free of the hideous trappings of slavery. The irons rubbed my wounds until they were really raw, and by the time the last bracelet had fallen off I was white and sick with pain and the effort of not crying out. The blacksmith applied some smelly ointment to my sores. Hennessy gave him a few coins and led me out into the sunshine.
"Wait here," he said, and he disappeared into the general store next to the blacksmith's shop.
I looked around me, amazed. He had actually gone away and left me alone. It was a miracle, nothing less. I peered up and down the dusty street, then I ran for the river as fast as I could go. My feet and ankles throbbed as I ran and I started to limp after the first hundred yards. I cried with anger at my body's frailty, and I paused to rest for a moment not far from the place where Starker had left his canoe. I knew how to paddle it. I would steal it, go upriver a while, then take to the woods. They would never find me.
When I had caught my breath I plunged on. I could feel the interested glances of the people I passed, but I ignored them. I was running for my freedom, for my life. By the time they came to their senses and realized that I was a runaway slave, I would be long
gone.
So intent was I on my escape that I never even heard the horse and rider coming up behind me. Hennessy's voice crashed like the thunder of doom in my ears. "You won't get far that way," he chuckled mirthlessly. "How about a ride?"
I stopped in my tracks and buried my face in my hands. The despair that filled me was so deep that I couldn't even cry. I looked up at him for a moment and was immediately aware of how futile my attempt to escape had been. He loomed over me on his mount. He had strength, weapons, serviceable clothing. I didn't even have shoes. I collapsed onto the ground and lay there, too heartsick even to move. He dismounted, picked me up and slung me over his horse's back. I clung to the animal's mane and pulled myself into a sitting position. Then he climbed up behind me and we rode out of town into the forest.
We traveled until it was almost dark. We made camp in a clearing near a stream. He had shot a rabbit; now he threw the carcass at my feet and told me to cook it.
"If you don't want to eat the fur and innards you'd better give me a knife," I told him. He grinned and reached for his hunting knife. He flicked his wrist sharply and the next moment I saw the knife handle, still vibrating, protruding from the rabbit's side. He laughed heartily, and stood over me with his musket pointed at my heart while I skinned and gutted the animal.
When I had finished he said, "Give me that knife back now," and he jerked his musket slightly. I longed to plunge the blade into his fat belly, even if it meant that he would kill me, too. But I told myself that there would be a better time to escape. I would have to be patient, and choose my time well. I tossed the knife into the dirt at his feet. He picked it up and shoved it into his belt.
I built a fire, spitted the rabbit on some green sticks, and walked to the stream to fill a pan with water for coffee. He watched my every move, pulling at a flask of whiskey and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I could hear the change in his breathing—it became low and deep, like a series of longing sighs—and I braced myself for the onslaught I knew would come. He attacked me suddenly, bellowing fiercely and violently like a maddened bull. I hit the ground forcefully, and then he was on top of me. The smell of him sickened me. I struggled and strained against him, then my fingers found the handle of the knife in his belt. I prayed I could drive it into him before he was even aware of what I was doing.
"What's this?" He yanked at my hand and twisted my arm so viciously that I thought he would wrench it from its socket. He roared angrily, "So you're a fighter, are you, bitch? Well, so am I."
I huddled on the ground, sick with pain and fury and the longing to kill him. He was Josiah Fowler reincarnated, but my captivity was even harder to endure that it had been on the Charleston Belle. On the ship there had been no thought of escaping. But here, in the wilderness, the promise of freedom was so near, so tantalizing.
He never let me out of his sight. I cursed myself for moving too swiftly and losing his trust. If I had been docile, perhaps, he might have been lulled into thinking that I was helpless and weak. But now he followed me everywhere when we were camped, and even my most private acts were not hidden from his watery, evil eyes.
"Starker said you were from New Orleans," he said one rainy night as we crouched near a smoking campfire. "I bet you worked in a whorehouse in New Orleans. I was there once. Fine town. Prettiest women I ever seen."
I disdained to answer him.
"You're French, ain't you? Let me hear you talk some French."
I maintained a haughty silence. Suddenly he reached over and cuffed me hard on the side of the head. I fell backwards.
"You are the dirty son of an ass who mated with a snake," I said in rapid French. "May you begin to rot and putrify before you die. May your limbs fall off. May you become like a eunuch—"
He threw back his head and roared appreciatively. "I don't know what you're sayin'," he said, "but I bet you're cursin' me up one side and down the other. Go 'head and curse me all you please, Frenchie, if it makes you feel better."
"I know how you can make a thousand dollars," I said in English. "Maybe more."
"Yeah? Where?" He devoured a haunch of rabbit in a single mouthful and swilled some whiskey. I had to turn my face away. Just watching him eat made me lose my appetite.
"New Orleans," I said. "You have heard of the pirate Jean Lafitte? Well, he is a good friend of mine. He would give a thousand dollars for me if you took me back there. I am not lying to you, Mr. Hennessy. A thousand dollars!"
He shook his shaggy head doubtfully. "I never heard of no slave bitch goin' for a thousand dollars."
"But I'm not a slave," I insisted. "I am a free woman. I swear it's true." I launched into my story. He listened impassively. "Please believe me. I'm telling you the truth."
"No. You're mine now, Frenchie. I paid good money for you, and I'm gonna work you until you drop. Make no mistake about that."
"How much were those pelts of your worth?" I asked him.
"About five hundred dollars," he said, chewing thoughtfully.
I laughed loudly. "You were cheated then, you fool. I wouldn't bring much more than two hundred and fifty on the block, maybe not even that much. You didn't see anyone else begging to buy me at Starker's price, did you? Right now he's laughing his head off at you for being a damned fool."
A strange expression flitted across his face momentarily, and then it was gone. "It wouldn't change things for you if I had paid five dollars for you instead of five hundred," he said slowly. "You're mine until you die, or until I decide to sell you or kill you."
Or until I run away, I thought. Our eyes met over the fire.
"You better not try runnin' away," he said, reading my mind. "I'd find you pretty quick, gal, and I'd fix you so you'd never run anyplace again." His words were horrible but his tone was dry and flat. It made me shiver. "Starker was no fool," he grunted. "He knew that if he took those leg irons off you you'd be gone before he knew what happened. I'm no fool either. I took 'em off because we couldn't make time while you had 'em on. But don't figure you'll be able to get away. I knew you'd try it back there. I could see it in your face at the 'smith's. But I figured I'd test you. I wanted to know just how bad you wanted to get loose."
"And so now you know," I said dully.
"I know. You may think I've been cheated, but I haven't been. You've got a lot of years left in you, and a lot of hard work." He laughed and said to himself, "Yep, I'm gonna get my money's worth out of you, bitch. You can bet on it."
I looked at him. In the firelight he looked bear-like, evil, a creature from the darkest places of these primeval forests. "So now we know where we stand," I said with forced lightness. "You have a lot of slaves?"
"About fifty."
"And they don't run away?"
"I bring 'em back and they don't try it again," he said flatly. "I've never lost one yet."
I huddled in my blanket near the dying embers. Disembodied faces whirled around in my head. Uncle Theo, Fowler, Garth, Jake, Arnold—and now this man. When I fell asleep I dreamed of the Charleston Belle. I was a slave in the hold, the only slave there, and Edward Hennessy was the captain. I woke myself with my panicked sobbing and I couldn't sleep. I lay on the hard ground and listened to the sounds of the night and to his breathing. My hatred would keep me alive, I knew. After a long time I managed to fall asleep.
He prodded me awake long before dawn. We ate cold stew and drank coffee, then we set out across the mountains. Rain fell steadily all through the day, but we plodded on, climbing the steep wooded slopes with difficulty. We managed to cover about twenty miles a day through the mountains. Hennessy told me that he owned a plantation in Shenandoah County, Virginia, about four hundred miles from Wheeling. He used the word plantation proudly and boastfully, and I conjured up visions of a place like La Rêve or Highlands: beautiful and gracious, with rich land that produced abundant crops.
Our journey took a little over three weeks. Every day was the same: we would climb to the top of a wooded rise, only to confront a seemingly
endless vista of green mountains; then we would descend once again into a dense wooded valley. At night, after we had eaten and he had abused me, if he felt like it, he would bind my hands and feet so tightly that I could hardly move. He would free me when morning came and it was time to travel again.
I had brought that punishment on by trying to kill him when we were a week out of Wheeling. One night as he lay snoring by our campfire, I decided that I would have to kill him in order to get away, and I knew how to do it. While he slept I crept over to a large flat rock that I had seen while I was building our fire. I lifted it. It was heavy and deadly. It would crush his skull like an eggshell, and then I would have his horse, his weapons, and my freedom.
I moved towards him silently on bare feet with the rock cradled in my hands. I crouched near his head and raised my bludgeon. Just as I brought it crashing down some sense of danger woke him and he rolled aside.
With one violent sweep of his arm he sent me sprawling on the ground. I could taste the blood in my mouth.
"Tryin' to kill me, are you?" he shouted deafeningly. "I'm too smart for you, Frenchie. I got ears like an Injun and I'm quicker than a rattlesnake. You're gonna be mighty sorry you tangled with Edward Hennessy, bitch."
He beat me until I vomited blood. Then he bound my hands and feet with a single leather thong. I groaned and tossed restlessly on the hard ground. He kicked me and sneered, "That ought to stop you from gettin' any more fancy ideas while I'm sleepin'."
The day came when we crossed the last mountain and he said, "That's it. That's my plantation."
I saw a small white frame house standing on a bleak, windswept hill. The few regular green patches on the rocky hillsides were tobacco, he said. On another brown slope a small herd of cattle grazed somnolently under the burning summer sun. The earth looked parched, lifeless. A few weathered buildings, slave shacks and tobacco-drying sheds and barns, surrounded the house. They were unpainted, as brown and weathered as the ground they stood on. Dead, I thought. The whole plantation looked dead and empty.
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