Walk Through Darkness

by David Anthony Durham

  He had spoken with Anne and her boys and together they had come up with a plan. This was no mean feat for their circumstances were peculiar, what with a crippled man and child-heavy woman and an old man, all three of them fugitives from the law. He said it was fortunate for them all that Anne was such a reasonable woman. She had sorted him out when he went astray and this is what they came up with. He would book them on a carriage heading north in the morning, passenger perhaps, but cargo more likely, anything to get them out of the city and moving north. They’d travel to New York, where he would cash in the bonds he held to a Chicago bank. With the money he would book the two of them yet another passage, on a ship, one that would take them out of this country.

  “Out of the country?” Dover asked.

  Aye, the man answered. It was no small thing, he knew, but they hadn’t chosen their circumstances. They just had to deal with what they had. “That sound all right?” he asked.

  William didn’t answer. That plan was incomprehensible. Impossible. Carriages and cities and ships. Money drawn from banks. Sailing to another country, forever leaving behind the things they knew. Strange as it felt even to himself, he wanted to back out of it. He would just say that no, that didn’t sound all right. There had to be another way. Let the old man go on if he wanted to, but they could never do all of that. They were Chesapeake slaves without a penny between them. Though their lives depended upon it, he couldn’t imagine accepting all that the man had just offered. But Dover spoke before he got a chance to.

  “How we gonna get to that carriage?”

  Anne was seeing to that. She had sent one of her boys to fetch the coal man, he that had so long wanted her for a wife. He would pick up William and Dover in the early hours, hide them in the coal wagon and transport them to the carriage. Anne was sure he would do as she asked. She might have to marry the man in payment, but that wouldn’t be too high a price to pay. She was fond enough of him, anyway. “Just been holding out a little,” she said.

  Dover thought this over. “That sounds fine,” she said.

  “Good,” the man said. He glanced at William, waiting for a moment to see if he would agree, his face unsure if such agreement was necessary to continue. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll go now. We’ve no time to spare.” Having stated his intention the old man stood as if he had not. His eyes rested for a moment on the folds of the blankets covering William’s legs. “Are you all right, lad?” he asked.

  The other three all froze, the question trailing off into a silence weighted beyond reasonable proportion. The old man seemed to recognize this or find something at fault in his question. He shook his head as if he would retract the words and start again. “Well, I ken you’re far from all right. It’s not that I mean. What I wanted to say was … I just want to know that you’ll be all right, that it’s not too late. I mean, I didn’t get to you too late, did I?”

  The man’s gaze met William’s full on. The effort of the act was palpable on the man’s features, tension written in lines that seemed to etch themselves deeper with each passing second. It was on this drama that William concentrated. He heard the man’s question and part of him struggled to find the words to answer it. The slave in him felt he must respond and promptly, but that part of him had been newly altered and no longer made up the whole of him. The better part of him just studied the man, unsure how to answer because he was unsure of the answer. His hand slid down his torso, seeking the button. His fingers rubbed the edge of the circlet through the fabric, one rim around and back to itself. No, he thought, it was the question itself that he was unsure of.

  “It’s not too late,” Dover said.

  “Course it’s not,” Anne said, her hand nervous at her lips and then pausing, surprised that she had spoken.

  The old man was not satisfied with this but he nodded as if he was. He lifted his hat and put it on. The crumpled mass somehow sat with dignity on his head and with it on his face was again composed. “I’ll be going, then.”

  FIVE In the foyer of the row house the tracker considered his needs and gathered his supplies accordingly. He was alone, but he knew the house was full of boarders, quiet beings unnerved by him and the danger he had brought into their home. They were detectable not by the sounds they made but by their hush, their palpable presence on the other side of the thin walls. Knowing that they would not break from cover, he knelt and opened his large bag. He had to fish through it for some time before he came up with what he sought, a leather pouch, palm-sized and heavy with coins. He weighed it on his upheld hand and found it suitable. He set it aside and slipped his hand in a side pocket of the bag, pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he didn’t look at but simply stuffed in his jacket pocket. He kept his hands moving and tried to fix his mind on the events to come so that none of them would come as a surprise. This was a quiet moment in the eye of a storm. He had felt it many times and knew the tranquility to be deceptive.

  But below these focused thoughts his mind wheeled on a more chaotic axle. He replayed the conversation in the cellar. He heard it differently each time, and of those recollections not one of them pleased him. He had spoken calmly and reasonably but only about the details, not about the heart of the matter. He had looked around the room, eyes anxious for something to focus on, the whole time seeing only that colored man lying prone in the bed, feeling the touch of his eyes, sensing every portion of his battered body as it lay sliding forward toward him. Though he tried he couldn’t help but envision him as he had first laid eyes upon him, bound and trussed like a beast, soiled, bloodied, a vent for the lowest of men’s pleasures, a slave. A Negro. The world of difference between them had choked his speech. And yet he could not ignore this man. He could not deny that he saw the man’s mother in his face and saw too the features that made him a Morrison. Both Nan and Lewis had been there in the room with him and it was partially to them that he had spoken. It was this that troubled him for never had he seen clearer proof that one cannot escape a past unquenched. He had thought this before but had always tried to dismiss it as the fancy of his own deranged mind. He would not do so anymore.

  He had just closed the bag again when he heard someone ascending the stairs from the cellar. He stood and waited. The young woman appeared. She stood framed in the tiny doorway, listening for a moment. She walked toward him. For the first time he noted the awkward progress of her pregnant gait.

  We should know your name, she said.

  Of course, he said, surprised that such formalities had yet to be addressed. It seemed absurd considering the intimacies they’d shared in the last few hours. Andrew Morrison. And they call you Dover?

  The woman nodded. She didn’t look concerned that he knew her name, but she did take his in carefully. She seemed to sound it out before accepting it. Well, Andrew Morrison, you really gonna do all that for us?

  Aye.

  And you gonna put us on that boat? When he nodded, she added, Alone?

  Thought that’d be best.

  The woman agreed that it might be best, but she also shared the fear that the notion put in her. Where was that boat going to take them? No place in this world that she knew, that was for sure. Away from all that they’d ever known, that also was a definite.

  Morrison was quiet for a moment and then answered, I know that feeling. I felt it years ago and haven’t ever stopped. Truth be known. Still, it’d be for the best. This country’s got a great evil in it. He looked uncomfortable about using those words and added, Man told me that. “A great evil,” he said, and he knew what he was talking about.

  That’s true as spoken. We going, don’t think I’m doubting that. I been scared before and I won’t shy away from it. And I do want a world of things for this child that I ain’t yet seen this country to offer. That’s what it is, but what I’m wondering about is yourself. You putting us on that boat, but what you doing with yourself?

  I’m no good as a traveling companion. Been inclined toward solitude for some time now.

 
And you like it that way? She let this question sit just long enough to get an answer from his silence. If you wanna get on that boat too I won’t argue the point, she said.

  Morrison’s eyes drifted over toward the open cellar door.

  The woman read his question and said that her man wouldn’t dispute it either.

  Morrison had his doubts about this, but he felt already that this woman was not easily argued with. He didn’t know what to say and was surprised at himself by what came out because he hadn’t yet known he thought it.

  Feels like I should’ve talked to him more, he said.

  Well, the things you got to say ain’t the type a news you give on the brief.

  You don’t resent me the things I told you?

  The black woman thought this over and answered that that wasn’t her place. Those things were between him and Nan and William.

  I didn’t tell you all of it.

  And you don’t need to, the woman said. You got guilt around your neck like a stone. Looks to me like it’s a load you can barely carry but you walking with, been walking with it for some time. Figure you punishing yourself and that’s rare in a white man. Mostly they find someone else to punish for they crimes. Look here, I don’t know just what you done or just what kinda man you are, but I do know you came back. Nobody living in the world to accuse you but you came back. And you brought that there cannon with you. She motioned at his rifle. A smile flared on her face and was gone just as quickly. And unless I’m mistaken you ain’t done yet, are you?

  Morrison answered indirectly, saying that there was no excuse for the things those men had done. People like that should pay with their lives. At least that’s my way of thinking at the moment, he said.

  The woman studied on this. That’s been my way of thinking too, she said. For some time I thought just that way. Use to wish I was a man. Figured I could do more damage that way. And I would have, too. But if I had I’d be dead now. I wouldn’t have this baby in me. I woulda lived and died without ever understanding why we’re doing it all. That’s a crime I believe men are guilty of more often than women, but they wouldn’t be if they paid more attention to they children.

  Morrison looked down. His eyes landed on her belly but moved on as if that was not what they’d intended. He stared for a moment at the satchel in his hand, then hoisted it up to his shoulder. Maybe you ought tell him. The things I told you, I mean.

  Well, she said. We’ll see.

  Something about those last two words had a note of finality to it. Morrison hesitated for a moment, wondering if there was more to say. Of course there was, but if he said all there was to say he would never stop speaking. And anyway, it was ultimately not this woman he had to confess to. He was grateful to her for allowing him these moments for without her he would be at a complete loss. He thought he should perhaps convey this to her, but as he stooped to scoop up his rifle he saw the expression on her face and knew that he did not have to. These people understand the things not said, he thought. And with that he nodded, hooked his finger around the door latch and pulled it. The house inhaled the evening air. He paused in the doorway, feeling the breath on his face like passing fingers. Without thinking it through and with no foreknowledge of his own impending action, Morrison dipped for the note in his pocket. He extended it behind him until he felt the woman grasp it. He said, If need be let him read this. Or have it read to him. He opened his fingers, felt the note move away from him and stepped through the door.

  Outside, the hound rose from the stoop and greeted him, her head moving side to side, tail still, a message in this though she doubted the man would recognize it. Morrison pulled the length of rope from his jacket pocket and shook it out. The hound, seeing this, whined her displeasure. She stepped back and lowered her head and raised a forepaw in disapproval. But when the man stepped toward her she leapt to the side, turned and contemplated him.

  Come here, the man said. Don’t be a devil just now. He stepped forward and the hound again backed out of his reach. He straightened his posture and pitched his voice louder, as if the dog’s hearing was in question. Come here.

  The hound did not.

  If you knew the trouble you’re causing me … Morrison chased her in a circle, bent over and, for a few seconds, frantic in pursuit. The hound ducked and shifted from him, head low to the ground, paws wide and sure on the paving stones. Her tail pricked up behind her, not wagging, but raised in an indication that she found something mirthful in this exchange.

  The tracker pulled upright. Damn it. You’re a vile bugger. He studied her for a moment longer, scowling. The rope dangled from his hand as if he might make a weapon of it. Instead, he tossed it away and said, Do what you like, then.

  The man turned, scooped up his rifle and satchel and started off, his pace fast and determined. The hound watched him a moment, skeptical. As the man neared the end of the block the canine set out after him. She fell in step beside him, glad that little discrepancy was behind them.

  SIX William heard the door shut, not the normal slam but enough of a familiar disturbance in the air for him to recognize it. A few moments later, Dover descended the stairs and stepped into the room, her eyes on him as if she had been there with him the whole time, intent and knowing and somehow unnerving. He had meant to question her straight away, but mumbled instead and indicated that he wished he could sit up. Dover nodded and disappeared again. She returned a few moments later with a mass of cotton bedding in her arms. She kneaded it, folded it over on itself and patted it into a shape little changed for her efforts. Helping him up with one arm, she stuffed the linen beneath him, whispering to comfort him, working fast. She stood erect and studied him. He was more upright, but awkwardly so. One shoulder jutted higher than the other did; arms limp on either side of him; head canted forward so that his chin touched his chest. Dover spent a few more moments trying to set him right.

  “You’re too heavy to be waiting on me,” he said.

  “Too heavy? You got complaints about my care?”

  “That’s not how I meant it. You shouldn’t have to wait on me.”

  “William,” she said, just his name but stated in a way that stopped him.

  He looked around the room as if his new vantage might give him some different impression of it. It did not. All was the same as before and the same questions pressed him. He felt choked from asking them though they were simple questions that any man would have asked. But they sat in the back of his throat like goiters growing within him. “I need time to think,” he said.

  Dover—too quick for his mindset, too obliging—offered to leave him alone for a time. She would go on upstairs so that he could get a little rest.

  “Naw, I don’t want to sleep. Couldn’t sleep if I tried.”

  She said he might be surprised. She would just leave him be a little and see if Anne needed help.

  “Quit walking them stairs, woman. You’ll lose the baby you keep that up.”

  Dover paused and thought this over and responded guardedly, saying she knew something about her own body and the baby inside it.

  William interrupted her. “What was you talking to that man about?”

  “Just bout the plans. Gotta make sure this goes off right.”

  “I asked you before,” William said, his voice trembling though he spoke with more calm than he felt. “Now I’m asking you again—who is that man? Don’t tell me he’s just helping us. Tell me the truth. He somebody you know someways?”

  If Dover heard accusation in the question she didn’t acknowledge it. “Never laid eyes on him fore today.”

  “That don’t make sense.”

  “Well …”

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  She snapped her eyes at him, up and sharp and then down again. William thought he saw anger flare on her face but knew the next second that he was mistaken. Her voice was kind when she said, “Cause I don’t know how you’ll take it. Thought maybe we could just get through this next bit a trouble …”r />
  “Look here, Dover, don’t act like I’m a child. I don’t know a single thing about that man. He doing things for us and I don’t know why and something ain’t right about it. He’s a white man. And you say you don’t know him, but you sitting there acting like all and everything’s all right. That don’t match up. So whatchu ain’t telling me? Whatchu know that I don’t?”

  The cot creaked as she sat down beside him. She faced him and looked at him directly, though not into the eyes. She seemed to lose herself in the study of his features. “They say blood is thicker than water,” she said. “I ain’t never seen that to account for much, but maybe it’s true. Sometimes. Maybe it’s true to them that believe it.”

  William, despite himself, despite knowing that she was testing her way forward, wriggled as if he meant to get up. He scowled, at her or at the pain or both. But she ignored all this, only pressed her palm against his chest. With her other hand she slipped a square of paper from her bodice. She turned it over in her fingers, one yellowed side and then the other. William watched it. The lamplight was warm behind it, illuminating the marks enclosed there, hieroglyphs betrayed by the thin skin.

  And then Dover began to tell what she had come to believe, saying that his father had a brother. That was enough to still the man. And from that statement she went on, note held in her hand, forefinger running over the edge of it as if she were testing the hone of a blade.

  SEVEN Morrison spent the better part of the night trying to find a coach bound for the North. He had come to know the city somewhat during his stay and used that knowledge as best he could. He thought of the places he had seen coaches: the depots for interstate travel, the street corners, lining the parks. For the most part he found each of these as pitch black and quiet as the night. He banged on doors when he thought he could get away with it, threw rocks at windows and shouted loudly enough to set the hound to baying. Most places answered with silence, a few with curses, one with night pan flung toward him with groggy aim. A burly man came at him with an iron bar from one carriage house, woken from a drunken sleep and intent on damage. Morrison shifted as the man came forward, clipped his legs with a blow from his rifle and left him scrabbling on the paving stones like a frantic crab. The hound darted in and nipped him on the shoulder just to have some part in the action. After this encounter Morrison considered looking into rail travel, but he knew that a train wouldn’t do. They needed privacy. They needed closed doors and shuttered windows. Most of all they needed for nobody to ask questions, no fellow passengers, no porters, nobody who might find curious a battered mulatto and a heavily pregnant Negro and an old white man.