by Naomi Finley
A blush seeped over Kimie’s cheeks. “Thank you.” As we moved on, she said, “I don’t play with the doll. It’s just special to me, ’cause when I first came here after my pa burned in the fire, Mammy made it for me. She said it would watch over me while I slept and keep the bad dreams away.”
“I understand,” I said. She seemed satisfied with my response, and we continued with her tour of the quarters. She explained the tasks of each person we met and related several names of people that lived in cabins we passed. Her insight into their lives and the passion flowing from her led me to believe she spent most of her time here.
At a cabin a few doors down, Willow climbed the steps and called out, “Rose.”
The door opened, and a middle-aged woman wearing a red head rag with wisps of gray hair escaping at the hairline stepped out wiping her hands on her apron. “You again,” she said, looking at Kimie.
“How is he today?” Willow asked.
“Masa Hendricks jus’ left from checking on him. Says de foot should be fine to walk on in a few days.”
“Can we see him for a minute?” Kimie craned her neck to see inside the cabin.
The woman smiled reverently at the child. “He’d lak dat, Miss Kimie. A purty nurse lak you would heal a heap of ailments in de boy.”
Kimie grinned and slipped past her into the cabin. The woman stood back and gestured us inside. The toasty warmth of the fire in the room swept the chill of outside away. In a rocker by the fire sat a young boy who appeared to be twelve years or so. His bandaged foot rested on a crate and against the box rested a cane. One look at his other leg told me the walking cane was a frequent companion for the boy, regardless of the new injury.
Kimie was at his side. She lifted a gentle hand to his forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
“Gal, I don’t got de flu, I twisted my foot.” He narrowed his dark eyes and brushed her hand away. “You don’t need to be comin’ down here evvy day fussing ’bout me.”
“Parker, you be nice to Miss Kimie. She jus’ showing you some love,” the woman said.
“No use showing me no love, I won’t be ’round much longer. I’ll be off sailing before ya know it—ain’t dat right, Miss Willow.”
Willow stifled a smile and cleared her throat. “That’s what we’re aiming for.”
The boy tilted his chin. “You see dere, Miss Kimie, I ain’t going to be ’round much longer. I’ll be a man on Miss Willow’s ships, helpin’ Captain Gillies manage de crew.” He lowered his injured leg to the floor.
“Not if you don’t rest that leg.” Kimie bent and placed his leg back on the crate. “You’ll find yourself with two bad legs, and Miss Willow won’t be sending you on any ship. You’ll be staying here and helping your papa.”
Something told me she wouldn’t mind that so much.
Parker huffed and gave her a scowl, but a gleam in his eye told me he cared for the girl more than he was letting on and maybe even part of him enjoyed her attention.
Leaving the cabin, we pushed on. Kimie stopped beside a woman who was bent over in a coughing spell. She rubbed her back and spoke soothing words to her, promising to come back with some of Mary Grace’s “miracle potions”—that were sure to fix her right up.
“That girl has nursing in her blood,” I said.
Willow regarded the girl with fondness. “Yes, we believe so. When Ben makes his rounds to check on the ailing, Kimie’s usually at his side.”
“I could use someone like her in the Points.”
“She’s a light around this place. Folks look forward to her visits.”
I looked at the slave woman, who now stood upright. She lifted arthritic, feeble fingers and stroked the child’s cheek. “I pray de Lard never allows you to see folkses in colors.” Then she turned and disappeared between the cabins.
Her meaning lost on Kimie, she stood staring blankly after her.
The profoundness of the woman’s words struck me. Something told me Kimie would grow to be a woman of remarkable quality and that life held a divine purpose for her.
OVER THE NEXT WEEK, I joined Kimie on her daily trips to the quarters. Though the people greeted her with enthusiasm, most watched me with reservations.
“Talks all fancy. Thinks she’s better den us ’cause she’s free,” a woman said to her husband.
I attempted to brush off their whisperings and speculations the best I could, but it didn’t relieve the pang that they viewed me as an outsider. Yet wasn’t that what I was? Then there were others that embraced me in friendship with an eagerness to hear what it was like to be free.
On washing day, I stood in the stream with the other women washing the linens. I chatted to a woman I’d come to know as Jenny, and her friend, about my life in New York and my work in the Five Points.
Jenny scrunched up her nose at her friend. “Dat don’t sound lak free to me. Why, life here is better dan starvin’ to death in dat terrible place or worrying ’bout being murdered in your sleep. Least here our stomachs don’t burn wid hunger. And we don’t have to worry ’bout de missus or masa selling us off.”
“But et ain’t dat way at all plantations,” her friend Ruthy said. “Dis here place is good ’cause of de white folks dat run et. Ef dey had deir way, we’d all be free. But other plantations…” She shuddered.
“I believe there’s much truth in your words. You see, in New York I’m a journalist.”
“What’s a j-jour-nal-ist?” asked Ruthy, bending over to soak a linen in the murky stream.
“I write stories for a newspaper. Mr. Reed, who’s Miss Willow’s friend and mine—”
“Friend? Nah, de way I see et, de man got a loving deep in his soul for Miss Willow. Can’t help but feel sorry for him, wid Miss Willow only having eyes for dat Armstrong fellow.” Jenny straightened and rubbed an ache in her lower back.
I’d been so busy my mind barely had time to dwell on Kipling, and I liked it that way. “Well, that proves how smart Mr. Reed is, doesn’t it?”
“Meaning what?” Jenny’s brow puckered.
“That he sees the goodness in your mistress. Mr. Reed owns a newspaper that fights for the rights of people like you and me. His work in the northern states and in the South have helped slaves throughout the country find their freedom. He has ties with great men, like Frederick Douglas and William Still. Have you heard of them?”
They nodded, their eyes bright as they devoured my words. “Miss Willow tells us all ’bout them. She say ef men lak dem stand united, slavery will come to an end,” Jenny said.
“That’s our belief. Men and women around the country and in Canada are giving our people a voice. All isn’t lost. You keep believing in Miss Willow’s teachings, and she’ll guide you right.”
Ruthy stood, tipped her face to the sky, and inhaled a deep breath.
“Whatcha doing, Ruthy?” Jenny frowned.
“Dreaming.”
“’Bout what?”
“What et’s lak to be free.”
“Et scares me,” Jenny said solemnly.
Ruthy dropped her head and sent a scowl her way. “Why’s dat?”
“’Cause de world’s a big place, I’d be guessing. And I ain’t bin but three places in my life. Compared to dose places, Livingston feels lak all I can imagine free would luk lak. I can read, and I can write. I can weave de finest rugs ’round dese parts. And et’s all thanks to de mistress.” Jenny waded out of the river, and we followed. She dropped the linen she’d twisted until almost every last drop of moisture was out into a basket.
I dropped the shirt I’d washed into my basket with a waterlogged thud.
Ruthy bent and retrieved the shirt. “Dat shirt will take weeks to dry wid half de river still in et.” Her experienced fingers wrung the shirt, sending a puddle of water scurrying over the rocks and earth to disappear into the river.
“I guess you showed me, now didn’t you?” I laughed.
She grinned. “Et ain’t nothin’. You keep your fingers for writing dem
fine stories and nursing folkses back to health. De chores of running a home don’t seem lak dey be for you. When you marry, your man’s gonna have to hire one of dose free colored to keep your place cleant. Whites folkses, dey ain’t as good at keeping a house lak us. Now I knowed you ain’t white and all, but you kept lak dem.”
“And you got de manners of a goat.” Jenny frowned disapprovingly at her friend.
Ruthy’s mouth unhinged and worry shone in her eyes. “Why, I don’t mean no insult, Miss Ruby, I jus’…Jenny says I talk too much.”
“Think nothing of it. I took no offense. I’ve enjoyed this time together.”
Ruthy shook her head. “See, now you gotta go saying dose sort of things and…well, dere ain’t nothin’ fun ’bout evvyday work.”
“Helpless, aren’t I.” I held up my hands in surrender.
We all laughed. I placed my basket on my hip while they hoisted theirs to balance on their heads. Together we climbed the bank to the work yard. Jenny broke out in song. I was unfamiliar with the song at first but soon caught on to the lyrics and chanted out the tune with the others. The voices of the other women from the river joined ours as they fell into step around me.
The power behind their belief in the lyrics they sang brought tears to my eyes. Chains could not keep them down. Masters could not break their spirit. In song, they rejoiced a day of anticipated freedom. In them, the beauty of the human spirit was alive. This beautiful race the whites called “Negro” were my people. Pride pounded in my chest, and I stomped the ground with conviction as we marched into the working yard.
I SAW WILLOW STANDING OBSERVING me from the doorway of the forge. Her eyes were hooded, as if she pondered on something troublesome. Behind her, he stood, peering over her shoulder. From afar the blacksmith studied me with confused interest.
My heart sped up.
Does he recognize me?
A thickness constricted my throat, and I hurried my steps across the yard. Coward, I screamed inside.
I’d walked by the stables a few days back and paused, my heart telling me to approach the man who stood within, but I considered Willow’s words of caution. In the shadows of the stables he’d peered over the horse he was attending to, his brow furrowing when our eyes met. Fear overtook me, and I’d turned away and made haste back to the quarters.
At night when I lay alone in the cabin, listening to the owl that perched high in the oak tree, I thought of him. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d walk down to the dock and sit, gazing out over the river. Closing my eyes, I’d concentrate on the lulling sound of the Ashley River flowing past. Wind chattered in the trees lining the riverbank while the melody of night creatures calmed my inner torment. The chiming of the blacksmith’s hammer echoed as he worked long into the night. I wondered if it was his way of blocking out memories of his past.
One evening, on my way from the kitchen house, I’d glimpsed him coming out of the forge. Terror had thundered in my chest, and I’d hidden behind the privy. He walked past me within arm’s reach, and I’d shrunk against the building, holding my breath, tears streaming down my cheeks. Father? my mind cried out. Is it you? My feet rooted to the ground and he walked on.
Willow had come out on the back gallery, and I’d spied on them. They laughed and chatted as if life had given them many of those special moments. Envy had stirred in my heart. But fear of rejection and worry that our theory about him being my father was inaccurate kept me hidden.
That night I’d cried myself to sleep.
“Here, help me wid dis.” Jenny held out a sheet. I set my basket on the ground and took one end and helped her pin it on the line.
“Looks lak somepin’ done gone and caught your mind,” Ruthy said.
Not wanting to divulge our speculations about the blacksmith being my father, I said, “I was thinking—with Miss Willow’s permission, of course—would you ladies allow me to write your stories? I’m writing a collection of stories from slaves throughout the United States.”
“Ladies!” Ruthy snorted as if put out by the reference, but a pleased expression quickly crept across her face.
“What kind of stories dat be?” Jenny asked.
“I want to write about your hardships. What gives you strength to keep fighting. If you were free, what would you do with your life. Those sorts of things.”
“But why?”
“Because I believe the stories of our people and the oppression and prejudice forced on them needs to be recorded. Future generations need to know the injustices imposed on us. We must never allow them to forget.”
Jenny’s lip trembled, and tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I frowned.
“’Cause I judged you,” she said. “When Miss Willow put you up in de marriage cabin, my heart hardened wid anger at you and her. I thought you were a traitor to de rest of us. Strolling de grounds wid Miss Willow in your purty clothes and talkin’ all fancy lak.”
“I reckon I’m guilty of dose feelings, too.” Ruthy lowered her head.
“Please don’t be too hard on yourselves. I can’t say I wouldn’t pass the same judgment if I were you.”
They looked at me, their faces pleading for my understanding.
“I’m happy you gave me a chance.”
“Well, you’ve proved yourself by helping out ’round de place. We figured you ain’t too bad after all, ain’t dat right, Jenny.” Ruthy nudged her in the arm.
“Reckon so.” She grinned.
I glanced around the grounds. “There’s something about this place that gives me a feeling of kinship. Though Livingston is a slave-driven plantation and I do understand you aren’t truly free, there is a peacefulness about the place.”
“Dis place kind of has a way of growing on ya,” Jenny said.
“Think I’d miss de place ef I ever left,” Ruthy added, placing her hands on her narrow hips.
“Well, ef we are luking to finish our tasks for de day, we best git dese linens hung.”
I bent and retrieved a linen from my basket.
“Willow!” Whitney bellowed from the back gallery.
I straightened with the poorly squeezed linen in my hand as Willow exited the building and strolled toward the house. I watched her for a moment until…the afternoon air filled with the nostalgic tune. The black knight’s tune. I turned my head in the direction of the sound. The blacksmith’s shop and all that stretched out around me faded away…
Then an image flashed into my mind—a man with skin the same shade as mine, holding me on his lap. We were in a cabin packed with others like us. My head rested against his shoulder; I wore a stained cotton shift. My bare feet—small, young child’s feet—draped over his knees. I felt safe surrounded by the tenderness of his arms.
Then from low in his throat, he sang the words:
Fly, my little angel,
spread your wings and soar.
Above the trees may you find freedom,
a slave no more.
The words became clear, and my lips moved in memory. Then I was standing in a cotton field, and the blacksmith stood over me. He bandaged my fingers—bloodied from the cotton burrs—with strips of fabric. A bellow came from a man with a whip as he moved between rows. A loud crack ripped through the air, and the blacksmith winced under the lash. He teetered on his feet but remained upright.
“Get to work, nigger, or she’ll be next.”
“Yes, Masa,” he said. His dark eyes captured mine. The man carried on down the rows. The blacksmith’s eyes roved around, and he swiftly transferred some of his cotton into the bag strapped over my shoulders.
“No, Papa,” I cried.
“Shh. De masa gonna whip you ef you don’t meet your quota.”
Hot tears raced over my cheeks. “But Papa—” I whispered.
“Hush now. Keep your head down and move,” he said, and softly began to hum the tune.
“What is et, Miss Ruby?” Jenny gripped my arm, jerking me from the memory.
&n
bsp; I began to shake. My legs felt as if they were going to give out, but my eyes were locked on the forge.
God help me! It was my papa. I stood frozen, the soggy linen clutched in my hands.
“Ruby.” Willow stood before me now and pulled at the linen in my quivering hands.
I looked at her. “That tune…” My voice quivered.
“I know.” Her eyes flickered with worry, yet her expression was determined.
“It’s…the tune that’s haunted me.” Her face blurred as the tears came.
“Come with me.” She handed the linen to Ruthy or Jenny; I wasn’t sure. She took my hand and pulled me toward the forge.
No, I’m not ready. Fear rushed through me. I dug my heels into the ground to slow our advance toward all I’d ever wanted. “Where are we going?” I blabbered.
“To meet the one you’ve been searching for,” Willow said.
I dug my heels deep into the ground, skidding to a halt, and grabbed at her arms. “I don’t know. I can’t do this. I need more time,” I pleaded.
She lifted a hand and cupped my cheek. “Life has stolen enough time from you.” Her eyes swam with tears. Conflict and sadness warred on her face.
“I can’t,” I said again.
“You must.”
I glanced from her to the forge and back to her.
She slipped her arm around my waist and slowly led me forward.
What if he turns me away?
As we stepped into the forge, I beheld the man—the keeper of the tune.
“Jimmy,” Willow whispered.
His whistling ceased as he turned to us. “Ah, Miss Willie. Somepin’ I can help you wid?”
“I—I wanted you to meet Ruby. I believe…we think…” She looked at me; her fingers tightened on my waist. I felt the trembling of her body. Heard the pain in her voice as she said with unwavering assurance, “This is Mag.”
He dropped the tool he held. His face drained of color.
“I thought…we suspected she was your Mag. But we are certain of this now.” I heard fear in her voice.
“How?” His gaze turned from her to me.
“The tune you were whistling,” I said. “I remember it. It’s haunted me every day of my life. I remember Olivia’s eyes. Her voice. The swamps. The dogs. The ship. All of it.” I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. “…and you.”