Glory Over Everything (11 page)

“That be Miss Delia,” she said, and then went silent.

Fortunately, Ed soon came through with my pallet, and I followed him to my room. After he left, I sat down on the straw-filled mattress and looked around, dazed to find myself in this position. Until recently, I had known only luxury. Grandmother had raised me to be a gentleman, to have my own land and my own servants. Now I was sleeping in a storage room. What would Grandmother think to see me here? It had been weeks now, but still my heart clenched whenever I remembered that she was gone.

Fully clothed, I lay back on the pallet. Unexpectedly, exhaustion won out, and I fell asleep.

I
N THE FIRST
months I served as an errand boy for Mr. Burton, picking up supplies and making deliveries. Gradually, the turmoil of the streets affected me less, and as I got to know the layout of the city, I grew more confident. If I earned a penny or two from a satisfied customer, I offered the coins to Mr. Burton on my return to the shop. When he assured me that those were mine to keep, I stored them eagerly.

When I wasn't out on deliveries, I was given the task of cleaning the three rooms of Mr. Burton's shop. Naturally, there was the storefront, where the glass cases and open shelves displayed some of the finest silver pieces, but Mr. Burton was as particular about his small office and the large room to the back where he and Nicholas, another silversmith, did their silver work.

Before I was introduced to Nicholas, Mr. Burton took me aside. “You should know that Nicholas has his peculiarities,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, wondering if he thought I had some of my own.

“He talks without thinking—that is, he seems incapable of censoring his thoughts. He has been like this from the beginning, but he means no harm.”

Forewarned, I went with him to meet Nicholas, who was hard at work in the back room. The tall heavyset man paused only a moment when we were introduced, then twice slammed a hammer against a silver ingot. The muscles on his huge forearm bulged with the effort, and when he stepped back, he pulled a rag from under his leather apron to wipe dry his forehead as he considered me.

“You got an odd look about you with that funny eye,” Nicholas said by way of greeting. I had been born with a useless left eye cloaked with a white film, but until recently, I had given it little thought. During my childhood, those around me seldom, if ever, made note of it, but since my flight, its oddity had been pointed out more than once, and its mention now made me shift uncomfortably.

“Well, I did warn you,” Mr. Burton said after we left the room. “Fortunately, he does not aspire to a business of his own, as his forthright comments are ill suited to customers.” He chuckled. “Oh well, it is my good luck that he wants only to be left alone to work at his craft, for he is the true artisan here.” As proof of his words, he pointed out Nicholas's most recent work, an elegantly shaped teapot that even I, with no training, could appreciate.

“But here is how we make our real money,” he said, opening two oversize drawers filled with silver pieces. “We supply these to fur trading posts for barter with the Indians.” He invited me to examine the rings, wristbands, and round silver cloak brooches.

“Indians buy these?” I asked, excited at this news.

“Well, the fur traders buy them from me and offer these silver pieces as trade for pelts. The Indians wear them, particularly the men. There is a great demand for silver, and these are simple enough to make, but we can hardly keep up.”

“Is it all right if I touch them?” I asked, and with his permission, I rifled through. I slipped a ring on my finger and moved my hand about in the air to better see the sparkle of the silver. “Will you show me how to make these?” I asked eagerly, but when he was slow to answer, I noted in surprise his moist eyes. “I'm sorry,” I said, quickly slipping off the ring.

“No. No. You've done nothing wrong. It was the way you spoke just now. It was your excitement, you see. I had a son—you reminded me of him just then,” he explained while using his knuckle to dab at a lone tear. “In answer to your question, yes, you will learn to make the rings, but you must be patient.”

And so I was, dutifully carrying out my chores until a few weeks later, when Mr. Burton called me into his office. He sat at his large rolltop oak desk and had me take a seat across from him before he presented me with a document.

“James, I would like you to read this over and consider it carefully. If you sign, you are agreeing to be my apprentice. While I train you as a silversmith, I will continue to provide you with room and board. You will be with me for seven years, but I am hoping that with your artistic talent you will be established well before then.”

“I don't need to read this. I will sign it,” I said quickly, and handed back the paper.

“No, young man,” he said, giving it back to me. “You must always read through anything before you sign your name. Your signature is the same as giving your word, and keeping your word is the mark of a man's character. In the end, it is the most valuable thing a man possesses.”

His words cut deep. He had asked a few times about my past, and each time I led him to believe that I was orphaned, with no living relatives. Not only was I deeply grateful to him for having taken me into his home, I also respected this ethical man and I wanted only to tell him the truth. But I was too afraid. I avoided his eyes when I took the paper from him again and hoped he didn't see how my hand shook when I signed the document as James Smith.

A
LTHOUGH MY DAY
still included making deliveries, I now was given the opportunity to assist Nicholas in the back room. Initially, I only worked the bellows for the forge, and though my arms grew tired, I found it fascinating to watch the silver coin melt and harden again after it was poured into molds. But it was when Nicholas reheated the ingots and hammered the silver into shape that the artistry began. He did it with such skill that he made the craft look easy. When he finally relented and helped me craft my first silver spoon, I was unprepared for the physical stamina required. After the ingot was heated, it took both strength and dexterity to secure the malleable silver with tongs and then hammer it flat against the anvil. My arm was already sore when we placed the flattened silver over the mold, and when Nicholas handed me yet another hammer, I rubbed my shoulder. “Doesn't your arm get tired?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Mine does,” I said, moving my shoulder up and down, expecting Nicholas to suggest I take a break.

But Nicholas was not like my grandmother, who had pampered me. Instead he dismissed my complaint with a grunt and nodded for me to continue until the silver began to take shape.

“Now, you got to use a light touch,” Nicholas said, finally handing over a small hammer required to complete the finishing. Mr. Burton came in just then, and as I tapped away, he asked what I was doing.

“I'm doing the planishing,” I said, quick to use the correct terminology, and when I saw Mr. Burton's approval, I forgot about my shoulder pain.

My admiration and appreciation for the man had grown each day, and my one objective was now to please him. True, I wanted to learn the craft, but more, I wanted Mr. Burton's good opinion of me, and because of it, I dedicated myself to learning. Likely because of my artist's hand and eye, the iron punches, chisels, and saws soon grew as comfortable in my hands as my whittling knife, and when Mr. Burton recognized and congratulated me on each progressive step, I was as pleased with myself as I had ever been.

Would that my transition into the Burton household had been as simple.

D
ELIA'S MEALS WERE
of good quality and served to me in the kitchen, where I always ate alone, which suited me. One day when I saw the table set for three, indicating that I was to sit down with Delia and Ed, I said that I would take my meal to my room.

“Who that boy think he is?” I heard Delia ask her brother as I carried my food down the corridor. “He act high and mighty as that Robert!” she added more quietly. Curious, I stopped outside my door to listen for more.

“Now, Del, the boy white,” Ed answered. “You know they don' eat with no colored folk.”

“Well, for sure he act white, but he hidin' something, that much I know. He don' say nothin' 'bout where he come from or who his family be. He hidin' somethin',” she repeated.

“Del!” Ed said. “Even if that true, that his business.”

“It my business to watch out for this house, and for sure it my business to care for Mr. and Mrs. Burton. I tell you, that boy hidin' somethin'.”

Her insight terrified me, and from then on I was especially wary when fielding her questions.

“What you got in there?” she asked one morning, making note of my leather satchel that I carried with me each day to work.

“My personal things,” I said, gripping tight my bag that contained Grandmother's jewelry. Mr. Burton had noted it as well, but with him I was more forthcoming and told him that it held some of my grandmother's things. He did not question me further and in fact provided me with a safe cupboard to store it in while I was at the shop.

“ ‘My personal things!' ” Delia repeated, mimicking my voice, and though I wanted to hit her, I pretended not to mind.

I was grateful that her brother left me to myself as he went about his business of running the stables and seeing to the gardens, and if we shared an exchange, he always spoke to me with deference, a behavior that I was accustomed to.

But then there was Robert.

B
EFORE
I
MET
him, Delia made it clear that though he ran the household, the two of them did not see eye to eye, and from the beginning I supposed it was because she resented the authority of a white man in her kitchen. One evening some days after my arrival, I met the man when he made an unexpected appearance just as I was finishing my meal.

“Yes?” I asked, setting aside my fork and knife.

“I am Robert,” he said, speaking with a slight clipped English accent that I was to learn came as a result of his five years of butler training in London. “Might we have a word after you finish dining?”

This was Robert! He was not a white man, as I had assumed, but an impeccably dressed, carefully groomed, and well-spoken Negro. What would Grandmother have thought!

After I swallowed my surprise, I folded my napkin alongside my plate. “I am available now,” I said, taking note of his starched white shirt and the spotless white apron tied around the waist of his dark trousers.

Delia, heating water for washing dishes, shot me a satisfied glance before she looked to Robert with a slight smile. She hesitated after he suggested she go upstairs to see to Mrs. Burton, but she reluctantly did so while he waited patiently for her to leave.

“I'll be in the pantry,” he said, speaking in a way that left no doubt he was used to issuing orders. Irritated at being directed by a servant, I took my time to follow.

I found him seated behind a desk in a room off the kitchen, working figures in an open ledger. His tall, thin frame sat erect, and his long narrow feet, bound in shoes of black leather and polished to a high luster, set flat on the brick floor. It was difficult to assess his age, though when he looked up at me, I guessed him to be perhaps in his mid-thirties.

“Please sit.” With his index finger, he indicated another chair across the table from himself. I declined to sit, stating a preference to remain standing. “As you wish,” he said.

“How may I help you?” I asked, irritated by his assuming demeanor.

“As you might know, I am butler of this house,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You understand, then, that I am responsible to speak to you about any household issues that arise?”

I could not imagine what he was referring to. I waited until, with only silence between us, I was forced to speak. “Go on,” I said.

“I understand that you have been leaving out your coat and boots for Delia to clean.”

“I have,” I said. “That is the duty of a servant, is it not?”

“You are correct in believing that it is what one might expect from one's servant. However, Delia is not your servant. When you live below stairs, as they say in England, you are considered one of the staff.”

“One of the staff?” I was outraged. It was true that I was lodging in servants' quarters, but surely I wasn't considered one of them. They were Negroes!

“Yes, one of the staff. You are expected to look out for your own outer garments and your boots. Of course, you may expect Delia to continue to do laundry for you, as she does for the rest of the household.”

“I see,” I said, and finding no rebuttal, I made a quick exit.

I found it almost impossible to settle that night. True, I was angry that this black man thought of me as a servant, but what also disturbed me was the forceful yet eloquent way he had spoken. I had never seen the like. His sophisticated conduct, educated speech, and overall deportment belied everything Grandmother had taught me about the Negro's limited capabilities.

S
UNDAY WAS A
day I had to myself. On those mornings Mr. Burton attended church services, and I generally took that day to stroll about town, but one Sunday morning in November I remained in bed, feeling under the weather with a cold. I heard Ed bring around the carriage for Mr. Burton and listened as the horses clomped away. I meant to rise then, but the weather outside had turned wintry, and I decided to lay abed a while longer. I suppose I dozed, for I was startled awake by cries for help from Delia. I hesitated to respond, for it was Delia, after all, yet her call sounded so urgent that I yanked my trousers on over my nightshirt and rushed from my room.

“Upstairs!” Delia called when she saw me. “Come! Upstairs!”

Expecting a house fire or a similar emergency, I followed as she hurried up the back stairs. There, in the hallway, light from a large fan window above the oversize front door streamed onto a chair where an older woman sat. She appeared to be struggling to breathe, but when I rushed to her side, she used her lace-edged handkerchief to wave me toward the dining room door. It was then I realized that though she was struggling for air, she was also laughing.