Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (17 page)

21

THE DARK WINTER MONTHS PASSED SLOWLY THAT
year. There was little to do, and even less to eat. I spent most of my time in the kitchen, with Cassie. During this time I only rarely saw Watkins, and I became convinced that he cared as little for me as I did him. My fleeting interest had been a product of loneliness and depression, nothing more.

One cool, early morning in March of ’77, I awoke to the sound of the birds making a ruckus outside my window. The sun had not yet risen, but the birds seemed insistent that I rise. With a great sigh, I obliged them.

Cassie was already up and preparing breakfast. As I entered the kitchen, she was peeling potatoes so sprouted they looked like giant spiders. I took one and attacked Cassie with it, making as if to bite her neck, when I was startled half to death by a knock on the back door. I turned to the window, to see a Negro boy standing there, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

He was a skinny youth of perhaps nine or ten. The boy’s eyes were clear and bright, his face long and sensitive. He was not familiar to me, and for a moment I assumed he was on some sort of errand. Then, moving closer to the window, I noticed his feet were wrapped in torn, filthy rags. A tattered sack slung from one shoulder. This was no local slave child.

“Cassie,” I whispered. Cassie turned, frowned, and, catching the vagrant in her sight, was on the verge of shooing him away when she changed her mind and opened the door a crack.

“What do you want, child?”

The boy said nothing.

“To whom do you belong?” I asked, kneeling down to face him.

Still nothing.

“Well, then, what’s your name? Surely you must have one?”

Cassie whispered, “’Ee look like my Toby.”

“A little bit,” I admitted. “But his eyes are not so dark. They are almost green.”

She regarded the child at arm’s length. Her mouth turned down with indecision, which made her look unusually dour. The poor child stood stiffly, no doubt certain that w
e’d
push him back into the miserable world.

“Well, what shall we do with him?” I asked aloud. “We must at least feed him.” I motioned for the child to come in and sit on the chair. I then poured him a glass of milk. Cassie looked at me dubiously, then shook her head.

“Come on, Cassie,” I urged her. “The child needs a bath.”

With reluctance she set a large pot of water on the coals. The boy took fright at this, as if he believed we might boil him to a tender, edible consistency.

After he had eaten, Cassie went to undress him while I stood sentry by the kitchen entrance. We saw, to our horror, weeping, fresh scars, thick as my small finger, all down his back. We said nothing, but Cassie’s chin trembled as she helped him to step into the tin pail. He felt the water with his fingers before carefully stepping inside.

“Child, where do you come from? How did you get here?” I asked. Nothing. I said, “Well, but at least tell us how you arrived at our house.”

I saw his mind working. For, though mute with fear, I knew from his eyes that he understood us.

“Next door.” He shrugged. “What call themselves Whipples. A girl was out front, and when I tell her what I did, she pointed here. She said there was a good white lady—here.”

“Me?” I said, turning to Cassie.

“Well, it in’t me,” she replied.

After his bath, warm, dry, and full, the child closed his eyes and was asleep before Cassie had set him down upon her bed.

“Poor little fellow,” I said, turning to leave. “I don’t see what we are supposed to do. I don’t see how we can keep him.”

“No,” Cassie agreed. “Master Robert, he barely keep us.”

“Then—what can we do, Cassie? We can’t set him to the wolves. You saw him when I asked where he was from. He’ll never tell us. I suppose we must find out to whom he belongs.”

“And den?” she challenged.

“I don’t know. Let me think.”

My frock was wet all down the bodice, and I wished to change out of it. “I must go. I shan’t be long. Reveal nothing to anyone. And if he wakes, for goodness’ sake, entreat him to be silent.” Cassie nodded, and I left her alone.

I was in a heedless rush when I nearly collided with Mama on the stairs.

“Why, Eliza, you’re soaking wet!”

“Yes. I was attempting to . . . wash a soiled pair of stockings.”

“Wash stockings?” she exclaimed. “Why on earth? Really, Eliza. What do we have servants for?”

“It was a trifle. Phoebe was busy with the silver, and Cassie is just making breakfast.”

“Well, hurry up and put something on. You’ll catch your death like that.”

“Yes, Mama.” I moved to my chamber, changed out of my frock and donned a dry one. My heart beat so quickly that I grew short of breath. The child could not long be hidden, but I knew not what to do, nor whom to approach.

I sat upon my bed and stared out the window. The child had been deeply frightened—but was it from the whipping, or something else? If we turned him out, he would take to hiding in the woods. He could not last long out there.

I spent near an hour on the bed, thinking it over. I strove to recall what I had been taught at meeting. Was a sin committed for some greater good yet a sin? I wished I had paid more attention. But it was no use. The lofty precepts of theology were of little use to me at that moment.

I then turned my brains to our current troubles. In the war against our motherland, did our men not kill for a greater purpose? There must be such a purpose, I believed, for otherwise our actions would be inexcusable. My reasoning was hardly canonical, but it would have to do.

I rose and approached my uncle’s chamber across the hall. I heard him clear his throat and knew he was within. I knocked.

“Who’s there?” he said, startled.

“Cousin Eliza, Uncle Robert.”

“Well, come in.”

I entered my uncle’s chamber. He was sitting by the window overlooking Deer Street. He had a benign, contemplative air. His body had wasted away, and he looked far older and more fragile than when we first arrived. For a moment, I imagined he had no strength to deny me anything. I even allowed myself to imagine that he had softened. I came directly to the point.

“Uncle Robert, a child has appeared at our door, a poor Negro child who has been whipped to within an inch of his life. We could not wrest the name of his master from him, but I have no doubt that he has escaped from hell itself. I should like to keep him. For a time, at least.”

“Certainly not,” Uncle said without hesitation. “I have no means of feeding an extra mouth. Besides, God knows to whom this child belongs. I should by rights report him.”

Nothing moved save his mouth, but I had heard the force of will behind his breath. Uncle Robert may have loved Cassie, but his feelings toward slavery had not changed.

Some moments passed between us in silence. Twice I moved to leave my uncle’s chamber. But my heart pounded in my ears and would not let me slink away like a miserable coward. I turned to my uncle and asked God to forgive me for what I was about to do.

“Uncle Robert,” I began. “I am sorry to give anyone pain, but I must admit that I am privy to the tragic nature of poor Cousin George’s death—I speak of the house in which he died. To put it plainly, I know the circumstances.”

Uncle’s mouth gaped at the mention of my cousin’s secret. Had the Devil himself entered my breast? His face told me it was so. I continued:

“I shouldn’t like to imagine his excellent name besmirched and ridiculed among the good people of Portsmouth—and perhaps beyond.”

This time, as Uncle Robert looked up at me, I saw the dart of pain lodge in his breast, and I swooped in to take my advantage: “The boy may apprentice under Watkins, at Colonel Langdon’s shipyard. They sorely need workers there now. Only think how, in but a few years’ time, you shall make a good return on his indenture.”

My uncle looked up at me without a word; his legs had ceased their restless pumping, and I do believe my willingness to blackmail him in this way came as a shock to us both.

“Uncle,” I softened my tone, “I am not insensible to the fact that you have taken us under your wing these two years. I know not how we would have survived without your aid. You are a good, Christian man and shall reap your rewards in the next life. Or perhaps even yet in this.”

The fog in Uncle Robert’s eyes cleared. Never would he have thought me capable of such villainy. He turned from me with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Well, have your nigger child if you must. Only keep him out of my sight. And if anyone is to go with less food because of it, let it be yourself.”

I curtsied deeply and left the chamber. Once in my own chamber, I felt my heart pound wildly. Yet no shame tainted my exultation, though the battle had been a dirty one.

It was just after eight the following morning when, taking up a shawl for me, a blanket for the boy, and an old canteen borrowed of one of the stableboys, I walked out the kitchen door heading for the ferry. The poor child was reluctant to leave the house. Tears pooled in his round eyes. Desperate for Cassie, he ran back into the kitchen and emerged a moment later grasping a small doll she had made for him out of an old rag and buttons. He held it as if it was the only thing he fully trusted.

Cassie stood in the doorway. She said, “Dat doll have powerful magic. He protect you.”

She proffered a sack, and I took it. Before leaving my uncle’s house, however, and with Cassie remaining in the doorway, I crouched down and held the child by his shoulders.

“I know you’re frightened,” I said. “But we plan to keep you safe and take care of you. It would be much easier for us if we didn’t have to call you ‘boy’ or ‘you there.’ Yes, it would be far easier if we had a name to call you. You need not use your old one, you know,” I encouraged him.

The child looked at me, then at Cassie.

“I like the name Isaac,” he said.

I took the child’s hand and said, “Very well, then, Isaac. Let us go before we miss the ferry.” And off we went down the hill, toward the ferry and the bright rising sun.

On the skiff, the child clung to me in terror, but we made it safely across the river and were soon on the island. All around us, men were busily engaged in their tasks. There was such an overall feeling of industry—the noise of hammers, anvils against stone, and the rasping of saws—that Isaac forgot his fear, and his eyes widened in amazement.

“You see that?” I pointed to the hull in the distance, its ribs curved like the carcass of a whale. “That’s the ship these men are building. It’s a big warship. It’s called the
Ranger
. In another month, it will have guns upon it and flapping sails. Wouldn’t you like to help these men build a ship of war?”

The boy turned to me, his eyes eager. Then some anxious thought occurred to him, and he shrank back in fear. “Miss, I don’t know how to build a ship.” In his voice I heard the fear of bloody whipping. I knelt by his side and whispered, “No one shall whip you here. If they do, I’ll
shoot
’em with our musket.” At this outlandish thought, Isaac grinned. “Besides,” I added, “you shall have a big brother to watch over you now.”

“Who? Who’ll watch over me?” he asked dubiously. Isaac cast his eyes about the many white faces. He would have been foolish to believe me without further proof. Which white man would protect him? Nary a one.

I took the child by the hand, and together we approached the
Ranger’s
hollow hull. She had not yet been mounted on staging, but around her, half a dozen men were in the process of building the frame upon which she would soon rest. As we approached, I cast about for Watkins.

He was not among the shipwrights but stood by a lean-to, staring down at an architectural drawing. His figure was silhouetted against the rising sun. He stood with his weight on one leg, in an attitude of indecision. His forefinger rested on the drawing, and he had a dissatisfied air. He then turned quickly, as if to seek someone out, and found me instead, holding the hand of a Negro boy.

Watkins was surprised to see me, but he approached at once and bent down to address the child. His hair was loose and fell in tightly twisted coils about his shoulders. He had grown a small goatee, hair such as may be worn only among shipwrights and sailors. But it lent his fine features an appealing ruggedness.

“Hallo, there,” he said to the boy, then nodded civilly to me. “Well, sir,” he continued as he knelt upon one knee and addressed the child. “Who might you be? You’re not by any chance King George, are you? They say he’s very short.”

Isaac giggled and shook his head.

“No? I’m relieved to hear it, for otherwise I should have to chop off your head. Here, shake my hand. They call me Watkins. And you are?”

The boy looked at me.

“This is Isaac,” I found my voice. “He’s going to be staying with us.”

“Well, it’s very good to meet you, Isaac,” said Watkins. The child reached to keep his new shirt from ballooning in the breeze. Collarless, and made of fine linen, it billowed around the child. The shirt must’ve once belonged to Cousin George.

“I would give you a tour,” Watkins continued, “but I’m afraid I can’t break away from work just yet. Would you come back tomorrow? If you come at eleven, I could show you what important work we do for His Excellency. Would you like that?”