The End of the World and Beyond Page 11

  “Have to wait, won’t I?” After a moment Bara said, “But we can’t just go running off. Has to be the right time. Right way. Right plan.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “Swamp.”

  “Swamp?” I cried. When my messmate Rufus Caulwell had described it to me on the boat, it seemed so fantastical I did not believe him. Now that I’d seen it with my own eyes, foul-smelling, thick with snakes and other creatures, it may have been real, but it was loathsome.

  I said, “Have you gone into it?”

  “Some.”

  “How far?”

  “Enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Why are you telling me about it?”

  “You asked how we can survive.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t go in there. I’ll find another way.”

  He said, “There is no other way. All the colonies have slaves and convicts. To get free you have to go through the swamp.”

  I said nothing.

  “It goes on for miles. Westward. A whole world of it. In there, somewhere, are slaves, like me, bound servants, and convicts, like you. Least, that’s what I’ve been told. Those people run off and live, in deep, secret places, places that people like Fitzhugh can’t get to.

  “Those people do more than hide. They set up living places. Stay there for years. Even raise up children.”

  “Who told you about it?”

  “Other slaves. In Annapolis. The people that get there, they’re called maroons.”

  “Why that?”

  “Not sure. I just know they live there. Free.”

  “Have you ever seen them?”

  He shook his head. “Too far in. And it’s secret. Because magistrates and people like Fitzhugh, they’re always trying to catch them. So those people have to be watchful. No, I haven’t seen them. But I believe it. That’s where I’m going. Thing is,” Bara added, “you have to know how to get through.”

  “How?”

  He looked downhill, toward the house where Fitzhugh was presumably still sleeping.

  “Come on. Be quick. I’ll show you.”

  Running, we reached the swamp. Bara said, “You asked me how we can get through.” He bent down and picked up two stones. They were somewhat round and flat. “They look the same?”

  “Mostly.”

  He handed one to me. “Let’s see how far you can throw it.”

  I threw the stone into the water. It landed a short way off, making a watery plop.

  Bara took his stone, and with a side motion, flung it out. To my surprise, the stone skipped over the water surface some ten times, going much farther than mine had.

  I said, “How’d you do that?”

  “Takes time to learn. Just know, if you go there”—he nodded toward the swamp—“you’ll need to learn how to skip over it—like that stone. We better get back. He’ll be up soon.”

  We hurried back to the field. Soon as we got there, Bara began to chop at the ground with his hoe. I went on my knees, pulled weeds, and softened the earth by some tobacco shoots. After some time, I said, “Bara, if you go, will you let me come with you?”

  “Have to see what you are, don’t I? Need to see how smart you are. Not doing what you did this morning.”

  “Teach me.”

  “First thing, you have to be patient. Start with that. Can you?”

  “I promise.”

  “The way I see it we’ll have only one chance. We either get free, or not. Best time is after summer, when the swamp waters go down.”

  “That’s months.”

  “That’s what is. But no talking about it. Don’t even think it. Forget everything I said. If he”—I knew he meant Fitzhugh—“guesses one word, one thought, we’re done. Like Clark.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’d better. I can’t protect you. No more than I could protect Clark. He was a fool to go alone. Fools don’t live long. We either go together and live or stay here and die.”

  I believed Bara. I just had to wait. Then we would go. Into the swamp. Together.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  In Which I Tell You What My Days Were Like.

  Recall that my mother died a few hours after I was born. Since my father did not remarry and had no more than a shrubby interest in being paternal, I was for the most part raised by my elder sister, Charity.

  It was my experience then to be guided and protected by someone not much older than me. Thus, when Charity took herself to London, her going altered my life. Without her I felt abandoned. Yes, my sister and I were briefly reunited, but my misfortunes in England came about in large measure because of my urgent want of Charity’s guidance and therefore my search for her.

  It was easy then, for me to accept Bara—who was also somewhat older than me—as my teacher, companion, and protector. Add to that my great dread of Fitzhugh, and you will grasp my need to follow Bara in everything. I took to him as if he were my older, knowing brother who always wished things to be done right. Yes, he had no desire to incur the old man’s vile anger, but mostly, he took pride in his work. I wanted to do well too, to earn Bara’s respect.

  That said, I beg you, do not think of us as two playful boys. We were laboring servants, working from early light to late shadows. The names of days—Monday, Thursday—meant nothing. Every day was yesterday. Tomorrow would become yesterday. Nor did I count weeks or measure months. The days grew hotter, wetter, and ever wearier. Monotony was our portion. Besides the tobacco plants we were also required to take care of the horse and hogs. To cook our daily food.

  The only change for Bara and me came about when there was rain. On such days, we pounded corn kernels into the meal we ate, a hard and drearisome task.

  We never knew when Fitzhugh spied on us. Never knew when he would beat us. He did so three more times to Bara, the same to me. No reasons—as if any reasons could justify such evil acts—were ever given. The pain was great. The degradation extreme. Our rage was high but—of necessity—held within. There is no greater pain than a pain held within. But shared pain is somewhat lesser pain.

  Fearful that Fitzhugh would overhear us, Bara and I never talked much. Rather we were silent together and communicated in other ways, looks, gestures. Our eyes spoke and served—along with swamp mud—as balm.

  Meanwhile, the old man was more often than not swashed with drink, though where he purchased his liquor, I don’t know. I only knew he consumed it constantly. As far as I could see, my awful life would remain the same until Bara told me otherwise.

  Chapter Forty

  In Which I Share What I Learned about Bara.

  Though Bara remained in many ways unknown to me, I came to trust him and looked to him for direction, of which I had vast need. Hardly a surprise I came to love him as a brother. That said, whereas it is not uncommon for older brothers to overlord their younger siblings, that was not the case with Bara. But reserve was Bara’s armor. Endurance was his strength. Considering my deep ignorance, my demonstrated folly, he was more than kind. Indeed, he proved generous.

  As time passed, our brotherhood enlarged, and when Fitzhugh was around, Bara and I learned to communicate with our eyes, merely by looking at each other. One look said, “Yes.” Another “no.” Another look said, “Be careful.” And much more complex notions, which I have not the language to express. He had told me I must be patient, and I was determined to be that.

  One day, when we were working in the tobacco fields, Bara abruptly said, “Who is Charity?”

  That took me by surprise. “How do you know about her?”

  “In your sleep last night, you spoke the name.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Do you truly want to know about her? About me?”

 
He said, “If you wish to tell me.”

  I related my story much as I have expressed it on these pages, though much abridged. He listened as we continued to work but said not one word. I even shared my lace piece with him.

  When I had related my tale, he said, “You care to know who I am?” It was as if we were exchanging gifts.

  “Yes, please.”

  “The furthest back I can remember,” Bara began, “I was on an island. Barbados, I think. Where English people rule. I was born there, a slave. I have no memory of my father. If I think about my mother, she’s but blurry. From Africa, I believe. Guinea I was told. I have no idea if they still live, and if so, where. I don’t know who gave me my name. I hope it’s what my parents gave me. An Afric name. That name Bara is the only thing I own.

  “I don’t know if I have brothers, sisters. Or any relations. My family was those with whom I lived and worked, fellow slaves. My oldest memories are constant work with sugarcane: digging cane holes, planting, trashing, cutting, tying, loading, carting. Great heat, little food, and punishments for not working more. Many died.

  “I know who I am, but not a day passes when I do not wonder who else might know me. I never spent a day in school. I can’t read or write.

  “One day, very young, I was herded off with other slaves, brought to Annapolis, and sold to an Englishman, a government official. I worked from dawn until night as a house servant in his home, one of a number of slaves. One of my tasks was waiting on table and Mistress insisted I learn to speak as they spoke. Dressed me fine, even to a wig to impress her guests. I guess it was the rage in England to have young black boys wait on tables.

  “But then they went back to England. I didn’t know why. When they went they sold their slaves. Being so young, no one wanted me. Not for field work. It was Fitzhugh who—for a bargain—bought me. I’ve been here, I believe, two years.”

  I took all that in and thought about it. A day later, as we were working, I said, “You’ve been a good teacher. But there’s one thing I can do that you can’t.”

  “What?”

  “I can read and write. I could teach you.”

  “How?”

  With the hoe handle I scratched out the letter B.

  “What’s that?”

  “B. The first letter of your name.” I said the letter. “B. Buh. Bara.”

  After looking about to make sure Fitzhugh was not near, Bara squatted down beneath the tobacco leaves, and with a finger copied the letter. “B,” he said, looking up at me for confirmation.

  I nodded.

  Then I scratched out the rest of his name. A R A.

  “That’s your name,” I said. I said each of the letters, and then his name. He repeated it all with me. We did so a number of times.

  I stepped away. For a long time, he stared at the name and letters. Then his fingers moved over the letters, as if feeling his own name. He also said the name aloud any number of times. Spelled it out.

  For the rest of the day we worked with our hoes in silence. But every now and again Bara paused, bent over, and wrote his name in the dirt, saying it, only to erase it.

  One time he pointed to himself and said, “Bara. B, A, R, A.”

  Every day I taught Bara new letters. He learned well. Since there was not a page to read (and if there was, it would not have been safe to try) I taught him how to spell and read names. My own. Fitzhugh. Charity. Clark. Then things. Tobacco. Hoe. Dirt. Water. And any other thing he asked for.

  It may seem little enough, but it came to be that Bara’s knowledge of reading altered everything.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Excursion upon the Bay, Wherein a Fish Is Caught and a Runaway Plan Is Prepared.

  It was late summer. I cannot tell you just when. The heat was extreme, more than I ever believed it could be. The heavy, damp air clung like sheets of lead. Breathing was hard. We shared no talk of escaping, none. But I have no doubt it was always in Bara’s mind, as it was in mine.

  In the meantime, Bara and I worked all day, every day. Our whole labor was given mostly to tobacco. By this time the plants had grown four to seven feet tall, with large, fanlike leaves. The crop had grown enough that although the actual ingathering was still some time off, Bara was able to estimate what the harvest would be. In answer to Fitzhugh’s persistent questions, he shared that guess with the old man. To show his satisfaction, Fitzhugh said, “I haven’t eaten fish in a long time. I want you to get some tomorrow.” With a nod toward me, he added, “Take him. I’ll give you the paddle and spear.”

  These tools, I soon learned, were things he kept in his locked chest.

  The next day after work—the twilight sky summer soft—Bara and I went to the shore of the bay. He held out a thick pole, with one end flat and wider than the rest. “A paddle,” he informed me. “It moves a canoe.”

  “Canoe?” I said.

  “You’ll see.”

  In his other hand, Bara carried a slender rod that had at one end a sharp iron tip, the tip having a barb. At the other end a cord was attached.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Fish spear.”

  On the bay edge of Fitzhugh’s land, a small wharf had been constructed, which looked to have been made from cypress logs driven into soft earth, then covered with planks. I had seen it on my first day, but never dared to venture near. You may recall the old man had forbidden me to go there.

  As for the canoe, it was stowed on the ground near this wharf. As best as I could tell it was made from a hollowed-out cypress log, dark red, some eighteen feet in length.

  The two of us brought it from the land to the water. Once afloat, it was easeful to move. Still, I eyed it with disquiet. “Are we getting in that?”

  “Have to.”

  “I can’t swim.”

  “I can. I’ll teach you. You’ll need to know.” Bara handed me the pointed spear and cord. “Wait here,” he said.

  As I looked on, he waded into the bay up to his waist, bent over, and seemed to be feeling down into the water. What he pulled up were five stone-like objects, which he threw on the land where I was standing. They were rough, knurly things, about twelve inches in length, and as much as four inches wide. To my eyes, they looked like encrusted stones.

  “What’s that?” I called.

  “Oysters.”

  Back on land, Bara smashed two of these rocklike things together. What I took to be stones were shells and they shattered. To my surprise, he scooped out the innards, and to my further astonishment, put the gob into his mouth.

  He broke open another and plopped a wet hunk into my hand. It was slimy and smelled repulsive.

  “Go on,” urged Bara. “Eat it.”

  I stared at the mess.

  “Eat it,” he commanded. For once he was grinning.

  I forced myself to eat, and when I did, it took effort not to retch.

  My reaction was one of the few times when I saw Bara actually giggle. “You can live on them.” His expression became serious again. “It’s something you should learn. You can read words. You need to read the world. When you can, you’re ready to be free.”

  Before I could respond he said, “Get in the canoe, but sit low, or it’ll roll over. Then you’ll swim or drown.”

  We pushed the canoe into the water. The little boat seemed perilously unstable. On the instant, I recalled that saying: “He who is born to be drowned will never be hanged.” You may be sure that I clung to the sides of the canoe, and felt my stomach lurch with each roll.

  Bara, who continued to be amused by my discomfort, took up the paddle and used it to shift us farther out into the bay.

  As we moved over the water, I looked back and saw Fitzhugh. He had come down to the wharf, musket in hand. As always, he was watching us. “Not too far,” he called.

  Bara, not looking in my direction
when he spoke, said, “Don’t talk loud. Sound goes far across water.”

  “How far can he shoot?” I said.

  “Far enough. If he sees us talk, he’ll want to know what we said. When you speak, turn from shore. Let him only see the back of your head.”

  “Couldn’t we keep going?”

  “My color,” he said. “Your collar.”

  Bara propelled the canoe farther out. When we had gone some ways into the bay, he took to peering into the water.

  “What are you trying to see?” I asked.

  “All kinds of fish here: mullets, sturgeon, plaice. I’d like to get us a sturgeon. Big fish. The bigger the fish the more likely we’ll get to eat some.

  “Sturgeons sleep on the bottom during the day. When evening comes, they wake up, get near the surface.”

  Bara kept staring into the water. “No talking,” he said. He handed the paddle to me. “Learn to use it,” he said.

  I imitated what I’d seen him do, and found I could guide the canoe with little trouble. We moved about for I don’t know how long. Now and again I glanced back to the shore. Fitzhugh continued to stand there, watching us intently, musket in hand.

  We floated quietly, Bara gazing down into the water.

  But then, without turning in my direction, as if talking into the water, he said, “Are you willing to run away soon?”

  “I . . . I want to,” I managed to reply.

  “Need to wait some for the water to go down in the swamp. But before heavy rains come.”

  On the instant, that place, the swamp—land indistinguishable from water, green air, gigantic cypress trees, snakes, and other hidden beasts—bloomed as an awful vision in my mind.

  “It’s dareful,” continued Bara as if he saw my thoughts. “But, I told you, it’s the only way.” He was staring down. As he spoke, he had that pole with the iron tip in his hand pointed toward the water. Without looking at me he said, “Just have to wait for the best time.”

  “But—” I glanced back toward shore, to see Fitzhugh still standing on watch.