The End of the World and Beyond Page 12

  With a sudden thrust of his arm, Bara plunged the pole down. “Got him,” he cried, let go of the pole, and grabbed the cord, which became taut.

  “Need your help,” he called.

  I edged closer to him—the canoe rocking dangerously—and grabbed hold of the cord with both hands. The cord seemed alive, lugging and twisting, with what felt like a great weight attached.

  “Don’t pull at it,” said Bara. “Let him exhaust himself.”

  I followed what Bara did, sometimes easing out the line, sometimes hauling it in. Gradually, I began to see what appeared to be a silvery thing of great size beneath us. It was turning and twisting and the water turned red with blood.

  The fish continued to thrash about, gradually rising to the surface, until it floated—white belly turned to the side—giving the appearance that it had died.

  “Hold the cord,” Bara said.

  That I did while he reached into the water, and using all his strength, hauled up a gigantic gray fish—some four feet in length. It had a sharp, flat nose, and bumps along its spine.

  “Sturgeon,” said Bara.

  Dumped into the bottom of the canoe, the fish thrashed about a bit.

  “Be careful of his teeth,” Bara warned. Then he used the paddle to subdue it.

  After removing the sharp pole from the sturgeon’s flesh, he grasped the now-dead creature with two hands and held it up so Fitzhugh could see it. At the same moment, not looking at me, he said, “You truly willing to go?”

  Of course, I wished to go, but escaping through the swamp filled me with unease. All I could say was, “Do you know the way?”

  “Think so.”

  “Where would it take us?”

  “Far enough.” On Fitzhugh’s nod, Bara dropped the fish into the canoe. “Will you?” he pressed.

  Of course, I was eager to flee. But I feared I had neither the skill nor the strength to get away from Fitzhugh’s violence or get through the swamp. Afraid to tell Bara of my worries, all I did was nod.

  Bara said, “It’s like catching that fish. You wait. You look. You see. You strike. You avoid his teeth.” After a pause he added, “Be ready. A few more dry weeks are all we need.”

  “Do we have to do anything to get ready?”

  “I’ll do what I have to do. You do what you need to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Getting through the swamp will be hard, but don’t think I’m going to take care of you. You’ll have to take care of yourself. Sure, we’ll help each other, but you must keep getting stronger, smarter. Don’t let the old man notice anything or we’ll be dead.”

  It was I who awkwardly paddled the canoe back to the little wharf. Bara returned the paddle and spear to Fitzhugh, who placed them in his chest and clicked the lock closed.

  Never mind: In a few weeks Bara and I would flee. Patience, I told myself. Patience.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  A Mysterious Occurrence in the Night.

  That night, in unusual jovial spirits—while eating all the fish—Fitzhugh made an announcement: he would go to Annapolis the next day.

  “My credit is low,” he said. “With the crop figured, I can meet with my factor.”

  Though I didn’t know what he meant I didn’t ask.

  Fitzhugh drank even more than usual. As the darkness increased, he grew increasingly jumbled and excited. At one point, he threw down the two knives with which he had been working onto the table and shouted, “Repel all attacks,” although such sieges were advancing only in his drunkenship. He even pulled up his pistol and shot into the ceiling. In that little space the sound was deafening and terrifying.

  Though greatly alarmed, I, seated with my back against the wall, merely looked on. If Bara had reactions like mine, he didn’t dare express them either.

  After yet more drinking, Fitzhugh rose up and cried out to us, “Off with you.”

  Relieved to be dismissed, Bara and I climbed to the loft, where we lay down in the suffocating heat, listening to Fitzhugh stumbling about in his soggy stupor.

  “He knows money is coming,” whispered Bara. “It’s the only thing that makes him more excited than drink.” After a few moments, he added, “It will be a deep sleep.” After another pause: “I don’t think he reloaded his pistol.”

  Sure enough, it was not long before Master’s mutters became the rumbles of his deep sleep.

  “What,” I whispered, “did he mean by a factor?”

  “He’s the man who takes the tobacco and arranges to sell it in England. Mr. Lunbog. I’ve gone to meet him with Fitzhugh a few times. Now that the old man knows what the tobacco crop will be, he’ll work out a contract with Lunbog. You heard him: he needs credit.”

  I made no response, but Bara seemed more alert than usual. He was thinking hard about something. I did not ask what, just watched.

  At some point, in such moonlight that came through the cracks in the loft walls, I saw Bara sit up.

  “What is it?”

  “Shhh . . .”

  He listened awhile then rolled upon his knees.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Stay here,” he said.

  I saw Bara move toward the ladder, swing about, and start to go down. Though I had done the same thing within days of my arrival, I now understood the risk much more. This was most dangerous behavior. What if he was caught? If a struggle ensued, what should I do? I could only hope Fitzhugh was truly, deeply asleep.

  I crawled to the edge of the hole from which the ladder dropped and peered into the lower darkness to see what transpired. Bara was standing on the main floor as if waiting. Then he began to move toward the table.

  There was light enough to see the glint of metal. When abed, Fitzhugh normally put the pistol by his side. That time, in his stupor he had left it on the table. Next to it lay the knives with which he had been working.

  With small, silent steps, Bara stretched out his hand over the table and then withdrew. The pistol remained.

  I watched as Bara crept toward the door, unlatched and opened it—soundlessly—and then stepped outside.

  I was fairly wild to follow and learn what he was doing. It even came to my mind that he might be running off without me. Withal, I told myself to trust him, and forced myself not to move, but gave myself over to the deepest listening, watching.

  At first I perceived nothing, but then I heard the hogs grunting. Those sounds did not last long. I kept listening.

  To my great relief, the door eased open. Bara returned. With a few quiet steps, he was back on the ladder and in the loft.

  “What did you do?” I said in as small a voice as I could muster.

  “Can’t say.”

  “Why?”

  “If you don’t know, Fitzhugh won’t be able to beat it out of you.”

  Bara rolled over and fell asleep.

  Patience, I told myself repeatedly, until I too fell asleep. Patience.

  In the morning Fitzhugh—along with Bara and me—departed for his meeting with his factor in Annapolis. It was there that once again my life changed unexpectedly.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  What Befell Us in Annapolis.

  The next day arrived hot and humid. The sky was musty gray, the forest greenery through which we passed thick, glossy, and drooping. A heavy promise of rain prevailed. But it was fine not to be working in the fields.

  Fitzhugh was on his horse, while Bara and I walked before him. The old man was dressed in his usual unkempt, dirty garb. As for Bara and me, we wore our normal ragged clothing, our feet bare. Surely, we were a derelict trio.

  The route we traversed was the same that I had walked months before when first I came, crossing over two rivers by ferryboats. Of course, instead of going north, we traveled south. When we passed people, Fitzhugh was no more social than bef
ore.

  Unlike my first journey, no rope was attached to me, nor was there one on Bara. The arrangement was such that Fitzhugh—his ever-ready cocked and primed pistol at his hip—could keep his distrustful eyes on us.

  I was glad to travel over the road again, committing as much as I could to memory. Bara had said we would get away through the swamp. Despite my utter trust in him, the thought of that awful place still caused me much unease. Surely, I told myself, there must be a better way.

  It was in late afternoon when we reached Annapolis and the Royal George, the same tavern where Fitzhugh and I stopped that day after he purchased me. Once we arrived, he led us directly to the stable, where he tied up his horse. “Stay here till I tell you otherwise.”

  He left us.

  If you wonder why we—left unattended—did not break away, I will remind you again of vital things. There is a habit of servitude, and it comes from the real fear of being disciplined ruthlessly. That fear of punishment often becomes a kind of punishment. One lives in a state of perpetual cowering—or least one acted so. It fended off cruelty. Thus, we remained in the stable.

  There was much more: Bara, being black, could have been stopped by any white man demanding to know who he was, where he came from, and whether he had written permission to wander.

  And I, though white, still had my iron collar round my neck, which made me an equal mark for anyone who chose to stop and apprehend me since I, too, needed written consent to walk free. Indeed, for both of us the risk of being caught, and the resulting penalty and punishments, were enough to keep us in place.

  But why, you might ask, since I could write, did I not compose counterfeit permission letters? I beg you: Where was I to find pen, ink, and paper? Common things indeed, but given our circumstance, impossible to be found. I have already told you about Fitzhugh’s mark when he signed my bill of sale with an X. I don’t believe he could read or write and therefore had no use for pen or paper. Regardless, I had no idea what to write in such a permission letter.

  As we continued to sit there in the stable, I was pleased to see the same young serving girl who had been kind to me when I’d first been at the tavern. She was bringing us a corn loaf and some cider.

  At first, she did not recognize me, but merely said, “Your master sent you this.”

  As we took the food I said, “You’ve forgotten me.”

  She looked at me with puzzlement.

  “Fitzhugh’s felon,” I explained. “I stopped here the first day he purchased me. You spoke kindly. And this is Bara, my friend.”

  The girl offered both of us a kindly smile and to me asked, “How have you fared?”

  “We’ve survived,” I said.

  To prove she truly did recall me, she added, “Did you ever find your sister?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “I hope you will. A good night to you both.”

  For a moment after she left us, we sat in silence. I asked, “Do you think you might ever find your family?”

  “Don’t know who they are, or what they look like. Not even their names.” That rarity: his voice was sad.

  I think it was only then I fully understood how companionless Bara was. “Have you any notion where to search?”

  He remained silent. By that time, I had learned that when he didn’t answer, it was because he was thinking how to respond. So it was after some time had passed that he said, “I know where I intend to look.”

  I said, “The swamp? Those maroons?”

  “It’s not that I don’t wish to tell you,” he said. “It’s what I’ve told you before. Fitzhugh might beat it out of you. If you don’t know, you can’t tell him. Same as I said before: it will be safer that way.”

  Such was our world that I understood him.

  We continued sitting in silence, each with our own thoughts. Outside, and inside the stable, it had grown to dusk, the air heavier still. At a distance, thunder growled.

  Bara stood up.

  “Where you going?”

  “Out. Before it rains.”

  He left the stable. Tired, I settled back. When Bara returned, he stood before me.

  “What is it?”

  “I was trying to read the notices outside the tavern.”

  “Could you?”

  “Some.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “On one of them I read had your sister’s name: Charity.”

  “Are you sure?” I cried.

  “You taught me to read, didn’t you?”

  I jumped up and hurried out through the stable door, ready to retreat if anyone appeared, and went directly to that board where many notices were posted. In the dim light, I looked over them. One read:

  In search of Oliver Cromwell Pitts; a transported felon from London. Aged twelve. Believed to have been sent to North America. If any information found about him please inform the Bakery of Master Isaac Bell, Black Horse Alley in city of Philadelphia. High reward. His sister, Mistress Charity Pitts.

  I think my heart stopped beating.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  My Search for Philadelphia.

  I beg you to understand: it was almost as if Bara—and therefore I—after so long a time, loss, and hope, had found Charity. As if she were standing there right before me.

  At first, I did no more than read and reread the notice. Every time I read it, I was filled with increasing excitement. I actually spoke the words of the posting aloud, stumbling only on “Philadelphia,” since the word being new to me.

  As I read my thoughts cascaded:

  Charity had survived.

  She was somewhere.

  She was looking for me.

  She would rescue me.

  I would find her.

  Beyond all else, I would be with her.

  But alas, she was not there. She was in some place called Philadelphia, of which I had no notion any more than I could say it. Was it near or far?

  My sense of urgency was immediate: I must find out where it was and go to her.

  Except, it took but a moment for me to realize I could do none of the things I desired. Never mind that I did not know where this Philadelphia was. I was forbidden to go so much as one step without permission.

  I returned to the stable.

  My emotions must have been writ large on my face because Bara needed but one look at me before he said, “Was it her? Did I read it right?”

  Breathless, I said, “She’s looking for me. From a place called Phila . . . delphia. Bara, I have to tell her where I am. Go to her.” I said this as if—for it surely felt that way to me—it was something I must do at once. “Do you know where it is?”

  “Never heard of it. You can ask the servant girl.”

  No sooner said than I looked out through the stable door, prepared to go. Barely had I done that when Fitzhugh stumbled in, walking with the instability of excessive drink. As so often the case, he reeked of rum.

  He glowered at us, but said nothing. If he noted that I was standing, wanting to leave, he gave no sign. Instead, he tottered into the empty stall that held his horse. Once there, he piled up some hay, threw it down, and lay down.

  It was clear that he was going to sleep.

  Bara reached out and gripped my leg, reminding me I must wait. Though much vexed and fairly trembling with eagerness, there was nothing for me to do but retreat and sit.

  We sat there waiting, listening. Bara, ever watchful, refrained from speaking. Though full of turmoil, I didn’t talk either. Altogether desperate to question the tavern girl, I knew I must bide my time. When I heard thunder rumble overhead, it was as if it were an echo of my raging emotions.

  Thankfully, it was not so long before I heard Fitzhugh’s sleeping sounds, his mutters and growls, and now and again his snuffled snores.

  Bara heard them too. He gave me a poke. I needed no fu
rther urging. We jumped up and went to the stable door, made certain no one was about, and then stepped outside, where it was dark. I had no notion as to the hour, but all seemed slumbering.

  I looked to the tavern. It was completely dark. To see it so was as if a door had been shut against my face. I would not be able to speak to the girl. Exasperated to all but a rage, I tried to think where else I might have my question answered as to where Philadelphia might be. With my small knowledge of Annapolis, I could think of only one place.

  “I’m going to the wharf,” I announced in a whisper.

  “What?”

  “A seaman might know where this Philadelphia is.”

  “Are you in earnest? Now?”

  “I have to find out.”

  “Oliver, it needs to wait.”

  “Bara,” I all but shouted, “it’s worth my life.”

  “You’ll get us killed.”

  “I don’t care. I must find out where she is.”

  “Don’t be a fool. It’s too dark. And you’ll care if it goes badly.”

  I glanced up. The moon was peeking out from behind fast-moving clouds, but, I was sure, gave sufficient light to help me find my way.

  “There’s enough light,” I said.

  “Light enough for you to be seen.”

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “You can’t be fast enough.”

  “I will,” I insisted, and moved away from the stable.

  I had taken but a few steps when Bara put a hand on my shoulder, and caused me to halt. “Just know,” he said, “if the old man finds out what we’re doing, it’ll go terribly for us. You’re doing what Clark did.”

  I brushed his hand away. “You said Clark was foolish. I’m not. And I can go alone.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you about your sister. You’re putting me in danger too.” I heard anger in his voice. “I don’t want to go into the swamp alone.”

  “Then stay here,” I said, and caring nothing for him or his warnings, I hurried off.

  Chapter Forty-Five