The End of the World and Beyond Page 8

  He untied his horse and led it and me—both on leads—to the front of the tavern, where there was early daylight. There he came up close and said, “Just know, by Maryland law for each day you run off, ten days will be added to your term of labor. Be gone a month and I’ll add a year.”

  What else could I do but nod?

  With that he left me to go back into the tavern.

  Being unattended, it came to mind that I should mount the horse and gallop off. You will recall, I hope, that Captain Hawkes (in England) had taught me to ride.

  Alas, I had no idea where to go, and was cowed by Fitzhugh’s threats and what he had said about the local law. No doubt, the iron collar round my neck would reveal me for what I was, a felon. Just as the serving girl had noticed it, surely others, not so kind, would too. It was one thing to hide in a swarming London. Annapolis appeared an impossible place to keep out of sight.

  As I stood there, I noticed a board affixed to one side of the tavern door, upon which many bills were posted.

  Ran away, A servant girl, named Susanna. Said Susanna is a slender Negro of middle stature, very dark eyebrows, blind in left eye. She is a skilled spinner. Escaped from the Subscriber, in Maryland on Potowmack River. Amos Dalton.

  In search of my husband, Edward Sitrow, printer, aged Sixty-six, who ran off with a servant wench by the name of Belinda Wright. Please inform Mistress Abby Thacher at the Sign of the Bell, Philadelphia. Reward. Mary Sitrow.

  Run away from Mr. Thomas Bonny: Charles, a white indentured servant, a cooper by trade he is of a middle size and about 40 years, speaks an elegant English, and is a crafty fellow, supposed to have fled to St. Mary’s, Maryland. Any person who takes him up shall have five pounds reward in cash or tobacco.

  Ran away, a new black from Africa named Cuffee aged about 23, of very dark complexion, short but well set, and very sullen. He is supposed to make for Annapolis. Reward. Alexander Mothwick.

  There were more announcements, just as arresting. I tried to recall if I had seen such postings in England. Perhaps I had never noticed them. Regardless, here was proof that in this world many were running away, a disturbing judgment on the place. But if these people had gone off and, as these postings suggested, were successful in freeing themselves, so might I.

  Then it occurred to me there might be a notice about Charity.

  But before I could read more, Fitzhugh returned. In his dirty hand was yet another old piece of bread, which he tore in parts, keeping two-thirds for himself, giving me the rest. He also carried a heavy stink of new rum.

  He must have observed that I had been looking at the notifications, for he said, “Can you read?” It made it sound like an accusation.

  Realizing he had forgotten that he’d previously asked me the question, I made an instant change. “No, sir. Not at all.”

  He gave a grunt, nodded to the papers, and then waved a hand at the postings. “Servants try to run away, but no one gets far. Do you know why?”

  I shook my head.

  “When someone like you bolts off, I gain many friends. We all do. We hunt runaways down; catch them and the worse for them. They say”—he gestured toward the notices—“they want their freedom. All they get is an early grave.”

  Recalling his conversation of the day before, I took the warning as reality and said nothing.

  Nonetheless, he put his hand to his pistol. “Run off and I’ll shoot you,” he announced with just that curtness. Then he added, “I’m a fair shot.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, not wishing to debate the point.

  His bragging demanded more. He pulled the pistol from his belt, cocked the flint, took a one-eyed aim at the hitching post, and pulled the trigger. There was a spurt of flame, a loud report. The top of the post shattered.

  If he had desired to terrify me, he succeeded. Moreover, he had also informed me that he kept his pistol loaded, primed, and ready to use.

  The old man fixed my leash to his saddle, swung himself upon his horse, and started off. Since I was still attached to the lead, I was obliged to follow at his pace, not quite a run, not quite a walk, rather a jog-trot, which soon proved fatiguing.

  I looked back. People—including the servant girl—had come out of the tavern to see why the gun went off. How I wished I could have run back and begged for help. Alas, I was being pulled away. Of course, I had no idea where we were going. Nor did I—all too aware how my master could use his pistol—dare to take as much as one step toward freedom. All I knew was that with every stride I took, I was being led by a truly dreadful man toward what I assumed would be an equally dreadful life.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  In Which I Journey to My New Home.

  Annapolis being a small town, we soon left it behind and traveled along a well-used track, which I thought led us northerly. I never paused because if I slowed I was summarily jolted along. Once I did stumble and fall, only to be dragged some ways. It was not Mr. Fitzhugh who stopped, but the horse, which—perhaps feeling the weight—halted long enough for me to regain my feet and start anew. Full of anguish and exhaustion, a bleeding, scuffed shoulder, my breath a mixture of gasps and sobs, my sides aching, I went on, following after Fitzhugh.

  The way was thickly bordered by tall trees, of kinds unknown to me save oak. Birds were abundant. Now and again I caught glimpses of water. Perhaps it was the Severn River or the Chesapeake Bay, though it might have been some other watercourse or inlet. As I hurried along, I worked hard to remember our way, in hopes I might gain the opportunity to flee back to Annapolis.

  You may be sure I had no plan as to what I would do in Annapolis. It was simply that the English ships at the quay seemed closer to the world I knew, and thus drew me, even as I was pulled the other way. I also recalled the kindness of the tavern girl. Nothing attracts more than hints of heart.

  Now and again we met people coming toward town—men and women both—but no words, only brief gestures were exchanged between Fitzhugh and others. People seemed to know him, and accordingly edged away. Yet, if I had understood him correctly, they would willingly join him to pursue me if I ran for freedom.

  People did look at me—tethered as I was—with what I took to be a mix of bafflement and alarm, but no rebuke was sent to Fitzhugh.

  I wanted to cry out, “Help me,” but was fearful as to what my owner might do.

  Some of the people we passed were Negroes, but I was unable to determine if they were enslaved or not. I presumed so. One did have an iron collar much like mine. What impressed me was that they were unattended by white people, giving the illusion that they were free (and some perhaps were) but I was convinced most were bound by invisible chains. Indeed, I recalled that someone on the Owners Goodwill told me that all of British America had slaves.

  We went on then, ceaselessly, me on my leash, sharing no words, struggling to keep up, with no idea where we were going or how far.

  At some point, we made a turn and came upon a river’s edge. The wide waterway was flowing swiftly, so that it coiled with white water. Tied to a planked wharf was a raft-like boat, upon which a man sat smoking a pipe. He was great chested, with arms like tree trunks and a fierce beard fringing his face. He made me think of a wild beast.

  From one side of the river to the other, a rope had been strung, the rope attached to poles on opposite riverbanks. On the far side was a little house. Perhaps the man lived there.

  Fitzhugh dismounted and led his horse down a slight embankment. With me following we stepped upon this odd craft.

  The man on it stood. “Mr. Fitzhugh, sir.”

  “Mr. Eps,” was the brief return.

  Nothing more.

  As soon as Fitzhugh, the horse, and I stood in the middle of the flatboat, this Mr. Eps grasped the rope that stretched across the river and began to haul on it with his huge hands. Thus we moved across the river in short jerks. I soon grasped the
reason for his muscles since the flow of the river, stronger than I imagined, kept pushing the bow of the boat around as we slowly moved across.

  On my part, I tried to gauge the river’s depth. If I was fleeing, would I be able to wade across? It seemed unlikely. Which meant this river would be a major obstacle to my return to Annapolis. Recalling Moco Jack and his ability to swim, I reminded myself I must learn the art.

  We soon reached the far shore, where Fitzhugh led his horse—and me—onto land again.

  “I’ll put the reckoning in my book,” Mr. Eps called after us as we stepped off his boat.

  Fitzhugh did no more than raise a hand. At least it wasn’t his pistol.

  We continued along, me moving as before, without rest, on a narrower trail, endless trees pressing in from either side. I sensed we were going deeper into what I could only call a wilderness, farther from the world I knew.

  There was a sensation of new spring growth, that early bright season of green that fairly glows with newness. As for sounds, the chirp of birds, and now and again the rustle of leaves, was soothing. From time to time, on my right, I caught glimpses of broad, bright water, vast enough to make me think I was still going northward, parallel to the Chesapeake Bay.

  I tried to tell myself it was all appealing, but tethered as I was, endlessly pulled along at a trot, body sore, and breath short, it was hard to feel it. How free and open it all seemed. How constricted was I.

  At one point I was sure I heard an abrupt thrashing among the trees, as if someone or something was smashing through the forest. Startled, I stared hard and was sure I saw a dark, bulky creature, but whether human or beast I could not tell. Since Fitzhugh seemed neither to notice nor care, I could not stop. I hurried on a little faster, that I might be nearer to him. My hunger grew, too.

  We passed no towns or settlements. But I did see people at work, mostly black folk, but there were other workers, white people. Perhaps they were felons like me, maybe indentured servants, all serving their time. Though the area was far more populated than I thought at first, all these places fronted the bay.

  For a brief time, there was rain. I was bitten, too, by a cloud of tiny insects, which I kept trying to slap away.

  “Mosquitoes,” Fitzhugh called back over his shoulder.

  We crossed many a small, rushing stream and low inlets, the water swollen. Spring freshets, I supposed. At one point, we had to pass over another wide river, another flatboat that required poling.

  What I learned was that the way back to Annapolis—if I ever took it—would be long, hard, and wet.

  At last the old man called out, “We’re almost home.”

  That greatly relieved me, and as new circumstances inevitably do, somewhat restored some strength and made me curious, but equally apprehensive. It is painful to come home to a place you never knew and did not want. Whereas the word “home” should mean comfort, here it only added to my deep disquiet.

  Chapter Thirty

  In Which I View My New Home and Learn What It Was.

  Not long after Fitzhugh spoke, we turned from the trail and moved out from beneath the trees. He came off his horse.

  “This is mine,” he proclaimed like some monarch reclaiming his kingdom.

  Before us lay an open space, which sloped down until it reached a massive spread of water, which I supposed was the Chesapeake Bay.

  Closer at hand were separate fields, but little—if anything—seemed to be growing in them. Some buildings of various sizes were clustered together below. All seemed in a state of neglect, with lap-sided planking askew, shingles curled like old leaves. If they were dwelling places or served some other function, I was unable to tell.

  I also caught a glimpse of what might have been a warped wharf that poked into the bay.

  What I would discover was that Fitzhugh owned—compared to others—a modest amount of property that he cultivated. He had owned it for about seven years, the previous owner having died. Fitzhugh called it his plantation, though it was barely enough to keep him alive and in drink.

  As we continued on, I observed a Negro man in the fields. He had a hoe in his hands and was working. As Fitzhugh led me and his horse over the land, this person looked up briefly. I had no doubt the old man saw him, too, but no words of greeting were exchanged. But this, as I had already witnessed, was the old man’s manner.

  Fitzhugh first took me to the small stable where he tied up his horse. Next to it was a dirty enclosure where he had fenced in some hogs. There were three such creatures, huge, black-haired, dung-crusted, with upright ears and long, snuffling, drippy snouts. When I appeared, they lifted their massive heads and studied me with small, malevolent eyes, grunting all the while.

  “You’ll feed them.” Fitzhugh pointed to a large wooden box, filled with corn cobs. “Put a hand by their faces and they’ll bite it off.” For once he actually grinned.

  Next, he guided me to the smallest building on his land, being but one story. The outside walls had been made of horizontal, rough cut slabs of cypress wood, with what looked to be mud filling the gaps between the boards. Like the other structures, it was much in need of repair. If winters were severe I’d not like to be within.

  Fitzhugh thrust open a narrow, low door, its old leather hinges making a soft creak. “Where I live,” he announced. For the first time, he unfastened my leash (my iron collar remained) and shoved me roughly toward the entryway only to abruptly hold me back, saying, “You are never to go in unless I’m here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And forbidden to go near the bay.”

  I merely nodded.

  “Pay heed,” he declared, pulling me around so my face was close to his face and noxious reek. “I only do what I want, when I want. If you try to stop me, I’ll kill you. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then enter.”

  I stepped within the house and was immediately struck by the fusty smell of old food, sweat, and dirt. In such little light as there was I saw all that was to be seen. The whole building was barely twenty feet by twenty (rather like my recent prison) and had a dirt floor. The one small window had open shutters. Overhead were rough cut beams, upon which boards lay. Alongside one wall was a crude ladder going up, perhaps to a storage or sleeping place.

  Against another wall was a jagged stone fireplace. A hook dangled from the flue and upon it hung an iron pot, used, I supposed, for cooking. Partly charred logs lay below in an overflowing ash heap. In front of the hearth, which would be the warmest place, was a low, narrow platform that might have been a bed.

  On the same wall, to one side, hung a musket and a powder horn. Also, a basket of what looked like onions. Another basket of what I soon learned was Indian corn. A bag of beans. Filches of some kind of dried meat hung from other hooks. They gave off the smell of rot.

  In the room’s center was a trestle table, with half-hewn logs on rods, which served—I supposed—as a sitting place. On the table sat a candle-holder and dirty wooden trenchers, on which lay remnants of food and bones.

  A closed chest, also made of wood, sat on the floor a few feet from the table. Some items of dirty clothing hung carelessly on pegs that poked out from the walls.

  All in all, it was rude, filthy, without much comfort. Indeed, a miserable place. A momentary memory of my English home engulfed me. How different this Maryland was in every way from that, how remote a country I’d come to, how far removed I was from what was my home, what I chose to call true society. Yet I was to remain here—such was my sentence—for seven years.

  How could I not think then of my life—my carefree life—with my beloved sister, Charity, and with my sometimes difficult father, in England? As I stood there I was sure I had come to the end of the world. My heart was filled with grief.

  “You will sleep up there,” Fitzhugh said, pointing toward the ceiling. “Along with Bara. If y
ou try to come down and out, you’ll have to get by me. I won’t let you.”

  “Please, sir, who is Bara?”

  “My slave.”

  I assumed that was who I’d seen on the way in. “Is there anyone else, sir?”

  “Don’t want any women to pester me. And I have no children. Be just us three.

  “To the east is the bay, fifteen miles across, Kent Island. You swim?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Annapolis is south. Plenty of people from here to there, but your iron collar will tell folks what you are. Go without permission and you’ll be taken. When you’re caught, things will go badly. I’ll see to that.

  “To the west is a swamp that goes on for more miles than I know.

  “Six miles north is another wide, deep river. Have I made myself clear? There’s no way to get away from here.

  “We three will either get along or not.” He pointed across the room to the musket hanging on the wall.

  To all this he added, “You’ll remain for seven years. When your time is up, I’ll set you free. Consider yourself lucky: Bara will never go.”

  I confess, though I thought I had no tears left within, at his words my eyes welled up and I struggled to blink my emotion away. Seven years . . .

  He asked, “Anything to say to that?”

  No doubt because I felt desperate, into my head came the words my messmate Rufus Caulwell told me about a swamp, that it was a way to get back to England. Perhaps it was this swamp to which he was referring. Thinking, however, it would be best to show ignorance, I said, “What is a . . . swamp?”

  “Gross wetlands,” he returned. “Impossible to get through. Disgusting blood water, which you’d be an idiot to drink, along with muck that will swallow you whole. If the mosquitoes don’t eat you, the snakes, bears, or lions will. If you see a beast, you’re already too close.”

  I stared at him. Was there no end to horrors?

  “Now, you need to meet Bara. I’ll say it once: Make sure you get along with him. That’s why I bought you.”