Ashes (20 page)

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It took at least an hour to go the first mile and another mile after that, until the distance muffled the army's rattling drums. The travel was tortuous slow on account of fallen trees and thick-growing bushes armed with thorns. The sharp smell of death, like blood spilled on a hot iron pan, made me wrinkle my nose from time to time. It likely came from dead possums or a wounded deer that had fled from the hunters to die in the forest.

I listened close, hoping to hear the trickle of a stream, but the only sounds were the whine of bloodsucking insects and Ruth's careful footsteps behind me. She did not complain about her empty belly, though I knew she was as hungry as me.

The smell of death came again on the wind. It so distracted me that I walked face-first into an enormous, sticky spiderweb. I lashed out and cleared it off my face, then chuckled low. “Did you see that? I must have looked a right fool.”

Ruth did not answer.

“Did you not see that?” I turned around.

She stood some ten paces behind me and a bit to the left, pointing at something under the ferns at her feet.

“Dead,” she said.

“Dead?” I walked back, bracing myself for the sight of a rotting critter. “Come away from . . .”

I could not finish the sentence.

'Twas a hand poking out from the ferns. Its fingers curled gently toward the palm, as if beckoning us.

“Dear God,” I murmured.

I crouched for a closer look, flinching as a thick wave of angry flies rose in the air. The hand belonged to the body of an ill-dressed black man, old enough to be my father. His face was a mask of agony, his skin covered with horrible smallpox pustules leaking their poison. His belly hadn't bloated up, nor was he showing signs of rot, though the air was hot enough to melt wax. I felt on his wrist but found no sign of his heartbeat. He had not been dead for long. He had woken up that morning, same as we had, but then he'd walked unto death.

Ruth crouched next to me.

“Smallpox,” I murmured. “Don't fret. We had it when we were little.”

Smallpox had been slow-burning its way through the country as long as I could remember. Some said it was a sign of God's anger, but they couldn't agree if God was angry at the Patriots for declaring independence or at the British for denying it.

I touched his fingertips. His hands were callused by a lifetime of work, and his feet were bare. He had freed himself, of that I was certain. Had he been on his way to find the wife he loved, or his children, or to see if his parents still lived? Whose name had been on his lips as he passed from this world to the next?

Ruth wiped the tears from my face.

“We can't leave him like this,” I said after a while.

Ruth didn't move.

“I think we should bury him,” I said.

She took a deep breath, then nodded. “Aye.”

It was much harder than I figgered. We tried to dig using our washing bats, but the thick woven roots of the forest floor made the task near impossible. I tried to chop through the roots with my hatchet but achieved little except dulling the blade. Digging with our hands would have taken days. In the end we covered him with branches and leaves, fashioned a cross from two sticks, and laid it on the ground above his head.

I said a prayer.

“Amen,” Ruth whispered.

  *  *  *  

Despite our walking farther and farther from the nameless man's grave, the oppressive stink of death grew stronger. I was so mired in melancholy, I did not pause to consider the oddity of that. There had been no talk of smallpox in Williamsburg, at least not that I'd heard mention of. The Continental troops were all required to have the variolation, then endure the disease in quarantine to prevent its spread. Had that man been infected where he lived, or had it cut him down as he ran?

We stooped under branches, backtracked when the brush grew too dense, then turned again in the direction of the river. Aberdeen had not mentioned how difficult the journey through these woods would be, which made me worry that we were lost. And the smell of death was growing stronger.

When we entered a clearing filled with golden light from the setting sun, the horrible truth revealed itself. The shock of the sight stopped us cold, rooting us both to the ground like saplings. Ruth gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. A sob rose from my chest.

“Dear God!”

Five people lay on the ground, each covered with a thin shroud of fallen leaves. Two men, two boys, one woman. All dead. All of them so thin, they were more bone than muscle. The boys lay with their arms around each other. One of them reached for the woman, who had died curled up in a ball. One man lay facedown near the three of them. The other was a few paces away, alone.

Nature had started to consume them, a sign that they had lain here in death for days.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

These were children of Africa, like me. Like my sister, and our mother, and our father. Like Curzon, Aberdeen, Serafina, Walter, the woman in the green skirt at the market, like the countless souls, some in their natural state of freedom, many, many, many more kidnapped, stolen, and forced into the unnatural state of slavery.

I wished that I knew their names. I would speak them out loud in quiet moments, in beautiful places, and in so doing, keep a part of them alive. Your true name was one of the few things they could not take away from you, hard though they tried.

“Halt!”

The barrel of a musket stuck out at us from behind a tree. A British soldier, no older than me, stepped forth. His uniform was filthy and torn, his sunburnt cheeks thin. He had no hat. Most of his ginger-colored hair had escaped its queue.

“Where are the Continentals?” he asked in a wavering voice.

I put my arm in front of Ruth and tried to push her behind me. She stood fast, immovable, but she took my hand in hers.

“How far?” the lad asked.

“They're on the road to Yorktown,” I said.

“Everybody knows that. How far is that road from here?”

I scanned the woods behind him but could see no other men. Was he a scout? If so, he was terrible at the task.

“We've walked for hours,” I said. “The thick brush slows you down.”

He gestured with the musket. The barrel shook a bit, as if his arms did not have the strength to hold it for long. “You making for Yorktown?”

There was no point in lying. I nodded. “Hoping to work there. And . . . borrow some shovels. To care for them.” I pointed at the sorrowful forms half hidden by leaves and shadows. “How close are we?”

He didn't hear my question. As he realized why we needed shovels, his face drained of the little color it had. The lad slumped against the tree, cursing quiet-like. His legs weakened and he slid until he was sitting on the ground. The musket fell beside him.

“Too many to bury,” he said in a voice just above a whisper.

“It needs to be done,” I said.

“It's not just them,” he said. “We took in thousands of fugitives. Then smallpox hit, and we was running out of food. Couldn't feed 'em, wouldn't care for 'em. We got orders to force them out. Only the strongest men allowed to stay.”

He wiped his eyes on the grimy sleeve of his jacket.

“You . . . that is, the British, they threw these folks out?” I asked, horrified.

“Some of them had worked with us for months,” he said dully. “Officers ordered us to threaten them with bayonets. Thousands.” His ragged voice sounded ancient and cursed with sorrow. “Promised 'em freedom and safety. Robbed 'em of both.”

Thunder rumbled. I glanced up at the sky.

“Cannons,” the soldier said. “It's beginning. Last place you want to go is Yorktown. If you do, you'll end up dead in these woods.”

He picked up his musket.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Deserting. I mean to hand meself to the Continentals, tell 'em all I know. Beg for mercy.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve again. “My father will never forgive me.”

He fled into the growing dark.

W
E DROVE BACK TO THE ENEMY ALL OF OUR BLACK FRIENDS, WHOM WE HAD TAKEN ALONG TO DESPOIL THE COUNTRYSIDE
. W
E HAD USED THEM TO GOOD ADVANTAGE AND SET THEM FREE, AND NOW, WITH FEAR AND TREMBLING, THEY HAD TO FACE THE REWARD OF THEIR CRUEL MASTERS.

–D
IARY OF
H
ESSIAN CAPTAIN
J
OHANN
E
WALD AT
Y
ORKTOWN

R
UTH HELPED ME PILE MORE
leaves over the dead. The light was fast disappearing. Instead of taking the time to fashion crosses for them, we drew crosses in the dirt and prayed for the five souls as we walked away.

We moved slow and careful through the woods until at last we reached a patch of ground that was mostly dry and smelled only of living forest.

“This is a good spot,” I said. “Away from the trouble. We'll sleep here.”

“No.” Ruth shook her head, unhappy with my decision. “Ghosts.”

I sighed. “Soldiers are more dangerous than ghosts. And besides, not all ghosts are bad and scary, no matter what Serafina told you.”

“Can't sleep here,” Ruth said. “Where's Deen?”

“I don't know,” I said wearily.

“But you said.”

“He might be in Yorktown, but I don't know for sure,” I said. “That redcoat said we'll die if we go there.”

“I want Aberdeen.” Her loud voice filled the air.

“We're not going to find him, poppet. Not tonight.”

“He keeps away the ghosts!”

“Shhh!” I hissed.

“You said we was to find him!” she shouted at me. “You lied!”

“We had to run!”

“Aberdeen!” She shook her head so violently, she stumbled, hollering his name over and over. “Aberdeen! Aberdeeeeen!”

“Hush!” I grabbed her wrists. “Stop screaming–there could be other soldiers about!”

She tried to pull away from me, but I held tighter. Ruth kicked at my legs, hard, and kept hollering.

“Stop!” I winced. “That hurts! Stop kicking me!” I twisted to get away from her heavy boots.

She pulled her wrists free. “You lied! You gonna give me to the ghosts!”

“No!” I shouted, trying to grab her wrists to settle her. “Calm down and listen. Don't kick me again! Curse it all, Ruth, why must you be so stupid?”

“You stupid!” she roared.

And then she slapped my face.

I acted without thought and slapped her back.

She jumped at me, eyes filled with tears and fury, but before she could land any more blows. I stepped back, then tripped. The two of us fell to the ground in a heap.

The shock of the fall stilled us both. For a moment all was silent, except for the whirring of insects and the hobnobbing of frogs.

I sat up first, worried that her outburst heralded a fit of her falling sickness. She sat up slower, scowling at me.

“Ruth . . .” I reached for her. “Are you hurt?”

She slapped at my hand and shifted a few paces away from me.

I was overcome with sorrow and confusion. I had searched for her for years and finally had her by my side, which I had wanted more than anything in the world. Yet I'd hurt her feelings, and worse, I'd hit her, though it was the last thing I'd ever wanted to do. The events of the day had woven a delicate thread of trust between us, and I had destroyed it. I was the most wretched sister who ever walked. I had the temper of a demon, the patience of a rabbit, and the cussed mouth of a sailor. I wished the ground would swallow me alive. It was growing dark; we were lost and surrounded by enemies. We had no food, no water, and little hope. And Ruth hated me.

She wrapped her arms around herself.

“I shouldn't have done that,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

As soon as I spoke, she started rocking back and forth.

I tried to keep my voice low and calming. “I said Aberdeen was in Yorktown because we needed to get away from the bad men. We can't look for him tonight. We need to hide here, in the woods, to be safe.”

She shook her head and squeezed herself tighter and kept rocking.

“Will you please listen to me?”

Cannon fire echoed in the distance.

“Ghosts,” she whispered. “Can't stay here.”

“We can leave at dawn.”

She lifted her head and looked at me. “You stay. I can't.”

“You would leave me? You would wander on your own?”

She lowered her head again and rocked harder.

I was dizzy with fear. I couldn't make her stay but couldn't allow her to leave. The way north to Maryland was overrun with danger in the dark. To walk south or west in Virginia meant certain capture. To the east lay the ocean. The British at Yorktown would not welcome us. The French could not speak to us. The Patriots had already betrayed us.