Diann Ducharme (28 page)

He helped us into the skiff, and I saw the box of teaching materials on the floor of the boat. After the meeting with Elijah last week I had hurriedly sent a letter home to Edenton requesting a box of chalk, slates, and our old instructional books to be sent to me at the cottage. Last night Ben had fetched the heavy box from its place in the chicken crawl space under the cottage.

Ben maneuvered the boat with the steady hands of an expert, even in the darkness, and as I watched him, a sense of calm draped over me. He must have made this very journey many times, at just this very time of evening, hoping for a good haul as he wearily staked the nets.

After docking on the western part of the island, we made our way down the dark, quiet streets to the school, Ben huffing over the box of supplies.

We knocked on the door when we arrived, and Elijah was there to open it. I saw beyond his placid face that the room was packed to overflow, students lured by the prospect of a qualified teacher. I estimated that about a hundred people had crowded themselves into the
schoolhouse, a number far more terrifying than the fifty Elijah had prepared me for.

Ben whistled softly and looked at me with amusement in his eyes.

I saw that a few lamps had been lit and set on boxes, but they hardly threw off enough light to give an illusion of daytime. It was so dark in the room that I wondered if they could even read their books.

But the room breathed with life, the whites of many eyes dancing in the lamplight. They called out exuberantly when they saw us, and many of the children—some of whom I recognized from last week—came running over to greet me.

Luella, with her bright smile and skinny arms, was one of them. She pulled me by my hand over to meet her round-bodied mother, Ruth, whom Luella greatly resembled, more in attitude than in appearance. Her mother embraced me right there on the spot, pressing me into her fleshy bosom.

Her mouth opened wide when she cried, “Luella’s told me all about you, and I’m sorry to say I thought it another one of her tales. But here you are, all of sixteen, seventeen years old if a day, ain’t you.”

The other adults—some of whom were beyond elderly—stood up and smiled at me gratefully. But I just stared, with no words to offer them. I couldn’t believe so many people had chosen to spend their evenings in this dark little room. Most of the country was likely sound asleep, but here these people were, making light of the darkness in their lives.

A cold current of fear washed over me then. What would these hopeful people think if they suspected my family of owning over a hundred slaves a mere three years ago? Did they wonder why a black woman in an apron and head scarf accompanied me tonight?

Trying not to tremble visibly, I made my way to the front of the room. “I’m Miss Abigail Sinclair, and I want to learn
your
names before we begin. So if you would, call out your full names as I point to you, and try to keep your present seats from now on so that I don’t mix you up.”

I pulled out some paper and my quill from the box and made ready to write. Then I gestured to the first man in the front, a man of about thirty with strong arms, but he didn’t say a word. I smiled encouragingly at him, thinking he was shy of me. He looked over to Elijah with a plea in his eyes, but Elijah just stood there, his hands clasped behind his back.

So the man said quietly, “The reverend wanted us to fashion out some new names, instead of carrying on with our slaving names. So you want us to give our new names, or our old ones, or both maybe?”

Elijah said to me, “Most slaves had no surname at all. If they did, it was their master’s.”

The man said, “The massa called me Cupid. He liked to tell me it was for a god of love, then he laughed and laughed. But my mama named me David.”

Elijah said, “Their slave names had no dignity, you see.”

A thin gauze of sweat stretched across my forehead. “Oh, well, I’d like to hear the new ones, then.”

Everyone present breathed a collective sigh, surprise and happiness on their faces. Some of the students hollered out their names with force and pride, and others barely whispered their names or didn’t speak them at all. And some took great pleasure in explaining the meanings of their names, reciting lists of ancestors and places where they’d lived.

There were mostly Kates and Williams and Marys and Johns, names given to them by their parents. But their surnames were
unique. Many were pulled from the languages and cultures of western Africa and were difficult for me to spell.
Isabel Ibo, Edward Bakango
.

But there were just as many Lincolns and Washingtons and Jeffersons and Union general surnames.
Sampson Grant, Ellen Burnside
. Some honored nature, taking the names of flowers, medicinal herbs, trees and mountains, rivers they’d traveled, and boats they’d escaped on.
Lucy Neuse, Peter Champion
.

Some took the surnames of missionaries and officers they had known and loved in the colony itself.
Isaac James
, after the superintendent of the colony, Reverend Horace James.
Penny Roper
, after a well-loved teacher named Ella.

And some were simple and strong.
Elias and Sallie Freeman
.

When I got to Winnie, I spoke for her. “This is Winnie. She raised me from a baby.” I stopped then, I realizing with a shock that I really didn’t know a thing about her.

Had she ever been in love? Did she ever want children of her own? She had come to our household as a wet nurse, which meant that she already had a supply of milk in her breasts. The terrible realization hit me hard, and I reached out my hands to steady myself on the desk.

Winnie shook her head at me, smiling. Then she spoke in a voice that seemed to come from deep within her gut, a wise sort of voice I had never heard from her before. “My name is Asha, Miz Abigail. I never did tell you that. Your mama named me Winnifred when I came to be your mammy. ’Course, I never did take to it. Sounded like a real good name for a hoss.”

The whole class laughed loudly. One woman sitting next to Winnie got up and hugged her warmly, as she would a good friend.

Winnie went on.
“Asha
means ’life.’ It’s an African name. And I still call myself by it, inside my head.”

I whispered, “Okay, then. Asha.” I could feel the entire room of students appraising me, wondering if I was going to work out after all.

I looked to Elijah, fighting my emotions, and said, almost apologetically, “I brought some things for you. More books will be arriving this week.”

He nodded, gazing at the boxes of chalk, books, and slates, not even asking where I had gotten them. I explained that a group of five students must use one slate among them, but that each student could keep a piece of chalk. The children let out whoops of joy and scrambled up to get their hands on a piece.

As the students set to experimenting with the slates and chalk, my eyes roamed around the airless room, taking in the boxes and barrels and bare boards, the floors littered with clumps of mud and sand and mouse droppings. Every so often I’d hear the noisy chirping of a nearby cricket. Wispy spiderwebs laced the corners of the room.

I recalled the room in which I had tutored Charlie and Martha back in Edenton. It was set apart from the busiest parts of the house. Trees grew outside the many long windows and served to filter the sunlight in the early afternoon so that the room always wavered with shades of white and gray. The only sound we heard was the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock.

But the students here didn’t care about the appearance of the schoolroom. They didn’t care about the noise and the chaos and the barrels and boxes. Only learning mattered to them now. Nothing could have kept these people from this room on this night.

Golaga Grant, a teenaged boy with a thick white scar on his forehead, asked, “How long you plan on learning us? You ain’t gonna up and leave, like those missionaries did, is you?”

I stumbled for words. “I’m not entirely sure yet. But I plan on being here every weeknight this month.”

At that, every face turned to regard me with an expression of disappointment. There were only three weeks remaining in the month.

Luella piped up, “That ain’t quite good enough, Miz Abby. That ain’t near enough time for all the learnin’ we need to do.” She pointed to the book on her lap and said, “Can you come over here, now? Mama ’n’ me can’t make no sense of the words in this book you brung.”

It was difficult to keep Luella focused on the book, however. She kept touching my hands with soft little caresses while I was pointing to the words in her book, and it was distracting me. Finally I had to cock my head at her. “What are you doing, Luella?”

Ruth, holding the book only an inch away from her eyes, said, “Oh, don’t mind Luella none. I don’t think she ever touched white skin before today.”

Luella marveled, “You got you the whitest skin I ever seen. But I was trying to figure why you got so many brown spots all over your hands. Is you got a bad sickness?”

I laughed. “They’re freckles. I was born with them all over my skin.”

She climbed onto my lap. I couldn’t stop her. But I could feel everyone eavesdropping on us. She looked at me as if she were committing my face to memory. “You got loads of ’em on your face, too. All over your nose and your cheeks. Where you come from, Miz Sinclair? ’Cause I’d like to go there and see about getting me some freckles.”

“I’m from Edenton, North Carolina. Where are you all from?”

Her face fell, and she said, “Over yonder in Hertford. My daddy … he got shot by the massa when we was crossing the water. He was bleeding all over us and saying sorry. Then he died, and I still had a hold of his hand. Miz Abby, I peed in my sleep ever night after that.” She paused to wipe a tear from her cheek. Then her face broke into a
smile. “But now we’re free, just like the massa! And my britches are dry again.”

“Amen to that!” said Ruth, raising a hand into the air.

That Luella had shared such a painful story with me humbled me into silence. I had the urge to apologize for her lost daddy and her fear and suffering, but she didn’t want an apology from me. She wanted admiration.

I reached for her hand. “Luella, has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful skin in the world? It reminds me of a shell I found almost buried in the beach sand, not too long ago. It’s the size of my thumbnail, very small and round, and the smoothest ebony. It’s so soft, from being battered by the ocean for so long. The sunlight doesn’t even reflect off its surface. It just seeps inside it. I always thought if I could see inside it, it would glow like a holy light.”

The whole room had grown quiet. Luella inspected the skin on her bare arm and rubbed her hand up and down a few times. Then she grinned at me. “I guess I don’t need no freckles after all.”

After that, everyone set to learning with intensity. I could just hear the relief in the squeak of their chalk and the turning of their pages. They were ready to move on, and so was I.

I
SHOULD HAVE FELT GUILTY ABOUT SNEAKING OUT OF THE HOUSE
. I should have felt remorseful about spending time with Ben. But nothing felt wrong in the least.

I missed tutoring Ben, but the nights on Roanoke Island made up for the lack of daylight with him. If anything, I had grown to like teaching more since I had been going to the schoolhouse.

But the work was exhausting, and the Sunday afternoon by the ocean was hot and buzzing with insects. I put my feet up on the porch railing and closed my eyes. After dozing a while, I heard some awkward splashing nearby. I opened my eyes a bit, and to my surprise I saw a herd of Banker ponies meandering along the shore. They walked knee-deep in the surf to ease the sting of the flies that swarmed their legs.

The stallion was imposing and almost all black, except for a white splotch in the shape of a handprint on his chest. He kept a close watch on his mares, who weren’t doing much except enjoying the feel of the water splashing on their legs.

In their midst I saw the little red horse, and I was so excited to see her again that I walked down the porch steps into the sand. I gave a little whistle, and all of the horses raised their heads to find the source of the sound. I watched as she left the group and plodded through the surf toward me. The stallion let her go, and I smiled, thinking that she likely wasn’t a member of the harem at all.

She came up to me without fear and snuffed at my empty hands. “I don’t have any treats for you. But I know how much you prefer cordgrass.”