Hunting Midnight (43 page)

As I dipped my pen in my inkstand, it seemed pointless to add any more lines to a letter that would never be posted or read. I crumpled what I’d written and set my flint to it, then threw it into the fireplace and watched the flames separate me from Francisca again.

The next morning, the proprietress of the boardinghouse, Mrs. Van Zandt, suggested that I take my drawing of Midnight to the Slave Pen, where thousands of blacks were transported to
Charleston
and other Southern cities each year. “Though if you are looking for a nigger yourself,” she confided, “then you’d be better off at a private auction – the prices are much more reasonable.”

I was expecting a prison of colossal proportions, but it was only a three-story brick building painted a dusty tan. Its side yards were enclosed by high whitewashed walls that were spiked on top with nasty-looking shards of glass. Though unable to see over, as they were a good ten feet in height, I could hear the subdued conversations of the Negroes awaiting shipment and the morose clanging of heavy chains.

A slender, gray-haired man in striped trousers was standing in the doorway to the countinghouse, slicing a golden apple with a short knife. I introduced myself and learned his name – Coleman. He generously offered me a piece of his fruit, which I accepted. I then invented a story about Midnight designed to elicit a more positive reaction than I’d received from Mr. Reading: I was looking for a former servant of mine who had just inherited several hundred dollars from his father, a freed Negro who had been employed at my New York household. The man I wanted to find had been a slave in Alexandria but was sold elsewhere
some seventeen years earlier. There would be a reward of fifty silver dollars for any person who might lead me to him. I asked if I might show Mr. Coleman my drawing.

He pointed his knife toward one of the side yards. “Ya know how many nigger bucks I’ve sold in Alexandria over the last seventeen years? I’d wager fifty thousan’ or more. So Mr. Stewart” – and here he squinted at me as though peering into a beam of light – “ya don’t truly think I’m fool enough to remember your Midnight, do ya?” He smiled maliciously.

“I was only hoping you might recognize – ”

“We ain’t runnin’ no asylum, ya know.”

“If you would do me the favor of just taking a look,” I said, unscrolling my drawing.

“Ugly rascal,” said Mr. Coleman, cutting another slice of apple. Then he looked up into the sky, in no particular hurry to comment. “Don’t look like it, but we’ll have sun today. That’s a good thing.” Mischief was dancing in his eyes when he looked back at me. “Know why?”

When I shook my head, he said, “You know anything ’bout turkeys, Mr. Stewart?”

“Our neighbor had a turkey named Marigold when I was a lad. She was – ” I was about to say
a
sweet
thing
but realized he would only mock me. I said rather foolishly, “She was large.”

“Well, Mr. Stewart, when it rains, your Marigold and all her friends point their heads up toward the sky and open their beaks. They’re so goddamned ornery and bone-stupid that they can drown that way.” He pointed toward the yard. “Niggers ain’t got any more sense than turkeys. You can quote me on that. Yesterday, with all the rain, we had one buck drown in the mud. Don’t ask me how. That’s how stupid they are. He lost me six hundred dollars or more. So, Mr. Stewart, it’s better for my business when we have sun. And it’d be better for you if you forget about your Noonday Bell. He’s long gone. Prob’ly drowned in some mud somewheres.”

XXXIX

M
y encounter at the slave pen so upset me that I marched away in my rage toward a horizon of trees in the distance. I soon reached a neighborhood where Negro families were living on their own, in squat houses separated by overgrown lots. Two young lasses – no more than four and seven, I would guess – were playing up ahead, the larger rolling a rusted metal hoop, the smaller skipping. Both wore pretty pink ribbons in their closely cropped hair. I realized with a jolt that I had not seen a white person in several blocks. Furthermore, I was being stared at by several blacks sitting on porches, and now even by the girls themselves.

I walked toward the
kelpies.
Smiling, I said, rather too eagerly, “My, you two are lovely girls. Are you sisters?”

They looked at each other, startled by my accent, most likely. The littler of the two dropped a smooth ivory pebble that had been hidden in her hand. Then, without warning, the larger girl shrieked at the top of her lungs. I jerked my hands up to protect my ears while she grabbed her sister’s hand and raced off. They ran to an old tilted house partially hidden behind a broad oak, fifty paces ahead. Once they’d reached the safety of the porch, the older one leaned over the railing and gave me a hard look. Her tiny sister, sucking her thumb, looked curious.

After a moment, a wide-hipped woman wearing a blue head scarf charged out the front door. The older girl pointed at me as though I were a bandit.

“Madam,” I called, “I was just asking the girls if they were sisters.”

She made several furious hand gestures. Then she gathered up her children and marched into her house, banging the door closed.
“You’s made an enemy of Aunt Carolyn Gold, so you’s in a right bit a twisted trouble.”

When I turned toward this voice, my mouth dropped open: Standing on the rickety porch of a whitewashed house was an elderly woman in trousers and a waistcoat of homespun. Since she wore no shirt under the waistcoat, her bare shoulders and belly were plainly visible. I should have guessed her to be about seventy years of age, as her hair was gray and her posture stooped, yet her glassy black eyes were youthful and her cheeks as smooth as velvet. I found her stunningly beautiful, but alarming as well, rather as though she had materialized out of a long-forgotten dream.

“She’s gonna work a deep spell on ya, chile – so deep ya gonna look up to look down. She once sank a ship in the harbor, and four men ain’t gonna tell us what it felt like ’cause their mouths ain’t never come up to the surface.”

“I expect I ought to apologize to her.”

“’Pologize? To that varmint?”

She frowned and flapped a hand by her ear to chase away a fly. “Come on up here, chile,” she said, taking pity on me and waving me over. “Ya gonna need my help.”

After kneeling to pick up the polished stone dropped by the younger of the two girls, I made my way up her stairs to her patio. She whistled and gazed on me admiringly. “You tall, young man – darn tall! I’m Mary Wright. But most ever’body jus’ call me Moon Mary. ’Cept my chil’ren.”

I told her my family name was Stewart but asked that she call me John.

“If ya don’ min’, I’m gonna keep the devil from snappin’ at me and call ya Mr. Stewart.”

I placed the white pebble on the railing of her porch and asked if she’d mind returning it to the younger sister, explaining that she had dropped it.

Moon Mary picked it up and sniffed it. “You saved this for her? Why ya carin’ what that girl leaves on some nigger street?”

“Little girls drop things and invariably wish to have them back. I know – I have two daughters of my own.”

“You’s in trouble, chile. ’Cause I don’t need much eyesight at
all to tell me you’s a long ways from home, and you’s got that varmint Carolyn Gold conjurin’ powerful on ya, and she don’t take kindly to no one fright’nin’ off them princesses a hers. Now, I don’t us’ally meddle in nobody else’s business, but seein’ as how ya got yousself in a fix, and seein’ as how you returned that pebble … Wait right where ya are, chile.” She pointed a crooked finger at me. “And don’t you go fright’nin’ nobody else.”

She stepped into her house, waddling a bit like a duck, and returned momentarily with a brown and white jug containing a pint of green liquid.

“Drink this,” she said, handing the jug to me. When I asked what it was, she snapped, “Jus’ ya drink it, chile. ’Tain’t poison. Or would ya prefer helpin’ Carolyn Gold by doin’ nothin’, ’cause she don’t mind none if ya make her spell set inside ya easier.”

I lifted her brew to my lips. It tasted sour. She snorted at my reticence. “Stubbornness done taken ya pris’ner, chile. Now, that’s just lemon and mint and a few other things b’sides. No spell can beat my med’cine once it’s grabbed a holda ya.”

It was sugary, and there might have been pepper in it as well. It burned my throat.

“Now, that wa’n’t so bad, was it, Mr. John?”

“No, it was good in a way,” I croaked out of politeness.

When I remarked that she was now using my first name, she snapped, “Never min’ that!” Snatching my hand, she spun me in circles four times, mumbling to herself in what must have been an African language. Finally, she had me bend down in front of her and pressed a finger into my forehead. Later, I discovered a dot of ashes there.

“You’s lost, ain’t ya, Mr. John?” she said, squinting. “ ’Cause ya sure as hell look lost.”

I told her what had happened at the Slave Pen, which obliged me to explain my hunt for Midnight. When I’d finished, she licked her lips as though tasting something good and said, “You’s gonna find him. I’m right sure of that.” When I asked why, she said, “ ’Cause ya got a hole in ya. So ya ain’t gonna give up.”

“And what if Midnight is long dead himself?”

“I’ll tell you this, Mr. John, people find whatever’s there for
them to find, if ya know what I mean. That’s the way this life works.” She slapped her belly and said, “If ya don’t mind me sayin’, you’s goin’ at this all wrong, chile – asking on King Street and at that hor’ble Pen. Them white folks ain’t gonna know where your friend Midnight is at. So ya gotta ask us right here where we live.”

“This neighborhood of yours … do your owners let you live here in exchange for caring for their houses?”

“We’s free here. This is the Bottoms.” To my bewilderment, she replied, “It’s simple, chile. Some of us have bought our freedom. Others were given it by their masters.”

“Bought it how?”

“From the work we do on Sundays.”

“And this house of yours, do you own it?”

“I bought it from the Quakers. They’s the ones that help us here.”

“And you’re completely free?”

“Well, I don’ know nothin’ ’bout
completely.
I got the papers, sure enough, but how can I be completely free when my babies ain’t? You know a Negro mother who’s ever that free?”

She told me that of her three children, only her eldest son, William, had escaped slavery. He’d run away to Boston, where he worked as a cooper. She had not seen him in forty-three years and had not heard a word from him in fifteen. Her younger children, a girl and a baby boy, had been sold to a local
slave-trader
, who’d taken them to Charleston.

“Might be as far away as N’O’leans by now,” she said.

“If you haven’t been able to find them, then what chance do I have to find Midnight?”

“Ya listen up, Mr. John. A white man with a mem’ry …” She whistled loudly and shook her head. “A white man with a mem’ry is a pow’ful creature. I can see now that you got Midnight right inside ya. He’s there. He’s protectin’ ya against the likes a Carolyn Gold and ever’thin’ else. I see him plain.”

I thought of Midnight giving me his body heat when I had been made ill by Hyena.

Then she said something I’ll never forget: “Don’ ya worry, Mr. John. Midnight left part of himself in ya. And you’s on a holy
journey to find him. As sure as you were goin’ to Jerusalem to see Jesus Himself.”

So it was that I ended up showing my drawing around the Bottoms neighborhood that afternoon. The residents I spoke to were friendly, but no one recognized him. Hot and sweaty, I made my way back to the boardinghouse, where I doused myself from head to toe and shaved.

After dozing off, I woke to flies buzzing in circles by my head as though searching for a way into my ears. The light outside was hazy. Sunset was settling in gold and pink. Bells soon tolled eight o’clock. I wondered if I would always feel so alone in America. Then I drank the water left in my glass and stumbled out to visit a tavern by the port, hoping that the cool breeze there might give me back my energy. In front of a clothing shop on Prince Street, two white men approached me, the older dressed in a fine ruffled shirt. The more youthful of the two was pale and blond, with bright blue eyes. He was just a lad, surely no more than twenty.

“You must be Stewart,” the older man said confidently.

With relief, I realized they must have been sent by Abigail Munson with some information about Midnight. Smiling with gratitude, I replied, “Indeed I am, sir. And you must be one of dear Mrs. Munson’s younger brothers.”

I reached out my hand, but he did not take it.

“Have you made plans to leave Alexandria yet?” he asked gruffly.

“No, sir, I have not. And if you will excuse me …” I tipped my hat.

The older man put out a hand to stop me. “Jim, you best have a go at him,” he said to the youth.

At that, Jim punched his fist into my gut. Badly winded, I fell to my knees. A harsh blow to the back of my head introduced my face to the cobbles. I cannot say how long I was lost to the world, but I remember that a kindly white gentleman came to my aid and helped me to stand. My attackers had long since fled. Though my head was throbbing, I denied being in any discomfort, and I was grateful that no permanent damage had been done.

Despite a certain dizziness, I trudged on to a tavern at the port, where I downed a bottle of poor-quality Madeira. After that, I staggered back to my hotel, hoping that sleep would rid me of my thoughts of defeat.

In the morning, still feeling fragile, I ate bread and warm milk at a nearby coffeehouse. Upon returning, Mrs. Van Zandt informed me that I had two visitors waiting in the garden.

“One is a nigger buck, so you will have to meet him outside. I am sorry, but those are my rules.” She glared at me, plainly incensed.

Standing on a brick patio at the back of the house was a
broad-shouldered
black man in a handsome green velvet coat. Talking in hushed tones with him was a thin, elderly white man in a worn linen shirt and trousers. They smiled as I approached, as though heartily relieved to see me. The black man was missing an earlobe, and his eyes were like yellow moons. He introduced himself as Hussar Morgan, and he had a very powerful
handshake
. The white man was named John Comfort.

They knew my name already.

“I’d ask you to my room, but Mrs. Van Zandt will not allow it,” I said apologetically.

“We are aware of her rules,” Mr. Comfort replied. “Patience is an important virtue in Alexandria, as thee hath surely learned by now.”

Seeing my surprise at his antiquated vocabulary, he explained that he was a Quaker.

“May I see your drawing of Samuel?” Mr. Morgan requested. “I believe I may know him.”

After retrieving my sketch from my room, I opened it for him eagerly. He studied it for only a few seconds, then said with assurance, “Yes, sir, that’s Samuel all right.”

“Did he ever speak of me? Of John?”

“No, I’m sorry, the man I knew was mute.”

“You are the second person to tell me that, sir. But unless he suffered some terrible accident, it would seem impossible.”

“Mr. Stewart, I assure you he never spoke in my presence.”

“I believe you. It’s just that … Might a slave-trader have cut his vocal cords?”

“No, I don’t think so. There was no scar on his neck.”

“Thank God for that. Tell me, was he in good spirits?”

“I did not know him well. He seemed – how shall I put it? – he seemed resigned. He was not sad, but if I were a religious man,” he continued, looking at Mr. Comfort, “I would say there was a piece of his soul missing.”

“And do you know what became of him?”

“After Mr. Miller passed away, Samuel was sold to a
slave-trader
– a local man named Burton, who worked for a dealer from Baltimore by the name of Woolfolk. Mr. Burton died … well, it must be over ten years ago. I was told at the time that Samuel had been forced aboard a ship bound for Charleston.”

I asked, “How did you come to know him, Mr. Morgan?”

“I was a gardener at the time for a wealthy family. Samuel would help me on Sundays. He was most fond of plants and flowers. And then, when this happened” – he flicked his finger at his missing earlobe – “he treated the wound for me.”

“Did you meet with an accident, sir?”

Mr. Morgan laughed and said it was a trifling story not worth repeating. His Quaker friend replied cryptically, “Alexandria is a town of many accidents,” and would say no more.

“And if you will excuse my curiosity, how did you learn of my presence in your city?”