Soulcatcher (8 page)

Taking the stage, Mr. Forten, fifty-one, explained how he was contacted by a representative of the American Colonization Society who sought his support in swaying Philadelphia's Negroes to the idea of leaving America. "You all know me and what I stand for," said Mr. Forten, his voice breaking with emotion. He reminded the gathering of his humble beginnings as a powder boy in the American Navy when he was fifteen, how at twenty he was foreman in a sail loft, and by age forty owned it and now employed more than forty men. "My life has been nurtured in the ground of this fledging nation," he said. "I have been an American
patriot
through and through, but I have also been one of this country's greatest critics as well."

He cited his "A Series of Letters by a Man of Color," composed four years ago, which opposed the legislature's attempt to force all blacks in the city to register, and his lifelong work as an abolitionist. Mr. Forten then reminded the audience of how central Negroes have been to every dimension of life in the colonies, and how Crispus Attucks was the first to die opposing British tyranny.

"But despite our contributions to this country," Mr. Forten said, "we have not been—and perhaps will never be—accepted by its white citizens. And so, although it makes my heart heavy to do so, I intend to vote—as I hope you will—for taking my chances in the land of our forebears."

The audience was greatly moved by Mr. Forten's address. The applause lasted for several minutes.

He was followed by Paul Cuffe, fifty-eight, a Quaker who for over a decade, and long before the formation of the American Colonization Society, has urged free blacks toward expatriation. As reported earlier in this newspaper (September 8, 1815), Mr. Cuffe, owner of the 268-ton
Alpha,
is a man whose wisdom is seasoned by his world travels. Among his many vessels are sloops, schooners, and two brigs. He has sailed to Sweden and, on his ship the
Traveller,
visited Sierra Leone in 1811. There, he set up the Friendly Society, an organization dedicated to helping American blacks migrate to Africa. In fact, three years later Mr. Cuffe transported thirty-eight colored men and women to Sierra Leone and paid for their $4,000 voyage himself. A philanthropist, he created a school for Negro children on his farm and acquired a teacher for them.

As he walked slowly to the stage, still weak from a recent illness, a cheer rose from the gathering. Mr. Cuffe, smiling gently, waited patiently at the podium for the audience to settle down.

"Thank you," he said. "We are all old friends here and have suffered much together over the years. We struggled together thirty-seven years ago to protest taxation of our people when we have no representation. I led that fight, you'll recall. And twenty years ago, my friend there, Absalom Jones, spearheaded our effort to repeal the Fugitive Slave Act. We have all shed our blood for freedom, and of our triumphs I think we should be proud. But
as an old
fighter, one who has seen many campaigns to achieve justice for the colored people of America, I sometimes wonder how much farther we can go. I won't lie to you. I never have, and I can't start now. My doctor tells me I'll be lucky if I see Thanksgiving this year. With so little time, I think I should tell you the truth, at least as I've been privileged to perceive it.

"Here, in America, we face an uphill struggle. Our victories can be taken away with a single stroke of the pen by men like former president Jefferson. He and others like him have always envisioned the United States as a white man's nation, irrespective of our deep and enduring contributions to its economy, its culture, and its precious Revolution. I've never avoided a good fight in my life. You know that. But now, after much reflection, I believe it is time to withdraw from white men. Our great energies, talents, and love would be better applied, I think, to the nurturing of a democracy on the continent of our origin. Visit Sierra Leone, if you dare. I have. And it gladdened my heart to see Negroes who possessed every freedom this republic withholds from us. I say, my friends, that it is doubtful the black man and the white can ever live in harmony. Can
he ever
relinquish his desire to be dominant? Can
you
ever forget the horrors of our history in this country at the hands of white men? No, methinks it is asking too much for both sides, theirs and ours, to live peacefully as one people. Does that sound defeatist? If so, you hear me wrong. In the impossibility of the Madisons and Jeffersons ever treating us like equals there lies the great opportunity for you and I, as freemen, to return to our mother country with skills and knowledge that will raise that continent, benighted by centuries of slavery and oppression, to its rightful place as a powerful black presence in the world. Leave America to the white man. A far greater and nobler civilization beckons, if we but have the courage to answer its call."

When Mr. Cuffe was done, the church was silent for a moment. Then, spontaneously, those in attendance responded with thunderous applause.

Other leaders of the colored community took the podium for the next few hours, all passionately arguing to their unlettered brethren the position of emigration. At various times the assembly became raucous, with members of the audience shouting their positions from the floor, so that Rev. Allen found it necessary to bang his gavel over and over, calling for order. "Please settle down," he said. "Everyone will have a chance to speak. Gentlemen, remember what we are deciding here. It has taken the American Colonial Society to bring this crisis to the surface. We are at, I daresay, a crossroads. Future generations will judge us by our sobriety. Our wisdom—or our lack of it! We are voting—be advised—not merely on the future position of the Philadelphia Negro vis-a-vis America, but on which direction
all
our people will take in the future. Now, if you'll look to the rear of the room, you'll see ushers are moving down the aisles, each carrying a basket filled with ballots. I ask you to take one. lake a prayerful moment to review the discussion you've heard, then vote knowing your decision carries as much weight for the direction of this nation as that of the white men who assembled at the Constitutional Convention."

Concluding his instructions, Rev. Allen went back to his seat to vote, Ten minutes later, the votes were collected. The ushers took them into the back of the church to tally "yeas" and "nays" for the Society's proposal. As they worked, Bethel's choir sang two beautiful hymns. Before they could begin a third, one of the ushers, a young man, brought a slip of paper to Rev. Allen, who again stepped up to the podium. Those gathered grew quiet. Rev. Allen cleared his throat.

"You, the people, have voted unanimously against the position of your leaders," he said. "You have rejected returning to Africa. Whatever our future is to be, you have decided that it will be
here,
on these shores. God help us all..."

IN THAT BOSTON MARKET
on a Thursday in 1853, there were two men, one black, one white, who were as intimately bound, in a way, as brothers, or perhaps it was better to say they were caught in a macabre dance, one that stretched from rural South Carolina to Massachusetts over a period of three long months of hiding, disguises, last-minute escapes, name changes, and tracking leads that led nowhere until it brought them both here to the bustling open-air market perched near the waterfront on a summer afternoon.

They were weary, these two. Hunter and Hunted.

The Hunter paused just at the periphery of the market, breathing in the salt-laced air, looking at the numerous stands filled with freshly baked bread, a variety of vegetables, fish caught earlier that day, and handicrafts—wood carvings, colorful quilts, and hand-sewn leather garments-sold by black and white Bostonians alike. The Negroes, he noticed, including the one he was looking for, had set up their stands toward the rear of the market, separating themselves from the others. A gnarled, little merchant with a Scottish brogue, and wearing a yeoman's cap and burnoose, suddenly pulled at the sleeve of the Hunter's jacket. He pointed with his other hand at boots on the table beside him. Irritated, the Hunter shook loose his arm from the merchant's grasp, then moved on a few paces through the crowded market, tilting down his hat brim a bit to hide his face, and positioned himself to one side of a hanging display of rugs. From there he could see the Negro he wanted but was not himself in plain view. He reached into a pocket sewn inside his ragged, gypsy cloak, felt around his pistol—a Colt .31—and his fingers closed on a folded piece of paper. The Hunter withdrew it. He opened it slowly, as he'd done nearly a hundred times in the last three months in dozens of towns in North Carolina, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York, in daylight and dark, when the trail he was following went cold and he sat before a campfire, wondering how long it would be before he would collect his bounty. The paper had been folded and creased so often a few of the words on it were feathery. In the upper right-hand corner he saw the long-dried stain of dark blood—his brother Jeremiah's—and below it this notice:

R
UN
away from
Charlotte
on
Sunday,
a Negro slave named f
RANK,
well known about the Country as a craftsman, has a scar on one of his Wrists, and has lost one or more of his fore Teeth; he is a very resourceful Fellow, skilled as a smithy and saddle-maker, loves Drink, and is very often in his Cups, but surly and dangerous when sober. Whither he has run to, I cannot say, but I will offer $200 to have him returned to me. He can read and write.

A
APRIL
2,1853 J
UBAL
C
ATTON

From where he stood, the Hunter had a side view of a black craftsman seated before a table of wood carvings, talking to a nearby old Negress selling fish and a balding black man hawking produce. The Hunter was sure this was Frank. When last he'd seen him—just outside Norfolk—he was wearing Lowell pants and a jerkin. Today he was dressed better in a homespun suit. Under the table, he noticed, there was a flask, which the Negro occasionally lifted to his lips, then slid back out of sight. For a time, the Hunter was content simply to study him. He didn't want to rush. That's what Jeremiah always told him:
You move too quick, you'll startle the prey. When the moment's right to move, you'll know.
Now that he nearly had Frank trapped, the Hunter wished his brother could be there, at the market, for the catch. But Jeremiah was back in Charleston. Blind. When Frank bolted from Jubal Catton's farm, he'd stolen his master's Walker .44, and when they found him hiding in a barn, Frank fired at Jeremiah's face from five feet away, missing him—the nigger was a bad shot—but the blast seared his brother's eyes. Yes, thought the Hunter. He wished like hell Jeremiah was here now. They both still wanted that reward. But this runaway had made the hunt personal. During the first month he pursued Frank, his intent was to kill him. Then, as the weeks drew on, he realized slavery was worse than death. It was a little bit of death every day. It was even worse than being blind.

He would take him back, the Hunter decided. Jeremiah'd want it that way.

The Hunted reached under his table, grabbed the bottle by its neck, then drank just enough to take away the dryness in his throat. He never knew exactly why, but for some reason he'd always fought better drunk than sober. And it looked like he had a fight coming now, though he had thrown away his master's gun and had nothing to defend himself with but his bare hands. He thought,
All right, if that's the way it has to be.
He'd seen the white man—his name was Clement Walker—the moment he entered the market, or rather his nerves had responded, as they always did, when a soulcatcher was close by. He could smell them the way a rabbit did a hound. It was the way they looked at colored people, he supposed. Most whites didn't bother to look at you at all, like you were invisible. Or as unimportant as a fence post. Or if they were afraid of you, they'd look away altogether. But not soulcatchers. They wanted to see your face. Match it with a description on a wanted poster. Oh yes,
they
looked. Real hard.

That was how he'd spotted the Hunter. But he didn't need that sixth sense anymore to recognize Walker. The Hunted rubbed his left shoulder, massaging the spot where the Hunter had months ago left a deep imprint of his incisors—this, during their tussle after he shot at Jeremiah Walker. No question he'd know Clement anywhere. The man was in his dreams or—more precisely—his nightmares since he left his master's farm. Not a day passed when Frank didn't look over his shoulder, expecting him to be there, holding a gun in one hand and manacles in the other. It was almost as if he was
inside
Frank now, the embodiment of all his fears.

His first instinct had been to flee when he saw him, but Lord, he felt tired of running. Of being alone. That he'd not counted on when he ran for freedom: the staggering loneliness. The suspicions. The constant living in fear that he might be taken back to the tortures of slavery at any time. For months, he'd been afraid to speak to anyone. Every white man was a potential enemy. No Negro could be fully trusted either. But along the way he'd been fortunate. More so than many fugitives. He met white ministers who were conductors for the Underground Railroad, men who fronted as his master long enough for him to traverse the states of North Carolina and Virginia; and here, in Boston, he'd found free blacks—the very portrait of Christian kindness and self-sacrifice—willing to risk their own lives to help him. They were deeply religious, these Negroes. Lambs of Jesus, he thought at first. They put him up in their homes, fed him, provided him with clothes and a fresh start. Even helped him pick a new name. Jackson Lee was the one he used now. And he deployed those many skills he'd learned as a slave, plus his own God-given talent, to rebuilding his life from scratch. At least, until now.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Hunter moving closer, circling round toward the front of the market, keeping the waterfront at Frank's back, to cut him off if he tried to run. This time the Hunted decided, no. He would stay, dying here among free black people. He'd been to their churches, heard their preachers say no man should fear death because the Son of God conquered that for all time. And no man could be enslaved, they said, if he was prepared to die.