The House of Hawthorne (6 page)

W
ith just months remaining before we are to leave La Recompensa, Fernando and I become bolder in our interactions, though we still do not dare speak of the future. Our souls settle into a conversation that does not need words, and as his intentions become clear to me, my heart further opens to him.

Then the atmosphere changes.

It begins with a day of blood.

One of Fernando’s slaves is killed by a dog, and he and Manuel weep in our company and to the soothing of Madame Morrell, who cries with them. While we lament the terrible lot of the slaves, Tomás walks in even more stooped in the shoulders than usual, his dark face split in lines from his tears and holding a bloody bird. A cat got into the cage and mauled one of the doves, and the other is stained and shivering in the corner. The children come in just when the news is being delivered, and their wails bring us all to fresh tears.

Madame Morrell determines that it will be best to set the widowed dove free, and though we all mourn her leaving us, we know we have to remove her from the scene and further danger.
Mary and I, accompanied by the Layas brothers and Josepha, take the Morrell children and Josepha’s son to the edge of the forest below the mountains. I hold the quivering dove, who still has a spot of her mate’s blood on her wing, and whisper to her that she will be all right. When we find the place I love to visit on horseback, and where it seems that the birds are born of the leaves, we begin our good-byes. I am moved to tears by the gentle caresses the children give her. We pass the dove to each of their little hands and she ends up back in my hold.

“Farewell, sweet dove,” I say. “Go find your mate in the mountains of Elysium.”

I hold her aloft and wait for her to take flight, but she is not inclined to leave us. I think her silhouette against the warmth of the jeweled sunset will make a lovely painting, and I commit the scene to memory so I can write about it to Mother, and describe the colors for Mr. Allston. For many minutes I hold the dove while the children encourage her to go. Josepha’s son, however, nestles into his mother’s skirts and is uncharacteristically silent. He watches with large, troubled eyes.

The dove paces along my arm, her small claws leaving little marks on my skin, but still she will not fly. I begin to think we might have to place her on a branch and leave her, when she
suddenly cocks her head as if listening for something. The forest is noisy with birdcalls, so I do not know what she hears, but it sends her soaring heavenward into the pink-and-orange sky. Just as she takes flight, Josepha’s son runs toward me, crying, “No!
¡Vuelva!
”

He tries to run to the forest to chase the dove, but Josepha lifts him into her embrace and holds him close.

“Shhh, shhh,” she whispers, until he settles, and wraps his arms around her neck.

They turn to walk home, and as I watch their shadowed forms proceed, I feel a sudden despair. Fernando tries to talk with me, but I can hardly speak, and he respects my wish to remain silent.

I do not sleep well, and am plagued with a monstrous headache. Fernando looks out at me from his sketch all night, pleading, imploring, so that I have to turn him facedown on the bureau. When I do find a fitful sleep, the beggar girl haunts my dreams.

Perhaps I should take the mist as an omen and stay in bed all day.

When Josepha comes in to rouse me, I scold her and tell her to leave me alone because of my aching head. I must be harsh, because she starts and drops the tea tray to a great clanging assault of noise that sends me groaning under the pillows. My head feels as if it will split in two, and she whispers many apologies as she cleans the mess and exits the room.

I reach to flip the portrait of Fernando back over, and I am so moved and confused at the sight of his likeness that I again have to turn him facedown. For the first time since our arrival, I long
for home. The air has changed, and it feels very wrong to be here. Our imminent departure from La Recompensa that I have been lamenting suddenly cannot come soon enough.

I force myself out of bed and dress, opening the shutters and marveling over how the fog changes the vista. How strange and frightening it looks. It is as if the mountains sense some trouble, and wish to blot the earth from sight.

An hour later, the thunder of horses’ hooves calls me from my room, and I join the household on the front porch. A man comes galloping up the avenue followed by many caballeros, and as soon as their presence is made known, Dr. Morrell springs to more life than I imagined him capable. He stands to his full height and meets the men outside. To my shock, he does not invite them in, but begins arguing with the leader by the fountain in such rapid Spanish I cannot keep up.

“What are they saying?” I ask.

Madame Morrell clutches her handkerchief to her face and starts weeping. She shakes her head, refusing to translate.

Tekla wails and runs to the back of the house before she can be stopped, and within moments, all is chaos.

“Mary, keep the children in their rooms!” says Madame Morrell.

Mary rushes to obey, but as we all reach the back gallery, the great cries issuing up from the slave yard call forth the Morrell children, and Mary is not strong enough to hold them indoors.

“Josepha!” I say, grabbing her by the arms, hoping she might be able to communicate something to me, but the shouting
makes her eyes go wide in terror, and she takes off like a spooked mare.

I follow her to the gallery overlooking the yard, where her son and the other slave children stand naked for their morning baths. She scoops up her little boy while crying incoherently to the Negress in charge of the little ones. The old woman’s face becomes stone—like the very face of the Son Himself upon bearing the world’s sins. She corrals the children, who become serious as their mothers and fathers run from fields to pick them up. Mary enters the circle of the slaves, but is unable to understand the language. She looks up at me with imploring eyes. When I see the man and caballeros come around the side of the house with hands on swords and holding chains, I take a step backward to go to my room, knowing I cannot endure whatever is about to happen, but through the mist I feel a pair of large black eyes on me.

Josepha.

She needs help, but I do not know what to do. Any intervention on my part might make the situation worse.

Madame Morrell stumbles sobbing to the piazza, and several slave women clutching their children run to her, begging, pleading.

Don’t let them. Don’t let them take us away.

Madame Morrell does not say anything. She places her hands on their heads and weeps, but she gives them no other comfort. I look back at Josepha, and a sudden horror seizes my heart. I rush to Madame Morrell, clutching her arm.

“What is happening?” I demand.

“The doctor,” she whispers. “The contract. He did not realize it would be now.”

“What contract?”

“Twelve slaves. We owe Rodriguez twelve from the sale of the plantation, years ago.”

“It is barbarous! He cannot separate the families.”

“Don Pedro Rodriguez can do whatever he wants.”

“Surely the doctor will find singles, then. He would not allow the separation of families.”

“It is not his choice. He has tried.”

Josepha cries out, joined by her son, as one of the rough gang members attempts to put her into shackles. She wrenches her arm away and launches up the stairs to where Madame Morrell and I stand.

“¡Ayúdeme! Por favor! Por favor!”
Josepha begs for my help and I am paralyzed.

“Bárbaros,”
is all I can manage through my tears. “I am sorry.
Lo siento
.”

I wrap my arms around Josepha with her boy between us, and feel the shudders of their bodies in my very soul. Mary joins me in embracing the pitiful creatures, and issuing blessings and apologies. Our words can certainly mean nothing to these women.

Over Josepha’s shoulder I see a fierce man starting after her, until the doctor intervenes and holds up his hand. From what I understand, the doctor tells the men to stop, and that he will see to the rounding up. He issues several commands, and though the women in our arms do not stop crying, they all stiffen and realize that if they do not go calmly, they will be taught a lesson in front
of their babes. One by one they quiet, until only the children’s sniffles and those of us watching can be heard.

Twelve slaves are chosen that morning and are given a short time to say their good-byes to their loved ones. Once they are corralled and subdued, Dr. Morrell goes to his room and closes the door. The Morrell children refuse to be sent away and watch the scene in despair. Josepha’s boy has to be pried from his mother, who looks like the walking dead. She will no longer meet my eyes as she is led away. She cares nothing for this life she is condemned to live, and I say a silent, savage prayer that she will soon die to escape this hell.

A searing heat begins to burn at the base of my neck, and as the slaves are escorted away, my vision blurs and my entire skull feels on fire. I close my eyes and try to will the pain away, but it will not be gone, and I nearly faint. Eduardo and Mary help me to the parlor settee, where I lay my head in Mary’s lap, and Eduardo collapses against Mary’s skirts.

“I will never own them. Never. I hate it!” he cries.

His siblings enter the room and crowd around us, adding to Eduardo’s proclamations and cursing the men who took away the slaves. No one thinks to curse Dr. Morrell, for whom I experience such hatred that it almost makes me well enough to storm into his room and pummel him with my fists. Mary embraces the children and allows their vehement expressions of anger before offering her balm.

“You will not forget what you have seen today,” she says. “You will make sure this never happens again. I know you will.”

“But what we intend to do when we grow up is no help to these people,” says Louisa. “What about these slaves now?”

“I am confident in my soul that after this short sentence on earth they will experience a most blissful eternity in heaven.”

“And they will live in heaven always and forever, and always?” asks little Carlito.

“Forever and ever,” says Mary.

Forever and ever. I tell myself, over and over again. Forever and ever. It is all I can say to the children and myself for the remainder of the day, and I retire without dining that evening, wishing never again to set eyes on the doctor or his wife.

Forever and ever.

It is my night prayer, and my morning horse-riding chant, and my hymn for the remaining weeks on the plantation, when I cannot pick up a book to read or a pencil to sketch. It is the focus of my conversation with Fernando the few times I see him after that terrible day, when I make it clear to him that my heart is once again guarded, and he must cease to imagine any future with me in it. It is my consolation all the way to Havana in the rocking
volante
, and in the vice consul’s parlor where we wait, and where I cannot look at the slave who serves us tea.

The days before we are to board the ship for home, we are taken to the residence of the Morrells’ friends, Don and Madame Fernandez, wealthy collectors of art. Mary arranged the visit in an attempt to restore my spirits and rekindle my artistic sensibilities before we return to our mother. The events that preceded our departure have left me in poorer health than before we arrived, and Mary tries valiantly to lift me, in spite of the fact that
she herself has become very pale and empty. How I wish we left a month earlier and were restored to Mother in our bloom. I will lament this also forever and ever.

It is difficult to rally enthusiasm to respond to the art on the walls, impressive though the collection is, until we come to the last piece. A dark canvas peeks from behind a midnight-colored curtain. I look to Madame Fernandez, and she nods. I draw back the curtain to behold a woman. She kneels in supplication, her eyes turned to God, her hands clasped in prayer. Even through the grime and neglect the painting has suffered, her pain oozes from the canvas and draws tears to my eyes.

“Mary Magdalene,” says Madame Fernandez. “Humble sinner, begging for restoration.”