The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby (42 page)

She took a step down from the threshold and onto the cabin’s stone stoop. She shook the hair from in front of her eyes and said in English, “Well? Do you like my dress?”

Tyoga whispered, “Turn around.”

Ever so slowly, Trinity lifted herself up onto her toes and turn around. The skirt flew out from her body to allow the glow from the fire to illuminate the silhouette of what was beneath.

Tyoga marched up the stone steps to take Trinity Jane into his arms. He enveloped her with his shear mass and kissed her hard on the mouth.

Trinity reached up and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with an open mouth passion so intense that she cried out loud. He lifted her from the porch.

They stood in between the glow of the two fires for a long moment. The fire in the earthen pit outside of the cabin, where Trinity’s Indian garb lay crumpled in the dirt, was dying out while the fire inside the cabin’s stone fireplace roared with heat and light and life.

Tilting her head back, Trinity looked up into his eyes. “Well, Tyoga Weathersby?”

Swinging her like a ragdoll, he threw her legs over his outstretched right arm, stepped up over the threshold, and kicked the cabin door shut behind them.

It was well past midnight before the deer grazing in the grassy glade could do so undisturbed.

Chapter 50

The Trip to Middle Plantation

I
t was late in November when Chief Blue Coat arrived at Twin Oaks to tell Tyoga that he had been summoned before Lord Edward Nott, and that he was to travel to Middle Plantation in two days time. Tyoga told the chief that he would be at Passaunkack and ready to travel with him to see the Lord Governor of Virginia in two moons.

Tyoga awoke before sunrise to see Trinity Jane packing his knapsack for his journey to Middle Plantation.

Boiling over the firepit outside, the coffee’s earthy scent filled the cabin with the warmth of home.

“Mmmm, smells good, T.J. That fancy perkin’ pot sure makes good coffee, don’t you think?” he asked.

“The coffee smells good,” she agreed.

Tyoga had been conversing with her only in English over the past several weeks, and she was speaking it as comfortably as she spoke Tsalagie.

More comfortable dressing in the clothes of the white world, she had not worn her doeskin tunic or elkskin boots for sometime now. Anxious to go to Middle Plantation and the other nearby Virginia colonies, she wanted to dress and speak like a white woman when she went into their shops and boutiques.

“Shiata ney ya tees a lo
(It doesn’t matter anyway)
,” she replied in Tsalagi.

Recognizing an uncharacteristically short reply, and knowing that she only slipped back into Tsalagi when she was irritated; Tyoga went over to her and put his arms around her, “What’s the matter, T.J.?”

“I don’t know, Ty. I can’t sleep even though I am tired all the time. I guess we have just been working too hard.”

“Maybe. Why don’t you sit down and I will go get us the coffee?”

“No. You sit. I will go.” She got halfway to the firepit before she fell to her knees and wretched uncontrollably.

Tyoga ran outside and put his arms around her. “T.J., what’s the matter? Are you sick?” Letting Tyoga support her weight for a brief moment, Trinity stayed on the ground. Slowly, she climbed to her feet and ran her fingers through her flowing auburn mane. “No. I am not sick. I will get the coffee. You go back inside.”

Remembering the message of the promise about unforeseen arrivals, Tyoga turned to go back inside.

Trinity Jane had them packed and ready for the short canoe trip to Passaunkack by sunrise. She packed very little for Tyoga’s trek to Middle Plantation. The trip would only take two days each way, and the party would be well provisioned by the tribe. She did not need to pack very much for herself either because she would find all that she needed in her sister’s lodge.

The morning chill had not yet been broken. Winter’s embrace was choking the life from the leaves festooning the towering boughs of chestnut and spruce, hickory and elm.

They pushed off the rocky shore just as the sun crested the tops of the trees. By the time their canoe slid onto the shores of Passaunkack, Trinity’s face had turned crabapple red from the cold wind blowing up the Mattaponi.

Trinity’s sister, Grows Strong, and her two teenaged sons greeted them when they stepped ashore. The boys and some of their friends helped to carry their belongings into the village.

In half an hour, Tyoga, Chief Blue Coat, his sons Shield Maker and Thunder Bow, plus three young Mattaponi braves were on the trail headed south, toward Middle Plantation. Large bundles of furs and hides were draped down the braves’ backs.

The men hiked along the shores of the Mattaponi for about forty-five minutes before the morning fog lifted and the warmth of the sun broke through the low hanging clouds. The trail turned gradually toward the west. Soon, the sound of the rushing river was left far behind.

“Si too eh yetta wa heya
(We are heading west)
,” Tyoga said.

“Yes, my son,” Chief Blue Coat replied. “We go to Brick House in New Kent to trade our hides for cloth and knives. We could trade for these things in Middle Plantation, but trading is better at Brick House. Besides, these young men do not wish to carry their loads all the way to Middle Plantation.”

The young men carrying the load of furs smiled and nodded in agreement.

The footpath broke from the woods to cut through an open glade, thick with waist-high meadow grass. The path intersected muddy ruts that marked a wagon trail leading into the village of Brick House, the first colonial town established in New Kent. The narrow wagon wheel path fanned into a wider muddy lane along which the New Kent County Courthouse and several mercantile businesses had set up shop.

Outside of shabby, canvas-topped lean-tos supported by flimsy sapling frames, three half-naked squaws sat on the ground. Hair disheveled, their faces were rubbed red and raw from the coarse unshaved faces of mountain men and settlers.The cries and moans emanating from the damp, dark recesses of the prison-like structure left no doubt about the horrors taking place within.

Unable to look at the filthy, stinking little man standing at the entrance to the tent, Tyoga walked by. He had no way of knowing that around the corner, in front of the Kent County Courthouse, an even greater horror awaited him.

By the early 1700s, indentured servitude, the practice of working for merchants or landowners in exchange for the cost of passage across the Atlantic, was being replaced by the less costly, and more lucrative, practice of buying and selling slaves. Fortunes were made in the traffickingof human beings kidnapped from their native lands in South America, Africa, and the Caribbean Islands.

The African slaves came from many tribes: the spirited Hausas, the gentle Mandingos, the creative Yorubas from the Igbos, Efiks and Krus, the proud Fantins, the warlike Ashantis, the shrewd Dahomeans, the Binis, and the Senegalese.

The frontier farms had adopted the ways of the southern plantations. The mid-Atlantic estates filled their intense labor needs with slaves purchased at the harbors in Yorktown, Savannah, and the Mississippi delta.

When Tyoga saw the proud dark man standing on the auction block in front of the Kent County Courthouse, he had no way of knowing that the chance encounter would change both of their lives forever.

In his early thirties, he was old for a slave. Standing atop an old wooden wine barrel that was being used as a makeshift auction block with his legs and wrists manacled, the worn black man was the very picture of abandoned life and conceded hope. Head bowed, sweat streaming from his brow, clothes tattered and torn, he listened impassively to the auctioneer’s plea for an opening bid.

When no bid over ten shillings was offered, the unacceptable measure of his worth condemned him to a fate even worse than if he had been sold.

The auctioneer, an unkept little man by the name of Darby, grabbed him by the wrist shackles and pulled him off of the wine barrel. The barrel tipped over. The auctioneer threw the black man against the courthouse’s red brick wall.

The unclaimed slave sat down, leaned against the wall, drew his knees to his chest and rested his forehead upon them.

No one had bid for his services. Worse than being a slave was being a slave that nobody wanted. He thought that he had forgotten the exposure of shame; he was startled to learn that he was wrong.

While the auctioneer stooped over to right the fallen barrel, Tyoga was struck by the transformation the simple act engendered.

The wine cask in its intended employ was a vessel that once held the spirits of celebration and joy. Filled, the barrel’s entry into a room wouldhave been applauded and acclaimed. Its contents would have been coveted and shared with much fanfare and bally-hoo.

But now, empty and upright, its entry into the perverse pageantry unfolding in Brick House’s town square mocked its very purpose and ridiculed its intent. Serving as a stage upon which men and women were bought and sold was in stark contrast to the promise of life and liberty its contents were meant to celebrate.

Yet, the barrel had not changed. It could once again hold promise and joy. It was only the will of man that debased its purpose and bastardized its employ.

Tyoga watched the man for a long time.

Sitting silently amid the sights and sounds of the human sale, the hopelessness embraced his massive frame like the sea enveloping a drowning man.

Children were running through the gawking throng, which was oddly composed of young ladies who had come to watch the strong black men and proud, steadfast women stand half naked on the barrel while the squires cast lots for their chattel. The ladies would cover their leering giggles with lace kerchiefs in hopes that the sins absorbed by the cloth would remain forever trapped in the delicate weave.

Vendors were selling boiled peanuts and beef jerky. Drams of rum were selling for two shillings and whiskey for five. A guitar, banjo, and flute trio played gospel tunes and religious anthems.

The black man seemed not to notice. When he lifted his head from his knees, the tears streaking down his face beckoned Tyoga to his side.

Looking down at the disheveled man crumpled at his feet, Tyoga asked, “What’s your name?”

Without looking up, the black man rose slowly to his feet. He was a large man, taller, and more robust around the chest than Tyoga had thought. His upper arms were chiseled and nearly as large as Tyoga’s. His forearms and hands were terribly scarred, and he was missing the ring finger on his left hand. Bearing the ritualistic facial scars identifying him as a member of the Ashantis tribe, his carriage and gate belied his once noble lineage.

Looking Tyoga directly in the eyes, he answered his question. “My name is Akuchi Akua. Massa call me Three-Toe Brister.”

Noticing Tyoga inspecting the nubs that were once the three small toes on his right foot, he explained, “Fust massa wok Akuchi in quarry. Boots too small shoes. Make brister toes.”

“Your toes got infected?” Tyoga inquired in an effort to help Brister with his speech. Staring at the man’s foot, Tyoga opened his eyes wide, and touched the man lightly on the shoulder. His face broke out into a broad smile. “Oh! Blister toes. Brister toes. That’s how you got your name.”

Tickled by the obvious that had eluded him, Tyoga laughed out loud.

Staring at the laughing white man with his hand resting gently on his shoulder, Brister stood stone faced. He could not remember the last time he had allowed himself to smile, let alone laugh. He wasn’t even sure that he knew how. Years of requiring permission to speak, to eat, to drink, to rest, and even move had taught him to squelch even the most fundamental involuntary responses. A sneeze could be grounds for a beating. A yawn meant the whipping post. The horror of his existence had stripped the very life from his eyes.

Looking at Tyoga Weathersby, who was laughing uncontrollably, and taking the silent cues that it was okay to share in his joy, Brister sensed the unfamiliar beginnings of a smile. He had forgotten that he had dimples. He looked down when he felt his eyes begin to shine with the remembrance of life as it should be led.

The auctioneer, Darby, hurried over to the two men. He grabbed Tyoga’s forearm to throw his hand off of Brister’s shoulder, and shouted, “Sit down there, boy! Who told you to stand up?”

When he swung his fist back over his head to strike Brister to the ground, his arm was stopped in mid-swing by the vice-like grip of the mountain man he had unfortunately misjudged.

As if hitting a stone wall, the force of the blocked blow swung Darby around so that he was eye to chest with Tyoga.

Darby was a disheveled, spongy man in his late forties with a pasty, wan complexion disguised behind untrimmed salt and pepper stubble. While his clothes were assembled to convey an air of importance and someone to be reckoned with, the food stains on his torn cravat rendered the pretense of an obvious sham. He smelled of beer, body odor, and urine.

He did not look up into Tyoga’s face before chastising him for interfering with the coup he was about to administer to his property. “Here now. Take your hands off of me. This is no business of yours. I own this slave and I will deal with him as I see fit.” Just as he finished the sentence, his eyes locked with Tyoga’s. He swallowed hard.

“Ah. Well ah. Well, Mister,” Darby stammered. “I mean, ah, I can see that you are a man with a keen eye for ah … Perhaps you are interested in Brister here … Just look at the chest on this slave, why he can …” While he was speaking, Darby reached to rip open the shirt that Brister was wearing.

Again, Tyoga reached out his mightly left hand and held it between Brister’s chest and Darby’s sweaty, trembling hands. “I can see the man just fine with his shirt on.”

“Well, sure you can … sure you can.” Darby dropped his arms to his side. “So what do you say, Mister? Ah—Oh, I know that it is a steal, but I could part with good ol’ Brister here for say … twenty shillings. Waddaya say?”