The Secrets of Mary Bowser (27 page)

Weak sunlight streamed through the copse of leafless sweet gum and tulip trees. It was none too warm a January morning, and I was still more than forty miles from where I meant to be. So though Wilson Bowser was anxious to convince me of the folly of my request, he couldn’t. I was going home. And I needed him to take me there. “You’ve forwarded plenty of baggage through this area. Surely it wouldn’t be so difficult for you to carry me on.”

He acted as though my speaking of the Railroad confirmed I was a fool. “Baggage moves from the South to the North. Not the other way.” He looked to McNiven. “She always this contrary?”

“Just be glad she is on our side. Elsewise we maun find her contrary nature even more troublesome.” McNiven hid his mouth beneath the orange fringe of his mustache, but I saw enough of his devilish smile to know that between us, we would convince this Mr. Bowser to take me after all.

When I decided to come back to Virginia, I put my plan to McNiven and told him the part I meant for him to play in it. I never had need to ask a white man for a thing until then. This was a gift fate had given me, Old Master Van Lew dead when I was so young, Young Master John hardly grown enough to head the household before I left Richmond. The colored men I knew in Philadelphia always treated me the way they treated any colored females, as though they were our protectors. Fearing any of them would make a different choice for me than I wanted to make for myself, I turned to a white man instead.

“You ask mighty a wild thing,” McNiven had said. “Are you truly ready to go, whenever and however I say?”

If he’d told me we were leaving right then, it would have been none too soon. I’d already waited through all the politicking of 1860, pinning my expectations on Mr. William Seward. Senator Seward had opposed the Fugitive Slave Act when it was first proposed, had even defended fugitive slaves in the court of law. He helped found the Republican Party, vowing it would be the party of abolition. I thought for sure he’d garner this new Party’s nomination that May. Even thought of it as a present for my twenty-first birthday.

So I was devastated to see the nomination go instead to Mr. Lincoln, of whom we negroes knew so little. Hattie’s sister Gertie kept mistakenly calling him Ephraim Lincoln, he was so foreign to us, and we all thought it a grand joke. But we sobered up quickly enough once the Republicans chose him for their ticket. We knew all our hopes rested on him, whatever he turned out to be.

When those slavery-loving Democrats split their party right in half, nominating two different candidates for president because the Southerners found Stephen Douglas not slavocrat enough, I saw this Abraham Lincoln would win the election. Just as soon as the ballots were counted, South Carolina announced it was seceding. As 1860 slipped into 1861, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia followed suit. Other Southern states were lining up to do the same. Some of them didn’t even bother to secede before sending their militias to seize a Federal arsenal. Though they’d been mad as rabid hounds when John Brown tried that, they turned greedy as hogs at feeding time doing it themselves. But no one seemed to know what way Virginia might go. At least, no one up in Philadelphia.

All we knew was that though James Buchanan was spending the final months of his presidency hemming and hawing over all of it, surely Mr. Lincoln wouldn’t stand for what was happening. And if he didn’t, it seemed likely we were headed for war. If war was coming, I wanted to be in Richmond, with Papa, before it came to pass, and for as long as it took to see it through. To help it through, as I meant to do.

So when McNiven asked if I was truly ready to leave, I nodded and said just as soon as we could.

“I’m glad for it,” he said. “Richmond will be much to us in the next years, whether Virginia secedes or no. Your talents will be a great help in our labors there.”

When I first met McNiven, I couldn’t have imagined I’d take pride or comfort in knowing he meant for us to ally together. But back then I couldn’t have guessed I’d ever connive to travel back across Mason and Dixon’s line, either.

We were halfway to Baltimore before McNiven informed me he could go only so far as the distant bank of the Rappahannock, that David Bustill Bowser’s cousin would have to carry me on from there. And only after we met up with Mr. Bowser, at the regular rendezvous point for their Railroad work, did I realize McNiven hadn’t yet told him about me.

We spent the better part of that morning hour arguing, until at last McNiven was directing his buckboard wagon back toward Maryland while we rode south to Richmond. Mr. Bowser’s conveyance was much smaller, a cart barely big enough to haul three sacks of flour, though at five foot by three, large enough to hide a fugitive slave or two. As I sat beside him on the driver’s bench, I reminded myself that Mr. Bowser’s reluctance was understandable, given my unexpected presence and unusual request. Perhaps now we might begin to be acquainted without so much consternation.

I offered up some comment about how picturesque the winding road was against the wintry landscape. But all Mr. Bowser answered was, “No one will believe it. Do you realize that?”

“What won’t they believe?”

“That you’re a slave.”

It was the only way I could come back home. To do as Mama had done, use my freedom to play at being bound in slavery.

“Whites in Virginia look at a negro, they don’t see anything but slave,” I said. “Even if that person is free. I’d think you of all people would know that.” My words came out snappish as I said that last piece. I told myself it must be the fatigue of the journey, although deep inside I felt there was something about Mr. Bowser that brought out such petulance in me.

“Anybody white or colored looks at you, they’ll see a woman who carries herself proud. A woman whose clothes are fresh and whose face is soft. A woman without a chafe, callus, or bruise. Not so much as muscle well formed from hefting. How many slaves don’t work all day? How many slaves’ bodies don’t bear the mark of that work, one way or another? Forget how quick you are to speak your mind. Even before your mouth gives you away, the rest of your body will betray you.”

I drew my merino shawl fast around my shoulders and kept my mouth shut tight. I’d proven in the Railroad work I could keep mum, even play dumb, as well as anybody. But when I looked down, I saw that even against the dull brown skirt of my new linsey-woolsey dress, the unblemished hands folded in my lap were clearly those of a woman who didn’t cook or clean, even for herself. Let alone for a master and his family.

Late in the afternoon, Mr. Bowser steered his cart off the road and down a narrow lane to a lone cabin. Without a word of explanation, he jumped to the ground and made for the door. Wondering if I was meant to follow or no, I decided to stay where I was. If he wants me with him, let him ask, I thought, stamping my feet against the cold.

An elderly negro, positively ancient in appearance, answered Mr. Bowser’s knock, accepting some coins before disappearing back inside. When he returned, he handed Mr. Bowser a pair of birds. From their long, curved beaks, I recognized them as woodcocks, a species I hadn’t seen in all my years in Philadelphia. Mr. Bowser returned to the cart, holding what I supposed was our dinner.

When I reached for the purse pinned against my skirts, Mr. Bowser waved me away. “I pay my own way in the world. And you best hold on to your pennies just as well as your dollars. I wager you’ll get yourself in a heap of trouble before too long and need everything you have to get yourself out.” He flicked the reins, and the noise of the horse and cart covered the silence between us.

We stopped that evening at a small brook a half mile off the main road. While Mr. Bowser set about feeding and watering his horse, I gathered what kindling I could find, piling it on a patch of bare ground.

Mr. Bowser took his time tending the bay, so I stepped to the cart and lifted out some split logs he had there, figuring that if they weren’t meant for the cookfire, he could very well stop me. When he didn’t, I brought them into the clearing and laid them with the kindling. It took me three trips to fetch all that wood out, and my arms were aching by the time I took the bucket from the cart to draw water from the stream. Just as I was thinking how lucky I was that the brook hadn’t frozen up, my foot slid along a mossy stone. I slipped into the frigid water, soaking myself up to my skirts before I regained the shore.

“Mr. Bowser,” I called in the sweetest voice I could summon, “would you be so kind as to light the fire?”

“I’d wait to light it,” he said. “But if you insist, I suppose I should oblige.” He drew a match-safe from his frock coat, and in a moment the fire was blazing.

As I warmed myself before the flames, Mr. Bowser brought out the woodcocks. I insisted on cooking them, though I was relieved he didn’t inquire about my culinary experience before handing the birds over.

Plucking the carcasses took rather longer than I expected. So many feathers on those two little bodies, with now and again a plume breaking off in my hand. My fingers stiff with cold, I struggled to pry the remaining portion of those shafts from the puckering flesh.

When I had the birds more or less prepared, I brought them to where Wilson Bowser had laid out the iron rods of his cookspit. Two were the same length and had forked ends, with a third longer crosspiece fitted to lay inside the forks. I poked the crosspiece through the first bird, meaning for the pole go into its rear and come out its mouth, like all the skewered carcasses I’d ever seen. Only, it was harder to tug the body onto the pointed rod than I expected. The speared tip came out the neck instead of the mouth. The near-severed head dangled off at a horrible angle, dripping bits of giblet onto my skirt. I took greater care with the second bird, without much more success.

Putting the cookspit together was even more difficult. The end pieces could only stand with the crosspiece in place between them, but I couldn’t lay the crosspiece inside both forks because one side or the other kept falling down. And the weight of the skewered birds made it even harder to balance the crosspiece. The woodcocks’ eyes seemed to gawk at me from their lolling heads the whole while, making me all the more jittery.

When at last I had the pieces assembled, I turned to the fire. The only way I could maneuver the spit over the flames without setting my skirts ablaze was to ask for Mr. Bowser’s help. He let out some comment about how awfully much easier it is to get a spit over a fire that hadn’t yet been lit, though between the two of us we finally managed to stand the contraption in place.

I rested from all the hauling and plucking and poking while the first side of the birds cooked. When they looked about done, I rotated the spit to roast the other side. Mr. Bowser brought out a lone tin cup and tin plate from the cart and offered them to me. “If I’d known McNiven was going to ask me to escort a lady to Richmond, I would have brought place settings for two.”

“I can cup my hands to drink,” I said, “and I’ll take the plate once you’re done.”

He considered my proposition. “I’ll use the tin cup, if you take the plate first. After all, you should have the earliest opportunity to enjoy the delights of your cooking.”

I started to argue with him, but he nodded toward the fire. The blaze was licking at the underside of the birds. I jumped up to turn the spit, but in my hurry I caught the iron bar too near the flames. Before I could even cry out, Mr. Bowser grabbed my wrist, submerging my scalded hand in the water bucket. While the water cooled my blistering flesh, he deftly removed the crosspiece from the spit, slid the first woodcock onto the plate, and handed it to me.

It was the singular most awful thing I’d ever tasted.

One side was burned to a crisp, positively inedible. The other was already cold, and so dry I thought the woodcock must have been dead a week. I chewed and chewed on the tough meat, now and then catching a tooth on a bit of feather shaft. After only a few minutes, I gave up. Hunger was better than choking down any more of that bird.

I expected some comment from Mr. Bowser about how little I ate, but he was waiting in silence for his own supper. Which wasn’t going to be much satisfaction once he had it.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The woodcock doesn’t seem to have turned out. Perhaps the other one will be more savory.”

“I doubt it. A bird that small shouldn’t be drawn before it’s cooked. And it needs to be rubbed with fatback or butter or some such thing before roasting. And anything on a spit must be turned constantly, to roast evenly.” His deep brown eyes held my own. “You’ve never cooked a meal in your whole life, have you?”

“No, I never have.” I gestured at my skirt, damp and stained, and then held up my singed hand. “But at least I look a bit more like I’ve cooked or cleaned for somebody, don’t I?” My pride was even harder to swallow than the burnt bird meat. “I’m sorry I spoiled your supper.”

“I suppose I knew you would. But you were about as entertaining to watch as any traveling tent show, and that’s more satisfaction than even the best roasted game bird would be.” From a bag in the back of the cart, he drew out two large sweet potatoes. He was still chuckling as he nestled them into the embers to cook.

I had more on my mind than Mr. Bowser and his woodcocks when we turned down Mechanicsville Turnpike into Richmond the next afternoon, me directing him to head east, up Church Hill, rather than continuing into Shockoe Bottom. It tore at me to go to Bet before Papa. But Papa could no more leave off working the forge at the smithy to celebrate my arrival than he could have walked away ten years ago to come to Philadelphia with me.

I wasn’t exactly sure celebration would be his response, anyway. I hadn’t sent Papa word of my plan to return to Richmond, telling myself I wanted to surprise him. But the truth was, what little I’d been hearing from him sounded so angry and defeated, I feared what he might say.

As we rode along Grace Street, I was startled by the ornate hodgepodge of buildings that had sprung up during my absence. Italianate cupolas, Greek Revival mansions, even a Gothic Revival church—it seemed wealthy Richmonders all wanted to pretend they were in some other time and place. Only the Van Lew mansion appeared unaltered, setting by itself on the family’s block of property. The other houses seemed to shy away from it, pulling together to avoid their imposing neighbor, just as the ladies of Church Hill had always shied away from Bet.