Darkness

Baker

After Abigail goes, Gregor turns to me and asks, “How was the journey? And how are things in New Orleans?”

“The journey was easy,” I tell him. “Very smooth.” He nods, somewhat distractedly. “As for New Orleans, everything is fine as far as the steamboat is concerned. Talcott and Bowers are doing a good job with the sales and cargo and provisions, just as fine as you are doing here in Natchez. There have been some unrelated problems with other boats, though.”

“Oh?” he asks.

“Yes, a couple of Atlantic ships have made their way into port with only half their crew, because the British Navy ran them down and commandeered the other half. They’re basically kidnapping people and forcing them to work on British ships.”

He sighs. “Yes, I’ve read about the conscriptions in the papers,” he says grimly. “It seems that times are getting darker all over.”

I hesitate for a moment, but I have to ask him, because I have noticed that he seems downcast, and the crew is strangely quiet as they go about their business. Usually there is a great deal of joking and laughing as they work, but today they just seem to be keeping their heads down and focusing on their tasks. “How are things here?”

He sighs. “We have had some problems here. I need to talk to you about a few things. Would you like to come to my office?”

“Of course,” I say, concerned. As we cross the gangplank and walk towards the steamboat terminal, I hope that there isn’t anything happening that is going to interfere with his crew’s ability to service the steamboat.

“Don’t worry,” he says, entering his office and offering me a seat, “it isn’t anything to do with our arrangement. Everything is fine with our crew. And the facilities are coming along. The new storage barn is ready to hold incoming or outgoing cargo. And we’ve started the boarding house construction to provide lodging to your passengers. I expect it to take a couple of months to complete. ”

He lifts a brandy decanter wordlessly, offering it to me, and I nod. A little drink sounds nice. Our crews seem to be handling all the work very efficiently, and Abigail is already up visiting with Rosy. I can indulge a bit.

When we both have our glasses of brandy, he sinks into his chair with a sigh. “Were you able to coordinate with Nicholas in getting free papers for the black members of your crew?” he asks without any further preamble.

Oh. “Um, yes,” I tell him, “I explained everything to Roosevelt, and he had papers drafted up for anyone who might need it. He wanted to be extremely thorough, so every crew member who has any slave ancestry going back to great-grandparents has their papers with them.”

He nods, and takes a sip of his brandy, then says, “Good.” He pauses a moment, then says, “That’s only the start, though. We’ve had more trouble with the slave patrol, and it has become clear that just having the free papers is not necessarily going to be sufficient for the crew’s protection.”

I frown, holding my glass in my hand, and ask, “What happened?”

I see his jaw clench. “You remember Sarah? Who has become Vernon’s nursemaid?”

I nod, fearing what I am about to hear.

“When she was walking to my house, one of the members of the slave patrol accosted her. He asked where she was going, and she mistakenly told him she was going to her master’s house.” He looks up at me from his glass. “She was sometimes accidentally referring to me as master even after I freed her. Apparently it is a hard habit to break.”

I can understand that. “Didn’t she have her free papers with her?” I ask.

“She did,” he says grimly, “but it didn’t make any difference. She never had the chance to show them. He thought she was a slave and that entitled him to have his way with her. He pulled her into an alley, shoved her against the wall so hard that she suffered a head injury, and tried to rape her.”

I am aghast, my mouth hanging open as I stare at him. His face is flushed with anger as he tells the story. “Is she all right?” I ask.

“I came across him and stopped it before it went too far, and she has since recovered from the head injury. She is back to caring for Vernon.” He downs the rest of his brandy and pours himself another cupful, lifting the bottle to offer more to me, but I decline. “I tried to have him arrested for rape, but the militia wouldn’t do anything more than give him a brief suspension, since it isn’t technically illegal to rape a slave.”

“But -”

“I know,” he interrupts. “She isn’t one, but the slave patrol seems determined to ignore any evidence of a black person being free if they are bent on mischief.”

“So what do we do?” I ask. I’m starting to wonder if it is even safe in Natchez for my crew. New Orleans doesn’t seem to have this problem with the slave patrol, but it is such a busy and chaotic port that it has far different concerns than whether slaves are misbehaving.

“I’ve started having any women in my employ escorted by a man on the crew whenever they need to walk around town. They are never to move about alone.”

I nod, and it occurs to me that this is the reason he sent a crew member up with Abigail to his house. I will talk to my crew later to arrange for this. I have women on my crew, and free black people of both genders, and I cannot imagine how horrifying it would be for any of them to be accosted by the power-hungry slave patrol here.

“Rosalind had another good idea,” he says, “that we are in the process of enacting. We are going to have all of our crew wear a vest, as a uniform to mark them as part of the steamboat dock crew. It will be a visible sign to everyone, including the blasted slave patrol, that the person is a free member of my crew. I think this will protect them better than having papers in their pocket. It will also help passengers, I think, to be able to easily identify crew members when they need assistance.”

“That is a really excellent idea,” I say. “I might even want to have my own crew wear a uniform. I’ll have to think about it.”

“Well,” he says, “we are going to need your help with a part of it. We thought that it would be nice to have the vests made out of a sky blue fabric to match the color of the steamboat, but we can’t get that here in town. We’d like to place an order for you to get filled for us in New Orleans and bring it back on your next run.”

I grin. “We’d be very happy to. Or I should say Abigail I am sure will be happy to. Getting the right type of fabric sounds like something she’d be far better at than I!”

I expect him to smile, having taken care of this business, but instead his expression darkens. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“Is there more?” I ask.

He sighs, heavily. “Yes, and I hate to even mention it, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing people gossip about it, and I would rather you hear it from me first.”

Good god, what else does he have to say?

“You know the reading groups I have been hosting?” he asks, and I nod, confused at this beginning to the story. What could that have to do with the slave patrol? Then it becomes clear when he goes on, “It is technically illegal to teach reading to slaves or their descendants.”

Oh.

He grimaces, and says, “I did know this, however I couldn’t believe that such a ludicrous rule would ever be enforced. But I was wrong. Last Saturday my friend Moses was set upon by the slave patrol, who found him reading a grocery list at the mercantile for supplies he was buying for the plantation where he works. They accused him of reading illegally, and were determined to punish him with a whipping.”

I am staring at him in dismay, which is made worse when he adds, “The day before that, they had erected a whipping post in the center of town, and they were obviously eager to put it into use.”

I ask, concerned, “Is Moses all right?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t let them do it. Not to him. It wasn’t his fault, I really did insist on him participating in the reading group. It was all my doing.” He looks upward, and grimaces again, and adds, “So much has been my fault.”

“How did you stop it?” I ask, baffled. Does Gregor have so much power in this town that he can control the slave patrol?

He says tersely, “I made them take me instead.”

What?

There is a full minute of silence where I stare at him, utterly shocked, and he gazes back at me with eyes full of so much sorrow that I cannot speak. Finally, he says, “Yes, they whipped me, and a crowd gathered, and there has been a great deal of … agitation … as a result. I expect you’ll hear people telling you that the event was … extremely disturbing. It has been difficult to try to get things to return to normal.”

Well, this must be why his crew seems to be behaving so unusually serious today, with none of the joy they normally show as they work.

Gregor nods as though to affirm my unspoken thought. “It has put a damper on everyone’s mood, both on the crew and in town. I cannot seem to find a way to encourage the townsfolk to move past what happened.” He looks deeply dejected. “I’m starting to think that I will have to try to stay away from people more, so that they can forget about it.”

I frown for a minute, thinking about everything he has just told me. “This was just Saturday?” I count back. “That was less than a week ago,” I point out, trying to evaluate his appearance. “Are you all right?”

He looks slightly impatient. “I’m fine,” he says tersely. “I’m over it, I just wish everyone else could be.”

He pauses, looks at the floor, and I can tell there is something else, so I wait for him to say it. “There’s more, and I have to tell you, but I ….”

I feel so much compassion for him. It’s almost like I am sharing his unhappiness with him. “It’s all right, Gregor,” I say, “you can tell me.” Whatever it is, I only want to help him. All my size and strength, and I feel helpless against this enveloping sadness.

He looks up, his brow furrowed, and says, “Thank you, Baker.” He huffs, then says, “Tiger was injured too.” He hears me gasp, and rushes to say, “He’s fine now. He recovered very quickly. But he tried to stop the patrol from whipping me, and they…” he swallows. I wait, my eyes wide. “They shot him,” he finishes with a whisper. He clearly feels more grief about this than anything else.

“But he’s all right,” I say, earnestly, hoping to both comfort him and clarify for myself.

“Yes, he was only down for a few hours, and he’s back to normal. You’ll see him when you get to my house.” The corners of his mouth lower. “But I feel that I betrayed Lydia’s trust. I managed to get her beloved dog injured, and he still loves me anyway, and I feel so unworthy.” He looks down, then up again at me, miserable and resigned. “I know you will have to tell them.”

I gaze at him sympathetically. He seems very uncomfortable to be talking about it with me, and probably even to be here after what happened. “Thank you for telling me,” I say softly, and he nods. I can tell that he is finished. “I should get back to the crew, check on how the cargo is doing.”

He sighs. “Me too.”

“Just for a couple of hours,” I say, “then maybe we can head back to your house?”

He nods.

He’s given me a lot to think about.

Abigail

Rosy has given me a lot to think about. It sounds like everything has really gone downhill around here since we were last in Natchez. With the slave patrol going around attacking everyone, and Sarah being assaulted, and then Gregor being whipped of all things. I don’t really understand what she was saying about the crowd during that incident being emotional and afraid because there was something indescribable in the air. But I do understand that everyone seems unhappy.

And I have an idea. It is simple, but sometimes the simplest things in life are really the best way to help.

“Rosy, how about I whip up some apple pie for tonight’s dessert?” I ask her. “Baker really likes my recipe. Gregor has even told me that he likes it, after I made it way back when he was in Pittsburgh a year ago. That might cheer him up.”

She smiles radiantly. “What a brilliant idea!” Sarah is upstairs with Vernon, who is napping. We move from the parlor to the kitchen, and she asks Nadine, “Do we have the ingredients here for Abigail to make apple pie?”

Nadine immediately starts bustling around the kitchen and checking, and she seems to have plenty of some things, but not enough of others. I’d need more apples and butter, and some different spices. I turn to Rosy. “Think the mercantile would have the things I need?”

“Only one way to find out,” she says. “Let me go upstairs and tell Sarah that we’re going out for a few minutes to do some shopping. I think Vernon will stay asleep for a while yet.”

We are soon walking towards town, their houseman Ben accompanying us. After what Rosy told me about everything that happened, I’m not surprised that he didn’t even need to be asked. He obviously has been told to go with Rosy whenever she needs to run errands.

Despite the sense of darkness that needing a guard brings, it is a pleasant outing. Ben is a nice fellow, very quiet but clearly sweet and helpful. When we get to the mercantile, Rosy is greeted happily by her mother who works here, and who helps us pick out everything that I need for the pies.

Back at home, I get to work, and Rosy and Nadine watch everything I do. I can tell that Nadine especially is trying to remember all of my steps, because she wants to be able to duplicate the recipe.

Their little houseboy Jake is hovering around taking deep whiffs of the delicious aromas, and Nadine shoos him away once or twice when he tries to swipe a little taste, and I give him some anyway behind her back. We have a lovely afternoon working and chatting in the kitchen, Sarah bringing the baby in and everyone taking turns holding him, Tiger hopefully underfoot waiting for any morsels to be carelessly dropped on the floor. Even Sarah is laughing and joking after a while.

When the pies are cooling on racks, the back door to the kitchen opens, and in come our husbands, Baker looming large over Gregor, his beefy form dwarfing Gregor’s slender physique. But their expressions are identical, their noses lifted in the air as they both take delighted sniffs. “Is that -” my husband starts.

“-apple pie?” Gregor finishes.

Then everybody is laughing, and Rosy looks at me, and silently mouths “Thank you!”