Part 51 (2/2)

Baltimore, great city then. Harbor for all kinds of goods and people. French and China silk. Spices. Rum. You need a gold cage for a bird? Baltimore. Sugar cane from Haiti? Bananas? Whale oil? All in Baltimore.

Irishmen, New Englanders, Virginia planters, Chinamen, British, Spanish, free colored men, they all pa.s.sed through that harbor. And women-some dressed fine as queens, some barely dressed-waited for them. Waited for the men to slip them coins. Some folks went off in carriages; some went to the tavern; some got no farther than an alley.

Everybody mated, two by two.

Only new slaves-male and female-kept separate. Each had their own cage at the dock's east end. When I could, I slipped bread and meat to the women (some just children). On Sundays, men with great buckets splashed water at the slave holds. Great buckets to wash away the dirt and smell. Nothing washed away the heat. Except when my mistress ordered it, I kept clear of the docks on the Lord's Sabbath and Auction Days. Kept clear of seeing misery I couldn't fix.

Still. 1835. Baltimore, a great city.

Except for colored folks, everybody a bit rich. Got pennies to spare for colored gals to wash their s.h.i.+rts, pants, and privates. I worked for sailors st.i.tching where a knife sliced, soaking tobacco stains and spit, cleaning where stew crusted on their sleeves and collars. I starched jackets for captains who brung tea, goblets, and Africans across the sea. Some I st.i.tched gold braids for when they got promoted or won slaving treasure. But captains be the worse. Mean. They say your work not good. Insist you buy brand new s.h.i.+rt. After I lost my profit once, I never worked for any captain again.

This May that felt like late summer, I was working for Gardner's men. Carpenters with lots of money and no respect. Their clothes, more grease and sawdust than cotton. Mr. Gardner had a contract to build two man-of-war brigs for the Mexican government. They say July, if Gardner be done, he win big bonus. All the carpenters win bonuses, too. So everybody work hard-black and white-building those great s.h.i.+ps.

I made my deliveries at dinner break. Men eating be generous. Less likely to complain: ”This not clean enough.” ”This not ironed right.” Foolishness. They complain to make me lower my price. Eating men don't talk much. Some even toss an extra penny.

I'd just finished giving William, the mast-maker, his clean clothes when I looked up and saw this young man standing at the unfinished bow, the s.h.i.+p still on stilts, looking out across the water. Not more than three feet away. He stood there, legs s.p.a.ced, solid. Like nothing tip him over. No waves. No wind. He was pitched on the edge of the horizon. Boat beneath his feet. Orange-streaked sky above his head. Endless water fanning out the harbor. Seem like nothing move him from that s.p.a.ce he choose to be. He could be a colored captain, watching, waiting for some change to happen. Some sign from the birds flying high. Some new streak of color in the sky. Some sweet odor of free.

His pants weren't fine. Brown burlap. His ankles and s.h.i.+ns poke out. s.h.i.+rt gone. His back was broad, rolling mountains. Copper-colored. Trails crisscrossed his back. I knew then he was a slave or ex-slave. No pattern to the marks. Just rawhide struck, hot and heavy. Enough to know someone had been very angry with him. Once. Twice. Maybe more.

I think I fell in love with his head. He look up, not down. Tilt of his head tell me he not beaten. Not yet. His hair curls in waves, almost touching his shoulders. Black strands lay on his neck. Made me want to reach out and feel. Made me wonder what it be like to bury my face in his hair. Would I smell the sea? Smell the oil they use to s.h.i.+ne wood?

His hair made me think of Samson. G.o.d's strength upon him. Something else came up on me. Some wave of feeling I'd never felt. Made my feet unsteady. Made my heart race.

”Girl,” Pete, the ironmaker call, ”Hurry your n.i.g.g.e.r self here.”

I scurried like a scared rabbit. So ashamed. This Samson man turned and saw me. Really saw. His eyes were golden, like light overflowing. I knew he saw me as a weak woman. Big. Too fat. Hurrying to this sc.u.m of a white man.

But I couldn't stop myself. Mam taught me, ”Never irritate white folks. Do your work. Collect their money.” But this one time I didn't want to scurry. I wanted to move slow, sashay my gown, and have this man I didn't know, think I was pretty. No. Lovely. I wanted to be lovely.

Twenty-eight and never had a man look at me with love. Never no pa.s.sion. Desire. Mam taught me not to say those words. But I learned them as a woman. Learned them watching folks at the wharf. Learned them, too, listening to Miz Baldwin's friends-women promised to one man, yet mad about some other. They was mostly sorrowful. Pa.s.sionate and sorrowful.

Mam said G.o.d made special feelings, especially for men and women. She and Pa felt them. I'd never felt one. Never 'til this man, this slave looked at me from the bow of an unfinished s.h.i.+p.

I hadn't enough backbone to tell this white man, ”I'm coming. Don't hurry me.” I scurried toward him and away from those light-filled eyes.

Head low, I got rid of all those clothes. Quick as possible. Out with the clean clothes, in with the dirty. Collect my money. Just move. Don't think about shame. The colored men were kind. Like they knew my sin. One tried to tell a joke. But it was no use. I hurried to leave that dock. Trembling. Not sure I'd ever come back. Ever hold my head high.

That evening I lay on my bed and cried. Cried 'cause I wasn't lovely. 'Cause this man would never love me. Cried 'cause he couldn't love me. Him being slave. I, being free. Him, young. I, old. Him, handsome. Me, ugly.

I cried and bit my pillow to keep from letting my screams out. I'd never have my own home. My own babies. I'd work my days 'til too old to work, 'til crippled and less than nothing, with no children, surviving on what little I'd set by.

Time makes the world fresh. Seven days, the world created. Seven days, my pain eased. Stopped feeling like a horse be sitting on my chest. Sabbath helped. I remembered the Lord loved me. And while I was singing ”My Redeemer,” I felt Mam just as if she was right beside me, taking my hand.

Got so I could see my reflection again and think I looked respectable. Clear eyes. Thick lashes. Clear skin. I didn't have to worry about freckles like white women. But it was a sore fault not to have Mam's sweet smile or Pa's even nose.

Lilbeth got Mam's smile and four children. Even mean George, with his trim features, had a family of five. All told, I was aunt to twenty children. Two in the oven. Thinking about my family, I start thinking about this man. Handsomest man I've seen.

Between kneading bread, slicing yams, serving the Baldwin's food, I be thinking, Why this man off by his self? Where his dinner pail? His food? Why this slave be at the s.h.i.+pyard? Why he not sitting with free coloreds? Where's his master?

I think, Charity. I can show him Christian charity.

I keep thinking of his hair too. Light trapped in it. Him standing on the bow, looking like gold glowed about his head.

His daddy must be white. Most likely his daddy be his master. His Mam being white be rare. The grocer on Dinwidde Street had a daughter who visited with a free colored. Not even a slave. When her belly rose up, her folks whipped her awful. She lost the babe. The colored man ran to Canada.

I packed a dinner. Miz Baldwin wanted chicken and biscuits. So I cooked extras. Just a few. Then, I slipped in a piece of banana pie.

Charity was Jesus' blessing. I'd take that man supper.

I was so nervous. I wore my best dress. It was blue and I always felt small in it. Married women seemed small. Delicate and needful, like Miz Baldwin. If I didn't cook and clean for her, she'd fade away and die, resting on her ottoman.

My blue dress had little b.u.t.tons down the front and back. Had lace at the wrists. Shouldn't have been wearing my best dress among those coa.r.s.e men, among that sweat and dust. But I wanted that slave man to see me different.

The trip was all right. Pa.s.sed out the white carpenters' clothes then went to the colored men. They ate off to the side. Gaines, a free colored, who trimmed sails acted shocked. ”You almost pretty, Miz Anna.” I nearly slapped him. Everybody would've seen me blush if I was less dark. I pa.s.sed out the clean clothes. Collected new ones. William's pants had bloodstains from where a saw nicked his thigh. Everybody working too hard. Making mistakes. But now they was having dinner. I had pa.s.sed out my clothes and if I was gonna meet this slave man, I had to do it now. Had to march myself to the s.h.i.+p edge and holler, ”Good day.”

I couldn't do it. Too nervous. I stood at the edge of the dry dock looking up. Looking up at this man looking out to sea on a s.h.i.+p on stilts, I started chuckling. Funny. Both of us weren't going nowhere.

He turned, looked down at me. His hand on the rail. He smiled. I did too. I said, ”You eat?” His face twisted, puzzle-like. ”You eat supper? You hungry?”

”No. I . . . I didn't eat. I am hungry.”

My heart fell because he talked proper. Even so, I said, ”Come down then.” I lifted my smaller basket. ”Else I'll feed this here to the gulls.”

He smiled and it s.n.a.t.c.hed my breath. He moved, fast yet smooth, down the bow steps, then ran to where it was safe to leap over the s.h.i.+p's rail. He, nimble, swift. He came upon me eager. Widest smile. His beauty nearly undid me. I wonder whether Delilah felt this way when she first see Samson: But he wasn't Samson. No Egypt black man. Seeing his features straight on, I could see more of the whiteness in him. But the drops of whiteness didn't matter. He still a slave. Such sadness undid me. My life was surely better than his. Not handsome, I knew I'd struggle to make a man love me. Pa said my darkness didn't matter but the world taught me it did. Even colored children called me ”Afric.”

But a handsome man-mixed black and white-might dream a better life. Might wish for genteel society. Hard to have Master be your father. Hard to see white brothers and sisters enjoy privileges not yours.

William catcall, ”Better leave that slave alone. Ain't got the sense of a dog.”

”Hush,” I answered back. ”Your sense got cut off with your baby finger.”

”That's a fact,” said Peter, the nail man.

The colored men laugh and I smile.

”It's true.” This man's eyes were lit fierce. ”I don't have a dog's sense.” Then, his voice fell to a whisper. ”A dog will stay where it's put. Or if it won't, a chain will hold him. I'm a man. I won't be held. Chained or unchained.”

I kept real still. I knew he was staring at me. Expecting some response. Maryland was a slave state. Words could get me whipped. But here was this man asking more of me. Asking me to agree that holding a man a slave was wrong. I inhaled, murmured low, ”That's proper. n.o.body has the right to hold a man.”

He smiled sweetly at me.

”Or woman.”

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