The Book of Negroes

  I wondered if the door behind him was locked.

  "Lindo came to grade the indigo, but I just came out here to see his niggers. I sold you myself and wanted to see how you were working out. Just fine, I see. Only you're not Coromantee. I brought you over from Bance Island, and no Coromantees shipped from Bance that year. Step on over here."

  He held out his hand, but I stayed put.

  "What is Bance?" I said.

  "Don't miss a thing, do you? Bance is where you were sold in Guinea."

  The door was probably not locked, but it would be hard to get around this big man to reach it.

  William King slid off his waistcoat and unbuttoned himself. I stepped back, and dodged him when he lunged. But he lunged again and pinned me against a wall.

  "Stop wriggling, girl. I just want to see how you turned out." His breeches were down around his ankles. His bigness swung like a branch in the wind.

  Behind King, the door rattled. I heard Lindo speaking to Appleby.

  "Damnation," King muttered, scrambling to fix his breeches.

  A MONTH OR SO LATER, Georgia heard talk through the fishnet. The Jew in Charles Town had offered to buy me, but Appleby had refused. I felt disappointed. Going away with Solomon Lindo had to be better than staying on Appleby's plantation. But Georgia said Appleby would never sell me.

  "Why?" I asked, weakly.

  "Because you are too good. Too valuable. Catching babies and making indigo mud, why would that man want to sell you now?"

  MY BREASTS WERE GETTING FULLER. Soon enough, I would be showing. Appleby didn't let his Negroes marry. Some of them jumped the broom secretly, and others just lived together or visited at night. But I had no doubt what my parents would wish, and I told Chekura that I wanted to be married.

  We chose the first full moon in August. The idea of our ceremony, no matter how humble, excited me. I wanted to bind my tiny family and keep us together. We wouldn't be able to have a marriage like in my homeland, with village elders and djeli to witness the event and describe it to the next generations. There were no elaborate negotiations between parents and villages, and there was no exchange of gifts to compensate my family for losing a daughter. But I insisted that Chekura give Georgia a big present—and he rustled up two chickens, two head scarves, one blue glass jar, a bottle of rum and a pouch of Peruvian bark.

  "Where did that crazy boy get Peruvian bark?" she said, over and over again. From that day forward, Georgia decided that she loved Chekura.

  The guests showed up with presents and food. Georgia and Fomba had lugged an iron pot out to the clearing ahead of time, and she had a rabbit stew simmering. Mamed brought me a candle and a beautiful stool made out of polished cypress wood. Fomba had whittled a little statue of a woman holding a baby. He had oiled and polished it for days, and seemed unbelievably happy to give it to me. Chekura gave me a comb, a jar of corn oil said to be good for working through kinky hair, a red and gold headscarf, and a beautiful blue wrapper made of soft, smooth cotton— the same material that I saw on buckra visitors when they came to the big house. I gave Chekura a bright yellow wrap that I had received in exchange for catching a baby. Georgia said I shouldn't give him anything at all.

  "You is giving yourself to him," she said, "an' the crazy big-mouth African lucky to have you."

  We had flutes and a banjo at that frolick. Some of the men and women sang and danced, while others drank rum and smoked pipes. I had stopped praying years ago, but still avoided spirits and tobacco—even the night that Chekura and I married. After we ate, Mamed laid down a broom, had us jump over it, and said that made us man and wife. Chekura and I kissed. We were married, and now my baby would have a proper father. We went back to the hut and held each other and moved together as man and wife and fell asleep in each other's arms. At least, I fell asleep in his.

  When I awoke, Chekura was gone—back to his own work on a plantation on Lady's Island.

  ROBINSON APPLEBY RETURNED TO THE PLANTATION in December. He sent for me. I arrived, swollen-bellied, on the broad porch that wrapped around his big house. The baby inside me had only three moons to go.

  "I heard," he said, nodding in the direction of my belly.

  "Li'l baby," I said. I didn't want him to see my pride, but my lower lip was quivering.

  He swallowed. He chewed his cheek. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, brought them out, removed a watch from his breast pocket and examined it.

  "Who is the father?" he said.

  I said nothing.

  "I know a boy has been coming to see you."

  I looked down so he couldn't read anything on my face. I was hoping that he hadn't heard about the wedding.

  "I make the decisions around here about breeding," he said.

  He motioned for me with his fingers. I stepped a little closer.

  "Fancy clothes these days. Blue wrapper, red and gold scarf. Bet you love those clothes. Let me see that wrapper. Come here. Right here."

  I stepped closer.

  "Say 'I love my clothes, Master.'"

  I said it.

  "Come out into the yard," he said.

  I felt a momentary wave of relief. If we were going to stay outside, there were certain things he wouldn't do. Appleby hollered for Mamed and Georgia to gather every man, woman and child on the plantation. Any who did not come would miss the next three meals and do without any of his little gifts of rum, cloth and salt from Charles Town. Everyone on the plantation formed a big circle around us in the yard. Appleby ordered two women to start a small fire. He made Mamed roll up an empty barrel from the storehouse. Another man was to fetch a shaving knife. A woman had to fetch a washtub and scissors. And Georgia was ordered to bring every shred of my clothing to Appleby, who was standing there by the fire.

  When the fire was blazing, the washtub filled and the knife ready, Appleby shouted out that any person who raised a word of protest would suffer the same fate as me, or worse.

  "Your clothes," he said to me. When I hesitated, he tore them off and threw them down into the pile that Georgia had brought. "We have a law in the Province of South Carolina," he said. "Niggers don't dress grand."

  I made a decision then. He would do whatever he wanted, anyway. I was from Bayo and I had a child growing inside me and I would stand proud.

  "Throw them in the fire," Appleby said to me, motioning to my clothes on the ground.

  I did not move. Appleby turned to Georgia. He pointed at me.

  "Georgia. You know I mean business. In the fire or I'll make it worse for her."

  Georgia's face was as blank as a skipping stone. She bent over, picked up my clothes and threw them in the fire. Privately, I thanked her. She had burned my clothes but saved my dignity. With all the Negroes watching, I had stood up to Appleby. I had that one victory, and I would remember it.

  Now he pointed to the tub. "Get down on your knees and soak your head," he said. I remained motionless. "Last warning. Head in the tub."

  I kneeled but, with my swollen belly, couldn't bring my head to the tub.

  "Then sit up," he said, and dumped three buckets of water on me. The water ran down my face and neck and over my belly.

  Appleby rolled the barrel up to me. "Lean over that barrel."

  "No," I cried.

  "Do what I say and do it now, or I'll clean out your hut. I will burn everything you have. Clothes, comb, all of it. Georgia too. I will throw her clothes, pouches and gourds in the fire. Everything. You hear?"

  I tried to lean over the barrel, but my belly was too big.

  He grabbed my hair and pulled up my head. "Then sit up straight," he said.

  Still on my knees, I straightened my back.

  "You and your secret man," Appleby said. "Aren't you clever? Don't you think I knew you were with child? You and your head scarves. Fancied up like white folks, you put the nigger women in Charles Town to shame."

  Appleby stepped behind me and yanked my hair. "What is this?" he shouted.

  I cried out in pain.
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  "What's this?" he said again.

  "My hair."

  "Not hair," he said, pulling my head back even farther. "Wool." When he pulled harder, I gasped. "Not hair," he said. "Say 'wool.'"

  "Wool."

  "Say 'I gots wool on my head, not hair.'"

  "Gots wool, not hair."

  "It is just wool, and you ain't even got a right to it without my say so."

  Pressing one elbow down into my shoulder blades and forcing me to stay bent over the barrel, Robinson Appleby began snipping with his scissors. Slivers of my hair began to fall over my forehead and into my eyes. More slivers of hair fell into my mouth, while silent tears ran down my cheeks.

  I lost all of the hair that Georgia and I had worked over every Sunday morning. All the combing, oiling, braiding and bunching was gone. When Appleby had finished with the scissors, he soaped my head and drew out a knife.

  "You move an inch, your own scalp bleeds," he said.

  I heard the Negro women whimpering. I had kept my courage up to that point, but suddenly it broke.

  "Master, please—"

  He pushed my head back down and rubbed soap and water all over my scalp. Then he began shaving me crudely with his knife, scraping the blade over my head, from the top of my forehead to the nape of my neck. He splashed more soapy water on my head. It burned the cuts on my scalp, ran over my face and stung my eyes. Its bitter taste mingled with the hair slivers on my tongue. He kept me bent over, kept his elbow high up on my back, and drew the knife over and over, always moving backwards on my head. Finally, he tossed more water on my head and forced me to stand. He held a mirror up to my face.

  I screamed as I have never screamed before. I didn't recognize myself. I had no clothes, no hair, no beauty, no womanhood.

  "I let you off without a beating this time," he said. "Get out of here, and go put on your osnaburgs. If I catch you again dressing white, I'll shave you like a lamb again and burn every single thing in Georgia's hut."

  "Georgia don't live in no hut," I whispered.

  "That better not be back talk," he said.

  "She has a home. It's a home she lives in."

  His jaw dropped. I turned away from him. Head shaven, clothes ripped from me and belly distended, I began walking toward the far end of the yard. It was a Sunday, and people had been doing their washing and cooking. Every man, woman and child on the plantation stood silent and still as I passed by. Fomba had his head down, hands covering his eyes. I touched his arm as I walked by, held in my sobs, and refused to run. It would only add to my shame.

  "You don't own that baby any more than you own the wool on your head," Appleby said. "They both belong to me."

  I walked on, as smoothly as I could, big bellied and all, and shed not a single tear until I was alone in my home.

  I HAD BEEN LIVING ON St. HELENA ISLAND for four years when my time came. It was March 15, 1761, and I was sixteen years old.

  "This is your home now," Georgia said. "For you and your baby, right here in Carolina."

  I thought it would hurt Georgia's feelings for me to disagree, so I kept quiet. Where would home be for this child of mine? Africa? The indigo plantation? One seemed impossible, the other unacceptable. For this child of mine, home would be me. I would be home. I would be everything for this child until we went home together. But I didn't say that to the woman who had been caring for me like a mother since I arrived in this land.

  Georgia had me wash in a big leather bucket out under the moon. She rubbed my back, and made my skin and my muscles go soft in her hands. In due time I was riding waves inside my own body. When the big waves came, they threw me about. Georgia prepared to slide her hand inside me, but I said no. I wasn't ready. It was still time to wait. And so it went for more hurting and waves and revolting from within my own belly. How could such a tiny child cause such commotion?

  I thought of all the babies my mother and I had caught together. I was good at it even by the age of eight, but then had no idea of the pain involved. How could I have known? I heard my own throat growling, like an animal outside of me, and I knew that I was ready. Push . . . push . . . push.

  Georgia said that I ought to rest and try again in a moment. She slipped a salve from the indigo leafs on my hemorrhoids. I rested and sipped some water. Georgia put me in a tub and washed me with warm water. When the waves struck again, I crouched in the washtub and pushed, and out dropped my baby boy.

  "Mamadu," I gasped.

  "Is that African?" Georgia asked.

  "Mamadu," I said again. "It was my father's name."

  I put my son right away against my nipple. For a brief time, while he rooted and fed, I felt elated and full of energy. When Mamadu had had his fill of me, Georgia washed him and covered him and fed me water and small quantities of sugar and pieces of banana and orange and corn mush. She put the boy back in my arms. I held him close to my breasts, curled up around him and we slept together.

  When I awoke, the women slaughtered some of the chickens that we kept for our own use. Many of the Negroes ate together that night, coming one after the other into Georgia's home to see the baby and congratulate me. It chagrined me terribly that Robinson Appleby saw the baby before Chekura. Appleby stepped up to my bed and gave me a woven basket. I didn't want him so near, and I didn't want him to touch Mamadu. Georgia slid up next to us, expertly lifted the baby away from me and held him securely in her arms. Appleby lifted the flap of cloth to check my baby's sex, and thankfully turned and left us alone.

  I had hoped to see Chekura the very day that our son was born. But he did not come. He knew which moon was mine. My own baby's father didn't show up to meet his son or to kiss me. My father had held me, I was told, the day after I came into this world. So where was the man who had led me to the sea and survived the crossing with me and come back sniffing between my legs and finally put his seed in me and jumped the broom with me under a full moon?

  "Men comes and goes," Georgia said. "Doan worry 'bout Chekura. Just give this little man your milk."

  THE DAYS CAME AND WENT, but still I did not see my husband.

  "Don't you fuss over that," Georgia said. "Your man will come as soon as he can."

  One night when Georgia went out to spend the night with Happy Jack, I fell asleep with Mamadu curled up tight next to me in bed. I dreamed that a hand was reaching along my neck, and suddenly the dream transformed into a nightmare: someone was stealing my baby. I grabbed the hand that had touched my neck and bit hard into it, and awoke to the sound of Chekura groaning in pain.

  "My dangerous wife," he said, shaking his hand.

  "Might be dangerous for you to come around fourteen days after your own son was born."

  "You were counting the days, were you? So you love me after all?"

  I looked at him tenderly. The nightmare was gone, and my husband had finally come to see us. "Come closer to look at your son."

  "That's what I was doing when you bit me." Chekura reached down to pick up Mamadu, who grunted but kept right on sleeping. Chekura put the tip of his finger in the baby's mouth. Mamadu rooted and sucked for it, even as he slept. Chekura smiled broadly and climbed into bed with me.

  While the baby slept between us, Chekura explained that he had been kept to his plantation lately. A new overseer was trying to stop the Negroes from midnight trading. Sentries and man-traps were posted all around the plantation. Any Negro man found walking around at night would be shot. Anyone caught in a man-trap would be lashed fifty times. Chekura said the homelanders were preparing to rebel. He said it had taken all of his abilities to escape the plantation unseen. I told him to get back to the plantation well before dawn, and that we could visit when his situation calmed down. I didn't want my husband killed for chasing out at night to see me. I didn't want Mamadu's father harmed for a whim.

  Georgia suddenly appeared in the door. "I done heard noise," she said, "so I done come to inspect the nest. And look what bird done flew on in."

  "Flying would be mighty
fine," Chekura said. "Hard to see the mantraps at night. I done looked for them in the day, to remember them in the moonlight."

  "Don't get yourself killed," Georgia added. "Get right back before they find you missing."

  "You too, Georgia?" Chekura said. "You throwing me out, just like Aminata?"

  I loved it when Chekura said my name. All of it.

  "I don't like you," Georgia said, smiling broadly at my husband, "but I reckon you is family now."

  Chekura stood up from the bed and walked over to give her a mock kiss. "Ain't you sweet?" he said.

  Georgia swatted him away and wandered out to find Happy Jack again. When she was out of earshot, Chekura said, "You should have waited for me to name him. I was going to call him Sundee."

  "That's what we'll name the next one," I said, holding my man's hand. "Come see our son as much as you can," I said, "but don't get caught and don't get hurt."

  I WAS GIVEN A WEEK OF LYING-IN TIME, then expected to perform a half-share of work on the plantation. The others did my tasks when I was not energetic enough to work. Georgia made no changes to our home, but she began to spend the nights with Happy Jack. I carried Mamadu in a bright orange cloth slung along my back. His sounds and movements were just like a new kind of language, and I wanted to learn it all so I could give him everything he needed. I nursed him before he was hungry and vowed that I would never let him have a reason to cry. I could even feel him grunting and preparing for a bowel movement, which gave me time to slip him off my back and out of his wrap before he did his business.

  But when my son Mamadu was just ten months old, I woke up in the middle of the night to his bawling. I rolled over to bring him close, to relieve his cries and all the pressure of the milk within me. My hand brushed against the bed of woven grasses. The bed. The air. My own body. Nothing else. I opened my eyes. The crying was outside my little room now. Out there in the night. I jumped up, dizzy, confused and full like an unmilked cow, and there I saw Robinson Appleby put my baby into a man's arms up on a carriage. I ran toward them. The driver whipped a horse and the carriage pulled forward. The whip struck again and the carriage sped away. And my baby disappeared into the darkness as fast as a falling star.