The Letter Writer Page 8

  I saw them go onto the veranda in front, where Mother Whitehead had removed herself with Emilie. Violet was up in the attic with Owen, under the bed. Though Mother Whitehead could only see dim shapes and forms, she did see them when they stood in front of her.

  "Yes?"she asked. "Who is it? What is it you want? Have you seen Harriet? I want to write some letters. Emilie, who are these people?"

  But Emilie was dumbstruck. Her mouth was open but no sound came out. Not even when Hark grabbed her by her hair in back and slit her throat, expertly.

  "What's that you say, Emilie?"

  Then Nat stepped forward and did his business with the broadax on Mother Whitehead. And, bleeding all over her blue silk morning sacque, Mother Whitehead slumped to the floor dead.

  Then they moved out of the room, upstairs to where Pleasant and the baby were. But not before Nat Turner took out his key to the gun room and went to hand weapons to his men who didn't have any guns.

  Oh yes, one more thing. There were dead people in the kitchen. Connie for one. She had tried to scream when they forced their way in the door. And two other servants, who had tried to run out. It didn't matter to Nat Turner whether those he killed were black or white, you see. If they sided with the white people, the black people were condemned, too. It was all the same to him. He had his message from God, and he knew what God had told him to do and he would abide by it and earn his way into heaven.

  The scene in front of my closed eyes changed now. And I saw Pleasant upstairs in her and Richard's room, leaning over the crib of baby William, cooing him to sleep. I saw Nat Turner and Hark appear in the doorway and take one look around the beautifully appointed blue and white room, with its bed hangings and curtains and dressing table, then, having seen all he wanted to see, Nat gave Hark a shove and Hark stepped across the floor toward Pleasant, who turned and jumped, seeing them. Seeing the broadax in Hark's hands.

  She raised her hands to ward them off, but in an instant Hark had swung the broadax and a second later the pristine blue and white of the room had another color added to it. Red. The red blood spilled all over the braided rugs on the floor, all down the crib quilt that Pleasant had made for the baby.

  She slumped to the floor, near headless now, and baby William wailed out his anger.

  Nat Turner told Hark, "Let's go," and Hark said, "What about the baby?" And Nat said, "Leave him be." And they started to walk out and then Nat had a change of heart and stopped at the door. "No," he said, "you're right. Babies grow up to be men who take revenge. Kill him."

  And so Hark did. And then they left the room.

  I saw all this behind my eyelids, like some madwoman, within a few seconds. And then I collapsed on the ground.

  Seventeen

  "It's all right. It's all right, child. You're safe here. Judd, stop licking her face."

  It was Mr. Jacobs's voice. I recognized it from down the years, echoing through some wind of comfort that touched me and dried my tears.

  Judd was one of his dogs, a large and, as it turned out, friendly fellow, one of about six that broke away from their restraints to seek me out where I'd been, in the middle of the Jacobses' barnyard, surrounded by clucking chickens and quacking ducks, who marched around me as if they knew what had happened and decided they would protect me.

  I didn't know how I'd gotten here, whether I'd walked or run or crawled through the expanse of field that I was gazing across.

  That gave me pause and made me break into a new freshet of crying. That I didn't have complete control of my mind, that it shifted back and forth from the present to the near past. That I could see what had happened with the killings at home as if I'd been there, and knew it all to be true.

  "Harriet, are you all right?" Elisha Jacobs was middle sized, well made, intelligent, as well as gentle. When I did not reply, he called, "Emaline! Emaline, come out here, there's something terribly wrong."

  He started to stand up straight, but I would not let him. I grabbed onto his arm and subsided my tears enough to get the words out.

  "Nat Turner," I hiccuped, "he's risen up against ... against the white people. He has"—hiccup—"about twenty men with him and they've, they've..."

  "Take your time, child." He knelt next to me.

  "They've killed my brother, Richard, and set fire to our cotton fields. Now they're in the house, killing everyone. Ours is..."—hiccup—"oh Lord, ours is the seventh plantation, and they're coming here next!"

  "Emaline, here," and he handed me over to her as she came running in her long morning gown to fetch me inside, out of harm's way. "Emaline, you and the servants hide down by the springhouse in that gathering of juniper trees. Take care of this child." Then "Fitch!" he called out to his groom. "Get my horse and rifle! I'm riding out to warn the others!"

  Still on the dusty ground I asked Mrs. Jacobs, "Can I go with him?"

  "No," she said.

  Now mounted handsomely on his stallion, Mr. Jacobs leaned down and kissed his wife who had stood up for just the purpose. "No matter what happens, don't come up to the house. Stay down at the springhouse. I don't think they'll fire the house. The flames would give warning to others. Nevertheless, just stay away. I don't want to lose you!"

  Then he rode off. Emaline did some calling of her own inside to servants, to assemble some necessities and bring them down to the springhouse.

  "Can you walk?" she asked me.

  I said yes, I could.

  "Fitch," she ordered, "let loose the horses. Open the gate for the cows and the sheep. Let them wander. We'll get them back again." And to me, she said, "Come along, child. I must attend to you. The springhouse is a good place."

  I was shaking, both inside and out, as she led the way across the meadow and down the slope and to the spring-house where they, as we did, kept cold the milk and butter and eggs and all other manner of dairy products they produced on their plantation. Somehow I had made this little trip alone, across the field, to their house, unconscious of where I was headed. Now conscious and aided by Mrs. Jacobs and three of her colored servants, all bearing the comforts of home, I could scarce walk.

  Their names were Justine, Hope, and Claradine. And, after he was finished with his chores with the animals, Fitch, too, came tagging along, with a rifle, which he apparently knew how to use, from hunting with Mr. Jacobs, I suppose.

  And now to protect our lives.

  ***

  The springhouse was right next to the spring, in a cluster of juniper trees. It seemed protected and peaceful. Claradine had brought along a bundle that turned out to include pillows and blankets, and as soon as we arrived, Mrs. Jacobs, who insisted I call her Emaline, arranged the blanket and pillows and made me lie down. I did so, thinking I'd been lying down already, I was so dizzy and outside of my head.

  They had brought some water from the well, some leftover biscuits from breakfast, slices of ham, a hard-boiled egg or two, and apples. We set to eating as if this were a picnic. To Fitch they gave a cold piece of meat on a bone, likely left over from last night's supper, and he gnawed on it, his ever-faithful rifle under one arm.

  Emaline, slender, blue-eyed, delicate of hand, pale-skinned and pert-nosed, gave me a powder for my nerves. Then she washed my face and said, "Poor darling, you shall stay with us," and I fell off the cliff I was on and tumbled down into the darkness that had been waiting for me all morning.

  I must have had some kind of karma with Nat Turner. I learned that word from Margaret, who learned it in that fancy girls' school she attended. It means you have a spiritual and otherworldly connection with another human being so you know their thoughts and their hopes and ambitions.

  I didn't have a whole cloth of karma with Nat, only part. I had sympathized with him, felt his pain, admired his knowledge of God, felt that he had a direct line there. And now, asleep as I was, I saw him and his hellish army approaching the Jacobses farmyard in their despicable parade of destruction.

  I saw the chickens and ducks and goats scatter in their wake,
as if no living thing could tolerate it. I saw the few negroes that were about run, and I saw Nat Turner get down off his horse and look around. No, that was our horse, that was Richard's fat white stallion. I saw that many of the others had our horses, too, and our guns. My father's guns. And they still had the pine-knot torches, lighted and at the ready.

  I saw all this behind my eyelids, in the blackness that now made up the walls of my soul. Saw them go into that darling wedding cake of a house and do God knows what to Emaline's flowers and chintz sofas and polished furniture, and then, when they could find no one whose head they could slash, they came out, disappointed. But then, to pacify themselves, some were drinking out of whiskey or rum bottles and others were looking ridiculous in Emaline's fancy Sunday go-to-meeting clothes. One had a harmonica and was playing it and they danced a reel, as if at a party. Some were wearing jewels or fancy hats.

  Then, at a word from Nat, they stopped. They looked at the house and one handed Nat a torch and then, in a few minutes, a little colored boy of about three came running to them from the barn, his mother running close behind.

  One of Nat's helpers slashed him with a sword and left him for dying, and when the mother raised her arms against the man, he slashed her, too. In the same manner that they had slashed Richard. Then they got on their horses and rode off.

  "That was Louise and her Izzy," Emaline said dully. "Lord, but she loved that child. I was there when he was born." And she proceeded to cry.

  "I'd rather he'd burned the house," she said.

  On leaving they had to go through the opening of the white picket fence in front of the house over which Emaline had thrown a few handmade quilts.

  I woke up to see the rest. They could have slashed those quilts if all they wanted to do was destroy them. But they didn't.

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes in time to see them all get off their horses as if someone had given an order, and then they stood in a row and peed on the quilts.

  Fitch asked Emaline if she wanted him to get closer and blow their tails off, but she said no, so he lowered his gun. And then the sordid army, which likely would not even be admitted into hell, remounted their horses and rode away.

  Eighteen

  I don't rightly know if the words I was saying were coming out the way I wanted them to. Sometimes it seemed to me that they were tumbling about on my tongue and pushing each other around and coming out in no order at all.

  I will not deny that I was dazed and befuddled. But I do believe that some of what I said made sense.

  In short order I knew I heard a church bell. It sounded, through the thick, hellish August air, slowly and deliberately.

  "That's the Blunts," Emaline said. "Theirs is a bell upward of sixty pounds and it can be heard for miles. It usually just rings at mealtimes. But this isn't mealtime, so it must mean that Elisha has gotten there and they are calling for help."

  The bell was mournful and steady, and I could have sworn it originated in my heart, but I didn't say anything. We listened to it in near silence for about half an hour, because Emaline said we should wait a while to make sure Turner and his men didn't come back to her place before she headed home.

  There was some discussion about me going with her and staying overnight until things settled down.

  Did she not know that things would never again be "settled down" for me? Or for anyone touched by today's tragedy?

  I said no, I must go home, I had to see what and who I would return to.

  By now everyone who had not run, black or white, were likely lying dead. By now even the animals had fled.

  Home was the last place in the world I wanted to go. "I must see if anyone is still alive," I said.

  "Not yet, child," Emaline told me.

  Then, within the next half hour the courier came, a young man on horseback who turned out to be Mr. Blunt's son, John.

  He slid from his horse and, without preliminaries, told us of Elisha's arrival and how his father's bell tolling was bringing men from three counties on horseback with guns. "We're ready for Turner," he promised. "Mrs. Jacobs, your husband is anxious for word of you. Do you have a message for him?"

  "Tell him I'm going back to the house now," she said. "Tell him Turner has left, most likely on his way to your place. Tell him I love him."

  "Yes, ma'am." He mounted his horse and tipped his hat.

  "You'd best be careful," Emaline said.

  "I will. Thank you, ma'am." And he was across the creek and gone back to his father's plantation. Emaline got to her feet. "No time to waste, let's get on with it," she said. And then, "Harriet?"

  For I hadn't risen with the rest of them. Now all stared down at me.

  "I can't let you go home yet, child. As the only grownup around, I feel responsible for you."

  "I'll be all right, Emaline. Turner's gone from this direction."

  "The devil is never gone," she said. "Elisha won't like it if I let you go home."

  "I'll go with her," Fitch guaranteed. "Me an' Bess here." He patted his rifle. "Be back afore you know it, ma'am." You could see the trust between them. Mother Whitehead had trusted Nat Turner that way, too, I thought.

  "Servants back at your place who escaped the rampage would care for you," she mused, "but then, how do I know there are any who escaped the rampage? Suppose they are all dead? No, child, you will stay with us until we hear some news, then my husband and I will both escort you home."

  She kissed me.

  At that moment, as if God were amongst us, Fitch caught sight of two of the Jacobses' horses walking slowly back to the barn. "Ma'am," he said, "I think it's Br'er Rabbit and Br'er Fox come home."

  She sighed. "Everybody wants to go home," she said.

  We went into the Jacobses' house, which was whole and welcoming and smelled of good things to eat. One of the servants ran a bath for me and helped me scrub the fear and the horror and the disbelief out of myself, and then I told Emaline that I had to write a letter to my uncle Andrew in London. She said yes, do.

  She gave me pen and paper. But I couldn't write because I didn't know yet who was dead and who wasn't. So I had a bowl of soup and near fell asleep at the table. Mr. Jacobs came in some time later, and I heard his rumbling voice and felt the dogs next to him as he picked me up and carried me into an upstairs bedroom and put me to bed.

  Nineteen

  I don't know how long I slept. I don't know if I did right by calling it sleep. I lay with my eyes shut, but my mind never shut down. Is there such a state in the consciousness of people, where they are, for all intents and purposes, asleep, but inside their heads in some place where they don't want to be and can't get out of?

  Dreams? I wouldn't dignify them with the name. I saw it all over again behind my closed eyelids, behind flashes of red and white lightning, behind screams and cries for help, what had happened. I saw the flashing broadax that cut the top off Richard's head, felt the feelings of mine that came with it, the impulse to run.

  Would this never go away? Would it stay with me forever? And what about what I had imagined about the others? Would that stay with me, too? And how much of it was true?

  Once, I got up out of bed and went to sit in a nearby chair, just to test my own aliveness, to see if I were really not at home, and if this were truly the Jacobs place.

  Then I got back into bed, shivering. I preferred to be awake. I could command away my thoughts, concentrate on the present. I could think on what time of year this was and what had to be done on the farm. I knew because I had copied it down in so many of Mother White-head's letters.

  It would soon be September. Sept. 1 thru 17—plough in the stubble of the first wheat field and sow buckwheat, 40 acres in 13 ploughing days.

  The hands must start soon! I got up out of bed. Who would tell them to start? Was anyone left to tell them? Were there any hands left?

  I dressed quickly and parted the curtains. It was daylight outside. I went downstairs.

  ***

  It was near noon on the th
ird day of my stay at the Jacobses'. We were at the midday meal in the dining room. They fussed over me. I assured them I was all right but about starved, and Claradine fetched me a plate of food from the kitchen. I felt it a betrayal to be so hungry and to eat so unashamedly, but nobody said anything.

  Mr. Jacobs put down his coffee cup and cleared his throat. "I've been over to your place twice already," he said to me.

  I stopped eating.

  He stirred his coffee. "Took help with me. I'm sorry to have to tell you, Harriet, but they're all dead. All except some of the hands who hid out, and the kitchen help."

  My eyes went wide. "Mother Whitehead and Pleasant?"

  "Sorry, child."

  "Baby William? And Violet and Owen?"

  "Baby William. But not Violet and Owen. They hid out, too. The first time I went back, I and the servants and hands buried everyone in the family burying ground. Oh yes, we buried that little girl, too. Emilie."

  She'd been visiting. I started to cry, silent tears running down my face.

  "The servants agreed to clean up the place. They said they'd do that yesterday."

  "Harriet," Emaline put in, "do you think you should go back there? Mayhap you should stay with us a while."

  For an answer I broke into tears. Emaline came to me and bent over and put her arms around my shoulders, and I allowed her to comfort me. "I must go back," I said. "I'm the one the place belongs to now. And Violet and Owen will be looking for me. They all will."

  "Of course," she said. "But just stay this day. Give the servants one more day to make the place fit for human habitation."

  ***

  When we got home, it was the first time in my life that I realized the house where you grew up had a grip on you that it had no right to keep. That you didn't really have had to be happy there for it to claim this hold. And that this would be true and lasting even if I never went inside that house again.

  Something sinister about the house would stand, tall and sprawling inside my soul, its beams supporting all my fears, its windows allowing me to peer out at the world with a dark view I could never lose, its veranda giving me a place to sit and argue with my childish ideals.