Escape

Run!

I cannot afford to stop. I can feel the pain of a thousand needles from the tip of my toes up to my scorching thighs, what with the innumerable lacerations I sustained from running over gravel, over thick reeds as I crossed the swamps, over sharp rocks that lay on the woodland floor.

Run!

I wish the rain would stop. It has been raining for many hours. Levees near the fields have already collapsed with the weight of the rushing Mississippi and the anger of the tempestuous skies. Finding a way not to drown in the inundated fields without the benefit of moonlight took the better of the evening. Not two years ago I heard Mr. George tell the cook of how five grown men succumbed to the great flood; who could tell if I were to meet their fate? But I cannot stop.

Run!

I am afraid, I know it deep in my bones. But fear has long since been attached to my being, so ingrained it is now difficult to detach it from the entirety of my emotions. I feel fear in every move I make, I feel fear emanating from the people around me – at least among those who were condemned to suffer as I do … I feel fear with every breath I make. But this moment is not for fear to own, this moment is for me to muster what little courage I can find in my heart lest I yield to the endless agony that awaits me.

Run! Run! Run! I fought all the misgivings, the doubts, the voices shouting in my head to stop because there is nowhere to go, nowhere far enough for me to flee the clutches that have bound me to this earth. Run! Run! RUN!

Until …

Finally …

Music. Every summer, when the sun lingers far longer in the horizon, and the cold breath of the north wind is supplanted by a warmth that uplifts the soul, and the river flows as placid as the clouds pass in the blue expanse of the heavens, soft tranquil music can be heard from the big white house. An orchestra of strings and chords conceives melodies perhaps only hosts of angels are fit to hear, linking notes after notes after notes that calm all uproars of the mind and drive away all the evil in the world. And then when the sun finally sets, all the well-dressed gentlemen and ladies assemble under the lights of a hundred lamps, supping on tender meats of roasted suckling pigs and sipping on the saccharine tastes of wine bought from merchants of the West.

But such music was not for my ears to hear.

No, those sweet harmonies were not mine, and cannot be mine. But the raucous laughter coming out of the tavern, and the jovial guitar breaking the silence of the night – yes, that is music, music telling me that I’ve crossed the swamps and traversed acres of corns and sugarcane, music welcoming me into the bustling town of St. Louis. Briefly forgetting the gravity of my ordeal, I dare step into the paved road, out of the mud I walked towards the tavern where drunk pilots and passengers alike shelter from the pelting of the heavy rain. There was no travelling through the Mississippi tonight.

Perhaps the darkness will cover my approach, I told myself. Doused lamps adorned the street, no one bothering to light them in the midst of this downpour. Light emanated from the windows of the seamstress, I should avoid that light. Now, marching in the obscurities of the night like a thief, I hasten towards the stranded travelers, hoping against hope whence will come my deliverance.

I am no thief. I was the one stolen. That was what Sally always told me. I never knew my Ma and Pa, my earliest memories of growing up were with Sally and her husband Joseph and their children Solomon and Dorcas. I do not have proof of my birth, and Sally doesn’t either. I do not know how to read or write so placards, signs, books, newspapers and documents mean nothing to me. But cut the stalks from the sugarcane I do know, feed the pigs I do know, and sew clothing and linen and blankets I do know. Sally tried teaching me how to cook but I could never understand salting and peppering and blanching and sauteing. So instead I was kept to take care of the pigs and the poultry, and sometimes help the other women wash dishes and laundry alike.

Only ten paces away from the door, my heart stopped. No, it can’t be. Not in this rain. The horses would have foundered in the floods, the wheels of the wagons stuck in the muddy terrains. But I can clearly hear hoof beats, or is it just the rain on the wooden roofs? No, surely hooves.

My mind turning blank, I suddenly did not know what to do. Running towards the tavern unannounced would be tantamount to presenting myself to my pursuers; surely not everyone would lend an ear to my cause I was sternly warned. And yet, there is nowhere in this town where I can hide.

Run! Run! RUN!

Dragging my exhausted feet, towing my waterlogged dress, I run towards the opposite edge of town, the only direction which made sense to me, away from my pursuers, away from the assembly of tavern occupants, away from everyone who can and will leash me again. Panting, run, panting, run, panting, RUN, PANTING, RUN, PANTING, the sound of horses crying in pain from the strike of the whip getting louder and louder and louder …

“Halt!”

Run, run, run, run, run, run, RUN! …

“Halt I say or I swear you will regret it!”

“Hiya! Hiya! Hiya! I’m coming for you!”

“Halt I say! Halt!”

I can no longer distinguish the rain from my own sweat. I no longer have time to wipe the water off my face lest I lose momentum. All I can feel is rain hitting my skin, all I can feel is … ARGH!

“That serves you right!”

“You’ll never wish you ran away!”

The memory of my first whip is still vivid, a summer when Sally told me I was barely twelve years old. It was a particularly hot and humid day; I, together with Sally and Dorcas, joined many other women in carrying buckets of water to clean the floors of the big white house. We swept the floor, scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, until the sun was nigh to set. Sweat dripped from my forehead and soaked my armpits and groins but we never stopped cleaning the house. By the end of the fifteenth hour, I was dying of thirst, so were the rest of us, but there was no glass of water to be seen. How foolish and impatient I was! I sneaked out of the patio, went to the kitchen, and drank half the water from the only glass atop the counter. I hoped to relieve myself of thirst from the sweltering heat but Master Wilson was of a different idea when he saw me put the glass down.

“You thief!”

His anger was immeasurable.

Crack!

Crack!

I screamed and screamed, pleading for help, calling out Sally’s and Dorcas’ names, asking for mercy, begging for forgiveness, supplicating for the sin of drinking water from my Master’s glass …

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

Master Wilson stroked the whip until exhaustion took over him. There was no enduring the pain but there I was, hanging by the wheels of the wagon, screaming until the pain overcame my voice and drained away whatever strength was left of my mortal soul. Woe to me who was far worse off than a horse who had the chance to ignore the crack of the whip by running faster than the wind! There I was – bound, fastened, tied up.

Crack!

I fall to the ground, the whip slashing my dress. I should have been callous now, my back strafed with scars and raised welts from the many whippings I received from that moment I dared drink the water from the kitchen counter. There is no point running now, Master Wilson in his horse and his two patrollers blocking my way. My face caked with mud, I raise my hands, beseeching my Master to let me go.

Please Master Wilson. Please, have mercy … Please, let me go …

“Out of your mind now? I spent good money on you, beating arrogant old Travers in the town auction! And now you dare run away from me!”

Have pity, Master Wilson … Please, let me go …

“Bless be her soul, your Mistress Sarah had such a pity on your lot. I had to punish your sins away from her graying eyes.”

Mistress Sarah – if an angel decided to descend on earth, she was one of them. I lost consciousness after Master Wilson flogged me for the first time but when I woke up I did not see the black eyes of Sally or Dorcas or Joseph or Solomon. I saw Mistress Sarah’s blue eyes. She did not utter a word while applying the healing unction on my wounds but her eyes spoke kindness and compassion and charity. Sally told me Mistress Sarah came from beyond the big ocean, her father the once owner of the land we tilled for Master Wilson. Such was her benevolence that when she chanced Master Wilson out of the house she would have long conversations with all of us. Especially me. Mistress Sarah often told me she saw herself in me but this I did not understand, for what similarity can my black skin have with her fair beauty? However, not many summers have passed when the Mistress was taken ill of an affliction of the heart. Two days before she rested in the arms of the Lord, which is now a fortnight ago, she summoned me in her bedchamber, and asked me to listen carefully, and follow her words, no matter how they would not make sense to me.

“In my country, there is a word that carried a lot of meaning. Freedom. No one of your folk suffered the way you do here. It might seem inconceivable but that is the truth. Several miles to the north, there are lands where Freedom is respected before the eyes of the law and of the Lord. Take this black notebook of mine. Inside is my last will, an inheritance from my father who taught me that riches cannot be brought beyond the grave. Try your best to go to St. Louis – choose the best time – and somewhere you will find someone who will be willing to ferry you across the river in support of your cause. But trust no one! And no matter what the journey brings you, you must reach New York. There, present my notebook to a lawyer and he will know what to do. Your inheritance, $20,000, should buy you and everyone else’s freedom here many, many times over.”

Lost for options, backed to a corner, I take Mistress Sarah’s small black notebook from my pocket to show to Master Wilson. Holding up its sodden leaves, I hope my Master will take away the inconceivably large amount of money and let me, let us, all go.

Silence.

I dare look up to my Master. Do I see sadness? Or surprise? The usually hard countenance was gone, or was it the rain? There is no doubt he must recognize the Mistress’ small notebook! There is hope!

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“You thief! You thief! You dare steal from your dead Mistress!”

Run! But there is nowhere to go to.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Noooooo!!!