Whenever she or Violeta would ask about my feelings, I would lie, speaking of the amputation as insignificant compared with the suffering of those in slavery. Morri was reluctant to give her opinion but finally said, “I don’t reckon miseries can be compared, John. When I was at River Bend, it didn’t make me feel any better knowing there were white families that were also dirt-poor and stuck living in places they hated. I made believe it helped, sure enough — we all did — but it didn’t help at all.”
Four long and intimate letters from Mama, Fiona, and my daughters were waiting for me upon my return. Thankfully, all was well in London. Seeing their handwriting made me tremble with longing, and I assured them that I was well in my replies. To avoid later criticism from my mother, I did note that I’d had a
There were times over the next fortnight of loneliness and physical discomfort when I was one heartbeat from begging Violeta to hold me or let me see her without her bonnet. But she never descended to her garden in the night as on my previous visit. If she had, I might have hobbled down the stairs to her and settled at her feet like Fanny. Outside, under the stars, I think I’d have been able to speak the truth.
What started me on a healthier road was a startling correspondence I received from Isaac and Luisa. Aside from news of their family and colorful drawings of woodpeckers done by Noodle and Hettie, it contained an article from the
The body of Edward Roberson, Master of River Bend, had been found in one of the barns at River Bend, a knife in his neck. This was, of course, precisely how both Big and Little Master Henry were killed. Hence, the same villain must have been responsible. Additionally, Mr. Davies, an overseer at Comingtee Plantation, had died from a deep bayonet wound in his chest. It was written in the article that his presence at River Bend had been requested by Edward Roberson, as he had suspected his own overseer of plotting against him.
Mr. Johnson’s body had been found outside the First Barn, a bullet in his temple. This wound was apparently self-inflicted, since he gripped a pistol in his hand. His jaw had been broken, as though in a struggle with his employer, Mr. Roberson. Both men had scrapes on their elbows and knees, possibly resulting from a fistfight. Mr. Roberson also had a nasty gash on his head, likely the result of a pistol-whipping given him by the murderous overseer.
The article affirmed that Mr. Johnson had undoubtedly taken his own life after killing Edward Roberson and the other overseer. Two Negro foremen had also been killed, likely for remaining loyal to Master Edward.
As to a motive, it was suggested that these were crimes of mad passion and greed. Mr. Johnson had been rumored for many years to be in love with Mistress Holly, the wife of Big Master Henry, the former owner. He had apparently sought to do away with Henry and his son in order to take control of both River Bend and its mistress. In his maniacal and unbalanced mind, he had imagined Edward Roberson as the last impediment to his plans to take control of the plantation.
There was no mention made of Joanne, Wiggie, and the other slaves we’d locked in the First Barn. Presumably, their lives had been spared.
In his letter to me, Isaac asked whether any of what was written in the article was true or if it was a concoction of the white authorities.
I found it all a tangled confusion and read it over many times, as though it were in a foreign language. Morri showed greater insight, telling me that the authorities would never have wanted it known that there had been a successful escape from a plantation. Such tidings would have struck fear in all the white residents of the South. In consequence, the planters and police had fabricated this story. Better have it known that it was a simple crime of passion and avarice than a successful Negro flight to the North.
“But how can they keep our escape a secret?” I asked her.
“They can’t. But if they don’t admit it happened, then the slaves will think of it only as a rumor and the white folks as a damnable lie. I’d reckon that’s how all our history is going to be written.”
It occurred to me then that similar unreported rebellions must have happened many times before, on plantations across the South. To this, Morri said, “I don’t expect there will be any record of any group of slaves having beaten them. Not a single printed page.”
So alert of mind did she prove on this and other occasions that I often shook my head in amazement at her being only fifteen years old. In my talks with her over the next few days about River Bend, I began to think of her as a friend — and truly her father’s daughter. Her presence, more than anything else, gave me back my true smile and voice, and I was pleased that when she looked at me now it was with affection.
We talked quite a few times about what she wanted to do with her life. I favored finding her a private tutor in history, philosophy, music, and other essential subjects, with the end goal of preparing her for a university education. But she believed I was getting far ahead of myself. She said she wished for something simple: to earn her keep. She’d always enjoyed embroidering, and together we thought of the possibility of her making clothing on consignment, as Francisca had.
I saw in her eyes that that would not have pleased her much. Thinking like Midnight, I said, “Just walk around the city. See what there is to see and it will come to you. I know it.”
Then, while I had her fond attention, I risked yet one more tumble with my heart and told her that I was hoping to adopt her. As she might have agreed to this simply to thank me for helping her escape from River Bend, I took both her hands in my one, squeezed them tight, and said, “It would ease my mind to know I have followed your father’s instructions. As I think you know by now, I am not only greatly fond of you, but I admire you as well. But, Morri, you must not say yes unless it is truly what you want, even if your father would have desired it. I hasten to add that I shall never try to replace him in your heart — never. Think on it and tell me what you’ve decided in … let us say, a month.”
Morri agreed, but in her eyes was the despair I’d provoked by speaking of her father as in his grave. I knew, however, that he himself had given me no other choice.
There still remained the question, of course, of who had committed the murders at River Bend. Separately, Morri and I came to the same conclusion: Crow.
It had become clear to me over the course of my few days at River Bend that his spirit was not truly broken but hidden at most times deep inside him. After the slaves had escaped from River Bend, Crow must have taken his revenge.
Yet the doors to the bedrooms of Big and Little Master Henry had been found locked after they’d had knives plunged into their necks. Without the key, how had Crow entered?
Neither Morri nor I could answer that at first. But then I remembered the impressions of shells in clay he had shown me. I began to believe that he must have taken the bedroom keys from Big Master Henry or from Mistress Holly just long enough to make impressions in his molds, then had them fired by his blacksmith brother at Comingtee. Without my pressing him for information, Crow had told me that he’d also made impressions of silver dollars. I think he wanted me to guess the truth, so that those of us who escaped would know he had avenged himself.
After murdering Master Edward and the others, Crow had probably put a pistol into Mr. Johnson’s hand in order to fool the white authorities. It seemed equally possible that he had left the bodies bound and bloody, just where he had murdered them. Whoever was in charge of the investigation might have concocted the version of events that had been printed in the newspaper to prevent fear on the part of the white citizenry, just as Morri had said. In that case, Crow would be hanged, and most likely in secret.
But if he had planted all the clues and convinced Lily and the other slaves to say nothing, then the police
