Africans are generally given good Christian names when they arrive at our market. Your Midnight may be called Washington, Adams, Jefferson, or Jackson by now.”
As for the Miller family, the estate agent had never met them. There had been an interim owner of the house, a ship’s carpenter by the name of Barrow, but he had no idea where Mr. Barrow lived or if Mr. Miller had had children or a wife.
“Now,” said he, funneling the smoke through his fleshy lips toward the ceiling, “did your nigger have any scars or marks?”
He used this word
“None that I recall, except for a small nick on his brow.”
“Was he branded?”
“Good God, I hope not.”
“Well, could you describe him?”
“He was a small man, five feet or so in height, with handsome bronze skin, and a broad flat nose, very dignified, with — ”
“A broad flat nose, you say?”
When I confirmed this, he grinned. His rudeness was bringing out the Highlander in me. “So, Mr. Reading, what have I said this time to cause such hilarity?” I snarled.
“All the saltwater niggers have broad flat noses, Mr. Stewart.”
“‘Saltwater’?”
“From Africa.”
“Mr. Reading, they are all from Africa, I would have presumed.”
“In that you are quite wrong, sir. Some are bred locally. Most, in fact, as the slave trade was halted by a damnable act of Congress some fifteen years ago. Most of our niggers were born right here in the United States. And I’m afraid, sir, that you’ll have to arm me with a better description of yours if I am to help you spook him from his hole.”
Sickened by the ease with which Mr. Reading spoke so crudely about Negroes, I thanked him and took my leave. I spent the rest of that morning on the sagging mattress of my hotel room drawing Midnight. This proved much harder than I would have thought, no doubt owing to the stifling heat, which obliged me to strip off my clothes and sit panting by my window for the frail wisps of breeze coming in from the ocean.
My sketch captured his puckish side, which is why, I suppose, so many of the people I showed it to later that day said, “Oh, you’ve got quite a rascal there, haven’t you!”
At first, I took this as an endearment. Only slowly, when several frowned disagreeably, did I begin to understand that they meant something akin to ne’er-do-well. I was forced to conclude that a great many people in Alexandria had such feeble imaginations that they could not conceive of a high-spirited African as anything but an affront or threat.
To no avail, I spent the rest of the afternoon showing my sketch to more than twenty shopkeepers along King Street and Washington Street.
A quick-talking carpenter named Friedlander did finally recall that Mr. Miller had a daughter named Abigail. A half hour after our talk, he tracked me down at Hall’s Dry Goods and said that he now remembered that Mrs. Abigail Miller Munson lived on Queen Street. Indeed, he had already confirmed that she was presently at home. Taking the address and giving my thanks, I rushed away.
Mrs. Munson’s wooden house was painted in pleasant tones of cream and pink. Upon answering my knocks, she smiled with endearing modesty and led me through double doors into her sitting room, offering me the place of honor at the end of her rose-colored sofa.
Abigail Munson was thirty, I would have guessed, though the worry lines on her forehead made me consider that she’d had a hard life. Her eyes were clear and kind, and her movements — quick but careful — indicated that she was probably the mother of little children.
Large, colorful maps of the American colonies hung on the walls in gilded frames, which I admired while she poured coffee into cups of crimson-glazed porcelain. When I lifted my cup to have a closer look, she said worriedly, “I do hope there’s nothing wrong.”
“No, no — it’s just that I’m a tile-maker and potter. And your porcelain is lovely.”
“What a kind thing to say, Mr. Stewart, thank you,” she said in her lilting voice. “My husband imported this set from France for me. It was one of my wedding presents.”
Mrs. Munson took a dainty sip and then explained to me that Mr. Friedlander had been less than honest with me at first, owing to my manners and accent, both of which had been described to her as downright vexing. Thinking better of his judgment, he had then sent a clerk to her home to ask if he might give the Scotsman her name. She had agreed to see me, since she welcomed the chance to meet a foreigner and had nothing to hide. “Of late, we in the South have been so vilified in the Northern press that you will have to forgive us if we are less than fully hospitable.”
“Most understandable, under the circumstances.”
I explained the purpose of my visit and thanked her for seeing me. She was eager to have a look at my sketch. When I unfurled it for her, she said, “Why, I do indeed remember that face! Midnight, you say. I do not believe my father called him that.” She looked out her window to the garden. “Though I cannot recall just now. Samuel — might it have been Samuel?”
“In Africa, he was called Tsamma. Perhaps it was changed to the European name most phonetically similar.”
She leaned toward me, her eyes radiant. “I am sure now, it was Samuel. But it must be at least fifteen years ago.”
“Seventeen, I believe.”
“I was a girl when he came. My father needed an assistant. A friend of his suggested this man Samuel. As I recall, he was a mute. That was a shock to us all.”
“Mute? No, the man I’m searching for spoke quite well. At least, when — ”
I might have continued, but the possibility of his having had his vocal chords cut by slave-traders chilled me to silence.
“I can see this is difficult for you. Would you like more coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you. Mrs. Munson, when your father passed away, Samuel was sold. At least, that was what I was told. Do you know where he was taken?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Or who purchased him?”
“I don’t believe I was ever told.”
“Would anyone recall?”
“I have two brothers, sir, but they are both considerably younger. They were just boys. I don’t think either would know. But I will ask.”
“I’d very much appreciate that.” Though I smiled, I was unable to hide my disappointment.
“Mr. Stewart, I’m sorry I’ve been of so little help,” she said sweetly. “I wish there was more I could do.”
“Is there anyone else you know who may have taken an interest in Samuel?”
“I do not think so. He worked in the back room of Father’s workshop. No one saw him.”
“And was he in good spirits, you’d say?”
“Yes, I believe so. Though he kept to himself. He was able to write and often did so in a memorandum book. I remember that clearly. Once, he wrote me a poem. Though I cannot recall what it said. It was most unusual to see a Negro writing, as you can imagine.”
“And the book he wrote in, do you have it?”
“No, I’m afraid I must disappoint you again. I cannot imagine where it’s gone.”
“I … I taught him to write.”
“Did you?” she beamed. “How clever of you!”
“He was the clever one.” I shaded my eyes with my hand to hide my emotion.
