Russell Banks - Cloudsplitter

We fell to devouring the food, all six of us — not, of course, until Father had said an eloquent, if somewhat lengthy, blessing. The fugitives, we quickly learned, were named Emma and James Cannon, and they could not have been older than twenty-one, which was unusual: most of the escaped slaves whom we had aided in the past had been closer to middle-age or else were small children in the company of one or both parents. Occasionally, a young man came through unattached — angry, scarred with old wounds, and still bleeding from new — a man defiant from youth, with a runaway cast of mind and a hundred lashes on his back to show for it. These two, however, were almost genteel in their ways, shy and decorous, the least likely type of slave to risk flight: one could say, if one did not regard the condition of slavery itself as pain beyond all sorrow, that they had not yet suffered enough to justify the hardship and chanciness of flight.

But the degradation and humiliation and the invasion and theft of a person’s soul made possible by the legal ownership of that person’s body can occur without leaving any visible scars on the body, and that is frequently what happened to the youngest and most delicate of enslaved women and men. As was, no doubt, the case with the man and woman before us, whose owner, they told us, had been powerful in the Virginia state legislature, a wealthy exporter of tobacco, and a partner in several vast Alabama cotton plantations. Emma Cannon had served as maid to her owner’s wife and had resided in their mansion; James Cannon had been a clerk in the tobacco warehouse.

This was briefly and indirectly the story they told, or, rather, it was what I deciphered of their hushed account, as they answered Mr. Fleete’s and Lyman’s polite questions, while Father and I sat back a ways and listened in silence. They had been married without their owner’s consent or knowledge, and when the slave-master had begun to express carnal desires towards the young woman, she and her new husband had decided to flee, for she would have had no alternative but to accede to her owner’s quickening advances. The reward for their capture was sufficiently large, one thousand five hundred dollars for the woman and one thousand for the man, that they had no choice but to flee straight through to Canada, avoiding wherever possible the more popular and well-known routes.

I thought, the woes of women always exceed those of the men who love them and are sworn to protect them and fail. I could not take my eyes from the tired, placid face of this gold-colored woman. With her head wrapped in a white bandana, she seemed to me wholly accepting of the chaos and danger that surrounded her here and that had pursued her and would follow her from here, and she seemed strangely beautiful for that. Especially when I compared her face to the darker face of her husband, who appeared more frightened than she, nervous and twitchy, a young man who was probably suffering serious regret for having fled the known world, even a precinct in hell, for these unknown forests of the far north.

Later, when Father entered the conversation and began interrogating the young man and woman with regard to the character and abilities of the numerous stationmasters and conductors who had brought them this far, I found myself a comfortable corner of the barn, spread some straw, and lay down. Soon I found myself falling into a sort of reverie. The images of women — white women and black, sick and dying or aged beyond their years — began to haunt me like ghosts, or more like furies, all of them enraged at me for having abandoned them to their terrible fates. It was not exactly dream, not exactly fantasy, either, and I might have dispelled it by simply standing up and crossing the large, dark room to where Father and the others sat. But instead I fairly well invited the figures straight into my mind: the sullen, pale face of the Irish woman with the morning mist rising around her — abandoned by me, who had barely looked behind when we passed; and the scared, bewildered face of the girl humiliated by me in the Springfield alley; and the vulnerable, exhausted, yet profoundly willful face of the woman here in the barn across from me — a man who could not save her, any more than her poor husband could, from the memories of enslavement and the brutal lust of the man who had owned her; and the face of my stepmother, Mary, who had married at the age of nineteen, inherited five of another woman’s children, then borne eleven more and seen six of those eleven die, four going in that terrible winter of ’43, the last dying in infancy only two months ago — and neither I nor their father could save a one of them. Then the faces of the women swirled and merged and became the face of my own mother, whom I would never see again, not on this earth and not in heaven, either, who was gone, simply that — gone from me and located nowhere else in this perversely cruel universe, which first gives us life amongst others and then takes the others off, one by one, until we are left alone, all of us, alone.

I lay on my side with my coat drawn over my head and squeezed my eyes shut. It has been this way for women and men and their children, I thought, for thousands of years, from tribal times till this modern age, and it will be this way forever. Was this, then, that great cycle of birth, life, and death which my father spoke of with such admiration and belief? The cycle of women, strange creatures, so like us men and yet so different from us, giving birth and watching helplessly as their children die, or dying themselves on the birthing bed, or, if not, then growing old too soon, while the sons who survive grow up to become the husbands, fathers, and brothers who exhaust themselves failing in the attempt to save them, and who then, having failed, spin the wheel again and impregnate them in the dark of night or on the back stairs or in the low attics of the servant quarters — was this Father’s great cycle of life?

The fugitives’ story had set my mind to working in this morbid way, despite my best attempts to think of other things, to think even of the mild adventure that we men of North Elba were set on. I knew the likely story, the tale of rape that the young woman across from me was not telling us, that she was perhaps not even telling her poor husband. I had heard that tale in many of its lurid forms over the years, and there was no reason to think that she, uniquely, had not been used by her owner to satisfy his sexual desires and that, risking death, she had not fled her owner more to save her husband than her own violated self. Her owner! After all these years of hearing it spoken, the word still had the power to shock and repel me. A human being actually owned another, he could use her in any way he wished, and he could sell her if he wished, as if she were an unwanted article of clothing. And he owned her husband as well — a fact that made of their pledge of themselves in marriage, one to the other, a dark joke, a sickening, cruel fancy.

I slept and woke and slept again, and when I woke a second time, seated on the floor next to me was Mr. Fleete, leaning against a post and smoking his pipe in a meditative way. I asked him, “Do you have a wife or children, Mister Fleete?”

“No. My wife is dead, Mister Brown. She died young. At about the age of that woman yonder. Died without children.”

“And you never thought to marry again?”

He sighed and studied the pipe in his brown hand. A silver strand of smoke curled upwards in the dim light towards the one small window high overhead. “Well, y’ know, I thought of it now and again, yes. Especially as regards children.”

“Do you think you will marry, then?”

“No, Mister Brown. The world does not need more children. And no woman needs me for a husband. The one who did,”he said, “is dead. But I’ll be seeing her again in the sweet bye an’ bye. Won’t I?” he added, and smiled lightly, as if he did not quite believe his own words.