Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

Martha unglued her eyes and stared up into the woman’s face. ‘Do you have any folks?’ It had started to snow now. Early snow, huge, soft snowflakes spinning down out of the clear, black sky. ‘You must be cold.’ It was dark and, the woman aside, there was nobody else in sight. When they had set her down here, they had told her that this was Main Street, as though this information freed them of any responsibility. But she did not blame them. A few saloons, a restaurant, a blacksmith, a rooming house or two, indeed this was Main Street. ‘I have a small cabin where you can stay the night.’ Martha looked again at the woman who stood before her in a black coat, with a thick shawl thrown idly across her shoulders and a hat fastened tightly to her head. Perhaps this woman had bought her daughter? Was Eliza Mae living here in Colorado Territory? There was no reason to go clear to California if Eliza Mae were here in Colorado Territory. Eliza Mae returned to her? ‘Can you get up?’ The woman stretched out her gloved hand and Martha stared hard at it. Eliza Mae was gone. This hand could no more lead her back to her daughter than it could lead Martha back to her own youthful self. A small cabin. This woman was offering her some place with a roof, and maybe even a little heating. Martha closed her eyes. After countless years of journeying, the hand was both insult and salvation, but the woman was not to know this. ‘Please, take my hand. I’m not here to harm you. I just want to help. Truly.’ Martha uncurled her fingers and set them against the woman’s hide-bound hand. The woman felt neither warm nor cold. ‘Can you stand by yourself?’ Inside of herself, Martha laughed. Can this woman not see that they abandoned me? At least they had shown some charity and not discarded her upon the plains. But stand by herself? Martha Randolph. Squatting like a filthy bag of bones. Watching the snow. Don’t know nobody in these parts. Barely recognizing herself. No ma’am, she thought. I doubt if I’ll ever be able to stand by myself again. But no matter. I done enough standing by myself to last most folks three or four lifetimes. Ain’t nothing shameful in resting now. No ma’am, nothing shameful at all. She squeezed. The woman’s hand squeezed back. ‘Can you stand by yourself?’ Martha shook her head.

I look into his eyes, but his stare is constant and frightens me. He shows no emotion. ‘Lucas?’ He turns from me and scrapes the wooden chair across the floor. He sits heavily upon it. He lifts his hands to his head and buries his face in his cupped and calloused palms. Eliza Mae runs to me and clutches the hem of my dress. The light in the lamp jumps and the room sways, first one way and then the next. I pull Eliza Mae towards me and hide her small body in the folds of my dress. Lucas looks up. He opens his mouth to speak. His face is tired, older than his thirty-five years. The weight of yet another day in the field sits heavily upon him. But not just this. I run my hand across Eliza Mae’s matted hair. On Sunday I will pull the comb through the knots and she will scream. Outside, I can hear the crickets, their shrill voices snapping, like twigs being broken from a tree. ‘Master dead.’ Eliza Mae looks from me to her father, then back to me. Poor child, she does not understand. ‘Lucas, we going to be sold?’ Lucas lowers his eyes.

The sun is at its highest point. The overseer is looking across at me, so again I bend down and start to pick. Already I have the hands of a woman twice my age, the skin beaten, bloodied and bruised, like worn-out leather. The overseer rides his horse towards me, its legs stepping high, prancing, almost dancing. He looks down at me, the sun behind him, framing his head, forming a halo. He raises his whip and brings it down on my arm. I don’t hear the words that fall from his mouth. I simply think, Master dead. What now? I bend down and again I start to pick. I can still feel his eyes upon me. And the sun. And now the horse is turning. It dances away from me.

I stand with the rest of the Virginia property. Master’s nephew, a banker from Washington, is now our new master. He has no interest in plantation life. He holds a handkerchief to his face and looks on with detachment. Everything must be sold. The lawyer grabs the iron-throated bell and summons the people to attention. Then the auctioneer slaps his gavel against a block of wood. I fall to my knees and take Eliza Mae in my arms. I did not suckle this child at the breast, nor did I cradle her in my arms and shower her with what love I have, to see her taken away from me. As the auctioneer begins to bellow, I look into Eliza Mae’s face. He is calling out the date, the place, the time. Master would never have sold any of us. I tell this to my terrified child. Slaves. Farm animals. Household furniture. Farm tools. We are to be sold in this order. I watch as Lucas soaks a cloth in cold water. He comforts me and places it first on my forehead, and then on that of his child. Last night he came to me, his eyes grown red with drink. He confessed that death would be easier. This way we are always going to be wondering. Always worrying. His voice broke and he choked back the remaining words. Then he took me in the circle of his arms and laid me down. Until the old horn blew to mark the start of a new day.

Farmers have come from all over the county. A fun-seeking crowd, ready for haggling, but amongst them I see the lean-faced men. The traders, with their trigger-happy minds, their mouths tight and bitter. I try not to look into anybody’s eyes. The auctioneer is dressed formally. Dark vest, colorful cutaway coat. He continues to yell. Now, as he does so, he motions towards us with his gavel. Then he slaps this instrument against the wooden block with a thud. Now again he gestures towards us. My throat is dry. Eliza Mae moves restlessly, so I take her hand. She cries. I pinch her to quiet her. I am sorry, but it is for her own good. The auctioneer beckons forward the traders. They look firstly at the men. A trader prods Lucas’s biceps with a stick. If a trader buys a man, it is down the river. To die. That much we all know. The families in need of domestics, or the farmers in need of breeding wenches, they look across at us and wait their turn. I am too old for breeding. They do not know that I would also disappoint. My Eliza Mae holds on to me, but it will be to no avail. She will be a prime purchase. And on her own she stands a better chance of a fine family. I want to tell her this, to encourage her to let go, but I have not the heart. I look on. The auctioneer cries to the heavens. A band strikes up. A troupe of minstrels begins to dance. Soon the bidding will begin. ‘Moma.’ Eliza Mae whispers the word over and over again, as though this were the only word she possessed. This one word. This word only.

Martha leaned against the woman and peered into the small, dark room. Still cold. Through the half-light, she saw the single bed, the mattress rolled back and revealing an ugly grid of rusty wire. Then she felt the woman’s gentle touch guiding her across the room and into a hard-backed wooden chair. Like a child. Martha sat and watched as the woman first lit the lamp and then quickly made up the bed, stretching a clean sheet tight like a drumskin across its length and breadth. Having done so, she helped Martha the two paces across the room and set her down to rest upon the corner of the bed. Martha’s right eye was clouding over, but she could make out the woman’s motions as she now attempted to fire some life into the pot-bellied stove. She failed, and bestowed a sad smile upon Martha. Girl, don’t worry. Don’t worry yourself. The woman reached for the pitcher and poured a glass of water. ‘Here, take it and drink. Are you cold?’ Martha dragged her tongue around her swollen lips. Then she took the water and held the glass between both hands. She swallowed deeply, and as she did so the woman knelt and began to remove the wet rags that swaddled Martha’s feet. No. Please. Martha closed her eyes.