Chapter 9 #2
“My ‘regular patients’ come in all shades,” Papa informed him, blotting at the wound with loose cotton and something from a bottle. “Joseph, would you find me a splint, please? If you need tools, my surgery set is in the bottom of the satchel.”
Joseph was glad to keep away. As he hunted for a suitable piece of wood, he did not hear the next few questions Papa asked or the negro’s answers.
But every time he moved, or even breathed, one of the bells above him clanged.
The negro was a runaway—he had to be. This must be his second attempt, or his master would never have resorted to such punishment.
“Do you have to sleep in that thing?” Papa asked.
“Haven’t slept for weeks now,” the negro muttered.
Joseph crouched over an old, fallen trunk that the weather had mostly split for him. He decided he’d still need a tool and began to pick his way back to Papa’s satchel.
“My sister, she stuffs the bells at night to keep ’em quiet.” With a grimace, the negro watched Papa pushing a needle through his skin. “She stuffed ’em ’fore I left, but it’s worked out-a that right one.”
Joseph paused to gape at the boldness of his disobedience.
The negro glanced at him; he must have sensed Joseph’s reproof. “I’m not running away, not permanent. I’m going to see my wife, is all.”
Joseph dug in the medical satchel. “Can’t you do that on Sundays?” He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but he wasn’t sorry. No master made his slaves work on Sundays.
“Not anymore. My wife, she near Orangeburg now. Last time, took me two days just to get to her.”
Then he should ask for a pass. If he couldn’t get one as often as he liked—well, he must learn to be content.
Suffering was part of God’s plan. It taught you virtues like humility and patience.
Joseph selected the largest amputation knife and returned to the promising trunk.
“Servants, obey in all things your masters,” he murmured, remembering the verse he’d heard many times.
“As you would that men should do to you, do you also to them,” Papa called loud enough that Joseph could hear him over the wood splitting. “You’re quoting Saint Paul. I’m quoting God.”
The negro chuckled, which made his bells wobble.
Joseph returned with the splint and handed it to Papa without meeting his eyes.
“Perfect! Thank you, son.”
Joseph turned his back while Papa set the negro’s arm. He was nearly through wrapping the splint when a new voice shouted from the direction of the road. “Halloo!”
Joseph heard the negro suck in a breath and hold it, which of course the bell marked.
Someone must have come upon their chaise and horse. “Are you in any trouble there?” the man inquired. Was it a slave patrol? Papa might be imprisoned for helping a runaway!
“No trouble!” Papa called back. “My son’s dog took off after a rabbit, is all.” It was appalling how easily he broke the Eighth Commandment. Perhaps Papa thought the bell would be more difficult to lie away; he caught it with one hand to keep it silent.
“Do you need help with your search?”
“No, thank you. We’ve got her in hand now.”
There was a moment’s pause. At last, the man answered: “All right, then—good day to you!”
“Good day!”
Joseph thought he heard hoof beats on the road. The negro released his breath, and slowly Papa let go of the bell, which rattled in protest.
“I can’t reach ’em up there myself.” The negro glanced at the bell, then down to the bloody cotton Papa had discarded. “D’you think—you could take some of that and…”
“I have a better idea.” Papa finished the splint and turned to his surgery set. He extracted the bone saw. “Do you trust me?”
“You just proved I could.” Still the negro looked dubious.
Papa took back the leather strap and walked around behind his patient. He fed the strap between the negro’s neck and his collar, where one of the rivets held it closed. Then Papa sawed carefully till iron shavings began falling.
For a while, Joseph watched, frowning. Papa spoke to the negro about how his arm would heal, not about the crime he was committing.
He kept sawing for what seemed like ages.
Joseph poked an anthill with a long stick, and the tiny creatures swarmed around the disturbance.
He retreated a safe distance and sat down to wait.
At last Papa broke through. He folded open the two halves with their horns. The negro helped him, and together they dumped the broken collar on the forest floor. The right bell clanged its warning a few moments more.
The negro stared down at the collar as if he didn’t believe it was gone, though it had left behind raw marks all around his neck and shoulders. He looked up at Papa with the same kind of disbelief, as if he were seeing him for the first time. “You some kind of foreigner?”
Papa cased his bone saw and smiled. “Just a doctor.”
“Well, I’m much obliged to you, Doctor.” The negro stood up from the dead tree, holding his splinted arm against his chest. “You a good and decent man. I hope your son there takes after you inside as well as out.”
Joseph watched the dark form disappear into the trees, while Papa snapped shut his satchel.
Joseph knew what he was feeling was another sin, that if he spoke up, he would be breaking the Fourth Commandment.
But if your father criticized the Church, couldn’t you criticize him? “You had no right to do that.”
“No right to treat a wounded man?”
“I mean about—” Joseph glanced down at the slave collar, but found he couldn’t name it, so he only pointed. What Papa had done was like theft. How would he feel if someone stole one of their negroes? “He wasn’t yours to free.”
Papa sighed. “He only wants to see his wife.”
“He was probably lying.”
Papa made a noise that was more like a snort than a laugh. “Because all negroes lie.” He said the words in a way that mocked them. “Does Henry lie? Does May?”
“Jemmy did.”
Papa sat on the dead tree and stared down at the iron collar for a long time. When he spoke, his voice had changed somehow. “Pick it up.”
Joseph blinked at him, puzzled.
“Pick it up,” Papa repeated more harshly, glaring at him. When Joseph only looked at the collar, his father barked: “Do as you’re told, boy!”
Fear gripped Joseph’s throat. This wasn’t Papa. Papa didn’t speak like this, not even to their slaves.
“NOW!” he bellowed.
Joseph jumped and moved to obey. He didn’t have a choice.
He stooped over the great iron contraption and gripped it below each bell.
The right one rattled as he tried to lift the collar, and it was even heavier than he’d thought.
Too heavy. He could barely get it off the ground. Surely that was all Papa expected him—
“Don’t let go until I tell you to!” commanded the man who had been his father. “Not even if you think your arms are going to break!”
Joseph couldn’t breathe, and he certainly couldn’t look up. Hot tears pricked beneath his eyelids, and every one of his muscles burned. The collar would drag him into the earth.
His tormenter knelt beside him, his voice suddenly Papa’s again.
“Can you imagine what it is like, Joseph, to have your body, your entire life, and all the people you love ruled by someone else’s whims?
” He took the collar away and caught Joseph by the shoulders, or he would have fallen.
“Can you understand why the negroes are tired, why they are angry?” Papa cradled Joseph’s head in his hands, knocking off his straw hat. “Are you all right?”
Joseph nodded numbly, his eyes averted.
“I’m sorry, Joseph. But do you understand?”
Joseph kept nodding, though he did not think he understood anything, least of all his own father. Papa wrapped his arms around him, but Joseph remained stiff.
“I love you. You know that,” Papa breathed against his ear.
“But please, Joseph, open your eyes. Don’t believe everything people tell you, or what books tell you.
Look for yourself. You are so good with your mother and your sisters—even with Henry and May.
You know what’s right.” Papa pulled back to gaze earnestly into his face.
“You are the wisest, kindest boy I know. Don’t hide that light under anyone else’s bushel. Trust yourself.”
They walked back to the road in silence. Their mare was still waiting with the chaise. It seemed they had left her weeks ago. When Papa helped him into the carriage, Joseph’s arms ached.
Eventually, he and Papa reached a great tract of land filled with ordered rows of bushes and trees, many of them in bloom.
There were hothouses and sunken beds too.
Papa directed their mare to a trough and tied her up.
He led Joseph toward the two figures in the nearest field.
One was a tall man with grey hair, an aquiline nose, and a kind face.
He was walking slowly between rows and pointing out plants to a boy a little younger than Joseph.
The man was white, but the boy was mulatto.
They turned as Joseph and Papa approached, and the man’s face melted into a smile. “René! It’s so good to see you again!” he called in French.
“And you, Philippe.” Papa and the man exchanged a quick embrace and half-kissed each other’s cheeks. Then Papa addressed the young mulatto: “How are you today, Louis?”
“Fine, sir,” the mulatto smiled, looking Papa in the eyes as if they knew each other too. His French was good, and his clothes were fine. Joseph wondered what he was doing here.
“Is this Joseph?” the man asked, delighted. How peculiar, to hear his name from a stranger’s lips as if the man knew all about him.
Papa nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Joseph, this is Philippe Noisette. He lived on Saint-Domingue too. But we met in Charleston only a few years ago, while he was director of the Medical Society’s garden.”
“Noisette, like our roses?” Joseph maintained the French.