5
Wreckers’ Cay
1839
I could never confess this to anyone, not even to my sister, Dorothy, but a few days after Martin disappeared, I was certain I felt his presence in my bed one night as I was drifting off to sleep. With a start, I felt him touch my shoulder.
It could only be a hallucination, I was sure. But every night, just as I settled into a twilight sleep, I felt that slight brush against my shoulder and I heard his voice: “Rest, Emily. You must take time to rest.”
I would entreat him with questions: Where was he? How could he have left us? But all I heard was trite reassurance: “Everything will be ?ne, Emily. You’re doing very well. Carry on.”
Such positive—albeit otherworldly—messages were ironically somewhat out of character with the husband I remembered. Usually at some point in this ghostly conversation, I would reach for his hand and realize he was not there. Or often, I would be drifting off to sleep, imagining his arms were around me, only to be jolted awake in my empty bed, having doubts about my sanity. Was it the loneliness? The new pregnancy? The light outside my window, always drawing me awake at odd hours? I was obviously going mad.
Struggling now with a decision about the slave, I asked “Martin” what he thought.
“What harm, Emily? He might be a big help to you,” he said.
“But he might be violent … or dangerous.”
“No, Emily. I don’t think you need worry. Take him on. It will be ?ne. You really need help.”
And thus assured, I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, by the time I could see the sun erupting like lava over the blazing horizon, I had pretty well made up my mind. There was no way I could keep the Negro imprisoned under such deplorable conditions for ten more days. He might well die. And I realized, too, that my anger with the children was unreasonable. The slave had made his own way to our island. What could they have done? All they were guilty of was showing him some human kindness, and hiding him from me.
I rose and prepared to start my responsibilities at the tower. Then a light tap on the bedroom door nearly sent me for my shotgun.
“It’s me, Timothy.”
I saw my son standing there, a younger version of Martin, more man than boy. Was he only about to turn eight? He seemed so serious. A great surge of affection ?ooded through me. I leaned forward and put my arms around him. I did not often hug my son now, as he would shy from affection, but this morning I was in better spirits and I realized what a ?ne, sweet human being he was becoming, and how much I loved my children. They were my world.
Timothy was surprised at this display of affection. “Mother … Martha and I … we …” He was hesitating, not sure what to say next.
“Hush, I know, I know. You both meant well, and I’m grateful that you were thinking of me,” I said, running my hand through his sun-streaked hair. “I’ve been thinking … and I realize I was unreasonable yesterday. But you do understand that with your father gone, I must be very careful.
“Perhaps we could give the Negro a chance,” I continued kindly. “We certainly have enough work for him to do. But we’ll have to exercise caution. I still have many reservations about keeping him here.”
Timothy brightened. “He said he’d be glad to help us with any kind of work.”
“If he tends the light, I can’t pay him anything.”
“That’s ?ne. He knows that,” said Timothy cheerfully. “He’s a slave. Money isn’t important to him.”
“What’s more,” I added, “we’ll have to keep his existence a secret. Otherwise, he will be ferried immediately to Key West, where they will try to locate his owners or sell him. This is not a man with any legal right to be here, and we are breaking the law just by helping him.”
Timothy nodded. “But what about Aunt Dorothy?”
I hadn’t thought about Dorothy. She’d be coming in a few months to stay until my delivery. My sister and her husband, Tom, owned a black housemaid, a nanny, and a gardener.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “We’ll keep him a secret from her for the moment. After all, we don’t even know if he’s going to work out. If he’s lazy or uncooperative, we may not want to keep him on.”
Our first problem was to remove the slave’s iron shackles—not an easy task. Timothy had tried to help him ?le the chains, but between them they had barely scratched the metal. He had considered a hatchet, but the Negro was understandably nervous about having Timothy swing the tool down in the direction of his feet and hands.
The fact that he was in chains surprised me, as I had always heard that once slaves were herded down to the slave deck of a ship they were shackled two by two with a bilbo. Why had they chosen to manacle this one with loose chains that permitted him to wander around?
Holding my breath as best I could in the stench, I entered the storage shed. Seeing that the shackles were similar to chains Martin used for securing our boats, I sent Martha upstairs to fetch the bunch of keys he’d kept in a drawer of his desk. Then we each took turns trying them. In the end, an oddly shaped key on the ring opened the locks like a charm. As the shackles fell away, I could see the raw wounds around his ankles and wrists. A deep sigh signaled his relief. Timothy helped him up, but he was so stiff, he could barely stand. And walking was next to impossible. Both children assisted him in taking steps around the outside of the shed until he was able to support himself.
We had to get him cleaned up, but I hesitated at the thought of letting him use our facilities. “I don’t want him getting into our tub with all that ?lth,” I told the children. “Get him into the sea to rinse off. Then he can bathe with soap in the washhouse.”
Timothy and Martha led him to the shore, while I followed to supervise. When he removed his ?lthy shirt, I gasped when I saw the wounds on his back. Over long-healed seams of scar tissue was a set of fresh lashes, still festering. He gingerly made his way into the water; I heard him moan with pleasure as it washed over him, even as he winced with pain from the salt on his wounds. When he emerged from the water, still wobbling, his ragged, wet pants clung to his body. I could see his sex through a rent at the front, and I turned away.
I did not want my daughter viewing his exposure. “Martha,” I called out, “you go on ahead. Start the water in the tub and light the ?re to heat it. Fetch some soap upstairs, and towels for him to dry off.”
Martha went off happily enough, pleased that I was at last showing their slave consideration, if not wholehearted kindness. Clearly, he would need clothing. While he bathed in the washhouse, I gathered together some of Martin’s personal items. I found the toiletries and shaving equipment I had put away after my husband had been gone several weeks. Despite my apprehension at giving him a razor, I brought everything down, along with some clean rags and a salve for the infected wounds on his back.
A shirt, some underdrawers, light trousers, and a hat completed his new wardrobe. Shoes I did not bother with, for the slave had much larger feet than my husband.
He seemed to take forever bathing and shaving, and I was taken aback when he emerged. To my amazement, he had shaved not only his face but also his head, which was now a shining, clean dome, and I had to admit that he looked much improved. He remained shirtless, revealing a body that was young and well proportioned. I judged him to be about my age, if not slightly older. And though emaciated, he was still quite muscular for someone who had been con?ned for God knows how long.
“Here’s the shirt you done give me,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to mess it up with my wounds.”
“Turn around,” I ordered.
He obeyed, but I could see he was suspicious. On some clean strips of cloth, I spread some medicinal balm with a table knife, then gently applied the strips to his back. He ?inched, but when he turned back toward me, there was gratitude in his eyes.
“Put the shirt on. It can be washed.” Again, he did as he was told. “The sun will heal up your wrists and ankles,” I said, and he nodded in agreement.
I told him to sit down at the table while I busied myself making him breakfast. He fairly devoured the food I set down before him, and drank the tea in great gulps. The irony of me, the daughter of Louisiana slave owners, waiting on a slave, was not lost.
“You’ll be helping us tend the light,” I said curtly. “After breakfast, we’ll go to the tower and I shall instruct you on what needs to be done. I have everything written down”—I paused, as the obvious occurred to me—“but, of course, you can’t read.”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“I’ll hope you have a good memory, then.”
“I remember things pretty good.”
After he had cleaned up in the storage shed, we climbed the tower together. He was gasping for breath when we reached the top, while I, though pregnant, barely felt my heartbeat race. He looked at me with surprise. “You be pretty good on them stairs.”
“I’ve been doing this two or three times a day,” I said. “Sometimes more, if the light has gone out during a windstorm at night; I’ve often had to rush over quickly.”
“Lots’a stairs,” he observed between labored breaths. Despite my misgivings about having him there, I had to smile.
When we reached the top, we stood facing each other in the small, hot glass enclosure—a pregnant white woman and a breathless runaway slave, eyeing each other in mutual suspicion.