Song of Slaves in the Desert - Alan Cheuse [126]
Behind me I heard my uncle stirring.
“Who is it, Nate?”
“A man from New Jersey,” I said.
“New Jersey?”
My uncle came lumbering up to the door.
“Not truly from New Jersey,” the man said. “That is where this fellow and I met, but I have been associated with other states and other places.”
“This fellow is my nephew,” my uncle said. “Now what is your business here?”
The man looked past me at my suddenly alert and agitated uncle.
“May I come in?”
“I will come out,” my uncle said, and gave me a little shove to move me out onto the veranda so that he might follow.
The man stepped aside, looked back at his companions, and signaled them with his hand to remain where they were.
“And now, sir?” my uncle directed the man to the table and chairs to the left of the door. “Will you sit?”
“Thank you,” the man said. “But we are in a hurry. Unless perhaps you can answer our question.”
“And that would be, sir?”
My uncle looked at me, as if I understood what he was thinking.
“My slave has run off,” the man from Jersey said. “Have you seen a little nigger about twelve, dark as night, wearing red trousers? This fellow here, your…?”
“My nephew?”
“Ah, hah! Yes, your nephew. He has seen him.”
“Have you?” my uncle turned to me.
“Not recently,” I said. “I first saw him on the ship. We were passengers on the same ship.”
My uncle cleared his throat and inclined toward the man.
“Why did you come here to inquire? Was he seen heading in this direction?”
“A good question, a very good question,” the man said. “I was directed by these colleagues of mine…” He gestured toward Langerhans and the patrollers. “The good folks in Charleston said you all might know something about runaways.”
“Did they?” My uncle pushed his belly forward and stepped closer. “What else might they have said?”
“I’ve never been a man to waltz around the truth, have I?” He looked directly at me. “Have I, son?”
“I would not know,” I said.
“You know something of me. You may know enough to know that I will tell you now what I learned in town. I’ll tell you that I learned in town that here on this plantation some odd things have occurred. That you brothers of the Jewish creed, in collusion with a certain medical man, have been teaching slaves how to read and write. And—”
“First,” my uncle broke in, “that is not any of your interest. And second—”
“First,” the man said, “it goes against the nature of things that the Africans should try to acquire the skills of a higher breed. And second—”
“First,” my uncle said, “there is no evidence that Africans are what you infer is a ‘lower breed’ than white men. And second—”
“First, there is evidence that those of the tribe of Israel are a breed apart,” the man said, his finger poking the air, and his eyes all-ablaze, “and second—”
Now I was growing angry.
“Second what?”
“Second, it is clear I am gaining no traction talking to you here. Now you will excuse me, because I have to go and catch my little nigger.”
At this point Jonathan, who had been listening in the doorway, stepped out onto the porch holding the offensive missive in his hand.
“Did you write this letter?”
“Sir,” the man said, “I don’t know what letter you’re referring to.”
“This letter,” Jonathan said, and began to read from it again.
“Stop!” My uncle waved his hand. “I will not allow these things to be spoken in my house.”
“I respect that, sir,” said the white-haired man.
“You are a strange man,” Jonathan said, crumbling the letter in his fist. “A strange man from—” He turned to me. “From where?”
“New Jersey, I believe,” I said.
“Wherever you are from, it is now time for you to leave the house, please, sir,” Jonathan said.
“I will be going,” said the man, “and though I’m in a hurry I at least expected that I might have been invited in so that I could at least decline the invitation. But that would have been a Christian thing to do, to offer such an invitation, and you—”
“We are not Christian, no,” Jonathan said. “Now please leave, sir.”
“I will leave, and frankly I hope never to return. Because if I do it will be most unfortunate.