Song of Slaves in the Desert - Alan Cheuse [25]
A gunshot rang out across the star-diffused sky, and other screams rose into the shadowy dark.
“Mama!” Her youngest child, a boy as plump as the big man, shouted in her ear. “The fishermen! They killed my father!”
Her daughters came screaming, and nightmares rode into the camp on camels higher than the tallest among the slaves, dark bodies of the beasts and dark bodies of the men blocking out the stars.
These were indeed fishermen, fishers of men.
And women.
Chapter Ten
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This Charming City
Free of the stink of the auction house, this charming city overtook me with its delightful houses, narrow structures that faced onto side gardens and stretched back further into gardens behind. There was as much foot traffic as in New York, and the edges of the streets were filled mostly with these walkers, almost exclusively black-faced, women with children slung over their backs in little bundles, and men with garden tools and others hauling crates and packages. But though all of these folk appeared to be working, there was much less of a hurry and hustle about the streets than in my native town, mainly because the heat was such that everyone, slave or free, had to carry about the extra burden of the temperature and its humid essence.
“Here is the courthouse,” my cousin said, as we approached an impressively erected building, though of a miniature size compared to our New York structures. And the Episcopal church. And another church. And a meeting hall. At the corner a crowd of men on horseback, in rough country garb, jittered and huddled, their horses covered with dust. A short man with wiry hair sat high upon a tall stallion in the center of them, the horse so white it glowed almost blue.
“What’s this?” I asked.
My cousin shook his head.
“It is a man named Langerhans,” Rebecca said. “If man he is. He is more like something carved out of the mud…”
As if he had heard her say his name—though over the noise of the horses and at this distance it seemed doubtful—the mud-man turned his head, following us as we moved by.
“Halloo!” he called in our direction, touching a finger to his right eyebrow in a sort of salute.
“Ignore him,” my cousin said to Rebecca as the white horse stepped closer.
“Saw your nigger girl just now, carrying some basket or other,” the man said as his horse danced sidewise toward and yet away from us.
“Thank you, Langerhans,” my cousin said, “as you are paid to keep watch, it’s good to know you’re on the lookout.”
“You are welcome, sir,” Langerhans said, a shy grin spreading across his face. He showed dark teeth and it was not a pretty sight, and yet, overall, his visage was not unappealing.
“But you are supposed to keep watch outside of town, not here,” Jonathan said.
“We are just leaving, sir,” the man said.
“Good, then good, just do your job.”
With that, my cousin gave a snap of his buggy-whip and we moved along, putting those others behind us.
“Who are they?” I said.
“Patrollers. Poor nasty wretches,” my cousin said. “They make a living out of the misery of others.”
“That’s how many of us up north think of you plantation owners,” I said. I no sooner spoke when I felt the heat of deep embarrassment spreading up my chest, neck, and face. “I am sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Rebecca said. “No need. We’re just going to have to show you a new side of things then,” Rebecca said. “Some of us are working to improve the African souls. Jonathan?”
“Yes, although we have a lot of obstacles to overcome,” my cousin said, the look he gave me scarcely matching the restrained tone of his voice. Clearly the brandy had soothed whatever troubled him, but not enough. “Now here is our place.”
We slowed up and took in the trim stone building on our left, the synagogue called Beth Elohim on Coming Street.
“Where we have recently had quite a revolution,” my cousin said. “For there were those who objected to the use of an organ in the service, and they seceded and met just across the way.”
“I’m sorry I missed the war,” I said.
“Oh, there will