The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [29]
Thomas and I improved our acquaintance at night, in our tiny stateroom. The only barrier between us and the cabin at large was a green curtain, under which, often enough, you would see one or two thrusting male stocking feet, as they allowed the single men to sleep on the floor of the ladies’ cabin after the ladies had gone to bed, which was at about eleven. If a lady had an emergency in the middle of the night, she had to step over a score or more of long bodies wrapped in cloaks or blankets, and by morning the air was insufferably close.
Thomas and I whispered to each other from our respective berths, I on the top shelf, he on the bottom. All around us, people were snoring, coughing, expectorating, sneezing, groaning, rustling, muttering, talking, laughing, and even crying. The whimpering of the sick baby went on and on, even though the poor mother talked to it and walked it and nursed it and tended to it, it seemed, twenty-four hours a day. Only the bustle of a grounding drowned out the somber noise of this child’s suffering and the low patter of its mother, saying, "He’s always such a good, happy baby. I don’t know what can be wrong with him. Forgive me the disturbance...." The help of the other women, who offered to hold or to walk the baby, so the mother could get an hour’s rest, only made her more apologetic. I would lie in my berth after Thomas and I had finished whispering back and forth and I was sure he had fallen asleep, and listen to that sad baby and its sadder mother and feel as low as I had ever felt in my life. It was all I could do to keep in my mind a picture of the orderly grid of streets on the bill advertising Salley Fork, Nebraska, or my image of Lawrence, Kansas, with its gristmill and library and lumber mill and evening lecture society and salubrious climate.
At the first light, we woke up and fled for the fresh air of the deck, along with almost everyone else in the cabin.
We never mentioned the rifles, and Thomas never looked at the Negro waiters who served the food nor at the five slaves who were traveling on the boat, three women and two men who were kept perennially busy tending to the wants of their owners. All had come on in Saint Louis. A man and a woman got off the first day, and the rest got off the third day. I believe they were Thomas’s first actual slaves, since he had never traveled in the south. I had been to Palmyra, Missouri, of course, and Hannibal, too. Slaves and their masters were common enough passing through the streets of Quincy, to tell the truth. Even so, I could not help seeing them as if with Thomas’s eyes. In the general hustle and bustle of everyone on the boat doing for themselves and their kin, these white women who waited to be served stood out boldly different. Once, when the boat grounded and we all had to get out and step through shallow water to a low spot on the shore some fifty feet away, a woman stood on the deck long after everyone else had gotten off, waiting for her slave girl of about fifteen to fetch her other shoes. It later turned out that the crew wouldn’t let the girl get the shoes but put her off on the other side, and so the slave owner just stood there grasping at her ebbing dignity with two hands. It didn’t help the girl fifteen minutes later when she was crying and explaining in front of everyone what had happened. Her mistress’s shoes were ruined with the wet, and she slapped the girl, in spite of her tears or for her tears, or both. Thomas whistled to himself and walked up and down on the shore, away from the others. I kept thinking that it was those rifles that were weighing down the boat and that soon they would be thrown off with everything else, the box would break open, and something terrible would happen, far worse than a slap. After we got back to our saloon, there was an argument