He said to the others, “I’ve got no idea what that woman will do next, but we’ll let her make her moves. The best way to fight her is to keep our mouths shut. If we don’t give her any reason to suspect us of knowing what she’s done, she’ll be blind. She’ll want to know why we’re ignoring who she really is. When that time comes, she’ll seek us out.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Mercy shivered. She had never felt cold like this, not even in the coldest London winter, when her grandfather very often spent the coal money on drink and it was colder inside the house than outside.
The air bit into her face, leaving it red and raw with pimples, which she could only imagine must appear horrific to anyone who looked at her. Her eyes continuously streamed and were hurting her, so much so that it was becoming difficult to keep them open. Every breath she exhaled was like a grey fog that lingered in the stillness of night. Now, in early morning, her breath left her mouth like a white cloud. She wrapped a dirty shirt around her face, leaving only her eyes visible. Better to look stupid, she thought, than to freeze to death or have frostbite on her skin.
She and Nelson had been on the run for eight days and nine nights. She knew this because she had marked a small cross on the map with each sunrise. The skies had been kind. They were clear, and the moon was growing. The North Star and great Venus were bright. Their presence had guided Mercy’s path through the Virginia countryside in the long hours of darkness. Mercy believed they had left Portsmouth far behind them. Because of this, she decided to rest at night and travel during daylight hours within deserted, dense woods.
They slept in thickets, always surrounded by trees, never anywhere near dwellings, even when those would be barely visible in the distance. They had been lucky, for on two occasions they had found shelter in abandoned cabins, and even the horses had been given a respite from the cold by being under the same roof as them.
They ate sparsely now but had all the water they needed from small streams that were like veins running through the land. When Mercy was sure they were in isolated positions, she got the gun and rifle out and practiced shooting, using targets placed in the soil of banks or hillsides. She began from close range and every day put more and more distance between her and the target.
Shooting guns had become an obsession with her. She wanted to be a good marksman, an excellent shot. Guns would kill animals that they could then eat. A gun or rifle would keep her and Nelson safe from any bandits they might come across. Her gun had killed Eddie, and she was alive now because of it. She slept with her Colt under her blanket. She had to be ready for anything or anyone. She was confident, for she had, through practice and determination, become a talented shot.
This morning they came across a small river running through a clearing of tall grass. The water was crystal clear, with a pebbled floor where fish were darting back and forth. She’d catch a few. She’d done it before, and though she wasn’t particularly fond of their taste, they were a good source of nourishment.
Small sheets of ice floated casually along with a soft current, bumping into logs and branches and breaking up like shattered glass. She turned to Nelson, standing slightly behind her, and said, “Nelson, I have to do this. I’m filthy. I have to wash off the grime. I still feel as though I have the stench of blood on me. I’m going in.”
“You gonna freeze to death, Miss Mercy,” he said, shaking his head. “Ain’t no way you gonna come out of there without gittin’ the influenza.”
“I’ve just had influenza. I won’t get it again. I’m going in and so are you,” Mercy said defiantly.
“Nope. I sure ain’t, Miss Mercy. No, sir, I ain’t going in there with no ice and fish bitin’ my legs.”
Mercy rested her hands on her hips and looked at him with determination and authority. “You will so go in. You’re as dirty as me – dirtier even! You need to clean your wounds and wash all that dirt out of your hair. We’ve got soap, and we’re going to bathe and smell like flowers. Then we’ll eat and continue on. You’ll feel much better afterwards, I promise.”
“Nope,” Nelson said again.
“No arguments. I own you, remember,” Mercy said with a mischievous giggle. Nelson looked miserable. He had obviously lived an easier life than she had in the Elephant and Castle!
“I’ll make a deal with you. You make a fire and start heating up those beans. I’ll bathe, and then when you come out of the river, you’ll have a nice warm fire and something hot to eat. Doesn’t that sound good?”
“All right – but I don’t like it. I reckon we could die in that there water.” He moaned again.
Mercy stepped on the pebbles on her way back to the shoreline, hurting her feet on the odd jagged stone. The embankment was rocky, but just behind the rocks stood rushes and bushes as tall as she was. Behind them were fir trees that stretched for as far as the eye could see. Their camp was set just a stone’s throw from this river but was well sheltered from the forceful wind.
Her hair was dripping wet and clean, and it covered the entire top half of her body like a black blanket. Stepping onto the rocky bank, she grabbed her bodice, tucked the dollar bills into the bodice cups after she’d fought to get it back on, pulled on a clean shirt, and buttoned it up to her neck. She pulled up the trousers, tightening the braces, and then finally sighed with relief after donning the thick woollen jacket.
When she reappeared, the fire was just beginning to rise and give out some much-needed heat. She walked to the packhorse, retrieved her hat, and, after pulling her hair back into a topknot, stuck the hat on. She smiled at Nelson, whose face was filled with undisguised disapproval. Mercy stared right back at him, undaunted.
“Before you say anything, Grandma Sylvie always told me that a person’s soul left through the top of the head and cold air filled a body by entering through the top of the head. So that’s why my hat is covering my soaking wet hair.”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Nelson told her moodily.
“You don’t have to. You’re like my grandma. She was an open book. I could tell exactly what she was thinking just by looking at her face – and I know what you’re thinking right now. Now take the soap and off you go. Don’t come back till you’re clean. I mean it.”
Mercy stirred the beans. She was agitated and hated not knowing exactly where they were. She was well aware that they were slightly off course. She couldn’t detect the big rivers’ pungent smell at all now, and the terrain had changed from flat to rocky. She believed they were now far enough away from Portsmouth and any search party that might still be looking for them, but she couldn’t be certain. How far would Virginia go to find a runaway slave, especially one who’d probably already been found guilty of murder? Would they be hunted whilst still inside the state of Virginia, even the most northern part? The Metropolitan Police in London had wanted posters printed and placed all over England when hunting criminals. Was it the same way here?
She looked at the map she had found along with the other papers in du Pont’s house, and she had to squint, focus, and refocus until she found her starting point. The map was probably more than fifty years old. The paper had turned yellow; the writing and all the important names of towns had faded. It had been folded so many times that there were open slits on every crease, which made names and words disappear completely.
She drew her finger along it on the right-hand side, pushed it upwards, and found her starting point: Portsmouth. Her finger glided across to Norfolk and then upwards to the great inland waterways and islands of the Chesapeake Bay Estuary. She had hated that part of the journey. Had she been there under any other circumstances, she would have thought it beautiful. Being a fugitive, she had instead found the highly populated waterways both dangerous and worrying.
Mercy shuddered. She had found it necessary to shackle Nelson and lead him like a dog. They had gone through turnpikes and over toll bridges. They had boarded a small packet boat in one of the bays, and it took them across a narrow stretch of water to anot
her island. Once there, Mercy had flicked her eyes over the other passengers waiting to board an even bigger packet boat, which would take them over a wide stretch of water in the bay area. There had been no sign of a sheriff or anyone else displaying interest in her or Nelson, but there had been too many people around for Mercy’s liking.
They had managed to find a quiet spot devoid of hordes of travellers and had boarded the last boat of the day, which held no more than a few stragglers. The boat crossed the Hampton Roads, also noted on the map as being called Tidewater, a part of the Elizabeth, James, and Hampton rivers. Mercy had closed her eyes, breathing in the fresh air, and was immediately reminded of Jacob and her night-time conversations with him on the Carrabelle’s deck. Dear God, I miss you, Jacob, she thought.
Her eyes watered with the pain of losing him. She wiped the tears away with an angry scowl. This was no time to be feeling sorry for herself. She concentrated once more on the map, remembering the fear she had felt on those crossings. It had crept into her veins, making blood race to her heart, which in turn thumped so hard she was left breathless. There had been so many people milling about, going here, there, and God knew where. They had gotten close to the town of Hampton, where there would have been hot food, but she had refused to go near its centre.
Mercy had believed that taking the coastal route, with intermittent water travel, was the best and quickest way to arrive at the next state, which was Delaware. But she had not taken into account that it was probably the most dangerous route. There was, she had eventually come to believe, only so many crossings and harbour towns, and they would have been caught at one of them; she was sure of that now.
They had rested on the outskirts of Hampton that night, although sleep had been as elusive as a hot meal. At first light, they rode the eight miles to Newport News, and that was where she’d seen the wanted posters in full view of everyone coming off and going on the packet boats. Her eyes had scanned the board plastered with posters. She saw Nelson’s first.
wanted dead or alive
Dangerous slave who goes under the name of Nelson Stuart wanted for the murder of two men. One of the murdered men was of his own colour and a slave, the other a white overseer. He is of thin build, 5' 11" in height, and is owned by Mrs Margaret Mallory, from Portsmouth, Virginia. He is to be approached with caution and brought to the nearest sheriff or marshal, dead or alive. Reward: $1,000.
Mercy had stared at it, noting the pathetic and inaccurate drawing of Nelson’s kind face. The image looked like any other black man in Virginia, or in the world. It was a caricature, an ink drawing of a round head with a wide nose and full lips. It was not the kind, thoughtful, and gentle soul she had come to know. That poster had insulted her.
She had then found her own likeness on another poster, which was much more detailed and sympathetic.
missing
Miss Mercy Carver, beloved friend and resident of Stone Plantation, Portsmouth, Virginia. Lost since December 28, 1860. Mr Jacob Stone will pay a handsome sum of $5,000 as a reward for anyone who brings her alive to any sheriff or marshal.
Mercy had felt her body tremble at the sight of her name. She had believed that they’d already travelled far, yet she and Nelson were still being hunted – unconnected, but both hunted all the same. They had taken the first boat westward from a harbour in Newport News. The last town they had skirted was Smithfield, where she bought some supplies. From there, they had headed northwards, always avoiding populated areas and stopping to rest only when necessary. Mercy was annoyed with herself for not taking the time to truly study the map. She had made so many mistakes in such a short period. If she weren’t so cold or miserable, she’d find it funny, for so far they had travelled east, north, west, and were now slightly north again, yet still within striking distance of Portsmouth! Blimey, she thought, she wasn’t a good navigator. She wasn’t even that good at following stars. Thank God she had steered them in the right direction, for had she taken one more wrong decision, she and Nelson might have ended up going south and straight back to Portsmouth itself.
She stared without seeing and unconsciously stirred the pot of beans dangling from a wooden spit above the fire. That fire had promised much but had, after many attempts to revive it, dwindled into not much more than a pile of ash blowing in the wind, with only a hint of flame left. It was a pitiful fire, she thought. It was not warm and welcoming and hardly produced enough heat to steam the beans.
She looked up and lifted an eyebrow in amusement. Nelson had returned and was desperately trying to dry his wiry curly hair, which was as wide as it was long. She laughed. “You may as well stick your hair in the fire if you want to dry it,” she told him. “It’s the worst fire I’ve ever seen.”
“I got lots of hair.” He pointed to Mercy’s hat. “But all that wet hair stuck under Mr Eddie’s hat ain’t never gonna dry,” he told her.
Mercy smiled at his earnestness, but she had no time to discuss her hair further. “I say we bypass towns from now on. We’ll eat like the pioneers did. We’ll trap rabbits or catch fish. And I’ve decided to go a bit more to the west. What do you think?”
“I don’ know, Miss Mercy. I ain’t never been north of Portsmouth ’fore now,” Nelson told her.
Nelson didn’t like the sound of going west, but he would go where she went and would never let harm come to her. He’d promised her and the good Lord. “Ain’t no freedom in the west, Miss Mercy, but I sure didn’t like the way them men looked at you on that boat.”
“Yes, I noticed. I was scared they were going to ask me where I was going, when I wasn’t even sure myself. I don’t think we should chance all those places along the river again. Going west will mean that our journey will take longer, but it’ll be safer. I bet there will be more wild animals to eat.”
Nelson nodded. He liked the sound of that.
Mercy unfolded the map again and looked north. They would not be able to get to Delaware if they did go towards the west. She drew her finger across the map again and said cheerily, “Right. I think I’ve got it. If we go slightly more to the west and then we follow the North Star again, we should come to Pennsylvania eventually. I believe that’s a free state for black people. My … my friend Jacob Stone told me where the free slaves live.”
She folded the map and put it back in the saddlebag and smiled again at Nelson. “Let’s not worry about anything right now. I’m starving, and these cold beans look good.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Jacob had ridden as far as he could and for as long as possible before finally giving up because of bad weather. No one he had questioned on his journey through Chesapeake Bay and the Hampton Roads had recognised Mercy’s likeness or remembered a woman with her distinct accent.
Mercy had now been missing for over two weeks. Virginia was looking at a harsh winter, with more blizzards and snow than the state had seen in years. The snow was even piled high at the coast, and conditions had been treacherous, with cruel horizontal winds without respite during short days and long nights.
It was mid-January, and his northern advance all the way up to the Delaware River, stopping in every small, large, or port town, had yielded nothing. He was weary and broken-hearted, but he had not given up hope of seeing Mercy again.
He had thought about many things on that journey. He wondered how it was possible to feel so much joy one day, only to lose that extraordinary feeling of complete fulfilment the next. Mercy had given him the great love he’d always imagined existed. It had surpassed all his expectations. He didn’t only love her; he also craved her, felt her with him even now, and saw her every night in his dreams. They were still connected by some inexplicable power. That was why he knew she was still alive. He physically ached for her. It was both comforting and tormenting to believe in his heart that she was well.
He was now a few miles outside of Portsmouth, but instead of turning his horse left, which would have taken him into the city, he turned right and headed towards du Pont’s house. His torm
ent had grown with each mile. He believed du Pont could lift some of the heavy weight from his shoulders by giving him answers. He would use force if necessary. He would kick her door down, and he would remain there until he got information that might give him a better understanding of what had happened to Mercy. He was convinced that du Pont would have returned to her farm by now – he was counting on it.
His horse whinnied at her front door. He dismounted and tethered the reins to a wooden post. Through lace window curtains, he saw candles flickering. He stood for a moment, trying to hide and contain the hatred he felt towards du Pont, and then he stepped onto the porch.
A slave woman opened the door. Madame du Pont stood behind her, dressed in a cream-coloured gown which displayed the shape of her saggy bosom. Gone were all the necessary tools she normally used to enhance her looks. She had no corset to hold up and shape her bosom and pull her in at the waist. There was no jewellery to hide the folds in her neck or earrings to cover long, dangly lobes. Her wig was old, showing bare netting on bald patches. Yet her face was caked with powder and rouge, black kohl pencil on top and bottom eyelids and eyebrows, and bright red paint smeared above and below her lip line in an attempt to hide the wrinkles around her mouth.
She stared at Jacob, blinking with surprise, and then folded her arms across her chest, displaying her annoyance.
Jacob removed his hat, shook the snow off it, and barely managed to hide his inner desire to kill her. “Good evening, Madame du Pont,” he said.
“It’s Mrs Mallory now, Mr Stone. What do you want?”