ࡱ> IKH 9bjbjVV 4P<<1D/-jKKKKK&&&9P&&&&&KK$$$&6KK$&$$$Kž\F$0-$$$&&$&&&&&`&&&-&&&&&&&&&&&&& :  CARRY ME TO THE RIVER By Jim Koenig In the bright starlight, a fat possum waddled across the path, not looking at Fishy. Ordinarily, hed have trailed after it, but not on this October night. Go on, git, he hissed softly. The critter waggled away rustling the scrubby grass. Fishy cautioned himself, could be de devil tryin to snatch a spirit. Resettling the digging pick on his shoulder, he cocked an ear listening for anyone else afoot. A slave, he mused, creepin in de dark wud spook de white folk and wud surely git a whippin. This thought brought a slight smile to his lean, stubbly face an old bag of bones like himself putting the fear of God in white folks. They are skittish lately since Mr. Lincoln might get elected president. All was quiet so he snatched up the old gunny sack and continued on. In a short while he turned from the footpath and felt his way slowly cross-country down the steep grade, slipping between spindly trees and stepping around rock outcroppings. It was familiar ground, and he wouldnt pass any houses with dogs tied up in the yard or slinking under porches. At the bottom of the hill he stopped again to listen. To his right, the sprawling brick buildings of the U.S. Armory were quiet, this being Sunday night. A little farther down river several lights flickered in the lower town of Harpers Ferry, while faint voices floated on the crisp night air. The B&O train depot, telegraph office and hotel had people coming and going at all hours. Lately, town folk had started carrying pistols and rifles patrolling for slaves and free blacks out at night when they shouldnt be. Black folks couldnt even have church services unless a white man was watching. He looked at the sack and whispered, Wes almos der. Directly across a flat stretch of ground, a canal blocked his way. Hefting the sack high in the air, he added, Don be skert, and, with one long stride, he lunged hip deep into cold dark water. Pushing forward and swinging his upper body side-to-side, he quickly crossed over. It was a man-made sluice to divert river water for powering the machinery in the Armory. One of his shoes was lost to the bottom muck, and his pants would take half the night to dry in the cool autumn air. Luckily, his thin jacket and shirt remained mostly dry. After lowering the sack and shifting the pick on his shoulder, Fishy stepped lightly across the railroad tracks, the chunky rock bed hard on his one bare foot. A long train Baltimore bound would come creaking by around midnight and then stop at the station in the lower town. The cars would stretch way back with the caboose idling about where hed just crossed. Taking a moment to get his bearings, he crept south along the river until he found the patch of familiar ground. A thick screen of scrub trees and tangled brush blocked any view from the Armory and railroad tracks. Wes here, he again spoke to the sack while gently lowering it to the ground which was pocked with faint depressions. These reminders of previous visits were now nearly obscured by weeds, leaves and foot-high sycamores. The river murmured nearby as it swirled around rocks that looked like patches of bare ground because of the dry summer. Slowly, Fishy turned until he had a fix on the gap between the mountains just beyond where the Shenandoah merged with the Potomac to become one great river. Even tonight with no moon, it was easy to locate because stars funneled down to the Potomac between the rocky slopes of Maryland Heights on the north and Loudoun Heights on the south side of the river. The gap between the two mountains was just where the sun rose, heralding the direction home. Sure of his reckoning, Fishy took up the pick and stuck the point lightly into the ground to mark the next spot. Dragging it back two steps, he scratched a straight line east-to-west as hed done for all the others. The pick bit easily into the sandy soil for a few swings. Then, on knees, he scooped out the dirt with his gnarly fingers and carefully piled it to the side. When the loose dirt had been removed, he took up the pick again, repeating until the hole was about as deep as he could stretch down and as long as his arm. Digging done, he sat on the edge of the hole with his feet in the dark well, the toes of his bare foot fiddling with some loose dirt in the bottom. He thought back to when he was young and a respected elder first spoke about a distant place saying, De spirit moves wit de waters, floatin like a stick til he be home cross de ocean. Having been born into slavery, this was all Fishy knew about his true home. Fishy was old the first time a slave girl handed him a patched grain sack soft from long use and left without a word. From the very first moment he peered inside he immediately knew somehow what had to be done. Over the years since, men as well as women had come quietly to his door, always after sundown. This was one more sack which Fishy now reached for to settle on his lap. Folding back the burlap, he carefully pulled out the baby. It fit in his rough hand like a huge grub and felt like one, rubbery and slick. Even in the starlight, he could see that the skin was pale like the others. Looking at the perfect tiny curled toes and clenched hands caused a welling of grief in his chest though the father of this boy was most likely her master. Fishy slipped the baby under his shirt, the cold lump causing him to suck in a sharp breath. Waiting until the chill passed, he whispered, Little boy, yous free, and nodded toward the Potomac with the harsh truth burdening him that he would remain a slave until the day he died. Pressing the boy more firmly to his breast, he wondered, not for the first time, when his own end came who would carry him to the river to free his spirit? Handful-by-handful, he carefully dribbled dirt into the hole until it was mounded overfull. With his index finger, he drew an arrow in the soft pile. Quietly rubbing his hands together, he shed the last grains of dirt which fell onto this new wound in the earth. That done, Fishy lay down on top of the tiny mound, the warmth of his skinny belly centered over the loose fill. He would stay there until just before dawn and then get back in time to light the masters cooking fire. Fishys face had just found a comfortable place when he felt the presence of someone, though he couldnt distinguish a particular sound that might have alerted him. For an instant he thought in alarm of the white patrols, but theyd have rousted him at gun point by now. There werent any large animals about since deer, bear and cougar had all been killed off by the time he was a boy. As his mind scurried trying to decide what to do, a pair of small bare feet came into view. Quietly, he turned onto his side to see a crouching girl warily easing toward him. She wore a baggy shift with her stick arms and legs exposed to the night chill. Fishy sat up as she squatted beside him. Without a word of greeting or nod of recognition, they sat side-by-side, she hugging her knees and he cross-legged. All slaves knew each other. Willie took im, she finally said, her head bobbing as her mouth opened against her knee, the words escaping into the night air for Fishy to hear. Just after dark, thered been that tap on Fishys cabin door. A young sinewy man, head bowed, had quietly extended his trembling arm, the sack jiggling in the air as if it were alive. Fishy knew better. Willie was her man but lived on a farm with nine other slaves. The young girl lived alone in a cabin behind her masters house near the top of the hill in Harpers Ferry. In all these years, none of them had ever followed Fishy to this place by the river or asked what hed done with the sack. Now this girl had, and he didnt know what to do. When the low moaning began, his nerves jangled because hed never had a woman of his own, let alone a child, and he wasnt sure how to comfort. Its alright, chile, you see, alright, he finally cooed, but he knew from long experience that something this sad never healed. Slipping off his jacket, he draped it over her boney shoulders which were rising and falling as she let out low, sorrowful gasps with each raggedy breath. They sat not speaking, the girl with her head resting on bent knees, arms wrapped tightly around her shins, the old slave worrying over a thought about how to get this child safely back before the master discovered her gone. Sitting together in the dark, cackles of laughter and muffled voices occasionally drifted their way likely coming from revelers at Foukes Hotel or the train station. Standing up, he gently prodded, Chile, train be comin soon. He hoped to remind her that it was past midnight and she could be missed if the master or his wife woke needing something. She worked her jaw as if chewing and then said, Aint goin back. A racking spasm followed this declaration causing Fishy to lurch away from her, then bracing as if a skittish horse had balked. The girl flopped onto the loose dirt, writhing, and beat her fists into the ground. Then, just as suddenly, she went limp. Approaching cautiously, Fishy leaned over the distraught girl, fearful that she might have died from grief. There was no meat on her bones, and it took a moment for Fishy to see that she was still breathing. Cautiously, he reached with his hand to lightly touch her shoulder, Chile? Her lips barely moving, she slowly repeated, Ain goin back. Over the years thered been plenty of stories about runaways, but Fishy hadnt ever personally known one. There were just as many stories about brutal slave catchers hunting down runaways in the north and bringing them back flayed bloody and in chains. Some masters even sold the bad ones south to work the murderous cotton fields. Fishy squatted on his haunches to better see the girl. She sat up, met his eyes and asked, Wheres north? They all knew freedom could be found in the north so long as the slave catchers didnt follow. There was fanciful talk of cities full of black folks without masters, but this just didnt seem quite believable to Fishy. No blacks he knew could do as they pleased, not even the ones whod got their freedom. He answered by nodding his head and saying, Yonder, cross the river, though he didnt know how far. Some said a couple of days and others speculated weeks because traveling could only be done at night. She looked over the flowing water and asked, You ever go there? Naw chile, never, he answered, slowly shaking his head. The girl stood up and walked to the riverbank. Fishy guessed what she was thinking because hed stood on that same shore and wondered. With the river this low, the exposed rocks could almost seem like stepping stones, to frog hop to the other side. After that his imagination failed. The far shore looked the same as where he was now. And, the free blacks he knew lived in small cabins like him, worked at odd jobs for white folk, had no money, couldnt buy in white stores even if they did, and there was no schooling for their children. The child had to go back to her master. Fishy went and stood beside her and together they looked across the wide river dappled with reflected starlight. The girl turned to him and asked, Whatd you scratch on Babys grave? Fishy had to think a moment, then answered, De way down river. She looked at him, expecting to hear more. Never had he told anyone about what he did at this place or why. But this mother wanted to know so he said, Baby needs the river to git home. The girl turned to stare at the water. He knew she was trying to make up her mind. The other side was a fair distance, but the river parting over the rocks made the crossing seem possible. The worry was between rocks where, in some deep holes, long whiskered catfish idled and a body could sink forever into cold darkness with a single misstep. Cautiously, Fishy took her small, calloused hand and waited to see if shed bolt. After a minute, he gently pulled her away from the water and started inland. In a few steps they were standing over the small earthen mound, and he let her hand go. They looked at the dirt disturbed by her earlier thrashings. Fishy leaned down and dusted away the vestige of his arrow. Then, with his crooked index finger he scribed a new line pointing north. Straightening, he said, Come, Chile. Back at the rivers edge, he cautiously stepped onto a softly grooved rock that was submerged just beneath the rippling surface. The wisp of a girl followed, her bare feet seeking purchase on the cold, indifferent stone, eager to cross. $%&-Ach  5 6 a b  & . 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