Douglass’ Women (18 page)

“Abolition has no finer champion than Frederick Bailey Douglass,” wrote Mr. Garrison in the
Liberator
. Everybody be happy: abolitionists, for printing the book; Freddy, for doing such noble work.

I be happy, too. Freddy didn’t travel further than a half day from me. I was clumsy, filled with a new child. Rosetta still tugged at my breasts. Freddy forbid me working. I could make lots of money. More money than I did trapping Big Blues. All the white women in town wanted me to clean their sheets. Freddy said, “No.” He said, “Dignity.” Still, I wished there was extra to send to Mam.

On Sabbath, Freddy be home. His hands waved when he talked. He practiced his speech about his battle with Covey:

“My long crushed spirit rose, cowardice departed, bold defiance, took its place; and I now resolved that however long I might remain a slave in form, the day has passed forever when I could be a slave in fact. I did not hesitate to let it be known of me, that the white man who expected to succeed in whipping, must also succeed in killing me.”

I clapped my hands.

Having babies gave me good excuses not to go to meetings. I didn’t miss the cigar smoke, the loud noise, the people pressing tighter than a school of fish. Freddy, though, enjoyed being noticed. He be more joyful than Christmas.

Sabbath evening, he said, “Today, Anna, we begin again. Frederick Junior is inside you. My son must read and write.”

“I’ll send him to Pastor’s school.”

“And how will you know if Pastor teaches him right? What about that, Anna?”

I had no time for letters, I thought. There be laundry to do. Cooking, cleaning. The new baby be draining much from me. Sometimes I just wanted to lay in bed. Not even get up for Rosetta’s call. But I did. I found the strength. Maybe this be why having a second baby too soon caused grief?

I bit my lip. It wouldn’t be right to ruin Freddy’s vow. I nodded and smiled. Freddy’s fingers caressed my lips.

On a small chalkboard, Freddy made me draw uppercase, “
I
,” and lowercase, “
i
.” I frustrated him because I asked too many questions, like why have upper and lower? Words would always say the same thing. He said, “It’s grammar.” But I thought a word be a word … be a word. Whether it be tall or small. He’d just finished sighing at me when the knock, no, the pounding, came at the door.

Both of us looked up, startled by the sound. I didn’t move, ’cause the sound was too big and loud, too frightening. None of the neighbors would knock so.

Freddy moved quick, like all along he’d been waiting for the sign. Been waiting for this sharp crack on wood to call him, make him jump from the chair, and swing open the door without putting on his coat.

“Garrison,” he said. “Miss Assing.” My heart froze. Freddy bowed. I lost my breath.

Something made me get up and move, though—get up, get baby Rosetta from the bedroom, and come back into the parlor, cradling the baby just as Mr. Garrison and Miz Assing come in.

It be raining. Miz Assing’s worried her cloak be dripping water on the floor. All this time, I’d let myself forget about her. But here she be like a ghost in my parlor.

“Not to worry,” I said, taking her wrap.

Garrison, slicking back his hair, say, “Plenty to worry about. There’s word, Frederick, a slave catcher’s on the hunt for you.”

Freddy stumbled back like someone had hit him a strong blow. Funny, I felt next to nothing. None of this was a surprise. All along, I expected the slave catcher to come. In Maryland, the children sang: “Run, nigger, run. The paterrollers come.” Slave and slave catchers be common. What’s not so common be a catcher traveling this far north. Staying on the trail for months. This catcher must be stubborn. He meant to have Freddy or die trying.

Freddy looked at me. “I am the trained, educated monkey.”

“We’ll buy you free,” said Miz Assing.

Freddy shook his head. “Auld won’t sell.”

“Then you must be gone, man. Gone to escape this fate. Enslaved again, you cannot help the cause.”

“You mean I’d be worthless to you?” Freddy said bitter, his words sharp.

“No, that isn’t what Garrison means,” said Miz Assing, placing her palm in his. “You are worth much, dear friend. So much so, I commit all my resources to keep you free from slavery.”

“Europe,” said Garrison.

“England,” said Miz Assing. “London is the place.”

I moved forward. “What you mean? We can’t travel that far with a baby. Not in this cold.”

Then all three turned—two white faces, one black; two men, one woman. The outline of the door framed them. Miz Assing be in the middle, Garrison be beside her on the left and Frederick be on the right. The two men be looking at the floor but Miz Assing be looking directly at me and the baby. Hand outstretched, she stepped forward. One step, two. Three. She stopped, shrugged. Her hands fell to her sides.

“Naw,” I said. “Naw. Not without me. He not going without me.”

“Mrs. Douglass, be reasonable—” “You must see—” “Anna—” All three spoke at once. But Freddy, he come take my hand.

“It’s like before, Anna. I need to go ahead. I’ll send for you. The baby, too.”

I didn’t want to fight in front of these people. I tried to keep my voice calm; I spoke softly, but I knew these strangers could still hear. “Freddy … Frederick, I do not want you gone so far from me. Please.” I murmured again, “Please.”

“He’ll become a slave again.”

I didn’t want Miz Assing speaking to me. Her voice
grated; it be too harsh. I kept my eyes fixed on Freddy. His two hands cupped my face and, though wordless, he be speaking to me. Telling me to stay strong.

“Frederick, my friend.” Garrison cleared his throat and spoke, soft and serious. “It’s true that you are worth much to the abolitionist cause. But I couldn’t bear knowing you were enslaved. Were your soul not known to me, I’d still dread and fight against your enslavement. But knowing your spirit and soul, I think I’d lose my mind if you were enslaved and I’d done nothing to help you.”

“Thank you, Garrison.” Freddy never turned around; he spoke his words to me. Cupping my face, looking at me, he gave his solemn thanks to this white man. All the while suggesting it was my turn to be generous.

I bowed my head. “My fault.”

“No one’s fault.”

“But the book—”

“I would’ve written it without you.”

But not so soon, I think
. I stared at the chalkboard and cursed the letters. White marks on black slates. I shook my head. There be no hope but to give in. “I’ll fix tea.”

“We’ll make plans,” said Miz Assing, curt and sharp. I imagined spilling scalding tea on her skirt. Foolishness for me to feel so spiteful.

While I worked in the kitchen, I heard their voices. Freddy’s voice, like a sweet melody; Garrison’s deep, like a smooth drum; but it was Miz Assing’s voice that ruined the music, making it flat.

More fool me. Being mad at Miz Assing ’cause Freddy was leaving. Why did I expect his journey to be over? Eyes open, I knew I married a slave. What right had I to complain? But, Lord, it hurt. Until Pa died, he never left Mam
for even a night. Now Freddy would be so far gone, I couldn’t pretend he’d be home any day. Far as England be, it would be months of travel there and back. Months of living in this place called London. The tea canister crashed to the floor.

“Anna, are you all right?”

“Yes,” I called back. Tears filled my eyes; I silently pleaded, “Come see for yourself, Freddy. Come see for yourself if I be all right.” Talk from the parlor kept on and I shivered. “Don’t be scared,” I tell myself. “Don’t fear.”

Freddy’s fleeing was my children’s only hope to know their Daddy one day. What a funny truth. Freddy’s leaving meant I still had hope. Meant he’d still have a chance to come back. Meant he might return to my side.

Mercy, this side of Heaven, my marriage would still abide.

I looked at Rosetta sleeping in the box on the kitchen table. She only knew her Daddy weeks and he was gone. I’d known him for almost two years but only for a few months had I kept him by my side.

“Sometimes the journey from slavery never ends.”

—F
REDERICK
D
OUGLASS,
IN A LETTER TO
W. L. G
ARRISON
, 1859

“I learned to whisper love in his ear.
While he slept, I spoke my heart.”

—O
TTILIE
A
SSING,
DIARY ENTRY
, 1862

New Bedford

I felt sorry for Anna. Standing with her baby clutched to her breast, she looked so vulnerable. Fierce too. How can a woman be both?

Frau Douglass didn’t want to be left behind. How could I blame her? I, too, would’ve wanted to stay with my husband.

When Douglass touched her arm, Anna grew hard. Like Medusa’s victims.

Douglass shifted his weight and, over his shoulder, I glimpsed her eyes. Such naked emotion. Such power. She was pleading with him. Saying nary a word. Yet, even from a distance, I felt her yearning. Not visible in the rest of her body but visible in her eyes. Brown like a doe’s.

I thought: How can Frederick refuse? He’ll have to take her with him. What kind of heart could leave such love behind?

I felt inexplicably sad. I turned. Garrison was looking at me, speculative. Inquiring. How dared he watch me! I spoke sharply.

“Why does no one ever call you Lloyd? It’s a more interesting name than Garrison.”

“Fräulein Assing, you of all people should know that actions are more interesting than mere words.”

I flushed. “What are you implying?”

“For the moment, nothing.” Then, his lips thinned with perverse satisfaction. “We have a slave to protect. Do we not?”

Douglass was coming toward us. It was like I saw him anew: handsome, certainly; resolute, of course. But such sadness rested upon his shoulders. I wanted to care for him. Hold him close and give him comfort. Anna was gone, disappeared into the kitchen. But I understood her need of him. I felt my own desire like some tidal wave, pulling me into its undertow and rendering me breathless. Douglass was like some hybrid god. More beautiful than plain African, more beautiful than plain American.

The current had been there all along, pulling, shaping me toward new shorelines. First, America, then New Bedford. But geography was nothing compared to my heart—compared to the heat stirring in my blood.

Mama taught me to praise feelings: “
The idea of love has its own beauty.”

But what was the source? Was it the man Douglass who stirred me? Or the
idea
of his enslavement that made him so appealing?

As in the best art, the man Douglass revealed himself in his
Narrative
. Emotions ironed into words didn’t lie. Sometimes, I had to stop reading and cry. Sometimes, I pressed my lips to paper wanting to soothe his hurts. Such injustice that such a gifted man should be a slave. How could I separate intellect from the concrete, the tangible
Douglass? How could I separate my love of his ideas, from my response to his body? Sinew, blood, flesh. If Mama was a heroine of her own life, then Douglass, surely, must be his own hero. I am his companion-in-arms as he meets a new trial. A new test of courage.

Douglass drew ever closer, despair etched on his brow, and I responded with trembling and dampened palms. I mustn’t be a schoolgirl. I was an intelligent woman committed to the cause of uplifting colored men and women from slavery. I exhaled. Clasped my hands.

Abstract and physical. Spiritual and carnal. All one.

“Let us sit down and plan,” said Garrison.

At some point, tea appeared. But I was lost exploring new sensations within me. I was conscious of little things. A scar on Douglass’ hand. His blunt fingertips. His lips parting as he spoke to Garrison.

Plain table, plain room. Serviceable. The candles had a strong odor and made much smoke. Not more than a peasant’s cottage in Germany.

I remembered Douglass striding the stage. This room wasn’t good enough for him. I remembered him moving gracefully, forcefully, abandoning the podium, bellowing his rage, then sweetening his prose with reason. The totality of him moved me.

“So, this is it,” said Douglass.

“Yes,” answered Garrison. “I can provide letters of introduction. As for funds, Miss Assing has been generous.”

I heard my name from a great distance. A spider illuminated by flame.

“London it is,” said Douglass, his voice muted, dry like paper.

“You can still speak to the cause. Excite our European allies,” said Garrison.

“Yes, and I will write. Articles. Essays. Dispatches.” His tone was firm.

“Good man.” Garrison shook Douglass’ hand. But when he would’ve released it, Douglass didn’t let it go.

“Will you care for my family? I do not want my wife taking in laundry.”

“Yes. I’ll see to her,” Garrison said quickly.

Too quickly, I thought.

“Tonight, Frederick, you must see to yourself,” urged Garrison. “Get to the ship at the farthest end of the wharf. The
Marie-Therese
. Do not sleep here tonight. Too dangerous.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Leave now. This instant, if you can manage it.”

“You cannot mean it?”

The haste was troubling. It was now becoming real to him—he was once again escaping. A runaway.

“I do mean it. Unless you wish to be recaptured.”

“I’d rather die.”

I covered his hand with mine. “It’ll not come to that.”

(God help me. I almost rested my cheek atop his palm.)

Once the decision was made, things happened quickly.

Garrison began writing letters of introduction. Douglass began selecting papers, books, stowing them into his black portmanteau. His energy was focused, but watching his hands, I could see the slight tremors. At times, he paused briefly and stared. Arrested by some private vision.
So his fear subtly presented itself. His vulnerability made him all the more appealing.