Remember the Morning (8 page)

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Authors: Thomas Fleming

BOOK: Remember the Morning
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Suddenly Caesar was leaning over her, a warm male smell coming from his black flesh. “Now, beautiful, it's time to pay for your dinner.”
“You know I have no money.”
“There's another way a pretty girl can pay.”
“I'm not a whore,” Clara said.
Caesar's smile only grew wider. “All women are whores and all men are thieves,” he said. “Eventually you'll sell your love to someone. Why not start with me, the prince of thieves?”
Clara shook her head. Caesar tried to pull her to her feet for a rough kiss. She sank her teeth into his shoulder and he let go with a howl of pain. She was sure she was going to get a beating but Caesar only rubbed his wound and glowered.
“You're lucky you belong to Van Vorst,” Caesar said. “If it was anyone else, I'd spoil your pretty face for you. But he's the sort who'd sue my master for damage to his property. If I ever cost Old Vraack real money, he'd let me hang the next time they caught me.”
“I want to go back to the other cell,” Clara said.
“Oh no. We're goin' to spend the night together. Maybe by mornin' we'll be friends.”
Clara crouched in a corner of the cell and Caesar talked about Africa. His father had been a great chief and he had led their tribe into battle against an enemy tribe on the other side of a tremendous river, ten times as wide as the Hudson. They had lost the battle and the enemy had crossed the river with his father's body and seized their village. They had cooked his father over a bed of coals and eaten him in tribute to his bravery. They had let him eat some of his father's flesh.
None of this surprised Clara. She had seen the Senecas eat the flesh of captive warriors after they had died bravely at the torture stake. It was
the way warriors tried to steal the courage of their enemies. But Caesar's story carried at its heart a different kind of pain. He told her of the long march to the shore of the ocean, where his mother and brothers and sisters and everyone else in his village were sold to white men on ships that brought them to America.
Clara asked him if Africa was like America. “No,” Caesar said. “Africa's warm. No one freezes in the winter in Africa the way people do in New York. Every year poor people freeze to death here when they run out of wood.”
Caesar talked on about the wonders, the beauties, of Africa. The great river never thickened into ice. There was no snow in Africa, no north wind that whipped cold rain and colder sleet into a man's face. The animals were beautiful. The horses had black and white stripes and there were animals even bigger than horses, with floppy ears and great long noses and teeth as long as swords. Africa was a loving mother and America was a harsh pitiless father.
“No one steals in Africa, no one lies and cheats. Women don't sell their love for money. Men don't own slaves and live off their labor. Everyone shares in the bounty of the land, the fish of the great river, the game of the forest.”
“I begin to think even if you become a king in America, you'll still long for Africa,” Clara said.
“I'll build a royal ship, a ship big enough for my whole army, and sail back to Africa. We'll go up the great river to my old village and start a new tribe.”
Caesar was back to boasting again. Clara had watched her grandmother listen to bragging warriors and silently calculate how much truth there was in their oratory. Her calculation of Caesar's truth was low. But there was something else loose in Caesar's words—a sadness that Clara began to share for the first time. It was part of the new truth, the new self she was slowly discovering. She too was an exile in this white world.
What else did she sense, as Caesar prowled the dark cell, imagining himself as king of New York? Danger. There was danger and blood and death in Caesar's words. Clara did not know how or where or when the danger would erupt, but she sensed it like heat from a flame. Caesar was like a spark blown into a dry forest, igniting a blaze that consumed everything and everyone, trees, animals, humans.
But the sadness slowly overwhelmed the danger as Caesar grew weary of the sound of his own voice. “Come on, my beautiful one. Make Caesar happy for a little while,” he whispered. “Let him make you happy. There's so little happiness in this miserable world. Let's make some here in the dark.”
As Caesar's hands prowled her body, Clara found it more and more
difficult to refuse him. Intertwined with the sadness and the smell of danger was a mad angry hope that connected to something deep inside her. She let him carry her to the cot and kiss her until the smell of desire oozed from his flesh and the blind wish to be filled, to be held, throbbed in her belly.
What came next was not happiness. In these moments, her grandmother had taught her that spirits should touch, the whole world should sigh and sing like a summer wind in leafy trees. Wherever Caesar's spirit dwelt, it did not speak to her. Had slavery destroyed it? Was he only a talking machine that stole and baked and schemed? Would it be different, would there be joy and music, if she and Caesar were free?
C
LARA WAS TWINED IN CAESAR'S ARMS when the sheriff awoke them with guffaws and leers. She felt ashamed and vowed she would never surrender that way again, especially when Caesar strutted and winked while the sheriff mocked her with stuff about Caesar having every black woman in New York thanks to his clever mouth and big cock.
Suddenly the sheriff was no longer friendly. He clapped manacles on Caesar's wrists and ankles and tied Clara's hands behind her back and ordered them ahead of him to the courtroom. On a high seat in a room lined with dark wood sat a gloomy-eyed old man in a black robe, with a long white wig that fell to his shoulders on both sides of his head. Behind him on the wall hung a portrait of King George II. This was “old Staats”—Judge Walter Van Staats, the man who liked to punish blacks. On a bench in the center of the courtroom sat Mrs. Van Vorst and Fat Alice and her daughter Hester.
Caesar was tried first. The sheriff reported he had been spotted by the constables of the Night Watch
10
at the foot of Dock Street with a bag over his shoulder. The Watch gave chase and Caesar threw the bag into the harbor. The Watch was convinced it was stolen goods that Caesar was on his way to sell to sailors on nearby ships. The judge told Caesar this was his third arrest this year on the same charge, suspicion of theft. What was his explanation this time?
Caesar said the bag contained various things he had won at cards with his friends. He did not want the Watch to get it because some of the items might have gotten the friends in trouble. He swore none of them were stolen—they had all been given to his friends for being good servants. He also said he was angry at the Watch for persecuting him.
From a bench in the rear of the courtroom tottered John Vraack, Caesar's master, a bent old man who pleaded with the judge to be lenient with Caesar. He needed him to run his bakery. His health no longer permitted him to do heavy work. Without Caesar, he and his wife would have to go out of business. They could not afford to buy another slave.
Judge Van Staats swore if Caesar was arrested again, he would hang, even if John Vraack and his wife starved and half of New York went without bread. Caesar piously vowed to stop gambling and attend to his work. He said he would go to church every Sunday and ask God for help. Grumbling and snarling, Judge Van Staats dismissed the charges.
It was Clara's turn. The sheriff had said very little against Caesar. He had stated the facts of his case in a bored monotone. With Clara he became furiously indignant. He described her threats and called her a savage who needed to be taught that Indian ways were not white ways and New Yorkers would not tolerate threats of murder and mayhem.
“I agree with every word you say!” the judge rumbled. “Summon the witnesses.”
Gertrude Van Vorst and Fat Alice testified to Clara's threatening them with the knife. She was sure she was on her way to the whipping post when the doors at the back of the courtroom swung open and Malcolm Stapleton and his friend Robert Foster Nicolls hurried up the aisle. With them was the hunchback, Adam Duycinck, and a third man, followed by her Seneca sister, Catalyntie Van Vorst.
 
I had spent the intervening hours quarreling violently with my aunt and uncle and beseeching Malcolm Stapleton and Guert Cuyler to save Clara from the whipping post. Guert could not prevail upon his father to take the case. Nor could Malcolm persuade his father. No established lawyer wanted to defend an African who had threatened a white woman with a knife. Guert decided to plead it himself, even though he was far from a thorough lawyer.
11
When Robert Nicolls heard about my distress, he volunteered to join us as a friendly witness.
“Your Honor,” said Guert, “I would like to represent the defendant in this matter.”
“On what grounds? She's not your property,” Judge Van Staats said.
“She's the property in fact if not in law of Miss Van Vorst here, the
granddaughter of your late lamented good friend, Cornelius Van Vorst,” Guert said. “He was also among my grandfather's dearest friends. Miss Van Vorst is not yet old enough to inherit her estate. But I think she has a right, in the law, to protest the abuse of a slave that belongs to her, just as she might protest if her uncle, the executor of the estate, began damaging or otherwise maltreating a house which was left to her.”
“How dare you, sir?” Gertrude Van Vorst cried. “How dare you accuse my husband of such a thing?”
“For the moment we're only accusing
you
of maltreating this girl, madam,” Guert said.
“What about the right of the community to protect itself against the creature's violence? Am I supposed to let her return to the house she's threatened with murder?” Judge Van Staats said.
“If it please the court,” Guert said. “I would suggest an order from Your Honor to place the wench in the custody of my friend, Malcolm Stapleton here, and his father. They'll negotiate a fair price with the Van Vorsts for the loss of her services.”
At this point, Robert Nicolls stepped forward and gave an eloquent defense of Clara's character. “I saw this young woman when she was exchanged at the great peace council last year,” he said. “She did not display a hint of violence or resentment in her demeanor.”
“I'm inclined to order her sold to the West Indies at a fair market value and the money to be placed in Miss Van Vorst's estate!” Judge Van Staats roared.
“Your late lamented good friend, Cornelius Van Vorst, when he drew his will, urged that this young woman be treated with kindness and forbearance, out of a debt of gratitude he owed her father for saving his life in the northern woods,” Guert Cuyler said.
The repetition of Cornelius Van Vorst's name had a marvelously soothing effect on the old judge. He rumbled and grumbled about Clara still being a danger to the peace of the city but he was no longer threatening her with punishment. “If it would satisfy Your Honor,” Malcolm said, “she can be sent to my family's house in New Jersey. My mother is in need of a servant out there.”
“Done,” the judge said, whacking the bench with his gavel. “In the name of the best friend of my life. For no one else would I hesitate to mete justice to one of these black vermin. They murdered my son, you know. Every time I see one of them on the street I can taste the bile of that memory in my throat.”
“They murdered my father!” Gertrude Van Vorst cried.
Black vermin
. The words struck Clara like a lash across the face. Was this what white men thought of them?
Them
. Who was she talking about? She was a Seneca. She was not one of these Africans.
Dazedly, Clara let me embrace her and lead her from the courtroom, while Gertrude Van Vorst raged at us. Guert Cuyler struggled to play the peacemaker. He obviously had misgivings about offending the Van Vorsts. It was a good indication of how rich my uncle had become.
“I took the case at Miss Van Vorst's request, madam,” Cuyler said. “My father drew Cornelius Van Vorst's last will. We consider her our client.”
“The whole matter is an unfortunate misunderstanding,” Robert Nicolls said. “I'm sure you never intended to mistreat her, madam. It's hard for us civilized folk to appreciate the way Indians act and react. You should think of her that way, madam—and consider yourself well rid of her. I'm sure, when you have time to reflect on it, you'll agree with me.”
“You may have a point, sir,” Aunt Gertrude said, soothed by Nicolls's ingratiating manner.
My admiration for-not to mention my gratitude to—this self-assured young men quintupled. It mingled with my satisfaction at extricating Clara from the Van Vorst household. I could only hope she would be happier with the Stapletons, even though she was still a slave.
We escorted Clara to a boat waiting at a Hudson River dock. “The sooner you're out of Aunt Gertrude's reach, the better,” I said. “Mr. Stapleton's assured me you'll be treated with perfect kindness and respect. We can exchange letters and perhaps I can visit you, if I can persuade my uncle to lend me the money for the trip. As soon as I inherit my estate I'll free you.”
We reached the dock as I said these last words. The rage they created in Clara's eyes made me wonder if our love had ended. I had blundered from the white world back into our Seneca past. Even if I freed her from slavery, the gift was poisoned. How could she accept as a gift the liberty every Seneca inherited at birth?
“Forgive me!” I cried.
“There's nothing to forgive,” Clara said.
In that moment, Clara donned an invisible false face. She no longer cared about the teachings of Jesus. She did not even care whether her words and acts created good or evil. She saw her soul, fleeing through the moonless forest to be devoured by demons and devils, all of them white. Somehow she would outwit them.

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