Chapter Ten
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Free of the stink of the auction house, this charming city overtook me with its delightful houses, narrow structures that faced onto side gardens and stretched back further into gardens behind. There was as much foot traffic as in New York, and the edges of the streets were filled mostly with these walkers, almost exclusively black-faced, women with children slung over their backs in little bundles, and men with garden tools and others hauling crates and packages. But though all of these folk appeared to be working, there was much less of a hurry and hustle about the streets than in my native town, mainly because the heat was such that everyone, slave or free, had to carry about the extra burden of the temperature and its humid essence.
“Here is the courthouse,” my cousin said, as we approached an impressively erected building, though of a miniature size compared to our New York structures. And the Episcopal church. And another church. And a meeting hall. At the corner a crowd of men on horseback, in rough country garb, jittered and huddled, their horses covered with dust. A short man with wiry hair sat high upon a tall stallion in the center of them, the horse so white it glowed almost blue.
“What’s this?” I asked.
My cousin shook his head.
“It is a man named Langerhans,” Rebecca said. “If man he is. He is more like something carved out of the mud…”
As if he had heard her say his name—though over the noise of the horses and at this distance it seemed doubtful—the mud-man turned his head, following us as we moved by.
“Halloo!” he called in our direction, touching a finger to his right eyebrow in a sort of salute.
“Ignore him,” my cousin said to Rebecca as the white horse stepped closer.
“Saw your nigger girl just now, carrying some basket or other,” the man said as his horse danced sidewise toward and yet away from us.
“Thank you, Langerhans,” my cousin said, “as you are paid to keep watch, it’s good to know you’re on the lookout.”
“You are welcome, sir,” Langerhans said, a shy grin spreading across his face. He showed dark teeth and it was not a pretty sight, and yet, overall, his visage was not unappealing.
“But you are supposed to keep watch outside of town, not here,” Jonathan said.
“We are just leaving, sir,” the man said.
“Good, then good, just do your job.”
With that, my cousin gave a snap of his buggy-whip and we moved along, putting those others behind us.
“Who are they?” I said.
“Patrollers. Poor nasty wretches,” my cousin said. “They make a living out of the misery of others.”
“That’s how many of us up north think of you plantation owners,” I said. I no sooner spoke when I felt the heat of deep embarrassment spreading up my chest, neck, and face. “I am sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Rebecca said. “No need. We’re just going to have to show you a new side of things then,” Rebecca said. “Some of us are working to improve the African souls. Jonathan?”
“Yes, although we have a lot of obstacles to overcome,” my cousin said, the look he gave me scarcely matching the restrained tone of his voice. Clearly the brandy had soothed whatever troubled him, but not enough. “Now here is our place.”
We slowed up and took in the trim stone building on our left, the synagogue called Beth Elohim on Coming Street.
“Where we have recently had quite a revolution,” my cousin said. “For there were those who objected to the use of an organ in the service, and they seceded and met just across the way.”
“I’m sorry I missed the war,” I said.
“Oh, there will be more of it, I am sure,” said Rebecca, with a laugh. “A hundred Jews, and each has his own opinion about God.”
“Our family remained with the majority,” my cousin said. “Rebecca’s family left with the secessionists.”
“I hope that has not made trouble for you,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” my cousin said, “but pleasant trouble. Rebecca, would you say it has spiced things up a bit between us?”
“Yes, it is very romantic,” she said, “to meet across the line of dispute. Like Juliet and Romeo.” She looked at me in a way both shy and inquisitive. “Do you have a Juliet at home?”
“I have a Miriam,” I said, and the words struck me like pellets from a gun. Yes, I did, did I not? My Juliet? I had never thought of her that way before.
“That is sweet,” Rebecca said. “Do you miss her?”
“I have not been away that long,” I said. “But I am sure I will.”
By this time in our journey my coat was soaked through, as was the handkerchief I used to dab the rivulets of sweat from my face.
“The weather here,” I remarked, happy to change the subject, “it takes some getting used to.”
My cousin laughed deep in his throat, but, I was noticing, however deep his merriment seemed somehow forced.
“We are born into it here,” he said. “The amusing part is that the Africans themselves have some trouble with the heat.”
Rebecca leaned across my cousin’s chest and touched me on the arm.
“The worst is not the heat but the sickness. The fevers and agues that abound in this part of the country, they sometimes grow ferocious. With the swamps to the north and west and south and the ocean to our east, it is as though we live on an island, and now and then we find we have an unwanted visitation in the fever. A torrent of it swept through the county last year and took half a dozen of our people. The Africans, in fact, call it ‘The Visitor.’”
“So,” I said, taking a deep breath and hoping to lift us out of the momentary slough we’d fallen into, “you are comparing me to a disease? I am, after all, just a visitor.”
The two of them laughed.
“And quite welcome,” my cousin said. “That is true, is it not, Rebecca?”
She reached across my cousin and touched me again, giving me cause to think how fortunate any child of hers would be, to know a mother’s touch so gentle.
“Yes, yes, absolutely. Why, we have had no guests in a long while and we’re all looking forward to getting to know you.”
“Yes, yes,” my cousin said, “though with all this talk about disease, you will be quite sick of all of us long before the time comes for you to depart.”
“I doubt that,” I said, but then what did I know at the time?
***
It was growing late, but there remained a part of the city my cousins wanted me to see, the lovely turns of road where the town met the ocean, and we had one more errand to run, so we headed to what he called The Battery. There we stopped the carriage and admired the pretty houses (with their white columns and plentiful flowering trees and vines, quite different from our staid northern brick facades) and gazed awhile at the ocean. Fort Sumter lay a mile or two offshore, like a man-made shoal, and the sun showed silver off the placid sea. Few creatures moved around us, and the heat lay heavy on everything, settling in our lungs. I could imagine that even the ocean had stopped for a while beneath this weight of sun, the ceaseless waverings of its surface and perhaps even its deeper current flows. I could imagine that standing here over and again, time itself might seem to have a stop.
“But we must go now,” my cousin said, speaking as if to contradict me and rousing me from my overheated reverie. “Liza is waiting.”
And so we headed away from the sea, rolling back to the pier where in the small enclosed market I had first seen the auction of dark human beings. There a woman emerged to meet us, carrying baskets in each hand, a bright turban atop her head, her face a splendor of mahogany cheek bones and bright green eyes and a straight nose that made her look more Hebraic than African.
The sight of her made me shiver in the heat.
Rebecca smiled as the slave girl approached. “Cousin, she is my prize.”
I shut my eyes tight and then opened them to watch the woman climb aboard the carriage onto the driver’s bench, on which sat the lean young dark man who had taken my bag.
At such close quarters, the sight of her shut my throat.