“Did you all have a pleasant day?” Gloria said when the room quieted. “I was down in the root cellar all day and then I come up to see what a gift God gave us today. That sky. And them hogs…”
She apologized for her husband’s absence. John Valentine wanted to take advantage of the big harvest to renegotiate their loan. “Lord knows, there’s so much in the offing, it’s nice to have a little peace of mind.” She bowed at Mingo, who sat in front, next to the empty space usually reserved for Valentine. Mingo was a stoutly made man of middle stature, with a West Indian complexion that was livened by his red checkered suit tonight. He gave an amen and turned to nod at his allies in the meeting house.
Sybil nudged Cora at this acknowledgment of the farm’s political arguments, an acknowledgment that legitimized Mingo’s position. There was frequent talk now of lighting out west, where colored towns sprouted up on the other side of the Arkansas River. To places that didn’t share a border with slave states, had never countenanced the abomination of slavery. Mingo advocated staying in Indiana, but with a severe reduction in those they sheltered: the runaways, the lost. People like Cora. The parade of famous visitors spreading the farm’s renown made the place into a symbol of colored uplift—and a target. After all, the specter of colored rebellion, all those angry dark faces surrounding them, had stirred white settlers to leave the south. They come to Indiana, and right next door is a black nation rising. It always ended in violence.
Sybil scorned Mingo, his greasy personality and constant jockeying; an imperious nature lurked beneath his gregariousness. Yes, the man wore an honorable legend: After he hired himself out from his master for weekend labor, he had purchased the freedom of his wife, then his children, and finally himself. Sybil dismissed this prodigious feat—the man got lucky with regards to his master is all. Mingo would never be more than an opportunist, harassing the farm with his own notions about colored advancement. With Lander, he would take the lectern at next month’s gathering to decide their future.
Cora declined to join her friend in her derision. Mingo had been distant to her on account of the attention that runaways brought to the farm, and when he heard she was wanted for murder, shunned Cora altogether. Still, the man had saved his family and could’ve died before completing his task—it was a mighty thing. Her first day in the schoolhouse his two girls, Amanda and Marie, had delivered the Declaration with poise. They were admirable girls. But no, Cora didn’t like his smart talk. Something in his smile reminded her of Blake, that preening buck from the old days. Mingo didn’t need a place to put his doghouse, but surely he was on the lookout to expand his domain.
They’d get to the music in short order, Gloria reassured them. There weren’t what Valentine called “dignitaries” among them tonight—in fancy clothes, with Yankee accents—although some guests from the county had come down the road. Gloria asked them to stand up and identify themselves for a welcome. Then it was time for the diversions. “While you digest that fine meal, we have a sweet treat,” she said. “You may recognize his face from his earlier visit to Valentine, a most distinguished young man of the arts.”
The previous Saturday, it had been a pregnant opera singer from Montreal. The Saturday before that, a violinist from Connecticut who made half the women weep, so overcome were they with feeling. Tonight belonged to the poet. Rumsey Brooks was solemn and slim, dressed in a black suit with a black bow tie. He looked like a traveling preacher.
—
HE’D been there three months prior with a delegation out of Ohio. Did the Valentine farm deserve its reputation? An old white lady devoted to the cause of negro uplift had organized the expedition. The widow of a big Boston lawyer, she collected funds for various ventures, the publication and dissemination of colored literature a particular concern. After hearing one of Lander’s orations, she arranged for the distribution of his autobiography; the printer had previously put out a line of Shakespeare’s tragedies. The volume’s first run sold out in days, a handsome edition with Elijah Lander’s name in gold leaf. Rumsey’s own manuscript was forthcoming next month, Gloria said.
The poet kissed his host’s hand and asked permission to share some of his poetry. He was not without charisma, Cora had to admit. According to Georgina, Rumsey courted one of the milk-house girls, but was so liberal with flattery that he was obviously a young man open to the sweet mysteries of fate. “Who knows what destiny has in store for us,” he asked Cora on his first visit, “and what kind of people we will have the pleasure to know?” Royal suddenly appeared at her side and pulled her away from the poet’s honey words.
She should have recognized Royal’s intentions. If she’d known how out of sorts his disappearances made her, she would have rebuffed him.
With Gloria’s blessing, the poet cleared his throat. “?’Ere I saw a dappled wonder,” he recited, his voice rising and dipping as if battling a headwind. “Settling ’cross the fields, hovering on angel wings and brandishing a blazing shield…”
The meeting house amened and sighed. Rumsey tried not to smile at their reaction, the effect of his performance. Cora couldn’t make much out of his poems: a visitation of a magnificent presence, a seeker awaiting a message. A conversation between an acorn, a sapling, and a powerful oak. Also a tribute to Benjamin Franklin and his ingenuity. Versifying left her cold. Poems were too close to prayer, rousing regrettable passions. Waiting for God to rescue you when it was up to you. Poetry and prayer put ideas in people’s heads that got them killed, distracting them from the ruthless mechanism of the world.
After the poetry the musicians were set to perform, some players who had just joined the farm. The poet prepared the dancing circles well, intoxicating them with visions of flight and release. If it made them happy, who was Cora to belittle them? They put bits of themselves into his characters, grafting their faces onto the figures in his rhymes. Did they see themselves in Benjamin Franklin or his inventions? Slaves were tools, so maybe the latter, but no one here was a slave. Counted as property by someone far away, perhaps, but not here.
The entire farm was something beyond her imagination. The Valentines had performed a miracle. She sat among the proof of it; more than that, she was part of that miracle. She had given herself too easily to the false promises of South Carolina. Now a bitter part of her refused the treasures of the Valentine farm, even as every day some blessing part came into bloom. In a young girl taking her hand. In her fears for a man she’d come to feel for.
Rumsey closed with an appeal for nurturing the artistic temperament in young and old alike, “to stoke that Apollonian ember in all mortal beings.” One of the newcomers shoved the lectern across the stage. A cue for the musicians, and a cue for Cora. Sybil knew her friend’s ways by now and kissed her farewell. The hall stifled; outside it was cold and dark. Cora left to the sound of the large pews scraping to make room to dance. She passed someone on the path who declared, “You going the wrong way, girl!”
When she got home, Royal was leaning against a post of her porch. His silhouette, even in the dark. “I thought you’d be along once that banjo got on,” he said.
Cora lit the lamp and saw his black eye, the yellow-purple lump. “Oh,” she said, hugging him, putting her face into his neck.
“A scuffle is all,” he said. “We got away.” Cora shuddered and he whispered, “I know you were worried. I didn’t feel like mixing with folks tonight, reckoned I’d wait here.”
On the porch, they sat on the lovelorn carpenters’ chairs and took in the night. He moved over so their shoulders touched.