I STOOD SILENT at Henry’s grave site. He had died so quickly, much as Caroline had. Had I failed him, too? I was free to go and though everything in me wanted to bolt, I had promised Henry that I would go for Pan. I tried to argue myself out of it. It was too dangerous, and now I had a daughter to care for. A daughter! Caroline’s child! My daughter! Wasn’t she my first responsibility? Yet I knew that the baby was as safe in Robert’s hands as she would have been in mine. True, I needed to arrange for them to leave Philadelphia, but Pan was the one most in danger, and I had given Henry my word.
I flinched when the grave digger threw the last bit of dirt on Henry’s grave, and when he struck at it to tamp down the soil, I reached out as though to stop him.
The man leaned back on his shovel. “You wantin’ to say somethin’ over him?” he asked. I looked about this remote cemetery located outside of town, meant only for Negroes. Here stones and sticks served as markers, and I thought of the large granite headstones that marked the Burtons’ resting place. I remembered, too, the eulogies given my adopted parents, but words for Henry failed me, and I shook my head. “But he was a good man,” I said, not wanting the man to misunderstand.
He studied me for a moment. “You needin’ me to say somethin’ for you?” he asked.
I nodded. What harm could it do?
The old colored man set down his shovel and straightened up. “What you call him?” he asked.
“Henry,” I said.
“Jus’ Henry?”
I nodded again but was somehow embarrassed for Henry’s lack of a family name.
The man folded his dirt-stained hands in front of him before he lowered his head. “Lawd, You got Yourself a good man. Keep him safe in Your place a glory.” The man gauged my reaction from the corner of his eye, then assured himself of coins when he quickly added, “And Henry wants to thank You, Lawd, for providin’ him with this good masta what looks out for him down here.”
BACK IN THE room, I set Henry’s small bag in a corner next to mine. That evening, after having secured passage on a stagecoach for the following morning, I paced the small room.
What was I to do about the baby? Now that I knew there was a child, I was surprised by the feelings that I had about her. I had never imagined myself as a parent—in fact, because of my parentage, the idea was not a consideration. But now that she was here, I felt protective toward her. I feared leaving her in Philadelphia, for what if Mrs. Cardon were to change her mind? Should she demand the baby’s return, Robert had no way of refusing her. No, the baby must be removed, but where could I send her?
The only place that came to mind was Williamsburg. I dug into my trunk to find Lavinia’s letter and reread it once again. She had written of her daughter, Elly, whom I remembered only as a willful redheaded child. But she was grown now, and Lavinia had stressed that both Elly and her cousin were independent and freethinking. As well, they ran a school for girls, and I hoped their caring might extend into sympathy for a young baby. In the end, I had little choice. I sat down to write a letter, addressing it to the Madden School for Young Girls, Attention: Miss Eleanor Pyke, Williamsburg, Virginia.
Dear Miss Pyke,
I have recently been in contact via letter with your mother, Mrs. Lavinia Pyke. She informed me that you are aware of our personal connection. Thus I dare write to you with a request that, because of the extreme circumstances I find myself in, would surely appear to be taking advantage of the situation.
I will come straight to the point.
I am on my way south to North Carolina to carry out a mission that is not of my choosing. Because of a promise made, I am bound to go. However, I have just learned that my motherless infant daughter must leave Philadelphia at once. I find I have nowhere else to turn, and I humbly ask that you open your door to my manservant, who has my daughter in his trusted care.
I set the letter aside to pace again about the room. According to Lavinia’s earlier words, Elly was aware that Marshall was my father, but was she also aware that I had killed him? And had Elly been told that Belle was my mother? Would she then see my child as Negro and, if so, might that influence her consideration of a safe haven?
I forced myself to sit. I would take the chance. If Elly did not take the baby in, I would have to trust Robert’s ability to formulate another plan. I could think of no other solution and ended the letter with Edenton, North Carolina, as a post station whereby to reach me. After some thought, I signed off as James Pyke Burton.
Next I wrote to Robert with instructions to hire a carriage and bring the baby and the nurse to Williamsburg, where they were to find shelter with Miss Elly Pyke until my return. I included a letter of passage and another of introduction for Robert, then added a last note for my lawyer with instructions to transfer all available funds to Williamsburg.
In the early morning I posted the letters, then waited anxiously to board the stage for North Carolina.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1830
Pan
FINALLY COMES A day when I can stand up some. Then I start to wonder how to get home. I figure if I can get hold of Mr. Burton, he’ll come for me.
I can’t get the woman who takes care of me to talk, but one night after she finishes working on my head, I ask her to bring over a can of lard. I don’t think she will, but she does. When I ask her to sit down beside me, she keeps looking at me like she don’t know what’s coming next.
“I’m just gonna do what I always do for my mama,” I say, and I take one of her hands and start to rub it in with grease. I work her hand just like I did Mama’s, and in a little while she closes her eyes. While I’m working on each finger, I start to talk, and I tell her about my mama and about how good I took care of her when she was sick. I tell her how Mama had to go when the good Lord called, but that she said she would always look out for me. “I don’t know where she was when I got took, but I’m expecting that she’ll get Mr. Burton to come any day now.”
The big woman is quiet and her eyes stay closed, but it looks to me like she’s listening, so I keep going. “Mr. Burton is the man who’s coming for me. If he knows where I’m at, he’ll show up.”
I reach for her other hand and this time she gives it over easy. “Can you tell me what place this is so I can write to Mr. Burton?” I ask. The woman opens her eyes and starts looking around to see if anybody’s awake. Then she holds her finger up to her mouth so I stay quiet. Later, after she checks to make sure nobody is awake, she goes into her own small room where she sleeps and comes back with a old quill and a bottle of ink and a piece of paper. At the top it says:
You at Southwood in a sickhouse in North Carolina.
The ink is still wet. I stare at her. “Did you write this?” I ask, but quick she puts her finger to her lips. Then she grabs hold of my hand and on the inside of it spells out S, U, K, E, Y, showing me how she don’t need to use paper and ink.
“Is that you? Sukey?” I ask, and she nods. “My name’s Pan,” I say, and I’m excited now I know her name. I want her to write some more on my hand, but she keeps pointing to the paper for me to get started on my note to Mr. Burton, so I do. My hand is shaky, but under what Sukey wrote, I print out real careful: Mr. James Burton in Philadelphia.
Mr. Burton, they got me in the sickhouse at a place called Southwood in North Carolina. I need you to come get me. I got whooped on the head but I can stand now. Come quick to get me. I want to get home. I’m scared.
Pan