Crossing the River Read online

  Armed with directions to this place, which lay not too far off, Edward set forth across the town, the sun hanging above him like a bright lamp. He could feel small beads of sweat forming on his forehead and trickling down his temples, and others sliding about the bridge of his nose and then down and under his chin to his collar. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed furiously at his face as he walked. Having located the door to the club, Edward raised the brass knocker and struck it three times with force. A black man, clearly of American origin, answered and asked after his business, to which Edward answered that he had been given to believe that this was a Gentleman’s Club for white people. As a visitor, he simply craved some companionship and some information as to how things went in these parts. Edward was surprised to discover the degree of hostility that this experience occasioned in his soul. Never before had he had to explain or ask anything of a colored man, and to have to do so now, and in order to gain access to the company of other white men, he found extremely difficult. The colored man listened carefully and then announced that he would soon return, a reply calculated to check, not encourage, enquiry. He closed in the door and left Edward standing in the street like a beggar.

  Some moments later, the door was opened by the same fellow, and Edward was ushered into the comfortable and well-appointed vestibule of the brick house. Only when he surveyed the prints, and other wall décor, did it become apparent that this must be the abode of one of the principals of the American Colonization Society. Edward followed the servant into a drawing-room that was cluttered with books and papers, and well-finished with couches and loungers. Three white men, their skins grown dark through familiarity with the sun, rose as he entered, and hands were proffered and enquiries made. The already uncorked wine was poured into a glass, which was then thrust into Edward’s willing hand. Thereafter followed an engrossing session, in which a cautious Edward shared his circumstances with those that came and went, and sought from them similar stories all relating to the common question of how it was they had come to find themselves adrift and washed up on this furthest shore of civilization. Anecdotes and faint memories were traded, and some attempts were made to swell them into order with dates and places. Edward stayed for lunch, then coffee, but thought it wise to retire before dinner, for by now he was fearful that news of the personal tragedy that had recently enveloped his name might somehow have crossed the waters and reached the ears of these gentlemen. He reasoned that before the confessional urge took hold of any tongue, he should request his cane. Edward stood, thanked them most warmly for a splendid day, and made ready to return to his lodgings.

  Slightly merry on account of the good wine, a contented Edward asked the innkeeper after Charles, only to be informed that up until this very moment there had been no sign of the young bondsman. Edward returned to his hot and airless room with a bottle of claret, his mood rudely transformed by this news. Slipping into an involuntary sleep, he found his mind populated with images of Amelia, her face decorated with pond-like sores where flies and other creatures drank greedily. As dawn began to break over Monrovia, Edward awoke in a sweat and thrashed the covers off himself. Tears misted his eyes, for indeed his love for Amelia had festered and become stamped with a self-pity that was near-cousin to self-loathing. He simply craved to be offered the unconditional love of a child, could she not understand this? He looked ashamedly at the mauve contusions that decorated the several folds of his skin, and realized that the years had descended and smothered him like a fog. What else now but to submit to the indifferent squalor of old age, and give himself up to his fears? Edward let his feet fall over the side of the bed and brush the wooden floor, then he decided that if Charles did not show himself by the end of the day, he would go in person to Madison Williams’s home and make enquiry. In the interim, he would do the next best thing, which was to spend another day in the company of his civilized countrymen.

  As Edward dressed, his mind turned back again upon Amelia. Clearly she would have hated this Africa that Edward now felt marooned in. It had struck him, while at the club, that the lack of civilized white women in these parts would only have served to drive home her suspicion of all things African. Not only would curious, perhaps desperate, white eyes have traveled the length of her body, but black eyes would no doubt have made her the object of much unwanted attention. Edward ceased his wardrobe, fell to his knees, and prayed to the Lord that he might be forgiven for his indifference towards Amelia, for in truth no harm or misery had been intended. That she took it upon herself to sabotage her husband’s friendship with Nash by destroying the colored man’s letters was a painful discovery for Edward, but had he not found it in his heart to forgive her? Her accusation that in the wake of Nash’s departure he was now making a fool of himself by lavishing an excess of affection upon a new retainer, was this not again met with forgiveness? That she had subsequently chosen to flee his home, then her mind, then this mortal world at the instigation of her own hand, was a tragedy the responsibility for which could not reside at Edward’s doorstep. Surely his dear father understood this? A half-dressed Edward reached for his Bible, and clumsily fingered the pages until he reached the relevant verse. Thereafter, his wretched body burning with faith, he began to recite aloud.

  Late in the morning, having left instructions with the innkeeper that he should, at all costs, delay Charles if he chanced to arrive during Edward’s absence, a somewhat despondent Edward stepped out into the street and followed much the same route as the previous day. When he arrived at the club, Edward seized the brass knocker and rapped three times, and the same colored man soon appeared before him. Only this time the man informed Edward that the members, having last night convened an extraordinary meeting which lasted into the small hours, had decided that Edward was not welcome, either as a visitor or as a member, should he choose to linger on these shores. Edward stared at the liveried servant and asked if he might be blessed with a reason, but the colored man, clutching self-righteously at his lapels as though they were a badge of some importance, simply eyed him with the manner of one who is happily charged only to deliver decisions and not to share with the unfortunate recipient the highways and byways that were explored in order to reach the proffered conclusion. Edward tarried a moment, scratched the skin under one eye, then, realizing that he was making little headway, turned on his heels, anxious that he should avoid having to suffer the ignominy of the door being slammed in his face.

  Edward reached the inn, his mind in a daze, and discovered Charles standing with a travel-weary but finely dressed man whom he instantly recognized as Madison Williams. Immediately, Edward’s gloom abated, and he shook hands firmly with his former slave, who, by all appearances, appeared to be well suited to the life of a free man. Edward dismissed Charles with a proffered coin, but the young man looked a little forlorn and asked if there might be some other way in which he could be of service to the master. Clearly Edward’s curt dismissal had stung the young man like a lash, and the hurt that was now painted across his boyish face begged the older man to be kinder to him. Edward relented, and told him that he could, if he so wished, return tomorrow, and with this news a somewhat chastened Charles smiled, nodded cheerfully, and took his leave. Anxious not to waste any more time, Edward ordered the innkeeper to prepare food and wine for Madison and himself, which they would take in due course. With this request made, they retreated into Edward’s room, and Edward signalled that Madison should make himself at ease in the more comfortable of the two chairs.

  As Madison sat opposite him, Edward could not help but note that his former slave’s person became suddenly very grave, the flesh frowning on his brow. Madison leaned forward. He spoke slowly and carefully, as though anxious that he should not be misunderstood. ‘Master, Nash Williams is dead.’ Edward recoiled slightly, as though he had been struck. ‘The fever called him home. And he is burned according to local custom. This much I found out in the place from where I am happily returning.’ A long silence deepened. Edward stared bac
k at Madison and made no attempt to dam the tears which now flowed down his face. Eventually Madison stood. At this signal, Edward drew a hand across his cheeks. ‘I shall return,’ announced Madison, ‘with more news.’ Without waiting for further instruction, Madison withdrew and closed in the door behind him. Some moments later, the innkeeper knocked at the door with the requested food and drink, but Edward simply called for him to take it away and sank further into his grief. Nash Williams, the boy he had brought from the fields to the house, the boy who won his love, freely given, who would force on to him all the pain and confusion which finally proved too much for Amelia to bear, this Nash Williams was no more? And he, Edward, having traveled half the known world once again to be with him, what was he to do?

  Edward spent the remainder of the day, and the full length of the night, sitting upright in the chair, his anguished mind questing in every conceivable direction, but forever stumbling into blind alleyways which proved to be swept clean of any meaning. In the morning Madison returned and found his former master in the same position in which he had left him, though Madison observed, by virtue of Edward’s vacant stare, that there had been a considerable decline in his mental state. He sat opposite Edward, but his former master gazed back at him as though he were not there. Madison spoke quietly and at length about Nash’s final country settlement, and about the many problems which Nash had to face by choosing to live among the natives, but Edward remained silent. For some time, they simply stared at each other, each one a prisoner of their innermost thoughts. And then Madison reached into his pocket and pulled clear a letter. He informed Edward that this letter had been placed into his hands by Nash on the understanding that Madison would personally give it to his former master, and to him alone, even though it was understood that this would mean crossing the sea and returning to America. Edward looked more intently now. ‘Did Nash not know I was coming?’ Madison narrowed his eyes. ‘You chose not to write to him.’ Madison paused. ‘And by the time I discovered him he was merely a few hours this side of death.’ Edward dropped his gaze. Then he whispered, ‘I want to go to where Nash lived.’ Madison bestowed a scornful glare upon his former master. ‘I have to go there.’ Madison said nothing. He held out the letter. ‘It is for you.’ He paused. ‘I promised Nash that I would deliver it to you personally.’ Edward took the letter and looked at the envelope. He squeezed it gently. ‘I have to go to where Nash lived.’ Madison climbed to his feet.

  Saint Paul’s River, Liberia

  Jan. 3rd, 1842

  Dear Father,

  Despite my earlier protestations, I resort again to pen and paper in a final attempt to engage with you. I find the process humiliating, and I fail to see what hurt I ever inflicted upon you that could justify such a cruel abandonment of your past intimate, namely myself. There is much to report, but being unsure of how it might interest you, if at all, it is my intent to be brief.

  My three wives (I have considered a fourth, but the expense is at present beyond me) are faring well, as are the children. Six in total, all of whom receive lengthy instruction in reading and writing which sits well upon their shoulders. In addition they receive, from their mothers, instruction in the African language, as I do. I feel the necessity of being able to understand properly the words of the natives in whose land I reside, and the inconvenience, self-denial and hardship I suffer on this count is clearly worthwhile if it facilitates my being able freely to communicate with those hereabouts. That children learn faster, and with less inhibition than their elders and betters, is daily proven as we sit together and try to drink up these strange words and sounds. That my present family does not conform to what you might reasonably expect of me will no doubt disturb you. However, despite their heathen origins, my wives send their best respects to you, but nothing further, for you would scorn their poor marks were they to attempt written words. They had no school to attend, and have suffered accordingly, but not in their generosity of heart, or in their ability to act out the role of dear and gentle mother to their precious children. They know also how to administer to the needs of a husband, for as I chanced to mention in an earlier communication, the climate of this country does not suit old sores. Two such fellows have long since taken up residence on my left leg, and although I am obliged to suffer a little for want of a cure, my wives seek all the while to ease my discomfort with as much care and attention that I might reasonably expect from an American-born woman. Some months ago, I was quite afflicted by the death of my youngest child, a fine boy of about nine months. A large and healthy child, he was taken ill quite suddenly, and died thereafter. I am not able to say what his sickness was, for this remains a mystery even to those closest to him, who continue to grieve.

  Perhaps you imagine that this Liberia has corrupted my person, transforming me from the good Christian colored gentleman who left your home, into this heathen whom you barely recognize. But this is not so, for, as I have often stated many times over, Liberia is the finest country for the colored man, for here he may live by the sweat of his brow, although everything remains scarce and high, such as provisions, clothing, etc. There are still many out here, and more arriving with each ship, who are not prepared for freedom, and who get on poorly because there is no one to act for them, and they are totally incapable of acting for themselves. But this is not the fault of the country, for although not free from famine, war, sickness and death, and other troubles incidental to mankind, I still proclaim that it will compare favorably with any other part of the habitable world. Persons coming to Africa, white or colored, should always remember that this is a new country and that everything has still to be created. Things can be both inconvenient and uphill, and many hardships will no doubt be experienced, but such problems are common to the first settlement in any country. We, the colored man, have been oppressed long enough. We need to contend for our rights, stand our ground, and feel the love of liberty that can never be found in your America. Far from corrupting my soul, this Commonwealth of Liberia has provided me with the opportunity to open up my eyes and cast off the garb of ignorance which has encompassed me all too securely the whole course of my life.

  These days I am happy simply to raise my crops. The land is rich and produces the familiar American garden stuff, cabbage, peas, beans, onions, tomatoes, etc., as well as the native produce, which it does in abundance. The school is no more, and shall never again occupy a position of authority in any settlement of which I am a part. This missionary work, this process of persuasion, is futile amongst these people, for they never truly pray to the Christian God, they merely pray to their own gods in Christian guise, for the American God does not even resemble them in that most fundamental of features. The truth is, our religion, in its purest and least diluted form, can never take root in this country. Its young shoots will wither and die, leaving the sensible man with the conclusive evidence that he must reap what grows naturally. It has taken my dark mind many years to absorb this knowledge, and while it would be true to assert that the man I love is Christ, and I love him as one might love an intimate, having no means to return to America, and being therefore bound to an African existence, I must suspend my faith and I therefore freely choose to live the life of the African.

  If it please you, I wish you to remember me kindly to my colored friends. Inform them that should they choose to come out to this country, then they must bring everything for housekeeping, farming and carpentry, etc. They will need them, for they cannot be got here nor, unless their master chooses to be bonded to his promises, can they be obtained by means of purchase from the packet. It only remains that I request of you that you do not come out to Africa, for I fear I will surely disappoint you. I suppose I shall never again see you in this life, but if the Lord so deems it, I might yet cast my eyes upon you on the pleasant banks of deliverance. Perhaps in this realm of the hereafter you might explain to me why you used me for your purposes and then expelled me to this Liberian paradise. I believed fiercely in all that you related to me, and fervently
hoped that one day I might be worthy of the name I bore, the learning I had been blessed with, and the kind attentions of a master with the teachings of the Lord fused into his soul. That my faith in you is broken, is evident. You, my father, did sow the seed, and it sprouted forth with vigor, but for many years now there has been nobody to tend to it, and being abandoned it has withered away and died. Your work is complete. It only remains for me once more to urge you to remain in your country.

  Nash Williams

  Madison Williams appeared at the rooming house and enquired of the innkeeper as to the general well-being of his former master. The innkeeper slowly shook his head, and informed Madison that for three days now he had neither seen nor heard from the gentleman. Sadly, he presumed his guest to be still in a state of distress. Madison thanked him for his intelligence and, acting upon the innkeeper’s suggestion, he made his way to Edward’s room. He knocked, but there was no answer, so he knocked again, this time more briskly. From inside he heard a muted cry to enter. Madison opened the door and, peering through a gloom that belonged to neither night nor day, he discovered Edward prostrate upon the bed, and Nash’s letter scattered about the floor.