Blue-Eyed Slave

CHAPTER 1

1831 Charleston, South Carolina

Looking out the window at the rainy, bleak garden in the dim, winter dusk, I shivered despite the fire at my back.

I’ll be eighty this May. Can you imagine? I mused. It seemed like not too long ago I was just a girl, and then the Revolution, and amidst all that, I became a wife, a mother, and an abolitionist. Or despite all that.

My thoughts trailed off as they tended to do more and more. I spent so much time in the past that it was difficult for me to stay in the present.

I tucked some grey curls escaping my cap back into the gingham fabric and turned back to my task of setting the acorn-colored table, smooth from years of polish and good use. Moving creakily and slowly around its long length, I spread the tablecloth and evened its edges. I remembered when my mother, Rebekah, had bought this tablecloth for herself at her own store. It had come in with a shipment of items, and once she had laid eyes on it, that was that. She had used it for every Shabbat dinner from then on, as I would when it came to be mine.

Friday Shabbat dinner was always a favorite, and I was glad I still felt well enough as an octogenarian to at least do that. I took out a few more candles, readying to light them before sunset. I knew the light would fail soon, darkness would come, and with it, the Sabbath—our day of rest. January Sabbaths were always the darkest.

The table looks lovely, I thought, noting the silver glint of the kiddish cup among the candles. Yes, I was glad I could still do this and wasn’t too tired to keep up with family tradition.

The sound of someone singing and the staccato of heels floated down from the floor above me. Rachel. Her feet on the stairs sounded like a wooden waterfall. She burst into the room, lighting up the place.

Nonna, Nonna, I’ve found something, Rachel sang as she bounded over to where I was lowering myself into a seat at the head of the table for a quick rest. When she reached me, Rachel did a little jig, curls bouncing, still singing, I’ve found such treasures, tra la la.

This performance, a regular one, evoked a smile as I wondered for the millionth time, Where, oh where, did you come from, little hummingbird? As if I didn’t recognize my own daughter reimagined.

Rachel’s wild hair was more unruly than she, the color of autumn leaves, a cross between burnished gold and auburn with strands of sunlight. Those ridiculous curls bobbed with every twirl and step, framing Rachel’s heart-shaped face. I knew from personal experience that those weren’t the kind of curls to be tamed.

Rachel, what am I to do with you? I teased. I need you in the kitchen with me, helping with the challah, not off finding treasure. I touched the tip of her nose.

But look, Nonna, look at what I found! Rachel thrust her hand into the front pocket of her apron and fished out a thin leather cord with a dangling charm. A necklace. That charm. A hamsa—the universal hand of protection for many religions.

I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes. Seeing the necklace again brought all of it back to me so suddenly; it was as if Bintu’s ghost walked into the room, bringing a gust of winter air with her. I shivered.

Nonna? Rachel asked in alarm.

I exhaled and tried to recover, not wanting to scare the child.

Did I . . . did I do something wrong, Nonna?

I shook my head. No, hummingbird, you did nothing wrong. It’s just that . . . it’s just that I haven’t seen this necklace for a very long time. And it brought back some memories.

Sad ones?

Sad and happy, like all the best ones. Where did you find it, Rachel?

In a box, in the back of your trunk in the attic. Rachel, still unconvinced that she wasn’t being reprimanded, rubbed at her eyes. Next to some old medals and stuff.

And was there anything else with it, Rachel?

Rachel raised her gaze to mine, her impending tears making them glow a translucent gray, and nodded. From her apron pocket she fished out a scrap of thick paper with the Star of David printed on the front, another sign of protection, not that it had helped Bintu in the end. Or maybe it had, but I would never know.

I took the scrap of paper and unfolded it, reading the Hebrew words out loud:

Tzedek Tzedek Tirdof

Justice, justice shall you pursue that you may live,

and inherit the land which the Lord your God gives you

Bintu

Rachel was holding up the necklace, admiring the silver charm as it caught the firelight. Who gave you this, Nonna? Was it a friend of yours?

I reached out to take the hand-shaped charm into my own wrinkled one. Yes, she was. My very best friend. Would you like to hear about her?

Would I! Rachel plunked herself on a wooden footstool in front of me, her stick-like legs tucked and her elbows on her knees supporting her chin. Do you still visit her, Nonna?

No, no, I don’t.

Is she happy? What happened to her?

I handed the necklace back to Rachel. I don’t know what became of her, and I don’t know if she’s happy. I certainly hope so, hummingbird. I hope so with all my heart.

My mind drifted back sixty-seven years.

Chapter 2

Charles Town 1764

On the day Hannah first saw Bintu, it was warmer than it had been, so she made sure to take her lighter hat, the one with the wide, flat brim. The days began chilly but would warm up as the day progressed, and the broader hat would shade her eyes from the sun when it bounced off the harbor water. As she walked down the aisle of her mother’s shop, she tied it loosely under her chin in case an errant breeze tried to snatch it off her head when she was making her deliveries.

It was a beautiful spring day in Charles Town, a thriving seaport only equaled by Newport, Rhode Island. A sailors’ and merchants’ town, the main streets were wide enough for carriages, wagons, and horses making the transportation of goods from the busy ships in the harbor to the various shops and warehouses easier.

Cobble and brick streets were the foundation of the new buildings, their roofs reaching to the sky, joining the spires of the churches. The stucco-and-brick fronts of the homes imbued an air of elegance to the young city. Construction flourished as houses and buildings constantly sprouted. And this wasn’t the first time Charles Town had built itself anew from the dust and ashes.

The citizens of Charles Town were careful to keep the streets free of debris as they’d learned their lesson from a conflagration years earlier. The city had nearly burned to the ground in a blaze started by a runaway hearth fire whose sparks rode the wind, jumping from house to house, decimating 300 abodes. The town had been rebuilt in brick or plaster; if the houses were built of wood, the owners needed to prove their chimney was made of stone, ensuring another runaway blaze would not escape from a hearth.

The biggest and most splendid house in this colony of South Carolina was Mistress Pinckney’s, one of the very first built after the fire. It looked like a palace, and was for all intents and purposes. Overlooking Colleton Square on the north end of the bay, the Pinckneys’ wide porch had a splendid view across the water to Sullivan’s Island, a green hummock cast among the grey-green waters of Cooper River. Hannah liked to imagine herself on those balconies looking out to sea, waiting for her ships to arrive from Europe, the Caribbean, and even the Far East. Big ships full of interesting cargo from all over the world captained by brave men. The kind of ships that her papa often loaded with goods for the merchants’ shops on Hassell Street, including her mother’s shop.

Her mother’s shop smelled like wood dust, vinegar, and coffee, the smell of Hannah’s childhood. Really, it was her father’s shop, but he was away so often that she thought of it only as her mother’s. The shop’s wares reflected her mother’s talents as a seamstress, baker, and businesswoman. The cloth for sale was good quality but not overly expensive. Hannah’s mother, Rebekah, had a talent of picking just the right type in just the right colors, a talent only exceeded by her ability to turn the fabrics into something stunning. Rebekah was also careful to carry only the best flour, spices, sugar, salt, and even yeast. When she was not selling them, she’d be close to her oven in the kitchen behind the house, baking one delicacy after another.

Hannah loved to make deliveries from her mother to the Pinckneys, and even though she’d never formally met the mistress of the house, the half-hour trip on foot was worth it. Mistress Pinckney had made many in Charles Town rich with her indigo, and she often traded at Rebekah’s shop. Hannah had seen her there in her lovely deep-blue dresses and beautiful auburn hair piled on top of her head. Hannah could tell she was clever by the arch of her elegant eyebrows and the glint in her eye. Each time Hannah approached the grand house she had hoped to catch a glimpse of Mistress Pinckney on her balcony in her dressing gown.

And it was to the mistress’ house that Hannah was headed that morning.

Normally, the Pinckneys would send one of their house slaves for the weekly order, but this week Mistress Pinckney had forgotten a crucial item, sugar, and so Rebekah sent Hannah to finish the delivery. Her mother knew Hannah loved getting out of the shop into the fresh air, and seeing the Pinckney’s grand house was thrilling for the young girl. Besides, it was a lovely morning.

Rebekah was packing the delivery basket as Hannah petted their old tom cat, King Sol, as he purred up at her from the counter. Suddenly, her mother paused in her packing and asked her what day it was. That struck Hannah as odd. Mama was so organized; why wouldn’t she have remembered the date?

Is it the third Thursday of the month? Rebekah asked. The twenty-third?

Hannah did the mental calculations as she scratched the spot behind the cat’s ears that he loved.

Yes, Mama, it is. She itched King Sol harder and his purr intensified.

Oh my. The woman studied the basket on the counter, considering something. Then she looked up with a fierce expression. You’re not to go down to the wharves today, Hannah. You take the long way around to Mistress Pinckney’s. Down King Street and across town. Like that.

But, Mama, the girl protested, confused. She’d stopped petting the old cat who was now butting his head against her shoulder. That will take twice the time! If I go by the wharves, then I’ll—

I said to go the long way, her mother interrupted. The ships are in, and there’s too much going on.

But—

I don’t care how long the trip takes. Do not go down to those wharves. Promise me.

Hannah was speechless. Going all the way around would double her trip. While she deliberated, Mama reached out and grabbed her hand, hard enough to hurt a little, and hissed, Promise!

All right, Mama, Hannah said, cringing. I promise.

Rebekah’s expression softened as she released the girl’s hand. "It’s not you, Hannah. It’s just that there’s a lot going on down there today, gatinha, and I don’t want you getting mixed up in it."

Hannah’s hands were tight on the handle of the basket. What kind of things, Mama? she asked warily.

Not things for a thirteen-year-old girl to see, that’s for certain. Cease asking questions, child, just do as I say. With that her mother stopped short, and turned her attention to the cat that had sprawled inelegantly across the wooden counter. King Sol really only fancied Hannah, and it made Rebekah furious. And get that cat off of the counter. We serve food here! Hannah obliged, scooping the orange cat onto the floor. He stalked off down the aisle after spearing Rebekah with a dark glance.

Hannah took this as a sign to leave, even though she was still awfully curious about what was happening at the wharves. Rebekah’s expression was less exasperation and more wary fear, and that kept Hannah’s questions bottled up.

When Hannah stepped out of the front door of Cardozo’s Dry Goods, the bright morning sun hit her full in the face and she adjusted her hat brim. As she started down Hassell Street, the heavy basket pulled at her shoulder muscles so much that she realized that a longer route might be too much for her. She needed a shortcut. She thought she knew of one that would take her between the major thoroughfares of town, but still avoided the wharves as her mother had instructed. She thought about it for another moment and then, her jaw in a stubborn set her mother would have instantly recognized, she tightened her grip on the basket and set off.

Ten minutes later, she was on a narrow footpath between buildings that opened onto Broad Street. Her heart was racing. I shouldn’t be here. For all her curiosity, she was not a girl to disobey such a strongly worded warning from her mother.

Hannah had taken the shortcut for its cool shadows as well as to save time and her aching shoulders. She’d thought it would put her farther along King Street. She’d been wrong, or gotten turned around somehow, because this alley had led her straight into the heart of the wharf district, opening up at Motte’s Wharf.

The clatter of carriages and shouts of merchants drifted in from the docks as Hannah tentatively approached the mouth of the alley. She peeked out, mouse-like, and a breeze blew the smell of river silt and the sea into her face. The wharves bustled with people and the wooden docks were heaped with mountains of wares to be sold and traded. Usually this area was pretty quiet, with merchants, seamen, and the Crown’s surveyors going about their daily routines. Today, the wharves bristled with masts from the ships jammed into the harbor, their crews crowding the docks.

Hannah was about to double-back down the alley, which would have added even more mileage to her trip, when she saw him. He was fast-walking across the cobblestones of the square. She only just glimpsed his white-tie wig with the black ribbon in the back as he walked toward the ships, his face hidden. Even though she had only seen his profile for a few heartbeats, she was certain it was her Uncle Aaron. She wanted to go after him, but it was against her mother’s wishes, so she began to turn back, shoulders aching even more at the thought of her doubled footwork. Just as he was about to disappear into the swarm of men, he looked over his shoulder and Hannah got a good look at his expression.

His mouth was set in a line and brows creased, bringing them almost over his eyes. He looked worried and, for a moment, very uneasy. And even if Mama had expressly forbidden it and had made her promise, Hannah couldn’t help herself. She had to follow Uncle Aaron. She had to see what agitated him.

Hannah stepped into the market square—a large open area studded with palmetto trees with horse-drawn carriages circling the perimeter—yelling Uncle Aaron! at his retreating back. Her shouts were to no avail, however, so she trotted to catch up.

She tried to keep him in view as he dodged between the throngs of people, but she stumbled over the curb, yanking her heavy delivery basket with her, and onto the grassy area bordering the promenade, which ran parallel to the sea. In the distance floated the hazy image of Sullivan’s Island. After she had regained her balance and rested the basket at her feet for a beat, she looked for his tell-tale white wig with the black bow. She was suddenly struck by what was displayed in the middle of the disorderly crowd of men shouting and jostling for position. They all gave it a wide berth, like they were frightened of it, as if it were a wild caged beast. Hannah had never seen one before, but the large boxy shape in the middle of the group was instantly recognizable. And she finally understood why her mother had forbidden her to come here today. It all became clear to her in one hot rush.

It was the slave market, and the object of attention was an auction block to display slaves for sale above the crowd so that everyone could examine the wares. That’s why Mama forbade me from coming here, the slave market, Hannah reasoned.

Although it was a common enough occurrence in Charles Town and was advertised freely, Mama didn’t have a taste for slavery. She never had, which was putting it mildly. Her mother had shielded Hannah from the worst of it. The Cardozos didn’t own enslaved people, which was unusual in Charles Town. Rebekah had taken every opportunity to steer her daughter away from the tawdry displays of abject cruelty that was the norm in Charles Town. The slave market also brought sailors, sellers, and other unsavory characters to shore and therefore was no place for a young girl.

Panic seeped into Hannah’s bones as she desperately searched the crowd for Uncle Aaron, who would lead her