Read Online Walk Through Darkness by David Anthony Durham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Anthony Durham
Ads: Link
his temporary home. He turned and looked behind him, as if he expected some farewell from Oli and Wolfe, but the two were nowhere to be seen.
The walls of the enclosure were some twenty feet high, rimmed across the top with shards of glass that reflected the sun in jagged, multihued shapes. All else was shades of brown: the skin of the men and women in all of that color’s various permutations, the dirt of the floor and the ragged earth tones of the captives’ simple clothing. What little shade there was to be had was cast by the eastern wall. Under this, the majority of the slaves huddled, a couple dozen in number and of both sexes. Some stood leaning against it, a few sprawled out beneath it, but most just sat within the line of its protection, watching William. Their faces were lean and sunken, hair matted and speckled with bits of dirt and twig. In these sorry details they were no different than many field hands that he had seen. It was their eyes that were different. They were eyes driven mad by the tedium of waiting, by days spent in chains contemplating a future bondage, without even the distraction of work or family or nature to ease their minds.
William stood in the center of the enclosure. The gateclanked shut behind him and a silence fell over the place, broken by the muted friction of his chains as he stood. He felt all those eyes on him. For a moment they seemed as strange and unfamiliar as the eyes of white men viewing him on the auction block. Having exhausted the bare spaces of the walls, he dropped his gaze to his wrists and the iron that bound them, as if all of his problems hinged on those links of metal.
He might have stood like this indefinitely, had not a movement roused him. He looked up. One of the slaves rose from his prone position and propped himself up on one elbow. He motioned with his cupped hand. He said something, so softly that at first William didn’t make it out. He thought on it and the fading words ordered themselves in his mind. The man had asked him over, had instructed him in simple words, to come get some shade. With that simple phrase and gesture William saw them anew. He realized that he recognized them all. He might not know them by name or face or blood relation, but they were his people after all. They wore the same chains. He walked toward them and took his place among them.
S IX
Morrison and the hound sailed from Kent Island aboard a thirty-foot whaleboat. They were the only passengers and formed, along with the skipper himself a crew of three. The vessel was open to the air like an enormous canoe, with a single mast sunk into its center. It was a slow craft by design, but tacking against a weak breeze it made hardly any progress at all. Man and dog watched the far shoreline appear and disappear, seeming, through the passing of hours, to actually be getting farther away. A haze settled across the water and features that were once clear became less so. Toward the late afternoon theskipper gave up on sail power. He asked Morrison to bend his back at one of the oars while he worked its twin. The work was strange to Morrison. It fatigued his back and shoulders in a way that he was not accustomed to, and their progress was as slow by oar as it had been under sail. The hound watched the men’s exertions with opinionated eyes.
Once ashore Morrison looked back across the water at the far shore. He thought, and not for the first time, that if the fugitive had in fact swum for freedom he had probably found it at the Bay’s murky bottom. Annapolis had changed since he had left the place years ago, and he didn’t find the house he was looking for until that evening. He stood before it, contemplating the lights in the windows, studying the wealth signified by the well-kept gardens, the white façade and the black faces of the servants who passed by the windows. He thought about making his inquiries just then, but decided against it.
That night he stayed in a tiny room in a tavern
The walls of the enclosure were some twenty feet high, rimmed across the top with shards of glass that reflected the sun in jagged, multihued shapes. All else was shades of brown: the skin of the men and women in all of that color’s various permutations, the dirt of the floor and the ragged earth tones of the captives’ simple clothing. What little shade there was to be had was cast by the eastern wall. Under this, the majority of the slaves huddled, a couple dozen in number and of both sexes. Some stood leaning against it, a few sprawled out beneath it, but most just sat within the line of its protection, watching William. Their faces were lean and sunken, hair matted and speckled with bits of dirt and twig. In these sorry details they were no different than many field hands that he had seen. It was their eyes that were different. They were eyes driven mad by the tedium of waiting, by days spent in chains contemplating a future bondage, without even the distraction of work or family or nature to ease their minds.
William stood in the center of the enclosure. The gateclanked shut behind him and a silence fell over the place, broken by the muted friction of his chains as he stood. He felt all those eyes on him. For a moment they seemed as strange and unfamiliar as the eyes of white men viewing him on the auction block. Having exhausted the bare spaces of the walls, he dropped his gaze to his wrists and the iron that bound them, as if all of his problems hinged on those links of metal.
He might have stood like this indefinitely, had not a movement roused him. He looked up. One of the slaves rose from his prone position and propped himself up on one elbow. He motioned with his cupped hand. He said something, so softly that at first William didn’t make it out. He thought on it and the fading words ordered themselves in his mind. The man had asked him over, had instructed him in simple words, to come get some shade. With that simple phrase and gesture William saw them anew. He realized that he recognized them all. He might not know them by name or face or blood relation, but they were his people after all. They wore the same chains. He walked toward them and took his place among them.
S IX
Morrison and the hound sailed from Kent Island aboard a thirty-foot whaleboat. They were the only passengers and formed, along with the skipper himself a crew of three. The vessel was open to the air like an enormous canoe, with a single mast sunk into its center. It was a slow craft by design, but tacking against a weak breeze it made hardly any progress at all. Man and dog watched the far shoreline appear and disappear, seeming, through the passing of hours, to actually be getting farther away. A haze settled across the water and features that were once clear became less so. Toward the late afternoon theskipper gave up on sail power. He asked Morrison to bend his back at one of the oars while he worked its twin. The work was strange to Morrison. It fatigued his back and shoulders in a way that he was not accustomed to, and their progress was as slow by oar as it had been under sail. The hound watched the men’s exertions with opinionated eyes.
Once ashore Morrison looked back across the water at the far shore. He thought, and not for the first time, that if the fugitive had in fact swum for freedom he had probably found it at the Bay’s murky bottom. Annapolis had changed since he had left the place years ago, and he didn’t find the house he was looking for until that evening. He stood before it, contemplating the lights in the windows, studying the wealth signified by the well-kept gardens, the white façade and the black faces of the servants who passed by the windows. He thought about making his inquiries just then, but decided against it.
That night he stayed in a tiny room in a tavern
Similar Books
