enormous bowl, and didn’t lift his head until I pulled back my chair and sat. He smiled at me through the rising steam, holding a great hunk of torn buttered bread in one hand and his glass of golden ale in the other. I’d never seen him looking so well.
He dipped his bread into the thick brown stew brimming with chunks of pale shining crabmeat. As he lifted that bite to his mouth, he nodded for a waiter to bring me more of the same. We made a point of eating heartily whenever we met, still trying to ease our shared hunger from twenty years ago.
We’d spent most of 1777 chained together on a fetid prison ship anchored in New York Harbor, after being captured early on by the British in yet another sloppy retreat. Thompson was full of stories, and our long confinement on that floating hellhole gave him plenty of time to tell them to me. He said he had to talk to keep his mind off the stench making his eyes sting. I said at least his stories drowned out the sound of our bellies gnawing on nothing.
He loved to tell me how he’d carried his family up from the sugar islands after his father stroked during that last mass poisoning in 1757. One uprising too many, his father had said. These damn Africans will soon gain the upper hand. Too many of them, too few of us.
The stroke had garbled his father’s speech but Thompson said he could understand “get us the hell out of here” whether his father spoke it clear or not. North Carolina had offered them good terms and low prices so they brought the whole family and what few negroes had not been infected by insurrection fever. Sold off the rest to buy fresh.
Sitting there chained to Thompson, listening to him describe how best to manage negroes when we should have been out fighting our Revolution, weighed harder on me than on him. I was still a hothead in my twenties while he seemed old to me at forty.
I listened to him but I was determined to steer clear of slavery whether our Revolution managed to kill it off or not. After growing up around it, I’d already decided negroes were not the way to go. Nothing but complications and there’s no end to it. My plan was to head West. Take hold of this far edge and build towns like my father did. If we lived. If we ever made it off that prison ship.
But Thompson became a kind of father to me during those months and we stayed in touch after our release, visiting every chance we could find. And it turned out his advice has served me well since I’ve ended up far deeper in this business than I ever imagined.
So the news he delivered to me over our bowls of gumbo on that fine spring day in Charleston came as an enormous surprise. He listened intently as I told him about buying Mena almost by accident and not quite knowing what to do with her. Then he set down his empty glass and said maybe he’d take her for long term hire in exchange for a healthy cash loan. His eyebrows jumped as he sat back in his chair.
Thompson told me he was washing his hands of his whole place. All nine hundred acres and two hundred negroes. It was his sixtieth birthday and he was getting out. He was sick to death of running what he called that damn empire patched together with mud from an endless swamp. Sick to death of all those negroes waiting for him to slip up or look away. Said it was those damn Ibos that first showed him he’d never have enough eyes to settle his place down for sure but he’d soldiered on for years before finding his way clear.
When I said would that we all could, he raised his glass. Told me he’d finally made enough money that his children should be able to take over. Campbell was into his twenties and Abigail had wisely married the family banker. Eli would find his way soon enough.
Thompson’s enthusiasm was almost contagious. He’d found a ramshackle house on a nearby island called Nags Head and he was moving out there. All he needed was a brand new negro to take with him. One with no ties yet to anyone or anything. He
He dipped his bread into the thick brown stew brimming with chunks of pale shining crabmeat. As he lifted that bite to his mouth, he nodded for a waiter to bring me more of the same. We made a point of eating heartily whenever we met, still trying to ease our shared hunger from twenty years ago.
We’d spent most of 1777 chained together on a fetid prison ship anchored in New York Harbor, after being captured early on by the British in yet another sloppy retreat. Thompson was full of stories, and our long confinement on that floating hellhole gave him plenty of time to tell them to me. He said he had to talk to keep his mind off the stench making his eyes sting. I said at least his stories drowned out the sound of our bellies gnawing on nothing.
He loved to tell me how he’d carried his family up from the sugar islands after his father stroked during that last mass poisoning in 1757. One uprising too many, his father had said. These damn Africans will soon gain the upper hand. Too many of them, too few of us.
The stroke had garbled his father’s speech but Thompson said he could understand “get us the hell out of here” whether his father spoke it clear or not. North Carolina had offered them good terms and low prices so they brought the whole family and what few negroes had not been infected by insurrection fever. Sold off the rest to buy fresh.
Sitting there chained to Thompson, listening to him describe how best to manage negroes when we should have been out fighting our Revolution, weighed harder on me than on him. I was still a hothead in my twenties while he seemed old to me at forty.
I listened to him but I was determined to steer clear of slavery whether our Revolution managed to kill it off or not. After growing up around it, I’d already decided negroes were not the way to go. Nothing but complications and there’s no end to it. My plan was to head West. Take hold of this far edge and build towns like my father did. If we lived. If we ever made it off that prison ship.
But Thompson became a kind of father to me during those months and we stayed in touch after our release, visiting every chance we could find. And it turned out his advice has served me well since I’ve ended up far deeper in this business than I ever imagined.
So the news he delivered to me over our bowls of gumbo on that fine spring day in Charleston came as an enormous surprise. He listened intently as I told him about buying Mena almost by accident and not quite knowing what to do with her. Then he set down his empty glass and said maybe he’d take her for long term hire in exchange for a healthy cash loan. His eyebrows jumped as he sat back in his chair.
Thompson told me he was washing his hands of his whole place. All nine hundred acres and two hundred negroes. It was his sixtieth birthday and he was getting out. He was sick to death of running what he called that damn empire patched together with mud from an endless swamp. Sick to death of all those negroes waiting for him to slip up or look away. Said it was those damn Ibos that first showed him he’d never have enough eyes to settle his place down for sure but he’d soldiered on for years before finding his way clear.
When I said would that we all could, he raised his glass. Told me he’d finally made enough money that his children should be able to take over. Campbell was into his twenties and Abigail had wisely married the family banker. Eli would find his way soon enough.
Thompson’s enthusiasm was almost contagious. He’d found a ramshackle house on a nearby island called Nags Head and he was moving out there. All he needed was a brand new negro to take with him. One with no ties yet to anyone or anything. He
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