Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(70)

OUR LODGING DID not cater to the elite. I had purposely found a place that cared little about who shared my room. As I rushed through the tavern, I waved off the few patrons I had met who called out for me to share a drink. Our room was up two flights, and because I took two steps at a time, I was panting when I threw open the door. Across the small room, Henry sat slumped on the rough pine floor a few feet from his low bed. While I was out, he must have roused himself, for he was partially dressed, as though preparing for travel. His head lifted when I called out to him, but then dropped again. How wretched I felt at the sight.

“Look here,” I said to Henry as I helped him settle back in bed, “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was upset. We’ll wait here until you get better—until you have your strength back.”

I propped him up higher in bed so he might breathe easier, but that seemed to have little effect. Through rasping breath, he begged me to go for Pan with or without him.

“I will,” I said.

He held out his hand. “Swear on this,” he said, weakly pointing to his missing thumb. I took his disfigured hand in mine and made a promise. Then I sat, his hand clasped in both of mine, until Henry breathed his last.


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?