3

The days went by. Snow covered the hills and the rising towers of Mount Everett far away to the east. When the morning chores were done, Bett and I were free to explore the place. I shivered as we walked around, Bett looking for the herbs and roots that must grow here, too. We discovered many things on the land, among them beautiful white rocks that Nance called the cobble. The sound of Ashley Falls could not be heard because the noise of the saws and planes of the master’s lumber mill filled the surrounding areas. Both black and white men were working there.

I stayed close to Bett as I walked past, near the white men. Their long hair was unkempt, their light eyes deep in their heads. I had never seen such faces—some sad, some mean, and others with eyes that reflected nothing. All were dressed alike in homespun jackets and leather trousers; the blacks seemed better cared for than the whites.

One day, Josiah Freeman, a black man, stopped his work and came to speak to us. Later I learned he was called Freeman because he was not a slave, but a free man. More than six feet tall, he was not muscular, but well built. He wore his mahogany hair in locks. His dark skin was smooth and his face hairless. He had a deep voice and a stern look, but when he spoke his smile showed strong, even white teeth.

Fatou lowered her eyes, as if lost for words. She stood with her hands down, her fingers interlocked.

“You do have a name, don’t you?” Josiah asked.

“Her name’s Fatou. Mine is Aissa.”

Fatou quickly placed a tight hand on my shoulder and said, “No, she doesn’t understand. We don’t have those names. I’m Bett. She’s Lizzie.”

He laughed. “You can trust me. I’m a friend. So we have first and second daughters here.”

“My little sister is finding it not easy to give up her name. But she’ll learn. I hope the learning is not too painful for her.”

Josiah told us that he lived just outside of Sheffield on the road to Stockbridge and came to work in the mill. He took care of the machines, sharpened the saws and planes, and supervised the cleaning of the place.

“Who are these men?” I asked.

“They are slaves,” Josiah said.

“No, the white ones.”

“These men were put on ships sailing out of Europe. Some were homeless street wanderers, some were thieves and murderers released from prisons, and some are from insane asylums. When they landed in America, farmers and merchants paid the ships’ captains a price of passage and got free labor for a term of four or five years. They’re called term slaves.”

“They don’t get much care, do they?” Bett asked.

“No. African slaves are better taken care of because the master owns them for life and at least wants to keep them healthy. Some of the termers, though, are hardy, hard-working people who, soon after their freedom, buy slaves.” He changed the subject and looked Bett in the eye. “I am sure I will see you again. What shall I call you?”

“My name is Bett.”

“I’ll see you, Bett,” he called out to us as we walked on.

Away from the mill were large lots where the master’s cattle huddled together to keep warm, their breath giving off puffs of steam. Brom worked among the cattle. “Hoe gaat, het broertje? [How are you, little brother?],” we called to Brom.

“Goed. Hoe gaat het mijn zusje? [Good. How is my little sister?]” Always glad to see his sisters, he laughed and talked with us in Dutch. Far away from the house, he and Bett also spoke in their language. I understood some words and loved the soft rhythmic sound, but Olubunmi had forbidden my learning. Bett asked Brom about Josiah. He did not know him very well, only that Josiah was well respected, liked among the men.

Brom told us how happy he was not to have to work in the fields or in the mill. As a Fulani, he had not known that kind of labor.

“Dag! Tot ziens [Good-bye! See you again],” we said as we left him and walked on through a field where wheat and flax had grown, that now lay fallow. We came upon a man working near the building where our homespun clothes were made from the sheep’s wool.

“Good morning,” Bett said. When Bett saw that he spoke no English, she said “Goedemorgen.” He did not understand her Dutch either. She then spoke to him in Fulfulde: “Jam, wurro waalii?” Tears of joy rolled down his cheeks as words rolled off his tongue. As we were leaving him he said, “Tiigaade!” Bett answered, “Imo jeyi hoore mum!”

“What did you say to him?” I asked Bett.

“I asked, ‘Did your community spend the night in peace?’ That is our way of saying an early morning greeting.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“That he is a Mandinka with the Christian name Zach Mullen. As we were leaving he said, ‘Tiigaade—hold on steady.’ And I said to him, ‘I will hold on to my freedom.’”

Zach had a wide gap between his top front teeth. “Bett, why are his teeth so far apart?” I asked.

She laughed and said, “That is his opening to God.”

Happy that we had met a person just arrived from our homeland, we walked on, close by the dark lazy river that crept through the plain.

It was Bett’s duty to arise each morning at four o’clock to have the fires lit in every room of the house by five. The rooms had to be warm by six, or seven, when the mistress and master were called to start their day.

At first I did only small jobs, here and there, but on my seventh birthday, I was told I must now work in the kitchen. I had to bring in the wood for the fire, scour the dishes, sweep the floor, and do anything that Nance wanted me to do. I must be on hand in the kitchen during the preparation of meals and the cleaning up after meals. I also had to heat the water and fill the pitchers in the bedrooms for the morning bowl baths.

In the winter, heavy snow packed itself around windows and doors. We tried to fight it with hot water and salt, but the snow won, and gloomy days seemed to last forever. Working in the warm kitchen was the most wanted work in the house.

In spite of the cold, many visitors came, and we all had extra fires to light, bath bowls to fill, and beds to make; but with all the extra work and the mistress’s sharp temper, Nance remained kind and motherly. Still I longed for Olubunmi.

Nance had taught me how to lay a fire so that it would blaze quickly. She showed me how to clean the heavy iron pots that hung over the fire without getting the greasy soot on my clothes. She helped me learn to sweep without scattering the dust. She laughed a lot and told me stories when the mistress was not around. That was not often.

Our master, not a big man, not small either, was even-tempered; most people looked upon him with respect. He was a landowning merchant, who took care of business. Being very rich, he had special foods delivered from afar: chests of lemons and Seville oranges and many kinds of teas. The pantry held dried fruits—apples and pears—canned berries, and crocks of jams and jellies from which to choose. There were fresh apples in the cellar and barrels of cider, Jamaican rum and rum made right on the grounds from molasses.

Nance had a wooden sour tub in which she mixed dough sweetened with molasses, and set it to rise. The loaves, brown and crusty outside, were moist inside. Those loaves could have lasted a good ten days without becoming dry, but Nance baked bread every Thursday. She was a good cook and even though Mistress Anna was stingy, Nance saw to it that Bett and I were well fed most of the time.

Though our mistress had come from a wealthy family, she had an eagle’s eye and a miser’s hand. Every day she portioned out all the ingredients for the meals that were to be prepared. She kept on her person the keys to every pantry and every cellar door. Rarely did she forget to relock them, but when she did, Nance always took out a little extra that we shared. A little bit, unexpected, brought joy and pleasure all the more warming because it was shared in secret.

There were some things, even though plentiful, we were never given. Pickled pork was one. One day the mistress forgot to lock the pantry that held the crock full of it. That night we did not fall asleep as soon as darkness fell. We savored those bits of meat, and as always during happy moments, I begged Bett to tell me stories we had heard in Claverack. “Tell me about Yaaye,” I pleaded, using our word for mother. “Tell me again what she was like.”

“What is every yaaye like? Beautiful.”

“No, tell me what she was really like?”

“It is late. We must sleep. You will not want to get up in the morning and the mistress will be unhappy.”

“Let her be unhappy. I don’t like her.”

“Don’t, Aissa! Never become a prey to those kinds of feelings. Say your prayers and welte-rusten [good night].”

That night I dreamed a beautiful woman held out her arms for me. How I struggled to get close, enfolded, but I could not reach her. When I no longer tried, she came closer and I knew it was Olubunmi. I felt a strange warmth that relaxed me the way riding on Fatou’s back once did. Olubunmi said, “Mijn kindje [my child, her endearing words for me], you must not be so angry. Life is hard now and will be, but pay attention to your sister and try to be like her.”

Bett and I overslept, and when six o’clock came we were still lighting the fires.

“Lizzie! Lizzie!” The mistress’s shrill voice rang from the top of the stairs. I heard her but I didn’t answer. Nance looked at me and said, “Child, whut’s wrong wid you. Go, go, she’s callin’.”

Mistress Anna was leaning over the bannister in the stairway, her long hair streaming about her face, red with anger. “Potverdorie! [Darn it!] Come up here this moment.”

I rushed up the steps.

“Why do you refuse to answer when I call?”

“Meesteres, I don’t,” I replied, not looking at her. Then I looked up. There was such anger on her face that I backed away. She grabbed me by the shoulders.

“Why do you refuse to answer when I call?”

“I don’t always remember that name, Lizzie. I’m Aissa.”

The force of her open palm against my face snapped my head around. And a voice inside me said, Don’t cry. Stand and die before you cry. I straightened my shoulders and looked her in the eye, and she lowered her head.

As I refilled her water pitcher for her morning bath, I wondered, Why? Why was I in this place with this angry woman? But I soon forgot her when it was time to start the day with the first meal.

Breakfast time in the house was the best part of the day. The smell of homemade bread toasting in the warming pan made me feel like being nice. Usually five or six people from far and near sat at the master’s breakfast table. Most of the time, Mistress Anna was the only woman.

At first the English food with little spice and seasoning was strange and not very tasty. I missed the food we had in Claverack and was pleased when the mistress showed Nance how to make donkers. How pleasant to have the kitchen smelling of the leftover meats chopped with bread crumbs, apples, and raisins, and sprinkled with savory spices. Made into balls, they were fried and served with boiled pudding. Nance and others in the house, including the master, didn’t much care for our donkers, but Bett and I were always happy when the mistress insisted on having them on the table.