Now I see the two men clearly. They squat on the ground like my people, and eat with their fingers. They are brown-skinned, and their black hair hangs below their shoulders; one of them has feathers tied into his hair. Under their mantles they are bare-chested and hung about with strings of beads and small pouches. Their faces are strong and fierce, and if I were not hungry, if I did not need to cross the river, I would hide from them. But they have a canoe.
I stand, and step forward, opening my hands to show I mean no harm.
They look up, startled, and seize spears. I let them see that I am alone and unarmed. I speak in English: “Please, I need help. I must cross the river.” I point to the canoe and then to the far bank.
The older man signals to the other to put down his spear. They talk rapidly to each other in their own language. Then they beckon me forward, motion to me to squat. They put fish on a platter of leaves and offer it to me.
The food warms my stomach. In a mixture of speech and gestures I explain to the men that I want to cross the river, to find Darby Creek, John Outram’s plot. I remember those names that Jos told me. When I say “Darby Creek”, I see that they know it. But they question me. Where am I from? Why am I a fugitive? I tell them about Miata. “We are slaves. Slaves of the white men.”
They talk some more. The younger one looks at me: at my hair, which is so different to theirs, my dark skin. He touches the little drum that I have kept slung from my belt ever since I left Barbados. I can see that he likes it. I untie the drum, and give it to him. He examines it, to see how it is made. I know he wants to tap out a rhythm, but the forest is listening. He fastens the drum to his belt.
The older man begins speaking to me. His English is hard to follow, but I listen carefully and watch his gestures and find I can understand. He tells me, “Our people are the Lenni Lenape. We have lived long in this land. We are at peace with William Penn’s people. We want no trouble. But we will take you across the river. We will guide you to Darby Creek. No more. We will not help you steal back your woman.”
I thank them. When we have cleared away all trace of their camp they take me in their canoe across the river. On the far side they hide the canoe and we walk on through the forest.
They are hunters and trappers, these men; young, strong men – two brothers. Their faces are watchful; they miss nothing. They belong in the forest, like me. I know that when I am gone they will hunt.
We come to a creek that runs sparkling over rocks and stones. They tell me the name of this creek is Karakung.
“But the white men call it Cobb’s Creek,” the older one says.
We cross at a shallow place. Now the two men become more cautious. I see that some of the land ahead of us has been cleared for farming and staked out in plots. There are large tracts of woodland between the plots and we move through these until they show me, ahead, the line of another creek, bordered by willows.
“Darby Creek,” says the younger brother.
Distant figures are moving about. There are carts and horses. I hear the sound of an axe chopping wood.
“We will leave you here,” says the older one. “We do not know this man John Outram, but many white men settle around this creek.”
They turn back, promising to watch for me if I return, and vanish silently into the woodland.
Now I am alone, and ahead of me lies the white men’s land. How will I ever find Miata? I am afraid to ask any of the white men. They will know I am a runaway and send word to the city, to George Bainbrigg. I move closer, cautiously, from tree to tree, until I am within breathing distance of a man working his plot. He does not see me.
He has servants – I see them come and go – but no black people. I move on through the woodland to another plot, then another, always watching and listening. I know how to stay hidden in the forest, making no sound; but I need help, and I see no one I dare ask. Perhaps Outram’s plot is on the other side of the creek? The shadows grow long.
I come to a place where I see a servant girl close by in a yard, gathering up clothes that had been spread on the bushes to dry. Her basket is almost full; in a moment she will take it indoors. She is a white girl, but this may be my last chance. If I speak to her, will she help me – or will she scream and bring people running?
I take a chance, creep close to the fence, call softly, “Sister!”
She turns, and sees me. Her eyes widen. She glances back at the house, then walks towards me. She looks scared.
“Sister!” I say again. “Help me? Please?”
“What do you want? You a runaway? You want food?”
“I look for my woman, Miata.”
She begins to shake her head.
“John Outram bought her.”
“Outram? Two, three days ago?”
“Yes!” My heart leaps. She knows.
“Go that way.” She points. “Four plots, all new, all along this creek. The fourth is Outrams’. I heard they got a black woman.”
I thank her, and go before she is caught. I travel along the line of the creek, keeping to the woodland, count four plots, stop near the last. There is a yard with hens scratching in the dirt, a dog tied up. The house smells of new-cut timber. I wait till the light goes. The dog hears or scents me, and barks; I move further away. A light appears and glows within; people’s shadows move. I think: I will stay here, under this tree, till morning. But then I see the door open, a bar of light in the yard; someone steps out.
Miata! Even in the half-dark I recognize her from the way she moves. She has come to round up the hens and shut them away. I hear her calling them.
I don’t go close because of the dog; but when she has shut the hen house and turned to go back indoors, I give a low whistling call. It’s the call of a bird of our homeland and we used it at the Crosbies’ as a signal.
Miata’s head goes up; so does the dog’s. She quiets him and creeps towards the fence. I meet her there. We reach out, touch each other, clasp hands.
“Miata.”
“Tokpa.”
Tears run down her face.
“They hurt you, Miata?”
“No! I cry because I’m happy to see you. So happy. How…?”
“Jos helped me escape. But they are searching for me – I must stay hidden. Miata, this land, this forest – we can hide here, we can hunt; we can live. Come with me!”
She puts a hand on her flat belly. “Soon I’ll begin to grow big. When the time comes I’ll need women to help me.”
I tell her about the forest people, the Lenni Lenape. “They will help.”
She says, with a nod towards the house, “She doesn’t know yet about the baby.”
“Outram woman?”
“Mmm.” She grips my hand. “Tokpa, I’m afraid to run. But I’m afraid to stay here. They could sell my baby – take it away from me.”
“You think they will?” The thought fills me with horror: my child, my first-born, sold away.
“I don’t know,” she says. “They own me. They can do anything.”
She looks at me. I know she is fearful. But she says, “I’ll go with you.”
We make a plan. She’ll come out at night, when the Outrams are all asleep. I settle under a tree and wait.
The moon is high when she appears. The dog stirs, but he knows her; she quiets him.
I help her climb over the picket fence and we move quickly away, into the woodland. When we are out of sight of the settlements, deep in the forest, we stop and embrace.