Walk Through Darkness by David Anthony Durham Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Anthony Durham
fed on twigs. William ventured down to the last creek they’d crossed and refilled the water skin. When he climbed back into their hiding place he found Oli grinning.
“You drink this?” he asked, holding up a bottle of an auburn liquid.
“Whiskey?”
“Yep. Been saving it up and this here seems as good a time as any. Go on and get a pull.”
As William took a few furtive sips, Oli began a long string of tales about rebellious slaves. He seemed to have a library of such stories stored in his head, embellished, no doubt, with his own embroidery. He told of three slaves who stole into their overseer’s cabin one night and bludgeoned him with clubs. They dragged him from his home, broke his neck, and spent the rest of the night arranging to disguise his death. One slave rode behind the dead man on his horse, scuffing the ground in a peculiar way, and then he tossed the man from the mount, loosened his saddle and tugged it over to its side. They then slapped the horse and sent it running. The officials ruled the white man’s death to be an accident, though most of the slaves who livedthereabouts knew the real truth. In another tale two bondsmen absconded from their master’s plantation on horseback, sharing a single pony between them. One of them had the shoulders of a bull and a bullet-shaped head that glistened with sweat; the other one’s deformed torso measured only twelve inches from crotch to neck. The sight proved so odd to passersby that all let the couple ride on, more amused by the spectacle than inclined toward any action. There were slaves who stole away with chests of gold and those who ravished their mistresses and those who avenged old wrongs before parting. There were fabled gangs of Negroes who roamed the wild country of the uplands, stealing from white settlers and wreaking havoc wherever they passed. And there was Nat Turner and the swathe of terror he cut through Virginia, like an incarnation of every white man’s nightmare. It was a crazy time they were living in, Oli concluded, and he didn’t see any signs of sanity on the horizon.
Asked if he was really heading all the way to Canada, Oli’s eyes lifted and studied William for a moment. There was something in them that William couldn’t read, but he imagined them to be the mirror of his own thoughts. Such a place as the land of freedom was too far away from the place of their birth. How could they know that that country would accept them? That the ground would feel the same beneath their feet and the air the same in their lungs? And what of kin and friends and familiar places never to be seen again? In Oli’s answer William heard nothing to indicate that this other man hadn’t had the same thoughts.
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t reckon there’s any way to be free but to be quit of this whole country. Ain’t no place in it a nigger’s safe. I know that for a biblical fact. Don’t much matter to me, not having much kin to speak of. But how bout yerself? You hurting? Leaving your kin, I mean.”
“Seems like that’s why we were put here—to hurt.”
“That’s a biblical fact, right there.”
William smirked. “A biblical one, huh?”
“Been my experience that that book’s a hard one to dispute.”
“We may be of two minds on that.”
“Ain’t no two minds about it …”
“I’d just as soon not talk it to death,” William said. His voice was edged just enough to quell Oli’s response. But, having spoken sharply, he lifted the bottle and scented it and nodded to his companion. “Think I’m starting to feel kindly toward this whiskey.”
The evening hours passed, and the two men became more fluid in their conversation. At first, William tried to speak sparingly, not caring to share too much of himself with a stranger. But as the night wore on the other man’s talkativeness proved infectious. The whiskey spread out through William’s body, loosening his tongue, lowering his guard. Oli didn’t seem like such a
“You drink this?” he asked, holding up a bottle of an auburn liquid.
“Whiskey?”
“Yep. Been saving it up and this here seems as good a time as any. Go on and get a pull.”
As William took a few furtive sips, Oli began a long string of tales about rebellious slaves. He seemed to have a library of such stories stored in his head, embellished, no doubt, with his own embroidery. He told of three slaves who stole into their overseer’s cabin one night and bludgeoned him with clubs. They dragged him from his home, broke his neck, and spent the rest of the night arranging to disguise his death. One slave rode behind the dead man on his horse, scuffing the ground in a peculiar way, and then he tossed the man from the mount, loosened his saddle and tugged it over to its side. They then slapped the horse and sent it running. The officials ruled the white man’s death to be an accident, though most of the slaves who livedthereabouts knew the real truth. In another tale two bondsmen absconded from their master’s plantation on horseback, sharing a single pony between them. One of them had the shoulders of a bull and a bullet-shaped head that glistened with sweat; the other one’s deformed torso measured only twelve inches from crotch to neck. The sight proved so odd to passersby that all let the couple ride on, more amused by the spectacle than inclined toward any action. There were slaves who stole away with chests of gold and those who ravished their mistresses and those who avenged old wrongs before parting. There were fabled gangs of Negroes who roamed the wild country of the uplands, stealing from white settlers and wreaking havoc wherever they passed. And there was Nat Turner and the swathe of terror he cut through Virginia, like an incarnation of every white man’s nightmare. It was a crazy time they were living in, Oli concluded, and he didn’t see any signs of sanity on the horizon.
Asked if he was really heading all the way to Canada, Oli’s eyes lifted and studied William for a moment. There was something in them that William couldn’t read, but he imagined them to be the mirror of his own thoughts. Such a place as the land of freedom was too far away from the place of their birth. How could they know that that country would accept them? That the ground would feel the same beneath their feet and the air the same in their lungs? And what of kin and friends and familiar places never to be seen again? In Oli’s answer William heard nothing to indicate that this other man hadn’t had the same thoughts.
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t reckon there’s any way to be free but to be quit of this whole country. Ain’t no place in it a nigger’s safe. I know that for a biblical fact. Don’t much matter to me, not having much kin to speak of. But how bout yerself? You hurting? Leaving your kin, I mean.”
“Seems like that’s why we were put here—to hurt.”
“That’s a biblical fact, right there.”
William smirked. “A biblical one, huh?”
“Been my experience that that book’s a hard one to dispute.”
“We may be of two minds on that.”
“Ain’t no two minds about it …”
“I’d just as soon not talk it to death,” William said. His voice was edged just enough to quell Oli’s response. But, having spoken sharply, he lifted the bottle and scented it and nodded to his companion. “Think I’m starting to feel kindly toward this whiskey.”
The evening hours passed, and the two men became more fluid in their conversation. At first, William tried to speak sparingly, not caring to share too much of himself with a stranger. But as the night wore on the other man’s talkativeness proved infectious. The whiskey spread out through William’s body, loosening his tongue, lowering his guard. Oli didn’t seem like such a