A Place Called Freedom (1995)

She walked along the bank of the Rappahannock River, turning the idea over in her mind. The river was shallow and rocky here, upstream from Fredericksburg, which marked the fall line, the limit of navigation. She skirted a clump of half-submerged bushes and stopped suddenly. A man was standing waist deep in the water, washing, his broad back to her. It was McAsh.

Roy bristled, then recognized Mack.

Lizzie had seen him naked in a river once before, almost a year ago. She remembered drying his skin with her petticoat. At the time it had seemed natural but, looking back, she felt the scene had a strange quality, like a dream: the moonlight, the rushing water, the strong man looking so vulnerable, and the way she had embraced him and warmed him with her body.

She held back now, watching him, as he came out of the river. He was completely naked, as he had been that night.

She remembered another moment from the past. One afternoon in High Glen she had surprised a young deer drinking in a burn. The sight came back to her like a picture. She had emerged from the trees and found herself a few feet away from a buck two or three years old. It had lifted its head and stared at her. The far bank of the stream had been steep, so the deer had been forced to move toward her. As it came out of the stream the water glistened on its muscular flanks. Her rifle was in her hand, loaded and primed, but she could not shoot: being so close seemed to make her too intimate with the beast.

As she watched the water roll off Mack’s skin she thought that, despite all he had been through, he still had the powerful grace of a young animal. As he pulled on his breeches Roy loped up to him. Mack looked up, saw Lizzie and froze, startled. Then he said: “You might turn your back.”

“You might turn yours!” she replied.

“I was here first.”

“I own the place!” she snapped. It was astonishing how quickly he could irritate her. He obviously felt he was every bit as good as she. He was a convict farmhand and she was a fine lady, but to him that was no reason to show respect: it was the act of an arbitrary providence, and it did her no credit and brought him no shame. His audacity was annoying, but at least it was honest. McAsh was never sly. Jay, by contrast, often mystified her. She did not know what was going on in his mind, and when she questioned him he became defensive, as if he were being accused of something.

McAsh seemed amused now as he tied the string that held up his breeches. “You own me, too,” he said.

She was looking at his chest. He was getting his muscles back. “And I’ve seen you naked before.”

Suddenly the tension was gone and they were laughing, just as they had outside the church when Esther had told Mack to shut his gob.

“I’m going to give a party for the field hands,” she said.

He pulled on his shirt. “What kind of party?”

Lizzie found herself wishing he had left the shirt off a little longer, she liked looking at his body. “What kind would you like?”

He looked thoughtful. “You could have a bonfire in the backyard. What the hands would like most of all would be a good meal, with plenty of meat. They never get enough to eat.”

“What food would they like?”

“Hmmm.” He licked his lips. “The smell of fried ham coming from the kitchen is so good it hurts. Everyone loves those sweet potatoes. And wheat bread—the field hands never get anything but that coarse cornbread they call pone.”

She was glad she had thought to talk to Mack about this: it was helpful. “What do they like to drink?”

“Rum. But some of the men get in a fighting mood when they drink. If I were you I’d give them apple cider, or beer.”

“Good idea.”

“How about some music? The Negroes love to dance and sing.”

Lizzie was enjoying herself. It was fun planning a party with Mack. “All right—but who would play?”

“There’s a free black called Pepper Jones who performs in the ordinaries in Fredericksburg. You could hire him. He plays the banjo.”

Lizzie knew that “ordinary” was the local term for a tavern, but she had never heard of a banjo. “What’s that?” she said.

“I think it’s an African instrument. Not as sweet as a fiddle but more rhythmic.”

“How do you know about this man? When have you been to Fredericksburg?”

A shadow crossed his face. “I went once on a Sunday.”

“What for?”

“To look for Cora.”

“Did you find her?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has lost somebody.” He turned his face away, looking sad.

She wanted to put her arms around him and comfort him, but she restrained herself. Pregnant though she was, she could not embrace anyone other than her husband. She made her voice cheerful again. “Do you think Pepper Jones could be persuaded to come here and perform?”

“I’m sure of it I’ve seen him play in the slave quarters at the Thumson plantation.”

Lizzie was intrigued. “What were you doing there?”

“Visiting.”

“I never thought about slaves doing that kind of thing.”

“We have to have something in our lives other than work.”

“What do you do?”