The Fallen Fruit, page 9
The churchwarden eyed the paper again. “I know every single alderman in that county since my kin comes from that land, and I’ve never heard of this gentleman.”
Luke opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Think before you speak.
“You must believe you’re smart, forging these papers,” the man added, “but you’re a fool like the rest of them.”
Luke refused to glance up.
“We’ll hold you,” the churchwarden said firmly, “until we’ve determined your rightful place.”
By “rightful place,” he meant Luke would go to the county auction block. His family had always warned the children to mind where they went. The elders had told them stories of those who’d disappeared from the fields. They’d vanished on the way to visit family only a mile away. Those folks rarely returned and haunted the family they’d left behind more than the ghosts or river monsters their parents tried to scare them with.
The churchwarden spoke further. With each word, Luke trembled and his empty stomach tightened. Two days later, when they paraded him about the buyers and presented his scar-free back and legs, he still did not speak.
Memories of Mama trailed after him like a vigilant specter. He recalled the day she’d stood before the alderman for permission to stay in Albemarle County. As a boy, he hadn’t thought much of how they’d measured her up: “five foot two inches tall, thirty-five years old, a Negro of a dark complexion with a scar from her forearm to the middle of her right hand and a mark on the nape of her neck.” They’d assessed her like cattle to identify her later.
Now he faced the same treatment before a sale.
He imagined Mama sealing her lips with a fingertip while the auctioneer asked Luke if he could read and write. She shook her head when the urge to struggle against his chains and bolt for the door hit him.
He might’ve been mistaken, but he swore she shed a tear when Mr. Pinkham purchased him.
Or maybe it was him.
* * *
For the next eight years, Luke worked as an enslaved carpenter at the Pinkham mill.
For a Quaker family, no less. Not that his owner feared God. He feared only death and an empty pocket. His wife, God bless her, reminded Luke of Grandpa. She would read her Bible, perched with a tree-straight spine on their porch’s harshest of seats, or spend her mornings praying out loud for the end of man’s greed and slavery, all within earshot of her husband sitting in the parlor.
The woman stood no taller than Luke’s tiny mama, but her voice carried the weight of two men. The overseer wasn’t allowed to beat the slaves. The slaves never missed a meal either—even if the farm animals ate better than they did.
Mrs. Pinkham, just like Grandpa Bridge, excelled at waiting too. Luke had seen his granddaddy, ready to take down a buck, holding a musket as steady as stone until the moment to fire. And strike she did one late-summer morning. News arrived that Master Pinkham and his son wouldn’t be returning from a trip to Richmond. Bandits had attacked their wagon and left them for dead. With no heirs to immediately take on the role of master, she briefly controlled every strand of grass, as well as the barn and stables Luke had helped rebuild.
Mr. Pinkham had a younger brother, a supposedly godly man living in Massachusetts, but in the time it took the heir to saunter his way on down here, she made changes. By midday, on the day she learned her husband had died, the ten slaves, including Luke, no longer worked without wages. A month later, when a stiff-looking Mr. Samuel Pinkham, dressed in fine breeches and smelling of a musky perfume, stepped onto the property, she’d already petitioned the governor for permission to draw up manumission papers to free every enslaved man, woman, and child. No indenture, limited instruction required, and no payment for freedom necessary. Over half of the newly freed men and women left before his arrival, but Luke waited.
Where else did he have to go?
Luke now had valid freedom papers and a new name: Noah Battles. During his eight years as a slave working at the mill, everyone had called him Luke. Since he had a good Christian name, his master had never changed it. The choice to answer to another was his decision. Why continue to answer to a name connected with another life? Every time he heard it, the reminder of what he’d lost added a stumble to his steps. Somehow he had to move on and begin again. Might as well start with his name.
Therefore, it was Noah who left the rolling hills of Buckingham County and snuck back north again to find another haven. He’d reached the age of twenty-eight, and he had coins in his pocket but nowhere to go as a free Negro to spend them. Luke sought out the familiar rise of nearby Wolfpit Mountain to see if his family happened to reside in their former home on Nicholas Lewis’s property northwest of Charlottesville.
Traveling those old Monacan footpaths gave him a sense of ease he’d missed. Even if he might not be able to see Mama’s face again, hope tugged him home. If he were lucky, he could partake of her meals and feel the comfort of his bed.
Soon enough, he arrived home. While taking the long way from the south to the north around the farmstead, he spied himself from afar, standing in the woods. At seven years old, the younger Luke was mostly arms and legs with a tiny head. Seeing himself chopping wood shoved Luke back until he fell against a nearby tree. His stomach lurched and his vision blurred.
How was he standing there—and yet he was also over here?
Was the boy alone?
No, four younger boys no older than twelve toiled on the other side of the tiny clearing. Luke recognized his cousins. Each of their names came to mind—adding sorrow to his backward steps.
This farm still wasn’t his home.
For the next couple of days, Luke stumbled south again, then east, making his way to the Southwest Mountains. He needed to add distance between the place where he wanted to rest his head and the outside world. But neither place was a fit for him. Not long into his journey, he encountered a peculiar sight: two girls, one holding the hand of the other, making their way northeast.
At first, the leaves obscured their faces, but the closer they drew to him, the more he could make out familiar features. The older girl, whom he knew to have only just turned five, wore a dark-gray dress—a slave’s garments—while the younger child trailed after in a light-gray one. Mud and filth from their journey clung to the tattered hems.
It was Bree and little Addy.
Luke’s breath caught. How long had they been alone out here? Hadn’t Grandpa found them around this time?
He glanced around, almost expecting the elder Bridge to make a grand appearance, but the woods around them were tranquil.
Bree’s downward gaze darted like a butterfly, jumping from one flower to another as she parted the tall grass. When she found what she sought, she examined her find. Her dandelions wouldn’t feed a scrawny fly, but she plucked away at the flowers, giving Addy the larger portion.
Luke touched his haversack. When had they last eaten properly? He had recently caught some squirrels; they’d appreciate the cooked meat, but what girl on her own would trust a stranger? He took a step forward. The branch under his foot snapped. Bree’s keen eyes flicked in his direction. He dipped deeper into the cluster of ferns he hid behind.
“Come now,” she whispered to her sister. Addy took her hand, and they ran back into the woods.
Bree was far too clever to speak to strangers, but Grandpa had a way about him. It was best for Luke to leave things be. Sooner or later, they’d find him.
But with every step he should’ve taken in the opposite direction, he kept his distance and followed them, until Addy complained about being tired. Instead of chastising the little girl, Bree grinned and settled her sister into her lap.
“Just rest,” she said. “We need to find water before the sun goes down.”
Luke sighed. The girls were too far east and too far up the mountains to find water.
He watched from afar, waiting until Addy dozed away. While the girls stayed put, he foraged along the mountainside, mustering up more dandelions, chanterelles, and bunches of tender field chickweed. Now he had to devise a way for them to discover it.
Luke wrapped the plants and strips of cooked squirrel into one of his old red shirts. When the sisters roused and began their journey uphill, he ran ahead of them. Based on their current trajectory, the rough path close to Wolfpit Mountain’s peak would divert them south. He darted along the safest path and found the perfect spot near a sturdy maple tree. Carefully, he used the arms of the shirt to fashion a hook. A couple of seconds later the prize hung from a low branch of a tree, ready to be plucked by hungry hands. He expected Bree to find what he’d left for them, but it was Addy who pointed.
“What’s that?” She took a step forward, but Bree yanked Addy’s dress and tugged her back.
“Probably belongs to someone,” Bree replied.
“Who?”
Bree glanced around. “Hush now.”
The sisters edged closer, constantly checking over their shoulders. When Bree could finally reach for the shirt, she pulled it off the branch, grabbed her sister’s hand, and they escaped west.
For the next week, Luke left them tiny wapato tubers he dug up from the riverbanks. Peppergrass, morel mushrooms, and violet petals appeared before them like manna from heaven. And when necessary, he watched out for danger, detouring their path from traders or travelers such as himself.
Inch by inch, he led them north again toward Bridge land. They walked downhill from the mountains and west toward Ivy Creek. When Grandpa Bridge did stumble upon them, Luke told himself it was God’s hand that guided them. Not him.
Once the Humbles girls were safely in Grandpa’s care, he was alone again, an outsider haunting his homeland. As he returned to the mountains, he carried his joy in his pockets, but he remained restless. Day stretched out into the evening. The night surrendered to the dawn, and with the dim light and fog creeping over the hills, shadows closed in. Luke sat in silence until a shadow the size of a muskrat shifted to his left, escaping into the thickening fog. Knife in hand, he made his way to the spot it had escaped, but he found nothing. Only a breeze wrestling at the canopy branches.
Somehow he slept, only waking to tend to his fire and eat. He should’ve fled this place, but every morning he rested and let the low-lying clouds swallow him.
Wouldn’t hurt to fall away for a bit.
Sometimes, back on the farm, he’d caught Mama staring off into the trees—never toward home or the orchards. Had she been expecting something, or had she been like he was now—cast adrift in thought with nothing to tether either of them to the present?
There had to be a way home eventually. Living alone like this left his thoughts unhinged. The right opportunity would come, but he wouldn’t find it near the farmstead.
When the time was right, he’d return.
Chapter 11
Luke Bridge
1768
Time had frayed the edges of Bree’s neckerchief, but Luke kept it tucked deep in his pocket as he journeyed northward. At night, he slept before a fire with no one to hear his thoughts or troubles. It was during the fire’s crackle and the hushed murmur of the nighttime that he worked on a smooth piece of maple the length of his palm. A tree had discarded the wood long ago—why not see if he could give it new life? So he whittled away at it, crafting a thread spool for Bree as he passed through land he’d never seen before and heard names he didn’t recognize. Maybe it was best he had a new name too. Luke Bridge remained at home in Virginia while Noah Battles was a hatchling. No matter how much he wanted to stay close to the nest, he had to face new challenges.
Far from the safety of the Bridge farm, Luke had much to fear, but he had valid freedom papers and he’d seen his kin. That had to be enough, and yet he still wondered how Bree fared in the future. It felt like a lifetime had passed since their paths veered away from each other.
During the late spring of 1768, he roamed like a migrating flock of geese, escaping from Virginia to the British province of Maryland. He had no final destination, only an unyielding desire to discover a less restrictive home, but even Maryland was no haven. The rough paths through the forests bordered endless indigo and tobacco plantations. Hunched slaves, their skin glistening with sweat, filled the fields, and their overseers watched them. He drifted past many Negroes—every one of them enslaved, based on how they avoided his gaze—as they went on errands for their masters.
“Move on, boy,” a Negro woman warned when he’d stared at men working in an indigo field too long. “You got no business here.” The weight of her sharp gaze told him plain and clear: there’d be trouble for everyone if he poisoned the air with notions they could be free too.
More ominous signs—as dark as stormy seaside clouds in his new home of Boston—erupted around Luke. Hints of an uprising brewed between the Loyalists and the colonists, and protests continued into 1770. Few wanted to allow British soldiers to quarter in their homes, nor did they wish to pay the increased taxes. Whispers of freedom flitted from the elite down to a simple man like him. He knew what lay on the horizon. All he could do was wait for the rising tension to culminate in the formation of the Continental Congress. Not long after that, war erupted in Lexington. Thirty miles away still felt like thirty feet.
From there, the very event that led to his elders leaving the Bridge farm occurred: the Continental Army of 1776 was formed. When Luke heard rumors about the call to arms for Negro men, he’d already departed for Virginia. He’d had enough of the Loyalists’ actions and wanted to fight for the republic. Many Negroes had also heard about the promise of freedom for those who served either the Continental Army or the Loyalists. The time had finally come for a reunion with his kin.
When Luke arrived at a recruitment camp back in Virginia on an early January day in 1777, a frigid breeze dusted fallen snow along the Amherst County road. He waited patiently in line—for God rained fortune on his head: the Bridge men waited in line ahead of him. Seeing his uncles from a distance lightened his step. All of them were free, and yet they still joined to help the colonists’ cause. He ambled into the line behind them, keeping his distance.
Oh, to never be alone on God’s Earth, he thought.
If Luke had any sense, he’d return to Boston for the next three years, but he wanted to be with his family again, so he had to enlist. His breath caught to see Uncle Edwin. The man was as portly as Luke remembered him with his patchy facial hair and kind eyes. Aunt Mary had regularly griped about how often her husband groomed what little hair he had. Right next to him stood Uncle Stephen, the man who told a tale with any opportunity. Stephen stared down the road before he spat a ribbon of tobacco to the side. In front of him stood the eldest Bridge, Grandpa Zachariah, who waited closest to the beginning of the line, bearing a grim expression.
Luke stared at them, marveling at their similar features, their high foreheads, the thick eyebrows and square shoulders.
Luke didn’t expect to see his papa. His father would’ve been here if he hadn’t broken his leg, and at the time, Mama had refused to let Luke enlist with them.
“He’s not old enough,” she’d snapped to the Bridge men when they gathered to make the final decision.
They’d tried to remind Mama of her place in men’s affairs, but she’d refused to listen. “We’re not lying about his age either,” she’d added. “Those rich white men can fight over their precious land without him.”
At the time, Luke had stood taller than anyone and hungered to show them he could hold his own.
What a fool he’d been back then.
After Luke completed his enlistment as a private in the 10th Regiment, he was grateful Mama hadn’t budged in her decision. He remembered, at fifteen, stumbling about like a spotted fawn—he’d been nothing more than a wide-eyed teenager from a farm who’d never shot a man, only animals. With years of wisdom, along with knowing what he’d face, Luke would successfully complete what little training the army offered. There’d be many losses on the Continental Army’s side, and if he had his way, his uncle would no longer be one of them. He was willing to embrace the monotony and welcomed the supplies he was issued.
Luke had already learned about rank and file during his time in Boston, as well as all the commands necessary to survive. Negroes and whites worked side by side to follow Captain Franklin’s instruction during the musket and marching drills. In a company as large as the 10th, with nearly five hundred men, Luke should’ve blended in. He had a new name, and years of working for the Pinkhams had added scars and bulk to his frame, but that didn’t prevent any accidents. Once, while he was relieved of guard duty, Uncle Edwin strode in with the other fellows. His uncle glanced at him and froze. Luke hadn’t prepared himself for the moment—and he often had imagined a reunion between them.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, afraid to hear his uncle’s answer.
“You look familiar.” Edwin’s head tilted a bit.
“I do?”
“Indeed you do . . . It’s your face. I feel like I’ve seen you before.” Edwin chuckled and shook his head. “The cold must’ve played with my head.”
Luke gave a nod, and the tension in his shoulders eased. On the outside, he stood tall, but other words rose inside him.
During the day he learned basic drills with the Bridge men, while at night he listened to the tales he’d heard many times from Grandpa. How Grandpa had met Grandma up in Pennsylvania to the first bleak winter the couple had spent on the Bridge farm. These stories carried him through the weeks that turned into months. Based on what Luke recollected about Stephen’s recounting of his journey to Philadelphia, the 10th Regiment would meet the redcoats in battle. With orders from Major General William Alexander, they were to help defend the city.
Once they reached Philadelphia in September, fear finally seeped in. Tales were one thing, but the reality of standing in the line of fire was another. It was that real feeling—sharp and breath stealing—that propelled him forward as their general ushered them into battle.
