It was a relief to be back to privilege again: the journey through the countryside had agitated him.
Famine. The word had not occurred to him before. He had seen hunger in America, but never a countryside threatened with blight. The smell still clung to him. He poured himself a deep bath. Soaped his body. Put his head in under the water, held his breath, sunk deeper. Even the noises of the house itself were a balm: he could hear laughter echoing up through the rooms. He climbed from the water, wiped the steam from the window. It was still a surprise to see the rooftops of Ireland. What else lay out there? What other ruin?
The sound of leaves falling.
Quieter than rain.
He finished his writing, put the barbells away, lay on the bed with his arms behind his head, tried to doze, couldn’t.
The call to dinner came from downstairs. He wiped his hands in the washbasin, dressed himself in his cleanest linen shirt.
THE FAMILY’S FOOD was served in a country style: rows of plates, bowls, soups, vegetables, and breads were placed on a giant wooden table and the diners walked along to choose what they wanted. There were, it seemed, many among the Jennings family who did not eat meat. He spread a thick sardine paste upon his bread, ladled the salad. At the table the guests jostled and laughed with one another. The Waring family. The Wrights. Other guests came: a vicar, a taxidermist, a falconer, a young Catholic priest. They were delighted to meet Douglass. They had read his book and were eager to talk. It seemed the house was open to all denominations and ideas. An extraordinary volubility of speech. The situation in America, the position of the abolitionists, the possibility of war, the pandering to southern trade laws, the terrible deeds that had been perpetrated upon the Cherokee Indians.
Douglass found himself happily besieged. None of the formality of the Webb household. The talk spun into incredible tangents. Seldom before had all the vectors of the conversation gone through him alone. Webb watched from the far end of the table.
Part of Douglass wondered if they were laying a trap for him, but, as the hours went on, his ease deepened.
He was surprised to see that the women remained at the table alongside the men. Isabel stayed quiet most of the time. She ate sparingly. She wet her finger and picked the crumbs from her plate. There was a shyness about her, but whenever she entered the conversation she seemed to do so on the tip of a knife blade. She was quick to draw blood and then retreat. Douglass had never seen anyone quite like her before. He found himself discombobulated when, in a conversation about Charles Grandison Finney, she turned towards him and asked how exactly Mrs. Douglass felt about the issue of public prayer.
He felt a rush of warmth to his collar.
— Mrs. Douglass?
— Yes, she said.
— Her position is quite clear on all such matters.
He saw Webb move slightly in his chair. The Irishman was chewing at the edge of his dinner napkin.
— She would no doubt be aligned, said Douglass.
He was sure Isabel had not meant to embarrass him, but the heat seared him. A seep of sweat at the brow. He balanced a cup of tea on the saucer without it rattling, then pronounced the meal delicious, excused himself, moved towards the stairs, touching Webb’s shoulder as he went.
He had not written to Anna or his children in a few days. He would do so straightaway.
Upstairs, he caught sight of himself in the looking glass. His hair had grown higher, thicker, more Negro. He would let it be.
There was no lock on the door. He wedged a chair against the door handle. He unwrapped the barbells from the shirts in which he hid them. There were times he was still walking into a church in Tuckahoe. The wooden crossbeams. The singular plane of light sloping east to west during morning services. The glimpse of a red-tailed hawk arcing out through the window. The high sound of the organ. The smell of grass carried in through the wide white doorway.
Anna might cherish hearing the letters read to her for an evening or two, but soon enough they would be burned. It gladdened him, really, that the letters would become smoke: it was so much of what happened to one’s own history.
THE CITY WAS dark, yet it didn’t press down on him quite like Dublin had. He began to feel that, even in the gloaming, things had opened up. The church bells rang high and brassy. The markets on Saint Patrick’s Street hummed. Swans glided under the footbridges that crisscrossed the city. Shandon Steeple stood out against the sky. Even the slums seemed more forgiving. It was a city that gave alms. The poor were still legion, but he could walk with the Jennings sisters along the quays and the beggars would leave them alone. Men carried pieces of lit clay in their hands. They offered Douglass a pull of their pipes, clapped him on the shoulder.
There was something in the music of the accent that Douglass liked: it was as if the Cork people put long lazy hammocks in their sentences.
He was happy when Webb announced, after six long days, that he would leave Cork on urgent business. Both men were glad to be rid of one another. Douglass watched the carriage move away and felt a bolt of freedom. It was the first time in ages that he felt truly alone. At ease in the ornate looking glass.
It must be said that in my time here in Ireland my heart feels stirred. Instead of the bright, blue sky of America, I am covered with the soft, grey fog of the Emerald Isle. I breathe and lo! the chattel becomes a man! Though I have seen much that would make my own people tremble, I am encouraged to exercise my true and proper voice. I breathe the sea air freely. And while there is much I observe to make the heart heavy, I am at least temporarily without chains.
HE WALKED ALONG the River Lee, his hands clasped behind his back. A new walk for him. Large and public. The attitude of a thinking man. He enjoyed the pose, found it conducive to the idea of himself. He heard the clopping of a horse behind him on the cobbles, the soft sound of a harness creaking. Isabel descended the horse, walked alongside him, her hand careful at the horse’s neck. The sheen of sweat on the animal’s body.
Barges plied along the river. Corn barges. Barley barges. Cattle barges. Salt barges. Pig barges. Sheep for the slaughterhouses farther downriver. Firkins of butter. Oatmeal. Flour bags. Egg boxes. Baskets of turkeys. Canned fruit. Bottled soda and minerals.
They watched the river of food in silence. Gulls busied themselves behind the boats, swooping every now and then to claim what they could.
They walked along by a merchant-marine shop, a bookseller’s, a tailor shop. Farther down the quays she pulled the horse close to her. As if it might offer protection.
— I could not find her.
— Excuse me?
— That woman you met upon the road.
For a brief moment he was not sure what Isabel was talking about, an incidental skim of words across the surface of the day, but then he caught himself, said it was a great shame, but he was sure the child was buried by now.
— You did what you could, said Isabel.
He knew it was not so: he had done nothing at all. He had borne witness and stayed silent.
— There’s nothing worse, she said, than a small coffin.
He juggled the words in his mind for a moment. He nodded. He liked her. He thought of her, increasingly these past few days, as a younger sister. It was odd to think so — her green eyes, her awkward walk, the rustle of her humble dresses — but, that’s what she was: sisterly. Hovering. Curious. Intrusive. She explored new ideas with him. There were few limits. What did he think of the notion of Liberia? What was the gulf between revenge and justice? Did he have a plan with Garrison to send the money back from churches that embraced slaveholders?