She took tiny steps over the gangplank to the lower deck, handed her ticket to a
man in a black jacket and cap, and stepped aboard the Windsong.
Shoulders aching, she set her burdens down and looked around. There were
all manner of people on the boat. Many looked prosperous – men in suits and top
hats and women in flowered prints and bonnets – but more were poor folk in suspenders and ragged homespun. She frowned, not seeing any black faces.
Flocks of seagulls cawed overhead and one of them perched on the rail next to
her. She had never seen one before and stared into its cold black eyes, thinking it
reminded her of a snake. Then she breathed in the fishy smell of the lake and turned to look at Erie, strung out along the shore. Just look at that city, she
thought. And the lake. You can’t even see the other side!
She retrieved her bundles and worked her way through crowds of people. It
didn’t take long to spot Mourning, standing near the back of the boat, in what she had to agree looked like a cozy spot. The upper deck provided a roof and the
support beams formed a corner in which he had piled their belongings, defining
a small space that was sheltered on two sides from the wind and the spray off the
lake. There was only one problem.
“Here you are.” She set everything down and smiled uneasily in the direction
of the other passengers. Mourning removed his hat and grinned at her while she
slid the long rifle under one of the baskets.
She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Everyone back here is colored.”
Ten or twelve Negroes were busy arranging their belongings in that part of the
boat. A few tossed curious glances her way, but most were paying her no mind.
He made a great show of looking surprised. “My goodness, Miz Olivia, you
right. My, my, my.”
“I don’t know if I can stay here,” she whispered. “I mean … maybe … I
might not be allowed.”
He rubbed his chin. “Well, if you was to aks real nice … apologize for not knowin’ your rightful place –”
“You know what I mean. Maybe the white …” She gave up, stood straight-
backed, and turned toward him wearing the nastiest look she could muster. Then
she leaned over again. “You know, Mourning Free, your natural self is ornery
enough. There’s no need for all this extra effort. I didn’t make the world the way it is and I didn’t make your skin black. I’m just trying to get along, same as you.
I suppose I’d rather have been born a man, just like you’d rather have been born
white –”
“Ain’t never said I rather be white.” He shook his head. “Ain’t never said
that.”
“Just stop being so … so … the way you’re being. We’re going to have
enough problems not of our own making. It isn’t any easier for me traveling with
you than it is for you traveling with me.”
He pursed his lips, looking contrite. “Guess you right ’bout that. This be the
only part of the boat they ’llow coloreds, probably cause it be so noisy, right over the engine. But that make it the warmest place, too,” he said cheerfully.
“Maybe you got to stay in the white part.”
She looked around, terrified at the idea of sleeping on the deck all alone.
