"Alsoomse and Wanchese" Scenes

Chapter 18, Pages 177-179

Abukcheech and Alsoomse were suddenly alone.

She looked at him. He was as unattractive as she remembered. Yet he stimulated her mind.

He smiled. “I will be doing all the talking. Neither you nor I will like that. I want to know your thoughts.”

She blinked.

“Ah. That is how we will communicate? One blink means ‘yes.’ Two blinks mean ‘no.’”

Alsoomse moved her left hand.

He squinted. She moved the hand again, frowned, immediately winced.

“Does that mean ‘no’?”

She moved her right hand.

“Right hand means ‘yes’; left hand means ‘no’?”

She moved her right hand.

“Then I will begin.”

He rubbed his left cheekbone, withdrew his left forefinger, looked at it, afterward grimaced. “Strange. Sometimes the body does something intentional the mind does not order, or does not know it has ordered. I look at you, I see the damage, and my finger goes to that place on my cheek.”

She blinked. She wondered if her eyes were betraying her thoughts.

“I witnessed what happened. I asked later why it happened. Therefore, I know certain things.” Seated on the upended, thick block of wood that Sokanon had occupied, Abukcheech placed the palms of his hands over his bony knees. “My first question is, ‘Do you regret what happened?’”

Alsoomse felt her eyes jump. She looked inwardly.

Two women conversing passed by the nearest wall.

He awaited her answer. Which was it? She moved her right hand.

He nodded. He closed his legs, scratched awkwardly the left side of his head. “You had to think.” He leaned forward. “Why?”

She frowned, moved her left hand.

“No, you have to answer. It is important to know.”

She stared at him, her lips tight.

“I told you when we spoke before that you wanted to be a man.” His right thumb and forefinger rubbed the sides of his jaw. “He hit you. He did not kill you. Are you glad now that you are not a man?”

What was this weak little man’s message?

“Do you regret speaking like a man because of this injury?”

Of course! She moved her right hand.

“But you have other reasons, I think.” He looked at his active forefinger, curled it, looked at her. “Because you did, you caused other people injury, hardship.”

She blinked, closed her eyes, moved the hand.

“Then maybe you have learned that freedom to speak, or act, requires self-discipline. Perhaps you have learned that what you do affects others. Nobody is really independent.” He gazed at her.

Who was he to judge?

“A wise man knows that. A true woman knows that.”

She resented his superiority.

“A good woman helps her man become wise.”

A “good” woman cannot oppose injustice?

“Your eyes tell me you want vengeance.”

She scowled, jerked her right hand.

“How can you take vengeance without risking or burdening other people?”

She had no answer.

“I believe it is better to be good to people you care about and to accept what you cannot control.”

Is that what he thought he was doing with her? All the while adding wood to her anger?

“I have talked enough.”

She closed her eyes. She recalled Sunukkuhkau’s ferocious face.

“I will stay here until your cousin returns.”

Do as you wish.



"Alsoomse and Wanchese" Scenes

Chapter 8, Pages 77-80

 

Granganimeo’s wife Hurit, standing a canoe’s length away in the village lane, was staring at them. She approached.

“Weroansqua,” Sokanon greeted.

Instantly, Alsoomse rose. The back of her left hand covering her mouth, she faced about.

“Sokanon. Alsoomse. You are teaching these children well.” Hurit looked at Wapun and Pules, who were watching her with large eyes. “Is that not so?” she said to them.

“Yes, Weroansqua, they are very good,” Wapun answered.

Pules nodded vigorously.

“I am pleased.” Hurit looked at Alsoomse, then Sokanon. “I have a duty I want you to perform.”

Sokanon’s eyes flitted.

I want both of you to accompany me to Croatoan, tomorrow. To serve me. Together with Allawa, and two other young women.”

Alsoomse’s cheekbones tingled. Her arms felt the rush of adrenaline.

She had expected criticism.

“Both of you appear surprised.” Hurit’s amused smile enhanced her unaffected beauty.

“Weroansqua, we will serve you well,” Sokanon answered.

Hurit nodded. Her face hardened.

“You should know that Croatoan’s weroansqua has asked me to attend a meeting she is to have with Piemacum’s important men, believing, we suspect, that Piemacum wants her to submit herself and her people to his authority.”

Alsoomse felt a second surge of adrenaline. Quick to exhibit temper, her face burned.

The Croatoan were gentle people! Her father Matunaagd had said so, often! For some time now they had been led by a woman, which explained, probably, their peaceful manner. A thought occurred to her. “Weroansqua,” she said, “I believe I know her purpose.”

“Which is …?”

“Your presence will answer Piemacum’s question without the weroansqua needing to give it.”

Hurit nodded, a slow backward and forward acknowledgment. “You are perceptive, Alsoomse. You are your father and mother’s daughter.” She paused, looked at Alsoomse soberly. “But in other ways you are not nearly so. You disturb me.”

Alsoomse’s face blanched.

Sokanon interrupted. “Is Granganimeo to accompany us?”

What other ways? Alsoomse thought.

“No, Sokanon. His or Wingina’s presence would cause a fight.” Hurit’s face softened. “I am to go alone. Men do not usually fight women.”

“We leave then … when?”

“Immediately after the casting of tobacco. Several of our men will take us there in two canoes. They will not be men of high station.” For the first time Hurit looked at Nuna and Odina. “I will need Machk to be one of them. Please tell him.”

“I will, weroansqua,” Nuna responded.

Sokanon made a small hand gesture. Hurit raised her eyebrows. “I will need somebody to look after my mother. She is not strong.” Her face apologized.

“I am certain one of your friends here will do that.”

Simultaneously, Nuna and Odina nodded.

“Then everything is arranged.” Hurit turned, took two steps toward the lane, and stopped. Pivoting, she regarded Alsoomse. “One other matter.” Her eyes examined the length of Alsoomse’s body. “I expect you, Alsoomse, to show your high station the entire time we are there. That means necklaces, Alsoomse. Bracelets. Beads hanging from your ears. You will be representing this village, not yourself. Do you have them?”

“Yes.”

“I should not have to ask.”

“No.” Here was the expected criticism. She felt the start of a second burn.

Hurit studied her, too lengthily.

The burn reached Alsoomse’s ears.

“Why do you do this? Are you not proud of your parents’ standing?” Hurit looked at Alsoomse’s legs. “No tattoos, not even on your calves. Your cousin has them” – she pointed – “there, and there, and on her arms. She wears a nice shell necklace. Polished bones hang from her ears. Every day. Why must you be so different?”

She wants to know; I will tell her!

“We are different people.”

“That is obvious.”

“I love my cousin.” Alsoomse’s eyes combatted Hurit’s sarcasm. “I respect her for who she is. It is not because she is my cousin or she is the daughter of parents of high station. It is because of who she is.”

“We all judge people that way.”

“I know some who do not. Also, some people of high station expect to be treated well but do not deserve it.” She was thinking of Askook.

Hurit’s left index finger touched the outer side of her left breast. Her fingers curled, became a fist. “Are you saying that people who are leaders, who take responsibility for the welfare of their followers, should not be treated with respect?”

“No, weroansqua, I do not.” Both sides of her face were hot. “I am saying that people like me born into high station should have to earn respect, not demand it. That is why I live here, outside the gate to the compound. I do not want anyone to believe I demand respect.”

Alsoomse moved her right foot forward, traced a line in the sandy earth. “I believe also that people not born of high station deserving respect should receive it.”

Fists pressed against her sides, Hurit studied her. “You are outspoken in your beliefs.”

“I spoke them because you asked.”

The flesh beneath her chin stretched, Alsoomse maintained eye contact. Peripherally, Odina and Nuna were figures of stone.

Hurit’s irises remained centered. “You should know, Alsoomse, that there are people in this village, and at Dasemunkepeuc, who believe that you are dangerous. Strong-headed dangerous. My husband has spoken of it. Our kwiocosuk has spoken of it. You risk punishment, from Kiwasa, from your leaders. I will expect you to keep your thoughts to yourself while we are at Croatoan. I have … tolerated your independence, until now. I must be certain that you will say or do nothing to damage our purpose.” Her eyes bored.

“Your answer?”

She would be truthful, not weak. “I respect you and all of our leaders. I will do nothing to hurt our people.”

“You will wear ornaments that signify your station?”

Alsoomse hesitated. “Yes, weroansqua, I will.”



"Alsoomse and Wanchese" Scenes

Chapter 7, Pages 63-67

 

He was awakened by the staccato sounds of a Great Horned Owl. “Hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo.” A mating call. He anticipated a response. There was none. “Hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo, hoo-hoo hoo,” the same male sounded, unexpectedly close. He had never seen the Great Horned Owl, which lived, bred, and hunted exclusively at night. He had seen the crushed remains of its prey -- too large to be ingested.

Wanchese glanced at the fire. It was still burning. It had, in fact, not diminished! The corner of his left eye caught movement. He started, sat instantly upright. A human figure sat close to the fire.

Etchemin.

His arms and upper back tingling, Wanchese stared.

“Wanchese.” The youth’s right heel made a groove in the sandy earth. He looked at the mark. “You asked who I am.”

“I did.”

“I am Chesapeake. From Skicoac. I came here because I could not live there.”

Ten seconds passed. The light of the fire extended up past Etchemin’s face.

“Why?”

“Because … I am different. … I do not kill, do not hunt. I will not fight.”

Wanchese pointed. “Those scars?”

“Braves have hit me.”

Wanchese inhaled, exhaled. His jaw and cheek bones hardened. He thought of Askook. “You let them hit you?”

Etchemin looked at the fire.

“Why?

Etchemin stared past Wanchese’s left shoulder.

”Were you afraid of them?”

Etchemin made eye contact. Wanchese recognized anger. He raised his palms to the level of his chin. “Why?”

“I do not hunt and kill. I do not fight!”

Wanchese leaned backward. Staring at the Chesapeake, he struggled to understand. “Why do you not hunt?”

His right hand gripping his right knee, Etchemin leaned forward. “What do you see in the eyes of a doe that you have struck with your arrow and she is dying?”

Fear, Wanchese thought. It was the worst part of hunting.

Wanchese spoke rapidly. “Ahone permits us to hunt. It is the way of life. Eat or die. We give thanks to the animals who sacrifice themselves. You know that.”

“Killing is evil,” Etchemin said. “Fighting leads to killing. I will not become evil to fight evil.” He rose. He glared toward the river.

“If you never fight, … you are the doe.” Wanchese stood.

Etchemin turned away, went to and entered his dwelling.

Wanchese knelt upon Etchemin’s deer skin, stretched himself upon it, pulled his own deer skin over his body. He questioned how much sleep he would get before the sun made sleep no longer possible. He could not respect a man who had the physical ability to defend himself. It was probably that unwillingness more than Etchemin’s refusal to hunt that had caused other young men to abuse him. Etchemin had chosen to live this way and had been punished for it. He had been rejected and driven away to restore harmony, balance. Ahone had created a world that abhorred imbalance. Herring, striped bass, plovers, hawks, squirrels, turtles, bears all lived according to Ahone’s rules. Ahone’s dictate to the Real People: maintain His balance. Those who refused to obey had to be expelled.

#

Voices woke him. Early sunlight had penetrated the little clearing. Wanchese rose to a sitting position. He heard Osacan and a voice he did not recognize. Six men appeared out of a cluster of red maple and yellow-poplar. Osacan saw him.

“Wanchese, I am sorry I did not wake you. How went your night?” He laughed.

They veered toward him. He stood, and started to fold his deer skin.

“Not talking? You should know I had a very comfortable night!”

They converged. Osacan thumped Wanchese’s right shoulder.

Andacon had been studying the down slope. “You slept here, not by the canoe?”

“There was no need.” Wanchese brushed moisture off a section of his deer skin.

“You did well here?”

“It was good.” He looked at the ashes of the fire.

The brave standing beside Osacan spoke. “I know what happened.” He jerked his right thumb toward Etchemin’s dwelling. Etchemin had exited it. “You had fish.” He and his companion hunters laughed. “Not deer, rabbit, duck, or beaver. Fish!”

Wanchese straightened his back. “We did. Excellent perch.” He fixed his eyes on the hunter that had spoken.

“We had excellent deer stew, Wanchese.” Osacan extended his right arm. “I would have brought you some but I forgot.”

The hunter whom Osacan had apparently befriended stooped. He picked up from the fire pit the end of a branch not incinerated. “We allow him to live here,” he said to the wood, “because he builds canoes. Except for that, he is worthless.” He stared at Etchemin, standing next to his stacked branches. “Is that right, Useless?!” He hurled the piece of wood. Etchemin stepped to his right. The wood struck the side of the dwelling.

The hunter faced Osacan and Andacon. “He is useless and he is a coward! Watch!” The man strode toward Etchemin, who waited. “Show them I am right! Tell them you are a coward!”

Etchemin stared past him. The hunter slapped him, the sound of palm against cheek distinct.

Etchemin regained his balance, resumed his stance.

“Say it! Say it or defend yourself! No? Then here!” The hunter slapped Etchemin again.

“That is not necessary!” Andacon declared.

“Let him be!” Osacan responded.

“You see?” The hunter, facing them, grinned. “This is what we live with!”

Andacon motioned toward the river. “We have nothing here we must do. Down to the canoe,” he ordered. He stepped off. Osacan; Nootau, ever silent, looking tense; and Wanchese, red-faced, followed.

“Why not take him with you?!” the hunter shouted. “He can build you canoes! If you need to warm your hands, slap him!” They heard a third slap.

Wanchese stopped. He turned about, started up the incline.

“Wanchese!” Osacan exclaimed.

Wanchese heard Andacon’s stern voice. “No!”

He was twenty feet away from the hunter, then ten, then standing in front of him.

“Ah, the coward has made a friend!” the hunter mocked.

Wanchese grabbed the hunter’s skull feather, pulled it out of its groove, held it in front of the hunter’s astonished face, broke it in half. He dropped the two pieces. Locking his eyes on the brave’s face, he waited.

A deep red covered the hunter’s countenance. He swore. Wanchese saw the man’s right hand, of a sudden, move upward. Blocking the upward thrust, Wanchese kneed the hunter’s genitals. He heard instant distress. The hunter doubled over, Wanchese kneed his forehead. The brave went down. Wanchese pinned the hunter’s head to the soil with his right foot.

Breathing fiercely through his nose, Wanchese watched the hunter’s legs thrash. He applied greater pressure. The man emitted a plaintive cry.

He was aware suddenly that the others were close by. The thought that he might be attacked penetrated. He would bring each of them down! “You!” he shouted at the hunter immobilized under his foot. “I will let you up! If you choose to fight, I will kill you!” Three more fierce breaths and he removed his foot.



Wanchese has embarked on a trading mission up the Chowan River to Choanoac with his superiors Andacon and Osacan and his cousin Nootau.  Alsoomse had wanted to be included.

 

Alsoomse and Wanchese" Scenes

Chapter 6, Pages 50-51

 

 

... Looking over his right shoulder, Wanchese could no longer see the northern tip of Roanoke Island, where the previous afternoon Alsoomse had demanded that she accompany him, knowing her words were futile, believing a combative dialogue was essential. It was one aspect of her being he both resented and respected. If he ever did decide to court a young woman, she would have to be just about as strong-minded.

      “You and your important friends need to grind corn kernels, tend the fire and pot, dress deer hide, hunt for clams, make pottery, plant seeds, pull weeds, harvest crops, gather nuts and berries, do everything we do every day! Instead, you are permitted to travel, meet new people, do exciting things!” Why was it that she targeted him with her complaints?! It had been Ahone, not he, who had created the People, the sun, the moon, the rivers, the swamps, the great waters, the trees, animals, fish, and birds!

      “The Great Creator determined our duties!” he had answered. “You have yours. I know mine. It is the way of things.” Her eyes had been large, adamant. “To change would be to destroy order, balance. Without order, without discipline, we do not survive. Our father and mother made that clear to us!” Standing close to him, her chin angled up at him, she had seemed more intent on forcing him to step backward than altering his viewpoint.

“Why must you challenge everything you decide is wrong?! Who are you to decide what is right?! Our leaders and the kwiocosuks and the gods decide. We accept! Those who cannot must live alone. Is that what you want?!” He had not diverted his eyes. He had not given ground! He had said nothing more!

She, not he, had stepped back. She had looked briefly across the water, had engaged him afterward as resolutely as before.

“I know responsibility! You know that! I know the importance of order! I would do nothing to hurt our people!” Face flushed, she had for five or six heartbeats stared, her frown distinct. “I am not content! My mind wants to know what you know, not by you telling me what you decide to tell me but by my living it. Myself! Can you understand that? I should be allowed! No, not allowed! I should be free to do!”

She was wrong. Going to Choanoac to trade with the great Menatonon is what men did! Important men! That familiar burn of temper was ascending the back of his neck! He was a hunter, a weir builder, a warrior, not a weaver of mats! Men and women were different! Meant to be! They had separate responsibilities, for obvious reasons. All responsibilities had to be met. No village member had the right to choose whatever task he or she wanted! It was hard enough for villagers, working together, to accomplish what survival demanded!

“I want to go someplace with you to learn things I do not know! I will not give up until I do!” Turning her head, she had looked again at the sun-dappled water. “When you get back,” she had said, enunciating each word, “you will tell me everything! About Menatonon, the women there, what Nootau said and did, what their village is like, how they are different from us, everything!”

“I will.” How the corners of his mouth had wanted to celebrate!



 

"Alsoomse and Wanchese" Scenes

Chapter 2, Pages 17-18

 

On the back of my paperback historical novel Alsoomse and Wanchese, recently published, a browser of books can read the following:

 

“Mother, I want to question things. Know the why of things. Decide things. Why must weroances, priests, and a husband – kind or not -- decide who I must be?”

            “We gave you your name for a reason.”

            “That is not an answer.”

            “Be respectful, child, dutiful. The gods have taught us our roles. We must obey them, please them. We must please also the wise ones who speak to them. Life is perilous, Alsoomse. Kiwasa makes it so. Weigh what you think before you act. Accept.”

 

He marveled at the potency of his temper. He was surprised that his blow to Askook’s head had not been followed by a fist to the throat and a crushing knee to the side of the skull.

He savored the idea.

Something inside him had interfered.

Had Askook been a Pomouik, he would not have hesitated. He was a warrior. Any man who chose to make himself an enemy needed to beware.

Askook had laid bare his deficiency.

 

Roanoke Island. 1583. Rejecting tribal conformity, deciding what is true, what is just, desiring independence, accomplishment, fulfillment, Algonquian 17-year-old sister Alsoomse and 19-year-old brother Wanchese suffer repercussions.  Alsoomse pushes continuously against tribal convention, the imposed role of women, the dictatorial authority of men, rulers and priests.  Wanchese’s short-temper and quest to meet his deceased father’s expectations place him three times in mortal combat. 

 

            ***

 

I have always been interested in the English/Algonquian/Roanoke story, how the English came to North America in 1584 to find a location to establish a settlement, how a year later English soldiers alienated entirely the local population, how in 1587 over 100 English common folk (not soldiers) including several women and children were tricked into settling on Roanoke Island and how their governor John White had to return to London to try to acquire ships and supplies to transport them to a different location, and, how, finally, in 1590 White returned to find that his people had vanished.

 

The more deeply I researched the story, the more curious I became about the Algonquian natives.  Who were they?  What was their culture?  What were their aspirations?  Their conflicts? 

 

Other writers of historical fiction that have written about some aspect of the Roanoke story focus on the English.  I decided to write an Algonquian story.  Think for a moment about all the Native American people that inhabited America before the White Man crossed the ocean and began his conquest.  As human as any homo sapiens -- advanced or primitive -- these people had no alphabet to form written words to record their life experiences.  I contend that any human being – famous or anonymous – who suffers the vicissitudes of life has an instructive story to tell. Few get told. That is one important reason why authors of historical and contemporary fiction write.

 

Alsoomse and Wanchese begins in late August 1583 and concludes a year later after English explorers -- secondary characters -- have come to Roanoke and left.  Their presence is but a complication to the Algonquians’ ongoing collective and individual inter- and intra-tribal conflicts.

 

I do not expect any prospective reader of my fiction to purchase either of my novels without first sampling my writing.  Below is the first of seven Alsoomse and Wanchese scenes that I will be posting.

 

***

 

Chapter 2, Pages 17-18

 

Humphrey Gilbert and his crew sensed how close to Sable Island’s rocks the Squirrel, riding the turbulent waves, had approached. If he dared to put out to sea, how many days or weeks would it be before he would be able to return? On this island roamed wild pigs and cattle, set ashore decades ago by Portuguese explorers. Here existed the necessary food supply for his planned settlement! The alternative was to return to the Queen disgraced! The Newfoundland fishermen had warned him about Sable Island, about how too many ships had been destroyed on its rocks. “Approach it in the best of conditions. And lead with your smallest ship.” Well, in both instances he had done the opposite.

He had spurned the advice of the Delight’s master, Richard Clarke.

“If you must, utilize a south-west-south course.”

Clarke had contradicted Gilbert’s intended west-north-west direction. “That will take you to disaster, Admiral. The wind is at south and night is at hand. Unknown sands lay a great way off the land.” Gilbert had had to threaten to bring down Elizabeth’s wrath upon Clarke to force the master to comply.

Slanting rain pelted him. He turned his face away from its force. Minutes passed. Sailors were staring at him, turning their faces when he attempted to make eye contact. He would wait a bit longer!

If the fog lifted, he could then be certain. If not, …

The waiting was interminable! He stared, at drifting, amorphous shapes.

A ferocious blast of wind caused him to slip and then fall on the rain-drenched deck. He careened down the deck’s slope, his right leg striking stanchions. Adjusting to the roll of the ship, gripping a foremast spar, painfully, he stood. The boards beneath his feet trembled. Fear constricted his throat.

“Admiral! Here!”

Gilbert hesitated, then followed the beckoning sailor to a cluster of four seamen just aft of broadside. There! The fog had opened. Gilbert's lead ship, the Delight, his largest, was coming apart on dark rocks. And in the water . . . the ship's crew: heads, flailing arms. Miraculously, a boat in the water, just beyond, in one eye-blink, capsized. Churning bodies, disappearing. Gone!

For an hour Gilbert’s two ships maintained their positions. Then he ordered their departure. All one hundred of the Delight’s crew had perished. Numbed with guilt, he retired to his cabin.

 

Frederick Douglass's Children

Annie Douglass

 

Annie Douglass – Frederick and Anna Douglass’s fifth child – was born March 22, 1849, in Rochester, New York.  We know little about her childhood other than the following.

 

Anna and her family enjoyed playing "pitching quoits" in Highland Park.  Quoits was a game in which rings of rope or flattened metal are thrown at an upright peg. The object was to encircle the peg or come as close to it as possible.

 

From what little I have been able to read, Annie, described as “a bright and impish child” (O’Keefe 1), seems to have been the sort of little girl that captures easily strangers’ hearts.  “From 1857 to 1859, Annie attended School 13, which her father’s secretary called the German public school because of the many German immigrants in southeast Rochester.  Annie wrote, the “German children like me very much but I have gone a head [sic] of them and they have been there much longer than me too” (O’Keefe 1).

 

John Brown, the fierce white abolitionist who in November 1859 would lead an armed attack on the federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry and would be hung for it, loved the child.  And, she loved him.  During Brown’s three-week stay at the Douglass home in 1858, she would often sit on his knee while he and her father conversed.

 

Brown had come to Douglass to enlist his help in persuading blacks to join his cause. (Brown had similarly solicited Harriet Tubman’s help and been rejected)  Douglass had favored the cause but not Brown’s plan, which he considered suicidal.  “The United States Armory was a huge complex of buildings that manufactured small arms for the U.S. Army (1801–1861), with an Arsenal (storehouse) that was thought to contain 100,000 muskets and rifles at the time” (Muller 1).  “The plan was ‘an attack on the federal government’ that ‘would array the whole country against us ... You will never get out alive,’ he [Douglass] warned” (John 1). 

 

Brown's confiscated papers mentioned the name of Douglass, and a request for his arrest was issued. This led Douglass to take an immediate unplanned voyage to Europe, where he met up with Ottilie Assing, and, on the lecture circuit he acclaimed, from afar, the martyrdom of John Brown (Timeline 4).

 

Annie became ill in December, soon after her father’s departure.  She would die March 13, 1860, less than two weeks’ short of her eleventh birthday.  “Before her death, she had lost the power to speak or hear” (O’Keefe 2). 

 

An obituary notice, printed perhaps by the local Rochester newspaper, declared the following:

 

Died at Rochester on Tuesday, March 13, Annie, the youngest daughter of Frederick and Anna Douglass, aged 10 years, 11 months, and 21 days, after an illness of nearly three months.

 

Nothing just at this time could have pained us more than this sad bereavement of this esteemed friend, and earnest, and able co-laborer.  Words cannot express how deeply we condole with him and his stricken family.  Annie, the youngest of the circle, a child of great promise was, we are told, the idol of the mother, the pride of the father, and the love of the brothers and sisters.  Thoughtful beyond her years, she seems to have taken into her mind something of the agitation of the times attendant upon the Harper’s Ferry emeute, and the supposed connection of her father therewith, and the consequent harm that would come to him because of it.  Her mind, we are told, haunted with this idea, entered in a cloud of grief, and she drooped, and faded, and died.  It is perhaps mete that this child of the friends of the martyrs of Harper’s Ferry, should thus die at this time as the crowning sacrifice to the Moloch of American slavery.  When that little grave is covered, and the sod grown, then let the little white stone be raised over it with this ephitaph [sic] inscribed thereon: “Here lies the remains of one of the first young spring flowers of liberty, nipped by the untimely frost of American wrong and injustice” (Annie 1).

 

Denied a burial place at Mt. Hope Cemetery, Annie was buried in Samuel Porter’s family burial plot.  She was reburied at Mt. Hope after her father brought pressure upon the cemetery officials.

 

Frederick Douglass had been in Glasgow, Scotland, when he received the news of his daughter’s death. 

 

Anna, along with her children, was desolate; Annie, a charming scamp, happier about the house than her tense older sister, Rosetta, was gone.  Annie, her namesake, the last child of her troubled marriage, was dead.  And she was unable to articulate her despair.

 

Rosetta read to her mother a letter of condolence from Harriet and then sat down to reply.  “My darling sister is now an angel,” she wrote and added, “I have just asked mother what I should say for her.  She sends her love to you and thanks you as heartily as myself for your sympathizing letter, and she as she is unable to write will allow my letter to be in answer for both.  … She is not very well now being quite feeble though about the house.”  And then Anna called out that Harriet should – “if you desire,” as Rosetta politely put it—write to her brother and tell him to come home.  [The biographer William S. McFeely assumed that the “Harriet Bailey” that had lived with the Douglasses in Lynn, Massachusetts, was Frederick’s sister.  Subsequent research has revealed that the woman was “actually the fugitive slave named Ruth Cox, living under that assumed name” (Fought footnote 390]

 

Word of Annie’s death reached her father just after he had received an affectionate, cheerful letter from his son Charles, and as he was indulging himself in the satisfying business of visiting congenial Scottish friends.  Annie herself had written in December, telling proudly of her good work at school.  Douglass’ anguish was intense, not the less so, no doubt, for being mixed with remorse and anger that he had not been on hand when the illness struck—he, the self-made man who could accomplish everything, could surely have prevented this tragedy.  But he had not been there.  “We heard from dear father last week,” Rosetta told Harriet, “and his grief was great.  I trust the next letter [neither that one nor the first one survives] will evince more composure of mind.”  Rosetta, for her part, claimed to take some comfort in the thought that Annie “has gone to Him whose love is the same for the black as the white” (McFeely 207).

 

Two New Orleans’ based “2005 Students of the Center,” Dakota Edmonds and Marlon Cross, wrote this imaginary letter composed by Frederick Douglass addressed to Annie while he was crossing the Atlantic headed homeward

 

Dearest Annie, My Youngest Child:

 

I can remember the first time you grasped my index finger. Fresh from the womb, your small voice cried loud as I held you in my arms. Annie, you were as beautiful as roses & daisies in a spring garden. Your voice spoke to me quietly in a language that I didn't understand. Inside my heart I knew you wouldn't have to slave for freedom as much as I did. My youngest love, my youngest life, you remind me of the ocean.

 

As I write you this letter, the waves rock this ship like your cradle rocked you when I was too busy with your four older siblings. I sit on deck and watch the waves. I think of your ways, soft and calm, at times, rough and fast, but always a wonderful sight to see. Just last month when you were drawing a picture of your baby doll, I disturbed you, asking you to pick up your shoes. The tone of your voice was sweet even when you didn't want to be bothered. Why, I would have done anything for you. I learned that from my own mother. She went through a 24-mile walk after work just to come see her son, your father. She worked in the fields on another plantation, while the other children and I stayed 12 miles away. She cared for me just as much as I care for you. I think of her long journey as I cross the Atlantic Ocean once again, placing my life in danger, weeping that your earthly life has ended.

 

How my heart wishes to walk into my residence to see the face of my Annie, those eyes like your mother's that sparkle in the moonlight, those pretty white teeth that shine in the dark, and that graceful smile that to which no other can ever compare. I know that inside my heart everything happens for a reason. I am so sorry that I could not have been in your presence to adore you with my love, to kiss your cheek, as your soul passed to the next life.

 

You must understand why I was away the day you died, only eight years old. You won't know the name John Brown or the meaning of the words abolition and justice. But these are some of the reasons I was away. John Brown's skin was white but his soul was pure. His heart was set on one goal—abolishing slavery. He too is now dead. Our country wants me to join him. I knew of his plot to attack Harper's Ferry, take over the weapons there, and wage war against slaveholders. I told no one about this plot. For that this country, which declares itself a defender of the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness, accuses me of treason. I do not regret my silence about Brown's plot. I only regret its failure, his death, and most of all my absence as you took your last breath.

 

So now I journey again. The water, the source of life, gives me little comfort. I return to your four siblings and dear mother. I return to a country stuck in greed and evil. I also return with the hope of freedom for all. I pledge my life to remain in this country, to die fighting for freedom for all people rather than to escape to another country. Your untimely departure tells me where I must remain. It reinforces my determination, my conviction that I will never be free until all my people are free. Thank you for this gift you give me on your leaving. Forgive my absence at your departure.

 

All Love Always,

 

Your Father, Frederick A. Douglass (Edmonds and Cross 1)

 

 

           

Works Cited:

 

“Annie Douglass.”  Find a Grave.  Web. <https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/7407734/annie-douglass>.

 

Edmonds, Dakota and Cross, Marlon. “Frederick Douglass Writes a Farewell Letter to His Daughter.”  New Orleans Unmasked. 2005 Students of the Center.  Web.  <https://cat.xula.edu/unmasked/articles/421/>.

 

Fought, Leigh.  Women in the World of Frederick Douglass.  Oxford University Press.  Google.  Web.  https://books.google.com/books?id=YtSPDgAAQBAJ&pg=PT355&lpg=PT355&dq=McFeely,+Frederick+Douglass,+Harriet&source=bl&ots=WN64uvFoXA&sig=U3b2hDsoF9XRG4kThpQ7jFhbkmM&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi22_an5b_bAhXuITQIHQBPDqM4ChDoAQhJMAY#v=onepage&q=McFeely%2C%20Frederick%20Douglass%2C%20Harriet&f=false

 

“John Brown's raid on Harpers Ferry.” Wikipedea.  Web.  <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Brown's_raid_on_Harpers_Ferry>.

 

McFeely, William S.  Frederick Douglass.  New York, W. W. Norton & Company, 1991.  Web.  https://books.google.com/books?id=y71pjlOt2PAC&pg=PA207&lpg=PA207&dq=Annie+Douglass&source=bl&ots=7RcaGGuiZO&sig=iujPD8UhHN5DmjpKIAXjACFjYGs&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj10OnoiKLbAhV7IDQIHSyuAOE4ChDoAQhTMAg#v=onepage&q=Annie%20Douglass&f=false>.

 

Muller, John. “Death knocked on the door of the Frederick Douglass family too often, Douglass outlives his wife, two children, and numerous grand-children.”  Frederick … Anacostia.  Web.  <https://thelionofanacostia.wordpress.com/2012/06/14/death-knocked-on-the-door-of-the-frederick-douglass-family-too-often-douglass-outlives-his-wife-two-children-and-numerous-grand-children/>.

 

O’Keefe, Rosie.  Frederick & Anna Douglass in Rochester, New York: Their Home Was Open to All.  Charleston, South Carolina, The History Press, 2013.  Google.  Web.  <https://books.google.com/books?id=jjaACQAAQBAJ&pg=PT58&lpg=PT58&dq=Annie+Douglass&source=bl&ots=fCtVjVvTTe&sig=YZl886HkBbRyxNp0v_EAcItfAXU&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiMvZWXk6LbAhUYIjQIHS4wCpY4HhDoAQhIMAc#v=onepage&q=Annie%20Douglass&f=false>.

 

“Timeline of Frederick Douglass and Family.”  African American History of Western New York.  Web.  <http://www.math.buffalo.edu/~sww/0history/hwny-douglass-family.html>.