Believing the siege of long continuance, and impatient of news, I wished greatly for another interview with fellow members of my race, that we might discuss how best to secure our indefeasible rights, so cruelly taken from us. I was soon to receive both interview and news.
One night I played at a ball held for privates, petty officers, and their camp followers in a factory once devoted to the rendering of fish-oil. The hall was dark and briny, the couples smeared with soot and joy. A great vat was overturned, and our little band of music stood upon it as upon a stage, our instruments accompanied by the unison tread of the company assembled.
From that vantage, the line-dances of these men who might tomorrow march in rows into battle had a look of impossible complexity: ranked arms interwoven, circles formed and broken, bodies filing in curious design, confrontations met and swept aside. And those of us who stood atop the fish-tub received the jolts of their ecstatic rhythm through our feet — and we played the more wildly for the dancing of these men beneath us — filling the solemnity of their hours of watch and sally with last dances, last embraces, a final chance, mayhap, to feel the world spinning beneath them before it stopped and swallowed them whole.
There being a call for a halt to the music, so that a collation might be laid out and eaten, my fellows and I retired from our instruments and sat upon our tub, articulating our tired fingers.
That we might become better acquainted, I inquired of Sip whether his children were as musical as he; for he was prodigiously knowledgeable, acquainted with the tunes of five nations.
He replied six nations, for he knew a China tune, brought back by the Jesuits from the palace at Peking, which lilting melody he then fiddled for me; that song, he explained proudly, bringing his national tally up to six. He ate some bread, and said, “My girls, they do like to dance. Little one, Shirley, she going to dance like a courtier when she’s grown. The big one, she wants the graces.” Wreathed in the smiles of paternity, he related, “She mainly buffet Shirley around in circles and step on her toes like a rummy dragoon.”
I inquired if he played for them, which he answered gratefully that he did, he had that pleasure; I inquired whether he knew any tunes of Africa, and he said, no, saving a few his grandfather tried to remember; and I inquired whether he might play them for me; and thus we would have continued, had not the two other members of our little band — who were white, and of the 64th — approached us and requested the honor of speaking to us outside the hall.
At the severity of their countenances, I felt a chill.
Sip excused us, saying, “Sirs, we is enjoying some bread.”
With looks of veiled significance, our two white companions bade us follow.
Follow we did, anticipating some disaster. Sip and I exchanged glances of no little concern. We made our way out the door.
After such an eve, the crush and dance, utterly awesome was the silence of streets abandoned by all.
Our breath issued forth in steam. We stood, abeyant, ready to receive what shock fate should administer.
The bassoonist, a man of sallow and heavy cast, said, “You carry tales.”
Both Sip and I were silent, knowing we both had conveyed rumors to our fellows in the Negro work-parties. I was fetched up by terror, and surveyed the street for escape, did this encounter become a beating.
“I says a thing,” the bassoonist accused softly, “and you report it to others of your race.”
“We heard —” said the flautist.
“We hear a great many things,” said the bassoonist.
“Sirs,” said Sip, in tones confident of his lie, “sirs, I know not what you’s aiming at.”
The two looked at each other, as if embarking on some dangerous course; and the bassoonist said, “We hear news from the South, might be of interest.”
“To the others,” said the flute.
“If you wish to repeat it.”
The flute nodded, and leaning toward us with look of sharp conspiracy, said, “Lord Dunmore.”
“As is Governor of Virginia,” explained the bassoon.
“He’s writ a letter says he’s been hounded from his own palace by the rebels.”
“Fled.”
“Onto a ship. They chased him off the shore. And here’s this: He threats manumission for all loyal slaves.”
“He don’t dare land. He’s trapped out in some bay. The entire Virginia Colony —”
“It’s in a monstrous uproar.”
“Chaos.”
“Rebels running through the streets of the capital.”
“So he says he’ll free whosoever joins him. I says, says I, if he issues that decree, every Virginian of property is going to throw in against the King’s right, see? Every Virginian of property. They’ll enlist in the militia.”
“But we says to each other, Them Negro violinists in the orchestra should know. Because if Lord Dunmore frees them in Virginia, General Howe might too, up this way.”
“A body can’t play a symphony next to a man, without compassionating with his woes.”
“As soon as ever we heard word, we says, We’ll tell them violinists.”
The bassoonist asked us, “Where do you boys reckon the Negroes will put their loyalty?”
I was much distracted at this news; I knew not what to say, for my thoughts were engaged wholly in considering this story and the name of Dunmore, which appellation was not unfamiliar to my ears.
Sip did not answer their question; saying only, blankly, “I’s already a free man.”
At some length, I responded, “If you are asked, you may relate that most of our numbers shall swear fealty to whoever offers emancipation with the greatest celerity.”
“The rebels, they don’t want you. You heard? They don’t.”
Said I, “You shall find, sir, that whoever takes such a measure and releases us from bondage will be amply rewarded with the most zealous of followers.”
The men appeared anxious; Sip was not wholly pleased with my frankness and probity. The white men nodded, and we peered about in the dark and the cold, the white men still nodding; and then, there being nothing more to discuss, returned within to play more dances for the troops.
We played for an hour; but as may be imagined, my faculties were not wholly trained upon my part, but rather in reflection upon what I had heard; for I had been informed, during my late period of incarceration, that Pro Bono was like to have fled to Dunmore’s palace, and I pictured him now, standing upon the prow of a ship, serving, perhaps, as valet to the Royal Governor of Virginia.
The coming days would confirm our fellow musicians’ report that Lord Dunmore had indeed abandoned his capital and now governed from a ship harbored in Chesapeake Bay; and that Governor Martin of North Carolina was in like wise fled his palace; and that both of them drifted up and down the rivers of their colonies, disrupting the shipping, threatening violence. It was then said that Dunmore harbored slaves who fled to him, and our musical companions were not alone in believing that Dunmore should soon issue a general emancipation to all Negroes as would join him.
In the moment, I knew no particulars beyond what they had spoken. But still, I was transported, envisioning ranks upon ranks of men of my Africk nation, marching forth from ships, armed and disciplined, halloed from plantations, met with rejoicing, as streaks of liberation spread like verdigris across this tarnished colonial sky.
I stumbled on my part, too lost in reverie, and the flautist fixed me with a look most vexed.