A Wave From Mama

Chapter 1 Fort Sumter A FEW CROSSED over Monday night, but the majority arrived on Tuesday or Wednesday, once it became apparent they were no longer welcome in New York. By Saturday morning, most who’d found their way across the river to Brooklyn took refuge in this makeshift camp in the town of Weeksville, where Black people owned most of the land. The refugees had learned hard lessons during the Draft Riots and most in the camp swore they would never again live side by side with Whites. The general consensus: there was strength in numbers, and Weeksville had numbers. The camp became home to some complete families, as well as what remained of others. Some told stories of personal beatings they had endured, others spoke of lynchings they witnessed, but many didn’t say much at all. Beyond their stories, what they had in common was a questionable future—next steps were on everyone’s mind. The refugees scattered around an open field with a variety of rudimentary shelters. Some set up proper tents, but most connected whatever materials they could find for some protection from the elements. No one prepared for such a hasty, but necessary, departure from New York. The sweltering July heat made the stench of the camp almost unbearable. One distinctive scent, however, cut through the malodorous cloud and was immediately recognized by Ezra and Moses Brown, two brothers who worked on New York’s East Side docks. Ezra called out to his younger brother for assistance, “Come on over here, I think we got some diggin’ to do—someone must’ve passed.” As Moses followed the scent, he tripped on an anchor supporting one of the tents. The occupants rushed outside to check on the disturbance and Ezra apologized for his brother. “So sorry, folks, just my fool of a brother, always trippin’ on either his own feet or his own words. Go back to sleep now, you got a few more minutes before sunup.” Ezra laughed every time he passed the small sign posted by someone in the camp, which read “Fort Sumter.” The symbolism was clear—the Draft Riots in New York earlier that week were the first shots fired in a new war against Blacks. Those foolish enough to think President Lincoln’s recent Emancipation Proclamation marked the end of the struggle now understood it created another enemy—the Irish, who were certain the freed Blacks would steal their jobs. The brothers continued their search for the source of the odor and entered an aisle created by four tents—two on either side. A young woman seated, legs crossed, on a blanket held her nose, and pointed in the direction of a crude tent surrounded by boxes. Moses squeezed through a small opening and found a woman lying in a pool of her own blood clutching her side, and said, “Ezra, this here that light-skinned girl from downtown, the one with the cut. Must’ve opened up—she bled out. Didn’t want no help when she started settin’ up her spot. More scared than most and didn’t trust no one.” “I remember—pretty girl, but too scared for her own good. Sometimes you got to trust someone. Move the stuff behind her and wrap her in a blanket, and we’ll find a spot to give her a proper Christian burial.” “Least we can do, Ezra. Hard to believe she moved all these damn boxes over here with such a deep cut. Built herself a little house—gonna take a while to clear everything out.” Moses realized most of the boxes were empty, so he started to kick them out of the way. As he kicked the largest one next to the woman’s side, he heard a squeal and jumped back. “Hold on Moses, somethin’s in there.” Ezra tried to remove the top from the wooden box, but felt resistance, so he yanked harder, which caused him to stumble backward. The crash of the hatchet into the ground directly in front of Ezra made him jerk further back. The brothers gawked at their attacker, who sprung up from the crate—a tiny little boy, perhaps five years old, with fire in his eyes. The boy rocked his head from side to side and readied himself for another assault. Moses marveled at this small child with long arms that stretched below his knees. The boy curled his hands into fists, wrinkled his brow, and stared down the two men. “Damn fool boy, you almost took my toes. Not even sure you Black—you even lighter than your mother. Give me that hatchet.” Ezra grabbed the hatchet from the ground as Moses pulled the child from the crate. The youngster tried his best to escape, but Moses picked him up in a bear hug and controlled his punching and kicking. After a few moments, the boy calmed down and Moses loosened his grip. A bite to Moses’s arm provided freedom. The crazed boy ran out of Fort Sumter screaming, “You killed Mama, and you’re all gonna pay!”