do.”
“Ain’t you afeard, Master Edgar?”
“Yes, of course I am,” I confessed. “But I still want to do it.”
“Very well. I’ll help you. But listen here, you can’t never talk about this. Not never. Not to nobody. If’n we get caught or anyone ever finds out what we done, they’ll hang old Scipio for sure. You hear?”
“Yes,” I said. “So long as you are alive, Scipio, I won’t ever peach.”
By which you may reasonably deduce, gentle reader, that poor Scipio is dead. But more of that anon.
St. John’s Churchyard was largely full by 18—, which is why the city of Richmond established Shockoe Hill Cemetery. It was outside of the city and to the northwest of the river and, as cemeteries go, rather a pleasant place where I had sometimes walked, being full of trees such as Virginia elm, pin oak, silver maple, locust, Kentucky coffee, eastern red cedar and yew, and all enclosed by a high brick wall that Scipio and I were obliged to scale after dark, for the cemetery has a gate that is locked every night at eight o’clock. This was to our advantage, however, as the locked gate and the high wall of Shockoe Hill made it seem unlikely that we would be disturbed. It was also fortunate that my stepfather was away at the time and there were only the other house slaves, Mammy and Thomas, to notice that we were not at home and neither of them would ever have informed on us.
In the lowering darkness we set to our nefarious work with pick and shovel excavating the unfortunate Wilson’s coffin. It was a hard task for a man and a boy and took the best part of an hour. By the time we had hauled the simple pine box out of the grave I was exhausted and almost looking forward to resting in peace awhile. But I was certainly not looking forward to seeing the dead face of my enemy, Wilson. Perhaps it was guilt, but I had half an idea that he still might awaken and accuse me of getting him drowned. This apprehension was hardly diminished by the sight of the dead boy’s face, for he hardly looked dead at all and, indeed, so lifelike did Wilson appear to me that I felt compelled to offer him a double apology—once for bringing about his untimely death and again for disturbing his eternal rest.
Gently, Scipio collected the body from the coffin and carried it to the shadow of the brick wall that enclosed the cemetery, and there he laid him down and covered him with some sacking that the sextons had used to line the edge of another open grave that was to be filled the following day.
Then, equipped with a burning tallow candle and a few provisions, I lay down in the coffin on my front. Before Scipio closed the lid on me for the night, however, I sought some assurance from him that all would be well.
“You did remember to speak to your granddaddy, the houngan, Scipio, and tell him to expect me tonight?” I said.
“I can’t say for sure that Msizi will be there,” said Scipio. “But I told him, all right. The man knows you’re coming to visit awhile. Reckon it’d be rude not to show up and say hello, given all the trouble you and I have been to here.”
“You won’t leave the cemetery either,” I said. “Not to go and get a drink from that still in Rocky Ridge like you did last Saturday when you didn’t come home until late. I sure wouldn’t want you to forget to come back here and dig me up again in the morning, Scipio.”
“I’ll be here all night. Like we agreed.”
“Because I think it would be a terrible way to die. Inhumation, they call it—being buried alive.”
“Don’t worry, Master Edgar,” said Scipio. “I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy. ’Sides, I got to come and get you or else there is nowhere to put your friend Wilson.”
All the same, as Scipio put the lid on the coffin and hammered in a few small nails so that I might more easily be lowered into the grave, I wished that I had thought to bring a Bible with me so that I might have made the slave swear a solemn oath not to
“Ain’t you afeard, Master Edgar?”
“Yes, of course I am,” I confessed. “But I still want to do it.”
“Very well. I’ll help you. But listen here, you can’t never talk about this. Not never. Not to nobody. If’n we get caught or anyone ever finds out what we done, they’ll hang old Scipio for sure. You hear?”
“Yes,” I said. “So long as you are alive, Scipio, I won’t ever peach.”
By which you may reasonably deduce, gentle reader, that poor Scipio is dead. But more of that anon.
St. John’s Churchyard was largely full by 18—, which is why the city of Richmond established Shockoe Hill Cemetery. It was outside of the city and to the northwest of the river and, as cemeteries go, rather a pleasant place where I had sometimes walked, being full of trees such as Virginia elm, pin oak, silver maple, locust, Kentucky coffee, eastern red cedar and yew, and all enclosed by a high brick wall that Scipio and I were obliged to scale after dark, for the cemetery has a gate that is locked every night at eight o’clock. This was to our advantage, however, as the locked gate and the high wall of Shockoe Hill made it seem unlikely that we would be disturbed. It was also fortunate that my stepfather was away at the time and there were only the other house slaves, Mammy and Thomas, to notice that we were not at home and neither of them would ever have informed on us.
In the lowering darkness we set to our nefarious work with pick and shovel excavating the unfortunate Wilson’s coffin. It was a hard task for a man and a boy and took the best part of an hour. By the time we had hauled the simple pine box out of the grave I was exhausted and almost looking forward to resting in peace awhile. But I was certainly not looking forward to seeing the dead face of my enemy, Wilson. Perhaps it was guilt, but I had half an idea that he still might awaken and accuse me of getting him drowned. This apprehension was hardly diminished by the sight of the dead boy’s face, for he hardly looked dead at all and, indeed, so lifelike did Wilson appear to me that I felt compelled to offer him a double apology—once for bringing about his untimely death and again for disturbing his eternal rest.
Gently, Scipio collected the body from the coffin and carried it to the shadow of the brick wall that enclosed the cemetery, and there he laid him down and covered him with some sacking that the sextons had used to line the edge of another open grave that was to be filled the following day.
Then, equipped with a burning tallow candle and a few provisions, I lay down in the coffin on my front. Before Scipio closed the lid on me for the night, however, I sought some assurance from him that all would be well.
“You did remember to speak to your granddaddy, the houngan, Scipio, and tell him to expect me tonight?” I said.
“I can’t say for sure that Msizi will be there,” said Scipio. “But I told him, all right. The man knows you’re coming to visit awhile. Reckon it’d be rude not to show up and say hello, given all the trouble you and I have been to here.”
“You won’t leave the cemetery either,” I said. “Not to go and get a drink from that still in Rocky Ridge like you did last Saturday when you didn’t come home until late. I sure wouldn’t want you to forget to come back here and dig me up again in the morning, Scipio.”
“I’ll be here all night. Like we agreed.”
“Because I think it would be a terrible way to die. Inhumation, they call it—being buried alive.”
“Don’t worry, Master Edgar,” said Scipio. “I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy. ’Sides, I got to come and get you or else there is nowhere to put your friend Wilson.”
All the same, as Scipio put the lid on the coffin and hammered in a few small nails so that I might more easily be lowered into the grave, I wished that I had thought to bring a Bible with me so that I might have made the slave swear a solemn oath not to
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