February, 1843
Beaufort, North Carolina
Her screams broke the
eerie stillness in the bedchamber at Grand Cove.
Hovering between
semi-consciousness and reality, Clarissa clutched the bed sheets,
moving her lips in whispered prayer. The grueling labor, entering
its twelfth hour, had sapped every ounce of strength from her frail
body. The midwife sponged her face and then moved to the end of the
four-poster to check on the baby's progress. The woman's brown eyes
were sympathetic and what? Anxious? The darkies wouldn't have
noticed Lucette Denzer's concern. Huddled in the corner like ghostly
specters, their heads were bowed, their aberrant thoughts no doubt
on voodoo and witchcraft—all except America, that is. The daughter
of their cook, Bessie, America had always been a precocious child,
prone to wide-eyed curiosity and a loose tongue. Never had the girl
infuriated Clarissa more than at this moment.
"My mammy says if'n ah
woman look at ah full moon in dah last days, dah child will surely
die." The whites of America's coal black eyes gleamed in the
candle-lit room, boring into Clarissa as if she already had one foot
in the grave. "An' if'n ah rabbit crosses her path, dah child be
born wid a harelip."
Clarissa struggled to
lift her head from the pillow and then shot the girl a lethal glare.
Nodding America back
into the corner, Lucette said, "Shush now! The problem in delivering
the infant is due to the narrow hips of the mother and nothing
else."
The darkies had always
gravitated toward superstitious musings, but now was not the time to
court them. There was nothing wrong with Clarissa's hearing despite
the stabbing pain tearing through her abdomen. The girl appeared
dutifully cowered by the midwife's words when she snuck a sheepish
glance at Praline, overseer of the house staff. It would serve her
right if Praline punished her for repeating her mother Bessie's
silly prattle. It was then Clarissa remembered a conversation
between Praline and Bessie. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but the
door to the kitchen was slightly ajar and she heard muffled voices
on the other side.
"Dah midwife kaint save
dah child, no matter what she do," Bessie had said.
Praline had chastised
her. "You ought not to be listening to fool's talk, Bessie."
"Dare be other dark
workins' goin' on when dah Missus' time cum, an' dah oft-told
warnins' from dah elders ought to be heeded."
"White folks don't take
kindly to our beliefs, and the elders have been wrong before."
"Jess dah same, they be
trouble brewin'.
Clarissa had cleared
her throat before entering the kitchen that day, and then a hushed
silence had come to the room. She couldn't afford to take their
words to heart. The darkies believed every event in life was
manipulated or controlled by magic or communication with departed
ancestors, and Clarissa had given up long ago trying to convince
them to surrender their pagan beliefs.
Another spasm crushed
her. When it passed, her feeble mind revisited the last several
months of her lying-in period. Where had she gone wrong?
Countless hours were
exhausted while she prepared for the birth of their first born, and
now she didn't seem capable of bringing it into the world. Was it
too late to send for a physician? The midwife had been her choice
after hours of research on the subject, extensive interviews, and
numerous contemplative discussions with her husband, Dilce. The
McCains had openly longed for a child, but the mere thought of
childbirth dredged up a cauldron of fear in Clarissa. It was an
undisputed fact women in her family had suffered horribly during the
birth of a child and some had perished from various, nonspecific
complications, not to mention the newborns that never drew breath.
It was also an undisputed fact that her friends and acquaintances,
the elite of Beaufort society, insisted on having a physician attend
them, but not Clarissa.
She'd read about
childbed fever, knew there were those who suspected the virulent
infection was brought into the room by the very doctors who
delivered the babies. She needed every advantage available, and Miss
Denzer concurred with their speculation. The woman would insist
everyone in the room wash their hands before venturing near the
mother or the child and wouldn't allow them to be in attendance if
they had recently attended another birth, black or white. Miss
Denzer also reassured her she considered the practice of voodoo and
witchcraft offensive and it had no place in her life, in or out of
the birthing room. The woman relied on the learned skills of her
German ancestors, knowledge that had been passed down from mother to
daughter for decades. After her interview with the woman, she was
adamant no one else attend her.
Clarissa had four
months to scrutinize the midwife as she milled about the house and
slave quarters. Lucette Denzer was stronger than her frame implied.
Slightly taller than five feet, the woman was slight of build,
possibly one hundred and twenty pounds fully dressed. A network of
lines crisscrossed her face, although Clarissa imagined she was no
more than fifty years old. Her thick peppered hair was pulled back
from her face in a sleek knot, culminating in a neat oval bun. Brown
eyes, the color of cocoa beans, rested below thick eyebrows, the
same color and texture as her hair. Her attire was neat and clean,
yet bespoke of a lower-class. Lucette had quickly earned the respect
of Praline as well as the other slaves residing at Grand Cove, and
with good cause. On more than one occasion in the past months, the
midwife had been summoned to minister to the sick and dying. She
performed these duties with compassion and infinite knowledge.
Even though Clarissa
had been impressed by her confidence and apparent expertise, now,
after hours of punishing labor, the child had not made its entrance.
She'd suffered through most of it in silence but in the last several
hours, anguished screams tore from her throat. When the next
crushing spasm came―like sabers tearing her innards apart—she had
little time to ponder further on Miss Denzer or sorcery.
Events happened so
rapidly, Clarissa couldn't remember their order. The white-hot pain
blinded her to all reason and sense of time. She was aware of a
haunting, lilting chant―the midwife's―and then a hoarse screeching,
similar to that of a snared rabbit. Hers? A vague blur of ebony
bodies moved about the foot of the bed, seemingly with purpose but
void of sound.
The midwife, hovering
between her thighs, released a long breath of air. "Tis a
dark-haired female!"
Lucette placed the
child on her abdomen and turned the tiny being face up, sweeping her
nimble fingers through the infant's mouth. Clarissa held her breath
when the woman turned the babe from side-to-side in an obvious
attempt to draw life from the still form. The infant was listless,
her pallor dull gray. Clarissa struggled to maintain consciousness,
vaguely aware of the dark form reaching for her daughter, her face
etched in sorrow.
God in Heaven, was
Praline crying?
Lucette's somber voice
was like a knife stabbing at her heart. "Submerge her in the basin
and rub her briskly with a cloth, keep trying."
A muffled groan came to
her as the fate of her firstborn filled her with numb disbelief. The
ancient chant began again, a calming dirge designed to bless the
infant who had passed. Delivered in German, it sounded like a
mantra, as if the midwife was at this very moment calling on the
numinous spirits of her ancestors for assistance. Whispered words of
encouragement fell from the woman's lips, surely intended to bolster
her resolve, but it was then she realized her nightmare wasn't over.
Lord above, deliver
me from this hell.
She tried desperately
to summon forth the strength to deliver the second child as the
midwife settled between her legs again, but the dark oblivion
marched forth like a mighty army threatening to claim her.
When at last the
boisterous squalling of new life raised its head, the midwife handed
the infant to Praline. "Wrap her in muslin cloths; make sure they've
been warmed by the hearth."
Only then did Clarissa
surrender to the welcoming black void.
Moon of the Sleeping Bear
