Episode 6
“On the night of August 26th, 1776 my mother and I went to bed about two hours after sundown. Our beds of straw felt very comfortable that evening, we had worked all day collecting apples from the orchard and mashing them for hard cider. It was a bit early in the season for this but with the British invasion coming Master Bergen wanted to quickly store the fermenting cider in a nearby cave along the bay. I had just fallen asleep when I heard a light tap at the door to the shed where we slept. I feared that it was Washington’s men looking for animals or our early harvest. But I heard whispering - one word, Assiatou, Assiatou, Assiatou... I turned to my mother. She was crying. I had never seen her cry. I had seen her beaten, I had seen her denied food and yet she never cried.” “Mother”, I said, “What is this word and why are you crying?”. She did not speak, she ran to the door, moved the large barrel that we used to hold the door closed and opened the door as one would open a decoratively wrapped gift. I saw a towering giant of a man. His skin was so dark that he blended with the black sky. His eyes were glowing like burning coals, there was sweat on his brow. I pulled back in fear using my blanket to cover all but my eyes.
But my mother allowed this towering figure to come in, and she fell into his arms. I thought he would crush her, but I watched as his glowing eyes began to close as if he was being lulled to sleep and his lips turned up at the corners into a gentle, loving smile. He spoke “Assiatou” and my mother responded “Sekouba, Mi yidi ma.”. My mother turned to me and said “Son, this is your father.”
My mother had never spoken to me of my father, and in my eleven years of life I had never asked for fear that the response would be too painful for either of us to bear. My mother quickly moved the barrel back against the door and she pulled me into a tight circle with her and my father. She spoke rapidly but in a whisper. She said “Son, this is your father. When we were brought here, we were separated and haven’t seen each other again until this very moment.” My father looked like a mighty man, almost frightful except for his very loving demeanor. But as he wrapped his long arms around me and my mother I felt him trembling. He spoke “On the day of our separation I made a vow to survive no matter what, so that I might embrace you again and cast my eyes upon the product of our love. For months I worked cutting down trees and clearing fields for farming. Then I was taught to build homes for the white man.
I have been in the Town of Flatbush all these years, just a brief walk from here. Flatbush was at a crossroad that brought people from all parts of the long island. Each Thursday, market day, farmers and their slaves would bring goods for sale and trade. While the masters traded I asked of you among the slaves. I “found” you within two years and was told that you were now called Abbie and you had a son named Pieten.” My mother spoke quickly and said “Sekouba, I did not name our son. I hoped for a day when you would return and we would name him together.”. My father looked at me and smiled saying “I named you the day that I heard that I had a son. Your name has been and will forever be Mtuwa Furaha. As you are named, so shall your life be - Man of Happiness. The grief that we have known for these years will be undone by you. Your destiny is to defeat evil.” I didn’t know how to respond, I could hardly even speak. And most of all, I did not know how to address my father. I knew how to address strangers with respect and how to address my Master and other white men, with utter and highest respect, but how do I speak to my father? Finally, I began to speak, but first, I lowered my eyes and looked toward the ground in respect, “My dear father, I am just a boy, I am smaller than most boys and I have never won a scuffle in my life. With all respect, certainly you must have me mistaken for someone else.” There was total silence. My mother was about to speak, but my father raised his hand gently and placed two fingers against her lips. The silence continued. My father, then extended his hand towards me and cupped my chin and lifted my head until my eyes were equal with his. His lips were clenched and I watched as his entire head seem to grow bigger and bigger, as if in a moment it would explode. His already high cheek bones became higher and his cheeks expanded like balloons - and then, indeed, then, he did explode. He exploded with the warmest and most loving laugh that I had ever heard (but still muffled to keep from awakening the Master and his wife).
“My son, my Mtuwa Furaha, you my son, are a young man of great destiny. Right now, you may not believe it and one day you may even attempt to deny it, but you are a man of great destiny. In our homeland, I told the story told to me by my father, who was told the same story by his father. You will become the man that legend has spoken of for generations. You will defeat evil.”
Before another word could be said there was the sound of running feet. This was followed by knocking on the door of the Master’s house. A conversation took place, half in English and half in Dutch. The invasion had begun, the British and Hessians were marching under the cover of darkness. They had left their tents standing and campfires burning, but they were beginning the attack. Master and his wife quickly packed. There was little to pack since they had been storing things in various hiding places for the better part of the previous month. As they were leaving, the Master banged on the shed door and yelled “Abbie! Abbie! You and the boy are to remain here and care for the house. Do NOT leave.”
In those few words of command, Master Bergen, without knowing it, was granting us our freedom. We would be on our own. But freedom would come at a cost - the onslaught of tens of thousands of invading soldiers, but it was freedom just the same. My father told us to collect whatever food we could and be ready to leave immediately.
My mother laid a blanket on the ground and filled it with dried fish, a sack of flour, and some sausages. She wrapped it and we were ready to leave. My father said that we would attempt to head east and try to reach the Shinnecock Indian’s tribal lands. My father had come to know members of the Shinnecock when they came to Flatbush to trade beads made from quahog clams and whelk shells. As we stepped onto the road I was overwhelmed by the calmness. It was a night unlike any other, insects occasionally breaking the silence of the night, but aside from that, total stillness.
My father said we could not use any of the roads. And we had to avoid Flatbush since by now his disappearance may have been discovered. We went along an Indian path that took us past the top of a tall ridge where a large kettle lake was. As we passed the lake we began a gentle descent onto the flatlands of the long island. But as we reached the edge of a clearing we saw that our path was blocked by a line of enemy soldiers. There was no hope of crossing ahead or behind the line of march. The only choice was to fall back and hope to get through the line of the American patriots.