Chapter Twelve With Nalla Close By

On her fifth trip to Washington, D.C., Diane hit pay dirt. With Marlo Wagner at her side, she met with three foundations she had been cultivating virtually nonstop for months. The African-American Historical Trust stepped forward with a grant of $500,000, and it was matched dollar-for-dollar with grants from the DeWist Foundation and the Potomac Preservation Fund.

The Nalla Foundation had raised $320,000 since its inception, and Diane was already spending most of that on the architects and other preliminary matters, one of which was the clearing of a roadway from the beach to the cemetery on Dark Isle.

Lovely said the curse was lifted, and so far there had been no casualties among the white guys laboring on the island. It was the source of endless ribbing by the black guys. Workers of all colors kept a keen watch for the rattlesnakes.

With $1.5 million in hand, Diane contracted with Drs. Sargent and Gilfoy to begin the first of several cemetery digs. In early April, she finally received an artist’s rendering of the memorial that she liked, after spending almost $60,000 on several that she did not. A marketing firm took the art and produced a slick direct-mail solicitation that went to 300,000 potential donors. In addition to the art, there was a color photo of Lovely and three paragraphs about her story. It was enormously successful, generating over $400,000 in the first two months.

Also in April, Diane decided to forgo law school for another year. She had been accepted at Emory, her first choice, and the school agreed to another one-year deferment, but her dreams of a career in environmental law were fading. She was too busy with the foundation. She said goodbye to Steven and his little nonprofit and rented more space. She hired the second employee. When notified by the IRS that she had failed to list her board of directors, she quickly sent in the names of Steven Mahon, Bruce Cable, Gifford Knox, Mercer Mann, and Naomi Reed. Then she got busy and forgot to tell them that they had been elected to the board of the Nalla Foundation.

At the beginning of the legislative session in Tallahassee, the Black Caucus held a press conference to announce the filing of a bill that would create a memorial to the enslaved people who had lived on Dark Isle. The bill sought $2 million in initial funding, a modest amount for a wealthy state with an impressive budget surplus. The bill died in a subcommittee, then was resurrected only to be killed again upon final adjournment.

Diane and Mercer were at the state capitol, lobbying in a vain effort, when time expired. It was a tough loss, but most caucus members were optimistic about next year. Among the many lessons Diane was learning was that private money was preferable over local, state, and federal dollars.

The Nalla Foundation was raising money and had enough to keep it busy for quite some time. It was about to get a big boost with the publication of The Passage.

The early reviews were nothing short of remarkable. Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, Booklist, and Goodreads raved on and on, so much so that Viking increased its first printing to 125,000 copies. Momentum was building, and the buzz in the publishing world was that The Passage could be the summer hit on the nonfiction side.

Viking wanted to throw a launch party in New York, but Bruce Cable would have none of it. He wouldn’t even discuss it with Mercer. The book was born in the waters around Camino Island, and that was where it would be celebrated first. He ordered two thousand copies, a record for Bay Books, and harangued Mercer into pre-signing all of them the day before the launch. He rented the town’s brand-spanking-new amphitheater on the beach, a gift from the legislature to honor those who died in Hurricane Leo. He sold tickets for fifty dollars apiece, which included an autographed book, pregame rum punch on the beach, and a donation to the Nalla Foundation. The weather cooperated, the night was perfect, and a huge crowd showed up. Bruce was, of course, the master of ceremonies, and he introduced some important people to say a few words: Diane Krug, executive director of the Nalla Foundation; the mayor of Santa Rosa; the chairman of the Black Caucus in Tallahassee; and Marlo Wagner, director of the African Burial Project in Baltimore.

The star of the evening was Mercer Mann, and she spoke for a few minutes before surprising the crowd with another introduction. When Lovely Jackson walked across the stage and took a bow, the crowd stood and cheered. When it settled down, she stepped behind the podium, pulled the mike a little closer, and thanked everyone for coming. She thanked Mercer for her book, and Diane for the foundation and its wonderful work, and Bruce at the bookstore. From a pocket somewhere in the midst of her teal-tinted robe, she pulled out a paperback, her own story. She set the scene, then read:

The women held the children close to stay warm. The wind was blowing in from the ocean and they were cold. Where were they? They had no idea. They had survived a terrible storm. A storm so long and awful and violent it had broken the ship into pieces and sent hundreds of screaming people to their deaths. Nalla and the other women and children had somehow survived by clinging to a wooden post, a mast from the ship. The ship. A slave ship that had taken them from their homes and families and children in Africa. A ship that was now destroyed, sunk and at the bottom of the ocean, where it belonged, where it could create no more misery. A child cried and Nalla drew him close. She kissed his head and thought of her own son, over there, across the water. She cried too but only to herself.

The waves broke onto the beach not far away. Dawn was breaking and there was light in the east. The women were still naked. The cheap burlap skirts they had been given on board had been washed away in the storm. They had not eaten in days. The children wanted food but the women just sat there in the sand, beside a dune, and stared at the ocean, waiting for another day in which they had no idea what might happen. Could another ship come to take them home, take them back to Africa? Death was everywhere. Nalla had seen so much of it she wondered if she might now be dead too. Finally dead and finished with this nightmare, now going home with the spirits to see her husband and little boy.

Lovely read slowly and pronounced her words clearly, as if she had done it before. The crowd was silent, and mesmerized. Mercer watched from the side of the stage and knew she had a tough act to follow.

The women heard voices and drew even closer together. The voices of men, but calm. In the early morning light, the women could see men walking along the beach and coming their way. Dark men, with pleasant voices. Nalla called out and the men walked over. Four African men, one with a rifle. Behind them were three women, all from the ship. When they saw Nalla and the others they ran toward them and the women hugged and cried, so happy to see others who had survived the storm.

The men watched and smiled. They were shirtless and barefoot but wore the same odd britches as the white men on the ship. They spoke in a tongue the women did not understand. But the message was clear: You are safe here. You are with your people.

Lovely closed her book, said a polite “Thank you,” and walked away as the crowd stood again. Mercer gave her a hug, then walked, somewhat nervously, to the podium.

From Camino Island, the team—Mercer, Thomas, Lovely, and Diane—flew to Washington, D.C. It was Lovely’s first flight and the preparation for it had taken weeks. She sat between Diane and Mercer, kept her eyes closed most of the way, and seemed to be in a trance. She declined food and drink and said little.

The event was hosted by Politics Prose, a long-standing independent bookstore in the area, and it was held at the historic Howard Theatre. Marlo Wagner had cracked the whip, ginned up interest in the event and the book, and a long list of African American groups bought tickets. The theater was sold out. Marlo and Diane presented a short video as an overview of the project on Dark Isle. Lovely spoke and read and once again stole the show. Mercer had a good night in front of a rowdy crowd.

The following day, she and Lovely were interviewed by TheWashington Post, whose Book World had raved about The Passage. Its legendary editor, Jonathan Yardley, stepped out of retirement to do the interview and the three had a delightful time.

From Washington, Mercer and Thomas took the train to Philadelphia. Diane managed to get Lovely home to Santa Rosa, where, once back on her porch with a glass of sugary iced tea, she declared that she would never again set foot on an airplane. It was obvious to Diane and Miss Naomi, though, that Lovely rather liked being onstage.

Dr. Sargent could not attend the book event at the Howard Theatre, though he had been invited and asked to introduce Diane and Marlo. He had his hands full of bones on Dark Isle. By late June, their second dig was well underway.

During the first one a month earlier, the team had recovered thirty-eight graves. With each find, they carefully lifted out whatever they found, usually bones and sections of the decomposed wooden caskets. The remains of each were cleaned, photographed, indexed, and placed into a small metal coffin that was then sealed tight. The grave was dug deeper, wider, and longer until it was four feet by two and exactly fifty inches deep. The metal coffin was then lowered and buried.

As always, it was hard, tedious work, and by late June the Florida heat was pushing ninety-five degrees. The team had set up camp near the cemetery, on a patch of land that had been cleared by bulldozers, and some of them preferred to cook and sleep in the wild. The panthers often made the nights interesting, but no one was injured. Indeed, halfway through the second dig, no one had yet to actually see one. The pontoon boat arrived each morning with water and supplies, and it returned late in the day to collect those who needed a hot shower and some air-conditioning. Each team member had the option of sleeping in a hotel in Santa Rosa, and as the days wore on, more and more left the island at night.

On two occasions, Diane escorted Lovely to the island to check on things. The temporary pier made their arrival much easier. The gravel drive through the woods seemed like a luxury. They rode in a John Deere Gator driven by a student at Howard, who was thrilled to finally meet Lovely.

The cemetery was changing dramatically. The overgrown vegetation and brush were gone, the entire area had been cleared. Rows of string and yellow tape marked the graves that had been found but not yet unburied. Small, neat mounds of dirt were piled beside other graves. Most of the working area was covered by large canopies to shield against the sun. Lovely sat in the shade, sipped cold water, and chatted with the archaeologists and students, who were in awe of her. The bleached bones they were touching and handling so carefully belonged to her ancestors.

Everyone wanted a photo with Lovely.

During the second visit, as they were on the pontoon boat and headed back to Santa Rosa, Lovely asked Diane, “Can I be buried with my people, here on Dark Isle?”

“Well, the state of Florida doesn’t really care. It allows a person to be buried on private property. However, Camino County passed an ordinance years ago requiring all burials to be in registered cemeteries.”

“How do you know so much?”

“I’ve read too many old newspapers.”

The Passagedebuted at #4 on the nonfiction bestseller list, prompting Viking to push the print button for another 25,000 copies. Mercer’s book tour took her to New York, Boston, New Haven, Syracuse, Buffalo, then back down to Baltimore, and Philadelphia again. At each stop she did as many print interviews as her PR team could schedule, went to as many bookstores as humanly possible, and even managed some radio and local television. The third week after publication, the book moved up to #2.

She and Thomas went to the beach for the July Fourth holiday and caught up with Lovely, Diane, and Bruce. After three days of rest, she took off again, without Thomas, for a swing through the Midwest, stopping in Louisville, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Indianapolis, and Chicago. For the most part book tours were relics from the past, but Viking was willing to fund as much as Mercer could stand. With Bruce’s constant encouragement, she had agreed to forty cities in fifty days.

On July 18, some five weeks after publication, The Passage hit #1 on the list. Mercer was leaving a hotel room in Wichita when she got the call from Etta Shuttleworth in New York. “You made it, girl! Number one!”

Mercer sat on the edge of her bed, tried not to cry, and called Thomas. He promised to meet her in Denver. After that, she called Bruce, who, of course, already knew. Etta called back with the news that Viking was printing another 50,000 copies.

In an author’s note at the end of The Passage, Mercer thanked the many people who had helped with her research. She wrote a wonderful tribute to Lovely Jackson, a friend who had lived the life she had just described and who had unselfishly allowed Mercer to “borrow” her story. Mercer also made a pitch for money. She described the Nalla Foundation and its plans for a memorial on Dark Isle, finishing with: “It’s a small nonprofit, just barely getting started, so if you have a spare buck, send them a check.”

The checks were arriving, and not all of them were from spare funds. Almost all were individuals who read and were inspired by the book. By the time The Passage hit #1, its admirers had sent checks totaling almost $90,000.

When the phone buzzed at 2:34 in the morning, Mercer found it, knocked it to the floor, picked it up, saw that it was from Diane, and knew immediately something had happened to Lovely.

“Mercer, where are you?”

A helluva question. She looked around the dark room as if the furniture or curtains might hold a clue to the city. “Portland, I think. What’s wrong.”

“Miss Naomi found Lovely on the floor tonight. She couldn’t get up. We’re at the hospital now and she’s doing okay, resting, probably another stroke. I hate to bother you in the middle of the night but you told me to call.”

“That’s okay, Diane. No worries. Can she say anything?”

“Don’t know. She’s sedated but it doesn’t appear to be that severe.”

“I can’t get home right now.”

“Don’t even think about it. There’s nothing to do. The doctors will watch her for a day or two. We should know more tomorrow. How’s the book tour?”

“Up and down. The crowds are nice but it’s beginning to get old.”

“Hey girl, you’re number one. Savor the moment.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re all very proud of you, Mercer. The entire island is enjoying your big moment. Including Lovely. It’s all she talks about.”

“Give her a hug and tell her I’m sending prayers.”

“Will do.”

The damage was not slight, the stroke was neither a “mini” nor a “mild.” After two days in the hospital, Lovely realized that her left leg and arm were not working too well. Physical therapists gently pulled and stretched, with little success. They put her in a wheelchair for the first time in her life and rolled her down the hall to lunch. Diane and Miss Naomi checked on her every day. They were told that she would no longer be able to live alone. She had to have care.

When told this, Lovely objected strenuously but there was no one to argue with. After ten days in the hospital, she was moved to a rehab facility in Jacksonville where she stayed for two weeks before being moved to an assisted living home ten miles west of Camino Island.

When Mercer completed her tour and returned to the beach, she and Thomas drove over to see Lovely. It was not an uplifting visit. Diane warned them that she was not improving.

Lovely looked much older and the left side of her face sagged. Her speech was slurred and she said little. She was happy to see Mercer but immediately began crying. Mercer sat on the edge of her bed for an hour, rubbing her arm and telling her about the bookstores she had visited and all the people across the country who now knew about Lovely Jackson and Dark Isle.

Mercer returned the next day, and the next, and alternated times with Diane. The nurses said their visits buoyed Lovely’s spirits, but she was clearly declining.

In late August, Mercer and Thomas said goodbye and began their drive back to Ole Miss. Classes started in three days. Mercer promised Lovely she would see her soon, but she suspected that was their final visit.

Barely audible, Lovely thanked her for such a wonderful book, for caring so much about her and her people. “You made us famous,” she said.

Mercer left in tears and cried for an hour in the car.

Diane called every day with the same update. Nothing much had changed, things had certainly not improved.

On September 28, Lovely Jackson died at the age of eighty-two, the very last descendant of the proud people who lived on Dark Isle.

Pursuant to the instructions written by Lovely and given to Miss Naomi, her body was cremated and her ashes were put in the black and gold ceramic African vase she had owned for decades. It was on the middle shelf of her bookcase in the den.

Two months later, when Mercer and Thomas were on the island during the Thanksgiving break, they gathered at the harbor one afternoon with Diane and Miss Naomi. Ronnie, in a thirty-eight-foot fishing boat, took them across the chilly waters to the pontoon pier at Dark Isle. Their mission was a secret. They had told no one. Ronnie was curious but never asked.

They walked the gravel drive to the center of the island, to the cemetery where they admired the work that had been done by the archaeological teams. The remains of over 120 people had been dug up, cleaned, photographed, indexed, and reburied in metal coffins.

In one corner, where Lovely believed her family to have been buried, Thomas unfolded a small shovel and dug a hole. They placed the vase into it, secured it with packed dirt, and covered it up.

Lovely’s last wish was to rest in eternal peace with Nalla close by.