A Slave of the Shadows, page 1
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN: 978-1-7750676-1-0
Cover designer: Victoria Cooper Art
Website: www.facebook.com/VictoriaCooperArt
Editor: Scripta Word Services
Website: scripta-word-services.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Slave Dialogue
Author Note
About the Author
In memory of Jimmy
Thank you for always believing in me. I am forever changed because of all the things you taught me in life.
Olivia
CHARLESTON, 1832
THE DOGS WERE GETTING CLOSER. Terror was slipping into panic. She held her swollen belly as she ran through the woods, the hand of the small slave child clasped tight in hers. She knew if they were caught her secret would be out. Many lives would be in danger, and who knew what would happen to the child?
They reached the swamps and blundered in, the sucking mud of the marsh grasping at their legs. The child’s pace slowed. Night was closing in around them and she was tired.
“Missus, I can’t!” she cried.
“We have to, sweetheart. We can’t stop!” she urged, breathless. She felt as if her lungs were going to collapse. Determined, she pushed on into the deadly swamp, even as her mind screamed, We will never make it!
Fear ate away at her mind as fatigue took over. She was going to give birth right there in the middle of the swamps if they didn’t find cover to rest soon. Blinking sweat from her eyes, she desperately searched for a hiding spot. There! She pushed into dense brush several yards in front of them, almost diving in, tugging the little girl with her. She crouched and pulled the foliage around them.
The howling of the dogs grew deafening as they pulled their handlers through the swamp. She imagined the wet, muddy ground suctioning at the slave traders’ feet as they moved. The child’s fright overtook her and she began to sob. Olivia covered her mouth with her hand, watching the light from the torches bobbing through the swamp, growing from bright dots to drive the darkness back as they got closer. She could hear the dogs sniffing, trying to catch their scent. Pulling the child to her, she tried to calm her trembling body, willing her to be silent.
She had come across the half-starved child hiding in the woods by her plantation. There’d been no time to plan a better escape. She couldn’t follow the usual channels. With the slave traders on their heels, she reacted without thinking. As she’d sprinted across the fields with the child, she heard one man yell behind them, “It’s a bloody white woman with the child!”
We need to get to the swamps. It’s the only way we stand a chance, she’d thought.
Now—it was only minutes before they would be caught. If by some miracle they escaped detection, they would starve to death or become prey to the low country predators. Her mind ran wild with these paralyzing thoughts, not realizing for a brief moment that the lights had dimmed, and the dogs’ barking drifted farther away. The child started to speak, but Olivia silenced her with a finger to her lips. They sat completely still, unsure if any of the slave catchers had stayed behind.
The light from the full moon bathed the swamp in an eerie glow. She lay waiting, wrapped in the veil of vines hanging from the cypress tree looming above them. Her skin recoiled from the chilling dampness setting in. She pulled the child closer and they huddled together for warmth. Exhaustion carried the child away into sleep. Olivia followed, descending into a restless sleep plagued by baying hounds and cruel slavers.
Morning wrapped the swamp in mist, making visibility unreliable. Cautiously, she parted the vines and stepped out of their hiding place. Her skin itched, and the child scratched feverishly—the mosquitoes had made a meal of them as they slept. She stopped, her ears tuned to the noise around them. There, the trickling of a distant creek. And all around, the croaking of frogs.
They must turn back. It was suicide to go farther into the swamps without food and water. The slave catchers had likely given up, thinking they had gone deeper in, sacrificing themselves to the environment.
She doubled back, pulling the child with her to the main road, where she paused and peeked up and down the road before stepping out. Clear. She ran to the cover of the trees on the other side, her head turned, peering over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.
A scream escaped her lips as she collided with the solid chest of a human.
“Olivia, for God’s sakes, what were you thinking?” The man grabbed her shoulders, giving her a shake.
“Ben!” She breathed a sob of relief.
“For the love of God, woman. You’re so impulsive!” he scolded, his expression a mixture of concern and affection.
“I didn’t think. But now that’s neither here nor there.” Knowing the answer, she asked, “Does he know?”
“Yes. They came by the plantation in hopes of obtaining your husband’s and my help. They said it was a pregnant white woman they spotted with the child.”
“He is already beside himself with anger over us. Now he will surely turn me in.” She wrung her hands together in worry.
“He loves you, Olivia; he will help you.”
“I don’t know, Ben,” she fretted. But then she turned her attention back to the matter at hand. “We need to get her out.” She looked down at the little girl.
Opening the saddlebags on his horse, Ben pulled out some clothes. “Little miss, put these on,” he said, handing the girl the pants and shirt.
The child slipped the clothes on, frowning with displeasure at the boys’ attire.
He lifted his hand, which held a razor blade. “This is going to hurt a little.”
The child’s wooly mane fell to the ground as he shaved her head. She squirmed and grimaced in pain at the dry shave, but never let out a peep. Olivia gathered the evidence and hid it beneath a nearby rock, along with the discarded blade.
After spreading a blanket on the ground, Ben smiled down at the child and gently stroked her cheek. “We have to play hide and seek for a little longer, all right?”
She nodded.
Olivia knel
Ben had her lie down on the blanket, and he rolled her up in it, then draped her within the blanket across the rear of his horse and tied it securely in place. He quickly kissed Olivia’s forehead. “We have delayed long enough.” He mounted his horse. “Now go!”
Gathering her muddy, torn skirts, Olivia hurried toward the plantation. As the big oak trees came into view, her nerves surged with anticipation of what lay ahead.
Willow
CHARLESTON, 1850
A SHIVER WENT THROUGH ME—I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling of being watched. I scanned the hillside overlooking my father’s plantation before slipping my foot into the stirrup on my buckskin Arabian mare––a recent gift from my father––and hoisted myself up. Casting another glance around and seeing no one, I summed up my case of the jitters as my imagination.
The month of March had rolled in and brought with it a heat wave. The sun beat down on me, and sweat trickled down my back as I sat in the saddle, drinking in the beauty of Livingston Plantation. I admired the ancient oak trees framing the lane leading to the front of the plantation. Evergreen vines with fragrant yellow flowers climbed the massive iron gates guarding the entry. Great white pillars expanded the front veranda, extending through the second-floor balcony with its wrought-iron railings. Well-manicured gardens surrounded the main house. It was one of the grandest sea-island cotton and rice plantations in Charleston, and I felt a sense of pride in its splendor.
I glanced out over the fields and noted that our overseer, Jones, was making his rounds. A few of the slave children were also moving through the fields, offering the field hands water to quench their thirst. Our dog Beau had found himself some shade under a moss-covered live oak tree, where he lay panting.
My horse stirred and stomped an impatient hoof. “All right, let’s go,” I said, lightly kicking my heels into her sides. She took off at a full gallop.
I’d left my hair loose and the warm, refreshing breeze blew my chestnut tresses out behind me, teasing the tips up from my waist and tugging the rest out to follow. As we sped over the countryside the tension in my neck and shoulders slowly released. My jaw, clenched since the morning argument with Father over the discipline of a slave, relaxed.
Father had already been at the dining room table, reading the newspaper, when I came down to breakfast this morning. He’d looked over his wire-rimmed reading glasses at me as I entered and smiled a firm smile as he folded his paper. “Good morning, Willow.” He ran a hand through his thinning blond hair. He was a handsome, ruggedly built man, over six feet tall, with green eyes that twinkled when he was amused. My unease in his presence was constant, and instilled in me as a child. My father was definitely a no-foolishness type of man.
“Good morning, Father,” I said out of respect, and took my seat at the opposite end of the table.
“I’m going in to town. I have to go over our shipment with Captain Gillies before it leaves the warehouse for London today. While I’m gone, I need you to handle a situation with the carpenter’s boy, Parker. He was caught sneaking eggs from the henhouse this morning, and Jones is too busy overseeing the south field fence repairs to handle it.”
“Surely we can spare a few eggs, Father. What harm is there in that?” I avoided his stare, instead looking up at Henrietta, my mammy and the only mother figure I’d ever known, as she filled my cup with piping-hot coffee.
“Willow, don’t try my patience today. Do as you’re told and be a respectable daughter.” He gave me a stern look as he took a bite of his toast.
Knowing better than to question his authority, I took a long sip of my coffee and sighed. Mammy smiled fondly at me as she headed back into the kitchen.
I am the only child of Charles Hendricks. My mother died when I was a few years old. I don’t remember her. No portraits of her hang in the mansion, and talk of her is forbidden. Why? I’ve never been told.
Last fall, in my seventeenth year, when I returned from my studies abroad, Father informed me it was time I took on all responsibilities as the lady of Livingston. I was your typical Southern belle on the surface, which pleased my father, but my wayward opinions gained his disapproval. He often stated that I needed to be an example of perfection, as others were watching, judging him on how he was raising me. I had grown frustrated over the last few years with my lack of control over my own life. What did I care what some old busybodies had to say? Father would remind me that I was a woman and like a child, I was to be seen and not heard. Women in the South are barely above the slaves. The men consider us mere property and often treat us as such.
Slowing my horse to a trot, I guided her to a nearby creek for a drink and wiped the sweat from my brow. How was I going to deal with Parker in a way that would satisfy my father’s request for discipline?
“Oh, bother,” I complained aloud, annoyed with the whole lot of men.
A SUDDEN CRY JARRED ME from my thoughts.
“Please, Masa! I have my ticket,” a man’s voice implored.
I turned my mare in the direction of the plea. Rounding a copse of trees, I witnessed three men hovering over a helpless black man on his knees. My eyes narrowed on the captors, and I recognized Rufus, the overseer from the Barry Plantation, along with his two minions, Dave and Yates. They pushed and taunted the kneeling man.
Rufus laughed, jabbing the slave in the ribs with the butt of his whip. “Nigger, I didn’t see any ticket. Did you, boys?”
Rufus was a whole five feet tall, a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He walked around with his chest poked out like he was a big man, and he always had a lot to say. Little did he know people laughed behind his back at what a small, weak man he was. I referred to it as small man syndrome; without his two sidekicks he was powerless, and he knew it.
The men looked up in surprise as I edged my horse into the clearing. A burst of adrenaline kicked in and fear removed my inhibitions about—one—being a woman alone, and—two—being outnumbered.
I jumped from my saddle. “What’s going on here?” I demanded, eyeing up the situation. Shifting my eyes to the slave, I recognized him to be Gray, the head slave from the Armstrong Plantation. A nasty gash above his left eye made the eyelid droop; blood oozed from his mouth and soiled the front of his shirt. Gray was a big, strapping slave, but against a white man, he was defenseless.
Gritting my teeth, I turned my attention to the men. “Well, answer me!”
Rufus sneered and turned his scheming blue eyes on me. “What’s it to you, woman? You need to learn your place and stay out of men’s business.”
Laughing, they turned their attention back to Gray, disregarding my existence. I heard the crunch of bone as Rufus ground the slave’s hand into the ground with his heel. The injured man let out an agonized cry.
Rage at this injustice welled up in my chest and took over—I flew at Rufus, beating him with my fist. “How dare you! You monster!”
Yates peeled me off of Rufus, securing my arm behind my back and restricting my movement. His face, inches from mine, puckered in an unspoken warning. My nostrils flared at odor seeping from his body, and the overpowering stink of rotten teeth. His lewd eyes trailed over my body, quickening my heartbeat. My breakfast came back up, lodging in my throat as I began to panic. What had I done?
Yates laughed at the panic visible on my face and released my arm. My feet instinctively drew me back, and I scrambled to put distance between us. Tripping over my own feet, I landed in a heap on the ground. Rufus’s evil eyes ate through my flesh, and I cringed at the repulsiveness of him. Dave licked his lips as he adjusted his belt on his too-small trousers. The belt disappeared under the massive mound of his stomach. “Boss, what do you say we have some fun?”
I started to shake. Had my acting without regard for my own safety caught up with me? I tried to stagger to my feet, looking around for an escape route.
Gray rose up behind them and lifted his good hand to send a blow against the side of Rufus’s skull, sending him sailing through the air.
In my daze, I was oblivious to the arrival of help until Bowden Armstrong and his friend Knox rode into the middle of the chaos. Quickly sliding from their horses, they took over.
