A Slave of the Shadows, page 11
Thus began Mammy and Mary Grace’s story at the Livingston Plantation.
A WEEK HAD PASSED SINCE our trip to town. I decided to pay Whitney a visit and asked Jimmy to ready a carriage. Mary Grace would accompany me to the Barry Plantation.
The groomsman and footmen stood ready to manage the carriage as Jimmy brought it around front, stopping at the carriage stone. “Gentlemen, we will not require your services today, as I would like James to drive us,” I told them. They did not question my request and bowed in acceptance.
“But Miss Willow, your father for sho’ frown on dat,” Jimmy said.
“Well, Father is not here and I’m in charge.” I smiled wickedly.
Mary Grace joined us with a cheerful, “I’m here, Miss Willow.”
The open carriage ride along the ocean coast to the Barry Plantation was beautiful and serene. I inhaled deeply of the salty ocean air and settled in to enjoy the ride. Freedom from scornful eyes set Mary Grace and I to daydreaming aloud of what we wished life was like. From his perch on the rich brown-leather seat, Jimmy could hear our girlish chatter. Every once in a while he would chuckle softly and shake his head. We rode along without a care in the world, and it was like we had stepped into another time: a time when skin color didn’t restrict Mary Grace and Jimmy from being my friends, in a world that looked on us as equals.
“James, what would you do with your life if things could be different?” Mary Grace asked.
“Well, gal, I would own a piece of land out in no man’s land and maybe git a hog or two. I’d have a garden as far as you could see and maybe a dog for company.”
“What about a wife?” I piped up.
“Nah, don’t have much use for a wife,” he snorted. “You womens are a lot of emotions and wuk.” This sent Mary Grace and me into fits of giggles.
“What ’bout you, Mary Grace? What would you do?” Jimmy said.
“Gray and I would have our own little place with five children running around, causing us worry. I’d raise them to be strong-minded and teach them to read and write. Gray and I would grow old together, rocking on our front porch in our matching rockers,” she said dreamily, staring out over the ocean.
Tears welled and I tried to nonchalantly brush them away before they spilled over, not wishing to spoil the moment. Their dreams stirred emotions I’d carried near and dear to my heart for the Negro race since I was old enough to understand the world viewed us as different.
How simple were the things they wanted, but how impossible to them it must seem. Things white folks took for granted, the Negroes only dreamed of. Their desires were not grand, just the simple human right to be free. Mary Grace and Jimmy held no malice for my kind; they only wanted to be left alone to live in peace with no masters.
THE BARRYS’ MAIN HOUSE SAT up on a hill overlooking the plantation. The home had been remodeled in the new design, with three large, Greek-inspired columns supporting a portico at the front of the house. The white shutters were open, letting in the morning sun. The home effused pleasantness. So why couldn’t I shake the turmoil plaguing me as the carriage rumbled up the drive toward it?
As we drew closer I noticed there were no sounds of laughter, no small children playing alongside their mamas as they worked. There was no murmured conversation from the slaves. The yard in front of the plantation didn’t show any signs of life, which seemed odd for a working plantation. Chills ran through me and my scalp prickled. Mary Grace shivered beside me as if someone had walked over her grave. We looked at each other and I saw my anxiety mirrored in her eyes. Jimmy’s eyes were sharp as he looked around the plantation, and I noticed his back stiffen. I fought down the desire to flee as Whitney stepped out on the veranda.
“Willow,” she called out as she hurried down the steps to open the carriage door.
“I thought I’d take my cue from you and stop by for a visit.” I smiled, uncertainty prodding at me as I glanced around.
“I’ll take that Southern belle right out of you, Willow Hendricks.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Father will be fit to be tied if you rub off on me.” I laughed, imagining his face.
“Well, we have one life to live. We may as well live it.”
Whitney’s home lacked the grandeur of Livingston. The foyer was cold and echoing. As Whitney led me along the corridor away from it, I stopped to study the large portraits hanging on the walls.
“Kind of creepy, if you ask me,” Whitney said, stopping and turning to look with me. “All these dead people looking at you as you go about your day. The funny thing is, these people aren’t even relatives.” She snorted. “Father acquired these before we moved here.”
Perplexed, I looked from her to the portraits. “Why would he hang them here?”
“To gain social status. He has gone as far as to make up a story about each person in the portraits. He expounds on the Barrys’ great legacy to his guests. My father is all kinds of shady.”
I shook my head in puzzlement. “That is one of the most bizarre things I’ve heard.”
“Trust me, I agree. Enough about Father, as I’ll never figure him out. What do you say I get us a glass of lemonade and we go for a walk by the creek? It’s the only view worth seeing around here.”
“Sure, that sounds lovely,” I murmured, trying to sound cheerful because, frankly, I couldn’t wait to get out of this house.
“I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down the hall.
The uncanny silence made the hairs stand up on my arms. Wrapping my arms around myself, I tried to rub away the chill. If the walls could talk, I believe they would whisper of the evil that happened in this place.
Glad to see Whitney return, I eagerly took the crystal tumbler she held out. We retrieved our parasols in the foyer and stepped outside.
Jimmy stood watering the horses and Mary Grace wasn’t anywhere in sight. Maybe she had friends here that she’d wandered off to find. My nerves were once again on edge.
Rufus rounded the corner of the house from the field behind it and his eyes fell on Jimmy. He paid Whitney and I no mind as he drew up his horse and sneered at Jimmy, “Mule, take your thieving ass out back. No black pigs are allowed out front.”
“Rufus!” Whitney warned. “Who do you think you are, speaking to my guest’s driver in such a manner?”
“Only good nigger is one with his back down and ass up in the fields,” he declared.
“You go back to the fields where you belong, and let me tend to matters here.” She slapped his mare’s rump, and the horse took off at a gallop, nearly toppling Rufus from the saddle.
“Jimmy, I would prefer you take the carriage around back while we are gone,” I instructed, choking down the worry niggling at me. “And please keep your eyes open and find Mary Grace. Mammy would never forgive me if something happened to her.”
“Yes, Miss Willie.”
TO REACH THE CREEK WE passed through the center of the slave quarters. The living conditions were not fit for animals, let alone humans. There was a stench in the air of uncleanliness and human waste. I covered my nose with my handkerchief. The shacks for the slaves were exactly that: they were barely standing and in colder temperatures, I doubted they would protect the occupants from the elements. We walked by the whipping post, which stood in the center of the quarters. This post appeared to be put to frequent use, as it was stained with years of dried blood, and fresh blood from some recent punishment splattered the ground around it.
There was little movement in the quarters. An elderly slave walked by carrying a water pail balanced on his shoulder. Lack of nourishment had hollowed his face and left his body a walking corpse. But it was the sight of the side of his face that drew a moan from deep with me. Horrible cruelty had been inflicted upon him. The skin on his face pooled like a long-burnt candle. He walked by, his face dull and devoid of any emotion. A middle-aged man stood hunched over homemade crutches. His right foot had been cut off at the ankle, leaving an ugly nub. He’d probably tried to run. I’d heard of masters meting out this punishment on runaways. We passed slaves clothed in tatters that scarcely covered their bodies. The dead walked in the form of slaves on this plantation. I couldn’t handle the sight of this place anymore. I hastened my steps to leave the quarters behind me.
I slowed when we reached the creek, turning to Whitney to demand in a shrill voice, “How can you live here and allow this to go on?”
“Willow! Stop right there. Hear me out before you cast blame on me,” Whitney said, her voice rising defensively. “I do not believe even you understand how much slaves have endured. You’ve spent most of your life away at school. When you are home, you’ve been restricted to your plantation, which is a far cry better than most, and therefore you too are sheltered. If we are going to make a difference, we need to have all blinders off. I wanted you to see the actuality of how slaves not on your father’s plantation, or who aren’t owned by good masters, live. I moved here a mere three months ago. I begged my father to make the living conditions better. To show mercy like your father does. It’s no use. My father is no better than Rufus.
“Do you know how it feels to stand by and see your own blood behave like a monster? The shame, the guilt, and the dread I feel every morning I wake up? I feel like I’m living in an inferno. Father punishes the slaves and forces the twins and me to watch. I can’t protect them from it and when they cry and turn away he pulls back their heads and forces them to look. He says it will make them stronger.” She paused, her expression disheartened. “I am not from here. I have not long been subjected to this and within weeks I tried to block out their faces. The helplessness was too much—until the day you made me view it in a different light.” The unceasingly strong Whitney fought back tears, and agony twisted her lovely face as she looked at me.
Remorseful, I hugged her. “I’m sorry, Whitney. Forgive me for judging you. I know this isn’t your doing.”
She sniffled and pulled back. “I suppose in time I will learn to adjust to how things work in this part of the country,” she said, drying her eyes.
We strolled along the creek; removing our shoes, we dipped our toes in the cool, refreshing water, trying to put the devastation of the slave quarters tucked behind the hill out of our minds. Wading knee deep out into the middle of the creek, we splashed each other, and the shock of the cool water took our breath away.
Our dresses and petticoats heavy with water, we staggered up the bank and plopped to the ground. No words passed between us. We sat lost in our own thoughts.
Movement beside a big boulder caught my eye. Squinting, I focused on the area but saw nothing. I scoured the bushes around the boulder—nothing. Then, as I started to turn away, I saw a dark face peek around the boulder before darting back behind it.
“Whitney,” I whispered, keeping my lips still, “we are being watched. Come.”
“What?” Whitney whispered back, rising with me.
Like sleuths set on solving a mystery, we crept toward the boulder. We rounded it to see two slaves, a woman and a child, crouching with their backs to us, peering around the boulder toward where we’d been sitting. Spooked by our sudden disappearance, the woman looked wildly around, searching for us.
We stepped into their view. They jumped like startled rabbits at the sight of us. The young woman pulled back, her arms going around the child—a boy of about seven years—as her eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape route.
I raised a hand in reassurance. “We are friends.”
“We mean no harm,” Whitney said.
The woman pushed the boy behind her, shielding him from us. Her face was taut with fear and her gaze flitted about, never settling on us. Sensing the woman felt cornered, I slowly dropped to my knees; Whitney followed suit.
“You are runaways, aren’t you?” Whitney edged forward.
The woman became even more skittish; seeing her start to panic, I smiled and said, “Please let us help you. We will hide you. You can’t stay here. Right over the hill are men who would surely cause you harm.” I motioned toward the Barry Plantation.
The young woman studied us, trying to determine if I spoke the truth. Then her body relaxed and her face softened slightly as she decided we were not a threat.
“I’m Willow,” I said, “and this is my friend Whitney.”
The woman’s voice came out like a croak at first. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “I’m Georgia and dis is my brother Sam.”
The boy came out from behind his sister. He was handsome, and dressed in finely tailored clothes, now dirty and torn. He had to be a domestic slave to a wealthy family to be wearing clothes of that quality.
“How long have you been running, Georgia?” I asked.
“We’ve bin running for five moons, Missus.”
I could only imagine what struggles the two had faced. The low country was surrounded by swamps that went on for miles; they were filled with all kind of dangers. I’d heard of slaves taking to the swamps to shield themselves from the slave catchers. Life-or-death desperation gave them a will and strength most people didn’t possess. Georgia was one of these brave souls.
“We need to hide you somewhere safe and out of sight.” I turned to Whitney for her suggestion.
“They can’t stay at our plantation—Rufus would sniff them out for sure.”
I agreed with her; it was the last place we could hide them. “Maybe I should take them to my plantation, as Father is away for at least another week. Which would give us enough time to figure out what we can do.”
“The question is, how are we going to sneak them past Rufus’s hawk-like eyes?” Whitney frowned in thought before her eyes widened, and she grinned. “I know a place. There is an old well I stumbled upon a while back, not far from here. We can lower them into that and when it’s dark, come back for them. I can’t help you at night, as Rufus does his nightly rounds and he will be suspicious if he sees me slipping out in the dark. But we can find it from this creek in minutes.”
“All right, it’s not like we have much choice,” I said. My insides were tied in knots—we had made this promise, and there was no turning back. I was not a risk-taker but I had just become ears-deep in danger.
“You all wait here. I’ll go find some rope and food.” Whitney pushed herself up and scurried off.
Nervous, I looked at my new responsibilities. Their faces held hope. How our roles had changed—their faces were now relaxed and mine was taut with worry. I heard my racing heart pounding inside my skull. I leaned back against the boulder and closed my eyes, trying to slow my heartbeat. A few minutes passed before I opened them.
Sam had seated himself a few feet away and was playing with a stick and some rocks. Georgia sat with her eyes riveted on me. When our eyes met, she looked away and shifted her position. She let out a quiet groan.
I noticed the blood on the back of her dress. “Georgia, are you hurt?”
She nodded as she raised her skirt high enough for me to see her leg. It was bandaged with cloth she’d ripped from her skirt, and blood seeped through the cloth. “Hound’s teeth got de bes’ of me.” She grimaced, straightening the leg.
“We will get it attended to as soon as we are safe,” I assured her. “What plantation are you from?”
“None ’round here, Miss. We hid in de back of a farmer’s wagon for de bes’ of a day of ets travels. We’ve bin walkin’ ever since. Four days back we took to de swamps to shake off dem slave catchers after one of dem hounds got in snapping distance of me.”
“I can’t begin to imagine what you have been through, Georgia. Were your masters cruel?”
“Yes, Missus,” she said, and softly told me what they had suffered. “When de masa start coming to our cabin I thought he’s lukin’ for me, but I saw his eyes lukin’ to my brother. He be sick wid wicked thoughts. Since dat day, I made sure to allus keep Sam close to me. Then one day I be catching a slave wench’s baby and when I got back, my brother’s gone.” She shook with emotion. “I hurried real fast to de big house. I do not care ’bout nobody but my li’l brother. I found him in de masa’s study, dressed in dose clothes.” She nodded toward the boy. “De masa, he was half dressed, with his trousers undone.” She lifted the hem of her dress and buried her face in it.
I was sickened by the implications of what she had witnessed. I drew her into an embrace.
Sam, seeing his sister in distress, moved to her and rested his small hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Georgia? Why you be crying?” he asked innocently, then he narrowed his eyes at me, looking to place blame. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing. Your sister is overjoyed that you are safe.”
His eyes softened. “Et will be all right, Georgia. You tuk real good care of us. Missus says et’ll be all right.” He lifted his sister’s face and gave her a toothy smile of encouragement.
She laughed at his award-winning smile. “Yes, li’l brother.”
Whitney returned empty-handed and I prickled with unease. “You didn’t get the supplies?”
“Oh, you have yet so much to learn about me, Willow dear,” she drawled, turning and lifting the back of her skirt waist-high. There, hanging from her waistband, was a small satchel. Whitney pulled it free and dropped it on the ground in front of me.
