A Slave of the Shadows, page 2
Everything happened in a blur. Punches met their mark. Cries of pain rose from the victims. When things slowed down, Rufus lay in a heap where Bowden had sent him with a hard kick to his scrawny backside. Knox had the fat one, Dave, in a headlock and sent a blow to his head. Yates circled Bowden, who had always been swift on his feet. He managed to close the distance in a split second and knocked Yates onto his back.
Bowden turned to me, his face full of concern as he offered me a hand up. “You all right, Miss Willow?”
Refusing his help, I rose to my feet, smoothing my skirt. Sending a stony glare at my childhood enemy, I said, “I assure you, I’m fine, Mr. Armstrong.”
Rufus and his goons hightailed it out of there as Knox pulled up beside us, grinning at their victory. “You all right, Willow?”
“Yes, Knox, thanks for your help.” I reached up to pat his arm.
He towered over me. His shoulders were broad as a house and at first glance he was downright intimidating. But his brandy-brown eyes were warm and kind, with a side of mischievousness.
Bowden rolled his eyes in annoyance at my rudeness but turned his attention to Gray, who stood cradling his broken hand. “Gray, you need to go on home and get that tended to. I will pay the Barry Plantation a visit and speak to Mr. Barry about his overseer.”
“Yes, Masa.” Gray smiled at me and nodded his gratitude. “Thank you, Miss.”
“We helped each other, Gray, so I too owe you a thank-you.”
He reclaimed his ruined straw hat from the ground along with his torn ticket, then turned and headed for home.
I nodded at Knox and Bowden. “Thank you.”
Bowden was brave enough to stir the angry hornet’s nest of emotions whirling inside of me. “Next time you should think of the outcome before you get involved in an outnumbered situation. What if we hadn’t shown up?”
He had to! He can’t control himself, can he? “I can handle myself, Bowden.” I glared at him, challenging him to say another word.
Never one to back down, Bowden replied bluntly, “It sure didn’t seem that way. From now on, let me handle my property.”
I was aware Bowden wasn’t a cruel plantation owner, but simply a businessman who followed the ways of the South, the way things had been done for hundreds of years.
Grabbing my horse’s reins, I swung myself up in one fluid movement. Having to have the last word, I smugly let one last statement fly over my shoulder before I rode off. “Horses are property, Mr. Armstrong. Humans aren’t!”
I felt eyes upon me and smiled smugly, imagining Bowden glowering at my back.
Bowden
BOWDEN FUMED AS SHE RODE off. Willow Hendricks had a way of getting under his skin. She was fiery and stubborn as an old mule. She’d turned into a real beauty, claiming the attention of most men who laid eyes on her. He couldn’t help but admire her curves as she bounced up and down in the saddle, her back straight and her head held high.
With her hasty departures over the years, he’d come to memorize the back side of her silhouette. He’d tried to no end to right his mistakes of the past, but she would barely let him get two words in before she stormed off with a cloud over her head. She’d looked right past Knox’s involvement in the childhood prank they’d played on her and settled all her resentment on him. Knox seemed to have that way with people. Bowden knew it was his secret weapon for getting himself out of tight situations.
Shaking his head, Bowden turned to Knox. “That woman is something else. Makes me want to smile and spit fire, all at the same time.” He frowned at the raised eyebrow Knox gave him, followed by a teasing grin. “What is that look for?” he demanded, settling his hat over his loose dark curls.
Knox gave him a friendly jab in the shoulder. “Maybe what bothers you the most is that she holds you at arm’s length when you daydream of holding her closer.” He hugged himself and swayed side to side.
Bowden chuckled, his blue-green eyes twinkling with mirth. “Oh, I admire her beauty as much as any man, but holding that girl in your arms would be like stepping into a pit of vipers.”
Knox laughed and gave him a look that said if you say so. “Well, buddy, we better head back and get an honest day of work in.” He clapped Bowden on the back.
“When have you ever done an honest day’s work?” Bowden laughed, admiring the man who had become a brother to him.
“I don’t need to. Do you see this physique? It will get me far in life.” He widened his stance and rubbed his chest, posing like a Greek god sent to earth.
Bowden cracked up. “Well, Zeus, I’d say you better get back to your docks before they find you skipped out again.”
Bowden mounted his horse and Knox followed suit.
“You’ll see, Bowden. I will win the heart of the fairest maiden in the land,” he said in all seriousness, sitting taller as he adjusted himself in his saddle.
Bowden recognized the jokester beneath the solemn surface. “Sure—more like a mail-order bride,” he shot back lightheartedly. “Race you to the road!” he yelled as he kicked his horse into a head start.
Knox let out a whoop and took off right on his heels.
MY RESENTMENT OF BOWDEN ARMSTRONG went back for a decade. As young boys, Bowden and Knox were little devils, constantly up to no good. They found it hilarious to torment the younger children at the schoolhouse.
That dreadful day when my torment began, I passed Bowden and Knox resting against the old oak tree in the schoolyard, eating their lunch, as I headed to the outhouse. Bowden was so dreamy, with long eyelashes that brushed his cheeks. All the girls had a crush on him.
He’d come to Charleston the year before with his grandpa and his little brother, Stone. Father said his parents had died in a shipwreck off the coast of Georgia a few years ago. My heart went out to him; he was barely thirteen and his little brother was younger than me. I could relate to the pain of not having a mother, but being orphaned, with no parents at all, I couldn’t imagine. When he’d started school the previous year he’d became inseparable friends with Knox. Everyone liked Knox; he was easy and laid back.
I sat down in the outhouse still dreaming of Bowden’s smile and his eyes, which looked like jewels swept up from the bottom of the ocean. They sparkled when he laughed and changed color when he was mad. As I sat there with my undergarments around my ankles, I thought, I’m going to marry that boy someday.
Suddenly the outhouse began to rock back and forth, and I gripped the rickety old seat to steady myself. Then with a snap, the seat gave way, and I squealed as I went bottom first into the pungent sewage below. I found myself wedged down in the hole with only my feet dangling out. I quickly tried to dislodge myself but it was too late; the outhouse went over sideways and I was rolling. I felt the wetness and slime of the contents of the hole splashing over me as I tumbled out.
Wiping watering eyes, I looked up to see Bowden and Knox holding their stomachs, roaring with laughter. The other children gathered around, pointing and laughing. Some held their noses against the smell while others looked on in shock and bewilderment. I collected myself from the ground, rage rising up in me as I fought back tears. I swore to myself, I hate that boy with everything in me.
“I hate you, Bowden Armstrong. I’ll never forgive you. Ever!” I screamed, and stomped my foot.
Ms. Ellen, the schoolteacher, arrived on the scene. She looked at me in horror and turned her gaze on those two boys. Their laughter ceased. Ms. Ellen took them both by the ears and escorted them to the side of the school, where she ordered them not to move. She shouted to the other children to get into the school and wait.
She smiled down at me, her expression full of pity. “I think those boys must have taken a liking to you, Willow. Boys do things like this when they like a pretty girl.”
I remember frowning at her as I angrily wiped away my tears. That wasn’t the first time I’d been told that kind of explanation, about boys teasing girls because they liked them. I called it a bogus statement and an adult’s way of trying to make you feel better.
I stood in sheer humiliation with the whole school’s waste covering me. Ms. Ellen’s voice was but a mumble as I turned my eyes on Bowden and Knox. The boys were looking at the ground. Bowden shifted his feet back and forth in the dirt, and Knox’s face was shadowed with regret. I looked at Bowden, from his feet right up to his head, and said over and over in my mind, I hate you, Bowden Armstrong, with every ounce of my body. From that day on I fought to suppress the humiliation I relived every time I heard the mention of his name or saw his face.
I STEWED OVER THE ENCOUNTER with Knox and Bowden most of the afternoon. I’d been careless in aiding Gray, but I couldn’t stand by and do nothing because that made me no better than Rufus and his men. I had to intercede. I’d done the right thing.
Life forced me to grow up fast without a mother, and with a father who was gone more than he was home. I was a dreamer and a thinker, often involving myself in the rights and the wrongs of the world around me. I questioned life as a whole. Only in recent years did I question the ways of the South. How did slavery begin? Talk about groups in the North calling themselves abolitionist was becoming more frequent. The changes these people were speaking of made the plantation owners nervous and angry. What if slavery was abolished? How would the plantations and farmers in the South make a living? It would affect their way of life. I developed a maturity beyond my years and a voice Father often tried to silence. I believe he thought of me as the bane of his existence.
“Come on, old boy.” I patted our cocker spaniel Beau’s head. Knowing I had avoided the situation with Parker, the boy caught stealing eggs, for long enough, I set out to deal with that task.
I found Parker’s father busy sanding the shelves of a pantry Mammy requested he make. “Good afternoon, Owen.” I offered a weary smile.
The white-haired man looked up from his work then straightened, rolling his shoulder to ease the ache from being hunched over too long. He craned his neck and called over his shoulder, “Parker, get on out here, boy. Miss Willow is here to deal wid your thievin’.”
I couldn’t contain the feeling of doom that settled over me.
Owen smiled softly. “Et be all right. Parker needs to larn dat stealin’ ain’t right, no matter who he is takin’ from.”
Parker appeared from the back of the woodshed, worry knitting his young brow at what was in store for him. His unruly hair stood up on end. He was slight for his ten years. He used a walking cane to support the slack in his left leg.
“Parker, Mr. Hendricks says you were caught taking eggs from the henhouse. Is this so?” I gave him the sternest expression I could muster.
“I reckon so, Miss Willow.” He hung his head in shame, not daring to look up at me.
“What do you suppose I should do about this? You could get yourself in heaps of trouble with Mr. Hendricks, or any other master, for that matter. They could starve you, whip you, cut off your hand, or even cut off your good leg…maybe even sell you to a new master.”
Parker’s head whipped up as terror transformed his face. I knew my message had struck a chord.
“Father is going to be asking me what punishment I dealt you, and I need to have an answer or we will both be in trouble. Come on; we may as well get this over with.”
He hobbled over to me, his brown eyes huge with worry.
“Hand me your walking cane and bend over that log.” I pointed to the makeshift sawhorse behind him.
He hesitantly bent over and his butt cheeks tightened in anticipation of what was coming next. He let out a howl as the cane made contact. In two sharp, quick strikes I administered his punishment.
“Now, young man, what will you not do again?”
He looked up at me, tears pooling in his dark eyes. I gulped back the tears welling in my throat. I hated this; it broke my heart.
“I’ll never take eggs again.”
“And?” I elevated my quavering voice, awaiting the correct answer.
“I ain’t gonna steal anything again,” he wailed.
“Good boy, now run along.”
His eyes widened and he ceased his pitiful wail. “Dat’s et?”
Relief washed through me as he flung himself at me, squeezing me around the waist.
“Parker!” Owen strode over and removed his son’s arms from me. “Forgive da boy, Miss Willow. In his happiness, he has done gone and forgot his place.” Thinking he’d done it for sure now, dread filled Parker’s face.
“Pay it no mind,” I assured him, and turned to Parker. “Will you do me a favor, Parker?”
“Yessum.” His sweet face relaxed.
“Let’s keep this our secret. What do you say?”
“Yessum. I ain’t goin’ be tellin’ a soul. No sirree, I be takin’ dat up to de big man in de sky.” He jabbed his cane at the sky.
“Good.” I held out my hand for him to shake.
His jaw dropped, then he pushed a small hand out and vigorously returned my handshake.
I bade them a good day and left. I overheard the exchange between father and son as I walked away.
“She could have you tied to de post and whipped for dat. Boy, you got to ’member your place. You never touch a white ’oman! Ever!”
“Yes, Pappy, but I’m jus’ so happy.”
“I know, son, I know.” Owen’s voice carried an undertone of relief and happiness of his own.
FATHER HAD BOUGHT OWEN AT the auction a few years back at top price for a skilled slave. They threw in Parker for a few measly coins. The auctioneer figured he wouldn’t hold any value as he grew into a man, with his below-average stature and his distinct limp that made him drag his left leg as he walked.
Father had compelled me to attend these auctions on a few occasions. He’d said, “You will have to run this plantation someday. That’s if we can’t find a respectable gentleman to marry you, with all your outspoken views.”
The first time I went to an auction I was appalled at what I witnessed. The women, men, and children were chained together and herded in like cattle. Like polished apples on a merchant’s cart, they’d been rubbed clean. The sellers looking to fetch the best price had their merchandise oiled, giving their skin the illusion of youthfulness. The men wore trousers made of cream-colored Negro cloth; they were shirtless, exposing their unmarked backs. The women’s hair was braided into a single braid or tucked up under a colorful head rag, their simple dresses covered with aprons. The children wore shifts made of the same Negro cloth as the adults. The slaves with trades or skills were marked by the signs hanging from their necks. Only the wealthiest in Charleston could afford the prices assigned to them. Young children clung to their mamas’ legs, their faces tear-stained, some hiccupping from hours of crying and exhaustion. Fear was engraved upon the adults’ faces at what would come next.
The auctioneer stepped up and the auction began. I watched in disbelief as the first slave was brought forward. She was a pregnant woman with a girl about four years old, her small fist clasping tight the skirt of her mother’s dress. The father was pulled away from them and shoved back into line. The mother trembled as her man let go of her, as if his strength was the only thing keeping her together, and the woman and child began to weep.
Nausea roiled through me and I snuck a peek at Father. His face was a blank, his expression controlled and all business. I glanced back at the young family. My focus rested on the mother, the worry she must be feeling, and the sheer panic over what was about to happen to her family.
The auctioneer’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. “Young mother not but eighteen years old, in the prime of her life. A real breeder, as you can see.” He roughly rubbed her rounded belly. “Take the mother with the child or take only the mother, it’s up to you,” he shouted. A sob escaped the mother’s lips.
I pulled on Father’s arm in desperation. “Father, can’t we purchase the family?” He ignored me. “Please, Father!” I begged with more intensity.
“Hush, Willow!” He tried to silence me with his harsh tone and a look that said if you know what’s good for you, you will stop this behavior now!
I didn’t let worry over his wrath when we got home hold me back. “But Father, it isn’t right to break up a family.” I grabbed his arm and tugged firmly, letting him know I wasn’t backing down.
“Sold! The mother goes to this fine gentleman here,” the auctioneer shouted, pointing to a short, stout man in the crowd who looked to be wearing his Sunday best.
The auctioneer forcefully separated the child from her mother. The child’s gut-wrenching screams pierced my heart. Her small hand managed to grab her mother as they were plucked apart.
“Mama, I need you!” she’d cried, clutching the lifeline of her mother’s hand.
The wail out of the mother came from deep in her soul, a sound that would stay with me for the rest of my life. The child’s father reached for the mother and child to comfort them and suffered a blow to the back of the head—only a warning to keep him in line without damaging him, as no one would pay for a battered slave. The man straightened and the agony dropped from his face, replaced by a stone-cold mask. His child wrapped her arms around his knee and let out a soft purr, which carried like the sound of a newborn kitten. “Mama…”
I turned and pushed my way through the crowd, unable to bear the horrible shame and guilt I carried at being the daughter of a plantation owner. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me under the weight of my gown until I got to the ship dock. Hot tears stung my eyes as I looked out over the crowded harbor. Despair and helplessness swept me away, and I crumpled to the ground, sobbing.
Father never followed to comfort me, but stayed to look for the property he had come to purchase. This was the day Owen and Parker came to Livingston.
I MADE MY WAY BACK to the house as Father docked his schooner at the wharf. My chest tightened, as his presence stirred anxiety in me. I rolled my neck, trying to ease the building tension as I waited for his approach.
