A Slave of the Shadows, page 24
The heat from the fire had broken out the windows and flames spilled from them like murderous spirits seeking a soul to invade. The fire in the quarters chewed right through the pitiful shacks like they were dry cornstalks. The slaves must have already fled.
Father and Bowden came around front lugging buckets of water as we pulled in. “There is no way in,” Bowden shouted to Father as we exited the carriage.
I looked from them to the house as a screaming man emerged from the inferno.
“Father?” Whitney murmured.
Art Barry’s agonizing screams as the flames devoured his body chilled me to my core. I could not move. Bowden raised his gun and sent a mercy shot into the man and he dropped to the ground. The master of the plantation became but a charcoal corpse.
As her father’s body burned, Whitney stayed unmoving. I gazed upon this woman who’d dealt with more in her twenty years than most do in a lifetime. The crimson destruction surrounding us was reflected in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Whitney.”
Her face hardened as she said, “I’m not. He got what he deserves. He can burn in hell with his kind.”
I cast no judgment. I knew she would never want to see any human meet their end like this, even the sadistic man fate had given her for a father.
“The only parent I loved lies in a grave.” She turned and strode to the carriage. Grief plucked at me as I followed.
“I sorry, Miss Whitney, for all dat you’ve lost.” Thomas bowed his head respectfully.
“Thank you,” Whitney grimly replied.
“Thomas?”
“Yes, Miss Willow?”
“Why did you stay?”
“I didn’t play no part in dis trouble.” His forehead pleated with growing worry.
“No, I didn’t think you did, but you must have known about the slaves’ plan? Why didn’t you help and run off with the others?”
“Only de good Lord has de right to take a life. The Lord had a plan and he is part of et.” He gestured toward the smoldering body.
“Why don’t you run now, while you can?” I asked.
“Miss, I have nowhere to go. I am an ol’ man, never had a family. Wouldn’t know how to survive on my own.” He shrugged his thin shoulders.
The house was lost. The men joined us.
“I fear I may find we are penniless. Father was never any good with money. We all hated this plantation, but at least we had a home,” Whitney said.
“You all have a home at Livingston. Isn’t that so, Father?”
“That big empty mansion could use some children’s laughter.” He settled an arm around my shoulders and I welcomed it.
“And Thomas?” Whitney asked.
“You and the children are the rightful owners of what is left of your father’s plantation, and that would mean Thomas goes with you. He was with you and is innocent of this mess,” Father told her. “You girls need to be aware, this isn’t going to go down easy. It will spread like pollen in the wind and people will be on the hunt for the runaways. Things like this make people go mad. I need you to keep to Livingston until this ordeal is dealt with. Understood?”
“Yes,” we said.
“Good. We will stay here until this fire dies down. I’ll meet you at home.”
We clambered back into the carriage and rode down the lane and away from the horror that used to be Whitney’s home. I glanced over my shoulder. The slaves had purged all remnants of human existence from the Barry Plantation. There would be no more gruesome brutality here. My thoughts turned to Father’s haunting words: “Things like this make people go mad.” Fear magnified inside of me as I imagined what the repercussions would be for the slaves, if caught. Run, my mind cried mutely into the night.
FATHER HAD BEEN RIGHT. AS the news of the uprising spread to neighboring plantations, the people of Charleston County went mad. The festering seed of hatred, sown so deeply, sprouted. With a grim face, Father had said, “They will come.”
The next day, neighbors poured through the gates into Livingston. Father was the one they turned to; it was evident he was respected by many. Father tried to calm the venom stirring their blood.
Around midmorning, Bowden and Knox rode in, followed by six other riders; behind them came carriages with their womenfolk. From our position on the veranda, Whitney and I watched the growing crowd.
Growing tired of Father’s voice of reason, a belly-heavy man with small, wire-framed spectacles resting on the tip of his nose climbed up on the front of a wagon. “Listen up, good people of Charleston,” his voice boomed. The restless crowd turned from Father to the new man. “Mr. Hendricks seems to be suffering a little black-lover fever.” He sent a warning glare at my father.
I glanced at Father. He didn’t respond. He remained placid and unmoving, his back straight, his shoulders drawn back, his eyes fastened on the man.
The man went on. “Them niggers will pay for what they did at the Barry Plantation. We will incinerate them like they did to poor Mr. Barry and his men. Let it be a warning to anyone who stands in our way: these niggers are as good as dead.”
The crowd erupted in a cheer, their fists raised, pounding at the air; they were hungry for Negro blood.
“Now, time’s a-wasting. The longer we delay, the farther those murderous bastards get. Let’s go!” he shouted.
The crowd thundered its approval. As quickly as they arrived, they left. Bowden, Knox, and Father stood watching them disperse. Father turned to walk away.
“Father!” I yelled to him as I descended the steps.
He stopped and half-turned to me. “What is it, Willow?” His eyes flashed a warning that stirred a memory of one of his earlier warnings. I continued cautiously. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“What do you propose I do?”
“I suppose I expect you to help save those slaves. I know you can’t stop that blood-thirsty mob, but there must be something we can do. I’ve seen the condition of the Barry slaves. Some can’t have gone far; some may have doubled back to the Barry Plantation already.”
“Willow, you are to do nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing!” His voice deepened as he moved toward me. “I will lock you in your room if I must. But you are not to leave this plantation. Understood?” He gripped my shoulders and shook me.
I gulped at his show of anger. We were back at square one. All the mending we had done to our relationship had vanished. I shifted my burning eyes to the ground and forced a nod.
“Good. I have things to attend to at the warehouses in town.” The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched. He released me and stepped back. Turning, he strode toward the wharf, summoning Jones to follow.
Whitney and I ran to the corner of the house and peered around it. Father boarded the schooner and Jones climbed in behind him.
We jumped and yelped when Bowden whispered between our hovering heads, “I hope you ladies aren’t getting any ideas.” He and Knox had crept up behind us.
“Bowden, didn’t anyone teach you not to creep up on people?” I sent a fist at his chest.
Bowden smirked. “You are aware, aren’t you, that you become more irresistible when you are angry, Willow Hendricks?”
“Oh, puke!” Whitney said with a huff, pushing her way through the men.
“We’ve had about all we can handle for the day. Being women and all, this day has been a bit much for us. So, we will bid you gentlemen good day,” I said in a honeyed voice.
“Oh…?” Bowden examined my intent for a moment too long.
“Bowden, Whitney’s been through enough and the twins need her. So I suggest you stop trying to figure out what I’m up to and do something productive. Why don’t you and Knox put yourselves to good use and go out there and see if you can stop whatever that deranged mob intends for those slaves?” I said, my tone more acerbic.
Bowden’s expression sharpened to anger at my disrespectful response. “Do not speak to me like I am a child,” he said, hurt.
Instantly regretful, I replied, “Father’s behavior has upset me. You don’t deserve that. I’m truly sorry.” My lip trembled as I gazed into his face.
Bowden softened. “I gladly accept your apology.” He gently stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. I leaned into it; turning my mouth, I tenderly kissed his knuckles.
“All right, lovebirds, let’s get on with it.” Knox chuckled good-naturedly.
When the men were gone, Whitney turned to go inside.
“Where are you going?”
Puzzled, she drawled, “Umm, inside…aren’t I?”
“No, of course not. We are going out there to help those fugitives.”
“But you said to your Father and Bowden—”
“I know what I said. But sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands when it comes to men. I told them what they wanted to hear, so they would leave.”
Whitney arched a brow, then her head bobbed up and down. “Sneaky little wench, aren’t you?” She giggled.
Blatantly disobeying Father’s orders, we had our horses saddled and headed first for the Barry Plantation.
ALL THAT REMAINED OF THE Barry Plantation was smoldering ashes. Relieved to find no sign of the mob, Bowden, or Knox, we roamed the grounds and the boundaries of the plantation in search of any trace of the slaves.
Some horses stood drinking from a trough that still held water. A few more horses and some cattle grazed in the fields, and a mama goat wandered nearby, her kid frolicking beside her. Chickens clucked and fluttered their wings as we meandered through them. Beyond the animals, there was no movement, no sign of humans. A melancholy I could not shake settled within me.
“There is no one here. Let’s ride out,” Whitney said.
Mounting up, we left. Not sure of where we were going next, we wandered the trails; leery of being seen, we moved with caution. My melancholy was turning into mind-numbing hopelessness.
We rode past a fresh trail heading into the swamps. The trampled ground had to be from the horses of the mob. Stopping, I signaled Whitney to take a look. She rode up beside me. “Looks like the trackers entered here. The slaves know more about these swamps than most of us. Makes sense that they would use the swamps to assist in their escape. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t think we have a choice. We have to go in. Those slaves are my responsibility. I owe them this much to atone for the crimes of my father.” Whitney guided her mount into the underbrush and slipped from her horse.
“We keep our ears sharp. That mob is crazed with vengeance—we don’t want to spook them and become their victims,” I said as I jumped down from my horse. We pulled the animals into the brush, out of sight of the main path, and tied them to a tree. Then we tucked the sides of our skirts into our waistbands to give us greater mobility in navigating the woods.
“All right, let’s go,” she said.
We had not traveled far along the beaten trail before a shot rang out. Whitney and I grabbed at each other, instinctively dropping to our knees. The shot was followed by a frenzy of shrill screams, and angry voices reached our ears. They were too distant for us to understand the words. Before we could process that the slaves had been found, a volley of shots split the air, sounding as close as a stone’s throw away. Choked with fear, we dropped to our bellies to avoid stray bullets.
I clenched my eyes closed, wishing to shut out the unfolding horror. As gruesome images of what was taking place whirled through my mind, my tears began to fall. Opening my eyes, I turned my cheek on the mossy earth and saw Whitney’s trembling hands outstretched in front of her.
Pain suddenly radiated through my back as someone literally ran over me. The fleeing slaves were unknowingly stumbling over our bodies. Someone fell on top of us and I gawked at the slave woman who sprawled across us, trapping us beneath her. She stared back, her eyes large with fear.
“Mary?” Whitney whispered.
“Miss Whitney?” She struggled to rise, and I saw hope in her dark eyes.
“Mary, we have to get you out of sight.” Whitney sprang into action. “Willow, we can’t hide her out here. We need to take her back to Livingston.”
“But we can’t leave them out there. What if…” I struggled to articulate words in my brain.
“Willow, snap out of it,” Whitney growled, driven with desperation.
“All right, you go. I’ll stay. You get her home and come back.”
“I’ll hurry, but you must stay out of sight.” Without waiting for a reply, Whitney and Mary started running back the way we had come.
Shuddering, I glanced around. An eerie silence had fallen over the swamp. The ear-piercing shots had ceased and not a voice or a cry reached my ears. I found my feet and pushed farther into the swamp, my heart in my throat. A play of destruction performed in my head as I pressed on.
Raucous laughter and then a cheer rose from the mob. I saw movement ahead and sought cover as I edged closer, careful not to be seen. With my eyes pinned on the mob ahead, I missed the obstruction in my path. Stumbling, I went down hard. The wind was knocked from me and I lay sprawled on the ground for a moment before looking to see what had caused my fall.
A slave’s body, riddled with bullets. His lifeless eyes gazed at the sky.
No, no, no… I moaned.
Tears stung my eyes as I placed a hand over his eyes to close them. “May you finally find freedom,” I whispered. Stumbling to my feet, I forced myself to go on, crouching low.
I heard the leader shout, “We are done here. Justice was served. I say we all deserve a drink. Everyone is welcome back at my plantation.” A gleeful roar went up.
I darted for cover as the mob tramped toward me. Ducking behind a cypress tree, I crouched down, holding my breath. I could almost reach out and touch them as they passed by. Please, don’t see me.
The last human figure was long gone before I released my hold on the tree. I wiped my sweaty palms on the bunched-up fabric of my skirt. Alone and fearful of what I would find, I persuaded my feet to go on.
MY SENSES WERE OVERLOADED, DULLING my desire to investigate the inevitable conclusion for the slaves. I fought the desire to turn and run. Run from what lay beyond my view. Something pushed me on. I parted the tall grass and my feet edged forward.
My imagination couldn’t prepare me for what I found. I staggered back, a scream catching in my throat as my eyes beheld the massacre of the Barry slaves. Men, women, and children—the mob had left no survivors. Blood flecked the green foliage and shallow puddles of stagnant water were crimson with their blood. A man lay with his hand intertwined with his woman’s. A grandpa and grandma lay tucked in each other’s embrace. Beneath a mother’s corpse, a tiny pair of legs protruded.
My stomach rioted. Vomit burst from my lips. Tears burned my cheeks and my vision blurred. And—I saw him. My watcher.
He stood in plain sight, his face shadowed by the same lowered hat brim he’d worn the last time. I’d forgotten about him for a time. Why did he now step from the shadows Father had confined him to? The stranger appeared to be fighting an inner battle of some sort as he watched me. For some reason, I didn’t mind his presence. With him there, I didn’t feel so small and abandoned in this gloomy everglade. The limited companionship he offered gave me a sense of comfort. I brushed away my tears.
As I walked amongst the dead, I deceived myself with the hope that I might find a survivor. I bent and checked for a pulse again and again. And with each one, my heart descended further into despair. I checked over my shoulder for the stranger, to find he had faded into the shadows he had emerged from.
I dropped to my knees beside the mother and child and pushed the dead weight of the mother aside. The child was a boy of maybe four years of age. His hair had been shorn scalp-short. His small fist was clenched tight even in death.
Why, God? He was but a babe. His life had barely begun. I reached for the boy’s hand and lightly enfolded it in mine. I stroked his wee hand, my fingers tracing his knuckles. Placing his hand reverently in his mother’s, I caressed his innocent face with the back of my hand.
He blinked. His eyes opened and I wrenched back in alarm.
“Mama?” he said quietly. Then he saw me and he began to scream, “Mama!” He rose to his knees and saw his mother lying dead beside him, and released a gut-twisting wail. “Mama…” He gently shook at her. Then, as fear gripped his heart, he shook her with frantic intensity.
I slowly moved toward him and reached for him. His cries stopped and his small body became rigid when I touched him, but his head turned to look at me. “No, no!” He pushed my hand away.
“I won’t hurt you,” I said in a soothing voice.
“I want my mama,” he whimpered.
“I know you do.” He fought me as I cradled him to my breast. “Mama has gone to heaven. Do you understand that?”
He shook his head.
“Your mama is free.”
“But Mama promised she gwine take me wid her.” He hiccupped.
“Your mama was going to, sweet boy, but those bad men came,” I whispered. My heart ached as the child grew silent.
Minutes passed before I spoke. “We must leave this place now.” I waited for his acknowledgment, but he remained mute. I struggled to stand on my wobbly legs, and guided us out of the swamps.
WHITNEY MET US HALFWAY. THE sight of her was a relief. Numb, I’d been concentrating on getting away from the nightmare that lay behind me. Reading the shock etched on my face, Whitney looked straight ahead as we headed home.
We rode through the gates into Livingston’s comforting embrace. Mary Grace reached for the child I lowered down into her waiting arms. He had been silent since leaving his mother’s body.
Hours later, bathed and fed, the child was still silent. But even numbed by shock, I noticed how the child turned to Mary Grace for comfort. When I asked, she readily agreed to provide him with whatever comfort she could. I watched her walk away with the child straddling her expanding waist.
The setting sun cast long lavender shadows across the plantation. I leaned against the railing on the back veranda, gazing out over the Ashley River. Fiddle music reached my ears from a group of slaves hovering around a recently stoked fire. Jimmy stepped from the forge. Arching his back, he stretched out sore muscles. Done for the day, he whistled a familiar tune as he headed in toward his cabin. Mammy emerged from the kitchen house with a basin of dish water and cast it in an arc over the grass.
