A Slave of the Shadows, page 3
“How did you manage here today while I was away?”
“Fine, Father.”
“Parker?”
“I’ve dealt with him,” I said, eyes downcast so he’d know I hadn’t liked it much. I was hoping to give him the impression that I’d handed out a harsh punishment.
“Very well.” Appearing satisfied, he turned and went up the steps.
Our manservant, Thaddeus, greeted him with a glass of ice water and a cool, damp cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow.
“Thaddeus, have James come see me in my study.”
“Yes, Masa, right away.” Thaddeus hurried off to fetch the blacksmith.
I bravely followed Father into his study, hoping to grab a few minutes of his time. He started flipping through the mail on his desk without acknowledging me. I swallowed hard, trying to summon the nerve to ask him something I’d been wanting to ask for weeks, but my nerves always got the best of me. Everything I did, he somehow found flawed. Did he wish I’d been born a son? Would I ever receive his love and approval?
Well, here goes nothing.
“Father, there is going to be a picnic this Sunday for the young folk, and I want to attend.”
Then came the long pause before he addressed me. “The sort of thing a lady can be up to no good at,” he stated bluntly.
I sighed to relieve the anxiety that came with these encounters. This was the way it was between Father and me.
Taking my sigh as a sign of disrespect, he looked at me sharply. “I would suggest you watch your tone, Willow.”
Defending myself was not worth the effort. It would turn into an argument and I would end up getting punished for having done nothing wrong. What was good for Charles Hendricks, I was still trying to understand. He would have preferred a meek and mild daughter, I knew. Conversations between us often left me thinking I wasn’t good enough. Why did I always have to be a leading example for everyone around me? What did it matter, what people thought? The pressure Father put on me to be an ideal daughter was frustrating and overwhelming. I found myself longing for the days when he would leave on his ships.
As an importer and exporter, Father would often be gone for long periods of time. I had recently finished my studies and would be spending most of my time at Livingston. Father was a successful and wealthy businessman in Charleston. In his success, he’d made Livingston a thriving plantation. For as long as I could remember, we spent our summers at our home in Rhode Island. More frequently, hoping I would learn more about managing a plantation, he would leave me in charge of operations—under the guidance of Jones the overseer, of course. When Father was away was the only time I felt truly free. Was our home a haven? Not in my case; it was more like a prison, and me its captive.
JAMES, OUR MOST SKILLED BLACKSMITH, entered, removing his worn hat from his graying head. Holding it in his hands, he bowed his head respectfully. Our eyes met from my position at my father’s side, and I smiled affectionately at the man who in my heart had become a father to me.
Careful to avoid my open attention, he addressed my father. “Yes, Masa?”
“James, I need you to head over to the Widow Jenson’s farm across the way and check out her mule. She says it has been having a problem with its hind leg.”
James was handy at most things he put his mind to, but he was especially good with horses. As good as any schooled vet, I’d bet.
“Sho’ thing, Masa! Anything else?”
“That will be all.” Times like these were when I allowed myself to see the good in Father, with his thoughtfulness toward his neighbors. He’d become a well-respected gentleman in Charleston, acquiring many admirers among the spinsters and the younger ladies of Charleston. Once I asked him why he’d never remarried, and he simply said, “One woman was enough for me.” I did not miss how his shoulders drooped and his chin quivered ever so slightly. The pain of losing my mother was apparent on his handsome face.
“Can I go?” I said, in one last attempt to have some kind of life outside of the plantation.
“We will see.” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed me like he would a slave.
I dashed out of the room to catch up with James. Father called after me as if he were scolding a child, “No running!”
Out of his sight, I was brave enough to roll my eyes, but I did slow my pace to a fast walk. Once outside I sped up. “Jimmy!”
James turned to wait for me, beaming. “Miss Willie!” he said cheerfully, using the name that had become an endearment from him. He was always happy and I wasn’t sure why. It was as if the life he’d been dealt didn’t faze him. He had sharp facial features with beady eyes, yet he was attractive in his own way, and was well liked around the plantation, despite being a shy man. He kept to himself except for a few trusted friends, and he’d never mentioned family. His loud and infectious laugh often came out as a roar. It would leave me feeling amazed that a man as shy as him could have a laugh that started from his toes and worked its way all the way up until it filled the air around you with an inexplicable happiness. When I needed advice, I found myself searching him out, and he seemed eager to oblige. If people knew how close I had become to Jimmy, we would both be in hot water. I found comfort in his presence, an acceptance I never had with my own father. Jimmy admired my spunky personality.
“I ran into that awful Bowden Armstrong again today.” I folded my arms across my chest.
“Uh-huh.” He waited.
“Well, he is as dreadful and smug as ever,” I said with a huff as we continued on to the barn. The mere mention of his name annoyed me all over again.
Jimmy remained a willing ear.
“I happened upon Rufus and his men terrorizing Gray, from the Armstrong Plantation, and I kind of got myself involved.” I dared a peek at him. Jimmy stopped, now looking alarmed. I rushed on. “I know it was dangerous and I didn’t think it through.” I waved my hands as I tried to express myself. I was exasperated with this whole day and wished for it to be over. “I saw red. I couldn’t help myself. Rufus is malicious and merciless, and as bad as any slave catcher. I needed to do something.”
“Miss Willie, you gwine git yourself hurt or worst—daid!” he said, distress lifting his voice.
I sighed, knowing he cared not out of an obligation to the lady of the plantation, but from the special place he allowed me in his life. “You’re right, Jimmy. I will try to use my head and not get so fired up.”
His laugh was a deep rumble. “Dat’s what makes you so special, Miss Willie, is your love for people of all kinds.”
I grinned at his praise. “It is a good thing Bowden and Knox came along. They did help me out of the mess I got myself into.”
“Dis time,” Jimmy said ominously.
“Miss Willow!”
I turned to see Mammy waddling up. Mammy was short and thick around the middle, but someone who wasn’t to be underestimated by her height. She could put the fear of God into you. She had sent many slaves hollering and screaming out of her kitchen, chasing after them with her heavy wooden spoon. She didn’t allow anyone to mess around in her kitchen or with her food.
“Yes, Mammy?”
“You need to be lettin’ Jim run along before your pappy catches you chattin’ up a slave and you find yourself grounded for a month of Sundays.”
“Miss Rita speaks de truth. I bes’ git gwine.” With his usual polite manners, he tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Willie, Miss Rita.” He strolled off toward the barn.
Disheartened at his departure, I stared after him before turning back to Mammy to find her studying me.
“What?”
“Chile, you need to be careful. Dere’s no hidin’ how much you care about that nigra.”
“I am careful, Mammy…for both our sakes.”
“You may think you watchful of who be seeing you. But dere ain’t no hidin’ dat look on your face of de love you hold for dat slave.”
“How’s it any different than the love I show for you?”
“’Cause I your mammy. I raised you, and Masa and anyone else ’spect dat. But a field slave, dat’s a whole ’nother thing.”
I followed Mammy back to the house. “I’m going to rest in my room for a bit before I get washed up for supper. Could you please send up Mary Grace to attend me?”
“I will, Miss Willow.”
I DREW THE VELVET CURTAINS closed to block out the ungodly heat and lay down on my four-poster to await Mary Grace.
“Come in, Mary Grace,” I called when I heard the knock on the door. I sat up, adjusting the pillows behind me.
Mary Grace bounced into the room with the usual skip in her step. She’d been born a year before me and had always been a house slave. The other slaves on the plantation considered her spoiled, as she’d never spent a day in the fields. Her fingers weren’t marked and bloody from the cotton bushes. Her soul wasn’t burdened or scarred by the slave life.
Mammy Henrietta was her mother, and her father was Mammy’s previous master. Her skin was a flawless light caramel. Her long dark hair, covered as it always was by a scarf, wasn’t wooly like most of the Negroes’. She was tall and slender—willowy, I thought; and I, curvy and of average height, was the one named Willow. Mary Grace was naïve to the ways of the world, Mammy would often say. Riddled by fear that her daughter would suffer the rapes she’d been subjected to with her last master, Mammy tried her best to protect Mary Grace from the same fate. It did not pay to be a pretty slave. When Father would receive male visitors to the house she would make Mary Grace stay out of sight, away from men’s wandering eyes.
Father assigned Mary Grace as my handmaid when we were small children. With no other siblings, we formed an unbreakable bond. She’d slept on a pallet on my floor for as far back as I could remember. On my return home from my studies, I was surprised to find that she now permanently shared the room at the back staircase with Mammy. I missed the sound of her breathing as she slept, which had lulled me to sleep many nights.
The first time I realized Mary Grace was different from me, we were around five years old. Father had invited a few of his gentlemen friends over for our evening meal. I’d finished my dinner and eyed Mary Grace in the hallway. She peeked around the corner and waved eagerly for me to come to her.
I turned to Father. “May I be excused, Father, to go play with my friend?”
Wrinkling his brow in confusion, he asked, “What friend?”
“Mary Grace,” I said with my own frown at his silliness.
“Willow, no slave can be a friend to a proper Southern belle.”
Why not? My confusion deepened. Father then summoned Mammy to take me away before I humiliated him further. Mammy whisked me off to my room with Mary Grace hot on her heels. I sat on the edge of my bed, my arms crossed tight across my chest, swinging my feet angrily.
“You all right, Miss Willow?” little Mary Grace asked me.
I didn’t want to tell her what Father said because I was so mad at him. He never found time for me. He was always running off on his big ships sailing the world without me. He would bring me back countless toys and pretty things, but I was still alone. Now when I had a friend who made me not feel so alone, he was trying to take her away. I don’t care what Father says, I am not going to let him say she isn’t my friend. I looked at Mary Grace, who sat there beaming, always happy and aiming to please.
“You will always be my friend and I will protect you. No matter what big people say, you’re my sister. When I’m the owner of this plantation, I’m going to set you free. Would you like that, Mary Grace?” She nodded earnestly. “It’s settled, then. He isn’t the boss of me,” I insisted with authority beyond my power, placing my hands on my tiny hips.
Mary Grace and I giggled and danced around the room, singing quietly, “Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies.”
In my room that day I made a promise I intended to keep, no matter the price.
Today Mary Grace seated herself on the bed beside me and revealed a bar of bath soap she was holding in her hands. “I made this for you today.” Her eyes glowed as she held it up to my nose.
It smelled of lavender, chamomile, and honey; for exfoliation purposes she had added a touch of oats. I inhaled and sighed with gleeful bliss. It was my favorite of the soap concoctions she made.
Mary Grace loved nature. When her daily tasks were done, she could usually be found wandering in the forest and gardens, looking for flowers to make her soaps and oils. These disappearing acts would send Mammy into a frenzy. She would scurry around in search of her daughter, grumbling what a fool girl she was.
“You managed to sneak out on Mammy again? You wicked, wicked girl.”
“Mama says I have my head in the clouds and don’t pay no mind to the danger around me.”
“A handsome slave by the name of Gray wouldn’t have anything to do with you being high in the clouds, would he?”
She reddened, but I recognized the dreamy look girls get when they have fallen head over heels in love. “He makes me feel special.”
When the slaves got a pass or a ticket to visit other plantations every few weeks, Gray would visit Livingston, as Mammy flat-out refused to let Mary Grace use a ticket to go off the plantation.
“Gray is a good man. And in his eyes, I see a pure soul.”
Mary Grace cocked her head, perplexed. “How have you come to this idea?”
“I may be white, Mary Grace, but I’m not blind to a handsome man, no matter his skin tone.”
“I mean, how or when have you talked to Gray?”
“Oh!” I decided against filling Mary Grace in on what had occurred with Gray, as it would make her worry for weeks until she saw him. “I’ve spoken to him in passing.”
I rose and went to my closet and picked out an emerald-green taffeta dress with a modest neckline that scooped below my collar bone and tucked in at the waist with an ivory sash. Father had purchased it for me on one of his recent trips. I liked how the dress made my eyes stand out. Mary Grace came to help me out of what I was wearing and I slipped into the green dress, turning for Mary Grace’s assistance with the pearl buttons trailing down the back.
I sat down at the vanity, and Mary Grace combed my hair, then swept it to the side and pinned it, leaving the length to cascade down over my right shoulder in soft curls. I studied my reflection in the mirror for a moment before I rose to head down for dinner. I paused and lightly kissed Mary Grace’s cheek. “Thank you for my gift and for your help.” Then I swept gracefully out of the room, my dress swishing as I went.
Jimmy’s Story
SLAVERY WAS THE ONLY WAY of life he had known in his sixty years. As a young man, Jimmy lived on a smaller plantation in Wilmington, North Carolina. His masa was vicious and cold-blooded, showing no mercy to any slave.
His wife was barren and he pressured her for years to bear him a son to carry on the family name. Nightly, it seemed, he freed the evil living in him upon the missus in various forms of mental and physical abuse. The slaves could hear her cries from the house in the slave quarters. She wasn’t kind or friendly to her slaves and turned a blind eye to their suffering at the hands of her husband, in the hope he would leave her alone.
Even though she never bore him children, he’d fathered a few with the young slave girls he took to the overseer’s cabin. Jimmy saw many young girls, barely twelve years old, enter that cabin with the masa. Masa liked them pure and innocent, just on the threshold of womanhood. Jimmy watched them leave battered, traumatized, and holding themselves, as if to shelter their bodies from the sick, twisted things he’d done to them. The masa would light a cigar and watch them walk away, smirking as if he’d scored another trophy for his wall.
When Jimmy’s wife, Nellie, told him one night as they lay in bed that he was going to be a father, he’d been happy but scared at the same time. He prayed for a boy, never wanting to bring a daughter into this world. Nellie shared the same worry. Eight months later when their daughter, Magnolia, was born, he swore as he looked down at her. She was so tiny in his arms, sleeping so soundly, not knowing what life had in store for her. He loved her within those first precious moments even as he assumed the burden of hardship they would face as parents. They knew as slaves they were powerless. Jimmy secretly wished Mag would grow up to be an ugly woman; at least then she might avoid being forced to satisfy the whims of men.
The first year of Mag’s life brought Nellie and Jimmy much happiness as she learned to crawl and then walk. She began to say “Mama” and “Papa,” and Jimmy adored her. Every morning he would sit on the edge of their bed, rocking Mag in the cradle he’d handcrafted for her. In the dainty headboard, he’d carved angel wings. He couldn’t sing a note, but he cooed out the same tune to her every day.
Fly, my little angel,
spread your wings and soar
Above the trees may you find freedom,
A slave no more.
In the fourth year of Mag’s life she became very sick with influenza. Nellie, sick with worry for her daughter, stole some medicine from the big house. She didn’t make it out with the medicine. A servant of the house, known amongst the slaves as “the black rat,” caught her and reported back to the masa.
The masa chained Nellie to the post and whipped her until the skin on her back lay open like pages in a book. As a standing example of what happens to all thieves, she was to remain tied to the post for the next two days. They were told the slave caught giving her food or water would suffer the same fate. Jimmy couldn’t leave her like that, no matter the risk. That night, after her skin had baked and sizzled in the hot sun all day, he crawled over to her on his hands and knees, using the darkness to shield him. He lifted her head and poured some water on her blistering lips.
She moaned and half opened her eyes, readily sipping back some water before turning her head away. “Go before you git caught,” she whispered faintly.
“I can’t leave you lak dis.” He cupped her face in his hands and brushed away her few unspent tears with his thumbs.
