A Slave of the Shadows, page 4
“Mag needs you to stay alive. Now go!” She winced.
After the two days passed, Jimmy carried her limp body back to the shack they shared with another family. An old widow woman sewed her up. Every night after long days spent in the fields, he sat by her side. He laid a cool, damp cloth on her forehead as she lay burning up. Her wounds became infected; she moaned and cried as the fever unleashed havoc on her body. Jimmy worried for Mag and his wife.
A few weeks passed. Mag recovered and was running around, turning the shack upside down. Nellie never fully recovered and developed the cough that seemed to be spreading through the plantation. The epidemic took Jimmy’s wife and over half of the slaves on the plantation. The missus had gotten sick too; she recovered, but it left her weaker than before.
Times got hard after the loss of half the masa’s property. Businessmen came to the big house trying to collect the outstanding debt the masa owed. As the weeks turned into months, they showed up more often and the conversations turned into threats. The masa would go into fits of rage and have them thrown off his property.
The young slaves with families, including the mothers of the masa’s children, took advantage of his growing weakness and ran. Some never returned; others, he hunted down and killed.
One evening Jimmy and the others were sitting by the fire when a fight broke out between the missus and the masa. The missus was asking to go home to her family and the masa, being the usual tyrant, said that she would never leave the plantation as long as he lived. Some slaves whispered, “Serves her right.” Their hearts were filled with hatred after years of being tortured and beaten by the masa. Jimmy knew she was an uncaring woman, but no one deserved this. There was a scuffle, and the slaves sat by as her screams haunted the night. Then there was silence.
Days passed. No one ever saw the missus come out of the house. Then Jimmy was summoned from the fields to the big house by the masa. Jimmy found him treading back and forth in the front entry, studying a book he held.
He glanced up as Jimmy entered. “Nigger.” The masa never bothered to learn any of the slaves’ names. “Can you make one of these?” He shoved the book at Jimmy.
Jimmy had never seen anything like the picture in that book before. It was a chair with wheels. There were words on the page, but he couldn’t read them. He looked up at the masa. “I’ll try, Masa.”
“You’d best do better than try, nigger. Now get your revolting self out of my house.”
A few days later, Jimmy delivered the chair to the masa. After a quick inspection of Jimmy’s craftsmanship, he turned and disappeared down the hallway. Minutes later he reappeared carrying the missus. Her body was limp from the waist down; bruises on her face were yellowing as they healed. Her body would never heal from the damage Masa had done to her. She was now a cripple and the chair he’d made would be her prison. As the masa dropped her into the chair, she looked up at Jimmy with a broken emptiness in her eyes. Compassion for her surged through him.
“Take this sorry excuse of a wife outside. I grow tired of her whining,” Masa ordered before storming off.
They were left alone and Jimmy was forced to speak. “It’s mighty breezy outside, Missus. Let me git you a cover.” He hurried down the hall in search of a blanket. As he drew close to one door, the smell of urine and feces overpowered his senses. Pausing in the doorway, he looked inside. The shutters were sealed closed, and the room was empty except for a bed on the floor made from a few blankets. Jimmy glanced back down the hall to where he had left the missus, his soul heavy with understanding. The masa broke her body and discarded her as damaged goods. She had not been helped to the outhouse to relieve herself, forcing her to spend almost a week lying in her own waste.
Jimmy found an afghan in another room and returned to the missus. As he pushed the chair with wheels toward the porch, he lifted a shawl hanging from a hook by the door.
Outside, Masa was saddling his horse to go into town, probably to hit the bottle and be entertained by ladies of the night. “You niggers better be here when I get back,” he growled. “Don’t go getting any fool ideas because the overseer left. I’ll find you and wear your black skin for a coat if you even think of running away.” His eyes gleamed dangerously as he circled the yard, driving home his threat; satisfied, he turned his horse and rode off.
Jimmy sprang into action. “Harry, I want you to heat some water so de missus can have a bath,” he told his friend. Harry left to do his bidding.
“Lucy, I need you to bathe de missus when we git her in de bath,” he said to a house slave.
“Why should we help dat waste of human flesh?” She eyed the missus, loathing curling her lip.
He—all too well—understood her hate, and the suffering they’d all suffered here on this plantation from these masters. “’Cause what good are we, if we become dem?” he said.
“If you want to show her mussy, you on your own.” Her scowling eyes locked on the missus. She spat on the ground in disgust before turning and walking away.
On the porch with the missus, he spoke softly. “Et be all right, Missus. I git you cleaned up.”
Upstairs he wandered around until he found her rightful room and found a nightgown in her clothing drawer. He lifted a brush for her hair from her vanity. He carried both back downstairs with him and found the bath room at the rear of the house, next to the kitchen.
Harry was tipping enough water to fill a few inches of the tub. More water was heating in the fireplace. “I will do de res’ myself, Harry. No need in two of us being punished.”
Harry scurried away.
When the tub was ready, Jimmy wheeled the missus inside. She never said a word, even when a male slave removed her clothes. When he lifted her naked body to place her in the tub, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He saw sadness and a lifetime of regret in her pain-filled blue eyes. Jimmy lowered her into the tub and gently bathed her crushed body. He washed her hair. Then, lifting her to him, he wrapped her in a cloth, drying her body. After slipping her into the nightgown he sat her in her chair and wrapped the shawl around her frail shoulders. He tucked the afghan around her legs, then wheeled her out into the sunshine and set to tenderly brushing her graying blonde hair.
That day he found it within himself to show empathy for the wife of the masa, who never showed him anything but hatred and resentment.
The sun had dipped behind the clouds when the masa returned home drunk. Jimmy had retired to the shack for the evening and was telling Mag a story when an irritated masa barged through the door.
“Which one of you animals dared bathe my wife?”
No one spoke up. He rolled out his whip and snapped it through the air. At the loud cracking sound, Mag began to cry.
“Speak up, you bastards, or I’ll have you whipped, the whole lot of you.”
Jimmy stepped forward. “It was me, Masa.”
Masa circled him. “You! A slave! And a male slave, at that. You touched my wife’s body?”
“She was soiled wid her own waste and I thought—”
“You thought?” he screamed, his eyes bulging. “What gives you the right to think for yourself, you savage dog?”
Masa did not whip him that night, leaving Jimmy unsettled. The next morning came too soon, as all mornings did on the plantation. Slaves were up and going about their daily work when the masa left, returning to town.
The missus was sitting on the porch in her chair. As Jimmy passed by on his way to the field, she called out, “Stop.”
Jimmy stopped. Turning to her, he asked, “Yessum?”
“Come here, please.” She beckoned him with a feeble hand.
He went to her, his eyes lowered. “Yessum.”
“What is your name?”
“James, Missus.”
“Look at me, James.”
“Masa wouldn’t like dat, Missus.”
“He is not here, which makes me the master, and I asked you to look at me,” she said.
Jimmy raised his head and respectfully returned her gaze. Annoyance gleamed in her eyes at the mention of the masa. Her eyes softened. “You are a brave man, James, to have done what you did for me. In my shame, you showed me humanity. The kindness you showed me I do not deserve, after the treatment you’ve endured here.”
“Et be de right thing to do, Missus.”
“Why did you show me mercy?”
“‘Cause what de masa did to you ain’t right. We’ve all been victims of his darkness.”
She scanned his face for a moment. “James, will you help me end my life?”
He fell back as if the earth trembled under him, disturbed by her request. “What?”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “My husband is the devil himself and we all know what he is capable of. I cannot spend the rest of my life forgotten, lying in my own waste. I ask you to show me mercy one more time.” She ended on a sob.
“Missus, I could never do dat.”
“Why? You could have your revenge. Isn’t it what you all have always wanted?”
“No, Missus. Some may see it dat way, but not me. All I ever wanted is to be free. Free to plant my own garden. Sit on my own porch and see my daughter grow widout de fear of what tomorrow holds.”
She cocked her head, regarding the man who stood before her. “Very well then, you are dismissed.”
“Yes, Missus.” He hastily departed without a second glance.
He had been in the field an hour when the shot rang out. Dropping his bag of cotton, he ran at full speed toward the house. The missus no longer sat on the porch. As he approached, Lucy was coming out of the house. A sickening feeling filled him, but Lucy wore a look of satisfaction.
He barreled past her, shouting, “What have you done, you fool?”
He found the missus in her room, sitting in her chair, her long, slender fingers linked around a gun. Her empty, lifeless eyes stared at him as the blood gushed from a hole in the side of her head.
Terrified, panicking, he dashed from the house and found Lucy sauntering along with a sway of satisfaction in her step. Slaves were gathering, curious about what had happened. He gripped her roughly by the shoulder and swung her around. Her eyes went wide with shock and fright at his sudden aggressiveness.
“Dis is de end of us all when de masa gits here!” he shouted, sending her reeling backward with a hard poke to her shoulder.
His mind was frantic with worry. His thoughts ran to Mag. “We need to leave—now!”
Then he heard the hooves tearing at the ground and whirled. The masa and three other men were galloping up the drive. It was too late. Jimmy knew in the pit of his stomach that life was over for them.
“All you pigs, here now!” the masa bellowed as he swung himself from the saddle to drop heavily to the ground.
The few slaves left on the plantation assembled in the yard. Mag must be playing somewhere, Jimmy thought, not seeing her anywhere near. He prayed she would not show her face; maybe the masa wouldn’t notice her absence, and she would escape what was coming.
“You have all been sold,” the masa said nonchalantly.
A buzz went up amongst the slaves. Jimmy’s heart dropped. Dread filled him.
The men stepped forward and started chaining up the slaves.
“Papa?” a little voice called, and Mag’s small hand slipped into his.
He stared down into the angelic face of his little girl; she stared back at him with uncertainty. As chains were slapped around his neck Jimmy started to resist, but stopped when Mag started to cry in terror.
Masa stepped up and scowled contemptuously at Jimmy. “The child goes with the other group, to be sold to the plantation in Virginia.”
“No!” Jimmy cried.
“I told you you would pay, nigger.” A sneer curled the corner of his mouth.
Bound with chains around his ankles, wrists, and neck, Jimmy was unable to stop them. Mag was led to the small group of mangled old slaves to have child-size chains fastened around her delicate neck. The slave traders left her feet and wrists unchained, figuring she was no threat and she would only slow them down.
As the group of slaves was led away, she looked back at her father with tears pouring down her dirty cheeks. “Papa, I want to go with you. Please, Papa, I’ll be good!” she begged over and over until her tiny voice faded out.
His legs could no longer hold him. He crumpled to the ground in anguish. He pounded his fist in the dirt, wailing as he rocked back and forth, calling out her name.
Willow
THE DAY OF THE PICNIC was a perfect summer day. A light breeze rolled in from the ocean, leaving the waves to splash angrily back and forth against the shoreline. Noisy gulls soared low, scavenging for food. Little crabs scuttled over the sand, building their homes. I let the hypnotic, peaceful sound of the ocean carry me away to the times in my childhood when Father brought me here to play. They were the happy memories between Father and me.
It was only when I grew older and began to question the ways of life that our relationship changed. The playful father of my youth was no more, and with every passing day he drew further away from me while at the same time, his grip had tightened on me. I lost the freedom to venture off, as I had once done. He filled my daily life with responsibilities at the plantation that would keep me busy and isolated. Friends were few and far between. If it wasn’t for Mary Grace, Mammy, and Jimmy, I might have gone crazy out of loneliness.
But today—I was determined to make the most of it. There was so much activity around me, and laughter and cheerful voices filled the air. Tables were set up with a bountiful feast prepared by the young ladies and their mothers. Girls sat giggling and socializing as they picked at the plates of food resting on their laps. Others were locked in a friendly though competitive game of croquet. Courting couples stood off to the side, engrossed in each other, shutting out the world around them.
“Willow!” someone called.
I scanned the crowd in search of the caller, and my eyes finally fell on Julia Matthews, who excitedly waved me over to her and her friends, who stood observing me.
“Hello, Julia.” I embraced her wholeheartedly, then stepped back to nod politely at the others.
Julia was jolly and inviting, always seeing the best in people, which I appreciated. Eyeing up the two girls with her, Josephine and Lucille, I momentarily speculated about why Julia was friends with them; they were so distinctively different from her. Josephine was stuck up and snooty, with her nose always turned up, giving the appearance she thought she was better than everyone. Lucille was negative, condescending, and one of the town chinwags. If she laid eyes on you when in town, she would be sure to fill you in on the latest gossip. I dreaded it when I saw her coming.
Turning my awareness back to Julia, I admired her strawberry blonde hair, which was neatly pulled back into a French braid, with wisps and tendrils framing her pretty freckled face. “It has been far too long, Julia,” I said. “What is new with you?”
“Well…” She paused, then continued. “I’m getting married this year. In a few months, in fact.” A sudden gloom fell over her.
“What!” My mouth gaped in astonishment.
“Now that Pa is gone, and with my brother deciding to join the Army without a second thought for Mother and me, we have sold everything here and are moving to Ontario, Canada. My mother has arranged a marriage for me with her friend’s son,” she declared, though her expression revealed she was disheartened with her new state of affairs.
“Have you even met this man?” My brows narrowed.
“Once, when we were children. He was shy and an awful bore,” she moaned, casting a forlorn look at the other girls. They hung on her every word, as if hoping to suck out the bubbly, positive energy Julia usually exuded. They drove me insane!
If I ever married, I would marry for love. No matter what Father said, I would never be forced into a marriage to a man I didn’t know or love. I found it impossible to imagine being bound to the same man for a lifetime without love.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, not knowing how to comfort her. Sometimes life took an unexpected turn and you had to roll with the punches. But I would do more of the punching before I would let life lead me down that path.
“Well, enough about my sorrows. Let’s enjoy our freedom while it lasts, shall we?” She beamed, revealing the girl I regarded with such esteem.
“Hello, ladies.” A tall, slender woman approached us. She wore a pale green silk gown adorned with some of the modern details that were trending in Paris. The gown gathered in at the waistline, showing off her tiny waist.
“Whitney!” Julia squealed, gathering her into a massive hug. The newcomer returned her hug, adding a sincere caress of her own back.
Turning to us, Julia introduced her. “Girls, I’d like you to meet Whitney Barry; she recently moved here from Boston to live with her pa on his plantation. This is Willow, Josephine, and Lucille.”
“Welcome,” we said together.
“So, why did you move here? If you didn’t live with your own father in Boston, whom did you live with?” Lucille, being Lucille, wasted no time and got right down to picking for information. She was probably already forming a list in her head of those she would race off to find first to share her new gossip.
Whitney didn’t seem fazed at all by Lucille’s blunt questions. “I went to live with my auntie in New York after my mother passed. I was twelve. Then a few years later my pa returned and moved me to Boston again to care for the twins he had with his second wife. After she passed from cholera last year, he moved us here.”
“What was it like, having two mothers?” Josephine asked.
The girls were so meddlesome with their questions! I waited apprehensively to see how Whitney would respond.
Lifting long fingers to toss a stray auburn ringlet over her shoulder, she answered disdainfully, “Didn’t have any use for the likes of my stepmother. She didn’t have a motherly bone in her body.” Her lively green eyes flashed.
There was something captivating about this woman, I thought as I watched her conversing, her hands moving wildly to punctuate her points. I laughed to myself; that was a trait we shared. I liked this girl.
