A Slave of the Shadows, page 5
As we all continued chatting, Whitney’s voice grew louder, excited. Was she starved for female company? At one point, she eagerly reached out and touched my arm. “Father tells me we are neighbors. I’ll stop by sometime for tea.”
I was taken aback by her boldness. Was this how they did things in Boston? She seemed unaware how impolite it was to ask herself over without a proper invitation. Even so, Whitney Barry intrigued me, despite her rough edges. “Why, yes, we are,” I replied. “Your plantation isn’t but a thirty minute ride from ours.”
“Ladies,” a masculine voice interrupted.
Knox and Bowden strolled up, to my dismay and the others’ obvious pleasure. We made room in our circle for the men.
“Bowden!” Josephine purred in a saccharine voice, peering up at him, eyelashes fluttering. I cringed, annoyed by such behavior.
Bowden gave her a polite nod and turned his attention to Julia. “News has reached my ears that you are leaving us.”
Julia produced an exaggerated pout—giving Knox the perfect opportunity to chime in. Swiping his hat from his sandy-blond head, he dropped to one knee and snatched Julia’s hand to his chest. “Don’t go! Marry me!” he pleaded. “All the girls want to marry a Southern gentleman like me. I’m a catch. The ladies are lining up at my door. I’m having to beat them off with sticks.”
This brought gales of laughter, and I found myself laughing too. He was clever and charismatic and knew how to use both to his advantage
Julia blushed. Always the good sport, she pulled her hand back and held it over her heart, assuming an expression of dismay. “Why, Knox Tucker, I would never marry the likes of you, with all your seducing of the female kind.” Acting appalled, she lifted her chin and turned her head away, dismissing him.
Knox chuckled and rose, giving her a wink. “But I had you considering, right?”
Eyebrows raised, Whitney regarded Knox. “Really?”
“What?” he said with a slight smirk. There was a glint in his eyes as he sized up the bold woman before him.
“This is how you aim to court? Are you sure the women aren’t knocking you off with a stick?” She let out an unladylike snort. Yet all the while she was challenging him, she was regarding him with interest.
Oh, how I liked this girl! I found myself chuckling.
Julia giggled, linking her arm through Whitney’s. “Gentlemen, meet Whitney Barry.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Bowden offered his hand, which Whitney accepted with a firm handshake.
I found myself studying Bowden—the tanned face from long days in the sun, the strawberry birthmark tracing along his jawline, the dark curls that feathered back from his face and tucked behind his ears. Realizing I was gawking, I promptly looked away. “Well, if you all will excuse me,” I said abruptly, “I promised Father I would be back soon.” Father wasn’t expecting me home for hours. Once again, the awkwardness I felt when I was around Bowden sent me running like a coward. Saying my goodbyes, I extended a proper invite to Whitney to stop by Livingston for a visit soon.
I made it a hundred paces before I heard him call, “Willow?”
I grudgingly turned as Bowden jogged up to me. “Yes?”
“I wanted to speak to you, and I hope you will stay long enough to hear me out.” He shifted his feet uneasily.
Not finding words to form a reply, I stood in silence.
“I’m sorry. I know, I’ve said it before, but I mean it. We were foolish children. I’ve never forgiven myself and, it appears, neither have you. I wish I could take it back. Can you please forgive me so we can somehow move past this and be friends? I would sure hate to spend the next decade with you hating me.” His face reflected sincerity and regret, making my heart leap with mixed emotions.
I’d spent so many years reliving that embarrassing day. He was a constant reminder of the humiliation I’d endured. Today he pleaded for forgiveness, and I knew he meant it. Why, today, do I feel different? Why do I see now how tiring this anger I have chosen to bear has become? Now he stands here asking to be friends, and God knows I am short on friends. Unsure how to deal with all the sensations welling up inside of me, I remained quiet.
“Please, Willow.” His eyes beseeched me.
“Very well then, Mr. Armstrong,” I said, turning and walking toward the wagon.
I found our driver, Isaiah, leaning against one of the wagon’s wheels, his hat pulled over his face. The wagon was loaded with the supplies Father had requested. I nudged the sleeping man’s shoulder. “I’m ready to go home, Isaiah,” I said, suddenly drained of all energy.
Instantly wide-awake, he leapt up. “Already, Miss?”
“Yes. I’m feeling fatigued today.”
I couldn’t refrain from sending one last glance in Bowden’s direction. He stood with his hands tucked into his pockets and his eyes latched onto me. The soft smile he gave me activated the butterflies in my stomach.
“Miss.” Isaiah offered a hand, which I gladly took. He helped me into the wagon, then scrambled up beside me, and we started our long journey home.
I DRANK IN THE WELCOMING beauty of Livingston as we turned the bend. It briefly took my mind from the swaying and rocking of the wagon as we drove down the lane. My body ached from the ride. I wished we’d been permitted to take a carriage, as it was a swifter and more comfortable ride. But Father had allowed me to attend the picnic on one condition: that I save him a trip and pick up the needed supplies.
“Isaiah, I’ll get off here. I’d like to walk.”
“Yessum.” He pulled the wagon to a stop, and I thanked him and climbed down. Isaiah clicked his tongue and the horses carried on.
I cut through the trees and across the fields lying fallow, heading toward the forge in search of Jimmy. I found him bent over, examining a horse’s hoof, muttering and cursing under his breath.
“Good afternoon, Jimmy.”
“Ah…Miss Willie.” He straightened. The wrinkles mapping his face showed years of hardship; the emptiness I sometimes saw in his eyes held the secrets to his past. But now his face glowed with delight at the sight of me. “What can I help you wid today, young lady?” He set the tools he held down on his work station.
I laughed lightly. “Besides wanting to be in your easy company?”
“I allus happy to see you, Miss Willie.”
Leaning against his work bench, I picked up a hammer and twirled it around in my hands before moving forward with what I came to discuss. “Today, Bowden Armstrong apologized again for when we were children.” I heaved a sigh.
“And?” He wiped his hands on his apron.
“Well, I feel he means it and maybe it’s time I forgave him. I’ve been carrying this humiliation and anger for too long. The thing is, I’m not sure how to let it go.” The animosity I’d carried for so many years had become a protection I hid behind, I realized.
“One day at a time, Miss Willie, dat’s all you can do. You gotta live for each mornin’ in hopes of a better day.” His mind seemed to drift a million miles away, and the face I held so dear grew sullen. What was drawing his attention to another moment in time? What pain had he bottled up and locked away as a way to deal with life?
“You’re right, Jimmy. You’re always right.” I gently took his hand in mine, bringing his focus back to me.
He jerked. He didn’t wear his emotions for others to see, and he showed his discomfort at my gesture of affection. I released his hand, smiling softly at him. “Jimmy, you have never told me whether you had a family or not.”
The sadness returned and I was certain his thoughts had wandered to someone a moment ago. “I was married once. My Nellie, she passed away soon after our gal was born. Den de masa lost evvything and sold us off. Split me from me gal. Dat was de last time I seed my Mag.” Grief shone in his eyes. Picking up his farrier tool, he turned away, wiping a tear from his eye.
“I never knew you had a daughter.” He had never mentioned this before! I sensed he wanted to be left alone and gave him the respect he deserved. Leaving him to his thoughts, I said goodbye.
Thoughts of Jimmy’s Mag carried my own thoughts away. The cruelty of the slave world was so unfair. What made men think they could own other men? What right did they have to tear families apart? To rape the women because they were black and their pain meant nothing? The suffering of the Negro race I witnessed in this way of life sickened and angered me. I swore to myself that I’d make a difference in this cruel and unjust world I lived in. I was but one voice, but I would use it to effect changes. Starting with the promise I made to Mary Grace when we were little girls, regarding her freedom.
Entering the house, I found Father in his study going over his financials. Driven by the pain I’d seen in Jimmy’s eyes, I found the courage to approach Father with the question I had been planning to ask him for years.
“Hello, Father. We have the supplies you requested.”
“I saw the wagon pull up. You are back so soon?” He flipped through the pages of his ledger without glancing up.
“Yes, I was tired.”
He frowned and I’m sure he wondered why I’d fought so hard to go, only to cut my day short.
“There is something I wanted to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“I want to free Mary Grace.” There, I’d said it! I gripped the layers of my skirt to mop my sweaty palms. I stood waiting for his reaction, heart pounding.
Father coughed and sputtered. “Excuse me. Would you please repeat yourself?”
I swallowed hard and my body tensed, but I wouldn’t allow him to intimidate me. “I want to give Mary Grace her freedom.”
“We don’t free slaves, Willow. How do you suppose we would run this plantation without them? What of our livelihood?”
“She’s been a trusted servant and I promised her her freedom.”
“You what?” he shouted. Rising, he leaned on his desk, one fist balled and his face filled with rage.
“I told her I would free her,” I whispered.
“I am the master of this plantation. You will quit this talk of freeing slaves, Willow, if you value your life.” I saw fear in his eyes, which puzzled me.
“She’s been good to me.”
“She has to be, or she would find herself hung from one of those oak trees out there!” he bellowed, flinging his hand toward the window.
“It’s not right,” I said timidly.
He lifted his hand abruptly and struck me across the face with such force, it sent me reeling backward. I cried out then stood stunned, my hand cupped to my stinging face, tears spilling.
I found my legs and flew from the room and up the spiraling staircase, tripping over my skirt in my haste to get as far away from my father as possible.
In the safety of my room, I collapsed onto the bed, horrified at what had happened. Never had he struck me like that before. This time I’d pushed him too far. Burying my face in the silk sheets, I clutched at them with my fist. All the pain, rejection, and abandonment I felt at my father’s action flowed out as hopeless sobs.
I HAD DRIFTED OFF IN a sob-induced slumber when a light tap at the door woke me. My muscles were taut and cramped from the hours of crying. The door opened; I recognized Mammy’s heavy tread that made the floorboards creak. The bed moved under Mammy’s weight as she sat down.
Her voice came softly. “Mammy’s here, chile.”
I sat up and looked into the eyes that held deep affection for me. Then I flung myself into her arms as I’d often done as a small girl, and lay my head on her shoulder. Finding the safety I longed for, the tears I thought were spent flowed anew. I felt like a broken child.
“It’ll be all right, angel gal.” She wrapped me in her embrace.
“How, Mammy? When will this world ever be all right? It’s an evil world filled with so much pain and suffering. You know this best of all.” Pulling back, I beheld the face of the woman I loved like a mother. Years of hardship had prematurely grayed her hair and etched deep wrinkles in her forehead and around her mouth.
“We can’t luk at et dat way, Miss Willow, or we may as well lay down and die. Life ain’t worth livin’ if you don’t have hope and dreams. Et jus’ ain’t.”
Life experiences had made Mammy wise. I trusted her wisdom.
“You and your people have suffered so many wrongs. I love this place, but how can I when what the South stands for makes my stomach sick? Am I to go about my life turning a blind eye to the horrors I witness? I don’t know where I belong anymore.”
“Shh, Miss Willow, don’t be lettin’ your pappy hear you or I’ll be hangin’ from a rope and you be taken to de woodshed.” She nervously cast an eye at the door.
“I hate him.”
“Hate is a mighty strong feelin’, Miss Willow. And et be eatin’ at your soul. Et be a disease dat will eat you up from de inside out. Et will overshadow de good in you. De good you can do in dis world.”
“What can I do in this world, Mammy? I’m a useless woman in a man’s world. Every time I try to have a voice, Father shuts me down.” Misery vanquished me and I slumped in her arms.
“You don’t fail until you give up, chile. Your heart be pure and you love human life, no matter de color of deir skin. Be wise and use dat voice wid anyone dat will listen. You got a passion dat runs through your blood like a hot iron. One day dis plantation be yours and den, chile, den you can take your stand. You jus’ got to be patient.”
“Patient!” I raised my voice. “Your people have been waiting years for freedom. Years for a fair shake at life. Years to be in control of your own lives.”
“Hush, chile. Calm down now.” She grabbed my hand, trying to quiet me. “You may not change evvy nigra’s life. But you changed de lives of slaves on dis plantation right here. You are hope. Hope dat things can change. You are our hope.” Tears ran down her plump face.
In all my years, I had never seen Mammy cry. Hope? The slaves at Livingston looked to me for hope for change? Had I been so wrong to think I, merely a woman, was incapable of bringing about change? Yes, I would begin here at my own home and bide my time.
My earlier gloom faded away and I smiled with a renewed faith. “Oh, Mammy, you are so right. My thinking was so foolish and childish. I will start here on Livingston, applying changes wherever I can. My father will be a problem, but I will find a way to outsmart him.” I smiled wickedly. Grabbing Mammy’s face, I peppered her cheeks with kisses. “You are brilliant.”
Mammy swatted me off. “Now, mind your manners,” she said, feigning disapproval over all the fuss. She shuffled to the door, where she turned and shot me a toothy smile. As the door closed behind her, I heard her soft chuckle.
As she wandered down the corridor, she began to sing.
Swing low, sweet chariot
Comin’ for to carry me home…
“MARY GRACE, YOU GIT OUT and help de womens git de laundry hung out so et be dry before evenin’,” Mammy bellowed from the kitchen house as Mary Grace and I tried to slip into the laundry outbuilding undetected by Mammy.
Mary Grace groaned at being caught. Mammy often said she had eyes in the back of her head, and as children we believed her. We would try to catch Mammy with her head rag off, hoping to see the extra pair of eyes.
Mary Grace beckoned me to follow her and we ducked into the kitchen, where Mammy was chopping vegetables for the evening meal. The scent of rosemary, thyme, and garlic-braised meat filled the kitchen with an enticing aroma. Tucked in our aprons were fresh bunches of lemongrass, mint, and bayberries. “I’m sorry, Mama, I lost track of time,” Mary Grace said as we placed our collection into jars on a nearby shelf. “I’ll get right to the laundry.”
“Dat is a good gal. Now git gwine. You have dillydallied long ’nuf. De other womens be back soon and we don’t need dem squawking ’bout you.”
Mary Grace popped a chunk of carrot into her mouth as she passed the table on her way out the back door. Mammy swiped at her hand. “Go on, gal.”
Mary Grace lifted the basket of damp kitchen linens. Tucking them under her arm, she effortlessly sailed out the door.
I giggled at their playful back and forth and leaned against the kitchen-house door frame, looking out over the yard.
The backyard of the main house was alive with hundreds of slaves performing their daily duties. Stablemen pushed wheelbarrows overflowing with hay toward the stables. Owen and Parker sawed away on wood that was most likely destined to be new furniture for the main house. The coopers were making barrels for father’s warehouses. Jimmy and the other blacksmiths had the forge piping out the heat, readying it to form and repair tools. And it was again laundry day at the plantation, so the washerwomen carried baskets of freshly washed clothes into the yard from the river. Infants were strapped to the backs of mothers as they went about their tasks. Children too young to work in the fields darted around everyone as they played. The slaves sang a familiar tune as they worked, which filled the yard and carried on to the fields.
Deep river, my home is over Jordan,
Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground.
Don’t you want to go to that Gospel feast,
That promised land where all is peace.
Deep river, Lord, I want to cross over into campground.
Jones, our overseer, sat upon his horse with a whip in hand. I’d seen him serve out punishments, but never had I seen him use his whip. The man never found any pleasure in cruelty and the slaves respected him for it. There were the rebellious slaves, but overall most performed the tasks set out for them. I’d heard the slaves speaking amongst themselves, and most said Jones was the better of the overseers they’d had. There was no talk of him bedding the slave women or children. Father trusted him more than an employee. I often saw them deep in conversation, falling silent when I came near.
I looked toward the riverbank, where a schooner had docked and its passengers, a colored man and a white man, stepped onto the dock. They started toward the main house and, curious about our unexpected guests, I bid Mammy a good day and hurried to enter the house.
