A Slave of the Shadows, page 8
“Den I became pregnant wid you, seeded by de masa. I was eaten up wid anger and bitterness but John helped me wuk through dat. We decided if you be born a girl, you would be called Mary Grace. And if you be a boy, we would call you Matthew, meaning gift from God. As you grew inside me a love I never felt ’fore stirred in me. I swore to protect you, to die before I ever let de sins forced on my body be done to you. You and John give me hope and somepin’ to live for.
“Big John and I prayed you come out real dark, but you come out a white babe for sho’. We knowed what would come next and sho’ ’nuf, de missus had you and me sold as quick as nothin’.” She peered up at her daughter while wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.
Mary Grace stood with her soapy hands hanging in fists at her sides. A rage she’d never experienced before awakened in her.
Mammy continued. “Not a day goes by dat I don’t long for my John. But den evvyday I thank de good Lord dat de missus sold us, ’cause dis here life at Livingston be a good one. Et’s as good a life a slave can ever have. Masa Hendricks don’t use his slave womens in de ways of other masas and he sho’ mussy.”
Mary Grace felt ashamed for testing Mammy’s rules and the fears guiding them. She closed the distance between them and threw her arms around her mama, and her tears trickled into the warmth of her thick neck. “Please forgive me, Mama. I’ve been such a selfish and horrible daughter. I never stopped to wonder why you were so strict with me. I thought you wanted to confine me, to keep me a child.”
“No, gal, I want you to have a full life. I want dat purty face of yours to not be hung low wid worry or dose beautiful eyes filled wid pain.”
“I see that now, Mama. I will not test you so.”
“You’re a good gal, but your free spirit will be de death of me.” Mama chuckled, brushing a stray hair back out of Mary Grace’s face.
“I love you, Mama,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving your life to protect me.”
That hard conversation changed Mary Grace’s outlook on the world. She now viewed it without the sense of safety she once had. It gave her a new understanding of Mammy’s reaction when Masa’s friends visited the plantation. Now she knew why Mammy shut her up in her room until they left.
Then love came into her life in the form of a handsome slave. She first met Gray when he attended a gathering of the slaves at the Livingston Plantation.
At the end of the night she ran to Willow’s room and collapsed on her bed, breathless and flushed with excitement. She lay staring at the ceiling for several seconds, then squealed and kicked her legs in the air in an unladylike manner.
“Good Lord, Mary Grace, what has gotten into you?” Willow asked, appalled at her odd behavior.
Mary Grace couldn’t contain herself. She giggled, bubbling over with joy. “I met a young man tonight.”
Willow’s shock turned to pure delight. She demanded that Mary Grace share every detail of the evening with her—especially a full description of Gray.
Over the next few years, her and Gray’s relationship blossomed—and now she was his wife. She dreamed of having many babies with him. She longed for a time when they could see each other every day and spend their nights together in the same bed as a married couple, but until then she would savor the nights they got to lie in each other’s arms.
Gray said someday he hoped to buy his freedom from Masa Bowden. Mary Grace questioned why he would ever dream of the impossible. He told her it was no more impossible than them staying in the same shack at night. They could dream, he said. Masa Bowden wasn’t the same as other masas. Gray had become his most trusted slave. He’d been saving every coin he earned. And someday hoped to buy her freedom, too.
Freedom was what every slave longed for, but she knew she could never leave Willow and Mammy behind…not even if the price was her freedom.
Gray’s Story
GRAY HADN’T REALIZED HIS HANDS had stopped working on the butter churn he was carving until his pappy called to him, “Son, dat dere churn ain’t gwine make itself.” He chuckled, shaking his balding head.
“You be right about dat, Pappy.” Gray grinned back, pushing his thoughts of Mary Grace aside.
His pappy had taught him the trade of coopering from the time he was a small boy. Like his pappy, he’d mastered it, and now their work was highly sought after at the shipping docks. Gray was fast and efficient and for this reason, he finished the daily orders set out for him in a timely manner. When he exceeded the number of products required, Masa Bowden allowed him to sell the extra items and pocket the return for himself. When Masa Bowden’s grandfather was alive and running Armstrong Plantation he was good to the slaves, but he never allowed his skilled slaves to earn coin. He was a businessman first and a human being second, and didn’t show the same respect for his slaves as Masa Bowden. Ol’ Masa Armstrong saw them as investments.
Sure, Masa Bowden still owned slaves, and for any man to own another man warn’t right. But Masa Bowden enforced his rule that no slaves on his plantation were to be mistreated, and the first hired man on his plantation who touched a slave in any way would answer to him. He treated Gray as he would another white man, and he admired Masa Bowden for it. Masa asked his opinion on matters to do with his plantation. The masa respected him and his wisdom, and this made Gray feel like he valued him as an equal.
No matter how good they had it, some slaves would still grumble and stir up trouble. Some of the slaves came to Gray suggesting he may as well be white, with how the masa treated him like he was his right-hand man. Some said the masa might go as far as to make Gray an overseer. Gray didn’t think the masa would go that far, but if he did, Gray would turn him down. He would not be an overseer of slaves.
Given the mercurial nature of slave chatter, his pappy thought it best for Gray to keep the fact of the coin masa paid him on the down-low. Pappy said many times, “Life be hard. No one’s gwine look out for you but you.” His pappy was a good and wise man.
Over the years he’d seen his pappy yearn for his mama, who was left behind when their masa sold them to pay his debts. As age started to creep into his old, tired bones, Pappy longed for Gray’s mama even more. Gray could only imagine the sadness of growing old without the one you love by your side.
His mama had been a devoted and loving woman. She took pride in being a wife and raising her children in the few hours a day they got to spend together as a family, when their work was finished.
Gray’s younger sister, Millie, had been born with a simple mind, and Gray loved and protected her. When the slave children taunted her and called her “retarded,” she would run to her big brother, crying over their cruel words. Gray would find the children and lay a beating on them that ended up getting him in trouble with his mama. The parents of the children would show up at their shack to demand he be dealt with. He never told his parents why he had done it. When his parents dealt out his punishments, he took them with no objection. Millie would sit rocking herself on her bed, crying, “No, no, no.” Telling them why he had been fighting would cause them unnecessary pain.
One day he happened upon two slave boys who had Millie cornered and were saying, “You so ugly your own mama should have drowned you when you were born. Dis here world don’t need nobody lak you.” Gray laid a beating so bad on those two boys that one had a broken nose and the other was unable to see out of both eyes for a week.
Millie never cried that day as he held her in his arms. She looked up at the brother she trusted and adored and said, “Dey be right, dem boys. Mama should’ve had a beautiful gal. She would be smart like her.” There was no self-pity in her eyes, only a new understanding of herself, and it scared Gray.
“Hush now, Millie. Don’t you be talkin’ lak dat.”
Her words played over and over in his head every day after that. What if he’d told his parents about the teasing and bullying Millie suffered from the children? Maybe she would still be alive.
The day of her death was burned into Gray’s mind forever. At the end of their day in the fields the slaves were heading back to their quarters, chanting a song of their people, when an ear-piercing cry went up at the front of the line. People started pointing toward the creek they passed every day on their way to and from the fields.
Gray and his parents moved forward, threading through the crowd to see what was going on. His mama reached the scene first. She let out a primal scream and bolted into the creek. Gray felt a pain so great in his chest, he knew what he was going to see as he pushed against the slaves in front of him, trying to get to his mama.
The body floating face down in the creek was his little sister.
The water splashed about like ocean waves as his pappy raced to his wife and daughter. His mama turned over the body and gathered his sister to her breast. Sobbing, she smoothed Millie’s wet hair away from her peaceful face. His pappy embraced them both in his strong arms. Gray’s feet seemed rooted to the creek bank.
Soon after, he and his pappy were sold. The expression on his mama’s face as the last of her family was chained and led away was that of a broken woman. She’d tragically lost her daughter, and now her husband and son. He didn’t know what would become of her. He memorized every detail of her as they took him away so he wouldn’t forget her.
He began to sand the round edges of the churn as he thought of his mama. After fifteen years, her face had become a faded image and the warmth of her touch was a distant memory.
His thoughts turned once again to Mary Grace. She was hope. She made him feel alive! She gave him purpose! He would earn his and her freedom. He’d heard tell of slaves who’d managed to buy their freedom. Though he never saw a free slave, he dreamed of the day they would be free.
“YOUR FATHER WANTS YOU IN the parlor, Miss.” Thaddeus stood in the doorway of my room.
“Thank you, Thaddeus. Let him know I will be right down,” I said, putting aside my needlework.
What did I do now?
Mary Grace looked up from changing the bed linens. Knowing me best, she picked up on my worries. Smiling reassuringly, she said, “It will be all right.”
“I guess we shall see, won’t we?”
In the parlor, Father stood chatting with a young gentleman in his twenties who stood casually, his arm resting on the marble mantel of the fireplace. They turned as I entered the room.
“Hello, my darling. I would like you to meet Kipling Reed from Virginia. Kipling, I would like you to meet my daughter, Willow,” Father announced with pride.
My darling? What was Father up to?
Kipling moved forward and took my hand in his with a firm friendliness. His eyes met mine. I curtsied and Father nodded his approval.
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” we both said at the same time, and we laughed awkwardly.
He was tall and lean. His short, dark hair was neatly combed to one side. He had a pleasant face with a nice smile that reached his whiskey-colored brown eyes.
“Kipling is in town for a week on political business and will be staying with us,” Father informed me.
“How do you and Father know each other?” I said, noticing his nicely tailored clothes.
“His father and I have been business associates in the past,” Father answered for him before taking a sip of his brandy.
“To what do we owe the honor of your visit, Mr. Reed?”
He looked nervously from me to Father. I saw the question in his eyes. “My understanding was you knew—” he began, eyes still on Father.
Father cut him off, taking control of the conversation in true Charles Hendricks fashion. “Please sit down, my dear.”
“Honestly, Father, enough with the dear and darling. You never speak to me this way, so please do not patronize me because we have company,” I retorted, growing tired of him pretending to have a fondness for me.
“Willow, I would suggest you mind your manners for the sake of our company.” He adjusted his collar.
For Kipling’s benefit I held my tongue and sat down, waiting for him to explain the real reason behind this meeting.
“Kipling’s father and I have agreed on an arranged marriage between the two of you.”
“What!” I yelped. I gaped from one man to the other.
Father’s jaw locked and his face settled into its usual firm, unapproachable expression.
Kipling’s body language practically screamed that he was extremely uncomfortable and desired to be anywhere but in this room.
I felt sorry that he had to endure this conversation. The tension between Father and me was unmistakable, but I couldn’t spin my mind off what Father was proposing.
“Willow.” Father’s voice softened, and he lifted a hand, signaling me to relax. “Hear me out before you embarrass us both.”
Trying to calm my anger, I waited.
“You are of age to be a wife and it’s time you caged those wild ideas of yours. I won’t always be around and I want to see you taken care of.” A gentleness flickered briefly in his eyes as he explained his reasoning.
“But Father, when I marry, I want to marry for love.” I looked to Kipling. “I’m sure you are a fine catch, sir. I never gave much thought to a day when I’d marry, let alone have it arranged for me.” Turning my attention back to Father, I said with more conviction, “Please, Father, I beg of you to let me choose my own husband when the time is right.”
“Willow!” he declared, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Did you love my mother?” My fist knotted in the pleats of my gown.
“Yes, I loved your mother.”
“Well, could you imagine marrying someone else?” I stood, baffled by the whole idea. Concealed by the skirt of my gown, my foot tapped repeatedly as I grasped for a plan in my head.
Kipling stood looking like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. “Miss Willow, I didn’t know you were unaware of this arrangement and hadn’t given your own approval.” Looking at Father with disapproval, he said, “Sir, I respect you as a friend, but you have humiliated me and your daughter by not discussing this with her in private. Will you both please excuse me?” With a gentleman’s grace, he bowed and left the room.
Father and I stared after him. I felt my cheeks flush in humiliation.
Father’s voice deepened as he said, “You will court Kipling for six months, then you will marry him, Willow. I won’t listen to another word from you.” He rose to his full height.
I trembled under his gaze but stood my ground. “Why are you so controlling, Father? What makes you feel you have to control me and everyone in your life?”
He clenched his fists. “Why weren’t you born a boy! You selfish, sinful abomination!”
All common sense left me as resentment replaced my fear. “What, Father? Are you going to hit me? Go ahead—the only way you seem able to control me is to cause me physical pain.” I braced for the blow.
Father lost control and unleashed his anger on me. Grabbing me by the hair, he yanked my head back. His eyes flashed. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “How dare you. I’m your father and you will do as you’re told. As long as you live under this roof, I am your master. Don’t ever forget that!” His voice rose to a shout as his hand made contact with my face.
I screamed in pain as my head snapped back with the blow.
“Masa!” Mammy rushed in. “Please, Masa, let de chile go,” she begged.
Father released me and snapped out of his rage. He stared at us in shock. “Oh, God, what have I done?” he cried. Guilt and shame cloaked his face and he turned away.
I glared at the man who had fathered me. He was big, strong, and powerful. This man was supposed to love me and protect me, but he inflicted this pain on me. The words from his own mouth justified what I had always felt—words he could never take back.
A rage much like Father’s enveloped me, and tumbled from my lips. “I hate you, Father,” I said in a voice trembling with raw emotion. “I spit on the day I was born as your daughter.”
I turned and saw Mammy and Kipling standing behind me. Their expressions reflected a mixture of distress and astonishment.
Shaking uncontrollably, I moved in a daze, pushing through the French doors to run outside. I had to get out of there and put as much distance between him and me as possible.
I SHUT OUT THE WORLD around me. Lost in my own misery, time escaped me. I wandered aimlessly in the cypress forest surrounding the plantation. I cried for the mother I never knew and for the father I wanted to love me.
Why was he so harsh? Why did he hate me so? Was it as simple as me becoming the meek and mild daughter he wanted? I would not be controlled by him or his views. My life had become a tug-of-war between my individuality and Father’s will to break my spirit. I cried for myself until I had no tears left to cry.
Finally, spent of all energy, I used my skirt hem to dry my tears and drew a deep, shuddering breath that turned into a hiccup.
A twig snapped behind me. Startled, I spun around.
Kipling! What did he want?
“Sorry, Miss Willow. I couldn’t leave with you like this,” he explained, fumbling with a blade of grass he held between his fingers.
I muffled the sigh that came up after a good cry and pulled myself up.
“You all right?” he asked with concern.
“I will be. And I’m sorry you had to play witness to that.” I dropped my gaze to my hands, clasped firmly in front of me.
“It was my understanding that you knew what our fathers had discussed, and you were open to it.” He leaned against the tree beside him.
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me. My father tries to project an image of superiority; perfection, even. He would like me to be everything I am not and say yes, Father and no, Father—but mainly the yes, Father.” I scowled in annoyance.
