A Slave of the Shadows, page 9
He listened without interrupting as I grumbled about the ways of my father. Realizing I was rambling to a stranger, I stopped in mid-sentence and assessed the man before me. His face was kind and sincere, not guarded. His skin was not kissed by the sun, probably from too many days behind a desk. He appeared well put together and a gentleman of quality, and it was obvious why Father had chosen him. I had to allow my father credit for picking a man who possessed all of these great qualities.
“Mr. Reed?”
“Kip, please.” He smiled, showing off dimples.
“Very well. Kip, you are comfortable with this arrangement between our fathers?”
“Before I met you, Miss Willow, yes, I was. After meeting you, how could I be?”
I stepped back defensively.
He raised a hand for me to hear him out. “Not that you aren’t beautiful, and you do have a certainty about yourself, which is admirable. You are a woman with her own mind, and I can appreciate that. I am not looking to force you into a marriage you don’t want. A marriage starting out on those grounds is bound for failure.”
Softening my manner, I nodded. There was an honesty and a trustworthiness about him that drew me to him. He did not seem to be ignorant or mean-spirited. I relaxed and offered my arm. “Would you care to join me for a walk by the creek?”
Obviously glad to move past the events of the past hour, he linked his arm through mine.
Later, in the privacy of my room, while my father and Kip sat in the parlor drinking port and visiting, I thought of the young man my father had dumped into my lap today. In the hour I spent with him, I thoroughly enjoyed his company. He was easy to talk with and we had laughed a lot. I could never see myself married to him, but we agreed to be friends. He promised he would speak to Father and refuse the arrangement between our fathers.
Even though I would be freed from marrying Kip, how long would it be before my father found the next suitor who would try dragging me kicking and screaming to the altar?
A FEW MONTHS AFTER KIP’S visit, on a cool fall morning, I sat in a rocker on the front veranda, a fresh cup of brewed coffee nestled in my hands as I listened to the chickadees singing high up in the sweet bay trees. A light wind ruffled the leaves and sent a chill through me, and I pulled my red crocheted shawl closer.
This morning as I’d arrived at the breakfast table, Mammy informed me I would be eating alone; Father had gone on a sudden business trip and would be gone for a few weeks. Perfect, I thought, unable to hide my smile. But I found myself speculating where he was off to now.
“Probably gone off to hog-tie another husband for me,” I said sardonically.
Mammy chuckled. “Now chile, you’re gwine have to marry someday. So I figure you better start lukin’ for a man you could see yourself jumping de broom wid ’fore your father does jus’ dat. Speaking of mens, you received a letter from young Mr. Reed today.”
“Truthfully, Mammy?” When he left, he’d promised to keep in touch, and I was delighted he’d followed through.
Mammy took an envelope out of her apron pocket and laid it on the table beside my plate. Picking it up, I turned it over and traced my fingertips over the Reed family crest.
“Well, are you gwine jus’ sit dere or are you gwine open et?” Mammy asked as she filled my glass with milk.
I laughed at her impatience and opened the letter to read:
My Dearest Willow,
I hope this letter finds you well and happy. I know it’s a little late coming, but I wanted to thank you for the enjoyment of your company during my week at Livingston Plantation. I’ve been chained to my desk with an overload of work since I’ve returned, due to new developments. I am thinking of a change in my career, so I’m unsure of where I will end up. Please, know that I think of you often and look forward to the day that we can meet again.
Sincerely, your friend,
Kip
A friendship with no strings attached, he’d promised, and he’d stayed true to his word. I reflected on the letter. When would we see each other again? Next time Father went on business to Virginia, I would ask to go along.
THE SHINY BLACK OPEN CARRIAGE coming up the drive caught my attention. I shielded my eyes from the sun to see who had come calling. I recognized the auburn ringlets bouncing up and down in time with the movements of the carriage, and ran to meet it.
“Welcome, Whitney! What a surprise!”
“Hello, Willow.” She smiled and waved as the driver pulled the horses to a stop. “I was heading into town and was wondering if you would like to come along. I know I would enjoy your company.”
“That sounds like a lovely idea. Let me fetch my bonnet and a shawl against the breeze.”
Whitney had come to visit a handful of times over the past months, and I found myself looking forward to her visits. I quite liked having a woman my age as a neighbor, as it made the long months on the rather isolated plantation bearable. When Father was gone I freely mingled with the slaves, which helped subdue some of my gnawing loneliness.
A few minutes later, with me aboard, the carriage was trundling back down the lane and through the heavy iron gates to turn in the direction of town.
“So, how have you been?” I asked, keen for company and anticipating a change of scenery.
“Bored stiff, to be honest. It’s a whole new world for me. I’m still getting used to the quietness of country life,” she said, languidly waving her hand at the open countryside surrounding us.
“We will adapt to all of this together,” I told her. “Now that I’ve finished my studies and won’t be returning to school this year, I suppose I will also have to adjust to this lifestyle again.”
“If it wasn’t for the twins keeping me busy, I’d damn well go stir-crazy.”
My mouth dropped open at her profanity. This type of language did not sit well with certain people of society, especially coming from a lady.
Whitney frowned at my gaping mouth. “You all right, there?” she asked, cracking her ungloved knuckles.
I couldn’t help but giggle at her directness and her indifference to what others thought of her. I had grown fond of her and we had developed a solid friendship, but we were as different as night and day—and yet her ways entertained me.
“I am.” I tried to mask the smirk that played at the corners of my mouth.
We continued our lighthearted chatter, Whitney barely pausing for breath.
What had started as a peaceful morning changed when the horses became nervous and agitated, squealing and rearing back and stomping their hooves in the dirt. They’d nearly come to a standstill.
Whitney leaned forward and asked in exasperation, “Thomas, what in the world is the issue?” I’d learned one thing about Whitney: she disliked being inconvenienced. Feeling out of control rattled her.
“Somepin’s done spooked de horses, Miss Whitney.” He tried to regain control.
Then we heard the strident baying of bloodhounds on the scent. A dull ache throbbed at the back of my throat as I realized what was happening.
The bushes to the right of the carriage rustled and two panting, sweat-drenched slaves emerged. One was a middle-aged man with a sack over his shoulder, the other a boy around twelve years old. The whites of their wide eyes glowed against their dark skin. Seeing us, cornered, they looked frantically around for a route of escape.
Behind them the brushes thrashed to and fro and the yelling of a slave catcher reached our ears. “This way, boys! The dogs got their scent. We’ll get them niggers and string them up.”
My eyes darted from the slaves to Whitney and we shared an astounded look. My pulse pounded in my ears. I wanted to jump into action, but I sat frozen like the slaves in front of me. What could I do? I’d barely had the thought before it was too late.
The dogs burst through the bush onto the narrow buggy trail, the men behind them grinning viciously at their triumph. They circled the slaves, chests thrust forward in superiority.
The boy clung to the man, their nostrils flaring in wild terror. As the nightmare unfolded before us, I prayed for them to disappear, to no avail. A whip whistled through the crisp morning air, snapping across the backs of the slaves. The sound sent our horses surging forward in fear. The boy’s body convulsed in pain and he lost control of his bladder, the urine darkening the front of his frayed and patched trousers.
“Whoa, boys,” Thomas said quickly, trying to calm the horses and steady the carriage. We grasped the sides to keep from tumbling out.
“Well, looky there, Pete,” one of the men sneered, wadding a piece of tobacco into his cheek and using his tongue to rotate it into position before spitting the extra saliva in his mouth onto the ground, “the little black demon done gone and pissed himself.” They threw their heads back, roaring in malicious laughter.
“I say what’s the harm in a little more?” The one called Pete stepped forward; adjusting his trousers, he relieved himself on the slaves. Turning his gaze on us, he jerked his head and the other men advanced toward the carriage.
Thomas reacted instantly with a high-pitched “giddyup!” The horses reacted instantly to the reins lashing their backs by sprinting forward, sending Whitney and me tumbling back into our seats and leaving the men coughing in the dust stirred up by the carriage wheels.
Daring a peek over my shoulder, I breathed a sigh of relief as the distance grew between us and the evil intentions of those men. I tried to hold down the bile burning my throat. I closed my eyes tight, overwhelmed by my inability to help those slaves. They would meet a horrible fate today, I was sure. Their lives would be no more, and we, their only hope, had ridden off to avoid whatever those men intended toward two lone young women.
We grabbed our flapping bonnets to keep them from flying off as the carriage bounced down the rutted road. When we were sure the men weren’t following, Whitney instructed Thomas to slow the pace. The horses sensed his hands relaxing on the reins, and at his soothing command, they slowed to a canter.
“Thank you, Thomas, for your swiftness,” Whitney said.
“Yes, thank you,” I whispered weakly.
“Willow, are you well?” Whitney nudged me gently.
“I guess.” My mind was still on the slaves we’d left behind.
“We are fine. That’s the main thing,” Whitney said with a shrug, as if what we had witnessed was something you’d see any day.
“Those slaves!” I cried, aggravated by her attitude.
“I suppose they will go back to whomever they belong to,” she said, leaning back and resting her eyes, letting her eyelids sink closed.
“Whitney!” I snapped, disappointed by her lack of compassion. “I thought with you being raised in the North, where human beings aren’t property, your view would be different.” Had I been wrong about her? “I thought we would have this in common.”
Whitney sat forward. “Willow, don’t sit there judging me. I don’t want to see anyone hurt any more than you do. But common sense tells me we can do nothing when we are outnumbered. And we surely aren’t strong enough to take on those men. Would you expect me to risk Thomas’s life? The ways of the South are cruel. This I see clearly. Trust me, I do. But what can we do as women when we are the weaker sex?”
“We shout our demands until they are heard. Yes, we are obviously weaker than men. But try putting yourself in the shoes of a slave. Their voices are never heard. And more than that, they aren’t seen as anything more than property, to be beaten, raped, urinated on, and treated lower than the lowest animals on this Earth. Tell me why this is all right!” I shouted. Hot teardrops squeezed from my eyes.
Thomas straightened on the carriage seat and turned to glance at me, and I met his gaze, saw his fascination in my passionate sense of right and wrong.
“I understand, Willow, honestly I do. And you are right,” Whitney admitted, hanging her head in shame. “I suppose I’ve numbed myself to the horrors I see on Father’s plantation. After the last few months of seeing it day in and day out, I guess I’ve found it useless to fight with Rufus about what I have seen him wreak upon the slaves. I have gone to Father many times, begging him to hire a different overseer. I have tried my best to help the slaves, only to find my efforts were in vain. I guess I became complacent because I felt hopeless.”
“We can’t become complacent, Whitney,” I said in a calmer tone. “If we want things to be different, we need to try to change the things within our power.”
She looked away and thought for a moment. Then, as if struck by an epiphany, she said, “Help light the fire in the direction of change?” Her eyes lit up; a new fire had ignited within her.
Driven by our ambitions to make a small difference in this constrained world we lived in, we put our heads together in deep conversation for the remainder of the ride to town.
AS WE APPROACHED THE EDGE of town we came upon a group of slaves, shackled at the neck, wrists, and ankles with iron cuffs and chained together with a single long chain. The human train was most likely going to be held in a prison in town until they could be sold at auction or taken to the docks to be shipped out to other states. Charleston Harbor was the biggest port in the South for shipping goods, and it was popular with slave traders.
The slave catchers continuously prodded the slaves forward, degrading them with their words. An older woman in the middle of the line lost her footing and stumbled.
“Stop, Thomas!” I shouted. Not waiting long enough for the carriage to stop, I jumped down and hurried to the woman’s aid.
Bending, I took her by the arm. “Let me help you, Mama,” I said, gazing into her weary face. Her eyes lacked pigment; they were clouded over with white shadows. She was blind! The skin on the edges of her eyes held angry scars. Someone had burnt her eyes out!
The woman reached up and ran her agile fingers over my eyes, nose, and the contours of my face. She started to stroke the curls escaping my bonnet before she gasped and drew back in fear and confusion. “I’m real sorry, Miss. I figures you for a nigra.” Her voice was jittery.
“I’m a friend, Mama. I see you’re tired, but you have to get up.” I struggled to help her stand and was relieved when the adolescent boy beside her offered his assistance. Our eyes met before he lowered his toward the ground.
“Thank you, Missus,” he said, steadying the woman.
“What’s going on here?” a slave catcher barked.
Startled, I jumped. Releasing the woman and stepping back, I turned to return to the wagon. Seeing the slave catcher, I stopped in shock. The swollen alien of a man was black as night! He wore a patch over one eye, and an evil sneer curled his upper lip.
It did not keep me from saying what was on my mind. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as my lip pulled up in a snarl of its own. “How can you betray your own kind?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders, further concealing a thick short neck. “Better them than me!” he growled, then spat toward the slaves.
This man was fueled with so much hatred he even hated his own race! He was unaware that with his inability to harbor any emotions but hate, the world had rejected him. He had become even less than the slaves he condemned. He did not belong with the white race or the black race. In his desire to belong in the white world and be a traitor to his own kind, he now stood alone, a man without a race.
Seeing the pity in my eyes, he turned and aimed his bitterness at the helpless backs of the slaves. They wailed in pain as he struck them and bellowed for them to get moving.
We entered Charleston with the group of slaves not far behind us. Whitney and I did not speak; our hearts were heavy. Thomas stopped the carriage in front of the general store, where men sat on the front porch smoking cigars, people-watching, and discussing everyday life. He assisted us from the carriage and we made our way up the few worn stairs and entered the store.
The shopkeeper, a bespectacled woman with an unnaturally long nose, stood behind the cash register looking haughtily at us as we came in.
“Afternoon, Miss Smith,” Whitney said loudly.
“Girls,” she said in a deep, detached voice.
We browsed through the bolts of silk imported from Thailand. My family crest was stamped on the board the fabric was wrapped around. These materials were imported on my father’s ships, along with a lot of other goods in the store. We moved on to outrageous hats that sat on faceless heads on display in the large front window. We couldn’t resist trying them on. We giggled as we checked our appearance in the floor-length mirror. I turned my hat over in my hand to see the price tag and was happy to see our crest wasn’t stamped on it.
The door chimed as new customers entered.
“Well, what are the chances of the two most beautiful women in Charleston being in the same place at the same time?”
Seeing the reflection of Knox in the mirror, we returned the hats to the display.
“Knox, you have to come up with better lines. That’s exhaustingly lame,” Whitney said, her face pinched in disapproval.
I eyed the ice queen and had an insight. Whitney’s rudeness toward Knox was her strange way of keeping him at arm’s length as he threatened to melt her heart.
Unaffected by her meanness, he grinned.
We turned our heads as the door chimed yet again and Knox’s sidekick entered.
“Hey, pal,” Knox said, “these fine ladies have stated their interest in me!”
Bowden casually strolled over. “Is that true? Ya’ll have declared your undying love to this old dog?” He snickered.
Whitney blurted an exaggerated, “Oh, please!” Crossing her arms, she looked away.
“How are things at Livingston?” Bowden asked me.
I felt an iciness of my own. “Fine, thank you.” I nodded politely, forcing a tense smile. I had promised him I would put our past to rest, and this would be the beginning of my effort.
