by Naomi Finley
“What about owning slaves as a whole?” Knox said.
“Some days I question it, but it’s the way things are done. The way they’ve always been done.”
“I will not own a slave. If Whitney honors me by becoming my wife, we’ll make our own way in life.”
“How do you intend to work the land?”
He waved his hands in the air. “With the two hands God gave me.”
My stomach dropped as I studied him with unmasked envy. He had a chance at happiness. What I wouldn’t do to be rid of this plantation and start over…
After Knox’s departure, I left the parlor and strolled down the corridor to the library. Portraits of my grandfather, my parents, Stone, and me lined the dark paneled walls. I paused in front of the portrait of my parents. Time had dulled the pain over their death, but on days like today, I yearned to sit in their presence one last time. To seek their advice, not as the selfish boy I’d been the last time I’d seen them alive, but as a man willing to hear.
Maybe it was time for a change. South Carolina held nothing for me anymore. Perhaps I’d go back to Texas and take up ranching. Something had to change. Life without Willow seemed impossible, but her living a stone toss away was suffocating.
I’d prospered over the years while running this plantation, but it had never been my calling in life. When grandfather fell ill and needed help, I’d just finished medical school and came home to care for him. Helping people had been all I’d wanted to do in life, but somehow life had led me here.
Loneliness consumed me as I turned to glance out the French doors. To the left of the formal gardens, the new overseer sat on his mount, speaking to Gray. The head overseer had needed the extra help and hired the young man while I was in California. Gray, never one to cause trouble, stood submissively before the man with his head bowed. The man raised the butt of his whip and landed it on Gray’s temple.
I tore toward the French doors. The glass rattled in the frames as I shoved the doors open and charged through like a bull released from its corral. “Collins! You come down off the horse immediately,” I said, the inferno sleeping in me ignited. My feet bounced in my boots as I glared up at him.
Collins sat unmoving, either out of shock or intimidation, I wasn’t sure. I’d come unhitched, and I knew it, but I didn’t care.
“You have two seconds to dismount, or I’ll remove you myself.”
He quickly dismounted.
“Were you informed by Milton of the rules here?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Then you’re aware of my strict policy about the abuse of slaves. And that under no circumstance is it permitted.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Then clear out your cabin and be gone within the hour.”
“But…boss, I need this job.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you struck Gray.”
“He’s just a nigger, and he was questioning me on my—”
“Masa…I jus’ tole Mr. Collins dat Lilly May ain’t well ’nuf to be working in de field. De tumor is eating away at her. She can hardly stand most days.”
“Is this true, Collins?”
“Ain’t nothing but a lazy nigger looking for an excuse not to pull her weight.” His face contorted with hatred, and he intentionally landed a spray of tobacco juice on Gray’s shoes.
Red darkened my vision. My fist clenched at my side as the desire to lay him flat surged through me. “Gather your belongings and ride on out of here,” I grated. “I’ll see to it that Milton brings you payment for your service, but you won’t be employed by me a moment longer.”
Sweat dotted his forehead. “But…my folks are counting on me for the money.”
“It’s a little late to consider that. Now, get out of here before I drag you out by the collar.”
Collins led his horse to his cabin.
Minutes later, I stood speaking to Gray when the pounding of hooves made us look up. Collins was charging toward us, whipping his reins wildly from one side of his horse to the other, his eyes bright with fury.
I grabbed at Gray and leaped aside.
Collins spewed a mouthful of tobacco juice at us on the way by and screamed, “Nigger-lover! I’ll be sure folks hear of this.”
I removed a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped the disgusting liquid from my face. “Here.” I handed the cloth to Gray.
He wiped his face and handed it back. “I’m sorry, Masa.”
“It isn’t your fault.” I clapped him on his shoulder. “You get back to work, and I’ll check on Lilly May’s condition.”
Willow
THE COMFORT OF MY BEDCHAMBER called to me, along with my desire to escape from watching eyes and wallow in self-pity. But the demands of the plantation didn’t allow me to go into hiding after Bowden’s departure took the last of my spirit with it.
Our love for each other couldn’t change the differences between us. In time, maybe we’d learn how to move on. If we’d been fool enough to marry, it would’ve been tainted from the start. A marriage built on lies and deceit would never last.
I was the one to blame. I was the one with all the secrets. I’d told Bowden of my mother’s involvement in helping a slave that ended with her murder. But I couldn’t tell him what really went on at Livingston or that I was involved in aiding more fugitives than the one time he knew of. I suspected that he knew to some extent but turned a blind eye, and for that, I loved him even more.
“Miss Willow?”
“Yes, Parker?” I shook my head free of daydreams and returned to the glowing circle of light from the candle in the center of the table, and the chatter of the others in the small cabin.
“I don’t care to larn dese white folkses’ books.” His voice squeaked with the changing of a boy into a man. “I want to be a sailor.”
“A sailor?”
“Yessum. I want to feel de sea water on my face and see de world. I ain’t been nowhere but South Carolina. Last time Captain Gillies was here, he tole me I’d make a fine sailor.” He played with the pages of the book that lay open in front of him.
“Is this so.” I smiled.
“Parker always has his head in de clouds, dreaming of things impossible,” his pa, Owen, said from his chair in front of the crackling fire.
“Dreams give us something to look forward to.” I glanced from Parker to Owen as an idea popped into my head. “What would you think of Parker accompanying Captain Gillies on his next voyage?” I saw Parker squeeze his mouth shut as he held his breath, eyes on his father.
Owen sat forward in his chair. “I don’t want de boy’s head filled wid ideas dat can never happen for a slave.”
“This is an idea that’s quite obtainable. If Parker proves to be a good sailor, we could find him a position on our ships. He could earn some coin.”
Parker pushed back his chair and, using his walking cane, pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going.”
“Now, wait a minute, boy.” Panic widened Owen’s eyes.
“Pa, I got to go. De missus is offering me a chance slaves don’t git. I ain’t meant to be tied down. Please, Pa, I need to go.”
“De boy is right. Ef de missus is saying he can go, den you need to let him go,” Owen’s wife said from beside him, her eyes intent on the rug she was weaving out of corn husk.
“Pa, I know et’s only bin you and me, but now you got Rosy here, and she’ll take good care of you.”
Tears welled in Owen’s eyes, and sadness far greater than any of us could understand swept over his face. He settled back in his chair and stared long and hard into the flames of the fire. “Time comes when chillum move on. Better I know you’re out enjoying life den sold off to another plantation. Et could be far worse, I suppose.”
His walking cane knocking across the planked floor, Parker shuffled over to hug his father. Owen embraced his son in loving arms, his face streaming with tears. I felt a twinge of guilt. Parker would get his wish, but his father would remain behind, missing
and yearning for his son.
Leaving the cabin, I wandered back to the house, but instead of going inside, I sat on the back steps and peered out over the river. Beau’s nails clicked across the veranda, and I felt his head nudge my side. I lifted my arm and scooped the dog closer. “Always faithful, aren’t ya, old boy?”
He whined and rested his head on my lap. I patted him as I let my thoughts carry me away to a world I had formed in my head long ago. A world where any boy could sail the seas of his own accord. A world where the slave quarters didn’t distinguish Livingston as a slave-owning plantation. Where the slaves singing their freedom songs was a thing of the past.
What would that world be like?
And where would I belong in that world?
Tillie
MISS WILLOW SAID TO KEEP a lookout for any funny business happenin’ at the Anderson farm. So far, Mr. Anderson had kept his distance, and nothing was amiss, but I had my eye on him. Miss Willow trusted me with an important task, and I’d let no trickery slip by me.
At night I slept in the quarters, same as most slaves do, but there warn’t any slaves there except the man Mr. Anderson called Caesar. The slave was as dark as a widow’s gown. His head hung low and didn’t shift up nor left or right.
The past few days, I’d been thinking maybe Mr. Anderson wasn’t as wealthy as he was letting on. Or perhaps Mr. Anderson believed, like Miss Willow, that people aren’t meant to be owned. Because besides Mr. Anderson, Caesar, and me, there wasn’t a soul around the place. No overseer, no hired men. No visitors besides the man that paid Mr. Anderson a visit a day or two back.
I blew out the candles in the kitchen house and stepped into the night, closing the door behind me. Turning, I glanced up at the big house. The light from the candles in the parlor that doubled as a study let me know Mr. Anderson was still up. Mr. Anderson never left me alone in the house, and he hadn’t left the farm to do any errands, so I’d had no chance to snoop around in there.
Mr. Anderson’s silhouette leaked out onto the ground from the window. It moved back and forth as Mr. Anderson paced the floors. Through the window, I saw him waving his hands in the air, and his mouth moved like he was talking to someone. His hands shifted to grip the sides of his head, and then he disappeared and reappeared. He jabbed a finger in the air, and his mouth was still moving. Poor Caesar was getting it good.
Beelining it for the quarters, I threw a look over my shoulder to make sure they hadn’t spotted me and ran straight into something solid. The impact sent me reeling backward. Paws reached out, snatching me in their powerful grip. “Lard Jesus, help me!” I said as my bladder let loose. Squeezing my eyes shut, I lifted my arms to shield myself as I waited for the first strike of its claws or snap of its powerful jaw.
When I didn’t feel any pain, not even a scratch, I eased open an eyelid. My squint made it blurry, but I recognized Caesar. My eyes snapped wide open, and I swear my jaw landed on my chest. “You git your hands off of me. I don’t take no laking to men’s demands.” I wiggled and thrashed under the pressure of his fingers. My supper of cornbread and salted pork scurried up the back of my throat.
He grunted, and his eyes turned toward the house.
I eased my struggle for a moment. If he was standing here, who was Mr. Anderson talking to? To my recollection, no one had paid Mr. Anderson a visit.
Caesar’s dark eyes moved back to me, and my pulse pumped wildly behind my windpipe. He hauled me toward the quarters.
“Sweet Jesus, show mussy!” I cried, digging my heels into the ground. “Please, I ain’t ever bin wid no man ’fore. Let me go. Don’t do dis!”
The beast ignored my pleas and dragged me to the shack I’d been staying in. The crushing grip on my arm relaxed. Again he grunted and gave me a shove toward the door before stepping back.
My brows lowered. He wasn’t going to have his way with me? I wasn’t sticking around to ask questions. I bounded up the rickety steps and threw open the door. Inside, I closed the door behind me and wedged myself against it. I waited for him to hammer on the door and push his way in.
Minutes passed, and no movement came. Opening the door, I stole a peek outside. He’d vanished. It was as if the night had swallowed him up.
The eerie sounds of the low country animals fell on my ears, and I slammed the door shut.
Later, as I lay in bed, the tree limbs scratched and groaned across the side of the cabin. The moonlight whitewashed a line down the center of my dead-still form on the corn husk pallet on the floor. A whispering of voices sounded in my head, and I curled up on my side like a new babe. I pulled the cover over my head, and the moldy smell plus the scratchy burlap plucked tears from my eyes. Please, Lard, help me through dis night. Don’t let dem murder Tillie in her sleep.
Willow
TILLIE RETURNED AND BROUGHT WITH her no information to give us cause to be leery of Mr. Anderson.
Whitney, of course, wasn’t letting go of her gut feeling. “He’s good. Not one to be underestimated.”
“Oh, poppycock.” I glowered at her as we sat on the swing on the front veranda. “I don’t want to hear any more about him. We’ve far more important things to worry about.”
“Mark my words, there’s more to him than what meets the eye.” Her jaw set with determination.
“I hope you’re wrong.” I gave her a second glance, my uncertainty rising.
“Here she comes.” Whitney stood.
I gazed out over the fallow field to the road and the flatbed wagon headed our way. Caroline Smith, the shopkeeper, had sent word with Jones that she’d accepted my offer to share tea with Whitney and me.
When she arrived, we stood to wait for her at the end of the pathway. She’d come alone, forgoing her own advice to bring a man for protection. Instead, there was a rifle propped against the seat next to her.
“Miss Smith, we’re delighted you could join us,” Whitney said.
Caroline gathered her skirts and stepped over the gun onto the carriage stone, then descended to the ground.
“I was surprised to receive your message from Mr. Jones,” she said, stroking the neck of the horse while glancing around the plantation. “I’ve never been out here. I often dreamed of what it would look like. Words don’t do the place justice.” She stood as if in a trance. Miss Smith’s cheerfulness during our last encounter was a faded memory, and the sternness I’d associated with the woman stood front and center. Yet, today there was an aura of despondency around her.
“We’ll be having tea in the garden house today,” I said.
Startled, Caroline blinked repeatedly, then stepped away from the horse. One finger at a time, she painstakingly removed her black leather gloves.
When we were seated in the garden house, I poured tea into Caroline’s cup.
“Thank you.” Her eyes settled on me. I smiled uneasily. “I must know what’s so important that you’d request I come all the way out here,” she said.
I quickly reiterated our concerns over Mr. Anderson buying out the Widow Jenson’s farm and her sudden departure.
“He said he was in your store when he overheard the widow mention wanting to head back East,” Whitney said.
“I recall the day. The widow had come into town with her slave William to purchase some supplies. She did mention something about going back East. I can’t recall exactly what she said.”
I gave Whitney a See, I told you look and smugly took a bite of my groundnut cake.
Whitney set her teacup down with a clank.
Caroline observed the silent battle between us and asked, “Why the concern?”
“With my father gone and my uncle away, we’re a bit on edge without any menfolk around.” I fed her the story we’d concocted.
“I see,” she said, and I glimpsed the dolefulness I thought I’d witnessed earlier. “The town lost a great man when your father passed.” Her shoulders slumped, and she peered at her hand lying on her lap. “There will never be another Charles Hendricks.” Her face twisted
, as though she was wrestling with unresolved emotions.
Confused, I asked, “You knew him well?”
“After I arrived in town and found Amos had been struck down with yellow fever, I figured there was no need for me to stay and planned to go back home. Then I was informed by Amos’s disgruntled brother that he’d willed his store to me. Charles came upon the man when he had me cornered and was threatening me, telling me that if I didn’t hightail it out of town pronto, he’d make sure I was run out. Charles took me to see his lawyer, Mr. Bennick, and they saw to it that Amos’s will was honored. Some days, I wonder why I stayed, especially now…” Caroline’s voice drifted.
“Why did you?” Whitney said.
She heaved a sigh and turned her eyes on me. Softly, she said, “I’d hoped…I hoped Charles would one day see me as more than a friend and a business relationship.”
Taken by surprise, I gasped. She’d been in love with him! The sadness enveloping her was the emptiness she felt over my father. The same sorrow buried deep inside me. “You loved him…” I whispered.
“Yes, but his heart would always belong to another. Even if time had permitted us to form more than a friendship, Charles could never completely give himself to another.” Tears pooled in her eyes.
Raw and vulnerable, she sat before me. Like a rose, the delicate petals that protected the heart of Caroline Smith fell away, revealing the tremendous ache she suffered for the loss of a man we both loved. My heart broke for her. In her vulnerability, she shared with me a longing for a man never destined to be ours.
“Your father spoke of you with the greatest affection. Though he did worry about the affection you showed toward the slaves.” Her questioning eyes held mine.
Every nerve in me pinged to attention. Had she used her feelings for my father as a ploy to break down the defensive walls of my fortress?
“I too care what happens to the Negroes.” Caroline’s voice cut through the panic seizing my breath.
“I’m not sure we follow you,” Whitney said, shifting in her seat. I’d almost forgotten her presence.
