by Michael Ross
“Good to see you, Will. Reckon it’ll take time to get this order together. Why don’t you park your rig over by the livery stable and walk around? Come back in, say, half an hour.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t suppose you’d be interested in any of that penny candy, on the house like, you being so grown up and all?” Hobson grinned at him.
Will grinned back. “Well, sir, seeing as you’re so kind to offer, guess it’d be rude to turn it down.”
He drove the wagon over to the livery stable, parked, then wandered down the street. As he was passing the First Presbyterian Church, he stopped before the notice board in front. The bold lettering on the front cover of the group of pamphlets pinned there caught his eye: “Hints on Slavery.” Glancing through one of them, Will saw the words “To emancipate the whole slave population gradually has been the uniform plan….” He remembered hearing and seeing other work from the minister that proclaimed slavery against the law of God. Will stuffed the pamphlet in his pocket to read later. He was turning to go when he bumped into a tall, lanky boy with curly black hair carelessly emerging in all directions from under his cap.
“Sorry, didn’t see you there,” said Will.
“S’ okay. My pa, he can write something fierce, can’t he?”
“You the parson’s son? I’m Will Crump.”
“Yep, that’s my pa. I’m Joe Breckinridge. Good to meetcha. I got an older brother named Will.”
“Haven’t seen you at school.”
“Oh, my pa, he’s got his own ideas on education. He’s got me goin’ up to the university. He hopes I’ll be a preacher, too, someday, but I’m plannin’ to join the army. My pa says he thinks it will come to fightin’ about slavery soon enough. Says the slaves all got to go free, maybe get sent to another country. “
Just then, a slave boy of about ten years old came and tried to get Joe’s attention. “Massa Joe, your pa wants you right quick.”
Joe made a face, then turned said, “All right, Josiah, I’ll come. You live in town, Will?”
“No, we have a little farm a ways out of town. I came in for supplies.”
“Well, come by the parsonage next time you’re in town. We’re new here, and I don’t know too many of the fellas yet.”
✳ ✳ ✳
When Will returned from town loaded with the supplies he bought at the general store, his father had just finished feeding the stock. They unloaded the wagon together, with Will giving news of friends in town, including reports of the new minister for the First Presbyterian Church, Robert Breckinridge.
“Pa, the minister is publishing pamphlets saying it’s against the law of God to hold slaves—that God will punish the South for it. Yet he seems to own slaves himself.”
“That is a wonder. I would think honor and honesty would demand that he free his slaves. Slavery is wrong—I think a man ought to do his own work, and when he has too much land to farm himself and he can’t afford to hire help, he has too much. They’re already shootin’ each other in Kansas over slaves. A man only needs enough to support his family. But I also don’t hold with telling others how to live—that’s between them and God. Especially some bunch of Pennsylvania lawyers and merchants that never tried to raise a crop, like President Buchanan. No man should be deprived of property by force.”
Will thought this over. “But what about those born to slavery who never had a chance?”
Robert rested the feedbags he was lifting on the wagon gate and looked directly at his son. “S’pose you work hard, sell fifty bushels of corn, and then take the money and buy ten calves. Those calves grow up and have two calves each. Now suppose someone comes along and says your calves can’t have more calves, and they will free all of your calves to roam if they do. Is that fair?”
Will shook his head. “Of course not!”
Robert hefted the bags, putting them in the feed closet in the barn. “No one’s been allowed to bring in slaves from out of the country for nearly forty years. The slaves that are here are descendants of those brought here decades ago. There is no way to get new slaves, new workers, other than through the children of the slaves already here. So what right does some Northerner have to come and take them away from the people who bought their ancestors fair and square? Unless the Northerners want to suspend the Bill of Rights! That’s why that law a few years back, the Fugitive Slave Act, was passed—to preserve the rights of Southern slave owners. Joseph in the Bible was a slave, and God blessed Egypt because of it. They weren’t punished or cursed. But it ain’t worth fightin’ over ‘less someone’s threatening your home.”
“I guess you’re right about that, Pa,” Will said slowly. “And it doesn’t make much sense—a slave owner writing pamphlets against slavery.”
They finished unloading the last items from the wagon.
“Come on in the house, Son. Got something to talk to you on.” Robert led the way into the cabin, waiting and closing the door behind Will as he entered.
Robert reached into the corner behind the door and drew out the old Springfield musket; in its former place now hung the new Enfield.
“I been thinkin’, you doing a man’s work around here, ‘bout time you had your own gun. Think you could put this one to good use?” He smiled.
Will tried to look dignified when he wanted to jump up and down. He took the gun from his father and, looking down at it, could not contain the huge grin that spread across his face. “For keeps, Pa? You bet I could! I’ll be real safe with it, and I’ll bring home a deer!”
✳ ✳ ✳
The next day, dawn crept sleepily over the horizon, the sun slowly rolling back the clouds like covers on a bed. The morning warmth began to burn them away. Will saw the pink clouds and tendrils of light and paused a moment to drink in their beauty, before saying a silent prayer and then hurrying back to get stock fed and morning chores done—woodbox full, water carried, and all ready for the day ahead. He wanted to get out hunting before full light, before the deer retreated to their beds in the forest glens for the heat of the day. Will had been shooting the old Springfield 1812 family musket since he was nine years old, but even though he’d shot it many times with his father, he wanted to prove himself.
He was very proud of having his own gun. He determined to show his father that he was worthy of his trust by bringing home the family dinner. Will’s sleepiness gave way to tense excitement. A slight breeze rustled the branches of the ash and beech trees, making the sun dapple and dance on the forest floor. Across the road to Versailles was a cleared field where deer occasionally ventured for whatever greenery the farmer may have planted. Will was hoping to find one bold enough to allow a clear shot. He jumped when a red squirrel scurried across the path just to the left, but he steadied himself and remained concealed. His father had taught him that an impatient hunter goes hungry.
The morning was cool, but the flies and other bugs buzzing about made concentration difficult. Scanning ahead, he saw no deer or movement. He cautiously crept forward to a fallen tree and crouched behind it. From here, through a break in the trees, he could see patches of the Versailles road about twenty-five yards ahead, and across it, the open field. The wind was coming from slightly to his right, blowing into the forest, away from the open field. Will slithered to the edge of the forest, just staying under cover of the bushes along the road, where he had a clear field of view. He had already primed the musket with powder, and now that he was in position, he slowly rolled to his back. He waited, withdrew the ramming rod, and then shoved home the patch and bullet. He set his powder within easy reach so that he could prime the pan and be ready to fire. He kept scanning the field, waiting. Half an hour passed with nothing to show for it but annoying mosquito bites.
Then Will looked north along the road, momentarily taking his eyes off the field. A movement in a birch tree about fifty yards away caught his attention. Two eyes peered back at him from the branches—a puma! At the same moment, he heard the sound of hooves coming fro
m the south on the hard roadway. A rider wearing a black felt hat and a long black cape approached and passed. The cape fluttered and bounced in the wind as the bay horse moved along at a fast trot. Will saw the puma move, tensing as though to spring. No longer worried about concealment, he grabbed his powder, stood, primed the pan, aimed, and fired, all in the space of a few seconds. The puma dropped out of the tree, mid-snarl, at the feet of the astonished rider’s horse, which reared and whirled madly, as the rider struggled to regain his seat and his control. He pointed the horse away from the puma, back toward Will, and managed a controlled lope, stopping the trembling bay a few feet away.
“Nice shootin’, Son!” said the black-bearded stranger. “Guess that’ll teach me to be in such a hurry I don’t see the surroundings. What’s your name, boy?”
“Will Crump, sir.”
“I’m John Morgan,” the rider said, extending a hand, which Will shook. “I do believe I owe you a debt, sir. When you are able, come around to my house in Lexington. It’s across the street from my mother’s, Henrietta Morgan—ask anyone, it is well known. Then I can thank you properly. At the moment I’m pressed for time, so I’ll bid you good morning and wish you success on your hunt.” He flashed a smile, tipped his hat to Will, and spurred off in the direction of Louisville.
Will did not know what to make of the invitation but decided he would tell his father and follow up on it if possible. He went back to stalking deer and, within an hour, found a small buck that succumbed to another crack from the musket, a head shot. He skinned the puma, pulled the carcass into the woods, and butchered the deer. Then he made a travois to transport his catches. By the time he dragged the plunder home, the sun was well overhead. He would be late for school today, but he did not suppose his parents would mind too much, given his gains of the morning.
ASHLAND
Late April, 1859
A few miles away, at Ashland, the Clay plantation, Albinia and Lucy faced each other across the breakfast table. The paneled walls, long shining table, and white marble fireplace were a stark contrast to the rude cabin of the Crumps. Albinia enjoyed her visits here, which provided a window into a world of the aristocracy that she longed to be part of but could only glimpse from the outside. Lucy sat, propped by pillows, in her new cane-backed chair with wheels. She was often in pain, due to a spinal injury as an infant, and unable to walk well. She enjoyed Albinia’s friendship, for she had few visitors despite having a cheerful and agreeable disposition.
The contrast in their social station was obvious from their dresses. Albinia wore a sky-blue taffeta she had made herself with castoff materials, in the Levite style of some fifty years past, with a white lace collar. Albinia was scarcely over five feet tall, with a slim figure, but she looked taller next to Lucy, whose slight, sickly frame made her look as delicate as a china doll. Lucy wore the latest fashion: a beige gown—which complemented her light brown hair and cheery blue eyes—with lace-and-fur trim, a hoop skirt, voluminous petticoats, and open bell sleeves. Lucy’s curls danced as she listened to Albinia and laughed, her small mouth showing perfect teeth. A slave boy hovered in the background, in case the two young women might desire anything. Lucy and Albinia took no notice of him.
“And did you just see that ridiculous hat Martha Binsley had? I mean really, it looked like a dinner platter with a bird’s nest tied on top!” Albinia was saying.
“How it stayed on with her nose stuck so high in the air I’ll never know,” said Lucy. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but she acted like some kind of princess.” She began to cough, and when she recovered, she said, “Luther, fetch me some water.” The slave boy moved quickly to comply. He was about five feet tall and looked about fourteen years old, dressed in homespun breeches and a rough cotton shirt two sizes too large that hung loosely on him like a flour sack. Luther poured the water, careful to keep his distance from Lucy and his eyes cast down as much as possible. Lucy took the crystal glass automatically, without any acknowledgement of where it came from.
Albinia looked at Luther, pausing while he poured. Though used to the plantation slaves, she wondered what he was thinking. She pitied him and thought, I suppose we should just be grateful that the Lord has provided us with fine clothes and fathers that love us.
Luther kept his eyes to the floor and retreated a discreet distance, the picture of respect and decorum. Albinia wondered what he thought of Lucy. She was kind enough, she supposed, as a slave owner. Lucy’s father had purchased him from the Jameson plantation two years ago as a birthday present, along with Phoebe, who served as her lady’s maid. Albinia supposed Luther might be thankful he was a house slave and not a field hand. She had heard rumors of the cruelty of Jameson and others. Surely, the boy must be grateful for the relatively benign treatment of the Clays.
Lucy commanded, “Luther, push me onto the veranda and bring Albinia a chair. Fetch my writing desk. Albinia will want to be going home in an hour or so. Tell the groom to have the chaise ready. I will write you a pass, and you will escort her home. And I’ll want my sewing; tell Phoebe to fetch it.”
Luther hustled to comply and, after returning, spent another hour standing on the veranda. Albinia helped Lucy learn some complicated embroidery stitches to adorn a new pillow sham. She visited Lucy regularly, both for friendship’s sake and to teach her to sew. They had met when Lucy’s father, James Clay, had commissioned a special dress for Lucy from the dressmaker’s shop in town, where Albinia helped for wages. In the process of the fittings and alterations, the girls became fast friends, and Albinia had come to the plantation often due to Lucy’s limited mobility. Lucy prevailed on her father to engage Albinia for sewing lessons. As an aristocratic young lady, Lucy should learn needlework, and Albinia delighted in an excuse to come visit.
At the end of Albinia’s visit, Lucy wrote a pass for Luther, which he carefully put in his pocket. The pass would prevent someone thinking he was a runaway.
“Thanks for your company and the lesson. I so appreciate our times together. Perhaps next time you would like to try playing our pianoforte? I love music. I am not skilled like my mother, but I could teach you what I know. It is a small thing to help pay for all you teach me. Sometimes when I handle a needle, it feels like I’m all thumbs,” Lucy said, laughing.
“The pleasure is all mine. I love to visit with you, and I would love to learn to play piano. I could only play when I come here, of course, but it never hurts to know such things. Coming here is restful, compared to taking care of Lydia and doing the chores at home. Will I see you at church? And then perhaps late next week we can get together again, if Ma can spare me. But I’d best get home now. Wouldn’t want Luther out after dark,” Albinia said, glancing at him.
She put her sewing into her reticule and took her leave through the ornate arched doorway of the dining room, past the spiral staircase, and out the front door of Ashland. A chaise was waiting, a two-wheeled light buggy meant for two people. Luther followed silently and mounted the carriage box, taking the reins from the groom. Albinia thought he enjoyed these brief times when allowed to drive, allowed to be with the horses and to see the world beyond Ashland’s hundreds of acres of hemp and forest. The six-mile drive from Ashland to the Crump homestead was a familiar respite from constantly attending Lucy’s needs. Albinia knew the Clays trusted Luther, or they would not allow him to go so far from home.
She settled herself into the chaise. They were off at a slow trot, the bay horse’s mane and tail flying in the wind, the reins gathered in Luther’s right hand. The black chaise had a covering over their heads, the cloth adorned with the Clay family crest. The red wheels and spokes had iron tires that clattered over cobblestones as they jolted along out of Ashland and onto the country roads leading north and west toward Versailles and the Crump homestead.
“Getting hot today, isn’t it, Luther?” asked Albinia, attempting to pass the time.
“Yes’m, likely gonna be unusual hot for April,” Luther said, keeping his eyes on the road and skill
fully maneuvering the bay around roots and potholes.
“Think the hemp will do well this year?”
“So I hear, ma’am. I only know what I hear from darkies in the fields.”
Albinia remembered wondering what he was thinking earlier and now took a chance. Usually, she just sewed on the way home.
“Do you get bored working in the house?” she said, looking over at him.
Luther showed surprise, then said simply, “Not my place, ma’am. I just serve Miss Lucy and do as I’m told.”
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be free?” asked Albinia.
She could see by the look in his eyes that he was frightened by such a question.
“No, ma’am. De good Lawd seen fit to make me a slave, an’ brought me to Missy an’ Massa Clay. Dey good to me, as massas go. Got no reason to question de good Lawd,” he said, not looking at her.
“But why? I have often wondered why God made me a white woman, one who’s poor and just waiting to be married. I wonder what it would be like to travel, to see the world, the things my brother talks about from books—like the ocean. Don’t you have any dreams?”
“Miss Albinia, why talk like dat? You know well enough ain’t no use for a slave to dream. I belong to Miss Lucy. Dangerous for any slave to dream beyond dat. One day, we all be free with Jesus. Dat be freedom, on the shores o’hebbin.”
“Do you have family, Luther?”
His face looked pained and sad. “Yes’m. But not at Ashland. My mama Jemima, an’ my sisters Olivia and Clara, over to Jameson’s farm, where Massa Clay bought me from. Olivia, she just thirteen, I reckon, and Clara about ten.”
“And your father?”
Anger and fear flickered over his face quickly.
“I don’ know. You know ain’t no real marriage for slaves. An’ asking about yo pappy just askin’ trouble. Now why don’t I sing for ya rest the way? De horse, he likes it when I sing.”
It seemed Luther was trying to divert her from her questioning. Albinia, sensing his discomfort, nodded and allowed it. His voice had already changed, and in a surprisingly melodic baritone, he sang hymns and songs about Jesus and “de debble.” The horse’s hooves trotted on the lane, the bump and creak of the wheels seeming to act as a percussion section, keeping time to the music.
