Across the Great Divide

by Michael Ross

  Albinia put the card in her reticule and spotted Will, sitting on the ground with his back to her, cleaning his rifle. He was concentrating and did not notice Albinia’s approach.

  ✳ ✳ ✳

  “Hey, Crump! Wake up! Your mama come to get you!” snickered Ben Drake.

  Will looked up with a grimace to see Albinia standing there. “At least I don’t need spectacles to tell a pretty young lady when I see one,” he said. “This is my sister, Miss Albinia Crump, and I’d appreciate it if you’d treat her with respect,” Will said. “I’d hate to have to teach another lesson about how to treat a lady.” Finishing reassembling the rifle, Will stood and turned to his sister. “Let’s go, Albinia, and let these gentlemen get on with their evening. I got chores still to do when we get home.”

  Ben and Jesse watched him go with suppressed mirth.

  “You might want to take a moment to remove that sign from your back,” said Albinia, smiling.

  “What?” Will said, feeling his shoulder. Someone had pinned a sign saying “Dunce” to his back. “Drake again. I wonder if he’ll ever let it go.”

  Just as they were leaving, Tom Logwood came toward him.

  “Crump! Before you go, Captain Morgan says I am to tell you that you are doing well enough to be in the performance. Be half an hour early. And congratulations!”

  “Yes, sir! I’ll be there,” said Will excitedly.

  He led the way over to the wagon where the oxen waited. He took their grain bags off and stowed them in the bed of the wagon, then helped Albinia up to the rough, high wagon seat.

  “You were late this evening,” Will stated, as the oxen plodded through the darkening streets. “Good thing I brought this,” he said, gesturing to the swaying lantern his father had rigged up to a post on the wagon. “We may need it before we get home.” In the soft twilight, stars were beginning to be visible.

  “I’m sorry. I just lost track of time,” Albinia said truthfully. “Will, what do you think of slavery?”

  Startled, he looked at her, but could not read her face in the dimness. “What do you mean? Slavery just is, that’s all. Always has been, back to Biblical times.”

  “Yes, but should it be? I have heard you say that England got rid of it. Why not America?”

  “That kind of talk will get you in trouble. What would Father say?”

  “You know Father is conflicted on slavery. Father would follow the Bible.”

  “And the Bible tells slaves to submit to their masters, both kind and harsh,” said Will.

  “But it also says if they get a chance to be free, they should take it,” argued Albinia.

  “And do what?” said Will. “Maybe you didn’t hear about it, though I think you sneak some newspapers sometimes,” Will smirked at her. “But there’s a Senator Hammond who spoke a few months ago. He talked about how there’s more beggars on the streets of New York City, freed slaves, than any city in the South. I don’t hold with cruelty, you know that. But where would all the slaves go? How would they support themselves? And here in the South, how would the plantations operate? You know how hard Father and I work just to take care of our eighty acres. The plantations have hundreds of acres—they can’t support them without slaves to work the land. Paying them wages would just drive prices up and put farmers into ruin. Out in Kansas, you got pro-slavers murdering abolitionists, if you didn’t know. Both sides got problems. Freeing slaves would just create another lower class, like the thousands of Irish coming in. Where do they get jobs?”

  “So you think it’s impossible to free the slaves?” pressed Albinia.

  “I don’t know,” said Will honestly. “But it sure ain’t gonna happen soon, and not without a fight. Too many people depend on it.”

  Albinia rode in silence for a few minutes. Then she turned to Will. “Would you fight for it?”

  Will had moved on in his thoughts, thinking his sister must have had some strange conversation in town that provoked this line of thought.

  “Fight for what?”

  “Abolition, getting rid of slavery.”

  “I don’t think I would. Each man has to decide that sort of thing for himself, I think. I would not own a slave, but I don’t think I can tell others not to. And like Father says, I don’t hold with depriving a man of his property without paying him for it. Nobody ‘cept God should tell him how he’s got to live. It’s his choice before God. The rest of it is more than I can figure out.”

  “And what choice does the slave have?”

  “About as much choice as I have to be born a poor farmer in Kentucky. God put me here, and I figger He knows what He’s doing. It’s His job to order things, not mine. I got enough on my hands with trying to study, drilling with the Rifles, keeping up on the farm, and just getting through the day being dog tired, without takin’ on things I can’t change.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?” Albinia persisted.

  “Blazes, Binia! Can’t you leave it alone? There ain’t anything you can do either! Ain’t you got enough to do making dresses and helping Mama without taking on the troubles of the world? Leave it be.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way home.

  ESCAPE FROM THE JAMESON PLANTATION

  June 1859

  The knock came at the door, just as Luther’s mother, Jemima, and his sisters, Olivia and Clara, sat at their rickety table for their evening meal of potato porridge and moldy bread. The sound struck terror into Jemima. No slave would knock or be out of quarters at this hour. It had to be either the overseer Barmer or Jameson himself.

  “Quick, girls! Ya hide back in dem blankets. I’ll see what dey want, try to get ‘em to go away. Jump now! Can’t make’em wait.”

  The girls hurried to obey, leaving the dinner where it was. Jemima’s mind whirled. There could only be one thing wanted at this hour. Trembling, she went to the door and opened it. Jameson greeted her with a scowl, reeking of the whiskey he was holding.

  “Come to pay a visit, ‘Mima,” he said, grinning nastily. “Or leastways, your girls. Where could they be? Not out after hours, surely.” He peered into the cabin.

  “No, suh,” said Jemima hastily, not daring to look up. “Dey gone to bed, tired out after workin’ today.”

  Jameson pushed her roughly aside, forcing his way into the cabin. He stood, looking her up and down, glassy eyed in his drunkenness for a moment. His hair appeared disheveled, his black and gray stubbly beard showing neglect, his eyes bloodshot. Though only about thirty years old, Jemima had smooth coal black hair with streaks of premature gray, and had a slim muscled figure from hours of fieldwork, callused bare feet showing from beneath a patched, worn muslin dress. She stood a head shorter than Jameson, her eyes fixed on the floor, as she tried to think of a way of escape. She never saw the fist coming that smacked the side of her face, knocking her to the floor. She cried out and raised her arm to protect her head as a boot kicked her stomach, hard. Jameson’s eyes flared slightly at the dinner on the table, three earthenware plates and wooden forks. He swept them all aside, making the plates crash to the floor.

  “You’re lyin’! And you sayin’ those girls have to work too hard? They’re lucky they have food and a roof over their heads. Or maybe you’d like to live outside this winter, eh? Leaves startin’ to turn, you could make’em a pretty blanket, hey? What you say to that, you black wench?” Looking in the corner at the blankets, Jameson saw a slight movement.

  “Come on out here, you two pickaninnys! No use hidin’ in those dirty rags!” He stalked over and grabbed the blankets, pulling them off and throwing them to the opposite side of the cabin.

  Jemima stood quickly, fearful but enraged. She wanted to shield her girls, but pleaded, “Please, suh! Take me! Let my girls go! They can go next door! I’ll be nice, I promise! I do whatever you want! Just let my girls go!”

  Jameson turned on her and shoved her hard to the floor, so her head hit it with an audible thud. The door was still standing wide open.

  “Barmer!” he
roared, calling for the overseer.

  A hulking shape filled the door, a powerful man well over six feet tall, carrying a whip in his hand. His brown bushy beard and full eyebrows over small, close-set eyes and a small forehead, combined with his tremendous size, gave him a gorilla-like appearance.

  “Yes, sir?” he said.

  Jameson took a long swig from the bottle of whiskey. “Take her to the block house for the night, teach her some respect. If she gives you any trouble, give her nine lashes in front of all of them in the morning, and you can have her. If she behaves well, let her out tomorrow. No food. Either way, make sure she does a full day’s work tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Barmer. He motioned towards the door with his whip, eyeing Jemima with a hard glare as she hastily got to her feet. “Go on! You heard Massa Jameson!”

  Jemima was quick to obey, but glanced back over her shoulder at her girls cowering in the corner on the mat. She took a few steps outside the cabin, and she heard a cry of pain. Her youngest, Clara, came sprinting out the door, holding her face, headed for the cabin next door. Jemima wanted to run to her, to hold her, to protect her. Barmer prodded her once in the back with the butt of the whip. She knew what would follow if she did not obey. She could not save them, either of them, her precious babies. The conflicting storm raged in her heart. She walked, forlorn. Her eyes stared straight ahead to the icehouse also known as the blockhouse, modified to be a slave punishment cell. The door opened into a yawning black hole, steps leading down to a bench. Moonlight glinted on the chains and shackles. She knelt on the bench, as required, and silently let Barmer put the shackles around her wrists and ankles, stretching her arms and legs out in different directions. She prayed in her mind, hoping this would be all, but Barmer went to the wall and began cranking the block and tackle that lifted her painfully, dangling in the air, rusted shackles cutting into her flesh. She would be at the mercy of the rats and bugs, no water, no way to scratch, and no possibility of sleep or comfort—all the while her mind torturing her with what must be happening to Olivia. Barmer gave the tackle a last jerk, leering at Jemima, and laughing.

  “I’ll be back in the morning for you ... or maybe sooner, if I get a mind,” he said suggestively. “The massa ain’t going to want to be bothered.”

  ✳ ✳ ✳

  In the morning, Jemima bent over the slave cot, comforting Olivia. She crooned softly as the girl sobbed, stroking her hair, gently rubbing a cool wet cloth over the bruise on her cheek. Her own back, legs, and wrists hurt, but she did not mind that. She was thankful that Barmer had only come back this morning and let her out, only that, with no other damage. She would have to go to the fields soon, and dared not delay, since she was confident that Jameson would be watching.

  “Where he hurt you, baby? Don’ be afraid, you can show yo mama.”

  Olivia moaned, pointing to her cheek, a gash below her left breast, her hips, and between her legs. “Mama, it hurt so bad. Why he hurt me so? What’d I do?”

  “Hush, now. Don’ worry. You didn’ do nothun. He just a mean man, and he hurts us because he know someday all this gonna be gone, and he stan’ before his Maker with no excuse and no power over us or anyone else. He just cain’t stan’ the thought that black folks like you an’ me might be in hebbin. He like de debbil—he know his time is short. He does misery to others while he got the power to do it. It make him feel big and impawtant. But in de end, he just a man.”

  She washed and cleaned her child’s wounds, poulticing and bandaging the best she could. She spoke and prayed gently while she did it, but in the back of her mind she raged, prayed revenge, and cast about for a solution. The crisis had finally come. Jameson would no longer just abuse and rape her, but her daughters as well. She might even be sold, since he had tired of her, and then she would have no way to help or soothe her babies. She might never see them again.

  ✳ ✳ ✳

  Luther crept to his slave bed that evening aching in every part of his body, but particularly his gashed head. He had again gone to Auntie May and obtained a bandage made from ripped petticoats. He felt like he was moving in slow motion, slightly dizzy, with a throbbing headache. The cuts were not very visible, but the pain came from inside. He had stumbled through the rest of his duties for the day, provoking more than one annoyed remark from Miss Lucy about his clumsiness. When she asked him what was wrong, he answered honestly that he had stumbled and Flanagan had “disciplined” him for it. Privately, later, he had overheard Lucy berating the hapless overseer about his treatment of a valuable slave. That had not stopped her from telling him not to be so careless, though. She sent him to bed early, telling him not to bother with his usual evening duties; she would get Phoebe to fill in for him. He sank down on his pallet, relieved not to have to move.

  He had almost dropped into the blessed oblivion of sleep, when he felt himself roughly shaken. Opening his eyes, he saw double for a moment; he found one of the other slaves, Jackson, leaning over him, looking very worried.

  “Luther! Luther! You gots ta come quick!”

  “Says who?” Luther shot back sleepily. “Miz Lucy done give me de night off.”

  “Yore mama, that’s who! She done come all de way from Jameson’s plantation. She say she risk her life to come, and you best come now!” said Jackson sharply.

  Groggy and still in pain, Luther roused himself, worried and afraid. His mother had run away! Luther was sure that she did not have a pass. He stumbled and followed Jackson in the dark, his questions flared into sheer terror.

  They did not dare take a torch or a lamp. Ashland might not be as severe as the Jameson farm, but a slave out wandering near the boundaries of the property and the wood late at night was bound to attract suspicion and questions. Twice Luther fell, and Jackson had to help him up. It occurred to Luther that Jackson was taking risk on himself that he did not have to. The clouds parted and came together again; the half-moon a help and a danger at the same time, as the light showed the way but exposed them to potential discovery. They stayed close to buildings, in the shadows, listening intently to the night sounds, every twig, every chirp, a cause for renewed terror. Once, as they started to move from building to tree, they heard the crunching of boots as a white groomsman came by. They froze, and waited until he passed a good distance away.

  Finally they reached the edge of the wood, near the road. Crouching behind a huge catalpa tree, Jackson slowly looked around and listened. When all seemed clear, Jackson whistled four quick chirps, paused, and then repeated them, sounding exactly like a cardinal. After a brief pause, he tapped loudly on the tree, like a woodpecker. Again, a brief pause, and three hooded shapes emerged from the underbrush near the road. Jackson poked his head around the tree and motioned them over. The moon chose that moment to emerge, and Luther saw the faces of his mother and two sisters. They came to him, embraced him briefly, and moved quietly to the cover of a small grove of ash trees.

  “Mama! What you doin’ here? Dey catch you, dey kill you! And Livia and Clara, they get sold South—or worse!”

  “I just couldn’ stand it no mo’! It’s one thing he come after me—I can take it. But last night, he come after Livia. An’ pass me to Barmer. You know what’ll happen next—he come for Clara. My soul just die! We headin’ nawth. I knowed we ain’t likely to make it, but I gots ta try. I die either way.”

  Jackson just shook his head.

  “Most folks they gonna run, they got plans, and help, months, mebbe years ahead—the fools just run, and get deyselves caught. You all best get walkin’ back, fast as you kin, and hope you don’ get caught or noticed you was gone. I don’ know how you even knew to get here, but soon as dey know, dey gonna set de dawgs after you. An’ you cain’t run dat fast. Not wid dese chillin’,” finished Jackson.

  “He right, Mama! Dey catch you, dey whip you till you cain’t stan’. A hundred lashes, then dey brand you. You live thru dat, dey find other ways to debble you. An den you get sold. Or dey sell de chillin. If de dawgs don’
chew’em up!”

  Clara began to sob quietly in fear. Jemima, wavering, looked over to her.

  Olivia spoke, “No. I don’ care. I’d rather die, slow or fast, than go back. Dat debbil, he come agin, I kill him. Then they hang me sho’. An’ Clara here, it be de same.”

  “You could come wid us!” said Clara pleadingly. “You our brudder. We needs a man along. I’ll keep up—or you leave me. Livia tol’ me about las’ night. I ain’t lettin’ it happen to me,” she said, suddenly resolute.

  “You all crazy,” said Jackson. “The patrols get you before you get two miles.”

  “We pass three patrols on de way here,” said Jemima proudly. “Got directions from free blacks, cabin in de clearing a few miles back.”

  Jackson said, “You lucky—did you know some blacks own other blacks? I’m leavin’. De ketch me wid you, I get de same as you. Ain’t nobody gonna believe me. But since you crazy, I be crazy too. Dey prob’ly beat it outta you an’ I done fer. But I cain’t just watch dese chillin go to death widout hep. So listen close. Look at de sky! See ober dere? De stars dey look like a water dipper in de sky, de cup facin’ up. Den see ober yonder, anudder smaller dipper, upside down. Look in a line from de top corner of de big dipper cup to to de last star in de handle of de small dipper. See de bright star in between? Dat de nawth star, de freedom star. Travel toward it, you goin’ nawth. You got to go nawth till you get to de big ribber, de O-hi-o. And you got to cross it. I hear de patrols be fierce on de ribber. Dey keep de boats locked up. But you got to cross it, you want to be free.”

  “O thank you!” said Jemima fervently, clasping his hands.

  “Don’ thank me none—I prob’ly just signed you to death. You nebber heard it from me, and I nebber saw you. One more thing—hide in de day, go in ribbers and criks whenever you kin, and each day, when de sun going down, travel away from de sun awhile. Don’ trust anyone, white or black. Look for towns called Paris and across de ribber, Ripley. I knowed ‘cause I went on a trip wi’ Massa Clay once. I heered from some other darkies that the Methodist minister, Tom Painter, in Maysville, nawth o’ Paris on de ribber can be trusted—but I don’ know. Thas all I know, and you nebber saw me, hear? Y’all go on back home!” Jackson turned and crawled away, not looking back.