William Henry is a Fine Name

by Cathy Gohlke

  “Papa,” Ma whispered. “I’m here.” Then, “Caroline,” like he might have forgotten her name. His eyes didn’t open and he didn’t move—only the broken rise and fall of his chest. “I’m home, Papa. I’m here to take care of you.” She stroked his cheek. Ma dipped a cloth into the bedside basin, wrung water from it, and sponged his forehead. I shifted my weight and stretched, trying to breathe without taking in the smells.

  A good hour passed before Ma straightened and motioned for me to follow her. She pulled the door softly until the knob clicked, trying not to disturb the old man who couldn’t hear anyway. She leaned against the paneling. “I had no idea he was so far gone.” She cried, soft at first, then sobbed outright. Not knowing what to do I touched her shoulder. She buried her head against mine.

  Nanny Sara’s supper of jellied tongue and warm beaten biscuits was welcome. The food, sweet tea, and rest seemed to help Ma muster her courage. “Nanny Sara, I want you to send George over to Cousin Albert’s with this note.”

  “He need a pass.”

  “A pass? But it’s just next door.”

  “Don’t matter now, Miz Caroline. Those pattyrollers out day and night. If Old George got no pass they whip him then run him into jail.”

  “So much has changed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ma wrote the pass. Old George returned within the hour with my new cousins. The man stood tall, over six feet, broad shouldered, with eyes the same bright blue as Ma’s. The girl resembled Ma, perky and pretty, but darker, with brown eyes. She looked about my age. The boy looked a year or so younger, stocky, a little pale.

  “Albert!” Ma held her hands out to the man. “It’s so good to see you again!”

  The man took both Ma’s hands into his and kissed her full on the mouth. “Cousin Caroline, a delight! You have not changed since the last day we danced in my father’s orchard!” My mouth dropped. Ma blushed, pleased.

  “This is my son, Robert Leslie. Robert, our Cousin Albert.”

  “Why, he’s the spitting image of Charles. Welcome to Ashland, Robert!” Cousin Albert extended his hand, clapping me on the shoulder.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir.” I stretched my manners.

  “Caroline, Robert, these are my children, Emily and Alex.” Emily dropped a curtsy and Alex nodded, then lifted his chin.

  “Welcome to Ashland, Cousin Caroline.” Emily searched Ma’s face, for what I wasn’t sure.

  Alex offered me his hand. “Another boy in the family.”

  “What beautiful children, Albert! And your wife?” Ma blushed. “I declare, I don’t even know who you married!”

  Cousin Albert’s face blanked, then went solemn. “Rose died shortly after Alex was born. It’s been eleven years.”

  “Oh, Albert. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  Cousin Albert nodded. He smiled, a little less, and wrapped Ma’s arm around his, leading her toward the parlor. “We have a lot of catching up to do, Caroline. It’s been too long.” At the door he turned and said, “You young folks enjoy the summer evening on the verandah. Cousin Caroline and I have matters to discuss.”

  I stared after them, wondering if I should follow, thinking Ma might need me, thinking that the things they would discuss had to do with Grandfather and us.

  “So what do you think of Ashland, the esteemed home of your ancestors?” With the click of the parlor door Alex’s voice lost its friendliness.

  “It’s real nice—grand, even.”

  “Well, don’t get used to it. It will be mine one day. Don’t think that because you’re Uncle Marcus’s grandson that he’ll leave it to you. He’s never laid eyes on you and likely never will. Besides, he’d leave nothing to the son of a dirty abolitionist.”

  “Alex!” Emily was horrified. But Alex had already turned, slamming the front door behind him. “I’m sorry, Cousin Robert. That was unforgivable! Alex is spoiled and greedy, though that is no excuse. Please don’t pay him any mind.”

  “I didn’t come here to inherit anything,” I said, stunned. “I never wanted to come here in the first place. He doesn’t even know my pa!” My words slapped Emily and she reddened. Right away I was sorry. I wasn’t angry with her.

  “It’s just the things he’s heard Great Uncle Marcus say. I’m sorry, Robert. Truly, I am. I’ll leave you alone, if you’d rather.”

  “No, wait. I didn’t mean you—” I stumbled all over the place.

  Emily looked up, and the lights in her brown eyes drew me in until my breath caught. I didn’t care about Alex anymore, or what he thought or said. I only wanted Emily to like me, and I wanted that very much.

  MA AND I WALKED OVER THE RIDGE to the Ashton family plot next day. From a distance the wrought iron fence around the graves looked sturdy and important. But up close, the filigreed gate was badly rusted and swung crooked on its hinges. Ma bit her lip and pulled it open. The gate stuck in a mound of dirt halfway, and I had to force it before we could pass.

  “This fence was covered in Cherokee roses when I was small,” Ma whispered. “Mama had Old George prune them early each spring. They’d bloom all summer.” There were no roses blooming now, only runaway canes and tangled brambles. Crabgrass and wild sweet pea had overgrown the graves. Ma walked straight to her mother’s stone and jerked angrily at the chickweed and thistles crowding its base, cutting her hand. I knelt to help, but I couldn’t look at her. I knew she’d be crying again. We cleared the plot before and behind the fine granite headstone. Ma had cut magnolia stems, large and perfumed, from trees on the front lawn, and tied them with her hair ribbon. She brushed away her tears and laid her armload of flowers against the stone’s base. “There, Mama, your favorites. I’m home at last.” The chiseled words read “Lydia Ashton. Beloved Wife and Mother. Taken too soon. Sorely missed. January 3, 1804–May 18, 1838.”

  “I wish you’d known her, Robert. She was the most gracious lady I ever knew.”

  “Sort of like Miz Laura?”

  Ma looked up at me and smiled. “Very much like Miss Laura. Only, physically stronger and so energetic! She had brown eyes, like you, and milky skin. She was beautiful.” Ma jerked more weeds. “Mama rose by dawn most days and kept busy until the last light burned low. But she never seemed hurried or vexed. I can’t understand how. She always had time—and smiles for Papa and me. She lived each day like she knew there would be countless more. There were just too few of them.”

  We didn’t stay long. Ma wanted to get back to Grandfather. But I thought I might come again. I could clear the plots, for Ma’s sake.

  Late that afternoon Ma came upon Old George giving Grandfather medicine.

  “Laudanum! Why, George? Who told you to give my father laudanum?”

  “Mr. Slocum, ma’am. He say Dr. Lemly give it to him for Masta Marcus. Mr. Slocum say it cuts the pain and helps him rest easy. Two big spoons twicet every day.”

  “That can’t be right, George. You must have misunderstood!”

  Old George drew into himself. “I done like Mr. Slocum told me. He say he send Old George to the fields if I let Masta Marcus down by not giving him the medicine.”

  Exasperated, Ma turned to me. “Robert, I want you to ride with Old George to Dr. Lemly’s. Bring the doctor back with you. Tell him it’s urgent, and that I believe Father’s been poisoned.”

  Old George looked up, his eyes wide.

  “I’m not blaming you, Old George,” Ma retorted. “But this dosage cannot possibly be correct. It’s no wonder Father’s unconscious. When was his last lucid moment?”

  Old George stared helplessly.

  “When was he last awake?” Ma reworked the question.

  “Couple days ago he wake for a minute. I right away give him more medicine, just like Mr. Slocum told me. Mr. Slocum give me this very spoon, himself.”

  Ma turned to me. “Go quickly.”

  When we returned, Old George wouldn’t hear of me riding shotgun with him, so I rode in the buggy with Dr. Lemly. Dr. Lemly furrowed his brow and
drummed his fingers, but gave out few words. I didn’t know either of them any better when we stepped out of the buggy at Ashland than when I’d stepped in.

  Ma and I paced the hallway while the doctor examined Grandfather. The brass pendulum of the grandfather clock on the staircase landing ticked off the long minutes. When at last Dr. Lemly opened the door his face was grim. “It is a wonder he’s not dead. Months ago I prescribed a teaspoon on occasion for sleeplessness—certainly not for every day and never two tablespoons twice a day!”

  “Will Papa be all right?” Ma whispered.

  Dr. Lemly lifted his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He searched Ma’s face. “I won’t sugarcoat this for you, Caroline.”

  “You never did.” Ma tried to smile.

  “Marcus will pull through. He’s an ornery old bull, but his body has become dependent on the laudanum, and he craves it. The dosage must be reduced gradually to wean him from it. But I warn you, he won’t like it. As he regains his senses he’ll become a difficult patient to manage.”

  Ma laughed unnaturally. “That is not a new state of affairs for my father, Dr. Lemly.”

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed, looking more like a pa to his daughter. “You must remain firm. He’ll order you and curse you. He’ll slam his fists, but you must not give in to him.” Dr. Lemly hefted his bag. “The sooner he is off the laudanum, the better chance he has. I’m concerned about his heart, Caroline. It’s working far too hard for a man his age.” Dr. Lemly turned to me. “When your grandfather becomes agitated, as he certainly will, you need to help your mother restrain him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more thing. I’ve known Old George all my life, Caroline. I don’t believe for a minute that he made a mistake about that dosage.”

  “Are you suggesting Mr. Slocum actually … but why would an overseer take such a thing upon himself?” Ma demanded.

  “That’s a question I’d dearly like to ask the man, and one I hope you will have the courage not to neglect. Your father’s health has steadily declined for a long time, though he’s rarely sent for me. Now I have to wonder … Well, let’s see how things go. I’ll check back tomorrow. Send Old George for me if there’s a change before then.” Then he softened and placed his hand on Ma’s shoulder. “If there’s one thing can help Marcus through this, it’s your being here, Caroline.” Ma tried to look brave.

  We nursed Grandfather around the clock in shifts—Ma, Old George, and me. Dr. Lemly came and went as he promised, but there didn’t seem to be much he could do. Just as Ma was about to take my place on the fourth day, Nanny Sara tapped at Grandfather’s door, and Ma opened it. “Miz Caroline, Rebecca’s taken to her bed in the quarters. Her time has come and that baby’s still not turned. I got to help bring it. Can you and Masta Robert manage your supper? I left ham and biscuits under the cloth on the dining room table.”

  “Of course, Nanny. Perhaps I should send Old George for Dr. Lemly. He watches over Ashland babies still, doesn’t he?”

  “Not since you went away, Miz Caroline. No, ma’am. It’s just me now. Used to be Old Hattie, ’fore she passed. Now, just me.”

  “But if there is a problem—”

  “Mr. Slocum say we got to carry the load ourselves.”

  “Mr. Slocum? But surely that is Papa’s business!”

  Nanny Sara clasped and unclasped her hands. “Miz Caroline, Masta Marcus done give the tending of the slaves over to Mr. Jed. Please, Miz Caroline, that baby be breech and Rebecca needs me.”

  “Go, by all means, go! I suppose if Mother were alive she’d go, too.” Ma sounded afraid, but willing.

  “Yes, ma’am. Miz Lydia always helped Hattie with the birthin’, always had Dr. Lemly check the new mother or come by when there be trouble. But them days is gone long now.”

  “I’ve never helped birth, but I suppose—if you need me …”

  “That’s all right, Miz Caroline. Masta Marcus need you now. I manage fine.”

  Ma heaved a sigh of relief. “Tell Rebecca I’ll be down to see the baby tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Miz Caroline.”

  “Take whatever you need, Nanny Sara.” When Nanny Sara closed the door Ma sank into the bedside chair. “So many things. I can’t believe Papa has given over so much control to an overseer, especially a man like—well …”

  I wanted to tell her that neither Pa nor Mr. Heath would ever have managed anything so shim-sham as Grandfather had, but I held my tongue.

  Nanny Sara never left the quarters that night and didn’t show for breakfast the next morning. So Ma stepped up. I gladly followed her to the kitchen behind the big house. It was good to see her cooking again, a starched apron tied over her hoop-skirt. I think even she liked it a little but wouldn’t say so. There was no cast-iron stove in the cabin kitchen, and I wondered how Ma would manage with just the fireplace and pots, but she did. Even so, she made us eat in the dining room. We’d just finished our eggs when Nanny Sara pushed open the door, surprised that Ma had cooked our breakfast.

  “Never mind that, Nanny Sara. How is Rebecca and her baby?”

  “Twins! Strappin’ twins, Miz Caroline! ’bout did Rebecca in. I don’t ’spect she’ll be up to field work this week.”

  “Twins! I should say not. She’s to stay in bed the week and have the month with her babies.”

  Nanny Sara’s eyes widened. “Mr. Slocum won’t like that, Miz Caroline. He say a week too much time off already.”

  Ma bristled and her color rose. “Mr. Slocum no longer has any say about this.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nanny Sara lowered her eyes, but I know I saw a smile play along the corners of her mouth. “I told Rebecca you say you’ll be down to see her babies today. She mighty pleased. Her cabin be fourth to the right of the path.”

  Ma wiped her mouth and folded her napkin. “Now is the best time, before the sun gets too hot. Robert, bring that bundle by the door. It’s not much, but I cut a sheet in four and hemmed them while I sat with Papa yesterday.”

  “They’ll be the nicest blankets any baby have in the quarter, Miz Caroline. It be mighty good of you.” Nanny Sara beamed on Ma with a kind of pride. If cut-up sheets were the best thing any baby in the slave quarters owned it didn’t say much, I decided.

  It was my first trip to the quarters and I guess I expected it to be pretty much like the houses Mr. Heath had built for the free coloreds at Laurelea—small four-room frame houses with glass windows, stone chimneys, and plank flooring. I was wrong.

  “When I was a little girl Mother insisted these cabins be whitewashed each year and the gardens kept up. Papa saw to that much even after she died. What has become of everything?” Ma fussed as we walked the dirt-packed trail past the kitchen, and beyond the large vegetable garden. Below the garden twenty-one weathered shacks formed three parts of a large square. They looked more like smokehouses than homes, with stick and mud daubed chimneys, no windows, and no porches. On the fourth side of the square, nearest the big house, stood a plain frame house, the overseer’s house. From it he could surely see every movement in and out of the slave cabin doors. In the center of the square was a well and three sets of stocks, ringed with shackles and chains. I’d never seen metal shackles up close. Ma paid them no heed. We reached the fourth cabin before she hesitated.

  “Do you want me to knock?” I asked.

  “No. No, of course not.” Ma drew a breath and straightened her shoulders. She pushed open the door and a shaft of light streamed before us. The stench of blood and unwashed bodies and urine rose. I swallowed hard to keep my breakfast down. It took a minute for my eyes to find the black woman huddled with her babies on a pallet in the dark corner.

  “Rebecca, Nanny Sara told me you delivered twins last night. I’m here to see them.” Ma’s voice sounded stilted and awkward, and the pitch ran too high.

  “Yes’m.” The voice on the pallet whispered, but the body did not move. Ma stepped closer and bent down. She pressed her handkerchief to her nose.

  “I br
ought you these sheets for the babies, but I see you need baskets for them first. Hasn’t your man made anything for the babies?”

  The woman ducked her head. “No, Miz Caroline.”

  “Well, we’ll see you get some furniture in here. This is not acceptable.” The woman raised her eyes to Ma, surprised, then looked away.

  “Thank you, ma’am. That be real nice.”

  Ma smiled. “Now let me see these twins, Rebecca.” Rebecca folded back the blankets and Ma leaned in. She gasped, and Rebecca buried her face in their fine black hair. Ma lifted her chin, then stood tall. “Who is the father of these babies, Rebecca?” Rebecca did not look up. “Did you hear me? Who is the father of these babies?”

  “Don’t know, Miz Caroline.” The words came out in a whisper.

  “You don’t know? You mean you won’t say!” Ma’s voice rose, scraping a frightful edge.

  “Ma,” I whispered, sure she’d regret her manners.

  “Robert, go outside. Now.”

  I didn’t understand the commotion or the problem. We’d come to see babies and now Ma acted like the babies were cursed.

  “You heard me, Robert. I’ll not tell you again.”

  I stomped out the door and stood in the sun. I could not understand Ma. One minute she cried on my shoulder like I was her father and the next minute she shamed me in front of a woman lying on the floor with babies. What had gotten into her? Yelling at a new mother was not like Ma.

  Her shrill pitch carried through the doorway. “Don’t be insolent, Rebecca. Tell me who the father is.” But I could hear nothing Rebecca said. I didn’t know why Rebecca wouldn’t tell or why Ma cared so much about the father. “We’ll see about this, won’t we?” Ma’s tone trailed a threat as she stormed up the path to the big house.

  I closed the cabin door behind her. Rebecca cried quietly, but I didn’t look in. I felt shamed for Ma and for Rebecca. I followed Ma at a distance. She raged around to the front verandah, more furious with each step. She nearly collided with Cousin Albert, who’d galloped in by way of the front lane astride one of the biggest, blackest stallions I’d ever seen. He pulled back, and laughing, tossed me the reins of a sleek, saddled bay mare, its mane shining black.