William Henry is a Fine Name

by Cathy Gohlke

  “Robert! What is it? Is Caroline—”

  But I shook my head, trying to catch my breath to speak. “Slocum—” I gasped. “Slocum is back! Cut off foot—” I couldn’t breathe.

  Cousin Albert nodded, as if he understood already. “Come in, Robert. Come in and sit with me.”

  “No!” I gasped. “You’ve got to come! That man will die! And he’s going to beat a boy with fifty lashes! Nanny Sara’s grandson! You’ve got to come and stop him!”

  Cousin Albert raised his eyebrows, but shook his head. “I can’t, Robert.”

  “If anybody can stop him you can, Cousin Albert! Grandfather’s too weak and doesn’t care, but you don’t treat slaves that way. I know you don’t!”

  Cousin Albert sat heavily on the arm of his chair. “No, I don’t. But Ashland’s slaves belong to Uncle Marcus, not to me. I have no say in how he treats them or how he lets Slocum treat them. They are his property.”

  “His property?”

  “That should not be news to you, Robert,” he said quietly.

  I backed away from him, disgusted, unbelieving, and shot back, “Pa would never do this. He’d never sit back and do nothing. Pa was right—about everything!” The look Cousin Albert returned was pierced with pain and flushed with anger. I didn’t care if I’d hurt him. He was just as bad as the rest of them. They were all weak and full of talk. Talk could not return Jacob’s foot or rescue Jeremiah from the lash. I backed out of Mitchell House, tears streaming my face, and spat on the doorstep.

  By the time I reached Ashland again, the square in the quarters was cleared. I wasn’t sorry. I didn’t want to see. The sound of keening bled through the closed doors in the quarters. I stumbled to my bed and finally slept near morning. The old dream came again. I was in the field hoeing beside black bodies—no names, no faces. Only the field was Ashland, not Laurelea, and the eyes that looked up at me, pleading, the arms that reached for me belonged not to William Henry, but first to Jacob, then to Jeremiah. The wind came up, the funnel grew, the earth spun, and the skin that ripped a seam and wrapped around me was Jeremiah’s nearly white skin. I screamed, “Ma! Ma!” Still she stood above me, hate seared in her soul. She whistled for the hounds. This time they found me, jumped, and ripped my life away.

  “Robert! Robert!” Ma called. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up, Son.”

  I sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. There was only love and worry etched in Ma’s face, but I remembered last night, and rolled over, pushing her away. No one called me for breakfast or to take Alex fishing.

  I kept thinking of Pa, and the Heaths, and the Henrys, and all they’d done to help and protect Jacob and Jeremiah. I thought of how Jed Slocum had done all he could to destroy them. And Grandfather had loved it. My mind could see the misery lust in his eyes as he’d watched Slocum work, and it made me sick. And then I thought of William Henry, and remembered that he’d been allowed in the Heaths’ house even though I wasn’t—at least that day they first took Jacob and Jeremiah in. I wondered if Jeremiah knew William Henry. I kept seeing Jeremiah’s face in the attic window.

  Late in the afternoon Cousin Albert, Alex, and Emily came calling. I tried to avoid them, but Emily came looking for me. She found me slumped in a chair in the darkened back parlor. “Robert, Papa told us what happened last night.” She sat beside me and reached for my hand. “I’m so sorry. It must have been awful.” I wanted to pull away. I could barely breathe, barely hold my anger. But I wanted to punish somebody, so I punished Emily.

  “Awful? Yes,” I said. “It was awful.” How could I make her understand? “A runaway horse would never be beaten or crippled like that. It’s awful to own people, to have the power to do whatever you want to them. Slavery ruins people, the people that are slaves and the people that buy and sell other people. I’m sick that I ever came here.” I turned away. “I’m sick that any kin of mine own slaves, and I’m ashamed.”

  Emily didn’t move. “What Mr. Slocum did was a horrible thing. But not everyone treats their people that way. Papa never would. You know that.”

  I stood and walked to the window. “It doesn’t matter. He has the power to do whatever he wants with the people he owns. I didn’t understand before what that means. Not everybody uses their power in the same way; not everybody treats their slaves or their animals the same. The power to own people is a wicked thing, and it ought to be stopped!”

  Emily stood. “Sometimes I’ve wondered if there was a way to do without it. But I don’t see how. How would the land for cotton or tobacco or rice or sugarcane be worked? Papa says that without the help of the slaves we could not survive.”

  I couldn’t help my smirk.

  “Maybe that sounds simple to you, but the whole country depends on those things. Where would the mills in the North be without our cotton? Papa says this country couldn’t finance itself without tobacco and cotton. How can these things be done without the slaves?”

  I turned on her. “Pay them. Free them and pay them—like regular workers. That’s what Mr. Heath’s done at Laurelea. He and my Pa work side by side in those fields with coloreds. They are not too proud to dirty their hands. They’ve given their lives to helping colored people be free, even outside the law. And not just free, but to make a living on their own.” And with the talking I grew prouder and prouder of my pa. I wished I’d known it sooner.

  Emily shot a worried look toward the door. “I see what you’re saying, but you must be careful, Robert. Not everyone would understand. People here fear slave uprisings, and they won’t tolerate such talk.”

  I laughed. “Should I care?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her head. “If you want to make a difference. If you want to do more than just talk.” That hit a nerve. “Robert, don’t you see? You are in a position to make change. You are Uncle Marcus’s true heir. Someday Ashland and all its slaves could be yours—one of the biggest tobacco plantations in the South, or it once was and might be again. Perhaps you could free the slaves here as your Mr. Heath has done. You could be the first to show a new way of doing things, though I still don’t see how you could ever afford to pay them all, or how they would manage…. Something my Grandmother Mitchell used to say, and I think it’s true—‘Change comes slowly, like plants taking root.’”

  “You don’t sound like Cousin Albert.”

  “Papa has done the best he knows how. He’s good to our people, Robert. He doesn’t beat them.”

  “But he still owns them. He buys and sells them, Emily— human beings.”

  Emily heaved a sigh and sat down. “I know. I know. But you’ve got to be careful, Robert. They tar and feather people for such talk.”

  “Is that a threat?” I wanted to believe that Emily understood, that she was on my side.

  “Of course it’s not a threat!”

  That’s when we heard the shuffle by the cracked door. Emily and I locked eyes. “Alex,” she whispered. My heart caught in my throat. It would be like Alex to eavesdrop. He’d like nothing more than to make trouble for me by tattling to Grandfather. For all my own big talk of freedom and helping outside the law, my heart beat faster in my chest. I pressed my finger to my lips and tiptoed across the room. But when I flung open the heavy oak door we did not see Alex, only the dark brown of Nanny Sara’s skirts disappearing around the corner.

  Emily clutched my arm and whispered, “You’ve got to be more careful, Robert. You can’t trust slaves any more than you can trust Alex. They turn on each other for the least favor from overseers and owners. Even Nanny Sara won’t hesitate to bring trouble on you if it gains her favor with Uncle Marcus.”

  JACOB DIED. In all the nightmares running through my head, I hadn’t imagined that he’d die. Crippled, I knew he’d be crippled. But after all he’d gone through—working his whole life at Ashland, then running with Jeremiah and surviving Slocum’s gunshot wound in Cecil County, and the Heaths and Henrys and Pa all nursing him back to health and getting him and Jeremiah on their way again—I just couldn’t t
ake it in. The other slaves did all they could to stop the flow of life, even searing his stump. But it was no use.

  Slocum prepared to hang Jacob’s body from a tree, as a reminder to all who would run. Ma vowed she’d leave and never return if Grandfather allowed such a thing. So Grandfather stood up to Slocum on that, but only that. Slocum swore he never thought to see Grandfather in petticoats and that he’d see Jacob in hell and take care of it himself. I was living inside my nightmares, and I couldn’t get out.

  None of the whites from the big house, nor Slocum, tended the body or stood by the burial—nobody but me, that is. And maybe I don’t count because I hid in the pine trees, by the slave cemetery next to the river, watching, clenching my fists for what I could not do for my shame my hate and fear of Slocum, for the terrible loss in Jacob’s family. The slaves, except Jeremiah, who still lay only half-conscious, sang Jacob from grave to glory. I’d never heard singing and praying so wrenching, so full of the Holy Ghost, not even at Laurelea. Slocum was going to be mighty lonesome in eternity.

  “Ma,” I prodded daily, “it’s time we go home. Grandfather’s fit and getting stronger every day. The harvest is in. The house and quarters are as good as they’re going to get with Slocum here. Don’t you miss Pa? Miz Laura might need us.”

  “Don’t pester, Robert. I’m not ready. Mr. Slocum still has far more influence over your grandfather than he ought. If we leave now—”

  “Grandfather will never get rid of Slocum!”

  Ma looked away. “Perhaps not, but we’ve made progress.” Ma brushed her skirt and clasped her hands. “This is the first time in fourteen years that I’ve been home. I need more time.”

  “We’ll be home for Christmas,” I said. “Won’t we?”

  “Christmas?” Ma hedged. “Well, yes, I suppose.”

  But home and travel, and even talk of Jacob or Jeremiah was swept away by the news that came from town. “Blasted Yankee abolitionists! Murderers! Black-hearted devils!” Grandfather stormed from his study, slamming his newspaper against the doorjamb. My heart leaped inside me. Had Nanny Sara told? Pa was no murderer.

  “Papa!” Ma hurried from the back parlor. “What is it?”

  Grandfather, furious, shook the paper in the air. “Read it! Read it!”

  Ma pried the tattered newspaper from his grasp and read, “Yesterday at noon, the whole community was astounded at a report that a band of Abolitionists and Negroes had taken entire possession of the town at Harper’s Ferry, including the Armory, Arsenal, Pay Office, and all the other Government property. They cut the telegraph wires and stopped the trains with the mails, imprisoning and pressing into their service all Negroes found in the workshops and streets, and killing many.”

  “It was Brown! That bloodthirsty Yankee that massacred innocent people in Kansas! 750! The paper says 750 in his band!” Grandfather shouted, turning purple.

  “Papa! Calm down.” But Ma was trembling. She took up the paper again. “It says Brown’s object was to ‘procure arms and money from the Armory, and induce a general stampede of the slaves in this section of the country.’”

  “It’s war!” thundered Grandfather.

  “It’s not war, Papa. They’ve stopped him, surely.”

  And they had. Colonel Robert E. Lee put a stop to it. Days later we learned that the newspapers had mixed up the facts. It wasn’t 750 in his band. It was more like twenty-two or twenty-three. They hadn’t damaged the railroads, or the mail, or imprisoned or killed many Negroes, either. But the truth didn’t cure the fever sweeping the piedmont.

  Planters, including Grandfather, met daily, fearful their slaves meant to rise up and murder them in their beds. Old folks at church claimed it was just like the days of Nat Turner and his slave uprising when no white person was safe. So the planters set their own laws. Slaves were forbidden to gather— no more visiting, no church, no jumping the broom, nothing but work under guards. Grandfather made Ma tote a loaded pistol in her reticule. Pa would have been fit to be tied.

  But the real curse, as near as I could tell, was that the planters hired on pattyrollers and vigilante groups around the clock, anybody looking for extra cash and willing to carry a cat-o’-nine-tails, a bowie knife, or a pistol to patrol the roads and streams and woods, or stand guard outside slave quarters at night. The job drew not only white trash, but “gentlemen” with a thirst for misery. Slave beatings became common. Slocum had a heyday.

  Finally, according to the newspaper, John Brown was “convicted of treason in conspiring with slaves and others to rebel, and also guilty of murder in the first degree.” The judge sentenced him to be hanged in public on Friday, the second of December.

  “December 2 can’t come soon enough!” Grandfather exploded, throwing the paper across the dinner table. “That trial was a waste of the taxpayers’ money!”

  “It’s the American justice system, Uncle,” Cousin Albert said, folding his napkin. “Every man deserves his day in court, a voice to be heard. It’s why we fought the Revolution. But I must agree with the verdict. Justice has been served.” He turned to me. “Do you understand that, Robert?”

  I looked from one to the other across the table. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

  “You don’t know what to think?” Grandfather turned the color of ripe persimmons. “The man’s a convicted murderer, a traitor to his country!” Grandfather bellowed on, but I closed my ears.

  I steered clear of Cousin Albert after that, but not because I stood for John Brown. I didn’t know enough to tell the truth of all that. But Cousin Albert had shown me a “code of the South” that left me cold when he refused to help Jacob and Jeremiah. He’d had so much to say about his care and concern for his “contented slaves.” But he was caught up in the craziness about John Brown, too, and had clamped down like everybody else. I lost all respect for slave owners and overseers, no matter how they claimed to treat their slaves.

  Despite my scorn I walked on a skimming of ice, never knowing when I might fall through, never knowing who might be waiting to take me to task for my loose tongue or my pa’s belief in abolition. Emily’s warning about slaves tattling plagued me each time my path crossed Nanny Sara’s. I wanted to ask Nanny Sara about Jeremiah, to know if he was all right. I wanted to tell her that Pa had tried to help him and Jacob, but I didn’t dare.

  Ma spent more and more time with Cousin Albert. Alex and I spent less time together as the November days turned colder. He didn’t like to fish or ride, and I no longer encouraged him. I preferred loneliness to his company, anyway. Emily and I still walked after lessons, but we were careful not to mention slavery.

  “Robert,” Ma interrupted my worries late one afternoon, “your grandfather wants to see you in his study.” My jaw tightened as I walked toward his door.

  “Robert! Come in.” Grandfather’s voice boomed, but he did not sound angry. “Let me look at you, Boy.” I stepped before him. He circled me, searching me up and down with his eyes. I couldn’t tell his thinking. “You’ve come a long way in the time you’ve been here, Robert. And I’m proud of you.” I couldn’t believe my ears. Surely he knew of my contempt since the cutting off of Jacob’s foot and Jeremiah’s beating. “I realize that things are different here in the South than what you might be used to, but I believe that overall you’ve made a good transition.”

  My eyes met his then, and he must have read some challenge there.

  “Well—adaptation—if you will.” He looked away. Grandfather was a boastful man but a weak one. “I think it is time we took another step in your training here at Ashland, Robert. After all, if things continue well, you stand in line to inherit this plantation.”

  “Papa!” Ma couldn’t help her outburst of pleasure.

  “Don’t sound so shocked, Caroline! The boy is my grandson, and although you should have married equal to your station, he can’t help the folly of his parents. I’m willing to overlook it.”

  But I didn’t want to overlook Pa. I felt the bile rise i
n my throat.

  Grandfather unlocked the gun cabinet behind his desk and removed a sleek new rifle. “This is for you, Robert, the newest gun in town.” He turned it over in his hands, rubbing his palm over the barrel. “Sharps New Model 1859. A finer, more accurate rifle was never crafted.” He crossed the room and proudly placed it in my hands.

  “Papa—” Ma began, the fearful edge in her voice.

  “Caroline, marksmanship is part of a Southern gentleman’s education.” Grandfather ran his palm over the barrel. “Not many men own so fine a gun.”

  Ma bit her tongue. I swallowed. “Thank you, Grandfather.” The stock I held in my hands was polished to a high sheen, and the sleek steel barrel felt solid, cold between my fingers. I knew Pa would forbid it. Ma knew Pa would forbid it. Even Grandfather knew, but he smiled. While the gloat on his face sickened me and I felt like a traitor to Pa, still I held the gun and knew I would keep it.

  “There’s a black stallion in the stable, Robert. He’s yours. I had him brought out from town this morning. Name him yourself.” Grandfather delighted in my shock. “It’s about time you had a horse of your own—a fine leather saddle, too. Can’t have the heir of Ashland running ’round the county on borrowed horseflesh!” I knew he was buying my loyalty, and I didn’t stop it. Never had I wanted anything so much in my life. “I know Alex expects to inherit from me, and up until now, I saw no other possibility. But I’m not satisfied with him. A plantation needs a man to run it. Slocum’s done the best he could, but he’s not Ashton blood.” The crease between Grandfather’s eyebrows deepened. “Now that you and your mother are home, I believe there’s hope for Ashland. I see character in you, Boy, and I’m counting on you to make me proud, prepare yourself for our future here, take your place in Southern society.” I didn’t know what to say. He waited.