“Neigh,” called the driver to the horses.
The old carriage picked up speed, rocking me against the bloodstained woman. I ducked my head under some low brush and then closed my eyes to the rising dust.
PART TWO
The Devil’s Half Acre
CHAPTER 10
Marched
Before Snitch drove the Bell plantation, the job belonged to a driver named Reade, a thickset man with meaty hands so large folks said he crushed men’s skulls for sport and boiled children in the middle of the night for his supper. One day, while I was out chasing a white-tailed rabbit, I accidentally ventured past the clearing on the Lowtown side of the river, and found myself behind the overseer’s white clapboard house. My stomach sank at my mistake. Before I could run, Reade walked out of his side door dragging a teenage girl behind him. The girl cried, clawed, and screamed, but Reade tossed her over his shoulders like she was a rag doll. I hid behind the nearest oak tree and tried not to breathe. When I braved another look, Reade had tossed the girl against the whipping post and tied her wrists and ankles until she could not move. Her voice begged and apologized but Reade reached into her mouth and pulled out her tongue.
The girl’s guttural screams sounded like glass exploding in my ears. It was a sound that haunted me for months. I never told Mama what I had seen, and thought I would never experience such terror, until I found myself sitting in the back of the rickety wagon, tied to unfamiliar bodies and headed to a jail for punishment. Would I be burned at the stake like the witches in Miss Sally’s stories? Stretched out and whipped like a runaway, or sold farther down south as a field hand? Mama always said the deeper south you went, the harder life proved for a slave. Wherever we were headed I would need all my strength and fortitude. I put on a brave face and prayed that the whites of my eyes did not betray my horror.
The woman with the bloodied dress and knotted hair wept loudly. I looked to the woman in the green scarf who sat across from us for an explanation. Blood smeared her hands too.
“What happened?”
She looked to the front of the wagon, then spoke out the side of her lips. “I delivered her baby in this wagon few miles ’fore we pick’t you up. Baby come out with the cord ’round ’em neck.” Her breath was hot against my ear. “Trader take the dead thing from her arms and throw it in the ditch. Don’t bury ’em or nuttin’.”
The woman kept staring at me. “You real pretty.”
I looked down and saw that I still wore Mama’s red dress. Suddenly, I felt ashamed. “I was at my mama’s funeral when they came for me. My name is Pheby.”
“I’s Alice.”
The wagon rumbled along. The bloody woman’s head bounced from side to side like she had no control over her neck. The men in the wagon were clustered in one corner, we women in the other, and the three drivers rode up front. I felt the lump swelling in my head from where Snitch hit me, but it did not compare to the sense of dread that swam in my stomach. I was wishing that I had eaten something at Mama’s gathering, when the bloody woman doubled over with her hands on her belly. She groaned and seemed to bear down like she was defecating. Then the afterbirth oozed out from between her legs. She shrieked and then fell back, her face withered in pain.
“Shut up back there,” the trader driving the wagon called over his shoulder.
The blue glob with bloody streaks sat between us, wiggling with every bump of the wagon. We smelled the foul metallic odor the whole way up the road. I closed my eyes to shut it all out, but could not find stillness. Sometime in the middle of the night, we stopped at a little roadside shack.
“Up,” the driver shouted at us. He had a long beard that reached the top of his shirt collar.
When we stepped down out of the wagon, I concentrated on walking close to the bloody woman, holding her up like a crutch. Inside the dank, windowless cabin, people were crammed together, leaving no room for even a pill to fall. But still we were shoved in too. The heavy air smelled rancid and our captors left us to go outside. I imagined they chewed tobacco, passed whiskey, and discussed their profit shares.
The bloody woman leaned into me. “I’s Matilda.”
“Pheby Delores Brown.”
“That’s a lotta names.” She placed her head on my shoulder, and just that quick, I heard her snoring.
I did not sleep. I focused on supporting Matilda. We were packed inside the hot, tiny house for a while. Had I been home, I would have collected the eggs from the chicken coop, waited on Aunt Hope to fry them, and served breakfast. But I was not home; I had been stolen from my family. To survive this, I could not let my mind succumb to the misery that threatened to strangle me.
Just before daylight, a clean-cut man walked through the door. He carried himself like he was the man in charge.
“Move out,” he barked at us.
His accent had more twang to it than I was accustomed to hearing. He probably came from farther down south. Maybe New Orleans or someplace like that. My gang lined up, and as we moved outside, the man in charge counted us off. Altogether we made sixty-one. Forty men and twenty-one women. All of us women from the wagon were untied and then retied to the other women from the shack. The ropes around our wrist made our hands jut forward, and a halter was slipped over our necks. I continued to stay close to Matilda through the sorting process and she was tied behind me. Alice stood way at the other end of the line. When our captors completed our bondage, they told us to sit on the damp ground and went on to ironing the men.
“Boys, get in two straight lines.”
One hefty man paused to figure out the instruction and earned a whack over his back with the club. “Move it, nigger. Ain’t got time to waste.”
After that, the men hurried to make the lines. The whites with clubs moved through the men slaves, fixing a thick iron collar around each of their necks and then securing it with a padlock. A thick chain of metal was threaded through the clasp of each lock, securing the row together. Their hands were then cuffed tightly in front of them. I had never seen a coffle before and felt sickened by the sight. Despite Miss Sally’s piano lessons and pampering, and Mama’s protection from the hardships of Lowtown, I stood ill prepared to be tied up and driven like an animal. Here I was just like everyone else. Handled like goods to be sold.
“Get up,” called the man in charge. “March out.”
We obeyed, and began our procession to God knows where. I walked as one of the few people wearing proper shoes. I could not envision what it felt like to trek through the woods barefoot with the constant pricks of stones, pine cones, and needles. The first few hours tired me like doing my morning chores, but they passed in relative silence. Then, after a while, Matilda resumed her whimpering.
The white men were on horseback: one at the front, one in the middle of the line, and one bringing up the rear. Matilda’s moans got so loud that the man in charge slowed his horse next to her and put his club in her face.
“If I hear one more thing from you, I’ll shoot you in the head.” He rode up and shouted for all to hear. “Keep your mouths shut and your feet moving forward.”
Matilda stayed quiet after that, and no one else in the coffle made a peep. While we traveled down the road, deeper into the night, the temperature dropped and the clouds rolled in. My dress was made well, but some wore threadbare scraps that barely covered their private areas. The sky gave way and it drizzled off and on but that did not halt our journey. When the sun came up, we stopped for a small break. They passed around a few buckets with drops of water, but it did not quench my thirst. Hunger pains stung my belly, and the rope cut welts into my wrists.
We marched again until nightfall, and stopped when we reached an open field. Two women were released from the front of the line and instructed to make a fire. The rest of us were told to sit on the ground. Even though the dirt was cold and hard, it felt good to stop and stretch. My feet ached, and my ankles had puffed up like dough rising. As much as I wanted to remove my shoes, I feared not being able t
o get them back on. Plus our hands were still tied.
Cakes made of cornmeal and boiled herring were passed around. We were given water to wipe the journey from our fingers, but the dirt remained mucked into my palms. Somehow, I managed to get my food into my mouth. The meal did not taste good, but I sensed it would be a stretch before we were given more, so I forced it all down. When the canteen came to me, I drank with desperation. It was the first time in my life that I did not care if the water ran clean or held contamination.
“Lie back and get some sleep,” commanded the man in charge.
Matilda fell asleep before I made peace with the earth. I had never slept outside on the ground before and could not find respite. The night sounds frightened me. Crickets rubbed their legs together, birds squawked, a coyote howled in the distance. I tossed and turned, worrying over snakes sneaking up to strangle me. Even the crackle of the fire made me uneasy.
Since rest would not come, I passed the time conjuring up my memory of lying with Essex. I replayed his hard body moving against mine in the stables until I could smell him in front of me. Pretending to be in his arms proved to be the only thing that eased my anxiety and allowed me a little peace.
Before sunrise we were roused and then were at it again. We repeated the march schedule for days. We walked until my feet had blisters on soft, tender skin. We trekked past the time that the raw skin on my feet opened and my socks were soiled with blood. No matter how terrible I felt, we had to keep stepping or else be clubbed. Some in my gang sang to keep the rhythm but I did not. I kept my despair quiet, close to my heart.
* * *
On the eighth day of walking, we reached a quaint town near the mouth of the river. The sun smiled brightly from the sky while the wind cooled my face. I had never seen so many boats in my life. Big steamboats, flatboats, small fishing boats.
Along the water’s edge sat a string of homes built close together, two and three stories high, multicolored, narrow, on tiny patches of land. As we got closer, the air smelled sour, like a combination of old fish and forgotten fowl, killed but never fried. That, mixed with the smell of those of us in shackles, made my stomach swirl like a spinning top. I held my breath and tried to keep up with the line. Then one of the men told us to stop.
“Sit where you are. Wait for my command.”
The man in charge chatted with a round-faced man standing near a boat with steam drifting from long pipes. The boat had two stories with a paddle wheel in the back. A flask moved back and forth between the two and they shared a laugh.
Not knowing what came next simply unnerved me. On the plantation, there was always order. In the amount of time we waited in the grass I could have weeded and watered Missus Delphina’s entire garden, had I been back home. The horseflies showed no pity, and I moved my roped hands up and down to shoo them. Finally, the two men appeared and ushered us up from the ground.
“Go up the ramp to the boat. Move to the front of the vessel and lie down in a straight row.”
The women went first. The wooden ramp felt unsteady under our weight but we shuffled across. We were packed tightly at the point of the front of the deck, with our backs on the floor and our heads toward the sky. A crew of men stood above us on the second level with a clear view of us below. I longed for a bath and clean clothing.
The men’s voices strung together in quick conversation. One said, “Cain’t wait to get to Richmond. Got me a fine piece waitin’ on me.”
“You ain’t got no woman nowhere,” said a man with a high-pitched voice.
“Jest jealous ’cause I get luckier than you.”
“Dream on, sailor. Better get that paddle wheel going if you want to keep this job. Capt’n coming.”
I looked around the boat deck wondering on the possibility of escape, but could barely move my body because we were so tightly knitted together. A few minutes later the boat pulled away from the dock. As we drifted, I wondered if we were on the James River. What would Richmond be like, and would it be our final stop? How would Missus Delphina’s call for punishment play out?
There were four white men on board, including the captain. The youngest of the group had long black hair tied back and a hook nose. Whenever I looked up to the top deck, he stared down at me. I must have been a sight in my filthy red dress among the others wearing browns and burlap. He tried catching my eye but I turned the other way.
The boat sailed through the water, and the dipping over the waves made me nauseous. We were not offered any food or blankets. As the night grew long, the crew got louder from the upper deck. No doubt a bottle of spirits passed between them. I closed my eyes and tried to forget my suffering. I was unsure how much time had passed when I awakened to cold fingers on my knees, traveling higher up my thigh. My eyes flew open as the man with the hook nose climbed on top of me.
“Stop.” I crossed my ankles.
Not only did I want to protect my virtue, but my diary was hidden a few inches from his hands. I shook my leg so he would not detect it. Several teeth were missing from his mouth, and he reeked of tobacco. I scrambled to get out of his grasp, but there was no place to go. Not enough air to breathe.
“Stay still,” he mumbled and fumbled with his pants, “or I’ll make it hurt real bad.”
The people around me could not help me. Panic tightened in my chest. When he leaned over me, forcing my ankles apart, everything I had shot up from my belly. I threw up on him.
“Bitch.” He slapped me across the face. I called out to get the attention of the captain. He glanced down from the upper deck.
“Jack, leave the goods alone.”
“Come on, Captain.”
“Don’t want you messing with the money. Get back up here.”
Jack wore my waste on his shirt. He kicked my foot as he stood up, but to my relief, he followed orders. Matilda turned her matted head and linked her sad eyes with mine.
“Overseer put the baby in me.”
We comforted each other by letting our feet touch. The boat wafted along. A man in our row coughed and hacked all through the night, making sleep impossible. When morning came, Jack and another man passed out mush for breakfast. He handed me a bowl. When I looked down, my portion swam with phlegm. While the others ate, I closed my eyes and pretended to be in Aunt Hope’s kitchen. I must have fallen asleep again, because Matilda yanked at my rope and brought me to attention.
“What?”
She pointed with her chin. That’s when I saw it. The rise of tall buildings. The outline of a city the same way it looked in the newspaper. Beautiful, with the sun at its back and the sky pink and blue. It had to be Richmond. Our boat pulled along the river’s edge and the men dropped the anchor. A few canteens of water went around to revive us, and I drank heartily.
“They don’t like us parading the niggers ’round during the day. We will wait for nightfall!” the captain shouted to the crew.
Jack walked alongside me. “Got time to turn one of them loose for a little fun?” he shouted.
“Last time I turned one loose to you she lost her teeth. Cain’t afford to lose money on this deal.”
Once again, we were told to sit down on the grass. I still had the bug bites on my legs and arms from the last time. The water from the river was murky, but given the chance, I would still have bathed in it. We all sat quietly as the breeze whispered through the trees. I drummed my fingers on my thigh like I was playing the piano. It soothed me some. Then I hummed under my breath. At dusk, they passed around some cornbread and bacon. The small ration was not enough and I wished for more. When we finished eating, we were instructed to stand. Night had shaded the sky, and a handful of stars winked down at us.
“I don’t want to hear a sound from you. No talking, crying, singing. Now move along.”
The captain need not have admonished us; stories of hopelessness oozed from our sweat. I could see the despair of my fellow prisoners in the slump of their necks. We walked through the brush until I spotted a bridge up ahead. The post sign
read MAYO BRIDGE. As we crossed it, the lights from the building in front of us twinkled like sparkly buttons. We marched past a big white building with pediments and columns. Then we were taken down streets with signs. I read CARY STREET. MAIN STREET. We made a right onto Franklin Street. I tried to record the direction in my head in case the opportunity came for me to run. Then our coffle turned into a smaller alley. It was chilly and stank of the most offensive odor I had encountered so far. Like the sweaty stench of death. The sign scripted on the wall read LAPIER’S ALLEY.
When I looked up, I saw a twelve-foot-high fence that was thickly set with iron spikes and stretched around the buildings. So this was the jail that Missus Delphina had sent me to. I had the keen sense to know that once I was inside it would be impossible for me to escape or even communicate with the outside world. I would be a prisoner. I tried to continue forward but stumbled over my misfortune. Before I could fall to my knees, I was yanked up by the rope connecting me to Matilda.
CHAPTER 11
The Lapier Jail
I took in every sight and sound as we were paraded through the courtyard. There were six wooden buildings on the small plot of land. Two of the structures were large, about two stories high. One looked to be the main house. The other four buildings appeared similar to those on the Bell plantation: the kitchen, laundry, office, and maybe a supply shed. I could hear dogs barking not far away. The stank I smelled in the alley intensified. Sickeningly pungent. A new crew of white men stood waiting for us. Five in total, clutching knives and rifles.
“Boys to the right. Girls to the left.”
The crew started unraveling the rope cords from our necks and cutting away at the ones binding our hands. The wounds on my wrists had crusted into scabs. Free for the first time in ten days, I stretched and arched like a newly awakened cat. Chains and metal padlocks clanked against the cobblestone as the men were unhooked from their restraints. Before any of us could enjoy this small sense of freedom, we were steered toward the center brick building. The wooden door was unlocked and the men shouted, “Move into the jail.”
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