Lilly

by Madelyn Bennett Edwards

  According to my granddaddy and daddy, Mr. Gordon was kind and generous, but he was also a shrewd businessman. He saw flaws in the men who ran his plantation.

  "What are you doing?" he asked Buckley, the overseer, one afternoon when he saw him whipping up on a slave in the field.

  "I'm just letting this nigger know who's boss here!" Buckley said without turning to look at Mr. Van.

  "Put that whip down!" Mr. Van tole ole Buckley, but Sherman Buckley kept on striking the slave, his shirt already in shreds.

  "I said stop!" Mr. Van jumped from his horse and grabbed Buckley's wrist as he slung it back to strike another blow. "We don't whip our slaves!" He took the whip from the foreman.

  "What?" Sherman turned towards Mr. Van and reached for his whip. Mr. Van held it up and away.

  "I said!" Van screamed, distinct and loud. "We will not whip our slaves!"

  "You going to have trouble unless you show these niggers who's boss." Buckley's face was red and he was fiery mad.

  "Get on your horse, round up the other men and meet me at the house!" Van swung his leg over the sorrel's saddle and was about to take off towards the plantation house when he noticed the slave who was whipped, bent over a cotton plant. In fact all the slaves was still picking the sharp, white bulbs as if nothing had just happened to one of their own. The one who was whipped kept on picking, too, like he weren't bleeding half to death, his raw skin exposed to the hot sun, his shirt almost gone.

  Van swung his leg around the back of the saddle and dismounted. He noticed all of them tense black backs stiffen up as he walked towards them. Not one of them stopped their work when Mr. Van approached the man whose wounds were already forming blisters. Mr. Van knelt on one knee next to the man.

  "Son," Mr. Van said, "please stop what you are doing and look at me."

  "Yessir." The slave's hands fell by his side, one holding the burlap sack half-filled with cotton. He turned his head towards the plantation owner, but cast his eyes down at the dirt like slaves was supposed to do.

  "Look at me," Mr. Van said soft-like. The man kept his head down but lifted his eyelashes just enough to see Mr. Van's tie, knotted at his collar. He reached out with two fingers and lifted the slave man's chin until they could look each other eye-to-eye. The man tried to lower his gaze, but Mr. Van lifted his chin higher.

  "What's your name, Son?"

  "I be called, Tom, sir."

  "Tom, I'm Gordon Van, Master Shelton's son, and I recently inherited this plantation from my father." The other slaves kept on picking cotton, but they ears was opened to what Mr. Van said to Tom. "I'm sorry about what just happened. Buckley was out of line. It won't happen again. If it does, I invite you to come to my house and inform me. I want to know if my men do not follow my new rules."

  "Yessir." Tom tried to cast his eyes down again but Mr. Van lifted his chin higher still.

  "You have a wife, Tom?"

  "Yessir, Mr. Van, sir."

  "Where is she?"

  "That's my Harriet over there, sir." Tom pointed at a young woman on the other side of the row. She was still picking, her kerchief-wrapped head bent to her knees. She didn't look up.

  "Tom, I want you and Harriet to stop picking cotton and go back to your cabin where she can clean those wounds. I'll send one of my house girls with some salve and gauze; we don't want you infected. And don't come back to the fields today, you hear?"

  "Yes, sir." Tom said. "Thank you, sir, but we got our limit to pick today. We can't go taking no time out the fields."

  "You do as I say, let me worry about your limits, okay?"

  "I mean no disrespect, sir, but I scared to do that, sir."

  "The only person you need to fear on this plantation is me, do you understand? And I say go home and get those cuts tended to." Van took his hand from Tom's chin and put it under his sweaty arm pit. The stench of body sweat mixed with dust-turned-to-mud that ran down the slave's face was almost unbearable to the white man, but he hid his disgust. As Van stood, he lifted Tom to his feet, their faces inches apart, Tom's eyes cast towards the dirt under his worn-out shoes. With his arm still under Tom's, the plantation owner turned towards the field workers and made an announcement.

  "Things will be different here. It is my intention to see that all of you are well fed, have rest time, and are not punished with violence. You have my word." With that, Van handed Tom to Harriet and instructed her to give him a bath in the tub near the cistern before she took him to their cabin.

  "Lizzie will bring you supplies, Harriet," he said. "Your job is to take care of your man." He turned, mounted his horse, and galloped towards the house.

  The five hired hands were gathered near the back porch of the house when Van rode up. Some smoked, some spit tobacco, they all talked and laughed. They acted like they didn't notice Mr. Van arrive. He stayed on his horse and cleared his throat. All but the youngest ignored him.

  "Wait here," Van said as he dismounted. He went through the back door of the house and called for Lizzie. A few minutes later, he stormed back down the steps, two at a time, and in three strides was standing in front of the men. They were chatting, laughing, spitting, and ignoring Mr. Van, all except one.

  "What's your name, Son," Mr. Van asked the young man whose attention he had.

  "William, sir. William Henley," the boy said.

  "How old are you, William Henley?"

  "I'm twenty-two, sir," he said. The other hands listened but were chattering among themselves as if Van wasn't there.

  "How long have you worked here, Son?" Mr. Van asked.

  "Two years, sir."

  "And what do you do here?"

  "Whatever Mr. Buckley tells me to do, sir."

  "And what sorts of things does Mr. Buckley tell you to do, William Henley?"

  "Well, sir, I ride the fields to see which slaves are picking and who is sloughing off. I keep track of sacks that look to be near full so I can send a wagon to pick up the full sacks and give the niggers empty ones. I count heads to make sure all the slaves are working like they should and see to it they only take ten minutes for dinner and get two scoops of water every day, one mid morning and one mid afternoon."

  "Sounds like you stay busy, William."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Van," he said.

  "If you do all of that, William, tell me this: What does Mr. Buckley do?"

  "Why, I don't rightly know, sir." William looked confused. "I just take my orders and do as I'm tole. I don't stay around to see what the others do."

  "Thank you for your honesty, Son," Van said. "Now if you will humor me a moment." Van turned towards the four other hands who were now interested in the conversation, but didn't look at Van. They shuffled their boots in the dirt, spit tobacco, lit cigarettes, and generally tried to look busy.

  "Buckley!" Van said. Buckley ignored Van. "Buckley, I'm talking to you!" Buckley was half-turned away from Van. He looked over his shoulder at the plantation owner but didn't turn his body.

  "You're fired, Buckley," Van said. "Get on your horse and get off my property. NOW! And take these three no-accounts with you!"

  "You can't do that!" Buckley yelled.

  "I just did," Mr. Van said. "Now leave, all of you. Get off my plantation and don't come back." The men shuffled their feet in the dirt and waited for Buckley to tell them what to do.

  "Don't look at Buckley, you idiots. I'm the boss. He's nothing. He's fired and so are the rest of you. GET OUT! NOW!"

  Mr. Van held the whip Buckley used on Tom. He lashed it out and it made a loud snap in the air.

  "The next time I swing this thing it will hit one of you," Van said. "Now, get off my property!" Buckley reached for his pistol, but Van was too quick for him. He cracked the whip and caught Buckley's wrist, pulling it way from his body so hard that Buckley fell on his face in the dirt. His gun flew towards Van, who grabbed the gun and pointed it at Buckley in one motion.

  "Someone's deaf!" Van shouted. "I said, '
GET OFF MY PLANTATION!' The next hit will be from a bullet, not a whip."

  The three hands ran towards their horses. No one tried to help Buckley out of the dirt. Van stood over him until he got on all-fours and tried to stand up.

  "I should kick the shit out of you right now, you disrespectful piece of crap. Get up and get out. And before you ask, the answer is 'No!' Someone pulls a gun on me, it becomes my gun." Van turned towards William and said, "Son, I want you to get on your horse, ride it around to the front of the house where you can tie him up to the hitching post and sit in one of those rockers on the porch until I get there. I'm going to escort Mr. Buckley off my property."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Van, sir." William mounted his pony and walked the horse around, out of sight.

  Van remounted the sorrel while Buckley untied his horse from the post. Reins in hand, he guided the mare down the long, tree-lined drive to South Jefferson Street Extension. Without a word, Buckley mounted his horse and galloped towards Jean Ville.

  When Van returned to the front of the plantation house, William's stiff frame sat in a rocker that could have been a straight-backed chair for all the rocking it was doing. Mr. Van held back a chuckle, hitched his Sorrel loosely to the post and mounted the twenty steps, two at a time.

  "Come inside, Son," Van said. He opened the front door and William followed him into a huge hall, about sixteen to eighteen feet wide that ran the entire length of the house. The ceilings were high and the curved staircase climbed up to a railed landing with more high ceilings; the result was an entrance that reached at least thirty feet in the air. The plantation hand glanced down the long hall and could see out towards the fields through the glass on the back door at the end. Several huge doors about twelve feet high flanked both sides of the hall and obviously led to grand rooms. William tried not to gasp.

  Mr. Van led William through the first door on the left and into a large room with a huge mahogany desk in the center, a lush sofa against the wall and two wing-backed chairs that encircled a low iron-and-glass table atop a thick rug. Two tall, wine-colored leather chairs sat in front of the desk and a massive brown one was behind it. Van rang a bell, then pointed to one of the wine-colored chairs that faced the desk and tole William to take a seat, while Mr. Van strode around to the back of the desk and sat in what was, obviously, his throne.

  "Will you have coffee or tea, or something stronger, William?" Van asked when Lizzie entered the study.

  "Nothing for me, thank you, sir," William said. Lizzie was out of breath, smoothing her dark hair that she wore in a bun at the nape of her neck.

  "Did you get Tom and Harriet taken care of, Lizzie?"

  "Yes, sir. I just got back."

  "Thank you. Now, would you please bring us a pot of coffee, two cups, and some biscuits or cakes from the kitchen?"

  "Yes, sir." The pretty, young house girl left the room as quietly as she entered it.

  "I think I'm a good judge of character, William." Van wasted no time getting to the point. William was confused, but he sat at attention.

  "I've only been back a month or so and I was not prepared for this plantation and all that goes with it. I spent most of my young life at boarding schools up north and in Europe after my mother died. I didn't pay much attention to the business side of things here at Shadowland. Who knew my dad would die in his fifties?" Van looked out of the front window and scratched his freshly shaved chin. You could tell he was thinking about what had led him to this point in his life. He looked back at William.

  "I have a lot more to learn, but I did go to college and can do the math. We have fifteen slaves and five hired hands. That seems like overkill to me. Three slaves for every hand. It's my opinion that we could operate this business with one overseer and one livestock hand. What do you think, William?"

  "Well, I don't know, sir," William was caught off-guard, and Mr. Van noticed the young man's discomfort.

  "What does an overseer do here?" Van asked.

  "He tells someone like me what to do."

  "Right, but does he do anything himself, or does he just tell someone else to do it for him?" Van asked. William stammered. "Let me ask it this way: when you come to work in the morning, do you report to Buckley and ask him what you should do that day, is it different every day? Or do you show up and do the same thing you did the day before?"

  "Well, sir," William said. "At first he tole me what to do, then, when I'd ask, he'd say, 'You know what to do. Do I have to tell you every day?'"

  "What did the other hands do?" Van asked.

  "Not sure, sir," William said. "They whittled handles, braided ropes, and attached leather strips to make whips. They went to town for supplies. They rode through the fields sometimes to use their whips on the slaves; there was a contest about who could draw first blood, and that determined the best whip."

  "Who tends the livestock? Feeds and waters, milks the cows, walks and brushes the horses, keeps the barn clean, keeps the tack oiled and ready for use?"

  "Why, I think George does all that, sir," William said.

  "George? Who's George?"

  "George is one of the slaves. He's real good with the stock, so he takes care of pretty much everything in the barn."

  "A slave cares for my livestock?" Van asked.

  "Yes, sir, as far as I know," William said

  "Where can I find George?"

  "I'm sure he's in the barn, sir."

  Lizzie came in with a tray of coffee and some cakes and set it on the table in front of the sofa. Mr. Van took his watch out his pocket.

  "What do you say we go to the barn and meet George, William?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mr. Van's strides were long and determined. The two men, one following the other, approached the barn, about 200 yards from the cookhouse—a stone building behind the main house with a huge chimney and double iron doors on the front.

  They found George setting buckets of oats in the horse stalls. Finely oiled tack hung from the rack on the wall before the first stall. On the other wall were five horizontal poles on notched hangers; each held a folded blanket. Saddles were neatly arranged on a stack of saddle racks someone had crafted from wood and iron. Fresh hay covered the floors of all eight stalls and the air smelled of leather and oil and fresh hay. Between the stalls was a hallway of sorts that ran from the front to the back of the barn. It had a dirt floor that had recently been swept and leveled, with no ruts, mud, or dung anywhere.

  "Are you George?" Van asked the man, who froze with a bucket in each hand.

  "Yes, sir," he said. He looked at his feet. He was so dark-skinned that the whites of his eyes gleamed in the semi-dark barn. He wore a short-brimmed straw hat pulled down to the top of his large ears, fanned out from the pressure of the too-big hat.

  "I'm Gordon Van, the new plantation owner. I'm sure you heard that my father died and his son inherited the place."

  "Yes, sir," George said. He continued to stare at the dirt floor.

  "Put those buckets down, George, and look at me," Van said. George set the buckets on the dirt, took off his hat, and stood as straight as he was able; a small hunch in his upper back kept him bent forward a few inches. His feet shuffled softly in the dirt and his head revealed a bald spot in its infancy, surrounded by short, nappy hair.

  "Please look at me, George." George lifted his eyes to reveal black pupils with yellowish irises. His nose was wide, almost as wide as his mouth, which showed huge, pouty, red lips. A shhhhsh-ing sound emerged softly from somewhere between the two over-sized facial orifices as he tried to hide his fear. He was almost chinless and his wide neck was non-existent where it connected his head to his shoulders. He was short, maybe five and-a-half feet, but he stood tall and proud and his demeanor was pleasant, almost amusing.

  "I understand you take care of the livestock on this plantation, is that right, George?"

  "Yes, sir. I try, sir, but if I'm not doing something right, I can do better, sir."

&n
bsp; "Oh, you're doing fine." Van said. "I have a few questions for you, George." George stared over Van's shoulder and stood still. Fear mounted and red splotches appeared on his short neck.

  "Tell me George, what did Buckley and his hands do around here?"

  "I'm not sure, sir."

  "Did you see those men every day?"

  "Yessir."

  "Did they talk to you, give you orders? Tell me what your experience with them was like, George."

  "Well, sir," George stammered. "They come in every morning and tell me to tend they's horses, wash them down, feed and water 'em and have 'em ready to ride if they need."

  "What else, George?"

  "Well, sir, I don't know what else."

  "The men are gone, so don't worry about what they might do to you. I fired them; all but William, here, and I need to make a decision about him. Can you help me, George?"

  "I'll help you anyways I can, sir."

  "Then tell me what the men did to you, said to you, tole you to do—everything. William, come here." William walked to Van's side and stood still. George looked from one to the other.

  "Would you feel more comfortable talking about Buckley and his men if William was not here, George?"

  "No, sir. Mr. William, he a good man. He never whip me or yell at me or nothing like that. It's just that he has to do what Mr. Buckley say."

  "Not anymore, George. William has to do what I say. And if he tells you to do something that doesn't sound like it comes from me, you need to tell me."

  "I don't know what you mean, sir." George looked confused.

  "Let me be clear. I still have a lot to learn about this plantation, but I've discovered some things I want to change now. First of all, no one will whip my slaves. No one will mistreat them, curse them, call them names, or make them work beyond their capabilities. Do you understand that, George?"