Antebellum Struggles

by Dickie Erman

  Antebellum

  Struggles

  A Story of Love, Lust, Pain & Freedom

  in the Deep South

  Dickie Erman

  All rights reserved.

  ANTEBELLUM STRUGGLES. Copyright © 2018.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission of the author, except as permitted by US copyright law.

  ISBN: 9781981051458

  First Edition: May 2018

  Author: DICKIE ERMAN

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

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  29

  30

  31

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  35

  36

  37

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  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  1

  I T WAS THE SUMMER OF 1852.

  Amana’s life changed dramatically since arriving at the Colonel’s plantation. She was now a house slave, or ‘servant’, quite a promotion from the putrid conditions suffered by ‘field niggers’.

  It didn’t start out that way. She first arrived with two other female slaves. Her native language was a form of French Creole, but over her years of imprisonment she’d learned passing English. Most spoke different languages. In time, all of them, nearly one hundred, soon learned a few English words, then gradually grasped a basic command of the language.

  Not that she would have been allowed to speak, unless ordered to do so. Her first two years were brutal, devoted to processing the sugar cane that the field slaves planted, manured, and harvested.

  It was a very profitable business for the owner, Colonel Trent Winters. He inherited the plantation a decade ago when his father passed away. Twelve hundred acres, located on the bank of the Mississippi River, about a five hour carriage ride from New Orleans, weather and dirt road conditions permitting.

  Amana, like most females, had it only slightly better than the male slaves. She worked twelve to fourteen hours a day, six days a week. Brick and stone furnaces in front of the slave quarters spewed piping hot flames, and had to be constantly stoked to maintain the intense heat. A small opening at the bottom of the furnaces allowed her to poke a long metal rod inside, to turn and separate the wood logs to maintain the unbearable temperature.

  The first time she suffered this ordeal was an unbearably hot Louisiana day, the humidity stifling. Sweat poured off her dirt-caked face. Her hands trembled and recoiled from repeatedly lifting the heavy and hot metal rod. She collapsed to the ground in a fetal position, shaking, whimpering, and cursing the conditions. The other workers froze and began yelling at her to stop crying and resume her work. Although she couldn’t understand their words, she sensed what their frightened screams meant.

  “Crack!” The plantation manager’s open hand slapped her cheek hard and caused her ear to slam to the ground. She felt a high pitched buzz, nearly slipping out of consciousness. Then, briefly, she felt a comforting warmth. Memories flashed of the beauty of her Martinique Island where she was born. She could smell the sea breeze and listened to the laughter of children playing. “That’s nice” she thought.

  But it instantly ended, as the manager drug her by her braided hair, ten feet over the hard-pack ground. His face now red with rage, he repeatedly slapped her. After what seemed an eternity, he stood up, and then reached for his riding crop. “Dammit” he yelled, as he realized he’d left it in his quarters.

  Exhausted from this physical beating, he let out a deep sigh, partially relieved that he didn’t have to exert more energy. He pointed to the furnaces and yelled “get back to work, or I’ll whip you so hard you’ll wish you were dead”.

  The other workers were terrified, but afraid to assist for fear the manager would take his wrath out on them, too. But one slave dropped to her knees in front of him and, with head respectfully bowed, repeatedly pointed back and forth to Amana, and then the furnaces, and cried out “I will get her to work, I will get her to work”.

  Amana didn’t know what words this woman used, but her body language and gestures were universal. Seeing no resistance from the overseer, the woman reached down and grasped Amana’s arm, helped lift her to her feet, and then led her back to the furnaces and their searing heat. She picked up the long rod, placed it into Amana’s hands, and helped her guide it through the furnace opening to begin stoking the fire again.

  2

  A MANA WAS BORN INTO SLAVERY. As a child, she’d lived with her mother in Martinique, a Caribbean island loaded with sugar cane plantations. Her mother was pregnant most of her adult life, giving birth to nine children, all but three dying before their fifth birthday. Many a time Amana believed her dead siblings were the lucky ones.

  Selling or trading a slave was no different than selling or trading a cow. Sometimes the transaction would be at auction, sometimes simply by private agreement of two plantation owners, one paying a debt to the other. For Amana, she was first sold at fourteen, never to see her mother or two brothers again.

  Martinique’s slave trade would soon be abolished, but too late to help Amana. All tolled, she’d be sold or traded six times before she left. The work at each plantation was the same. Backbreaking manual labor in sweltering heat.

  Then, at seventeen, came the sale that shipped her to Louisiana. Her Martinique master was teetering on bankruptcy, having squandered his inheritance on a lavish lifestyle at the expense of his cane plantation.

  Amana, along with nineteen or so other slaves, were stripped naked and forced to stand for examination on the lawn near their master’s house. Other plantation owners, or their overseers, gathered to decide which, if any, of the slaves were fit to purchase.

  This took time. Amana’s master owed debts to them all, and heated negotiations were required to work out suitable payments. Some involved cash, sometimes land, or some combination that might include livestock.

  Amana was thrust to the front of the prospective buyers. Those who took interest would tug on her hair, squeeze each breast, and inspect her teeth and gums. She stood tall, tears streaking down her cheeks, as she shook and trembled at the bestiality of it all. The male slaves couldn’t help her, for they knew their punishment would be swift and severe. They stared at the ground, ashamed but powerless to intervene.

  Finally …. “Sold” shouted the well-dressed but sweaty auctioneer. Her journey to Colonel Winters’ plantation was about to begin, as she and the other ‘merchandise’ were loaded onto a slave ship bound for New Orleans.

  3

  “B

  WANA … BWANA”, TABARI MUMBLED. The sun was relentless. Sweat poured from his bald head. He’d almost forgotten the number of times he’d been sold before arriving at the plantation.

  He, too, had been here for nearly two years, but only met the Colonel one time, when he first arrived with two other slaves, chained together at the wrists while sitting on hard splintery wooden slats in the back of a horse drawn cart. They were yanked out and hauled up near their housing quarters. The oversee
r examined each, prying open their mouths to check their teeth and gums, squeezing their arms and legs for swelling, and jostling their genitals for signs of lesions.

  Colonel Winters watched this inspection as indifferently as if they were farm animals. He’d paid a good price for each man, and anxious to secure a clean bill of health for the investments he’d made. Manual labor on a sugar cane plantation was brutish and dangerous, and he needed to know that these three were strong enough, and fit enough, to do the work. And to live long enough to warrant his outlay of cash.

  * * *

  TABARI was desperate to escape. His life in Africa had been brutally taken from him.

  He’d been raised in a tiny village in West Central Africa, supported by an extended and loving family. The village had some 100 people, where families owned individual dirt floor huts and shared the land where they grew their crops and their cattle grazed. There were no fences or barriers. The sense of family and community assured a peaceful and non-violent life. Grievances were brought to one or more elders of the village, and disputes were listened to, thoughtfully considered, and peacefully resolved.

  As a young boy, Tabari and his playmates romped through the green hillsides, picked fresh mangoes and sweet potatoes. He always enjoyed a meal made from maize, a favorite staple of his family’s table fare.

  He’d see his father only several times a year, as he enjoyed a respected position as provincial Chief to the King of the Congo. His father constantly travelled throughout most of the region.

  Tabari’s mother, an attractive homemaker, was a talented basket weaver who would barter or sell to make ends meet. Their small garden produced sufficient food for the family, along with offerings of other villagers who were always willing to share.

  Tabari’s imprisonment began nearly four years earlier, with one Mr. DuBois, a slave trader from Barbados, who’d docked in the small fishing port of Londontown, about forty miles from Tabari’s village. He’d co-chartered the ship to purchase 40 slaves. Many more would be purchased by other traders who’d made the treacherous journey.

  At the port, he met with a Bantu village Chief, Afolabi, who’d been capturing and selling African men, women and children for the past five years. It was a profitable business. Afolabi was introduced to this ‘trade’ when, many years earlier, he’d been a soldier in a political war where his Chief had captured other African prisoners of war, and sold them to European traders. Having completed his military service, Afobali used his newly gained experience to embark on his own slave trade business.

  “Good morning” Mr. Dubois said, through his translator. “Are you ready to make business?”

  “Yes sir. My men have located your forty slaves. The farthest are sixty kilometers away, the closest about thirty. All will arrive within a fortnight”.

  “I have the bill of lading” Mr. Dubois said.

  “Fine. I’m always pleased to get paid” as he prematurely put his hand out to receive the money.

  “Not so fast. I’m a business man and, of course, this type of business is, well, just that, business. I travelled a long way and can’t just give you money without having first seen the merchandise”.

  “I understand. But I have men to pay, and they aren’t going to risk their lives to capture your property without first being paid”.

  “I will pay you, of course. But first, I need some collateral. You have many slaves, right here, in holding cells, waiting for the ships to arrive and pick them up. Forty of them shall be given to me, until your men return with my property”.

  Afobali thought for a moment. He knew Mr. Dubois was no fool, and would not part with his money without some protection.

  “Fine” Afobali replied. “Of course, you shall be responsible for their food and water until your new slaves arrive”.

  “Of course” knowing full well that he’d only provide Afobali’s ‘collateral’ with inexpensive gruel and water, and minimal amounts at that.

  “And remember” he told Afobali, “Your ultimate price is based on the quality of the slaves. Broken bones, diseases, malnutrition … things that lower the price that I can sell them for, will lower the price that I will pay you”.

  “Understood. My men will take good care of them”.

  And with that exchange, the deal was consummated.

  Afobali left, and met one group of his men, five African gang members, at a cockroach ridden saloon and brothel on the outskirts of dirty Londontown. These were wretched thugs, with no qualms about capturing, or killing, another human being for money. Men, women or children, African or not, it made no difference to them.

  Each man carried a burlap sack. Some contained knobkieries, a wooden stick with a hard bulb-like end that could easily clobber a victim senseless. Others carried shackles or chains, used to fetter the feet or necks of the captives who, once caught, would be marched back to the fishing port where Mr. Dubois waited.

  Despite Afobali’s promise, they carried no food or water, other than for their own use.

  The main trail to Tabari’s village was narrow and worn. Tree roots regularly topped the surface, creating a tripping hazard if one weren’t careful. Scattered rain puddles made for slippery footing.

  “Shit” cried one of the gang. His right foot caught a root, lurching him forward and landing face first into a muddy slush.

  “Get up and be quiet, you idiot” whispered their leader, a short, muscular man who’d been down this trail before. “All of you! I’m not going to lose any slave because of your stupidity”.

  Tabari had left his village the day before, venturing out on his own for an overnight trip to the outskirts of the forest. He loved these short sojourns. The solitude gave him time to reflect on his family, and his own hopes of becoming a respected leader in his realm. Maybe even a provincial Chief, like his father.

  He woke as the sunlight broke through the canopied forest. He listened to the high pitched jibber-jabber of monkeys as they chased each other over tree limbs. He smiled as he watched a large beetle aimlessly amble over his arm and then disappear under some nearby leaves.

  He stretched, rose up, and picked up the leather water urn his mother had handwoven. It was given as a birthday present. He swirled the vase, took a few sips, and then slipped its lanyard over his head and onto his shoulder. With a brisk walk, he’d arrive at his village in about three hours.

  The gang was ready. They didn’t know who, or when, a victim would come walking by, but the worn path was an obvious sign that it was well travelled. Ambush cover was everywhere. The men easily concealed themselves by simply squatting inside a growth of tall grass, or behind one of countless leaf covered trees.

  Tabari had no clue. His thoughts were on his hunger and the smell of warm bread that his mother always prepared when he returned from such overnight forays.

  The group leader was the first to attack. He leaped from his hiding spot and landed on the path, facing Tabari. Sweat poured from the man’s head, neck and arms. With bared teeth and hunched shoulders, his sudden appearance was terrifying. He stared down Tabari as if he were prey.

  Tabari spun around to run, but the others had also pounced. He was easily tackled. He spit out the dirt that he’d sucked in, as one of the thugs pinned his head to the ground with his knee. Nowhere to run. No way to run. His hands were shackled and the five hoodlums continued down the trail in search of more victims.

  After three miles, they ran across another pack that was travelling toward Londontown. This group had twenty or so captives, young men and boys, shackled at their necks and tied together in pairs of two. A sturdy rope ran the length of the long procession, securing protection from escape.

  Tabari heard the two leaders talking, but couldn’t understand their language. “Two bottles of rum and ten cigars. That’s all he’s worth. Besides, what choice do ‘ya have? Ya’ gonna walk just one slave all da’ way back to town?” he sarcastically asked, his cronies joining in laughter.

  Tabari’s captor looked around despondently
at his predicament.

  “Well, shit” he fumed. He knew that marching all the way back with one slave was a total failure, monetarily and physically.

  “Sold” as he motioned his cohorts to unshackle Tabari and turn him over.

  “See me when you arrive” the new buyer said mockingly. “Oh, and you can buy me the first drink of rum”.

  Tabari had been captured less than two hours ago, and already sold once.

  4

  C OLLETTE MARRIED COLONEL WINTERS when she was twenty two. Born to a wealthy family in neighboring Mississippi, she was the epitome of a Southern belle. Vibrant, graceful and strikingly beautiful.

  Collette had some understanding of the squalid living conditions the slaves suffered, but her perception came from afar. She’d never ventured to the areas where they lived, let alone walked into one of their quarters. Had she done so, she would’ve seen the lack of furniture, the few tin cups and plates they ate from, and the blankets they covered themselves with while most slept on the floor.

  No, Collette usually viewed their human ‘property’ from the second or third story balcony of the mansion, as she watched the field workers toil amongst the tall sugar cane plants, or the drivers in their horse drawn carts, bringing supplies, picking up manure, or hauling away discarded cane stalk. She often observed the slave children playing hide and seek on the lawns, or the young boys wrestling or play fighting. She had an understanding of the sufferings the slaves endured, but it was much easier to push it to the back of her mind and convince herself that her only duty was to care for her husband and their household.

  At twenty four, she gave birth to a son, Trent, Jr., who survived only seventeen days. The couple was devastated by this loss, especially Collette. She mourned for nearly two years. Although her friends regularly arrived to lend reassurances and keep her busy with social tasks, she couldn’t be consoled. After a year, the Colonel spoke seriously about sending her to an asylum for recovery. But as time passed, her grief lessened and she gradually resumed the responsibilities of being a devoted wife and homemaker.