Antebellum Struggles

by Dickie Erman

  “Amana, help Mrs. Winters with her luggage” the Colonel ordered as they stepped into the mansion, his tone completely that of master to slave.

  “Yes ‘em”. She quickly grabbed Mrs. Winters’ three suitcases and scurried toward their bedroom, making no eye contact.

  Collette watched Amana as she made her way down the hall.

  “And how did Amana treat you while I was away?” she asked, innocently.

  “What do you mean?” a slight tone of defensiveness in his reaction. He quickly realized he did sound defensive.

  “Gheez. She has zero reason to suspect anything. A little paranoid, are we?” he chided himself.

  “Well, did she and Sadie feed you well?

  He immediately regained his composure and dismissed his paranoia.

  “Of course, of course. In fact, last Thursday morning they both prepared a breakfast that, I must admit, was decadently delicious. Bacon, eggs, hushpuppies … I felt quite spoiled, actually”.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. I guess we both deserve a little decadence once in a while”.

  29

  T ABARI LAY ON THE dirt floor of his cabin, surrounded by two women gently caring for his wounds by dabbing wet cloths to slowly remove the caked blood.

  The pain was excruciating. Each touch to raw flesh stung like fire on his exposed nerves. It was hard for him to fathom what was worse: the whip instantly tearing his hide, or the slow torture of the water and salve.

  He quietly sobbed.

  “You’s gonna heal just fine” one of the women said softly, almost whispering. “I’s had my back whipped twice before. The healin’ jus takes time”.

  They were nearly finished. His nerves were all but numb now, the slippery elm salve having done its job.

  “I wouldn’t be puttin’ no shirt on, least not for a couple a days” the other woman said. She held up the shredded shirt that was torn off his back before the whippin commenced. “I can mends this for ya’” she promised.

  Tabari looked up at the two, and offered a smile of thanks, tears still flowing down his cheeks.

  “Thank you” he whispered, much too weak and exhausted to move.

  * * *

  HE abruptly woke in the middle of the night, as he unconsciously started to roll over and the searing heat flashed across his back. He started to yell, but remembered those still asleep on the floor next to him. Still exhausted, he let the side of his face lay back on the floor, his eyes wide open and awake.

  “I gotta’ go. I gotta’ escape” he thought to himself.

  But this was no longer just an idle thought. He remembered the moments he’d contemplated escape before. And each time, he’d dashed those dreams by admitting it couldn’t be done. He’d be caught, he’d be starved, he’d be whipped, sold, or killed. All of those fears remained true.

  But starvation couldn’t be any worse than being whipped. Dying of thirst couldn’t be any worse. He now knew first hand he could surely die from a whipping. And if he did, then what difference would anything make anyway?

  No. He had to go.

  “It’ll probly’ takes me two weeks to heal” he reasoned. “That’ll give me time ta’ figure out wheres I’s gonna go, hows I’s gonna travel, and who can hep me”.

  He’d heard of some kind of ‘underground’ railroad that helped slaves escape. But it made no sense to him.

  “How’s a train car gonna’ travel unders da’ ground”? he wondered. “Deh’ has ta’ dig tunnels, and white folks ain’t stupid. How deh’ not gonna’ know ‘dat slaves be diggin’ tunnels?”

  The more he thought about escape, the more he planned, the more realistic the chances of success seemed.

  Food might not be a problem after all. They were mostly fed gruel, a nasty concoction of maize, water, and molasses. He could save a few days’ worth, but not much more. Spoilage occurred quickly. But there were also his bread rations. Those could last a good week. And some vegetables. Some of the slaves grew corn, cabbage, beets and okra.

  He’d have to ask permission for that, which could require disclosing his escape plans.

  Who knows, any one of the slaves could be in cahoots with Tolivar, or another master. An agreement to snitch if any slave was planning an escape. Lots of problems, lots of questions.

  He knew he’d have to take risks. Many.

  * * *

  “LET me ‘axe’ you somthin’” Tabari whispered to Thomas, as the two slaves sat on the cabin porch, finishing their dinner.

  “You ever thought of escapin’?”

  Thomas stopped chewing, swallowed hard, and took a long look at Tabari.

  “Yup, I’s thought about it. Many a time” he whispered back, concerned that Tabari was seriously considering such a death wish. “But ‘den, I always thinks back on poor ol’ Billy. He’d worked here for near seven years ‘fore he got fed up, just like yer actin’.

  “Yup. One morning, ol’ Billy, he was jus’ gone. Runned away in ‘da middle of ‘da night. ‘Da Colonel sent his men after him. Weren’t more ‘den five, maybe six hours, and ‘deh brought ol’ Billy back. Whipped him ‘til he almost passed out. ‘Den deh hung him, right ‘thar” pointing to the ‘tree’.

  “Tabari, I knows you got whipped. Whipped real good. But hell, we’s all been whipped. Best thang for you ‘ta do is keep yer head down, works hard ever day, and don’t give ‘em no reason ‘ta ever whip you agin’”.

  Tabari realized that Thomas wasn’t going to join in the escape. Based on his storytelling, it seemed unlikely any other slave would, either.

  “What about ‘dat ‘underground’ railroad I hears ‘bout? How does ‘dat work?” He didn’t want to appear stupid by explaining his naïve understanding, only to have Thomas laugh at the notion of tunnels being dug.

  “Well, it sure ain’t no real ‘railroad’” Thomas answered, looking to judge whether Tabari had believed in the impossible.

  “Ya see, it’s like what ‘da white folks call a ‘meta-por’. It’s kinda like a railroad, but it ain’t really.

  “In a real railroad, ‘deh gots whats called a ‘conductor’. He ‘da man ‘dat makes sure you’s got yer ticket, and ‘dat you’s goin’ where you should be goin’. Ya understand?”

  Tabari nodded.

  “And so, in ‘da underground railroad, deh’s also got a conductor, only ‘dat person is one dat’s tryin’ to help a slave escape. Could be a nice ‘ol white lady, or a Christian man who hates slavery. Dez lots of dem type of folks out thar’, believe me”.

  “Do ya’ know any?”

  Thomas was getting concerned that this talk had gone too far.

  “Naw, I don’t” he answered, honestly. “But I do knows someone who does. He looked two cabins down, and nodded at a middle aged slave, standing on the porch smoking a pipe.

  “Dats’ Demetrius. But ever body calls him Demi”.

  “I know Demi, Tabari stated. “Dat ol’ man’s been here a long time”.

  “Yeah, ol’ Demi. I don’t know how much he can hep you, but ya’ might wanna talk with ‘em. Who knows?”

  Thomas stood, and walked into the darkness to wash his plate in the horse trough.

  * * *

  IT was early Sunday morning. Demi was tending his small cabbage plot, churning some dirt and fertilizing.

  “Mornin’” Tabari greeted him.

  Demi knew who it was, but continued his work without looking up.

  “Demi, let me axe ya’ a question”.

  “Look. I knows you’s been talkin’ to Thomas over thar’” he said, nodding toward his cabin. “And I knows what yer up to” he whispered, now standing upright and staring Tabari down.

  “I ain’t gonna help ya’ escape, no sir, I ain’t gonna do it. Didn’t Thomas tell ya about Billy? He got hunged, dats what happened ta’ Billy. No sir. I can’t hep ya’”.

  “I don’t need ‘ya to do any thang, ya’ ol’ fool. I’m doin’ it on my own”. He realized he was talking too loud, and lowered his voice back to a whisper
.

  “Listen. All I want ta’ know is a name. Ya’ know, one of dem conductors, dat’s all”.

  “What makes ya’ think I knows someone?” he asked, unable to conceal his knowledge. He could see that Tabari was dead serious about escaping, and was going to go, with or without his help.

  Tabari’s eyes implored him.

  Demi stooped down to spread some dirt. “Greta Fitzgerald” he said, barely loud enough for Tabari to hear.

  “She lives some wares in N’awlins. Don’t know where”.

  “Greta Fitzgerald. N’awlins”. Tabari etched the words into his brain. “Thank you, Demi” he whispered and walked away, never to speak with Demi again.

  Just the name and a location were enough to make his spirit soar. For a brief moment, he felt like a free man.

  He’d just gone to, and come back from, New Orleans. He knew the way. He knew, well, at least some of the streets. And he knew some places to avoid: Mrs. Harrison’s house, the Doctor’s place, and the saloon. He also knew that there were many free black men there, some quite well-to-do. Maybe one of them could steer him to Greta Fitzgerald’s house.

  His adrenaline pumped as he continued to put more and more pieces of his plan together. If he stole a horse, he could be in New Orleans in five, maybe four hours. The thought of stealing a horse caused a dark cloud in his mind. If he got caught, that transgression would amplify his crime and surely result in even greater punishment. No, he had to go by foot.

  By foot, it’d take him at least a day and a half. Make that two nights. Travelling by day would make him easy prey. He’d enter the city at dusk, too dark for any of the Colonel’s men to see him. The hope of freedom far outweighed his fear of capture. He knew full well that finding Greta Fitzgerald was only the beginning.

  But there’d never be a beginning at the plantation. Just repeated whippings until the final ending.

  30

  E VERYTHING WAS READY.

  Of course, he’d told no one, although Thomas and Demi surely wouldn’t be surprised in the morning when the Colonel and Tolivar began organizing a posse to capture him.

  Would they head for New Orleans? Probably so. They knew that he knew the way, and probably surmised he knew of no other destination to try.

  Everything was perfect. The Winters were entertaining. The sound of a fiddle carried through the night air, along with the muffled laughter of guests. A light drizzle would ensure that everyone stayed inside. Tolivar’s lamp was out, indicating he was most likely asleep or, even better, passed out.

  Tabari had brought his essentials to the wood shed, not far from his cabin. The crescent moon gave just enough light. A jar of gruel, some water and his bread were all he needed to reach New Orleans. The jar and bread he stuffed in his pockets, the water vessel hung on a lanyard over his shoulder, leaving his hands free.

  Escaping the plantation itself was the most frightening of all. There were so many people who could see him.

  He snuck out of the shed, walking in the shadows as much as possible to where the cane fields began, hundreds of yards from the mansion. Eventually, he spotted the dirt road that would lead him to the city. The moonlight was now gone, hidden by clouds.

  He knew he’d have to stay at least several hundred yards from the road, and that the route would require walking through neighboring cane fields, their plants much taller than he. But he was used to traversing the fields. It naturally slowed his progress, but he’d anticipated it. He was right on schedule.

  For a moment, he started to run. Not out of fear, but because of excitement. Excited that he was on his way to freedom.

  “Slow down” he said to himself with a smile. “Pace yourself. You’s got a ways ta’ go”.

  Reaching the end of a field, he surveyed the land in front of him. “This is why it has to be at night” he said to himself. A large open area, too far to see the end of in the darkness. If it were daylight, he’d easily be spotted.

  This part of his journey reminded him of the sojourns he often took when he lived in his village. The memory boosted his courage. It also quickly reminded him of his capture, years ago.

  He focused intently. He’d learned many things since then, and this trip was not going to have the same outcome. It couldn’t. He’d rather die.

  * * *

  HE’D made nearly ten miles on foot by the time darkness gave way to light. He figured it’d be at least a half hour before Tolivar discovered he was missing, and probably a full hour before the Colonel’s posse was organized and riding toward New Orleans.

  He estimate was close.

  Tolivar searched cabin to cabin.

  “Thomas! Where is he?” Tolivar screamed, threatening to kill every last one of them if they didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.

  “I don’t knows Sir. I saws him last night, rights here when I’s went to sleep. Ain’t seen him since den”.

  “Goddamnit!” He grabbed the first female he saw. “This here niggers gonna be whipped, right in front of ya’all, unless one of ya tells me where he’s at. Her blood will be on you, not me.

  Get ‘em out here, all of them” he hollered to the white manager. “Round up as many as you can. I want ‘em all to see what happens when they give aid to a runaway nigger”.

  Demi was one. So was Thomas. They stood away from each other though, fearful that Tolivar might suspect some collusion between them. Fifteen or so other slaves were round up, and forced to stand facing the tree.

  He nodded to the white manager, who intuitively knew that he was to tie her to the tree and strip off her blouse.

  She stood, bent over, screaming hysterically as her naked breasts scrapped against the rough tree trunk. Tolivar unfurled his whip, and took a few steps back. He turned to the crowd.

  “Anyone? Ya’ all can stop this beatin’ if ya tell me where he’s gone”.

  He reached back, then cracked the whip in the air to ensure everyone knew he was serious.

  Demi stared at the ground. He knew damn well that he’d be taking her place if he told Tolivar where Tabari was heading.

  “Damn” he swore to himself. “Never should ‘a said nothin’ ‘bout Miss Fitzgerald. I shoulda’ knowed somethin’ like dis would happen”.

  His feeling of shame and guilt was nearly too much for him, but not quite enough to come forward and spare this young woman.

  “All right then …” Tolivar began to reach back again, this time to carry out his threat.

  The sound of horse hooves unexpectedly galloping up drew everyone’s attention. It was the Colonel.

  “Man. Da’ Colonel gonna do dis” Demi said to himself.

  He abruptly pulled up and dismounted.

  “Mr. Tolivar” the Colonel motioned him to come forward as they approached one another. The Colonel scrutinized the crowd, then paused as he considered what to say.

  “I’m not sure this is the way to handle this” he contemplated, looking more at the ground than at Tolivar.

  The Colonel was conflicted. He knew Tolivar was justified in teaching them all a lesson in subservience but, at the same time, he was also concerned that a rebellion might ensue.

  They all knew that Tabari had just been whipped. Now they were about to witness another slave, a young female, endure a horrible ordeal.

  Too much of an iron fist might cause a revolt, something his business couldn’t risk. Things were all going much too well.

  He was making money hand over fist, and the possibility of destroying his ever growing empire wasn’t worth the risk of just one slave causing a mutiny.

  “Right now, I’m more concerned about capturing that nigger” he told Tolivar.

  “Now, I understand your thinking, and I can’t say I disagree with you. They need to all be taught that harboring a fugitive, a runaway, can’t be tolerated. But for now, I’d prefer that you round up a few men, and head towards N’awlins. More than likely, that’s where he’s headed. You agree?”

  “You’re the boss, Colonel” Tolivar repl
ied, dust swirling as he snaked his whip through the dirt.

  “Untie her” he ordered.

  “I wonder if he’s gettin’ soft” Tolivar asked himself. “It wouldn’t a took no more than 10 minutes to finish this job. Then we’d be on our way to N’awlins.

  “Hank, you and Cooter saddle yer’ horses, and meet me back here in ten minutes.

  “We’re gonna go find that runaway, come hell or high water”.

  * * *

  TABARI laid still in the tall cane stalks.

  The sun began beating down hard, causing him to sweat profusely. He had some water, but not enough to last until sundown. The cane leaves provided shade, but also a welcome habitat for mosquitoes. He dared not move. He knew Tolivar’s party would be riding by soon enough.

  An inviting shade tree stood not more than a hundred yards away, void of the tall cane stalks and mosquitoes, but too obvious a landmark for him to use. It cried out for company, but Tabari knew better. He’d wait until dark, then continue his journey.

  The three riders started down the road at a slow trot, Tolivar’s arm still tender but good enough to travel.

  “It’s not likely he’ll be walkin’ along this road” Tolivar noted.

  His men looked at each other and chuckled.

  “Ya’ think?” mocking Tolivar’s tremendous grasp of the obvious.

  “Alright ya’ smartasses”. He halted their party, and scanned the surrounding landscape for any sign of movement.

  “Look for weeds or cane leaves rustlin’. He’ll probably be at least a hundred yards in there”. They continued down the road, now at a slower pace as the sun heated up both them and their horses.

  No sign of Tabari. They’d met several parties travelling past. None had any information to offer.

  It was early afternoon when they saw the outskirts of the city. By the 1850s New Orleans was big. Tolivar knew that Tabari would probably remember where the Doctor’s home was, or used to be, as well as the saloon and Mrs. Harrison’s house. It wasn’t likely he’d return to any of those. He’d already told the other two about Tabari’s familiarity with these places.