Antebellum Struggles

by Dickie Erman

  “I don’t know them” he responded, then added: “The newspaper. It’s called ‘The Herald Beacon’, or somethin’ like that. It’s over on River Street, over thar’” he said, pointing toward the location. “That’s all I can tell ‘ya” he said, while grabbing the empty trash can and scurrying back toward the saloon.

  “It’s a red building” he half hollered, as he used his foot to swing open the door.

  “Da’ Herald Beacon newspaper” he said to himself. “River Street. What’s Miss Greta got to do wid’ a newspaper?” He knew he couldn’t read any of the street signs, but he’d sure be able to spot a red building. He’d seen the direction the boy pointed, and for now, that was enough.

  * * *

  HE well knew it’d be difficult. It’s not like he had any prearranged meeting with a certain person, on a certain day, at certain time and place. The name Demi gave him, ‘Greta Fitzgerald’, was all he had.

  “One thing at a time” he thought to himself. “Hell, I didn’t have no food, no water, but that all worked out. So far, so good”.

  When he found the newspaper building, then what? He couldn’t look more suspicious.

  “Runaway nigger” he thought. “Everybody gonna see that”. He thought of all these problems before he’d escaped from the plantation, but suppressed them because seeking freedom, even without a plan, was more preferable to slavery.

  “Red sign, red sign” he muttered to himself as he slowly walked along one of the streets where the saloon boy had pointed. “Maybe dis ain’t the street” he thought, rightly paranoid that he might be detected.

  “Ah! Dis is it”. He saw the red paint and his reflection in the large window glass as he looked to the top of the facade. “Dis must be it”.

  Quickly shuffling to the side, he walked to the back of the structure to see if the building was raised off the ground. It was. He crawled underneath, until he reached a cinder block pier that helped carry the building’s weight.

  “Dis will do for da night”, he thought. He had no idea what he’d do in the morning. Right now, it didn’t matter. Exhausted, but no longer from hunger or thirst, he laid his head on his arm and fell fast asleep.

  * * *

  HE was fully rested when the first light of day came.

  He sat up, leaned against the pier, and waited. For what, he didn’t know. But within an hour, the situation began to unfold, as he heard two people, a man and woman, step onto the front porch and unlock the door.

  He heard their footsteps on the floor, causing a light sprinkling of dust to fall through the wood planks above him.

  Miss Greta was dead, the saloon boy would be of no more help, and he knew no one else.

  “I think I gotta trust these people” he thought to himself. “The boy said ‘the newspaper’. Dat must mean da people who works here was friends a Miss Greta”.

  He crawled to the opening where he’d entered last night, and waited, frequently peeking his head around to make sure he stayed well hidden.

  An hour later, he heard the back door open, and watched as a young woman stepped off the porch carrying some papers. She went to a trash can, not far from the door, and dumped them inside. As she turned back toward the door, their eyes locked.

  Tabari’s whole body tensed, unsure if he should scamper out from beneath the building and run, or whether this was the moment of contact he’d been praying for.

  The woman immediately sensed he was a runaway. He could simply be a homeless man, stealthily seeking shelter for the night, now hungry, thirsty and scared. But she knew better. She’d seen that look of fear many times before. He remained mostly still hidden, but she could see his dirty tattered clothes, twigs and dirt clinging to his hair.

  Melba had worked for the newspaper for three years. She’d joined the staff at the request of Miss Greta, whom she’d known for several years before she passed. The ‘staff’ was only the two of them, herself and Tom Wilkens.

  Wilkins was in his 50s, a retired farmer who started the newspaper five years ago. A devout abolitionist, he successfully ran his farm without slaves, paying small wages to both white and black laborers, allowing them to sharecrop and sell some of their own harvests. His success wasn’t close to that of the farms and plantations that used slave labor, but he and his wife lived comfortably within their means.

  The ‘Herald Beacon’ was his way of spreading the word of the atrocities of slavery, and included articles from many prominent authors, businessmen, and politicians, mainly from the free northern states.

  It had a small readership in New Orleans, and he and Melba were constantly on edge, receiving vile threats from hardened slave owners and plain redneck nigger haters.

  Melba scooched low to get a better look. Tabari was still frozen, waiting to see whether he should run, or would be offered her friendship. Her gentle smile answered his prayer.

  “You can’t stay there all day” she said warmly. “Come on inside. Coffee’s brewin’, and there’s food to eat”.

  Tabari poked his head out, searching to see if he’d be spotted. The coast seemed clear. He crawled out towards her, stood up, and dusted off his shirt and pants. He partially trembled as he anxiously waited for her to step onto the porch and escort him inside.

  Tabari entered, then froze again as he saw Wilkins for the first time.

  Tom was leaned over his printing press, studiously engaged in preparing the typesetting for the next edition.

  “Ahem” Melba half whispered, to get Tom’s attention.

  Tom stood up, looked at her, then saw Tabari.

  “You look a little lost” he said warmly. He then walked over to the two, and put out his hand to shake.

  “I’m Tom, Tom Wilkins” he greeted. “And you are?” He looked to Melba.

  “Why, I don’t know your name” turning to Tabari. “We haven’t been formally introduced”.

  “My … my name’s Tabari”. Tom reached out, took his right hand, and shook it vigorously.

  “Well, now we’ve been formally introduced” he said with a big smile. The three stood awkwardly, not sure how to continue the conversation.

  “Tabari, I have an idea why you’re here” Tom stated, matter of factly. “But you tell me … ah … ‘us’ that is” nodding toward Melba.

  Tabari was still speechless. These two seemed so genuine, so friendly. But he didn’t know who, if anyone, he could or should trust. There seemed to be no choice. It was him and them. He let out a deep sigh, then relaxed.

  “I don’t know wheres to go. I come from a plantation some distance from here” he half stammered. “I was told to find a Miss Greta. Miss Greta Fitzgerald” he offered, hoping to see some recognition in their faces.

  “But now I’s been told dat she died. I was hopin’ she could a helped me”.

  “I think we understand” Melba answered softly, glancing toward Tom. “Miss Greta was a fine woman. She helped many a person, just like you”. She avoided using the term ‘runaway slave’, not wanting to frighten him anymore than he already was.

  “I think we can help you” Tom offered, as he moved to make sure both doors were locked.

  “Miss Greta, God rest her soul, was a wonderful person who cared deeply about slaves. She hated slavery, as do Melba and me” looking knowingly at her.

  Tabari was too excited not to interrupt.

  “I’s heard about a underground railroad, an’ ‘conductors’ that helps peoples like me” he stammered. Tom and Melba looked at each other and smiled knowingly.

  “Yes. There are such people” she almost giggled, looking at Tom. “We’re two of them”.

  Tabari could have fainted from delight.

  “What da yous do?” he asked, much relaxed now. He was almost as curious about the printing and type setting machines as he was about how they could help him escape.

  “We print newspapers” Tom answered. “Do you read” he asked politely, already knowing the answer.

  Tabari shook his head, “no sir”.

&nb
sp; “The good Lord put Miss Greta on this earth to help end slavery” he explained. “She was a very generous woman, and gave lots of her time, and money, to help people like me and Melba. To help us help people like you.

  “Our newspaper is read by all sorts of folks. People who are against slavery, and people who support it”.

  “But it’s especially meant for people who want to keep slavery” Melba added. Tabari looked puzzled.

  “We explain to them how horrible it is. How it robs the individual … you … of your freedom. How it breaks up families. How it all could eventually lead to a war.

  “A civil war” she declared, the last few words said in a whisper.

  “You means dat white folks would be fighten’ over slavery?” he whispered back. I ain’t never heard nothin’ like dat fore”.

  “It’s possible” Tom replied. “Worse than that. It means a slave owner could be fighting against his own son, who doesn’t believe in slavery”.

  “My Lordie” Tabari mumbled out loud as he shook his head.

  “Tell me” he pleaded. “Can ya helps me?”

  Tom offered him a chair, then pulled his own next to him. “It’s possible” he answered, then paused, trying to remember ...

  “Tabari. My names Tabari”.

  “Yes, yes. Thank you. Tabari, Melba and I can help you, but it’s got to go slowly. Arrangements have to be made first. Where you’ll go to, who’ll be there to help you”.

  He smiled, thinking how the ‘underground railroad’ was a perfect metaphor for the planning needed.

  Tabari nodded with anticipated pleasure. This was how he’d hoped it would unfold. Planning. No guesswork. No surprises. A well thought out map to get him, step by step, to freedom.

  “First, you’ll need a place to stay … until we can arrange all the details”. He looked around the room, then at Melba. Obviously, the place was right here.

  “You can stay here until we’re ready. Melba and I can bring you food, water, and clothes. You need to get out of those clothes” he said, unexpectedly moving his nose away from Tabari’s offending odor.

  “There’s an outhouse at the back of this building. When it’s dark, I’ll show it to you. I don’t have to tell you how secretive you must be. If someone spots you, anyone, and turns you in to the authorities, there’s nothing Melba and I can do to help. You understand?”

  “Yes sir” Tabari responded intensely. “I knows how to stay otta sight. Won’t nobody see me”.

  “Good, good” Tom replied. “You’ve got to stay away from that window” he instructed, pointing to the large window covered with opaque drapes. “You can sleep in that corner. We’ll bring you some blankets and a pillow”.

  Tabari was almost in tears, so grateful for their generosity. “Ya knows I ain’t got nothing to repay ya with” he remorsefully confessed.

  “That’s not why we do this” Melba offered. “We do it because, well, because it’s the Godly and right thing to do. But you must understand. You have to follow our instructions, all of them. If you’re caught, that means that my life, and Tom’s will also be in danger.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I surely does”.

  34

  A MANA ALWAYS HAD NIGHTMARES about her journey to New Orleans. Just days after the ship departed Martinique, she thought her prayers had been answered and she’d be free of her shackle and the putrid squalor where they all were chained.

  Four crewmen plodded down the wooden stairs into the holding area. They carried no food, only heavy chains and shackles, and a hard wooden club.

  She was laying on her left side, avoiding any touch to her right hip, the skin having worn off from repeated scrapings on the wooden floor. She watched as one by one, ten female slaves were released from their iron clasps, their wrists then reattached to one of the many shackles running the length of a long and heavy rope.

  They were being led up the wobbly stairs to the open deck on top. As the last crewman started to ascend, he paused, then turned toward Amana.

  He unlocked her wrist shackle and hollered “Go”, nodding toward the stairs. She hesitated, confused as to why he would want her to leave, unfettered.

  “Go” he hollered again. As she scurried up the stairs, she saw him unlocking the shackle of the woman who had laid next to her.

  She almost collapsed from exhilaration when she reached the top and inhaled the fresh sea air. The stench from below wafted up through the open hatch, but dissipated quickly as she ran to the side of the ship, next to the other slaves.

  The whole ordeal was incomprehensible. Ten, now twelve women, huddled together, naked, on a ship’s top deck, being ogled and laughed at by barbarian crew members who smelled only slightly better than the putrid holding areas below.

  Splash! The salt water from a wooden bucket crashed into the face of one of the slaves. Amana stared at the deck where her calloused feet stood. “Bath time” she muttered.

  The nearby crew formed a type of water brigade, hauling up bucket after bucket of ocean water and then drenching each woman, head to feet. The first dousing felt like fire on Amana’s right hip, the salt water inflaming her exposed nerves. Once past the initial shock, she momentarily felt refreshed, the cold water cooling and cleansing her skin as the hot sun quickly dried her.

  “Come here!” ordered a skinny crewman, fully four inches shorter than she. He grabbed her by the arm but she crumpled to the deck, shivering in fear and balling into a fetal position.

  The bastard became enraged as he watched the crew laugh and point, entertained by his diminutive size and muscular inferiority. Amana was waiting for him to grab a club and beat her senseless, before the rape began.

  Instead, his eyes locked onto the other woman who’d been released, unshackled. She froze with fear, unable to ward him off as he rushed and tackled her to the deck. He punched her repeatedly in the face until she went limp, no longer flailing her arms to stop the attack.

  He rolled her over and then entered, all the while the hoots and howls from the subhuman crew created a surreal scene of bestial revulsion.

  Nearly each man then took his turn, as Amana and the other women watched in horror. Captain LaCrosse watched also, sipping rum from his tin flask. He would have loved to have joined the carnage, but syphilis had long since rendered him impotent.

  Amana’s nightmare was just beginning.

  35

  “I

  ’LL RIDE OUT TO THE JEFFERSON’S farm just before dark” Tom told Melba, within earshot of Tabari.

  “Tabari, Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson have helped us out many times before. Just like us, they’re some of the ‘conductors’ you’ve been searching for. They’re fine people, and can help you get to your next destination. Your next ‘station’. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes sir”.

  “We’ve got to do this quickly. You can’t stay in one place too long. Someone might find out.

  “Melba, can you go find Tabari a set of clothes? And some food and water?

  “Tabari, when we leave here this afternoon, you need to stay put, in the corner. The doors will be locked. Obviously, if anyone comes by, knocks on the door or anything, you stay put. Quiet as a mouse. Understood?”

  “Yes sir”. Tom’s tone made him nervous, but he understood the risks and urgency of it all. “I won’t move nowheres”.

  * * *

  LATE afternoon, Melba returned, carrying food, water and clothes in a woven picnic basket, a blanket draped across to conceal the contraband.

  “Here’s everything you’ll need for tonight” she said. “I just can’t stress this enough. You’ve got to stay put. Don’t move, no matter what”.

  “I understands” he replied, as she showed him the smuggled goods.

  “Melba, it’s time for me to go. I’ve got to go home, saddle my horse, and tell the Mrs. where I’m headed. I’ll see you here in the morning.

  “Tabari. You’ll be alright?”

  “Yes ‘em. An Mr
. Tom, thanks you”. Tom smiled, and quietly exited through the back door.

  36

  T HE CLOVERDALE HOTEL was mighty fine, no doubt about that. New Orleans did itself proud with that world class landmark. Beautiful lobby, plenty of wealthy guests, and probably the best saloon west of Georgia.

  But the Doctor was getting bored with all the fine dining, gourmet food and snobbish guests. He didn’t seem to be able to impress enough of them, the ignorant bastards.

  Early one evening, after a few too many, he haphazardly stumbled upon a dinner party of real physicians and their wives. With nothing else to offer, he made the mistake of boasting about his slippery elm concoction of mucilage and calcium oxalate.

  Like Senator Harrison, the real doctors knew he was no more than a charlatan, and summarily dismissed his welcome.

  No, the Doctor needed some refuge in a ‘real’ saloon.

  A place where honest, hard-working men gathered to share a beer and a tale or two of woe. He needed to find a place where he’d be appreciated, respected as a fine physician and upstanding member of society.

  He found the Mad Dog Saloon.

  “Gentlemen, mind if I join you?” he asked as he stood at an empty bar stool, next to two unemployed horse bums drinking cheap whiskey.

  “Why, ain’t you the fancy dude” the fattest one said, looking the Doctor up and down in his fine three-piece suit.

  “Why, I ain’t seen so pretty dressed a feller since … never!” the two laughed hysterically, nearly spilling their drinks.

  The Doctor held up three fingers, instructing the bartender to pour a shot for each of them.

  “Well, shit” said the slightly less fat one. “I guess we need to take that one back. I ain’t always got good manners, but I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. I apologize, sir. My name’s Slim”.

  The other saddle tramp snorted so hard he nearly spit out his last sip. “Slim!” he laughed, as he sized up his fat partner’s excessive girth, nearly as large as his own.