by Ginny Dye
“Indeed it is,” Abigail said and then paused. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
“Safe?” Carrie asked, deciding to ignore her father’s earlier suggestion that the North might not welcome a wealthy Southern plantation owner’s daughter. “Why wouldn’t it be safe, Mama?”
Abigail turned to Thomas. “Ten slaves ran away from the Blackwell Plantation last night.” A strident note had crept into her voice. “The slave hunters are already out looking. It’s those blamed abolitionists!” she cried, fear and rage darkening her eyes. “They’re going to turn all our people against us! Why, they might harm Carrie if she goes north. It’s quite obvious she is well to do. They might target her as a plantation owner’s daughter.”
Carrie rolled her eyes and disappeared up the stairs to her room. She would let her father handle her mother’s latest tantrum. Nothing was going to keep her from making that trip to Philadelphia. Not even if she had to run away!
“Welcome home, Miss Carrie.”
The mutinous lines on Carrie’s face disappeared as Rose moved forward to greet her. The two friends hugged for a moment until Rose stepped back. Carrie sensed, rather than saw, the reserve in her friend. She decided to ignore it. She had plenty of other things to think about.
“How was Richmond, Miss Carrie?” Rose stepped away and began to unload the trunk Sam had already delivered to the room.
“Richmond was wonderful.” Carrie’s voice lacked the enthusiasm she had greeted her mother with.
Rose looked up with a question in her eye.
Carrie shrugged. “There were many wonderful things, but there were things that troubled me as well.” She was so glad to be home with Rose. She desperately needed someone to talk to. “I went to a slave auction, Rose.” Rose stiffened and turned back to her trunk as Carrie described it to her friend. Her voice broke and tears filled her eyes as she described Hannah being separated from her family. “It was horrible, Rose! It almost broke my heart!”
Finally, she noticed Rose was working steadily, her back turned. “Rose! Aren’t you listening to me?”
Rose nodded. “I’m listening, Miss Carrie.”
“Well, then,” Carrie said in an exasperated tone, “why don’t you turn around and look at me. Don’t you have anything to say?”
Long moments passed as silence filled the room. Slowly, Rose turned to face her. Carrie stared at the set, impassive features in her friend’s face. “How can you look like that? Don’t you care what happened to those slaves?” Carrie cried.
Rose stared hard at her, then dropped her eyes, and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “I care, Miss Carrie.”
Carrie looked at her friend. She couldn’t miss the trembling pain in Rose’s voice and eyes. Carrie was suddenly furious with herself. “I’m sorry, Rose,” she said softly. It was Rose’s turn to stare. “I forgot you don’t have a father because he was sold.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think I understood until now.” She continued in a voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry you don’t have a Daddy...”
Rose stood still as a statue.
Finally, Carrie looked up. “Is your Mama doing okay?” When Rose nodded, she simply said, “I think I’m going to go down and visit her today.”
“Mama will be happy to see you,” Rose said as she turned back to finish the unpacking.
Carrie slid off Granite and handed the reins to Miles. “He’s still wet from our run, but I walked back the last half mile to make sure he is cool.”
Miles nodded and smiled. “You always takes good care of him, Miss Carrie. I’ll make sure he gets a good groomin’ and some grain.”
Carrie smiled gratefully and turned toward the Quarters. She had hoped her run on Granite after supper would clear her head, but the confusion and heaviness were still there. She was going where she had always gone when she was little and this confused. She was going to Sarah.
Carrie sat rigidly in the hard chair across from Sarah. Once the initial greetings had been taken care of, a deep silence had fallen over the room. Bright sunshine still danced through the open door, but Carrie was unable to enjoy the performance. She knew Sarah wouldn’t hurry her, but she was impatient with her own inability to articulate her thoughts.
“Do you miss John?” she finally blurted out, looking up in time to catch the flicker of pain across the lined face.
“Yessum, I miss my John.”
Carrie looked sharply into her face. She saw no sign of anger or condemnation on the peaceful features. Just quiet acceptance. “How can you stand having him gone - knowing he was sold?”
Sarah peered deeply into Carrie’s eyes and then smiled gently. “You be askin’ ‘bout my John, but yo’ heart be wantin’ to know more.”
Carrie’s lips quirked upward in spite of her turmoil. “You always did know me a little too well.”
“If you didn’t want somebody to be knowin’ you, you wouldn’t have come to see old Sarah.”
Carrie sighed. “You are right as usual, Sarah. I’m very confused right now.”
Sarah nodded and settled back into her chair. “Lets be talkin’ ‘bout dat confusion, Miss Carrie”
Carrie looked into her caring face. “It’s slavery, Sarah. I’ve been told all my life that it is right. Actually, I never even questioned it. Until recently - now I’m questioning all of it!”
Sarah smiled again. “You be pickin’ a strange one to come talk to ‘bout slavery, Miss Carrie.”
Carrie shook her head. “No, I’m not! Don’t you see? I need to talk to someone who is a slave. Someone who will be honest with me.” She paused. “You’ve always been honest with me, Sarah. Please don’t stop now.”
Sarah settled back in her chair and stared thoughtfully at Carrie. Finally she began to speak. “I think ‘bout my John ever’ day. The nights - dey be the longest, tho. Don’t reckon I’ll ever quit wonderin’ where he be - what he be doing.” She shifted in her chair and leaned forward slightly. “I had to let him go, Miss Carrie. He’ll always be in my heart and mind, but I had to let go the longin’ or it would have plum killed me.”
“How did you let it go, Sarah?”
Sarah closed her eyes briefly. “I done give my John to de Lord, Miss Carrie.”
Carrie shook her head impatiently. “But aren’t you angry?”
“Not no more.”
“But why? What stopped you from being angry?”
Sarah smiled then - a smile of peace and victory. “De Lord done took all my anger, Miss Carrie. He washed me clean in de river.” Her face glowed as she told how the Lord had met her while she was trying to take her life in the James River.
Carrie, leaning forward, soaked up every word. There was no denying the peace on the old woman’s face, but still Carrie wasn’t finding out what she wanted to know. When Sarah finished and sat back, Carrie sighed in frustration. “That’s wonderful, Sarah.” Carrie knew all about God. That wasn’t what she’d come for, though.
“There ain’t no answers to life without God square in de middle of it, Miss Carrie.” Sarah seemed to know what she was thinking.
Carrie shook her head. “Maybe,” she said shortly. “What I really want to know is how you feel about slavery. Deep down inside. Not how you’ve been able to deal with it, but how you really feel about it.”
Sarah turned and looked out the door. The bright sunshine was now a golden glow turning her sordid little cabin into a tiny palace. Slowly, she turned back toward Carrie. “Miss Carrie, ain’t nuthin’ but the truth gonna satisfy you. I ain’t afraid of truth – I be afraid of what it might do to you. I ain’t so sure you be ready for the truth just yet.”
“I thought you told me the truth sets people free,” Carrie responded.
Sarah sighed and smiled slightly. “So I did, Miss Carrie.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head for a moment. Then she looked up, her eyes peaceful. “Ain’t nothin’ more I’d like den to be free, Miss Carrie. Slavery don’t just take a person’s body. It tries to take their s
oul - their mind. It tells dem they ain’t really a person - just a thin’ to be used by someone else.”
“My Father says it is our destiny to own slaves because you can’t take care of yourselves if left to be free.”
Sarah looked at her. “You figur’ dat to be true?”
Carrie shook her head.
“It’s true dat some black folk ain’t as smart as some white folk, but dats just because dey ain’t had the chance to learn.” She paused, a quiet twinkle in her eyes. “I know some white folk who ain’t nearly as smart as some black folk I know. The color of the skin don’t make no difference. It’s what be in the head and heart that count.”
“Do you think it’s wrong for white people to own slaves?”
The silence built between them again. Finally, Sarah looked up. “What I think don’t make no difference, Miss Carrie. It’s what you think that counts. That be a decision you got to be makin’ on your own.” Carrie groaned in frustration and Sarah smiled gently. “You got to keep lookin’ round you. Ask God to show you the truth. He’ll do it.” She hesitated, a troubled look on her face. “You know you could be borrowin’ trouble for yo’ self?”
Carrie sighed and nodded. “I already have, Sarah. I seem to be arguing a lot lately about slavery with the people I love most. I wish I could just let it go. But I can’t!” she cried. “I try to push it out of my heart and it runs right back in. I try to pretend it doesn’t matter to me, but it does!”
Sarah waited until Carrie looked up and met her eyes. “God don’t never take you somewhere He can’t carry you, Miss Carrie.”
“So you think God is doing this?”
“What you be thinkin’?”
Carrie stood up and strode angrily to the door. Then she turned around and stared at the old lady. “Can’t you just give me some straight talk, Sarah? Do you always have to answer my questions with questions of your own?”
Sarah smiled. “My answers ain’t the ones you goin’ to be livin’ yo life by. You’ll find yo answers - if you want them bad ‘nuff.” She stood and walked over to where Carrie was brooding by the door. “Look at me, Miss Carrie.” Carrie reluctantly looked down into Sarah’s luminous eyes. “What would you do if I was to do what you be askin’? If I was to give you my answers?”
Carrie smiled reluctantly. “I’d keep on askin’ questions.”
“Right! You be wantin’ answers, but I know you, girl. If you don’t be findin’ them answers on your own, they ain’t goin’ to mean nothing to you.”
“Can you tell me just one thing, Sarah?”
“Maybe.”
“If the North has their way and all the slaves are freed, how would you feel?”
The smile on Sarah’s face was all the answer she needed.
Ike Adams gave a tight-lipped grin as the baying of the hounds in the distance increased and seemed to focus on one spot. “I think we got ‘em, boys!”
The men around him murmured in agreement and pressed their sweating, blowing horses to move faster through the thick brush.
“I told Blackwell I wouldn’t come back without them niggers. I intend to keep my promise.” Abe Manson, Alfred Blackwell’s burly, beady-eyed overseer, wet his lips and gave a sour grin at the men surrounding him. A slave hunting party had been assembled as soon as word of the slaves escape had been received.
Adams had received word that a slave hunting party was assembling as soon as word of the slaves’ escape was received. He had been the first one there.
Tension was growing in the South as more and more slaves chose to make the break for freedom. A group of ten field hands from Blackwell had added their number to the statistics. They had been reported missing as soon as the slaves were called out into the tobacco fields. A stoic Blackwell had given Manson permission to do whatever it took to return the fleeing slaves. His eyes had glittered with anger as he told his overseer, “Just get them back here!” and turned to disappear into his mansion.
Manson had solicited a group of ten men from surrounding plantations, rounded up the dogs, and turned them loose. They had immediately picked up the trail. The men, even on horseback, had been hard pressed to keep up with them as the slave’s route led them through thick brush and deep ravines. All the men were hot, angry and cursing by the time the hounds announced they had caught their prey.
“Let’s finish it, boys!” Manson yelled. Whoops of victory filled the air as the party surged forward, their eyes red with the light of conquest.
Moments later their curses once more rang on the wind as they broke through the woods to discover the hounds milling in the middle of the dirt road leading north.
Manson jumped down to inspect a set of fresh wagon tracks in the dirt. His eyes glittered with rage when he looked up. “It’s those damn Yankees and their Underground Railroad again!” He stood, smashed his fist into his palm, and glared toward the North. “Well, it won’t be that easy! I told Blackwell I wasn’t coming back without them and I meant it. Who will join me?”
Downcast eyes and muttering told the story. They wanted to help but the tobacco was coming on strong and they couldn’t leave their plantations for extended periods of time. Shrugged shoulders told Manson he was on his own.
“Get you some slave hunters, Manson,” Adams suggested. “They’ll get them niggers back.”
Manson nodded shortly, wheeled his horse and took off at a rapid canter. The rest of the men turned back to their plantations, torn between anger and fear over who would suffer the next loss.
Jennings, the overseer from a neighboring plantation, edged his gelding up beside Adams. “You done anything about that Moses fellow yet?” Everyone had heard Ike’s plans to put the giant nigger in his place.
Adams flushed with anger and turned to stare hard at Jennings. “No! I had my chance and that upstart of a daughter of Cromwell’s stopped me,” he said tightly.
Jennings’ eyes grew wide.
Adams continued, the rage building in his voice. “She got that nigger off the hook once, but my time will come again.” He didn’t mention Carrie’s threat to monitor the condition of all the slaves. He had been working on a plan that would make sure Moses wouldn’t be found for a “check”. In the meantime, he was nursing a growing hatred for Cromwell’s beautiful daughter. No one humiliated him and got away with it. He would watch and wait. His chance would come to get even with her - without jeopardizing his job.
TWENTY
When Thomas and Robert stepped from the train in Baltimore, palpable tension permeated the salt air, and filled the faces of the men around them. There was none of the light-hearted confidence and excitement that had greeted Robert when he reached Charleston almost two months ago. The men gathering here knew there would be no third chance and most of them were already accepting the bitter truth that a split Democratic Party could never beat the Republican candidate, Abe Lincoln. They were here to do a job. They would do it, and then deal with the consequences as they came. There was no other course of action.
This was Robert’s first time in Baltimore. He had passed through on the train during his many trips to Philadelphia, but he had never visited the city. He took deep breaths of the soft, salty air and gazed out at the cluster of schooners, their sails furled tightly to their masts, bobbing in the harbor. The bustle of the train station was eclipsed by the organized chaos of the harbor; wagons rolling and men shouting as they transported goods that came into the harbor from all over the world. Robert couldn’t help thinking what a critical role this port town would play if the worst happened and war came to America.
Robert started when he felt a solid slap on his shoulder. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t let this one go by without seeing it for yourself.”
Robert spun with a quick smile. “Matthew! I was also quite sure you would be here to record the floundering of this convention.”
Both men’s smiles faded as the truth of his words about the next few days hit home. Matthew was the first to break the silence. “Who is your friend?”
Robert came to with a shake of his head and turned to Thomas. “Thomas Cromwell, I would like you to meet an old college buddy of mine, Matthew Justin. I hope you’ll be able to overlook the fact that he works for one of those Yankee newspapers and get to know him. In spite of his failings, he is a wonderful fellow!”
Matthew laughed as he shook Thomas’ hand warmly. “Are you a delegate, Cromwell?”
Thomas shook his head with a smile. “Heaven forbid I would have to jump into the middle of this fray. No, I simply came to see for myself what these gentlemen are going to do to my future.” His face sobered as he spoke.
Matthew nodded, understanding on his face. “If more people would be persuaded to do that there might be more consideration and careful thought before these men speak for the country as a whole. I think many times they forget there are millions of people whose lives they hold in their hands by their decisions.” The three men stood watching the bustle of activity around them. “Enough talk,” Matthew said. “I am sure you gentleman have hotel reservations. I have a carriage waiting. May I take you where you’re going?”
Once in their carriage, Thomas turned to Matthew. “I assume you were in Chicago for the Republican convention, Matthew?”
Matthew nodded. “The place was packed with the press. No one wanted to miss that show!”
“What do you think of this Lincoln fellow?” Thomas asked eagerly.
Matthew shrugged. “I was as surprised as everyone else when Seward lost the nomination. He was a shoo-in one minute – a has-been the next. That Davis fellow who masterminded Lincoln’s nomination is a veritable genius. His swaying the Pennsylvania delegation at the last minute assured Lincoln his spot. That,” he chuckled, “and his army of a cheering section in the WigWam – the huge building they used for the convention! You should have heard them! The morning of the nomination vote, Seward formed all his followers into a parade, and with the brass band blaring out what they thought was a victory song, they marched to fill the galleries. The only problem was,” he shrugged, “when they got there, there wasn’t any room for them. Davis had already filled them up with men who yelled their lungs out for Lincoln. He created a momentum that couldn’t be stopped.”
