by Hines, Jerri
Overwhelming relief flooded Jo that her cousin was safe, but as she read the telegram she was also stunned. Her hand shook while her eyes skimmed over the correspondence. The house had been burnt to the ground. Louis, Peggy, Sarah, and two of Sarah’s children had been killed.
Andrew rose and stoked the fire in silence. Sitting the poker back against the hearth, he turned. “We should know more in the morning. I will make inquiries.”
“I need to go to Grace Ann.”
“We need to get more information before making a move,” Andrew said firmly. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to go into danger, but we will do all we can to help your cousin.”
Quietly, she excused herself and made her way back to her room. There was nothing more to be said, not until the revolt was put down.
* * * *
Death was in the air. The well-remembered mansion was in ruins, burnt to the ground. In the late morning, the sun’s rays gleamed eerily down on the ruins, giving light to an unearthly quiet. Every building on the grounds, the stables, the cookhouse: everything was gone. Nothing of the magnificent plantation remained; only two bricked chimneys stood over the ashes as a memorial of what had been.
Jo walked along the edge of what had been the main house, horrified at the sight. The souls who died that heartbreaking night loomed before her. As she drew in a deep breath, she gathered up her courage to do what she must.
Despite Andrew declaring she had lost all common sense, Jo had traveled with him to Camden. She adamantly refused to be left behind when she discovered the revolt had been contained to the Whitney plantation and had been swiftly put down.
She had reasoned she would be in little peril, but along the journey, she, too, wondered whether she had ventured on a fool’s errand. So much had changed since her last visit. Moreover, she had brought little Madeline with her. She had refused a wet-nurse for Madeline when she was born, so Jo had little choice.
Perhaps she had been irrational in her thinking, but she had an immediate need to see her cousin. In so doing, ignored the fact that the world around her had been spun on its axis. Despite the desperate desire to cling to a semblance of what had been, Jo could not deny what had been in the past as clear as black and white had become hazy and distorted.
The revolt at Whitney Hall had sent shock waves throughout the community. The countryside was besieged under a dread of the unknown. Fear encompassed the town, regardless of being in no immediate danger. Ramblings reverberated throughout the streets. Damn Yankees, instigating slaves to kill whites! Heathens! We aren’t safe laying our heads on our pillows at night.
The people of Camden’s fears were unfounded. The uprising had been contained at Whitney Hall to a group of unruly bucks. Furthermore, the slave patrol had been vigilant. Less than a day after the massacre, all of the rebellious blacks who had been credited with the attack had been captured and hung.
On her arrival, Jo settled Madeline at the Camden Inn with Rosa and then immediately sought out her cousin. A cry erupted from her throat when she first saw Grace Ann. She hadn’t been prepared for the sight. The poor dear was battered and bruised; her shoulder sagged. Her face was scratched; one eye swollen, black and blue.
Grace Ann burst into tears and incoherent mumblings. Jo took Grace Ann in her arms and rocked her cousin, but she couldn’t be calmed.
“I hear screams,” Grace Ann bemoaned. As if reliving the moment, her hands covered her ears. “Make them stop! Make them stop!”
“Darling, it’s over. Over,” Jo whispered. Tears burned Jo’s eyes, knowing she hadn’t the power to stop the noise for Grace Ann. “Perhaps it would be best not to talk of it. I’m here. Let me take care of you.”
“No…no,” Grace Ann pleaded as she gripped frantically at Jo’s arm. “I need to tell someone. I can’t talk with Mr. Whitney…. He’s worried about me and the children…he’s lost so much…Oh, Jo!”
Jo wanted to say it was best to forget, but Grace Ann was inconsolable and calmed only after she had cried herself to sleep.
Throughout the night, Grace Ann would wake. Sometimes, Grace Ann would have to be reminded where she was; other times, she talked. Jo listened and her heart ached.
With the morning sun, Jo had traveled out to Whitney Hall to where she stood now—to salvage anything that survived the fire. Sadly, Jo looked over the pile of burnt rubble. There was nothing.
Charred remnants crackled under her foot. In her mind, she conjured up the house that had stood proudly only a short time ago. With each step, she heard Grace Ann’s haunting voice recite the tale…
It was as most nights since Louis returned from the army. We were in the parlor, waiting for Mr. Whitney’s presence so we could continue in for dinner. Louis was upon his four or fifth glass of wine, expounding on the failings of Davis and then the wine ran dry.
The house black stepped forward with another bottle. Cursing under his breath, Louis grabbed it. Immediately, the houseboy retreated as Louis threw the empty container at him. He missed and it shattered against the brick hearth.
“Louis!”
I turned to see Mr. Whitney in the doorway. It was obvious he was upset. His face was blotted red; his chest heaved violently.
“Ah, Father, you have returned. Now, finally we can eat.”
“The ladies can lead; we will follow. There is a matter I wish to discuss with you in private, Louis.”
“Where are your manners, Father? It would be rude for us to exclude our women. For shame!”
“Shame! You talk to me of shame! I have just returned from the banks of the Wateree River. Agy’s body has been recovered…you do remember Agy!”
“The black wench from the kitchen,” Louis answered caustically. “She drowned?”
“You tell me to my face you didn’t know she walked into the river with her two small girls, who drowned as well. You bastard! After I threatened Davie, he told me the whole sordid tale! The woman could take no more from you.”
“Father, you are unjustly condemning me. How is it my blame that a madwoman kills herself and children?”
“It was you who drove her to this! Willy is mad with grief. Now I will have to handle him. You have cost me much with your careless behavior.”
Mr. Whitney’s voice resonated within the room. He stomped over and jerked the bottle of wine out of Louis’s hand. “Disgraceful. Your brother is fighting for our honor and you have behaved in the most reprehensible manner.”
Louis grabbed back the bottle and shoved Mr. Whitney. “You are making too much of this. Upset with a dead nigger!”
It was then I saw a red glow growing out the window. Confusion turned quickly to alarm. The slave cabins were on fire…clamorous voices erupted. Then, without warning, Willy appeared in the room, holding a field knife.
He was a tall, black man, muscular defined even through his shirt. His white teeth and eyes glared with a frenzied look. Mr. Whitney screamed for us to leave the room. I did as I was bidden, only glancing back to see Willy lunge at Louis. A gut-wrenching cry cut through me as I ran out the door.
In the foyer, my heart froze in terror. Three more bucks had bolted in the front door. Danta, our butler, lay on the floor in a puddle of blood. Peggy refused to leave Louis. Sarah and I had no time to argue with her, but scrambled up the stairs. A strong hand grabbed my leg, sending me sprawling down.
Cries of fear…of pain surrounded me. I fought, kicking and screaming. A shot was fired. Then I was freed. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Mr. Whitney holding a pistol, still smoking.
Mr. Whitney yelled. “Run! Get the children! Don’t look back!”
Frantic, I fled…leaving Sarah at the top of the stairs, running to save her children. Upstairs, the nursery girls helped me…thank God because there was no other help. The other house slaves had disappeared. I grabbed Mirabella and held Elijah’s hand and we raced down the back stairs.
The children…all of Peggy’s children…we saved them, even the baby. Sarah tried to save all of hers. The
older ones got out, but Lord have mercy, Sarah and her youngest two, Teresa and little Joshua…couldn’t be saved. Everything happened so fast. We ran all the way until the woods. Only then did we turn…the house was engulfed in flames.
Rising from the ashes, a story was spun of discontent slaves—striking out at their master and incited by Yankee propaganda—who had caused the revolt. The truth—that Louis had abused the slave girl, Agy, for years…had fathered children by her—would never be acknowledged.
Jo shuddered at the thought of what Agy must have endured to have chosen to take her own life and those of her daughters. The hopelessness…the bleakness. In turn, her husband, Willy, had struck back, violently and brutally.
He avenged his wife’s death. In the end, Louis, Sarah, Peggy, and Sarah’s two small children died torturous deaths, along with twelve faithful slaves. So senseless. So tragic. For what? It gained nothing. Willy and the four other slaves had, too, lost their lives.
“I’m sorry you had to see this.” Mr. Whitney walked through the rubble to Jo’s side. “I knew there was nothing that was salvageable. I hadn’t the heart to break it to Grace Ann.”
“It needed to be done. There is no need for her to see any of this.” Jo spoke abstractedly in a low voice, looking out over the ruins. Silence followed.
Grief gripped her soul, encased in an overwhelming sadness. She had no more tears. Her tears had long dried, replaced with an endless void of her yesteryears.
“Spawn of Satan!” Mr. Whitney suddenly uttered under his breath, his face blank with consternation. “To lash out in such a rage! To kill innocents! It is this damn war!”
Jo made no response. She had known him as a kind and wise man. Strong in his silent manner. She had never seen this side of him. His rage scared her.
The fire’s haze still covered his heart. Mr. Whitney saw only insolent slaves: unfaithful, unreliable, and vicious. Though, she could not deny that even the slaves at Magnolia Bluff were acting differently, as if they sensed freedom on the horizon, but she could never imagine them taking such a violent act.
Common sense dictated that she couldn’t ignore that times had changed. Had not the massive defection of slaves in Beaufort shown that slaves were not as content with their situation as white plantation owners had proclaimed? The slaves had not only refused to join their owners and flee into the woods when the Yankees arrived—why, the Yanks themselves had to stop the looting and burning of their masters’ mansions! Then the question became would open defiance become commonplace or Heaven forbid, as it had here at Whitney Hall, insurrection?
Andrew assured her that would never happen at Magnolia Bluff, but she had begun to wonder whether the South hadn’t, in its own disregard of human life, brought down the wrath of God himself upon them.
“At times there is no reason, only the aftermath we have to find a way to survive,” Jo offered, emotionally exhausted herself. “When Wade died, I had no choice but to focus upon Percival and the new baby. Their welfare and future is now mine alone to ensure. I don’t have time for any other sentiment, especially one I have no control over. Perhaps, yours now should focus upon Grace Ann and her convalescing.”
Mr. Whitney scowled. “Are you questioning the care of my wife?”
“I believe you are hurting. So is she,” Jo asserted. “Grace Ann needs to heal and she can’t do so here. She spoke to me once about your plantation in North Carolina. Small. Quaint. A wonderful place to raise children.”
“Truth is, it has been a thought. At least, for a time until Whitney Hall can be rebuilt.” His hand rubbed across his mouth as he sighed. “Peter telegrammed he’s taking a leave and has already arranged for Peggy’s sister to take his children. Grace Ann wants to take Louis’s children as our own.”
“I know it is her wish. I’m sure she will make a wonderful mother. Percival adores her,” Jo said, fully aware that Grace Ann needed the children as much as the children needed her. “She hasn’t said so, but I believe she is hurt that Aunt Sybil hasn’t come.”
“And well Mrs. Haynes won’t,” Mr. Whitney said in a strangled voice. “Her father has seen to that. I’m not sure you’re aware that he disowned Grace Ann after I sided with the Montgomerys after you married Wade.”
“No…Grace Ann never mentioned it.” In silence, her eyes met his. There was an immediate understanding that Grace Ann, too, had paid a price. It was an upsetting thought.
“I’m certain it is not Mrs. Haynes’s doing,” Mr. Whitney said flatly. “Though, she sent a note. In it, she also informed Grace Ann that Buck had returned to the Groves.”
“Buck—home? I had not heard...” Her voice trailed off. An old fear sharpened. She had not thought of her cousins in such a long time. “Harry Lee?”
“I heard a rumor that Harry Lee is in a Yankee prison camp, as I heard that Buck deserted.”
Alarmed, Jo couldn’t ignore the unbridled fear that filled her. Stumbling over her words, she asked, “When…when did he return? Do…you…?”
“I’m unsure, but would imagine it has been a couple of months. I have already alerted Andrew to the situation and he assures me that he is keeping a close eye on Buck. I would not be overly worried. I doubt Buck would make a move without Harry Lee. Moreover, despite that Wade is no longer with us, the arrangements he made are still in place.”
She felt a chill up her spine, but also a sudden resolve that she would not be ruled by the fear her cousins inflicted by the mere mention of their names. She was a different person than she was before the war…unimaginable loss changes a person.
“You are not alone.” Mr. Whitney reached over and squeezed her hand. “Go now and please tell Mrs. Whitney I will return by dark.”
* * * *
The drive back to Camden weaved the carriage along a path of devastation. The row of whitewashed slave cabins was gone. The only evidence was the blackened spots on the ground.
As she looked out the window, she fought back melancholy as she studied the landscape. The sky darkened with the promise of rain. In her view, she noticed the split-rail fence broken and splintered; the slaves’ garden patches seemed to have been trampled. The livestock pens were emptied. Odd for five slaves to have caused such damage.
At the end of the lane, a temporary shelter had been built for the homeless slaves…the ones who had stayed. Most seemed to have taken flight.
Near the creek’s edge, the threatening clouds began to sputter raindrops. Suddenly, out of the woods, dogs ran wild on the trail of a scent. Barking madly, the pack swiftly crossed the water to the other side, followed closely by Johnnie Syms, Mr. Whitney’s overseer, on horseback.
The carriage slowed to allow the overseer to cross. He turned and tipped his hat in a polite manner. Then an abrupt screech erupted: a cry for help. At first, Jo thought she imagined it, but another shriek, a gut-wrenching scream…from a child.
“Stop! Stop!” Jo pounded her hand frantically on top of the carriage over and over until the carriage halted.
Swinging back the door, she stepped out. Her eyes caught movement in the woods. Looking back over her shoulder, she called to the driver, “Don’t sit there. There is a child out there!”
The old black man shook his head. “No, ma’am. Master says to getca back to town. Ya best get back in.”
In front of her, Syms turned back to her. “Malcolm’s right, Mrs. Montgomery. It’s not safe for ya to go into these woods. Still rounding up the niggers who helped ole Willy.”
Her heart pounded, but another cry pulled her out of the cloud of fear for herself. “Mr. Whitney would not allow me to go back alone if he was concerned about my safety…that is a child!”
Not waiting for an answer, she rushed by Syms and through the shallow water across the creek. The dogs’ bark heightened as if they had trapped their prey. Climbing up the muddy bank, she tripped, but it served only to deter her momentarily. Ignoring her scratched, stinging hands, she made her way through the briars and bushes.
Abruptly, she
halted. “Oh, my God!”
Riding up beside her, Syms said, “Mrs. Montgomery, I tole ya it would be best if ya returned to the carriage. I’ll take care of this.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, she steadfastly refused. “Call them off! Call them off now!”
“Mrs. Montgomery…”
Breathing hard, she shouted, “Now! This is atrocious! If you are a Christian man, call the dogs off the boy!”
His color was high; his face contorted. With the greatest reluctance, he whistled. The dogs’ barking ceased. Behind him, four blacks ran up and grabbed the hounds.
Deeply disturbed, Jo ran forward toward the frightened child. The small, light-skinned child looked up at her. Good Gracious! He couldn’t be any more than five or six! His terror-filled eyes widened as he recoiled from her touch. He wore only tattered pants and no shoes. Despite being covered in dirt and mud, she saw clearly his chest and arms were covered in bruises and wounds.
Jo wanted to wrap her arms about him and comfort him, but he had soiled himself badly. Instead, she offered him her hand. “Come with me. Trust me. No one is going to hurt you.”
He said nothing, but the whole of his body trembled.
Turning, she shooed the dogs and men back with her hand. “Be gone. Obviously, he’s not the one you are looking for…” As she looked into their faces, her words faded. “Surely not.”
Syms dismounted and walked toward the boy. “I told ya, ma’am. It’s best you go back to town and leave him to us.”
She looked at him, and then back at the child. “I’m not going anywhere, not until you tell me what in Heaven’s name is going on.”
“His momma is the one who caused the whole revolt. Killed herself and babies. Got ole Willy all worked up. Can’t have the likes of ’em around.”
Aghast, she whispered, “He’s a child.”
“His daddy was sick in the soul. Ain’t no cure for that. Ya look at the youngin’ ’em eyes. He’ll grow up and slit your throat...”
Interrupting him, she declared, “Don’t you take that tone with me! I will tell Mr. Whitney what I have seen and he will deal with the likes of you.”
