by Lynn Austin
The boys skipped off to the woodpile, with little Jack still reciting, “Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine . . . What comes next Rufus?”
“Forty.” Their voices faded in the distance, still counting together.
Roselle was gone for such a long time that Lizzie began to grow worried. Was she having trouble finding the pan? Did Miz Eugenia call her to do something? She decided to head up the path to the Big House and see what was keeping her. But just as she reached the top of the rise, she saw Roselle running toward her shouting, “Mama! Mama, something terrible has happened!”
Lizzie felt her knees go weak, imagining the worst. “What, honey?”
“I haven’t looked at my ducks all week, and so I decided to go look at them now—and they’re gone! Mama, they’re gone!”
Lizzie’s strength returned with a rush of relief. There wasn’t a crisis, after all. “Those eggs probably hatched open, honey. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah . . . The shells are all broken open, and the mama and papa duck and five of the babies are gone, but three of them got left behind. They’re all alone, Mama! I watched and waited and looked all around, hoping the mama and papa duck would come back for them, but those poor little babies are all by themselves. They’re wandering all around the nest and peeping like their hearts might break, and they’re all alone!”
That was the way of nature, Lizzie wanted to say, the way of life. It was hard, and sometimes innocent creatures were left to fend for themselves. It would be a hard lesson for Roselle to learn, but it couldn’t be helped. “Listen, honey. From what I know about ducks, they head for a pond or a stream just as soon as the babies hatch. That’s where they live—in the water—when they ain’t setting on their nest.”
“What about the last three babies? Will the parents come back for them?”
“Far as I know, ducks can’t count. They don’t understand that three of them are missing. Maybe those three eggs hatched open a little later than the others or maybe the babies dawdled behind. Either way, they’re out of luck, I guess.”
Roselle began to cry. From the time she was just a little girl she’d always had a tender heart. She wouldn’t hardly let Lizzie step on an ant, and she would cry if you swatted a fly. Now she was heartbroken over three baby ducks. “They’ll die, won’t they?” Roselle sniffed. “What if a raccoon or a hawk catches them and eats them?”
“That’s the way things work in nature.”
“I don’t like nature!” she said, stomping her foot. “I have to do something!”
Otis and the boys came running up the hill to see what all the fussing was about. Lizzie told them about the three little ducklings who’d been left behind. “Can’t I bring them home with me?” Roselle asked. “I’ll take care of them.”
“Now, how you gonna feed them and take care of them?” Lizzie asked. “You taking them with you to school all day?”
“I have to try, Mama! I have to!”
“Wait just a minute now,” Otis said in his calm voice. “I think I have an idea. Let’s go find those babies and put them in the coop with the chickens. They’ll be safe from the raccoons and they’ll have food to eat, and maybe the hens will take care of them for you and keep them warm at night until they can be on their own.”
“Will the chickens hurt them?” Roselle asked, still tearful.
“Let’s try it and see.”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Lizzie said. “Them chickens have been wanting to set on their eggs and hatch out some babies in the worst way, but Miz Eugenia keeps eating all the eggs every morning.”
Roselle showed them where the duck nest had been, and after chasing the scared babies around for several minutes, Otis fetched a burlap sack and used it to catch all three ducklings. He carried them up to the chicken yard and set them inside the fence. Everybody watched for a few minutes, but the chickens didn’t seem to pay them any mind at all. They were more interested in seeing if Lizzie was bringing them some crumbs to eat.
“Let’s leave them alone now,” Otis said, “and go eat our fish. The ducks will be fine. You’ll see.”
He and Lizzie left for the shantytown later that night after the fish was eaten and the fire had gone out and the boys were in bed. They took the shortcut through the cotton field this time, a bright quarter moon lighting their way. “How many stars do you think are up there in heaven?” Lizzie asked, looking up.
Otis laughed. “I don’t even know numbers that go that high. Maybe Jack can tell us after he finishes learning how to count.”
The shantytown looked like it had grown since the last time Lizzie had visited, with even more tents and campfires and makeshift shacks nestled in the woods. Someone was playing a fiddle, and folks were having a good time, singing and clapping and laughing. Maybe it would be better to live out here and cook for her own family instead of wearing herself out, ironing tablecloths and polishing furniture for Miz Eugenia. Her kids could still walk to school from here, couldn’t they? She was about to ask Otis about it when he spotted his brother and hurried ahead to greet him. Lizzie went over to talk with Dolly and Cissy, who used to work in the Big House with her.
“Hey, Lizzie! Sit down here and talk awhile,” Dolly said. “Tell us what’s new.”
Having a baby growing inside her was still in the front of Lizzie’s mind, but she didn’t want to tell the others about it yet. “Are you happy living out here in the woods?” she asked as they made room for her around the campfire.
“Well, there’s things that take getting used to,” Dolly said. “Like trying to cook without pots and spoons and bowls and such.”
“And there sure are a lot of mosquitoes,” Cissy added, swatting the air.
“Are you and Otis thinking of joining us?” Dolly asked. “Are you finally fed up with Miz Eugenia?”
“No, Otis wants to ask Saul and the rest of you to come back and work at White Oak again and live in your old cabins.”
“Honey, we’re all free now. Why you want to keep working for them Weatherlys?”
Lizzie didn’t know how to reply. “I . . . I don’t want to work for Miz Eugenia, but Otis says it’s for the best that we stay there for now.” Lizzie watched Cissy add another piece of wood to the fire and poke at the coals with a long stick. “Did you hear that some of the people from Miz Blake’s plantation are going back there to work for her?”
“Yeah,” Dolly said with a shrug. “I know a few of them folks. But Pete and me are waiting to get our own land out West. We’ll be moving away from here just as soon as it comes through.”
“Why you wanna go and move someplace you never seen before?” Lizzie asked. “Otis says there’s a way you can come back to work for yourself at White Oak, without a massa or overseer.”
Dolly shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Ain’t Miz Eugenia still telling you what to do?”
Before Lizzie had a chance to reply, she heard a loud rustling in the woods, like dry leaves being churned up and dead sticks cracking. “Shh!” someone said. The fiddler stopped playing. Everyone grew quiet, listening. Lizzie heard a horse snorting, and when she looked in that direction, she saw the light of a torch flickering back among the trees. It was moving closer. She turned her head and saw another torch a stone’s throw away from the first, then another beside that one, and another . . . until the lights formed a ring around the campground. They were surrounded.
Lizzie and the others instinctively rose to their feet, getting ready to run. The sound of horse hooves stomping through the underbrush grew louder as the ring of torches drew closer.
Suddenly a gunshot rang out with a bang that made Lizzie jump. Then a volley of shots were fired, one after the other, until the woods echoed with gunfire.
The women screamed, children and babies cried out in fear, men scrambled in the dark, searching for their families, looking for a place to run to for cover. Lizzie crouched into a ball and covered her ears, terrified. Was she going to die out here? Who would take care o
f her children? Then she felt Otis’s arms around her, shielding her.
“Lord help us!” he whispered.
“Don’t anyone move!” someone shouted when the gunfire finally stopped. “Stay right where you are!” Lizzie dared to look up and saw a ring of masked riders on horseback surrounding them, aiming their rifles at them, torches blazing. She heard weeping and moaning all around her.
“You people have to move on out of here!” the voice shouted. “Every last one of you! You can’t live in these woods anymore, understand? This is private property. If we have to come back here again to get rid of you, we’ll shoot to kill next time.”
Some of the riders dismounted and began tearing down the shanties with axes and clubs and the butts of their rifles. Others rode their horses overtop of the makeshift tents, trampling them into the mud. The stunned slaves froze where they were, not daring to stop the men, afraid of the loaded rifles pointing at them. When the armed men finished destroying the camp, they turned their horses around and rode off.
“You okay, Lizzie?” Otis’s voice was shaking.
“Just scared. How about you?”
“I’m all right.” He helped her to her feet. Lizzie felt numb as she gazed around, watching the others sift through the debris, salvaging whatever they could. Thankfully no one seemed to be hurt.
“Why do they hate us so much?” she asked Otis.
“They’re mad because they lost the war. They can’t kill Yankees anymore, so they’re taking it out on us, blaming us.” He reached down to help Dolly to her feet, too.
“You expect us to work for people like that?” Dolly asked.
“We have no place else to go,” Lizzie said. “You heard them. You can’t live here in the woods anymore. At least you’ll have cabins and food on the plantation. Besides, Massa Daniel isn’t one of them.”
“You don’t know that.”
It was true, Lizzie didn’t know that for sure. The thought sent a shiver of fear through her. They had left Roselle and Rufus and Jack all alone. “Let’s go home, Otis. Please.”
They held on tight to each other as they hurried back through the woods and crossed the deserted cotton field. Lizzie couldn’t stop shaking. Freedom was supposed to mean a brand-new life, a life without fear. Why then was she still so afraid? She looked up at the moon and the stars glimmering in the night sky and wondered how the world could be so beautiful yet so ugly at the same time.
13
MAY 23, 1865
Dew soaked the hem of Josephine’s skirt as she walked through the grass toward the cotton fields. Her feet were getting wet, too, as the dampness seeped through her torn shoe. She didn’t care. She savored the freedom she had at the Blakes’ plantation, freedom to walk around the grounds in the morning, listening to the birds and watching spring’s renewal in the greening earth. This plantation wasn’t nearly as large or as pretty as White Oak. There was no forest at the edge of the property and none of the towering oaks that gave her plantation its name. The house was smaller, too, and less elegant. But Harrison Blake had done well with the property after his father died, and the plantation had prospered—before the war, that is.
Josephine stopped when she reached the rail fence and looked out over the weed-choked fields. Soon the land would begin to prosper again. Mr. Chandler from the Freedmen’s Bureau had arrived yesterday with five Negro families, who had contracted to become sharecroppers on the Blakes’ land. Josephine had stood on the porch and watched as the former slaves walked up the road toward their new homes, their possessions tied up in bundles and carried on their backs or balanced on their heads. She felt a tiny prick of hope, the first in a very long time, as she’d watched the workers arrive. She wondered if they felt hopeful, too. Three of the women had gone to survey the basement kitchen right away and soon had a fire kindled. The men had talked and laughed amongst themselves as they’d searched for tools in the shed.
This morning Josephine watched a pair of robins tend their nest in a nearby tree and felt . . . almost happy. If it weren’t for Harrison’s perpetual misery, she would be in no hurry at all to return home. She liked the peace and quiet here without her family’s constant complaints and Mother’s reminders to watch her posture or tidy her hair. She liked the freedom she felt to work in the garden if she chose to or walk around the grounds. She and Mrs. Blake had been preparing simple meals together, and Jo enjoyed eating what her own hands had prepared, meals that didn’t have to be served in a formal dining room with china and silver and a damask tablecloth. Priscilla Blake was much more realistic about her losses and her future. And unlike Mother, she was willing to get her hands dirty and do the necessary work to survive.
Josephine turned when a mumble of voices disturbed the quiet morning. The new workers were emerging from their cabins to begin their labors. A knot of children—Jo counted nine of them—carried sack lunches as they left together to walk the mile or so into Fairmont to attend school. Two of the men headed toward the cotton fields, pausing when they saw Josephine to remove their hats in respect. She waved and then watched as they bent to scoop up clumps of soil and crumble it in their fingers. How must it feel to know they would be working the land for themselves for the first time? Maybe it gave them the same satisfaction she’d felt when she’d tasted the first spoonful of soup she and Mrs. Blake had cooked. Jo was fond of Mrs. Blake, and she was accomplishing something useful here for the first time in her life, instead of existing merely to attract a beau or waiting for her parents to make decisions for her. She liked this new, stronger self.
“Oh, your hem is all wet,” Mrs. Blake said when Josephine finished her stroll and returned to the house. It was an observation, nothing more, carrying none of the censure that Mother would have added.
“I know. But it’s so lovely outside in the morning that I couldn’t resist a nice walk, even if the grass is damp.”
They sat down together to eat the simple breakfast the servants had prepared, marveling at the lightness of Mable’s biscuits, laughing as they compared them to the ones they had struggled to make. Jo saw color in the older woman’s cheeks replacing her pallor, and a hint of happiness in her pale fatigue-rimmed eyes. When they finished eating, Mrs. Blake prepared a breakfast tray for Harrison, but she returned with it in her hands a moment later.
“Harrison is still sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb him. Would you mind bringing him his breakfast when he wakes up, Jo?”
“Not at all. You need to get an early start so you’ll have enough time to get all the way to Richmond and back.”
“Thank you, dear. I hate to leave him for an entire day, but I know you’ll be good company for him while I’m gone.”
“Yes, of course.” In truth, Josephine dreaded spending time with Harrison. He was moderately civil if his mother was in the room, and Jo didn’t mind reading aloud to both of them while Mrs. Blake did embroidery or mending. But it was much too depressing to spend time alone with Harrison. He didn’t want Josephine’s company at all and would pretend to fall asleep so she would leave—which she was happy to do. This morning she waited as long as she dared after his mother left, steeling herself before going into Harrison’s room alone. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
“Good morning,” Jo said, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ve brought your breakfast. Our new cook made the biscuits, and I think you’ll find them much improved over the ones I made.” She waited as he slowly pulled himself up into a seated position, then she set the tray on his lap. She would need to stay and make sure he ate everything, suspecting he was deliberately starving himself. He was already so thin that she could see the outline of his bones beneath his skin. In fact, he looked so ghoulish in this dark, shadowy room that she hurried to open the draperies and let in the sunlight.
“Don’t open those!” he said. “Leave them closed. I’ve told you before that it hurts my eyes.” Josephine ignored him. He would have to get up and close them himself if he wanted them shut.<
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“Mr. Chandler from the Freedmen’s Bureau is coming again today,” she said. “He agreed to help out as much as he could to get your new workers started.”
“What does a Yankee know about running my plantation?”
“I have no idea. Would you like to speak with him today? You can ask him yourself how much he knows.”
“I don’t want anything to do with him.”
“Fine. Suit yourself.” She watched him mop up a puddle of egg yolk with a biscuit and take a tiny bite.
“I can’t believe you expect me to tolerate a Yankee on my land. Or to be pleased that I have slaves and Yankees running my plantation for me.”
She pointed to the crutches Dr. Hunter had brought, propped against the wall, collecting dust. “Why don’t you get out of bed and start using those? I’ll help you, if you’d like. You could go outside and run things yourself, you know.” His eyes narrowed in rage and he picked up his cup as if considering throwing it at her. “I’ll throw it right back at you, Harrison.”
“Get out!”
She shook her head and sat down in her usual chair, just to be contrary. “I’m not a slave who you can order around. And if you won’t take charge of your land and your life, then someone else will have to do it for you. You can’t expect everyone to stand by and watch your mother starve to death just because you’re too angry and prideful to take care of her yourself.”
“You’re a fool for raising my mother’s hopes. How do you expect her to feed all these people she just hired?”
“The bureau will supply rations until everyone gets settled. And as I explained before, the workers will each get a portion of land to farm and a cabin to live in. They’ll share part of the harvested crops with you this fall.”
“You’re an even bigger fool for thinking those slaves are going to get any work done without an overseer. You’ll see just how lazy and shiftless they are.”
