by Naomi Finley
“Call me tenderhearted.” I turned and we continued down the path to the carriage. “I don’t like to see anyone abused or treated unfairly.” No matter the bond we shared over the child, I wouldn’t risk divulging my true passions and views on slavery.
“Life would have been more comfortable if I hadn’t been weak and fallen in love with a Negro. My folks have never looked at me the same way. And if my husband were to find out I bedded a Negro, his abuse would be relentless.”
“Why do you stay?”
“Leave and go where? My parents would disown me, so I couldn’t go home. I’d be penniless.”
“But you’d be free. You could go find Jethro and be happy.”
“A white woman with a black man? I think not. I love him, but there would never be any happiness in this life for us. We would be ostracized for our relationship. Besides, now that I know where my son is, I could never leave. It gives me comfort to know that I can see him, and to have a piece of Jethro always.”
“You would see him in the arms of another?” I asked.
“If not with me, I hope he can find love again and that at least one of us can be happy.” She leaned in and pecked my cheek, then pulled back and offered a small smile. “Thank you for your friendship. I’d best be going before my husband returns home to find me gone.”
I stood unmoving, deep in thought, in the front yard long after she’d gone. Until a small hand slipped into mine, and I looked down to find Sailor peering down the lane.
“Why don’t you and I go for a little walk?” I said.
He squinted up at me. “Can I bring a fishing pole?”
I laughed. “Yes, and perhaps we can ask Jimmy to join us.”
He let out a whoop of glee and darted off in the direction of the forge as I turned to wander inside and fetch a shawl. The thought of spending the afternoon in Jimmy and Sailor’s company added a skip to my step.
SUMMER FADED INTO AUTUMN, AND harvest was upon us. Wagons piled with cotton lined the perimeters of the fields, and the nostalgic melodies of the quarter folks reverberated throughout the morning. I filled a bucket with some water and handed it to Sailor and Evie; they staggered under its weight.
I reached to steady the bucket but Sailor rocked back, pulling Evie along with him. He flicked his tongue over his upper lip in determination. “We got et. Come on,” he said to Evie, and they trotted off toward the field hands.
I watched the children totter down the line as folks called out praise. I wiped my brow with the back of my hand and walked to the end of the wagon, and paused as I overheard two field hands.
“No use gathering cotton ef Masa can’t find nobody to buy et,” a woman said.
“My Clara say et ain’t any better at de Andrepont Plantation.” I heard worry in the man’s words. “Says de barns got heaps of de masa’s white gold. From what I hear, cotton still ain’t moving, and slaves need to worry ’bout dat too.”
“Why should you care ef her masa’s cotton sells?” she said.
“’Cause, you damn fool, ef her masa’s cotton don’t sell soon, he may take to selling slaves, and ef dat happens, I might not see Clara and de chillum again.”
“Maybe you ask Masa Bowden to put in a word, dat ef Clara’s masa decide he luking to sell slaves, he consider de masa first.”
“No matter how good de masa and de missus bin, money only goes so far. Can’t be ’pectin’ dem to be givin’ handouts to every slave dat need helpin’. Especially wid times lak dey be.” The chatter faded as they returned to the fields.
The conversation stayed with me over the next hours as I helped the children and the water girls quench the thirst of laborers.
Later, the children and I returned to the house. As we entered the foyer, I pushed back my wide-brimmed bonnet, letting it dangle from its ribbons around my neck before peeling off my leather gloves. Exhaustion shone on the children’s faces, and the heat of the morning sun glistened on their foreheads. “You run along and see if you can find a bite to eat. You did good today.” I used the hem of my pinafore to wipe the sweat from my face.
After their running footsteps had faded down the corridor, I entered the parlor to find Mary Grace standing on a ladder, rehanging freshly laundered drapes. Bowden and I had purchased the navy and gold damask curtains when we’d journeyed to England in search of my father’s daughter. Although Father had several acquaintances, we still hadn’t located anyone with information about Callie.
After Father’s death, the staff at his townhouse had been left with no choice but to secure work elsewhere after their wages stopped arriving. Only a stableman had stayed to take care of the animals, with hopes the family would come. Bowden and I had questioned him on my father’s comings and goings, and people he associated with, but the man seemed to know very little. He said Father’s groomsman, Julius, might have known more, but he’d passed some time ago. He went on to say that Father was a private man and didn’t entertain in his home, often meeting his colleagues and business associates elsewhere. I’d asked for the name of his driver, but the man said Father had hired a carriage for his outings.
We had returned home, frustrated and empty-handed. I’d concluded that the whereabouts of Callie would always be a mystery.
Mary Grace balanced on the ladder while eyeing me. “You know what the fine ladies and gentlemen of Charleston will say if they catch you out in the fields as though you’re a watering wench.”
I waved a hand and plopped down on the settee. “I care not what the Charleston chinwags say. I dread that the social season is approaching. It’s bad enough I’m forced to endure charity work and feign an interest in their meddlesome conversations. I do miss the days when Whitney lived here; at least then I had her to join me at these events. She made them nervous and I found pleasure in watching them squirm. Although I did find myself bracing at what would come out of her mouth. But now she isn’t welcome in most social circles and events that require my attendance.”
Mary Grace laughed, shaking her head. “The hardships of a mistress.”
I scowled and stood. “Listen, I’m heading in to town to pick up supplies—”
“Surely that is a job one of Jones’s men could handle.”
Indignation clenched my hands into fists. “I do not wish to be handled like a delicate doll that will break at any moment. If I am to go on, I must keep myself busy. Sitting cooped up in this house, crocheting and cross-stitching, will never keep my mind occupied. Besides,” I eased my tone at the wide-eyed way she regarded me, “Jones and his men are busy with the harvest, and it will do me good to leave here for a bit.”
“It’s just that—”
“That what?” I walked to the bottom of the ladder and peered up at her. “I know your intentions are good, but I’m fine. Most days I find joy, and little by little, the pain lessens. You all needn’t worry about me.”
She nodded uncertainly.
“I’m going to town,” I said firmly, “and I’d like your company.”
“Can you hand me that last curtain?” She nudged her head toward the settee where it was draped.
I obliged and held the curtain up for her. She handed me the rod, and I helped her feed the drape along its length.
After Gray’s death, I never thought the light would come back into her eyes, but young Noah and Evie had given her a purpose to continue on. Her resilience was admirable and remarkable. Although I’d never known my mother, or had female relatives to inspire me, it was with Mammy and Mary Grace that I established the feminine bond. Daily they taught me what we women were capable of and what it meant to be a mother. I had hoped to implement their lessons of love and devotion on my son. Instead, it was Josephine’s son that walked in my shadow and filled my heart with love and joy. Evenings, when I pulled him onto my lap to read to him, the warmth of his body and sweet voice replenished the void in my soul. I’d grown even more attached to that little boy than I’d been in the past, so much that my loved ones eyed me with concern. The white blood
in his veins became more evident each day. I doted on the child and sought to give him a life of quality, where he knew what it was to be loved.
“All done.” Mary Grace climbed down the ladder. She untied her pinafore and pulled it over her head. “Let me fetch my bonnet and a coat, and I’ll meet you out front.”
I followed her out into the foyer, and Mammy entered from the warming kitchen. “What you two up to now?” She regarded us with suspicion.
Mary Grace and I glanced at each other and smiled. “Don’t you be worrying about nothing, Mama. Missus Willow asked me to accompany her to town.”
“Playing when you should be working.” Mammy planted a fist on her ample hip and gave Mary Grace a look of disapproval. “Missus got you spoiled rotten. You need to stay here on dis plantation where you safe.” She turned her authoritative gaze on me, and I straightened as though she was the mistress of the place. “Can never tell who is out luking to harm two purty gals on de road. Dat why you got married, Missus, so a man take care of ya, and do all de running.”
“Bowden has his hands full with Hendricks Enterprises and the cause. And with the recent expansion of new stations, we will see him less than before.”
“I don’t lak et one bit. Masa Bowden always gone. Masa Ben spending all his time in de quarters. He hardly comes for a meal at de big house.”
It had been decided that Ben would take over the sick hospital at Livingston, and we’d seen a vast improvement in the quarter folks’ health. Neighboring plantations sent for him when their families and slaves became ill, and in helping them, his work became a valuable resource for gathering information to aid our cause. Contentment had radiated from him, until my son’s death. Although he tried to hide it, I knew he blamed himself that his namesake had only lived mere hours. At first he’d refused to return to the quarters, saying if he couldn’t save his own grandson, he wasn’t fit to be a doctor. However, when influenza broke out, Bowden had begged him to return to the hospital.
I stroked Mammy’s arm. “I miss them too. But long before Ben returned and I married Bowden, I had you all. And you’re as dear to me as always.”
The last years with Bowden had been more than I ever dreamed possible. Our numbers at Livingston had thinned drastically, and many faces had come and gone, either moving along to the road to freedom, or age and sickness had taken them.
“I don’t lak et. De grounds becoming scarcer by de day. All de folkses leaving and gwine to Canada or running off to make et on deir own. Soon dere be no one left.” Mammy’s shoulders slumped. “Dose folkses lak family, and wid dem gone, et gonna take de spirit right outta de place.”
“I know, and I feel the emptiness too,” I said with a sigh. “But we couldn’t hold them against their will. It would go against our moral beliefs.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I ain’t for nigras kept in bondage. Et foreign territory out dere. Most ain’t bin far from de property lines of de plantation. Lakly git lost, or worse, caught. What ef someone catches dose on de run, and dey so skeered dey snitch on you and de masa? Put us all in danger. ’Fore I worried ’bout Mary Grace and you. Now I got two grandbabies to worry ’bout too. When white folkses git an idea in deir heads dat a nigger got any sense or might rebel, dey go crazy. You can’t forgit what happened out in dem swamps.”
“Your fears are valid. We all fear the same things. But those that have chosen to remain at Livingston to aid in the cause are aware of the risk and the protocol, should a threat arise,” I said. “Let Bowden and I worry about Livingston and people’s safety. These are your years to enjoy those grandbabies.”
“A mama don’t stop worrying. Till de Lard calls me home, and I’m reunited with Big John, I be watching ’round evvy corner for someone luking to harm de ones I love.”
“All right.” I threw my hands up. “You win. I know there isn’t any use in telling you differently when you have your mind made up.”
“And we don’t know anyone else like that, now do we?” Mary Grace winked at me before striding down the hallway to the back door.
Mammy and I stared after her.
“Motherhood is good for her,” I said.
“Dat et be. I wish Big John could see my gal now,” Mammy said.
“We’ve tried to locate him, but with your previous master’s passing and his wife’s frail memory, it proved to be useless. The servants said Mr. Adams made him a breeder after you were sold, and that he took a second wife and fathered a son with her. When Mrs. Adams fell on hard times, she sold the boy, and soon after, Big John ran off.”
“Lakly dead.” Tears welled in Mammy’s eyes.
I stroked her arm as my mind raced to images of the slave catchers and the howling of bloodhounds. I shivered.
“Most lakly don’t remember me anyhow.” Melancholy enveloped her and she heaved a deep sigh.
I encircled her shoulders with my arm. “Trust me, Mammy. No one would forget you.”
She smiled through her tears. “You reckon?”
“It is a fact.” I squeezed her tighter and kissed her brow.
“De Lard sought to bless me when he gave me you, angel gal. Yes, he surely did.”
“The blessing was all mine.” I released her and walked to the stairs, saying over my shoulder, “I trust you will see things are in order in our absence.”
“You can bet on et.”
I paused as Tillie entered the corridor, slopping a pail of water and carrying cloths to scrub the floor.
“Now gal, what did I tell you ’bout lugging dat water all de way from de river in your condition.” Mammy marched toward her.
“I don’t mind, Miss Rita. I got to earn my keep wid a new mouth coming.” She looked like a mouse that had caught the eye of a cat.
Mammy removed the bucket from Tillie’s hand and set it down before lifting the hem of her frock. “Luk at de size of dose ankles. Gonna split wide open ef you keep gwine on lak you ain’t heavy wid chile.”
“But, Miss Rita, plenty of slaves have given birth ’fore and dey ain’t ever had special treatment,” she said meekly.
“Well, dis here ain’t any ol’ plantation,” she said firmly. “Dis place owned by Missus Willow and Masa Bowden and dey luking to help. Ain’t dat right, Missus Willow?”
I rested my hand on the banister and smiled down at them. “Why don’t you put your feet up for a spell and we’ll assign someone else to wash the floors.”
“Ef you say so, Missus,” Tillie said, appearing none too sure.
Later, I retrieved my bonnet from the hall table, slipped on my waist-length cape, and walked out onto the veranda. Mary Grace sat waiting for me on the driver’s seat of a wagon in front of the house. I spotted Sailor asleep on the porch swing. “Poor little tyke is plumb worn out,” I said to myself as I hurried past.
In the yard behind the general store, Mary Grace and I stood speaking with Miss Smith while men loaded our supplies into the bed of the wagon.
“With this economic downturn, I have an abundance of supplies.” Miss Smith gestured to the tall piles of products in burlap sacks. “The railroads aren’t transporting goods, and the farmers are left with crops they can’t sell. I worry about what will happen.”
“And with good cause, I’m afraid,” I said. “The docks are overloaded with cotton with the mills closing down in New England. And now, with Europe refusing imports from the US, Bowden fears it’ll become much worse.”
Mary Grace stood close, and although she kept her eyes lowered, her face grew taut with concern about developments in the United States. Freedom for all had become a united effort for everyone at Livingston, but those who understood the whisperings and events occurring across our country knew enough to be troubled.
“Yes, and with all this talk of South Carolina seceding from the Union flooding the streets and every conversation, this can’t be good for the businesses of the South.” Miss Smith’s lips formed a thin line.
“Bowden and Ben believe it is all just getting started,” I said.
Miss Smith’s helper strode up to us and removed his hat. “You all set, Missus Armstrong.”
“Much obliged,” I said.
He nodded and jogged off to help the next customer.
“I need to get these supplies back to Jones.” I slipped on my riding gloves and bid Miss Smith a good day.
Some miles outside of Charleston, I glanced at the rumbling gray curtain overhead. “I don’t like the looks of the sky. The roads will become treacherous if the storm releases before we reach Livingston.”
Mary Grace lifted the collar of her coat to ward off the breeze. “It’s moving in quick.”
I urged the team to pick up its pace. “Julia writes that Isaac and his daughter made it to St. Catherines.”
“That is good news,” Mary Grace said. “But my heart breaks for his wife. She’s devastated that he ran without her.”
I thought about Mammy’s words earlier that morning. “Fear’s a funny thing,” I said. “Most enslaved are raised and die on the plantation of their birth, too afraid to think for themselves. God gave us all the ability to think. Some slaves will never step out of formation because of the fear instilled in them, while others will resist the very foundation slavery is built on. Human corruption can be seen all through the ages, and if our efforts to end slavery come to fruition, it still won’t stop the supremacy mentality of humanity. You can execute men like John Brown, but another will rise in his place.”
“It’s unnerving,” she said. “What if men like that were to show up at Livingston?”
“We can’t think like that. Living in fear does no one any good.”
She glanced at me. “But if they did, what then?”
“I expect we would defend our home,” I said.
The storm that had come out of nowhere rolled and cracked overhead; the dark clouds threatened to unleash. A mile farther down the road, the sky opened, and I blinked away the rain obscuring my vision. The road quickly turned to muck, and ruts jostled and jerked the wagon. Relentless, the downpour came harder, and my teeth chattered as my wet clothing allowed the cold to grip my bones.
