by Naomi Finley
Once only womenfolk remained, Callie glanced at her mother and said, “What is it, Mum?”
“It’s been a long time since I saw that look in your brother’s eye.” Her expression grew tender.
Callie peered into the dark where Magnus had disappeared. “Since Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” I asked.
“The woman he was to marry. She died five years ago,” Callie said. “Run over in the street by a runaway carriage.”
“How dreadful.” My stomach dropped at the news.
“After her death, he swore off love. But Mum and I held onto hope that eventually someone worthy would catch his eye.”
“And you believe he has become smitten with Mary Grace?”
Callie bobbed her head.
“Well, I see Miss Rita has reasons to be concerned—”
The pounding of horses’ hooves cut me off. Loud voices pierced the peaceful evening. A glow of light came from the front of the house. We jumped to our feet, and the panic surging through me was reflected in Isabella and Callie’s eyes.
Mr. Barlow charged out onto the gallery, his eyes large with concern. “Inside, now!” He looked past us. “Where is Magnus?”
Isabella paled. “He went for a stroll. What is it, Daniel?”
“Barlow!” a man shouted.
My heart stuck in my throat.
“Men. Several of them. Come, come, inside.” He gestured urgently.
“Barlow.” I recognized the voice of Lucille’s father. “Come out here, or you will leave us with no choice.”
Callie clutched my arm as we raced for the door.
Inside, the butler met us with a rifle. Mr. Barlow took the weapon. “Gather all the rifles and arm all of the house staff capable of firing. Take up positions at doors and windows, but stay out of sight. Seal up all doors with whatever furniture you can. And for God’s sake, extinguish the lanterns.”
“Yes, sir.” The butler raced off.
“But what about Magnus? He is out there.” Worry pleated Isabella’s brow.
Mr. Barlow gently gripped the nape of her neck and pulled her forehead to meet his lips. “Don’t worry about him; he and the ground staff will know what to do.”
“They’ve surrounded the house,” one servant said as lanterns throughout the home were extinguished. The glow of torches reflected in the windows. Mounted men were at the back entrance. Footsteps pounded in the corridor and upstairs as anxious staff hurried to fall into position. The Barlows and I ran to the front of the house.
I halted a passing servant. “Here, give me that.” I gripped one of the rifles in his hands. He released the weapon without hesitation before racing off, and I dashed into the darkened parlor after the Barlows.
“You know how to handle one of those?” a wide-eyed Callie asked.
“You bet I do.” I looked at Mr. Barlow for instruction.
“Isabella, I want you and Callie to stay low and out of sight,” Mr. Barlow said.
“Barlow, this is your last warning,” Mr. Carter called again.
“No, we will stand with you,” Isabella said stubbornly. Mr. Barlow started to protest, but Isabella shook her head and said, “If we are to survive in this new land, we must let them know that we won’t be threatened.”
Through the parlor window, I glimpsed the same scene at the back of the house—men on horseback holding torches. From the corner of the house stablemen and groundskeepers raced into the front yard, armed with pitchforks and axes.
“I must address them. They won’t stop until I do, and I’m not willing to risk anyone’s life.” Mr. Barlow placed a kiss on Isabella’s lips and bolted for the front door.
“We will go together,” Callie said.
“No.” Isabella held out an arm to stop her. “You’re to remain inside. I have one child out there, I don’t need another. Willow, you mustn’t be seen, or they will know where you stand.”
“But I can’t hide in the shadows like a coward too afraid to speak up,” I said.
“You can, and you must,” she said firmly. “Sometimes it takes more courage to be silent. You must think about what is at stake.”
I nodded and shelved the conflict inside me.
Isabella grabbed a gun from a servant.
“But Mum, you don’t know how to use a rifle,” Callie said.
Isabella looked to me, and I cocked the hammer of the rifle and propped it against my shoulder as though to shoot. She followed suit, then nodded at me and disappeared.
“Seal this behind us. Defend the women as you must.” Mr. Barlow’s voice echoed from the foyer.
“But, sir, what about you and Mrs. Barlow?” the butler said.
“Do as you’re told. That’s an order.” The crisis had made Mr. Barlow’s tone harsh.
From the shadows of the drapes in the parlor, I observed Mr. Barlow and Isabella as they stepped out on the front gallery. I counted seven men altogether, guessing there had to be at least that many at the back of the house. I recognized Mr. Nelson, the miller, Josephine’s husband, her father, Mr. Thames, and Mr. Carter, but I couldn’t place the other two.
“Gentlemen, what can I help you with?” Mr. Barlow aimed his rifle at the chest of the speaker, Mr. Thames.
“Mr. Nelson made it very clear we don’t want your kind here. No decent gentleman would wed a Negress and give her and her bastards his family name.”
Callie stood beside me, her hot breath on my neck. “Look, there’s Magnus.”
I squinted into the dark behind the men, where Magnus crept forward with a rifle in his hand.
“I’m very aware of your views. Nothing can undo what has been done. You men needn’t concern yourselves,” Mr. Barlow said.
“Ain’t there?” Mr. Carter pointed his pistol at Isabella. “We could teach all darkies and white nigger-lovers what happens if they get to thinking we’ll condone such an abomination.”
Mr. Barlow pulled Isabella behind him. “You’ve made your point; now I suggest you ride on out of here.” He nudged his head toward the lane.
Magnus lifted his rifle and fired into the air. The horses stomped at the ground as their riders fought to control them. “Men like you are what’s wrong with the world,” he said with more grit than I’d witnessed in him. Keeping the rifle aimed at the men, he circled them, making his way up the front steps one at a time, never taking his eyes off the men until he joined his parents. “Such irony you spew,” he said. “Hypocrites, the whole lot of you. You lie with your Negresses and breed children of your own, but come here acting as though you are above my father, who married a woman he loved and who loves him.”
“Love?” Mr. Carter’s face looked like it would combust. “The demons aren’t capable of love.” He spat in Isabella’s direction before nodding at the man next to him. They exchanged words before the man broke off and guided his mount around the house.
“Get off my land, or I will be in the right to drop you where you are,” Mr. Barlow warned.
Everything that happened next was a blur.
There was the sound of breaking glass at the back of the house, and someone down the corridor screamed, “Fire!”
I raced from the room. “Where is it?” I shook a servant girl standing in the hallway in shock.
“In the library.” She pointed in that direction.
I recalled where the library was and broke into a run, but a hallway stand yanked the hem of my dress and pulled me back. I fought to free myself, and when the material gave way I dashed to the library and entered. The breeze from the broken window flapped the drapes, fanning the flames engulfing them. In the center of the rug, a fire burned where the torch had landed.
A servant skidded to a stop beside me. “Quick, you see to the drapes,” I said. I grabbed a blanket folded over an armchair, dropped to my knees, and worked to smother the flames. Smoke burned my nostrils and lungs as the heat of the fire’s rage seared my flesh. I heard tearing material, then a clattering crash as the curtain rod and drapes fell to th
e floor. The man fought to gain control of the blaze. Above, the fire raced across the wallpaper.
A servant girl hovered in the doorway with a bucket of water. She stared in terror as the room rapidly became engulfed in flames. “Bring that water,” I called.
Her gaze turned from the walls to me, and she held out the pail. I pushed to my feet and grabbed it from her and splashed at the flames as gunshots sounded outside. Fear gripped my chest as my thoughts turned to the Barlows.
I pushed the pail at the girl as a manservant raced into the room with a bucket. Behind him came another man. “We ain’t got no more water. We need to get to the well,” one said.
“Use blankets or whatever you can find to smother it before the whole house goes up in flames,” I said to them before pushing the fool girl in front of me through the door. “For the love of God, move, girl!”
She took off in a run, and I sprinted toward the front door. I had to reveal myself to save the Barlows. Perhaps if the men saw I was present, they’d cease their attack.
I threw open the door and bolted out onto the gallery to find only the Barlows and their yard workers. I looked to the lane and the retreating backs of the men. “Is everyone all right?” I asked between breaths.
“We will be.” Magnus pushed past me into the house.
“What happened?” I asked. “Why did they retreat?”
“Because they came here to intimidate us, not to kill us.” Mr. Barlow guided Isabella inside, and we dashed down the hallway to the library.
In a joint effort, we got the last of the flames put out. Sometime later, I collapsed to the floor in exhaustion, wheezing from smoke inhalation.
“This will take us months to repair.” Magnus stood observing the smoldering walls, burned through to the framework, before taking in the charred floorboards exposing the cellar.
“Willow, your hands.” Callie gently took my wrists and turned my hands over to inspect them. “You’re injured.”
I peered down at my hands. “It’s nothing Ben can’t see to,” I said. “I’d best fetch my driver and return home.”
“We can’t have you out there alone with those madmen roaming about. I will accompany you.” Magnus strode toward the door.
“They will not harm me.” I rose to my feet with Callie’s assistance. “When it’s light, I will see that supplies are brought to begin the repairs.”
“Please gather Mrs. Armstrong’s things and inform her driver she’s ready,” Mr. Barlow instructed a servant.
“Yes, sir.” The man darted off to do as instructed.
Soon I stood outside the private enclosed carriage. “Carlos?” I said to the driver.
“Missus?” The glow of the carriage lantern gilded his dark skin gold.
“Keep your eyes sharp. We don’t want to be running into trouble.”
“Yessum.” He took my elbow to help me in, careful of the makeshift bandages covering my hands.
As the lights of the plantation disappeared behind us, I contemplated what I’d do if we encountered the men on the road. Regardless of Isabella lending me yet another dress and quickly sponging off the soot coating my skin, I reeked of smoke, and the bandages would be a sure giveaway.
My nerves hummed until we rode up the lane to Livingston, and I released a breath. I pulled back the curtain and saw Mammy bounding down the front steps. Jimmy raced around the side of the house into the yard while other concerned folks filled the veranda.
“Missus Willie, you all right?” Jimmy’s keen eyes ran over me before pausing on the bandages.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You don’t luk fine.” Mammy’s bosom heaved as she halted beside me. “We saw smoke ’bove de trees. Masa Ben took off on horseback to see what gwine on.” She gestured at a shortcut through the trees that would cut off a few minutes to the Barlows’ estate.
“Some men set fire to the Barlows’ place.”
“What for?” Jimmy asked as the driver drove the carriage around back.
“Because they loathe the union between a black and white. ‘An abomination,’ I believe Mr. Carter called it.” I walked up the path to the house.
“Did dey catch sight of you?” Mammy hurried to catch up.
“No, I stayed hidden,” I said over my shoulder.
“Et a good thing. Masa Bowden won’t be happy.” Jimmy puttered along beside me.
“He hasn’t returned home yet?”
“We ’spected him by now. Must have gotten caught up in town,” Mammy said.
I paused; my heart thumped faster. What if the men had cornered him on the road? What if—Calm yourself. They have no cause to harm him.
“He be here shortly,” Jimmy said, as if sensing my worry. “I sho’ of et.”
“I believe you’re right.” I climbed the steps and twisted on the landing to regard them.
“You be all right, Missus Willie?”
Looking down at him where he stood at the bottom of the stairs, I offered a tired smile, hoping to ease the wrinkles charting his brow. “I’ll be fine.”
He pressed his lips together and walked off into the night.
“Now you go on up to your chamber. I have your bath drawn and send Tillie to help you.” Mammy gripped my elbow. “I inform Masa Ben of your hands as soon as he returns.”
“Thank you.”
I made the climb to my chamber. Though depleted of energy, and that my body and lungs ached, something more significant strained my spirit. Something told me the troubles had just started for the Barlows. What if the men sought to copycat the violence that had happened in Kansas, and returned? I questioned how long Bowden and I could stand quietly by before our hands were forced.
Winter of 1858
THE NIGHT TILLIE WENT INTO labor, Ben and I sat in front of the fire in the house he’d built not far from the quarters. Although I’d argued that there was plenty of room for us all in the big house, he’d said he wanted something of his own. But I often wondered if it was more because the house held too many painful memories. The home he’d built suited him. It was small but comfortable, something one might expect of a bachelor. A layer of dust coated the dark furniture, scattered newspapers, and medical books.
“You know, I could tidy the place up for you if you’d like.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you have enough responsibilities at your own? You needn’t concern yourself with mine. I will tend to it when I get a moment. Besides, I don’t need someone in here messing around. Everything has its place.”
“How is that possible?” I swept a hand toward the books and papers spread on a nearby stand.
“Because I know exactly where everything is.” He registered a look at me that said, don’t push the matter. “And don’t you be saying anything to Miss Rita, either.”
Mammy would be fit to be tied if she walked into his place. “Fine.” I lifted my hands in surrender.
Like Ben, Bowden had been a bachelor that needed a woman to manage his household, but at first learning to live together had proved trying. I thought of our library at the big house, and how books lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves in alphabetical order. And how Bowden used to grumble when he came home to find all the papers and ledgers on the desk in the study rearranged and stacked neatly and the surface polished and gleaming. I strove to keep the home in order and to be a wife Bowden found pride in.
If Ben had a wife, she could take care of him. When he returned from the quarters at the end of the day, a hot meal would be waiting. I worried if he’d ever find someone to spend the rest of his years with. Did it matter if he loved the woman as he did my mother? Or did people sometimes marry for companionship, too? I regarded him, thinking about approaching the subject, but then thought better of the notion.
My attention moved to the branch of an eastern redbud clawing the windowpane as the howling of the wind picked up. I had leaned back in the rocker to ponder what life held for us all when there came urgent pounding on the front door, followed by a muffled voice
that drew us to our feet: “Masa Hendricks, you in dere?”
Ben glanced at me with a knitted brow before whirling and marching to the door, with me close on his heels.
“Masa Hendricks,” the panicked voice called again.
Ben threw the door open to find Pete, Tillie’s husband, without a coat and the wind snapping at his trousers and shirt.
Concern shone in his dark eyes. “I sorry to bother ya, Masa, but I think de baby is comin’. Tillie’s hurting awful bad.”
Ben clasped Pete’s shoulder. “All right, you get back to her. I’ll get my bag and be there shortly. Get the water heated.”
“Yes, sah.” He turned and raced back in the direction of the quarters.
I was wiggling into my coat when Ben shut the door and turned to me. “I could use your help,” he said.
“Me?” My voice hitched. “I don’t know the first thing about delivering a baby.”
“I’m not asking you to deliver a baby, only for your assistance.”
I didn’t like the idea, but I knew there was no time to waste.
Minutes later, Ben and I fought the wind as we hurried down the path leading to the line of trees shielding his property from the view of Livingston. He made a quick stop at the sick hospital to gather clean cloths before we continued to the cabin Tillie and Pete shared with a father and his three children.
“Evenin’, Joe,” I said to the man sitting at the table in the three-room cabin. His daughter of five or so, and two sons some years older, sat on either side of the table. The influenza outbreak had taken their mother last year.
“Evenin’, Missus,” Joe said, then gestured to the children. “Go on now, say evenin’ to de missus.”
A chorus of “Evening, Missus” followed. I smiled at them, but the tension I felt was reflected on their faces as wails came from the next room. My abdomen clenched as I recalled the excruciating pain of labor.
“Willow, I can’t have you freezing up. Get those cloths ready and bring me a basin to wash up.” Ben pushed past me and strode into the next room.
