Whispers of War

by Naomi Finley

  “Stay where you are,” I said with disgust. Keeping the gun pointed at him with surprising steadiness, I darted for my dress, and with some effort, slipped in my legs and an arm before he crept forward. “Not another muscle, or I’ll paint these walls with your brain.” My hard tone sounded foreign.

  He froze.

  I knelt by his belt, never letting my eyes leave him as I searched for the keys. My fingers touched them and I pulled, but they wouldn’t budge. Frowning, I glanced down to see one key had become stuck in the floorboard. Before I could free it he lurched at me, knocking me backward. My head struck the floor, and pain radiated through my skull.

  “The nigger’s lover, are ya?” His spittle speckled my face as he straddled me. “Come in here thinking you can seduce me and free him.”

  Fear kept me silent.

  He grabbed the gun where it lay next to us and yanked me up by the hair. “Sit down now!” He threw me against the desk. My hip caught the edge, and excruciating pain caused me to cry out. He swiftly pulled up his trousers and marched forward to shove me into the chair.

  What have I done? It had all been for nothing. Shame oozed through me. This time, Mother hadn’t forced me. No, I’d lain with the officer of my own accord. But I blamed her as much as myself. I hated her, but more than anything, I hated myself.

  I heard weeping, and without looking, I knew it was Big John. I had failed to free him and disgraced myself in the process. Weighted with grief and self-loathing, I wept that day harder than I’d ever cried before. Big John had been the one person whose opinion had ever mattered to me. Our odd companionship—a slave and a whore—had meant more to me than anything had in my life.

  The officer ordered me to finish dressing. “Now get out of here before you humiliate us both. If I ever see you around here again, you won’t be let off so lightly.”

  When I sat without moving, he leaped forward and hauled me up and dragged me to the door. He threw the door open and hurled me out into the street, where I landed on my backside.

  A couple walking by gawked from me to him.

  “Whore has taken a liking to a nigger prisoner. Came here attempting to seduce me,” he said before slamming the door.

  The gentleman glowered and pulled the woman in to his side, as though protecting her from a leper. The woman spat on me as they continued down the boardwalk.

  The next day I watched from the alley as Big John was loaded into the back of a wagon. I wanted to run to him and confess my love for the man who’d been father and friend. The internal flame of a child’s spirit had been snuffed out by the abuse of my childhood, but during my time with him the kindness and compassion he’d shown me had ignited my spirit. Now, as I cowered in the alley, watching, it flickered and died.

  I never went back to the swamp. It would’ve reminded me of him and how he’d seen me for what I was…wasted goods.

  I made my way to New York, and shortly after, Madame Fleurine’s and my paths would cross.

  In the slums of Five Points, I found odd jobs to keep the hunger pangs at bay. Corruption ran rampant in the place. Murders happened in broad daylight while the emaciated bodies of the young and the old lay in alleys and streets. Thievery and prostitution were commonplace; at first it had seemed unusually blatant, but soon it became normal to me.

  When I heard about a widow seeking to hire a woman to do some mending, I thought, How hard could it be? I visited Mrs. Turner to inquire about the job, and to my surprise and relief, she was blind. I delivered the speech I’d fabricated on my expertise as a seamstress, and when she asked for a sample of my work, I provided her with a handkerchief I’d taken off an unsuspecting wealthy woman.

  Her brow had puckered, and with experienced fingers, she studied the quality of the handkerchief. After her inspection, she’d remained silent for several unbearable moments, until she smiled, and said, “Magnificent. I see you’re indeed talented.”

  I released the breath gripping my chest.

  I found myself employed, which included room and board. Mrs. Turner earned a living by mending for the men of the slums and sewing handkerchiefs for brothels. She had been kind to me, and periodically guilt plagued me for taking advantage of her vulnerability. But as with most things in life, I learned to shuffle such feelings into the part of my soul I’d labeled “Forgotten.” It was the place where I kept the painful memories of my childhood and the image of Big John’s face that night at the jail.

  “You get those over to Madame Fleurine,” Mrs. Turner said one day, tilting her head at the sound of my movements.

  I concealed the pitiful handkerchiefs I’d sewn in the bottom of the basket, under the beautifully crafted ones she’d made. I’d never developed the necessary skills of most women, and the tedious tasks of housework, sewing, and cooking proved to be challenging.

  “Yes, Mrs. Turner. I’ll take them straight away.”

  “Good girl,” she said with a smile.

  Over the weeks I was in her employment, I’d skimmed coins and hid them under my mattress. I’d removed things from her home and sold them, knowing sooner or later, customers would show up with complaints about the workmanship, and I’d be out on the street again.

  Survival was my greatest talent. At the time, I’d been unaware I was becoming a replica of the woman I loathed. No matter how far I’d run from her and my past it was always there, shaping me. On rare moments when I reflected on my start in life, I wondered if I’d ever stood a chance.

  I walked through the front door of Madame Fleurine’s cathouse, and the mingled scent of perfume and cigars, and the thumping of a piano and laughter, sent me reeling back to my past.

  “Can I help you, miss?” A brunette woman dressed in a yellow frock with a neckline scooped low enough to reveal most of her ample breasts strode toward me.

  I stared through her, tuned in to the haunting sounds of the place. Lightheadedness enveloped me.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I shook my head and blocked out the noise, focusing on the base of her throat. Breathe, I prompted myself. “Yes, I’m looking for Madame Fleurine.”

  “State your business. Madame is a busy woman.”

  I visualized what sort of busyness that meant. “Mrs. Turner sent me to deliver her sewing.”

  The woman eyed the basket I held out for her inspection. “Wait here.” She turned and strode across the dark wooden floor to the far end of the main room. She approached a blond woman enrobed in green silks who sat at a table, writing in a ledger. The brunette whispered something to her, and she glanced in my direction before summoning me with a hand.

  I made my steps quick, to not keep her waiting. The brunette took her leave as I stopped in front of the table.

  “Don’t dally, girl. Show me what you’ve brought.” She held out a dainty hand accessorized with a large sapphire ring.

  My heart thumped as I pulled back the fabric concealing the cloths within.

  “Yes, these will do.” Her intense dark eyes roved over me, and I felt myself freeze under her inspection. “You are quite striking. Are you of Irish descent?” She picked up a lock of my hair and stroked it between two fingers.

  I removed myself from her grasp and shook my head.

  “Do you speak?”

  I nodded.

  “Hmm,” she said. “What happened to the other girl that used to work for Mrs. Turner?”

  “She died.”

  Taken aback by my bluntness, she frowned, but after a moment, she stood. “What do they call you?”

  “Amelie.”

  “Well, Amelie,” she circled me, “if you ever find yourself in need of lodging and a way to make a living, do come back.” She stopped in front of me.

  I bristled. “No, ma’am. I will never work in a place like this.”

  She lifted a brow. “I see; too good for my establishment.”

  No, quite the opposite. I’d felt a sense of belonging when I walked through the doors. I understood what was expected in an est
ablishment like hers, and that much hunger and need for shelter would never befall me. But I said to her, “Yes, ma’am. As I said, I will never be part of this world.”

  Her blues widened. “This world?” she said. “My, you’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  I squared my shoulders and left minutes later. As I stepped out on the front landing of the establishment, I reflected on her words and said aloud, “I will never be her.”

  Days later, I returned from making a delivery to find Mrs. Turner waiting for me.

  “You are a cheat!” She was red-faced with anger.

  I didn’t need to hear any more to know I’d been caught.

  “A supply of handkerchiefs have been returned.” She dangled one, my pathetic attempt to cut straight edges and my lopsided stitches obvious to even me.

  I found myself on the streets again. A week later, in the shelter I’d built with crates, I was robbed and gang-raped. Left for dead, I lay naked and battered, staring up at the night sky. My vision distorted by a swollen eye, the taste of blood on my lips, I concluded I’d been born for one purpose in life—to fulfill men’s desires.

  Determined to survive, I promised myself to never allow my body to be used against my will. I would mold men’s emotions in the palm of my hand, and take everything from them, as they had from me.

  I returned to Madame Fleurine the next day.

  Seeing my condition, she pressed her lips together. “Come, let’s bathe you and tend to your injuries.” The warmth of her arm around my shoulders gathered tears in my throat.

  Under Madame Fleurine’s tutelage, I became known as the Jezebel of New York City. Men from states away arrived at the doors of the establishment she’d bequeathed to me upon her tragic death. Stories fed men’s desire to lie with the woman rumored to be of striking beauty and the greatest of lovers. Skilled at heightening my suitors’ sexual desires, I only gave of my body, and only as much as necessary to bleed influential gentlemen of every ounce of their wealth.

  The day Oliver Evans walked into the brothel, I looked up from my position at the bar. My breath caught, and I found myself enthralled by the dark and handsome gentleman clothed in a beige tailored suit.

  “Have you seen that man in here before?” I said to the bartender.

  He glanced in Oliver’s direction. “Don’t believe so.”

  I frowned. Why did the man look familiar?

  Oliver looked around the room until his gaze settled on me, and his tightly composed expression faltered for a brief second, a look I’d witnessed on men plenty of times. He strode to the bar and sat down several seats away. For the next few days he returned, never seeking the warmth of a woman or touching a drink, but to sit at the bar.

  One evening I approached him. “What brings you in here, stranger?”

  He never looked up.

  “You hard of hearing?” I said.

  His jaw tensed, but he maintained his composure.

  “You don’t require a woman to satisfy your needs?”

  “Never have,” he finally said.

  I gulped. “Never?”

  “I won’t pay a woman to lie with me.”

  “Then why come here?”

  He turned and his cold eyes regarded every inch of me. My heart beat a little faster under his examination. “Women are men’s weakness. But I am a man not molded by the need for a woman.”

  “Really?” I said with a laugh. You’d be the first.

  “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “And I’ve come to see for myself the great seductress of New York.”

  “Well, here I am.” I twirled, my burgundy taffeta gown swishing as I made a full circle and delivered my most winning smile. “Was it worth the trip?”

  He grunted, lit a cigar, and eyed me, his expression unreadable. My inability to evoke any sign of desire in the man grew infuriating. Oliver Evans was a challenge I wouldn’t back down from. Each time he came back, I worked on him.

  When he finished with his business in New York he left, but he returned a year later. Evidence my endeavors had paid off.

  “So, you return.” My tone was silky and alluring as I lightly rested a hand on his shoulder.

  He tensed before twisting to face me. “I have. But don’t get your hopes up that it’s you who brings me back.”

  “Why would I?” I said.

  “Because I see the way you look at me. Like a challenge you haven’t yet defeated. A man who isn’t so easily manipulated.” His eyes gleamed with pleasure.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Evans.” Inside I bristled, but I made sure not to reveal the emotions he stirred in me. “Basil,” I said to the bartender, “see to it that Mr. Evans has all he needs.” I looked back at him. “Enjoy your evening. Please excuse me.” I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm and swung me around.

  Before I could respond, he crushed me in his arms, covering my mouth with his. Hungrily he forced my lips apart, and his tongue moved inside my mouth. I felt the passion burning in him, a yearning that stirred my own.

  Later we lay naked, breathless, and tucked in the sheets of my bed. Never had I experienced such ecstasy.

  Over the last year, he had become my poison and I, his. However, what I’d overheard from the study gave me grave concern. What was he up to? And who were these people he sought to harm?

  WHITNEY AND I BALANCED ON ladders, plucking apples from the orchard’s weighted canopy. A gentle fall breeze rustled the branches, scattering leaves and sending the odd fruit bouncing on the ground. Beneath us on a bed of fallen leaves, Evie and Sailor played, and the innocence of their happy chatter placed a smile on my face.

  “When we grow up, we’re gonna git married.” Evie propped her doll against a rock.

  “Married? Lak Missus Willow and Masa Bowden?” Sailor said.

  “Yes, and we gwine to live in a big house jus’ lak dem.”

  “I don’t want no w-wife.”

  She scowled. “Why not?”

  “’Cause I lak fishing, and Jimmy says a wife jus’ gwine stop you from doing what you lak.”

  Whitney and I exchanged a smirk.

  “So young and they have it all figured out. Marriage is a snare.” She placed an apple in the basket hanging from her forearm.

  “It is not,” I said.

  “Is too.”

  I placed the last apple that would fit in my basket and started my descent. “Knox is a good man,” I called up to her.

  “No one is disputing that,” she shouted back.

  “Do you not love Knox?” I asked as she joined me on the ground.

  “I do, but not the same as you do Bowden.” Her gaze rested on the children. “Knox has been good to us, and I know he loves me, but sometimes I think I’m incapable of love.”

  “That isn’t true. I’ve seen what you sacrificed for Kimie and Jack. If that isn’t love, what is it?”

  “That’s a different kind of love. I’m referring to the love between a man and a woman. I find I’m the most at peace when Knox is in the fields or off with Bowden. I rather enjoy being alone.”

  I couldn’t comprehend her desire for solitude. Although I relished the quiet of the morning before the house and ground folks rose, I loved it when the house was alive with the movement and voices of the house staff, the squealing of children at play, and the melodies of the quarter folks. Whereas Whitney claimed contentment in solitude, I yearned for people and family to occupy my days. Fear of abandonment and loss of those I loved had shadowed most of my life.

  “Sometimes, I feel as though I cheated Knox.” She regarded me with watery eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel I’ve been selfish. I married him because I was exhausted from caring for the twins and myself. I grew tired of responsibility. In the end, marrying him only added to the burdens forced on me before my time. Since I can remember, I’ve been taking care of people—nursing a sick mother, worrying if there would be enough food, or if Father would return home drunk and hurt her or me.
Then Father came back, and I found out I had a brother and a sister. I wanted to save them from Father’s cruelty. But, on reflection, how could I save them when I was incapable of saving myself?” Her voice shook.

  I touched her arm, tears gathering in my throat. “Whitney…”

  She continued. “I knew I was fond of Knox, but I had doubts that I loved him as a wife should. But I wanted so desperately for the twins to have a good father and a proper home. All things I never had. I knew I wasn’t the romantic type. Women like you dote on your husbands and take pride in caring for a home, but that isn’t me. I’ll never be that woman. Perhaps because I’ve played the role of both mother and father for so long, I dream of something more. A life without the burden of endless responsibilities.”

  It was unconventional for women to think of a life outside of marriage and raising a family, but Whitney wasn’t so easily molded into society’s views on women.

  She looked to the field spotted with slaves at work. “I envy them, you know.”

  I frowned. “The slaves?” I questioned the stability of her mind. “What in heaven’s name for?”

  “Not the ones that remain behind, but the ones who take their freedom, have the courage to break from a life of bondage.”

  “I didn’t realize you hated marriage so.” I failed to see the similarity between marriage and a person born into slavery.

  She nodded at the children playing on the ground. “Look at Evie. She’s just a child, and she speaks of marriage.” She heaved a sigh. “I don’t recall as a child ever thinking of my wedding day—or playing with dolls, for that matter.”

  I thought of my own childhood; I’d loved dolls. Caring and nurturing came easy to me, but like Whitney, I hadn’t thought of marriage until Bowden moved to town. After Knox and he had humiliated me that day in the outhouse, I’d sworn off men forever. However, imagining life without him now seemed unfathomable.

  “Sometimes people marry out of convenience,” Whitney said.

  “And you think there is happiness in that?”

  “Certainly. Everyone’s destiny isn’t the same. What works for one doesn’t necessarily work for the other.”