by Naomi Finley
“If only I could behold that smile every day,” a voice said, interrupting my reminiscing and making me jump. Magnus stood a few feet in front of me. “My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.”
“I did not see you,” I said without stopping. “You have a habit of showing up out of nowhere, Mr. Barlow.”
He fell into step beside me. “Do I? Perhaps I should have pursued a career as a detective.” He chuckled.
I glanced at him. “Did Missus Willow send you to fetch me?”
“No. I was unaware she was here. I’ve just returned from a ride and thought I’d take a walk along the river. Imagine my delight in seeing you.”
The pattering of my heart quickened at his words. “You’re too kind.”
“A stroll to clear one’s thoughts?”
“In a way, yes.”
“Tell me of him.”
I stopped. “Who?”
“The man who had the privilege of winning your heart.” He turned to glance down at me.
I frowned.
“Are you not coming from visiting his grave?” He swept a hand in the direction I’d come. “I’ve wandered these grounds often, as I much prefer the sounds of nature to the chattering of people. In my wanderings, I noticed your husband’s final resting place lies in the family plot amongst the previous masters of this estate. A gesture and risk taken by Bowden, no?”
I studied his face for any objection to laying a slave to rest amongst the whites. “Does it displease you?”
“Certainly not. From time to time, Bowden speaks of your husband with fondness and a yearning to see his face again.”
I continued to walk. “Gray was a good man, and I loved him very much. We dreamed of freedom and a life of our own.”
“Understandably so,” he said. “It weighs the heart, the loss of a loved one. I, too, know the pain of such a loss.”
Again I stopped, as did he.
A flicker of pain crossed his face as he lowered his gaze. “I was to marry some years before coming to America. An unfortunate accident took her from me.”
A sense of connection forged by grief kindled in me. The death of a loved one changes a person. It carves out a piece of your heart, never to be filled again. You continue on in life because the human will to survive demands it, but the world around you is never the same. “I am sorry for your loss.”
He inclined his head. “As I am for yours.” When he elevated his gaze, the tenderness and love I saw in his blue eyes caught at my heart.
I looked away as fear and panic rose. I fought against the swell of emotions he had awakened. Was it madness to open my heart to another, let alone a white man?
“Did I say something that offends?” The tenderness in his voice only plagued me more.
“No, you’ve been most kind,” I said in a morose voice.
He stilled his footsteps and took my wrist, pulling me to a stop. I flinched at his touch, but he never let go. And, oddly enough, I didn’t pull away. Instead, I peered into his eyes, my heart striking in my throat.
“I am no threat to you,” he said.
“It’s not that. It’s…”
“What? Tell me what grips the heart and makes your body tremble so.” His eyes revealed his desire to understand.
The day in the field when Rufus and his men had raped me flashed through my mind. I trembled at the memory, and hugged myself to quell the tremors. “Some years back, Missus Willow and I were attacked by the overseer and his men from the Barry Plantation.” My voice shook. “And…well…the men raped me.”
He inhaled sharply. I searched his face for any understanding of the shame I carried like a parasite, always feeding on me. He shifted his feet and looked away.
Would he think less of me, a woman handled and broken? I hadn’t wanted to be regarded in such a way, especially by him. But the need to be forthcoming had pushed me to speak of the past.
He returned his gaze to me, and compassion poured from his eyes. “I have no words. I—I…” The ache in my soul was mirrored in his eyes. “I have no words.”
“There is no need for any. I wanted you to understand the reason I’ve regarded you with leeriness.”
“Rightfully so.” His voice was hard, but then softened. “I imagine it takes great courage to speak of unbearable afflictions. And I do not wish to cause you more pain. The honesty of your heart is an attribute most attractive in a woman.”
Appreciation at his response heightened my sense of trust. After the rape, all men, aside from Gray, had become Rufus and his men, seeking to harm me in the way Mama had warned me about since I was small. Harm she had also suffered—which only intensified our bond as mother and daughter.
“I best get back. Missus Willow will wonder where I am.” I turned to go.
“Mary Grace.” His fingers touched mine.
I paused and turned to look at him. “Yes?”
“You must know I’ve come to care for you.”
The pounding in my chest accelerated.
“I hope you will consider allowing me to visit you,” he said.
I thought of Mama and the way she eyed Magnus with leeriness every time he visited Livingston. At night she knelt at her bedside in prayer, sending up requests for me to come to my senses and turn my eyes and heart from such thoughts. Mama’s free time would be spent on her knees once I told her of Magnus’s request. I could withhold it from her, but I’d learned at a young age that there could be no secrets from Mama. She always found out. Even when Willow had been able to convince me otherwise, it had never turned out in our favor.
“You need not answer now. Please think about it.”
“I will do as you ask,” I said softly.
“I await your answer.” He bowed at the waist. “Good day.” He turned and strode back the way I’d come.
I stood watching him, warmth swelling my heart—before Mama’s taut brow and her fist-on-waist stance came to mind. I heaved a sigh and tilted my face to the heavens. “Perhaps you can tame the tiger?”
I continued down the path toward the house, contemplating how I would break the news to Mama, and conjure the courage to tell her the condition of my heart.
Bowden
RYAN’S AUCTION MART HUMMED WITH the hungry excitement of purchasers. Once I had visited slave markets with the same eagerness, but in recent years, entering such establishments evoked an abundance of shame and remorse.
As I often did when attending auctions, I stood in the shadows to observe. In my hand I clutched the advertisement listing the day’s stock. Another sleepless night had left me weary and questioning my decision to attend the auction. Leaning back against the high brick wall, I rested my eyes. But my ears couldn’t shut out the chatter around me.
“He and his men overran the arsenal,” a fellow said, annoyance in his voice.
I tensed at the reference to John Brown’s recent arrest after his attack at Harpers Ferry. I had attended one of Brown’s meetings and recalled the unnerving way his piercing eyes roved the crowd. How he’d rocked on his heels and spewed hatred, stoking passions and eliciting a hankering for retaliation on slave owners.
“No match for the US Marines,” another man said. “Colonel Robert E. Lee and Lieutenant J.E.B. Stuart are applauded for taking the abolitionist bastard and his men out. Rumor states that they killed two of Brown’s sons in the attack. The sooner he stands trial, the sooner we will be rid of the likes of him. If only we could rid the world of all abolitionists.”
I eyed one of the men, recognizing him as the renter of the warehouse next to Hendricks Enterprises.
“I concur. Brown will swing from the gallows before you know it, and I intend to be there to see it.”
The men’s conversation shifted to other topics and my awareness traveled to the auctioneer, who stood to the side of the auction block, in what appeared to be an in-depth discussion with another man. As I studied the men they looked in my direction and, upon catching me watching them, hastily turned away. I frowned at thei
r behavior but pushed it from my mind as someone collided with me on their way by.
I gripped the cloaked woman to keep her upright. “You all right, ma’am?”
She used a gloved hand to pull her hood closer, attempting to shelter her face. An endeavor that failed because I caught a glimpse of her hazelnut flesh and green-hued eyes.
“Are you mad? What are you doing here?” I hissed.
Her gaze flitted around us before she leaned closer and whispered, “Curiosity has gotten the better of me. Such places don’t exist in England.”
I pulled her into the shadows and said through gritted teeth, “This is no place for you. Does your father know you’re here?”
She regarded me with the level stare of Charles Hendricks, and the stubbornness of my wife was reflected in the jutting of her chin. She pulled her arm free. “I’m a grown woman. He doesn’t need to know my every move.”
My jaw twitched. Oh, how I’d witnessed that same defiance before. The Hendricks women were a rare breed—not the meek and obedient type. I dipped my head and said, for her ears only, “Then you must know the kind of men slave traders are. Free or not, they would corner you in an alley, and you would be standing on that block. One can never be too careful. Especially a woman of your parentage.” I stole a look around. “Stay in the shadows and out of sight.”
Concern flashed in her eyes, and she nodded as the auctioneer’s voice rose and the sale began. Chains rattled as the first line of slaves were moved into position. I stood beholding the robbing of humans’ fundamental rights and considered how I could have been so blinded by a system.
As a child, a black mammy had dried my tears, slaves tended our home, and their children had been my playmates. It had all seemed normal. I analyzed how society and parents wove into adolescent minds the morality of slavery. Weren’t children merely victims of circumstances, without a choice of the life assigned them? Then they grow up, and although wholly competent in shaping their own decisions in life, they’re so dulled by a system that they find no fault in its methods. Had I not been so? Deaf to Willow’s pleas to recognize the error in my ways, I’d had to reach my own understanding, but the circumstances that prompted that still haunted me.
Gray had been a man of honor, and I’d held him in high esteem. He lived his life seeing beauty in a world saturated with pain and ugliness. The man had offered grace and forgiveness to me when I was undeserving, serving me more ably than any hired hand. After his death, I’d resolved to live each day with purpose. To look at life through his eyes and dedicate my life to honoring a man far superior to me and those around me. I sought to end the practice of slavery.
“Why do you come?” Callie whispered.
Without turning, I said, “Because it reminds me of the man I once was and the man I refuse to be again.”
“But why torture yourself?”
“Whether here or out there,” I nodded toward the exit, “it does not stop the cries of the past that pursue me.”
She gulped, but never said another word.
The next hour passed, and I stood spectator while men dictated people’s lives, selling slaves to new masters, and with each transaction an invisible grip squeezed my chest.
A slave of smaller stature, with delicate features for a man, was shoved up onto the auction block. The auctioneer began rattling off his sales chatter. “A favorite with his master. Not a mark mars his flesh. Get yourselves a look at his teeth.” He pried open the man’s mouth with a wooden rod. “Have you ever seen a nigger with such a fine set of teeth? He’d make a nice accompaniment to a master’s bed. Or perhaps a butler or a personal driver. A man with such beauty would be the perfect embellishment atop a carriage, and he’d look mighty fine in your estate’s garb.” The auctioneer pulled down the slave’s trousers and used his stick to prod the man’s genitals for the crowd’s observation. My fists balled at the gesture. Behind me, Callie gasped.
The auctioneer instructed the man to turn, giving the audience a complete view of the stock. My belly tightened and churned as the slave received the same consideration a customer seeking to purchase a horse for the Charleston races would give.
“He acts as though the man is merely a piece of artwork,” Callie whispered with revulsion as the auctioneer rumbled off bids.
“And as such, he will go to the highest bidder,” I said. “I’ve had enough. Let me walk you out.” I stepped from the shadows, removed the hat from the crook of my arm, and sat it atop my head.
“Sold! To Mr. Bowden Armstrong,” the auctioneer’s voice boomed.
What? I gawked at him. “You’re mistaken, sir,” I shouted to be heard over the murmuring of the crowd. “I did not offer a bid.”
“But you did. Your arm went up.”
“I was merely replacing my hat.”
He looked at his assistant. “Is it not so?”
“Saw it with my own eyes,” the man said.
“And there you have it; my associate bears witness. An offer is an offer, and you’re bound to it,” the auctioneer said with a cunning grin. “I was unaware of your taste in slaves, Mr. Armstrong. Nevertheless, you’re now the lucky owner of number fifty-one.”
Hands clenched at my sides, I pushed my way through the crowd. Standing in front of the platform, I glared up at the auctioneer. “I will have your tongue for such slander. I do not require any more slaves, and as I said, I did not bid on this man or any other here today.”
The auctioneer grinned and spread his arms wide, making a spectacle. “Are the good people of Charleston to believe that Mr. Armstrong is not a man of his word?”
My jaw clenched, and I glanced from him to his accomplice. The way he stood regarding me, as though pleased with himself, left me baffled. I pushed it from my mind and turned back to the auctioneer. “I’ve made myself clear,” I said with purpose. “I do not require another slave.”
The auctioneer stepped forward on the platform, towering over me. “The slave is yours. Now I must move on.” He glanced over the crowd and broadcasted, “I won’t keep the people waiting.”
My patience growing thin, but aware of the murmurs around me, I said firmly and loud enough for all to hear, “You are a cheat, but to keep you from making a fool of yourself, I will give you a quarter of the price you called and nothing more.” The auctioneer would not be able to accept a rate lower than the price the slave’s master desired. I would end the debate and be on my way.
Again the auctioneer turned to his accomplice, and the men shared a few words. I eyed the slave on the block, and when our gazes met, I caught the plea in his eyes. I frowned.
“We will make an exception this time. It appears, in these trying times, his owner is in desperate need of the money.”
Bewildered at the auctioneer’s agreement to my pitiful offer, I swung my gaze back to him. “But—”
“All right, let’s move on, shall we? Bring up the next one.” He turned his back on me.
Grumbling under my breath, I wove through the crowd and staggered outside. As the light afternoon breeze hit me, I released the breath pressing at my chest. Removing my hat, I swiped a hand over my sweaty brow before kicking the ground. “Dammit!”
“A shady business, indeed,” her soft voice said behind me.
I spun around to find Callie standing nearby. I’d forgotten about her. “Indeed.” I focused on the street. “Did you come to town alone?”
“No, Magnus is at the bank, and I thought I’d take a stroll.”
“Unchaperoned?” My jaw twitched with agitation at what could have transpired. “You had better curb your free-spirited ways before someone finds reason to do it for you.” My tone sounded harsh to my own ears.
She turned and regarded me, looking bewildered and hurt. “It’s time to take my leave and go find my brother,” she said. “Good day.”
“Callie,” I called after her, but she hurried to put distance between us and soon disappeared around the corner of the mart. “Dammit!”
Muttering in s
ubdued rage, I swung around and marched back to the office.
Hours later, I was still going over the accounts of Hendricks Enterprises. The numbers were down again compared to the prior month. I rubbed my temples and peered out over the dock, where unsold cotton bales, rice, and tobacco accumulated. Our fleet of ships sat in the harbor, where they’d been moored for far too long. Captain Gillies and Captain Phillips had taken leave until operations picked up again.
A knock on the door shifted my gaze, and at the sight of the auctioneer I cursed. Scraping back my chair, I rose and strode to the door. The headache that had chased me all morning throbbed with each step.
“Did you forget something?” The auctioneer studied the office before peering up at me. A fresh shirt and pressed suit failed to conceal the lingering perfume of the prostitutes he frequently visited at Charleston’s waterfront brothels.
“Do you make reference to a slave I didn’t bid on?” I returned his hard gaze. “I have all the mouths I need to feed.” I spotted the slave standing some feet away, his eyes downcast.
“What will your competition say when they hear of your unwillingness to pay?”
“I care not.”
“I will take the matter before the courts.”
“Do as you must. I won’t have my hand forced. You know I didn’t bid on that slave. Your shady dealings are no secret. I will not be your victim today or any other day.”
His face reddened, and his spittle speckled my face. “You will pay for this. I will see everyone knows that you, Mr. Armstrong, aren’t a man of your word.”
“Says he who doesn’t have an honest bone in his body,” I said. “Your threats have no weight on me. I have a long enough standing in these parts to be known as a fair man.”
The man bounced on his toes as his finger jabbed at my chest. “You will never be Charles Hendricks.”
Unwilling to be cornered by the likes of him, I stood my ground. “Nor do I intend to be.”
“Sir, please,” a voice said.
I glanced over the head of the auctioneer to the slave, who’d stepped forward. “What is it?”
“If you don’t mind me saying, I’d like to take my chances with you.” His plea and his beseeching gaze left me dumbfounded.
