Whispers of War

by Naomi Finley

  Baxter released the rope, and I watched as Mammy and Jimmy disappeared around the corner of the house with Rawlings.

  “Took me some time to figure out the nigger belonged to you. Had to ask around town till I found someone who said you recently purchased him at an auction in town.”

  “And I thank you,” Bowden said. “State your price, and I will see you rewarded.”

  Baxter eyed us with suspicion and spat tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth. “Something funny about the whole matter.”

  I heard a low rumble in Bowden’s chest, and he squared his shoulders and glared at the slave catcher. “Oh? What’s that?”

  “I saw no reward posted for your runaway.”

  My heart froze.

  “Are you questioning my methods?”

  “Reckon I am.”

  “Did your informant also state that I paid barely a fraction of the slave’s worth? Or that I didn’t need another mouth to feed?”

  “Come upon hard times, have ya?” he said with a smirk.

  “As much as the next planter. A problem we have all felt.”

  Baxter straightened in his saddle and took a look around. “Maybe it’s nature’s way of evening the score.”

  “Make yourself clear,” Bowden said in a tone that indicated his tolerance of the man was coming to an end.

  “A balancing of the scales,” he said. “If there is a war, then maybe the rich can finally feel what it’s like to go hungry. Maybe it’s time they work their own fields. I hope ruin rains on you all.”

  “And if war comes, and the North succeeds in abolishing slavery, it won’t only be slave owners that will lose, but you too will find yourself crippled of profit,” Bowden said.

  Baxter snarled like a rabid dog and spat on the bottom step. I crept closer to the protection of Bowden’s side. Amusement flickered in Baxter’s eyes. “You scared, ma’am? Or is it the darkness of my skin that causes you to tremble?”

  Fire heated my veins. “It is not your skin that makes you a monster, but the vile acts of your life and the fool words that spew from your lips.”

  Bowden gripped my arm to silence me. “State your price and be gone.”

  Perhaps realizing his attempt to intimidate us had failed, the man declared his price.

  “Come.” Bowden clenched my elbow and led me inside.

  Without a word, he retrieved the funds requested and blew past me with the rage of a bull, returning outside to pay the man.

  On the threshold of the open door, I stood until the pounding of the horses’ hooves grew distant. Bowden bounded down the stairs, and I chased after him as he rounded the house and marched toward the quarters.

  My bare feet padded against the cool ground as I hurried to catch up with him. “Bowden, wait up.”

  He swung around and held the lantern aloft. “You will catch your death.” He looked at my feet.

  “Then we will die together.” I pointed at his naked feet.

  “Come, let’s make haste.” He gestured a hand, and I raced forward, slipped my hand in his, and we hurried to the quarters.

  “Where did James take Rawlings?” Bowden questioned some menfolk sitting around an open fire, engaged in stories of the day.

  “I saw dem enter James’s cabin.”

  Bowden mumbled a thank you and pulled me in the direction of the cabin.

  As we mounted the stoop, Mammy’s voice drifted from inside. Inside we found Jimmy sitting in a rocker by the fireplace and Rawlings at the table, where Mammy hovered over him with a needle in hand.

  “Sit still, ya fool. I ’most done,” she said.

  We stood back, allowing her to finish up.

  “Dere. You ain’t gonna be as purty as you once were, but I reckon you will heal jus’ fine,” she declared before looking at Bowden and shaking her head. “Fool is all yours. De thrashing dey give him save me de trouble. Gitting himself caught and putting evvyone in danger. Dey did you wrong when dey makes you buy dis one.” Mammy nudged her head at Rawlings.

  Bowden regarded her with a small smile. “Thank you. Now, if you will see my wife to her chamber, I will finish up here.”

  I started to protest, but Mammy stepped up. “Yes, Masa,” she said. One glance at my bare feet, and she clucked her tongue and took my arm as though governing a child. “Land sakes, Missus Willow, what you doing wid no shoes. Bes’ git you home and in bed ’fore you come down wid a bout of pneumonia.” She rambled on, but as we stepped out onto the stoop, my ears tuned to Bowden’s inquiry of Rawlings.

  “Why do I find you back here? You should be on your way to New York by now.”

  “The blame lies with me. The steamer was yet to leave, and I spotted a peddler selling trinkets, and foolishly left to purchase my wife a gift. But I hardly made it off the ship before Baxter and his men cornered me. He wouldn’t take my word that I was a freed black in town visiting family. Pulled me into the shadows of a warehouse and roughed me up. When I awoke I found myself in chains again. They tied me to the back of a horse, and here I am.” His shoulders slumped. “I’m right sorry for the trouble. You’ve been kind enough to take my word and risk reproach by returning me to my wife.”

  I turned to look back into the cabin, but Mammy inserted herself and closed the door before turning and leveling a look of warning at me. “Masa Bowden say bed for you.”

  I scowled but allowed her to pull me toward the house. “I am not a child.”

  “No matter how big ya git, you always be my angel gal. And de temperature is too cold for you to be gwine ’round in dose flimsy night clothes and no shoes.”

  “Says she who is in the same state,” I muttered.

  “Your Mammy is tough.”

  “And I am not?” I scoffed.

  “You tough all right, but et my job to see no harm come to you.”

  I knew there was no use arguing with her.

  In my chamber, she tucked me into bed as she had so often when I was a child, and the nostalgia of the moment filled me with a yearning for the years when the trials and afflictions of adulthood seemed distant. She had a way of calming your worries with a gentle touch or words of wisdom. Each day, as her rich contralto voice rose in song, it was a balm to all who heard it.

  She peered down at me, as though trying to dissect my thoughts. Concern glimmered in her eyes, as it had the day she’d raced into my chamber when I changed from child to woman with the arrival of my first bleed. I lay splayed across my bed, weeping inconsolably, for death had indeed come for me. She clambered onto the bed next to me, and I rose and slung my arms around her neck, soaking her blouse with my troubles and tears. After hearing what troubled me so, she released a low chuckle. Insulted, I pushed back to search her face. But she swiftly stifled the laugh and dried my tears before informing me that I would live, but face the agony month after month and for years to come.

  She smoothed the blankets around me. “What be troubling you, angel gal?”

  “Nothing.” I knew better than to try and hide my distress because, like a proficient detective, she had a way of plucking information and emotions from me I wasn’t aware of at all.

  She tipped her head and narrowed her eyes. “Ain’t no use. Tell your ol’ Mammy and see ef I can help sort et out.”

  “Well, it’s just that Bowden desires a child.”

  Her fingers paused in smoothing the blankets. “And what you feeling ’bout dat?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Oh, angel gal.” Her brow furrowed, and she lowered herself down on the edge of the bed. “Life ain’t easy, dat for sho’. But you can’t fear dat evvy baby gwine be born wid de trouble Li’l Masa Ben had. Your babe wasn’t long for dis world ’cause de Lard need him for somepin’ special. Yes, sah. And de li’l masa wouldn’t want you suffering none. He’d want you to be happy.”

  Tears pooled as misery twisted my soul. “Sometimes I fear that God punishes me for the sins of me and my family against the folks enslaved to Livingston.”

  “De Lar
d don’t work lak dat. No matter de fear Christian folkses tries to put in others,” she said. “You a good woman. You do de bes’ you can by de folks here. And I know ef’n you could, nobody be property of Livingston.”

  “You think too highly of me. You’re blind to who I really am.”

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “I’m a wicked person. I may as well be Baxter and his men.”

  “Dat no-good slave catcher? De black demon goes around scooping up his own kind and dragging dem back to deir masas. You ain’t Baxter, and you never could be.”

  “I may as well be.”

  “You speak of your worry to be left wid nobody?”

  “Yes.” Tears marred my response, and I pounded the linens with a fist. “It is selfish of me, I know.”

  “Ef’n a war come, dere no saying what gonna happen to any of us.” I saw the uncertainty in her eyes before she pushed it away. “Dat why having a babe would give you what you seek.”

  “But what if…”

  “De babe dies again?”

  I nodded.

  “No use thinking lak dat, ’cause dat kind of reasoning ain’t nothing but torment bent on keeping you a prisoner. Ain’t no way to live. Hopes and dreams are what keeps a body alive.” She gave me a comforting smile and patted my hand. “You want ol’ Mammy’s advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “You jus’ let nature take et time, and when de time is right, your womb will swell again.” She patted the blankets and pushed to her feet. “Rest now, angel gal. Ain’t no use worrying ’bout things you can’t control.”

  “Night, Mammy.”

  She turned the lantern down and whispered good night before her weighted treads faded down the corridor, trailed by a sweet, hummed melody.

  A MORNING RIDE LEFT ME refreshed but famished, and upon my return to Livingston I was eager for breakfast.

  “Please see that he gets extra today. I rode him hard,” I said as I handed my mount’s reins to the stable hand and dismounted. I rubbed the muzzle of the gray Andalusian I’d insisted Bowden purchase at the Charleston races last year. After the horse had suffered an injury and was no longer deemed fit to race, his owner had sought to sell him. I’d begged my husband to purchase him, and I’d been right in doing so, because with Jimmy’s expertise, the horse had healed remarkably. Although he’d never return to the races, he was as fine a horse as his competition.

  “You can’t nurture every creature back to health,” Bowden had said the day at the races, only to come back some months later and admit, “You and James have done well with the horse. I’d never have thought it possible.”

  I smiled at the recollection as I wandered down to the kitchen house to get something to nibble on and to sit and talk to Mammy for a spell. However, upon my arrival, I found the place washed and tidied, but no sign of her or Mary Grace.

  “Must be at the house,” I mumbled as I scoured the shelves and counter for something to satisfy the beast within me.

  Securing a small wedge of cheese, I cut a slab of bread and slathered it with butter before seeking a piece of dried meat. Unearthing none, I took a bite of the cheese, and with a blade in hand, I left the kitchen house. Following the path to the smokehouse, I responded to the “Afternoon, Missus” that folks offered along the way. Their gazes locked on the blade I carried in front of me. I laughed, and sheepishly lowered it to my side. I suppose I looked a sight, with wisps of hair hanging in my face from the ride, cheeks stuffed with food, blade in hand, and eyes on the bounty—the smokehouse.

  Inside, I cut a link of dried sausage hanging from the rafters before walking out and securing the door behind me. As I took my leave, I caught a glimpse of a human form sprawled in the grass in the lee of the back wall of the smokehouse. It was a Negro man, lying facedown and shirtless. His back was scarred with old lash wounds and an R branded his shoulder, labeling him a runner. I couldn’t recall anyone at Livingston with the mark.

  Keeping the knife ready, I nudged at his leg with my shoe and got no response. After prodding him a time or two, I moved in closer and dropped to my knees before struggling to turn him over. He was a brute of a man, and perhaps the tallest I’d ever seen, with flesh as dark as a starless sky.

  As I rolled him over, I gasped, then gagged at the stench coming from a gaping wound in his thigh, visible through a rip in his trousers. Maggots crawled from the injury, which he’d attempted to pack and tend. Gray threads dominated his hairline and time had carved deep channels in his face. Dried blood stained the cloth he’d wound around his feet as makeshift shoes, probably constructed from his shirt. I studied the ownership brand on his palm, and couldn’t place him or the mark from neighboring plantations. I believed his master a fool and unwise to blemish his property with an estate brand and identify the man as a problematic slave. Both practices had gradually fallen out of use.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught movement and glanced over my shoulder. Jones was walking by. When he saw me, he paused and frowned. “Mrs. Armstrong, what are you doing?”

  “Help me get him to the hospital.”

  “Him?” he said, hurrying forward.

  “He is wounded.”

  Jones hovered over me and gagged before blocking his nose with his wrist.

  “Do you recognize him?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. Don’t reckon I do.”

  “He’s marked as a runaway,” I said.

  Jones scanned our surroundings for prying eyes. “Best get him out of sight then.”

  We managed to get him half up, but I stumbled under his weight.

  “The man is built like a bull,” Jones wheezed.

  “Hold on, I’ll go fetch some help.” Pushing to my feet, I hurried away.

  A familiar, whistled tune drew my attention. “Jimmy!” I called out as he exited the stables.

  “Ah, Missus Willie. What can I do for you today?” He grinned.

  I beckoned him with a hand. “Hurry, I need your help.”

  His smile evaporated, and he bounded forward without a moment of hesitation. “What is et? Somepin’ wrong?” Concern creased his dear face.

  As he reached me, I turned and hurried back the way I’d come, and he quickened his pace to catch up. “I found a slave sprawled on the ground by the smokehouse. He’s gravely wounded, and Jones and I need help getting him to Ben.”

  “He not from here, I take et.”

  “He bears a brand I’m not familiar with. He most likely isn’t from around these parts.”

  We returned to Jones, and Jimmy dashed forward to prop himself under the man’s arm. Together the men hoisted the slave up.

  “Comes from good stock,” Jimmy said with a groan as they marched down the path to the sick hospital with the slave’s bent legs dragging behind him.

  I gathered the sides of my skirt and ran ahead to warn Ben.

  Reaching the hospital, I bounded up the steps and threw open the door. Kimie jumped, and the bottle of alcohol she’d been placing on a shelf shattered on the floor.

  “Willow, what in heaven’s name—” Ben rose from his perch on the bedside of Codjo, the plantation’s potter.

  I leaned on a bedpost to catch my breath. “I found a slave. He is wounded. Jimmy and Jones are on their way with him now.”

  “Kimie, prepare the table.” Ben waved a hand at the examination table before walking to a shelf and retrieving fresh bandages. He was calling out orders to Kimie while lining a tray with required instruments when Jones and Jimmy clambered up the steps.

  “Get him on the table,” Ben said.

  Once the slave lay on the table, Jones and Jimmy stepped back.

  “All right, thank you, gentlemen. I need room to work, and this place can barely fit a few patients and Kimie and I.”

  I stood to the side as the men hurried from the room and closed the door behind them. Folks strode by and cast curious glances through the windows.

  As Ben and Kimie worked to clean the wound, I stayed back to give them space. The sick ho
spital held but two beds, and Codjo lay sleeping in one. “When do you expect him to be back on his feet?” I strode to Codjo’s bedside and adjusted the sheet to cover his bare shoulder.

  “The tumor is only a small sign. I believe the disease has spread to his vital organs. I’ve done all I can do. Now it’s up to the Almighty if He will take him or not,” Ben said over his shoulder.

  I covered the man’s hand with mine, regarding the hollows in the once full cheeks and listening to his ragged breathing. Last spring, Bowden and I had purchased him at an auction in New Orleans. The man was half dead as he stood on the auction block, looking like he cared little of what became of him. The urge to add some quality to what was left of his life had pressed me to buy him. Other purchasers had eyed us with suspicion and whispered behind their hands at our foolhardiness in purchasing the walking dead. In the months since his arrival, with Ben’s care and proper nourishment, he had started to thrive, until he’d recently taken a turn for the worse.

  “That should do for now,” Ben said. “We’ll have to keep a close watch on him, that he doesn’t open the wound. Now we must get the fever down and hope that he awakens to tell us who he is.”

  “Let’s hope no slave catcher or his master tracks him here,” I said, joining Kimie and Ben.

  Ben wrapped the slave’s thigh with fresh bandages. “Kimie, if you don’t mind, will you go and fetch someone to help me get him into the bed.”

  “Yes, Dr. Hendricks.” Kimie hurried to the door and was gone before we could barely blink.

  Ben peered after her.

  “She is a godsend, isn’t she?”

  He broke his gaze to look at me. “Indeed, she is.”

  “Tell me,” I said, distracting myself with the unnecessary tidying of items on a shelf. “I couldn’t help but notice in recent months that you and Miss Pippa engage in afternoon rides.” I kept my back to him to avoid encountering his disapproving gaze. Only a clod would miss the budding relationship between them, and I had delighted in spying on them from behind the drapes. Pippa’s light chatter and infectious laughter would leave me bursting with happiness as Ben helped her onto her mount, a soft expression on his face. Call me a romantic, or an interloper, it didn’t matter. I’d been right, and Whitney and Bowden could eat their words. I smiled, reflecting on the Christmas banquet some years ago, before yearning to see Whitney again took precedence. I longed to find an escape from responsibilities and linger a moment or two in the madness that often blossomed in her head.