by Naomi Finley
There was a scream, and what sounded like a struggle.
“Tillie?” Mama said. “Et me, Rita.”
I sank to my belly and scrambled to get out of sight, coming face-to-face with a wide-eyed Tillie clutching her shrieking son. Tears and sweat dampened the boy’s face and blended with his mother’s.
“Why aren’t you at the river with the others?” I asked.
She tried desperately to soothe the child. “Got cut off.”
I turned and tussled the grass behind me, attempting to conceal our entry point.
“De babe give us away as sho’ as anything,” Mama said.
“I don’t know what to do. He plumb skeered, Miss Rita.” Tillie’s voice trembled.
Mama patted her shoulder. “I know, chile.”
I reached into my pinafore pocket, recalling the sugarcane I’d taken from the kitchen house for Evie. I had planned to surprise her with the treat when I retired to the quarters last evening, but with Magnus’s unexpected arrival I had hurried to say my goodnights and left the children with the promise of my soon return. Only I never had until I charged into the cabin to rip them from their beds.
I removed the sugarcane and handed it to Tillie. “This may soothe him.”
She took the sugarcane and chewed it to soften the end before placing it to the child’s lips, squeezing the sweetness over his tongue. His screams turned to whimpers as his chubby fingers stretched for the treat.
Tillie looked at me with a look of gratitude and relief as the boy pacified himself with the sugarcane before she buried her face into the curve of his neck, sobbing softly.
Mama rubbed Tillie’s back in gentle circles and whispered a prayer.
We sprawled there until the pounding of horses’ hooves faded, and an eerie stillness fell over the plantation. Although our immediate surroundings had calmed somewhat, I heard the crackling of flames, and the booming vibration of cannons continued in the distance.
As I stretched to part the grass to investigate our surroundings, Mama caught my arm. “You don’t know what waits out dere, or ef et safe.”
“Mary Grace!” Magnus’s voice shouted.
My heart leaped, and tears gathered in my throat. He was alive. I parted the grass and scooted from beneath the wagon and clambered to my feet.
Before us, Masa Ben, Magnus, and others moved across the work yard, examining the dead and wounded. Jones and slaves raced with slopping water buckets toward the big house. The fire had collapsed outbuildings and cabins, and the rubble lay smoldering while flames still chewed through the main house. With effort, it might yet be saved.
“Mary Grace!” I heard the panic in Magnus’s voice as he rose to stand over a woman’s corpse. He scanned the bodies around him, terror evident on his face.
“We are here,” I said before turning to help Mama up, then Tillie.
“Tillie, dat you?” Pete bounded toward his family, and Tillie melted into his protective embrace.
Magnus crushed me in his arms. His heart hammered against my ear. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered.
“Are they gone?” I muffled into his chest.
“For now.” He pulled me back to inspect me for injuries.
“Where my John?” Mama tugged at his arm.
“Sorry, Miss Rita, I lost track of him in the chaos,” Magnus said, sympathy in his blue eyes.
“I got to find him. I lose him once; I not see et happen again.” She marched off.
“Be careful,” I called after her.
At the sound of approaching horses and wagons, Magnus pushed me behind him and hoisted the rifle. Everyone froze, terror on their faces as folks readied for a second attack. But as neighbors crowded onto flatbeds and on horseback poured into the work yard, Magnus lowered the gun.
Masa Ben sprinted to greet them.
“What happened?” Mr. Sterling, a neighboring farmer and constable for the area, jumped down.
“We must help get the fire out,” someone said, and people raced to the well to join the assembly of slaves already in action.
Masa Ben nudged his head at the horizon. “It appears Northern militia thought to take advantage of whatever is befalling in town and hit us before the US Army got a chance.”
“Militia?” Mr. Sterling eyed the collection of bodies. “You may be right. It appears they don states’ militia garb.” He rubbed a hand over his face and pulled down, weariness and concern on his face. His gaze turned to the horizon, as did those of several other men.
I listened to the men’s conversation as daylight revealed strangers dressed in various uniforms, as well as simple clothing.
“Your plantation sits midway in both directions. Why did they choose to attack ya’ll first?” a farmer asked.
“Good question, and one I may have an answer for.” Masa Ben gestured for them to follow.
He stopped at Rufus and, with the toe of his boot, rolled over the corpse. The thumping in my chest beat faster as I half expected him to stir. But Mama had finished him good. I shuddered, recalling the splitting of his skull and the taste of blood on my lips. The bandana he had worn to cover the word Willow had carved in his forehead as a warning to all had shifted, revealing his offense against me. “Gentleman, here lies one of the McCoy brothers.”
A man crouched down to get a better look, covering his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. “Wasn’t he the overseer at the Barry Plantation?”
“That’s correct,” Masa Ben said.
“I thought he died in the fire.” Mr. Sterling cocked his head to look at Masa Ben.
“The McCoys are not to be underestimated. The lengths the brothers will go to to see my family in ruins is not to be taken lightly. They’re masterminds bent on ending a damn curse the fools believe Olivia placed on their family. One can only assume they wove some kind of lunatic tenet into their misguided belief.” He swept a hand over the dead. “Nothing they spew can be trusted.”
I stood in awe as Masa Ben shrewdly painted the McCoys in a light that would deflect the brothers’ attempt to expose Livingston’s operations. Rufus lay dead, but I’d seen his brother Reuben, who posed a more significant threat—he had the genius intellect of a calculated killer. He too may have ceased breathing, or lay injured with breath enough to reveal his findings. And what of his acquaintances and the men who had attacked, now scattered?
Mr. Sterling pointed at the markings on his forehead. “It appears someone wanted the world to know the nature of the man.” He gritted his teeth. “There is no end to the McCoys’ crimes. What of the younger brother? Any sign of him?”
“He was here. He may be among the bodies. I fired a shot at his head and saw him fall forward, but lost sight of him in the chaos.”
“We will get the fire out in the main house while you tend to your wounded,” Mr. Sterling said. “Then we must return to our homes.” His eyes turned to the horizon.
“Mary Grace.” Magnus shook my arm. “We must check on the children.”
The children. I gulped, and without waiting, I whirled and raced toward the river, not slowing until I reached the bank. Magnus offered me a hand, and we skidded down the edge onto the rocky waterline.
“Et Mary Grace,” a woman called out.
Women and children stepped from their hiding places.
“Et safe?” someone asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Mama!” Evie and Noah dashed toward me.
“My darlings.” I stretched out my arms to scoop them into an embrace.
Evie dampened my dress with her tears. I kissed Noah’s cheek and pressed him close to my side. Clutching my children to my breasts, I sent a prayer of gratitude as the warmth of Magnus’s arms encompassed us all. The children clung to him and he regarded me over their heads, tears glittering in his eyes.
Soon after, we walked back toward the work yard, and I beheld the entirety of the destruction to the plantation, and the horror of what had transpired. Quarter folks and house slaves had given their lives to d
efend a place that had claimed their liberty, but as the thought hit me, I knew it went deeper. They had offered their lives for their belief in a more favorable tomorrow, placing their faith in Livingston’s owners and their passion for the cause.
Willow—4:30 a.m., April 12, 1861
THE BLAST OF A CANNON bolted Bowden and I upright in bed, and instinctively I dropped to the floor as screams and shouts reverberated in the aftermath. Bowden raced for the trousers draped over the armchair by the window overlooking the harbor. He pulled back the thin white sheers, and I gasped as I caught a glimpse of the flames engulfing the sky.
“They’re firing on Fort Sumter,” he said. “Get dressed!”
Pushing myself up from the floor, I hurried to don a night robe as he hopped about trying to wiggle into his trousers. My trembling fingers fumbled with the robe’s tie. My heart hammered as if trying to escape my chest, and I jumped when urgent pounding rattled our chamber door.
“Mr. Armstrong!” Our butler’s voice rose. “The warehouse and ships are on fire.”
Bowden grabbed my hand and we dashed for the door. He threw it open and on the other side stood our winded butler, with sweat beading his upper lip and forehead. Beside him, a heaving Captain Gillies gripped the door frame, trying to catch his breath. He stood sopping wet from head to toe, pooling water over the recently refinished floorboards.
“Gillies?” Bowden’s brow furrowed. “Why are you in such a state?”
“Someone set fire to the Olivias and the warehouse.”
My blood ran cold.
“Are you saying Major Anderson’s troops have made it ashore? Then why are the Confederates unleashing on Fort Sumter?”
“I don’t believe it was Anderson’s troops. The culprits were militia.”
“Militia? How can you be certain?”
“Got a gander at them before I was forced to abandon ship.”
We all ducked as another cannon cracked.
“Hell has been unleashed!” groaned Jane, the butler’s wife. She crouched in the corner, her gaze fixed on the corridor window at the end of the hall.
“I couldn’t prevent the spread on my own.” The captain’s face twisted with remorse.
Bowden pushed past the men and darted down the corridor, dragging me along with him. He slung open the door to stairs leading to the rooftop, and we raced up. The treads of Captain Gillies and the servants thundered behind us.
As we stepped out onto the rooftop, I beheld the bleeding sky. All around us, Charlestonians stood on rooftops and balconies with their eyes trained on the harbor. Bowden released my hand and stumbled forward until he stood at the far corner of the roof, his gaze concentrated on our ships and warehouse immersed in flames. Horror gripped me at the destruction unfolding at the docks and the harbor.
“Armstrong, isn’t that your ships?” Mr. Hewett, our neighbor, called from his balcony.
“It appears so,” Bowden answered, his voice hollow. He slumped forward, resting his palms on the railing.
“Caught in the crossfire, I assume. Damn Lincoln and his ambitions!” Mr. Hewett called back.
As though walking through a nightmare, my footsteps leaden, I moved to my husband’s side, and Captain Gillies followed. I touched Bowden’s shoulder, and he straightened and glanced at me.
“All they fought for, gone!” Tears welled in his eyes.
I gulped as grief filled me. “We will rebuild,” I said, my words sounding vacant and unpromising.
As the three of us stood beholding the harbor Bowden pulled me tight to his side, and drew a ragged breath. “Only God can help us now!”
PREVIEW OF FOR HOME AND COUNTRY
Charleston, April 12, 1861
CANNON-FIRE WHISTLED AND CRACKED, AND with each explosion, I jumped, my nerves spun tight since the onset of the battle taking place in the harbor. The roar and thunder of shells unleashed on Major Anderson of the US Army and his garrison at Fort Sumter had been going on for hours. The South Carolina militia, led by General Beauregard, controlled the beach and the surrounding forts. Citizens remained on rooftops and balconies, and gathered at the Battery and in the streets to witness the bombardment. Older men, and boys too young, patrolled the streets, intent on protecting the city and keeping the Negros under control.
I paced the foyer of our townhouse, awaiting Bowden and Captain Gillies’s return with news on the damage to our warehouse and ships. The muscles in my neck and shoulders ached from the tension, aggravated by the relentless thundering of cannons.
Jane, the butler’s wife and our housekeeper, walked down the hallway with a silver tray rattling in her hands. She and her husband—freed blacks—had managed the townhouse for as long as I could remember. “Missus Willow, you must rest. I’ve fixed you some coffee and breakfast.”
I eyed the lanky woman of sixty or so. “I can’t possibly eat at a time like this.”
She strode into the parlor and set the tray down on the sofa table. “You look ready to drop where you stand. Running to the window in hopes Mr. Armstrong and the captain have returned won’t make their arrival come any faster.”
“The wait is unbearable.” I chewed on the corner of my mouth, now raw from gnawing.
Another crack ripped through the morning, and I ducked as though expecting the shell to land in the room. Jane gripped the doorframe, her wide eyes flitting to the window.
“I must return to Livingston at once.” I straightened and eyed the small retinue of house staff hovering in doorways and at the top of the stairs. “Folks would have heard the ruckus and concerns will be high.”
Jane released her hold on the doorframe. “What do we do if the army takes the city?”
The hissing of cannon-fire was loud in the silence as I thought. “Although Major Anderson seems to be at a disadvantage, circumstances could change. When Bowden and Captain Gillies return, we’ll know more of what is to be done—” The boom of the rapid firing of shells lodged my heart in my throat, and Jane and I clung to each other.
“Fort Sumter returns fire,” shouted an informant, a boy of nine or ten clad in a long gray coat, as he raced through the street.
“Anderson has finally shown up,” a man shouted in his wake.
I gawked at Jane, and we rushed to the parlor window and drew back the dark blue velvet drape.
Atop his mount, Josephine’s husband, Theodore Carlton, garbed in a similar homespun coat, addressed the citizens. “This war will be over before you know it. General Beauregard has the advantage.”
In the North, men had joined the US Army, while in the South, capable men formed militias and aided in the Confederate cause. Like Mr. Carlton, those too old took up policing and were accompanied by boys too young to fight.
“The South will persevere, and our menfolk will return.” He thrust out his chest. “Lincoln and his ambitions will fail to take hold. Let the North be reminded that the South won’t be defeated.” He struck at the heavens with a fist, and the citizens erupted in cheers.
“There is no certainty in what you say.” Bowden’s voice rose, and I pressed my cheek against the windowpane to find him in the crowd. Locating him standing some feet from the front steps of our townhouse, I released the drape and raced for the door.
Stepping outside, I descended the stairs to join him. He looped an arm around my waist without looking sideways. Soot and grime covered his face and hands, and the odor of smoke wafted from his clothing.
“Providing hope for the people is one thing, but offering false hope is a pitfall.” He glanced at Theodore and the two young boys on his flanks. “If you intend to man the city and countryside, ensure your efforts are to the benefit of those needing it. Our womenfolk need men they can count on.”
Carlton turned his intense blue eyes on Bowden, and the men engaged in a standoff of glares until Theodore broke focus and turned an uncanny look of open fascination on me. My legs trembled under a gaze that defined me as the prey and he the hunter. He had earned a reputation for pressing himself upo
n women and quarter slaves. His attention unsettled me. With our men away, men like him would seek to rise in power.
“And what the South needs is decent menfolk who are willing to defend our cause. Yet you’re still here, while the good men have already left. Why is that?” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his thigh.
Bowden tensed. “I will be gone soon enough.”
Carlton smirked. “And, in your absence, I will see that your lovely wife is well cared for.”
At that, Bowden gripped my elbow and turned to climb the steps. He hurried me inside and shut the door.
“Jane.”
“Yes, Mr. Armstrong?” She came forward.
“Pack our things. We leave at once for Livingston.”
She bowed and hurried away.
“Uriah?”
“Right here, Mr. Armstrong.” The butler held out a glass of whiskey, which Bowden took without hesitation and drained.
The windowpanes vibrated from the impact of cannons.
“In my absence, I hope that I can keep you employed to care for the place. Of course, until the threat to your safety makes that impossible.”
Years had hunched Uriah’s towering frame; no longer did he have to duck to walk through doorways. “We stay as long as needed. Don’t have no place to go anyhow. We talked ’bout staying with our boy in Georgia, but don’t reckon any place is going to be safe after this.” Concern pulled at his face.
“I fear you are right. I will leave a stable boy to tend the animals.” He glanced around at the staff, all waiting for answers on the upstairs landing and the main floor. “All other employees are to return to your homes and family until we can bring you back. If there is a place to come back to.”
Murmurs lifted.
“Come, come.” Bowden made a brushing gesture with his hand. “We mustn’t delay.”
The staff scurried to do his bidding.
“Bowden?” I gripped his arm. “What is the situation at the docks?”
He turned, and the look in his eyes hollowed my stomach. “Not good. The Olivia I has capsized, and all but one of our fleet is engulfed in flames. The warehouse remains, but the damage is severe. Our goods are ruined and unsellable.”
