“Sold,” the auctioneer said loudly, “for sixty pounds to Mr. Percival Derby of Derbyshire Farms.” Polly looked up with surprise. She hadn’t known who was doing the bidding. Then she shrugged. She just hoped Mr. Derby’s new purchase would get put out in the fields where she belonged.
“Will you be wantin’ her mama, sir?” the auctioneer said to Mr. Derby. “I offer her to you first, out of respect, you see.”
Polly watched as Mr. Derby, who had walked up to the stage to claim his property, glanced at the older woman standing next to the slave girl, then said, “No, Horace, but thanks for the offer. Family ties only confuse the poor creatures. They’ll forget each other as soon as the sun sets. Trust me.”
Mr. Derby grabbed the arm of his new slave and attempted to lead her off the stage, but for some reason she just went wild. Polly watched, fascinated, as the girl squirmed and screeched and babbled incoherently. Polly wondered if Negroes from Africa had feelings and intelligent thoughts or if that gibberish they spoke was more like the screaming of monkeys or the barking of dogs.
When she was five or six years old, back in Beaufort, where she’d been born, she’d played with Negro children sometimes, running through the tobacco fields, playing hide-and-seek. But her father had frowned on such and would call Polly inside their small house. He’d say, “The company you keep will rub off on you, Polly-girl. Don’t get your hands dirty by dealin’ with darkies.”
Her mother would shake her head at her husband, then pull Polly close to her. “I want you to grow up to be a fine lady, my pretty Polly. I don’t want you to have to do laundry like I do. So let the slave children tend to their work in the field, and I will read to you from the Bible.” Polly would snuggle on her mother’s lap and fall asleep listening to the rhythm of her voice as she read.
Turning her attention back to the sale, Polly realized that the girl they were dragging off the auction block now was weeping real tears and seemed to be genuinely attached to that older female African whose shackled hand she wouldn’t let go of.
Mr. Derby slapped the girl across the face, but she continued to pull and buck on the chains. She lurched toward the woman, but her leg chains got twisted and she stumbled. She fell hard, landing at the woman’s chained feet. The older woman, who was also crying, leaned down and quickly whispered something in the girl’s ear.
The girl was then pulled with difficulty from the stage, dragged across the dirt courtyard, and forced into the back of the wagon that Polly leaned on. The people in the crowd cheered at the spectacle, but Mr. Derby did not seem to be amused. He glared at Polly, who stepped quickly out of his way. He turned on his heel then and went to pay for his purchase.
Polly watched him coolly as he strode away, his shiny black boots getting dusty as he walked. She knew he wouldn’t leave right away. His son, who he had sent to pick up supplies from the wharf, had not yet returned. The bidding continued as the last of the women were sold. It seemed to Polly that the slave girl curled in a corner of the wagon would never stop crying.
15. POLLY AND CLAY
POLLY, WITH HAIR THE COLOR OF DRIED GRASS and eyes the color of a stormy sky, understood tears. She also knew that tears fixed nothing. As far as she was concerned, crying showed weakness and was simply a waste of time. Tears had not kept her father out of prison, nor had crying made a difference when he’d died of smallpox. She’d wept bitterly when her mother had died of the disease as well, but not one tear had given her a bite to eat or a place to stay. So she did her best to ignore the slave girl who hiccuped and shook with sobs.
Mr. Derby’s son, presumably the young man with the birthday and the tearful gift in the back of the wagon, arrived then with a smartly dressed black man who struggled under the weight of several bags of supplies. “Hurry up, Noah. Get these loaded,” the boy yelled to the black man. The young Master Derby carried a small whip, and he used it liberally to make Noah work faster. Polly noticed that the slave breathed slowly and loudly, as if he was tense, but he made no attempt to stop the young man from hitting him. She was always amazed at how much abuse slaves took without it seeming to bother them. Perhaps they didn’t feel pain the way others did—she wasn’t sure.
“Yassuh, Massa.” Noah, dressed in clothing almost as elegant as a white slave owner’s, bowed, then continued to load the wagon.
“Do you dress all your slaves as fine as King George?” Polly asked.
Clay turned slowly. “How dare you speak to me!” he responded furiously. “If you’re the gal whose indenture my father just bought, you best learn your place around here.”
Unintimidated, Polly gazed directly into his angry gray eyes and replied, “The slave owners I’ve encountered seem to clothe their slaves in just enough to allow for decency—certainly never in finery. Do you dress them all like that one?”
Clay burst into laughter. “They could all run around naked as far as I’m concerned, but when Daddy comes to market, he likes to arrive with his driver dressed with style,” he explained.
“So why do you hit him?” Polly asked. She didn’t like Negroes particularly, but she saw no reason why they should always be beaten.
“They expect to be disciplined,” Clay explained. “It shows them that I care enough to make sure they do their tasks correctly. That’s what my father always taught me. And what business is it of yours, anyway?”
“Just curious.”
“Curiosity can get a gal like you in a heap of trouble. You best learn to keep your mouth shut,” Clay warned.
“I’ve seen a heap of trouble,” Polly replied. “I’m not afraid of you.” But her heart fluttered under her smock.
Clay raised his arm as if to strike her, then lowered it as the anger on his face eased into a smile. “You’re a saucy young thing,” he said finally. He spat into the dirt.
Polly just looked at him with a cool stare.
“Was that your indenture I saw you looking at?” he asked. “You can read?”
Polly was not sure how to answer him, but she nodded as she quickly folded the paper and tucked it into a pocket of her apron.
“Let me warn you, girl. Women don’t need to be reading, so just keep that ability to yourself. And don’t ever get it in your mind to teach a slave to read! My father would have you whipped for such.”
Polly inhaled sharply but did not answer him. She thought only slaves could be whipped. She noticed that Noah was gently picking up the trembling slave girl, moving her to the other side of the wagon and placing her on a blanket that lay wrinkled on the rough floorboard. The slave girl never opened her eyes; she just curled herself into a ball and huddled in that corner of the wagon.
Clay Derby mirrored his father in looks: dark, thick eyebrows that left his eyes in shadow, long fingers, and broad shoulders. His father, walking with swift authority, approached the wagon. People moved out of his way as he walked.
Clay seemed a little less sure of himself in the presence of his father, Polly thought. He pulled on his doublet, flicked some dirt from his boots, and smoothed his stockings. “Come,” Clay said to Polly, taking her arm roughly, “I can see that Father has paid for my gift and is about ready to go. Whenever you speak to him, be sure to show proper respect. He hates women who don’t know their place.”
“Yes, sir,” Polly mumbled sullenly.
“Did you enjoy the slave auction?” Mr. Derby asked Polly as he returned to the wagon and began to check on his goods.
Evading the question, Polly replied, “It was like nothing I have ever seen, sir.” She looked at the ground.
“Speak up, girl,” Mr. Derby commanded. “Look at me when you address me!”
Polly looked up at him, her blue eyes bright with a bit of defiance. “Yes, sir!” she said clearly. Mr. Derby opened his mouth as if to respond, then seemed to think better of it, for he turned to his duties instead.
The African girl, her hands tied in front of her with a rope, was still sniffling quietly. She was dressed in a thin shift made of a burlap seed
bag. Her slender brown shoulders heaved.
“Quit that sniveling!” Mr. Derby yelled at her suddenly. He leaned over the side of the wagon and slapped her sharply across her face.
The girl, seemingly surprised, looked up and gulped back her tears. Polly noticed a brief smoldering anger on the girl’s face, then it dissolved into a look of resigned submission.
“Noah, hurry and finish loading,” Mr. Derby commanded the slave. “We have a long journey ahead of us.” He did not use the whip as his son had. Noah packed up the rest of the supplies—farm tools, several bags of seed, and some rolls of cloth—and tied them down carefully. There would be barely enough room for Polly to squeeze in.
“Polly, you get in the back there,” Mr. Derby ordered when Noah finished.
“Yes, sir,” Polly muttered as she climbed into the wagon. She sat as far away as she could from the African slave girl, making sure the bundles separated them. The girl had covered her head with her hands.
“Polly Pritchard, my indentured girl, meet my new little savage. From my inspection of her, I figure the two of you are about the same age.” Mr. Derby choked out a laugh.
Polly didn’t see what was funny.
“And I know you have met my son, Clay,” Mr. Derby said. Mr. Derby looked at his son with pride, but the young man had his dark eyes on the terrified African girl.
Mr. Derby climbed onto the seat of the wagon, indicated to Clay to join him, then gave the signal to Noah to begin the journey. Noah made a chucking sound to the horse, and the wagon lurched onto the dirt road.
Polly could feel each bump and jolt of the road beneath her as the wooden wheels lurched over each uneven place in the dirt or gouged hole left by other wagons. After one particularly deep dip in the road Polly was tossed across the bags of seed, landing hard against the slave girl, who opened her eyes and looked around frantically. Polly scrambled quickly back to the other side of the wagon.
The two girls eyed each other carefully. Polly had always prided herself on her looks. When she got the chance to glance in a mirror, she was always pleased at the peachy paleness of her face, which bore, thankfully, no scars from smallpox like many women she knew, and the blue-green clarity of her eyes. Unconsciously, she touched her hair, which her mother had loved to brush. It grew thick and straight—she remembered her father used to call it “golden flax.” She knew the African girl was probably admiring her. Polly looked at the large brown eyes, the short-cropped hair, and the ebony-colored skin of the slave and saw nothing worthy of admiration. She sniffed. The girl even smelled bad.
The journey seemed to last forever as the wagon rumbled down the road. The sun, wickedly hot, seared Polly’s fair skin. She longed for just a dipper of water.
Polly turned her attention to Clay. Sitting in a slouch, he kept spitting off the side of the wagon at regular intervals. Mr. Derby sat next to the driver, continually checking his fingernails and picking specks of dirt off his boots.
They had been traveling for almost two hours when Mr. Derby announced, “Well, Clay, what shall we call our latest acquisition? Since the new slave is to be yours, I shall let you name her.”
Before Clay could speak, however, Polly spoke up quietly, “She probably already has a name, sir.” Clay spun around and glared at Polly, as if to remind her of his warning about women staying in their place.
“Nonsense!” Mr. Derby replied, irritation in his voice. “Those jungle words have no meaning to civilized humans. I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself!” Polly said nothing more, but she looked long and hard at the slave girl’s face.
Clay did the same thing. Finally, he said to his father. “I shall name her Myna, because she is mine!” He cleared his throat and spat once more.
Polly thought she had never met anyone with such an enlarged impression of himself.
Mr. Derby snorted. “It will do as well as any other.”
“She is a most excellent birthday present, Father,” Clay said as he glanced once more at the girl who huddled in the corner. He grinned and rubbed his hands together.
Mr. Derby looked at his son indulgently. “A boy turns sixteen only once! So I decided that just as my father provided a slave girl for me when I got old enough, I would do the same for you. I imagine one day you’ll do the same for your son,” he added.
Polly listened in amazement. She’d had very little experience with wealthy people, but she had never met anyone with attitudes like the Derby men seemed to have. She glanced at the African girl, who surely had no idea what her future held. She found herself feeling sorry for this new slave who huddled in the wagon, glistening with sweat.
“Black women are different, you know, Clay,” Mr. Derby continued. “They like it when you pick them out for special favors at night. It keeps them happy, and . . .” He paused to flick a speck off his waistcoat. “And it reminds them in a very special way who is the master and who is the slave.” He took a deep breath of the summer air.
“I will take good care of her, Father,” Clay replied, pleasant anticipation in his voice. The wagon suddenly lurched to one side, the horse snorting and neighing as it pulled at the reins. Mr. Derby and Clay were tossed on the wagon seat.
“Can’t you handle that animal?” Clay shouted at Noah.
“Yassuh,” Noah replied, pulling the animal into a more controlled gait. “Musta been a bug or a ’skeeter that spooked him, suh.”
Polly had a feeling Noah knew exactly what that horse was doing every moment. She also decided she didn’t like this young man with the dark eyebrows, the sneering smile, and the repulsive need to spit so often.
Clay and his father continued their conversation as if Polly and the slave sitting next to her did not exist. “White women, like my Isabelle and your mother before her, are to be respected and treated like fine china,” Mr. Derby told his son. “It’s not often a man finds true love twice in his lifetime,” he said with a lilt in his voice. “I wish you’d try harder to warm up to your stepmother, Clay.”
“You should never have married her,” Clay replied sullenly. “She’s far too young for you, and she wears that vacant smile all the time. She reminds me of a sheep.” He spat off the side of the coach once more, then shifted on his seat. “Why did you decide to purchase the girl’s indenture?” he asked, glancing back at Polly.
“The little white girl comes to us with an indenture as long as my arm—there’s no way she can pay it off in less than fourteen years. I figure she will be a good investment. She’s from Beaufort, south of here. Both her parents are dead.”
Clay turned to look at her. “Don’t worry, Polly-girl. You’ll like it at Derbyshire Farms. Lots of sheep, slaves, and chickens. And rice. Lots of work to do.” He gave a small laugh.
Polly bristled. “Polly-girl” had been her father’s pet name for her, and it angered her to hear it pour so carelessly from the mouth of this unpleasant young man.
A faint breeze moved the hot air as they traveled. No other wagons or people were to be seen. Huge live oak trees lined each side of the road, with dangling beards of Spanish moss hanging from each branch. Polly thought the trees looked like old men, bent over and exhausted from the heat. Perhaps they watched over all who lived here, she thought briefly. It had been a long time since someone had cared for her.
After the deaths of her parents she’d lived almost like a prisoner in the rat-infested attic of a dirt farmer named Jeremy Carton. He rarely spoke to her except to give her orders. He had a wife and a daughter, both of them thick of mind and body, who’d ignored her as well, except when the pigsty had to be cleaned or the manure from the horses needed to be collected for fertilizer. Polly longed for a kind word, a loving touch, but she kept a stony distance from everyone. The Carton family never saw her cry, not even when her parents died, never heard a word of complaint from her. She knew they thought her to be cold and unfeeling.
This is going to be my chance to make something of myself, she vowed. I shall not let anything or anyone get in my way.
I intend to make myself necessary to the Derby family, while learning how the upper class lives. It pleased her to imagine her grand goals, but she was deadly serious about working her way up to be the fine lady her mother had dreamed she would be.
The oppressive heat and constant rhythm of the wagon wheels finally made Polly sleepy, and she dozed uncomfortably for a couple of hours. When she was startled awake by a deep rut in the road, she could see the fiery redness of the sun above the trees in the distance.
The wagon pulled into a narrow lane then, and Polly could see the two-story brick manor house ahead. It was almost blindingly white in the late afternoon sun; it looked as if it had been white washed several times for the brick to be so completely covered, Polly surmised. Its red-gabled roof, nestled between two huge stone chimneys, also carried an aura of perfection. It was surrounded by a carpet of lush grass, kept short, she found out later, by the many sheep that grazed upon it. On her far right were green fields, and behind them dark woods grew full and deep. Far to her left many black faces labored in a large field near a river. They seemed to be standing in water.
“Welcome to Derbyshire Farms, Miss Polly,” Clay said, making a sweeping movement with his arm. “The river you see yonder is the Ashley.”
Polly didn’t know what to say. Everywhere she glanced, she saw perfection. Not a stone was out of place on the path they drove on, not a flower in the garden seemed to be wilted. Oh, to own such a glorious property! she thought with an intake of breath. She noticed Mr. Derby looking carefully at his domain, as if checking to make sure everything was as it should be. Several slaves rushed out to meet the wagon. One carried a broom and began sweeping the path behind them. Another carried a tray of cold drinks for Mr. Derby and Clay. No one spoke to the master or his son.
Mr. Derby ignored the slaves and ordered Noah to turn to the right. They continued down a rutted lane, then stopped in front of a small shack made of wood. Polly noticed several other similar huts in the area, but she had no time to wonder about them, because just then Mr. Derby ordered them out of the wagon.
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