The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1)

by Stephenia H. McGee

  They pulled into town, and Tommy opened the carriage door for her, offering his frail old arm for support. Lydia smiled and rested as little of her weight as possible on him.

  “You needs me to get anything whilst you shop, ma’am?”

  Lydia pulled a small paper from her reticule. “Mr. Harper sent this list with items he says we need. I trust you can handle that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His ebony eyes showed a hint of amusement, and she tried not to let it affect her composure. Trying to understand her place at Ironwood seemed a delicate thing.

  “Very well.” She adjusted the wide brim of her hat to keep the sun’s rays from darkening her skin and turned toward the general store.

  She visited the bakery and picked out a few peaches from a cart, in no hurry to return home. It was a beautiful day to be outside. She’d just stepped onto the front porch of Willard’s to pick out fabric and maybe some new tubes of paint when she heard a whip crack. She assumed a wayward horse to be the cause of such a sound until it was followed by the most unholy moaning. She couldn’t help but turn.

  Pain throbbed through most of her body, but Ruth’s heart was too numb to care. Startled gasps drew her attention from the dust swirling around her feet to the town that surrounded them. Buildings stood on either side of the street, white people in fancy clothes lining the sidewalks and gawking at them. She had no idea what town they traipsed through. She couldn’t even be sure they were still in Mississippi.

  Apprehension grew in her gut. Byram had kept them out of sight ever since the man with the shotgun had showed up, and his two partners disappeared. What were they doing parading down the middle of this town?

  “Got fine stock here, folks. Come and see! Fine stock,” he bellowed, sending a cold chill up her spine. He planned on selling them.

  “Excellent prices! All strong workers. Three hundred fifty dollars for the males and three hundred for the females.”

  Didn’t sound right. She was no expert on such things, but she’d heard enough field hands brag on their price to know Byram was trying to get what he could out of them and be done with it. Especially since he didn’t have to split it with anyone anymore. She looked at the people tied to her, but they kept their eyes down.

  Byram pulled his filthy hat from his head and ran his arm across his forehead. Ruth watched a few white men in suits step closer, their eyes holding curiosity. The only indication the others felt anything at all was the way they shuffled their feet. Should she be hopeful she might find a decent life away from this monster? Or did a worse one even now step closer, his evil masked by a clean face and expensive clothes?

  Her face grew hot. She’d not be something for a man to spill his lust on. She’d die before allowing it. What did she have left to live for anyway?

  Please, God. If you care about the cries of slaves at all, show me something so I know you are there.

  Nothing.

  She squared her shoulders and jutted her chin. No more. She’d die showing these people the demon Byram truly was, if only for the frail hope some soul would see him to justice.

  She studied the onlookers. Were any of them capable of compassion? Did they feel anything at all? Byram grabbed her hair and pulled her forward, breaking her contemplation.

  “This one here’s strong. Good field worker. Got straight legs and a strong back.” He sneered. “Make good breeding stock, too.”

  Breeding stock! She’d not be some man’s cattle! Byram reached for her mouth, and she jerked her head away. He quickly grabbed for her again, clamping her jaw in his hand and holding her still. She ground her teeth together.

  He pried her mouth open. “Got all the teeth.”

  He pushed her face away. Rage blackened her heart and clouded her thoughts. They would see. She pulled her head back and spat at him. People gasped. Whether the sounds came from the other captives or the onlookers, she couldn’t be sure.

  Byram turned slowly, his voice rumbling from his chest. “Yer going to regret that.”

  Hardly.

  A spark lit in his eyes, and he pulled the whip from his side. Ruth braced herself for the sickening crack. The leather end tore into her flesh. She reeled back and clasped her shoulder, but she didn’t cry out. She would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her pain. She would be strong enough this time. He cracked the whip again and again. How many times, she didn’t know.

  Her legs wobbled. She had to stay up. Her body refused and slipped to the ground. She sat helpless on her knees. The end would come now. She would welcome it.

  “Stop!”

  A clear voice rang out through the crowd and pushed past the throbbing in her ears. Ruth dared to raise her gaze.

  Byram stood frozen, staring at a tiny white lady with a reddened face half hidden under a gaudy hat. Ruth blinked. The woman dressed like the ones she’d once spied coming in and out of Cedar Hall when she’d slipped close enough to see what happened at a ball.

  The lady held herself with a posture of authority, but the slight quivering of her lower lip gave away the act.

  The lady jutted her chin. “That’s quite enough, sir. I intend to buy this one, and I’ll not have you damaging her any further.”

  Byram didn’t seem like he paid the woman no mind. Ruth willed her breathing to slow.

  The woman dug into a little bag tied at her wrist and thrust a handful of paper into Byram’s face. “I’ll give you two-fifty for her. She’s obviously going to need some work.”

  Bryam stared at her for a moment and then sneered. “She’s your problem now, lady.” He turned and grabbed Ruth by the scalp and untied her ropes, thrusting her toward the lady. “Bet your husband ain’t going to be too pleased you spent all your dress money on this here darkie.”

  Ruth swallowed hard. Had Byram really released her or was it some sort of cruel trick? She glanced around. She might could slip through the crowd and escape to… to what? Where could she possibly go? The woman suddenly grasped Ruth’s arm and gently pulled her away. Ruth was too shocked to do anything but follow. After a few paces, the woman released her and stalked down the street through the onlookers who stared with open astonishment.

  Ruth hurried to keep up with her. Maybe God had heard her prayer after all. She’d have to take her chances with the bold woman who’d given her money to save Ruth from Byram’s fury. She could at least see where the woman lived and what she wanted with her. Ruth figured she owed the lady that much.

  The woman glanced behind her, surprise painted all over her milky face. Ruth’s brows pulled together. The lady walked faster, almost causing Ruth to break into a trot to keep up.

  The lady stopped in front of a giant black carriage and yelled at an old man sleeping on a padded seat on the front.

  “Tommy! Wake up!”

  His eyes flew open, and he ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought….” he stopped short, gawking at Ruth. He snapped his jaw shut.

  “We are going home, Tommy.”

  He turned his focus back on the lady. “Yes ’um.” He glanced at Ruth again. “Where do I put, um, where do you want…?” He eyed the large chicken feed sacks stacked next to him in the driver’s seat.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t know. I guess she’ll just have to ride in the back with me.”

  What?

  The woman flung open the door and climbed in. Ruth looked at the old man. He shrugged and settled into his seat, pulling long reins from a box at the front. What should she do? Surely they didn’t expect….

  The woman stuck her head out of the door. “Well, come on, get in. We need to get Betsy to look at those cuts. Hurry up.”

  Ruth stared into her big blue-green eyes, looking for any signs of cruelty or insanity. She saw neither. Well, she would cower no longer. This woman would hear Ruth’s opinion whether she wanted it or not.

  “It ain’t proper for a field hand to ride in the carriage with a white lady.”

  The woman arched her dark brows. “As of now, you
are my personal house girl. You will be traveling with me quite a bit, so you might as well get used to it.”

  House girl? Oh, Lord. Her arm throbbed. No sense in arguing. If she could get a chance to clean herself up, get some rest, maybe even something to eat….

  She shrugged and stepped into the carriage. There were two seats covered in bright blue fabric. Ruth sat down carefully on the one across from the woman. She’d get the thing dirty for sure. Would that bring a lashing? It wasn’t her fault she was in here. Still, she’d better touch as little as possible. She drew her feet as far under her as she could to avoid touching the mounds of fabric from the woman’s puffy skirt.

  The old man hollered at the horses, and the carriage lurched forward, nearly tossing her from her seat. She gripped the cushion before she could think better of it. Now there’d be blood stains, too. The woman might not beat her, but her husband probably would after he saw the mess in his carriage. She looked out the window and tried to get the pounding in her temples to stop.

  Lydia took a moment to study the girl gripping the seat like she’d fall from it at any moment. Tall, fine-boned and willowy. Long, muscled arms. High cheek bones, an unusually thin nose. No shoes and filthy feet. If the girl noticed Lydia’s gaze, she paid no attention. She was certainly different than the others. Mother’s mousy little Sally blended into the walls. All Mother needed to do was flick her wrist, and Sally would appear from nowhere. No, this girl would be just the opposite. The thought loosed a smile on Lydia’s lips.

  When Charles first suggested she get a girl of her own, she’d imagined one much like Sally. The thought wasn’t very appealing, so she’d told him there was plenty of help at Ironwood, doing this or that, and she didn’t need another to be her shadow. But this girl was nothing like Sally. She was nothing like any slave Lydia had ever seen. And that intrigued her.

  “What is your name?” Lydia finally asked, having made her decision to keep the girl.

  The girl turned to her. “Ruth.”

  “Hello, Ruth. I am Mrs. William Charles Harper of Ironwood Plantation.”

  She nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  Something flickered across Ruth’s features but disappeared just as quickly. “Cedar Hall, in Natchez.”

  “And how did you wind up all the way up here?”

  Ruth closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then stared out the window. When she finally spoke, her voice was hard. “House burned down, and fire ate up most of the land with it. We ran off through the woods, tryin’ to stay alive.” She turned and narrowed her eyes at Lydia. “Not to escape.”

  Lydia inclined her head, tending to believe the story, given how easily she’d followed.

  “But them white men, they didn’t believe us. Said we was runaways. I don’t know if Mr. Harris even knows they took us.” She lifted her slim shoulders. “We were too tired to remember much ’bout how it happened, but we ended up with that… man. Then we was here.”

  She remembered Charles saying something about that fire some weeks ago. Lydia doubted the girl told the whole truth. But, then, what did it matter? They settled into silence, the soft plodding of the horse’s hooves creating a soothing rhythm in the quiet afternoon.

  Dust boiled from the road unhindered by the slightest breeze, evidence of the dry weeks the land had endured. The fine red mist had a way of settling into every crease. Lydia brushed at her skirts, but the stubborn filth insisted on changing her gown’s soft pink to old rust.

  Ruth continued to stare out of the carriage as the outskirts of town gave way to the graceful oaks leading to Ironwood. Lydia cleared her throat to gain the girl’s attention, an unladylike gesture Mother often scorned.

  “So, you were a field hand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you know anything about house work?”

  “No, ma’am. Ain’t never been in the big house.”

  Well, at least she was honest. “No matter. I’ll have Lucy teach you everything you need to know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She fidgeted in her seat. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, her voice nearly inaudible.

  Lydia lifted her eyebrows. “Nonsense. My husband’s been saying I need a girl of my own.”

  The girl dipped her chin.

  “Besides,” Lydia said with a sigh, “that man was a monster.”

  Lydia closed her eyes and laid her head against the cushion and thought of what Charles would say about her spending her entire allowance on a field slave. He probably wouldn’t approve. If it didn’t work out, he could always send Ruth to the fields. Lydia opened her eyes into small slits and secretly watched the proud girl in front of her. She soon found herself hoping Ruth would remain with her, although she wasn’t sure why.

  “Lord, just look here at this child.” The older woman who’d introduced herself as Betsy rested her hands on the bulk of her hips and stared at Ruth like she’d grown wings. Ruth dropped her gaze and shifted uncomfortably. What would she think about a strange field slave in her tidy kitchen? Ruth had no place being here. Not that she had a choice.

  Betsy placed gentle fingers under Ruth’s chin and coaxed her gaze upward. Betsy looked down with concern and shook her head. “You poor thing. Looks like you done been through something right awful.”

  The warmth of the kitchen and the yeasty smell of bread felt like a balm on Ruth’s battered heart. She passed her tongue over her dry lips and tried to smile. “I don’t want to be no trouble.”

  Betsy released her chin and pointed a pudgy finger at her. “Now look here. I’m gonna get them cuts cleaned up, and then we’re gonna get something in your belly. Don’t look like you’ve eaten for a week.”

  Ruth swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. “Thank you.”

  Betsy bustled around the large area, her feet scuffling across the wooden floor and sending a slinking cat hurrying across to the shadows. She gathered her supplies, lowered herself to her knees, and began washing Ruth’s arm with a warm, wet rag.

  The tension in Ruth’s shoulders slowly began to ease, and she took a deep breath. The woman finished cleaning her arm and then wrapped it in a white cloth.

  “Now, that should do it.”

  Ruth looked down at the clean bandage secured around her arm and blinked away the tears that tried to gather in her eyes. Betsy set to work ladling a thick soup out of a large pot hanging over the fire. When the bowl brimmed to the top, she set it in front of Ruth. The steam brought up a delicious aroma, and Ruth remembered the hunger she’d long since learned to ignore.

  “Lord, thank you for this here meal and for this precious child you done brought to Ironwood. In the name of our Jesus, amen.”

  Ruth had been too focused on the food to notice Betsy settled across the table from her.

  “Now, eat up.”

  Ruth brought a spoonful of the delicious liquid to her lips and savored the flavor, trying not to shovel it in too quickly. When the bowl was half empty, she set down her spoon, feeling as if her insides might burst if she tried to down any more.

  “My mother used to always pray before we ate,” Ruth said before giving thought to her words.

  “That’s good. We should always thank the Lord for what He’s given.”

  “The master don’t mind it?” Ruth fidgeted with the handle of her spoon, not wanting to meet Betsy’s eyes.

  She laughed. “Of course not, child. What makes you think that?”

  Ruth shrugged. Betsy studied her a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was gentle. “Mr. Harper’s a good man. He treats all of us fair.” She bobbed her head.

  Could this truly be a place of safety? Too soon to tell. The kitchen lady probably just didn’t know about the things that went on down in the quarters. House Negros were too pampered.

  The door swung open and another colored woman swept in, her wide face full of questions. “You hear tell ’bout Mrs. Harper bringing home a girl?”

  The woman’s eyes landed
on Ruth and her mouth made a little O. She got control of herself and smoothed her bulky skirts, which were mostly hidden behind a prim white apron. She inclined her head. “And you must be her. I’m Lucy.”

  “Ruth.”

  Lucy stood uncomfortably in the doorway until Betsy chided her. “Get on in here and stop gawkin’ at the poor girl.”

  Lucy stepped fully into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind her. She stood taller than any woman Ruth had ever seen, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. Lucy held her spine as straight as a new sapling.

  Ruth eased over on the bench and motioned for Lucy to sit next to her. The woman eyed the place too long before finally sitting down, arranging her skirts around her legs and smoothing invisible wrinkles.

  “Mrs. Harper asked that I show you where you’re going to stay and make sure you’re comfortable and have time to rest. She says you gonna spend tomorrow getting better and can come to her the next day.”

  Why would the white lady care if she were comfortable? Ruth’s brows drew together. She probably just wanted to be sure Ruth was healed enough to start working. Whatever silly nonsense she’d said about Ruth being a house girl would soon be forgotten. She best get as much rest as she could before they sent her to the fields.

  “Well, come on then.” Lucy got up and crossed to the door, turning to see if Ruth followed. Ruth rose, scooping up the remaining food her shrunken stomach was too full to eat and returning it to the cook.

  “Thank you for the meal, Betsy.”

  The woman took the bowl from her and wrapped an arm around Ruth’s shoulders. “It’s going to be okay, little one. I’ll take good care of you. Don’t you be worrying.”

  Ruth swallowed the lump in her throat and dared not hope in this woman’s kindness. She turned and followed Lucy out the door, where they immediately climbed a staircase attached to the outer wall. At the top of the steps, Lucy opened a door and ushered Ruth into a small but homey living space.

  Sturdy handmade furniture filled the room, a quilted blanket spread across a sitting bench that appeared to be stuffed and covered in a soft material and large enough for two grown people to sit on side by side. A clean rug covered most of the wooden floor. Ruth scrunched it under her toes and marveled that something so soft should go underfoot. A different life for the chosen few who lived near the white family. She’d always heard it, but now she actually believed.