by Ann Rinaldi
The slave trader walked over to us. "Which one?" he asked Massa.
"The boy," came the reply.
"That's a likely girl you've got there. Good-looking. You wanna throw her in the deal and make another $400?"
I held my breath. Did Massa hesitate just a heartbeat? He did. And then he smiled and said no. "Can't. Not her. She's special."
Amos still clung to my hand as we followed Massa and the slave trader outside. "Just for the fun of it, let's see what he weighs," the slave trader said when he sighted the scale by the smokehouse. "See how much you're getting a pound."
And he lifted Amos and set him on the scale and weighed him, like you would a pig or a side of bacon.
All around us slaves had gathered, in quiet agony, arms folded across their chests. I heard a wail, and without turning knew it was Amos's mother, and that she was being held back by other women as the slave trader carried Amos over to his waiting wagon and put him in.
Quickly his carriage went down the road. And Amos sat in it, in his best clothes, not even knowing what was going on.
Massa turned away from the long hard looks of his slaves and went into the house. Now he had his $400. Now he could pay for his hogs.
AFTER AMOS was sold off, the rest of us chilluns knew we'd never be safe again.
I started to have fears in the middle of the night. I'd hear a tap-tap-tapping on the window and jump up out of bed and look for Amos.
When Mama came to get me I'd say, "He's come back. Let him in. He can't stay out there."
Needless to say I started looking sickly. Grandma Sarry saw that my face was swollen and said I had a case of the mumps. She was all ready to give me marrow from the fresh jowl of a hog when Mama stopped her. Couldn't she see my face was swollen from crying?
Aunt Charlotte's Amy, who was sick to the teeth of dusting, said I needed some chores to do in the house to take my mind off things. Her sisters agreed.
Massa, who couldn't abide one of his slaves being sick, said he had the cure.
"What be that?" Mama asked him.
"She needs to see her daddy," he said.
***
NOW THAT MAY SOUND a bit peculiar because anybody who had the brains God gave a hooty owl knew that Massa was my daddy. Though he never admitted it and it was not spoken of. We all knew he was speaking of Daddy George.
I loved Daddy George, who knew how to be a daddy better than anybody. He was better even than the marrow of a hog's jowl for what ailed you.
And so it was that Massa Armistead Burwell got on his horse and rode the two miles to see Mr. John Sampson, who owned Daddy George. And convinced him to let Daddy George come and visit us.
"My little Lizzy."
Daddy George held me on his knee. "You know, I can't decide who I love better, my daughter or my wife."
I knew he wanted to talk to me about Amos being sold away. But I also knew he couldn't.
He couldn't because he couldn't promise "it'll never happen again." Or, "If I was here, I wouldn't have allowed it."
And I, for all of my five years, knew this. Knew there was nothing he could say that would make amends.
Instead he smiled at me, showing even, white teeth, and said, "I'm here for a whole two days. We'll go fishin' together."
And so we did. And when he left, he made no promises. He just told me, "Learn your stitchin', Lizzy. Learn your book."
It was all he had to give me, and all I really needed as it turned out in the end.
GRANDMA SARRY TOLD me once that she thought our massa had abolitionist leanings. Then she had to explain to me what an abolitionist was. When I heard, I nearly went daft.
A fine Southern gentleman like Massa wanting to free his slaves? People did that? Who would serve Massa's morning coffee? Who would shave him? Who would iron his white ruffled shirts? Did they have people to do such things for you up North?
I don't know how much I understood about the whole thing. But I can say that the next time I laid eyes on Massa I looked real close like to see if he leaned in a special way.
Yes, he did. It seemed his head leaned a little to the right when he sat down. So he did have leanings after all.
THE SOIL ON Massa's plantation was getting tired, Robert told us. He told us about the yellow sandy fields as if they were old friends who were too worn down to work. "So we can't plant any more tobacco on them," he explained.
"So we'll have to move."
There were times when Massa sent Robert, his eldest son, to break bad tidings to us. Because he didn't know how.
Robert always did a good job of it. He'd stand there tall and manly in front of us and look us right in the eyes and deliver his message. Robert was growing up fast. He looked every inch the young master of the place. He could even make Grandma Sarry mind, and she'd all but brought him up.
But Robert was going away in the fall to Hampden-Sydney College in Prince Edward County. It was seventy miles southwest of Richmond, he told us.
My mama, who was as expert at tailoring as she was at dressmaking, had sewn him a fine new set of britches and coat, and many white ruffled shirts for him to wear.
"Move where?" Mama asked him now.
"To Hampden-Sydney, where I'm going to school. My father will tell you all about it."
"When do we go?" I asked.
Robert smiled at me and patted my head. "I go in a week. You all will follow directly. Don't worry. It will be good for everybody."
"Is Massa gonna take us all?" Grandma Sarry asked.
Robert hesitated. "No," he said.
"Is he gonna start sellin' his people off then?" Grandma pushed.
"You-all have nothing to worry about," Robert said again. Then he turned and left the kitchen.
***
MASSA SOLD OFF all of his livestock and most of his slaves. In the next week the plantation was crawling with people poking their noses into every nook and cranny and arguing loudly about the worth of things and the best way to manage nigras.
"I'll tell you what," I heard one beefy-looking man who must have been a driver say, "you can manage your ordinary nigra by lickin' 'em and givin' 'em a taste of the hot iron once in a while, but if a nigra sets himself up against me I got no patience with him. I just draw my pistol and shoot him dead and that's the best way."
I stayed out of the way, but I did get to see the slave sale. Never in all my born days did I ever see the likes of such. I stood wide-eyed while person after person that I knew was brought up to stand on the wooden platform in the yard.
The buyers crowded around the stand and the slave trader, Mr. Pfeiffer from Petersburg, started speechifying.
"These are the terms of the sale. One-third cash, the rest to be paid in two equal installments bearing interest from the day of the sale."
The buyers numbered about fifty. Men of every cast from young fancy-pants gentlemen in high-polished boots and perfect cravats to crude-looking drivers like Big Red and elderly refined gentlemen like Massa.
I heard the words "prime" and "strong" and "faithful" a lot about the men. And "sleek" and "good breeder" and "likely little piece" about the women.
Tears came to my eyes as Big Red led Lana to the platform with her remaining five children.
"What do I hear for chattel number forty-four? A healthy, hardworking washwoman with or without the little ones? It's up to you, folks."
The "little ones" clung to Lana's skirt. The baby clung to her neck. And she stared straight ahead, looking at no one, her eyes filled with tears.
"Do we start the bidding for the whole lot?" Mr. Pfeiffer was asking. "What do I hear for the whole lot?"
Someone in the crowd offered $300 and Mr. Pfeiffer laughed. "Come on, folks, this could be the buy of the day, but let's show a little consideration here. The woman here is a fine article without blemish, not to mention how she'll wash your shirts." And he gave a low laugh. "The little nigras will soon be old enough to pick the cotton in your fields."
The bidding got serious and wen
t on and up. And I felt myself entering into the spirit of it if only to see Lana go with her children.
In the end the children went for $400 each. Lana went for $1,500. So in all Massa made $3,500 on Lana and her family.
I turned my back as Lana's new owner, a gentleman in a white neck cloth and gold-rimmed spectacles, led her away. He looked kind. And she'd sold with her whole family. That was more than we could hope for.
"Come on," Grandma Sarry said. "I have some nice milk and cookies. This is no place for a sweet little girl like you."
HERE ARE THE NAMES of Massa's other children, who are my half brothers and half sisters.
The boys are Robert, John, Armistead, Benjamin, Charles, and William. The girls are Anne, Mary, and Fanny.
The boys all treated me like a sister. I played with them in the yard and in the house. I sat and learned with them when their tutor came. I was the only "shady" child on the place to be taught to read and write. Because my father was Massa, I had privileges.
On the other hand, the girls were quicker and mean. They knew what my position was and never missed a chance to order me around. And I had to obey them.
They saw things straight and smart. Like the time we were sitting around in the parlor, just talking. The girls were supposed to be doing their embroidery. I was supposed to be stitching a piece of calico for a quilt.
"You can't stitch very well, and your own mama a seamstress," said Mary.
"Her own mama is more than that," Fanny put in.
"What does that mean?" Mary asked innocently.
Fanny giggled. "Well, just think of it this way. Our papa is her father but not her daddy. I don't know how else to put it."
"Then don't put it any way," said Anne, the oldest. "It's something we're not supposed to talk about. Mama doesn't even say such words."
"You know what I heard Sally Olsen from over the creek say?" Mary pushed.
"What?" they asked.
"Every plantation has their own share of shady babies on the place. The mistress never acknowledges it, but she talks aplenty about the shady babies on the plantation down the road."
"Get back to your embroidery," Anne ordered.
But Mary insisted. "Just because you're special around here doesn't mean our daddy is yours," she told me. "So don't think you're so important."
"I don't think I'm important," I said.
"Good. 'Cause all shady babies take their mother's condition, and that's slavery. So you can wear all the calico dresses you want, and eat the same food as we all do, and read and write your eyes out, but you'll never be like us."
I don't know what all would have happened if Mistress hadn't walked into the room then. But she did and the conversation was interrupted. But not finished. I didn't think for one minute that it was finished. And I worried about the day it would be taken up again.
They knew my mama's place in the scheme of things, too; knew Massa attached importance to her words, listened to her, and had many conversations with her. And they went to her instead of their own mama for many things. This made Mistress angry, of course, and so we were all caught up in the swirl of things that were not of our own making.
Sometimes, in the mix-up of people in the house and the closeness of us all, Mistress got confused. Like the time she gave Aunt Charlotte, her personal maid, her best silk dress to wear. Because they were so close, mistress and maid, did Mistress think she was one of her own?
Nobody knows, but it caused a set-to, one of the last before we left the plantation.
That first Sunday in September, it was, now that I recollect correctly. Time came to go to church. We nigra household servants were allowed to accompany the family because the pastor always told the nigras in the balcony to "be good and obey your masters."
We were all ready, waiting in the parlor, when Mistress came down in her robe. "I can't find my good silk," she told us. "Where is my maid? Where is Charlotte?"
"You gave the silk to Charlotte, Mama," said Anne, the oldest. "I saw her all dressed up in it, ready for church."
"I let her try it on," Mistress said. "I never gave it to her."
"Yes you did, Mistress." Aunt Charlotte came into the room then, looking like a blue jay in the blue silk dress.
"Well, don't you look fine in that dress, Charlotte," Massa said in that low refined voice of his that bespoke quality.
"Better than I do?" Mistress asked.
Everyone was silent until Massa said, "Why no, dear, of course not."
As it turned out, though, Aunt Charlotte did look better. She just plain and simple filled out that dress better. Mistress was skinny. And the color looked beautiful against Aunt Charlotte's burnished skin. She looked like a flower just bloomed.
"Give the dress back, Charlotte," Massa ordered.
They went upstairs, and when Aunt Charlotte came down, she was wearing her old plaid linsey-woolsey. And in church I saw Mistress crying.
I tell this to show how close we house nigras were to Massa and Mistress. We entwined with each other, like ivy on a trellis, each strand reaching for the same sky, sometimes comforting and doing for each other and other times bickering and fighting. Like a real family.
Mayhap my elders had pondered it out, but I didn't. There were times when I felt like family, and all I would have needed was Daddy George to make things complete.
I know for a fact that Massa tried to buy Daddy George from his master before we left. He wanted to bring Daddy George with us. So he must have felt the same way. But Daddy George's master wouldn't sell him.
MASSA WAS GOING to be something important at Hampden-Sydney. They called him a steward. The people who ran the place wanted him because he was "moral, kind, and affectionate," they said.
Massa's job was going to be to feed the hungry students. Grandma Sarry was going to cook along with Aunt Charlotte's three girls, and Massa was bringing along other women slaves he could afford to keep, to serve. The men he kept were few, but they would cut the wood for the fires in the kitchen and the boys' rooms, care for the carriage and horses and cows and dogs and chickens that would be ours, and keep the garden.
There were 140 students. Massa would be busy.
"Some of the students bring their own nigras from home," Massa told us, "and they'll have to be fed, too."
My duties were to be the same as before. Follow Mistress around and carry and tote and fetch for her. Then, the day before we left, she called me to her.
"How would you like to be personal nurse to a new baby?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am." Whose baby? I did not ask. I knew enough to keep a still tongue in my head.
"Massa and I are expecting another little one," she said. "And when she comes you can be her personal girl. You can belong to her. Wouldn't you like that?"
Like I said, I know when to keep a still tongue in my head. So I said yes, I would like it very much.
THE BURWELLS WERE to live in a two-story brick house right next to the Common Hall. Behind the house were the quarters, where we nigra servants lived, just like back home only smaller. Mama and I again shared one log cabin.
It had red mud in the cracks between the logs. The roof was made out of regular boards that had so much space between them that when it rained we had to move our bed. And at night I could look up and see the stars through those boards.
Our bed ticks, or mattresses, were stuffed with wheat straw. Some of our people slept on rye or oat straw. The fireplace was a good size and even though we ate at the big house, Mama always kept a fire going with 'taters and corn pone roasting in the ashes for anybody who might want to stop by.
We didn't see much of Robert since he went to the Theological Seminary part of the college. Robert wanted to be a minister. But shortly after we arrived it was his birthday so Grandma Sarry made him a special cake. Aunt Charlotte's daughters Amy, Hanna, and Lucy brought it into the dining room with me in tow. We brought it right to his table. And that sweet-talking Robert didn't have a thing to say, he was so surprised.
"Are these your slaves, Robert?" one of his friends asked.
"In so many ways they are like family," Robert said.
The other boys at the table hooted at that. "Well said, old man. I couldn't have put it better myself," one called Josh said.
They called Robert "Old Man," because he was so serious.
THE COLLEGE CHURCH had a new pastor by the name of Reverend J. D. Paxton.
We all went to his Presbyterian church of a Sunday, where he reminded us slaves of the importance of our faith. He talked right at us, telling us to be patient and obedient. He was a kindly man who had a dozen slaves of his own.
It didn't take us servants in Massa's house long to see that Paxton's slaves were better clothed than we were. Even his older boys, who measured out and fixed the stock feed and fetched in wood and water, had good sturdy trousers to keep them warm and not just long linsey-woolsey shirts and ragged pants. The women and girls wore fringed shawls to church and had poke bonnets with ruffles around them. Their dresses looked store-bought while ours, also store-bought, looked shabby in comparison.
Their chillun slaves were all the time sucking peppermint candy, and they told us about Raw Head and Bloody Bones who lived in the woods and waited to eat up little chilluns.
One day, after we had been there about six months, the Reverend's chillun slaves told us that they would soon be free, that they were going to a place called Liberia in Africa.
Their names were Alma, Francine, Allie, and Joan. The boys were Hal and Jupiter.
"Free, free, free," they chanted in front of me and Jane and Aunt Charlotte's girls. "We're goin' home."
"You got no home there," Jane told them. "You never lived in Liberia."
"We all do," said Joan, the oldest. "Reverend says he sees the error of his ways. He says he is having a crisis of conscience. Whatever that is. And he can't make it right in his heart to keep us anymore."
The rest of us did not know what a crisis of conscience was, either. But we understood the all of it, all right. Reverend Paxton and his wife had joined something called the American Colonization Society. These people freed their slaves and had set up a colony in Liberia for them to go to.
