by Ann Rinaldi
When that distressful thought seized me, as I sat astride Br'er Fox, while Mr. Jacobs dismounted and looked around, I was completely defeated. I could always and forever stay away, but this white and now-ghostly place would always be with me, so familiar that every time I saw a plantation house with ceiling-to-floor windows and two chimneys on top it would bring back the whole texture of my childhood.
"Where is everyone?" I asked Mr. Jacobs.
Then, from inside, came a familiar voice and my heart leaped up in my throat.
"Here we are, Harriet. Safe as two pups at their mother's breast."
It was Violet. She came with Owen out the back door and across the porch and down the steps to greet us.
"You"—oh, I could not think of words to call them—"y'all are such old mean things to do this to me, to play tricks on me now that I'm home. I was so scared."
There were hugs and tears all around, and then came the servants from the kitchen, just as I'd last seen them, Connie and Ormond, Henry Jack, Charlotte, and Winefred.
Connie! In my fevered imagination I'd seen her killed by Turner's men. I was so glad now that all my imaginings weren't true.
Nine other servants, besides the field workers, were saved. Owen counted on his fingers. "Walley and his wife, Mariah, Cyrus, Daniel, Gowrie, Bryan, Herbert, Gideon, and Ralph. All of them helped us clean up the bodies and wrap them in sheets. Mr. Jacobs, here, supervised. We buried them in the small family cemetery under the juniper tree. We put Richard there, too."
"We should get Mr. Jacobs some food and tea and let him start on his way home," I said.
"I'll take care of that," Connie offered, and she led Mr. Jacobs into the kitchen.
I put a hand on Owen's arm. "You knew him. Did you ever think?"
"No." There were tears in the corners of his eyes. "He was such a good man. No one can believe what he's done. I won't even let myself think about it now."
It came to me, as I followed them, as I finally entered the house, that I was entering as someone else, not as the Harriet I had been before. She was a stranger, a transient, gone. I allowed myself to be pleasantly surprised by things I scarce noticed before: the knitted afghans that Mother Whitehead had made, the boxed geraniums outside the windows, the summer organdy curtains that I knew must soon be taken down, the Persian carpets, and the piano over there in the corner.
Blind as she was, Mother Whitehead had played beautifully.
I drew myself up straight. I knew that I must take charge and run things, and that if I did that, I must take on the manner of Mother Whitehead. One who was in charge possessed certain qualities.
I went, first, into the kitchen and sat at the table with Mr. Jacobs, to see that he was properly taken care of, that he had the best slices of ham, that his bread was fresh, and likewise the fruit. That the tea was freshly brewed. Before it was time for him to go on his way, I directed Owen to see to it that his horse was given food and water and brushed down, and I accompanied him outside to see him off and to thank him, assuring him that soon I would have him and Emaline over for dinner.
Then I went inside my house.
Violet and Owen followed me everywhere, as if I needed guarding.
I went into the parlor, drew in my breath, and looked around. It was chilly, for the afternoon sun had not yet made its presence known here.
"Have Ormond light a fire," I directed. "I will have tea and refreshments here."
Owen scrambled to do my bidding.
Violet asked me what she could do. I took her hand. "Keep me company," I said. "Don't leave me alone unless I tell you. Talk to me."
So she told me how my sister, Margaret, was the only one in all the killings that Nat Turner had killed himself.
"He was in love with Margaret," I said. "And he couldn't have her. So he killed her."
I could run this place. Why not? I knew what was in all Mother Whitehead's letters, who her suppliers were, whom Richard did business with. He had it all in his account books.
Yes, I decided. I would run the place. "And after tea I will have paper and pen. I must write a letter," I told her.
"Yes, Miss Harriet." Her manner had changed toward me. She was picking up on my lead. She saw what I was trying to do.
So after tea and scones, she brought me the necessary things and I wrote my letter.
Dear Uncle Andrew: I wish you would come and visit me. Everyone here is dead.
Your loving niece, Harriet Whitehead
Twenty
"I was in the attic. With Owen. Under the bed," Violet told me. "I didn't see it. Please, Harriet, ask someone else. I can't talk about what I did see." Tears were coming down her face and she wiped them away with her hand.
"I don't want someone else. You're my closest friend. I want to hear it from you."
She sat on the floor, at my feet. She hesitated only a moment and then the words came, or rather tumbled, off her tongue.
"Like I said, Owen grabbed me the minute we saw them coming into the house. Somehow he knew that Nat had turned into a crazy man and wasn't the Nat who had helped him in the past. 'There's a place in him I hoped he'd never go,' he told me. 'I sensed it all the time. Like he was teetering on a ledge and deciding whether to jump. And now he's jumped, Violet. So let's get out of here.'
"I suggested my room upstairs. Few people even know there's an attic in the house. But for safekeeping we went under the bed. All we could hear were voices and screams from below stairs. We both knew your brother, Richard, was already dead. And we knew he was killing Mother Whitehead and Emilie. Out the window we could see the cotton field burning and some slaves trying to put the fire out.
"Then Owen said we should take the servants' stairs down and see what we could do. It was chancy, but a good idea. Besides, Pleasant was on the second floor with baby William. Maybe we could help her."
"But they killed Pleasant," I objected. "At least in my head they did."
She nodded her head very vigorously. "We crept down the servants' stairway and peeked through the door, just a crack. Turner was there in the hall with one of his henchmen, who had his sword drawn, and Pleasant was facing them. 'Kill me if you wish,' she was saying, 'you've already killed my husband. And he was good to you. You might as well kill me, too.'
"So," and here Violet gulped some air and continued, "the henchman did. Right there in the hall. Then Turner looked around asking for Margaret. He wanted Margaret real bad, like. He was ready to gather his men and leave, and then the baby cried from the bedroom."
There was a moment's silence. I heard the tolling of more than one church bell now, and we waited, listening. So different from my imaginings, but no less cruel. Then Violet continued.
"Somebody said, 'What about the baby?' At first Nat said, 'Never mind,' then he changed his mind and said, 'No, we must get the baby, too. Babies grow up and take revenge.' And then he and one man went into where the baby was, and from where Owen and I were hiding, we dared not move or talk or even breathe, but we heard baby William's screams, and then silence.
"Then they left. I'm so sorry, Harriet. We should have done something about baby William."
"There was nothing you could do," I told her.
I sat, studying on the whole thing. But I could not wrap my mind around it. It was too terrible, too out of my circle of possibilities. "I don't think anything like this has ever happened before in Virginia," I told her.
She nodded her assent. "Owen said he heard that fifty-seven people were killed."
"What was he trying to do? What did he want?"
"I don't know. I think he wanted to capture Jerusalem. That's what all the servants are saying. And collect an army and kill some more."
"And now?"
"Now they're hunting him. We should pray they catch him."
I had a thought then. "Did he attack the Gerard place?"
"Yes," she said. "Everybody over there is dead."
I did not ask how she knew. The negro grapevine traveled faster than the wind. My
tears wouldn't come and my mouth was dry. "Could I have another cup of tea?" I asked.
Apparently a few servants had been standing in the hall, outside the parlor, listening to Violet's recitation.
"I'll get the tea, mistress," Connie said.
"She called me mistress," I whispered to Violet.
"Yes, you are mistress now of this plantation," she said.
"I'm not even mistress of myself," I thought aloud. "But I know I can do it." I smiled at Violet. "Do you think I can do it?" I asked.
"We'll all help you. Everybody has their job and knows how to do it. And for anything else you want, you must assign the tasks. Tell us what it is that you wish us to do."
That afternoon I held a meeting in the kitchen. It had started to rain outside and that seemed fitting. Everyone crowded around.
"I want Walley to be the overseer, as I heard Richard say one time he would be a good one. And I want you to take over with the house, Winefred. Connie is to be the cook. And Ormond knows what his job is. Owen, you are to help Ormond and answer doors and keep him supplied with wood for the hearths, just as you've been doing. And I want you to tell me now, Violet, what happened to Cloanna?"
"She's alive," Violet said. "Turner never went to the quarters."
"Then you must visit her as soon as you can. Bring her a side of ham and some small beer. As for work, it must go on. The rest of the cotton has to be picked and bundled and shipped. The apples, too. The animals must be cared for. And we must plough in the stubble of the first wheat field and sow buckwheat, forty acres in thirteen ploughing days."
Walley looked hard at me. "Where did you get that from, miss?"
I raised my chin. "I learned from writing Mother Whitehead's letters. I must contact her cotton factors, Jenkins, Middleton, and Pierce, and set a date for the cotton to be delivered, too. We must get our heads together on that date, Walley."
"Yes, miss."
"You see," Violet said to me later when we were alone, "you make a fine mistress."
***
When I wasn't being "mistress" I sat in Mother White-head's chair in the parlor for days, it seemed. I could not move. I did not want to speak to anyone. I just wanted to stare out the ceiling-to-floor windows through the leaden air of the last days of that August and adjust my mind to the new world I had been dragged into, screaming.
One morning Ormond was wiping off the glass panes of the lower parts of the windows in the parlor, for the dogs were kept inside now at my request. They were good watchdogs, but their nose prints were on the glass panes.
I had always wanted them in the house. Mother Whitehead would never allow it. They were of the large type, with loud barks, and I felt safer with them around me. They slept at my feet, days, and by my bedside, nights, and were alert to every noise. They were clean and devoted. Punch and Judy, their names were. And that's what Ormond was doing that morning. Cleaning the windowpanes in the parlor.
"Did they mess the windows again?" I asked.
"It's all right, Miss Harriet. They give you comfort."
"What's that on the rag? Blood?"
He looked at the rag in his hands. "Yes, miss, from the bottom windowpane."
I understood immediately, as I understood his discomfort. "From that day?" I asked.
"Yes, miss. Left on the window. I must have missed it the last time I..."
"It's all right, Ormond. It is, truly."
Blood on the corner of a windowpane, from the day Mother Whitehead was killed. Would the memories ever be cleaned out of this house? Out of our minds?
Already they were in print in all the newspapers in the East. Already all the rumors that had circulated that day were being put to rest. That the British were attacking, that there were piles of dead children's bodies being buried in a common grave near Jerusalem. That Governor John Floyd received word there was an insurrection in Richmond, that one slave who refused to join Nat's army had his heel strings cut so he couldn't run and alert anybody.
And soon, following those articles and the rumors, would come the investigations, Violet and Owen told me.
And my initials were on that map. Nat Turner was still running free. I tried not to think about all that, although I did worry the matter about Nat Turner still being free.
Would he come back here? The idea took hold of me and I became frightened. When I told Connie and Winefred and Ormond about it, they suggested we put a trundle bed in my room and have Violet sleep with me.
I liked that idea. Why hadn't I thought of it? Then I had another. I knew that Ormond used to hunt with Richard and, therefore, knew how to use a gun. So we purchased new firearms and I asked him to arm whatever negroes he thought trustworthy and teach them to shoot. Because I was still frightened.
It was a big step, but hadn't I heard that faithful negroes on the attacked plantations had fought back at Nat Turner's army and some had driven them away?
Things had changed. We must change with them, I decided. We must be prepared.
Twenty-One
A week, and then two, went by. News from the outside came to us, from the post carrier, the newspapers, the slave grapevine, and Emaline, who, true to her word, came to supper one night with her husband. Was it proper to entertain so soon after such a tragedy? There were no rules in the books for it. There were no books for it in the first place.
What would they say? It is advisable, socially, to wait at least a month to serve beef and roasted potatoes and peas from the garden after your brother has had the top of his head slashed off as the result of a slave revolt.
"That Nat Turner hasn't been captured yet," Emaline told us. "They had him for a couple of hours at the Black Head Sign Post, but he got away. Someone saw him at the Travis place, and the Isle of Wight County Militia went after him, but he was nowhere to be found."
I shivered. We were having dessert.
"It's fearful that he's still out there somewhere, isn't it?" she asked.
"I have my dogs," I told her. "And now all the male negroes on this place know how to use a gun."
"You know what they are saying about Turner's uprising?" she asked me. "They are saying that the faithful blacks on the plantations whipped him more than the whites did. Why, the blacks were on the verandas and behind trees and on rooftops, firing away at Turner and his men. Nat Turner didn't expect that. He expected all the bound servants to join him. But if not for them, he might have taken Jerusalem. He was within a mile of it, they say."
When she left, she kissed me and told me not to be a stranger. "After all," she said, "you were the one who alerted everyone. If not for you..." and she shook her head and sighed. "You were our female Paul Revere that day. We owe our lives to you, Harriet Whitehead."
I blushed and said, "Thank you. I was out of my head."
And she said, "Oh blather, you knew what you were doing. And let me know when your uncle Andrew arrives. We'll have you both over to dinner."
***
The Virginia Militia came to our place the third week Nat Turner was not yet captured and Ormond ushered their commander, a Lieutenant Berry, into the parlor to see me.
"Are you the mistress of this place?" he asked me.
"Yes. Everybody else is dead."
"I'd heard that the Reverend Whitehead was killed in the rebellion."
"Yes. His head was slashed. I am the only member of the family to survive. What can I help you with, Lieutenant?"
"We have orders, miss, to search the quarters of all the slaves and free blacks. We're looking for scattered powder and shot, to make sure they weren't involved in the insurrection."
I sighed. You should be searching my quarters, I told myself. I called out for Violet and she came. I introduced her.
"Are you free or bound?" the lieutenant asked her.
"She's bound. For now," I said. "I have not yet had time to think about the future."
He nodded. "Pardon me, miss, but you seem awfully young to be making such decisions."
"My uncle Andrew is,
at this very moment, on a ship coming from London," I recited. And that pacified him. I also said that Violet would accompany him and his men on rounds, that he was not to upset old Cloanna in her quarters, and that he was to check in with me before he left.
I had heard, you see, of this man and his militia, and how they went on some plantations and planted false evidence to implicate some slaves, and then arrested them and took them away. Just to make it seem as if they were doing something. Because, with Nat Turner still at large, it seemed as if nobody was doing anything at all.
Lieutenant Berry was polite, a true Southerner, if nothing else. He bowed. He saluted. He even kissed my hand. I thought how jealous my sister, Margaret, would be. And then I felt a pang of guilt.
I must, this very afternoon, find out the particulars of her death.
Twenty-Two
The appearance of the militia at our plantation frightened me.
What would happen when Nat Turner was caught? Would they go through his possessions? Would they find the map with my initials on it? Oh God, I prayed, don't let them go through his things until I can see him.
For if I was the Paul Revere who had saved them all with my warning, I was surely also the Benedict Arnold who had betrayed them all to begin with.
***
I had every intention of asking Violet and Owen about Margaret's death that afternoon. And I knew what they had to tell me was bad. Nightmare fodder. The stuff of hauntings. Because, since I'd been home, both of them had never quite been able to look me straight in the eye. And whenever Margaret's name came up, as it often did, they either gave the subject a new turn, or excused themselves and left the room.
I now took all my meals at a small side table in the parlor. I could not bear to sit alone at the long, polished table in the dining room with the crystal chandelier dripping its blessing down on me. The chairs and place settings for the family were all there, and I tried, a few times, to sit in my place, but I could not eat for seeing Richard at the head of the table and Mother Whitehead to his right.
