Emily hoped she wasn’t making a mistake. What could a slave child who’d never left the plantation know of oceans, ships, or sailing? Could she possibly identify with the characters and their adventures? Emily opened the book stubbornly. Lottie was just the child who needed such a story.
“I’ll move my finger with the text as I read. I want you to try to make out the words as I say them.” She started slowly, enunciating each word clearly. “The Coral Island, by R. M. Ballantyne. Chapter one.
“‘Roving has always been, and still is, my ruling passion, the joy of my heart, the very sunshine of my existence. In childhood, in boyhood, and in man’s estate, I have been a rover; not a mere rambler among the woody glens and upon the hill-tops of my own native land, but an enthusiastic rover throughout the length and breadth of the wide wide world…’”
Emily read straight through two full chapters then paused enticingly as she began the account of the shipwreck. She glanced over at Lottie. The girl’s face was intense, alive with wonder and attention. Stifling a laugh, Emily closed the book and pretended to yawn. “Perhaps we should put it away for today. You’re probably weary to the point of tears by now.”
Lottie rose to her knees. “Miss Emily, we can’t stop! It just be gettin’ good!”
Emily did laugh then. “I’m only teasing you, Lottie. Do you like the story?”
“Yes, miss. Very much!”
“Then I’ll keep reading.” Emily found her place. “‘The ship was now very near the rocks. The men were ready with the boat, and the captain beside them giving orders, when a tremendous wave came towards us. We three ran towards the bow to lay hold of our oar, and had barely reached it when the wave fell on the deck with a crash like thunder.’”
At that moment, the willow’s branches parted and a dark face peered in at them. Lottie let out a yelp, and Emily dropped the book in alarm. Her heart was pounding like the fictional surf.
“Abel! What do you mean by sneaking up on us like that? You frightened us half to death!”
“Sorry, Miss Emily.”
“What are you doing out there?”
“I’s just searchin’ de pasture for poisonous plants like I always do. Nightshade, milkweed, hound’s-tongue—dey kill a horse sure as anything.”
“And you heard us speaking.”
“Well, I heard somethin’ an’ thought I best check it out.”
Emily’s nerves had begun to calm. She gave Abel a shaky smile. “Thank you for being so vigilant. I’m afraid you’ve caught us at an awkward moment.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What you two be doin’ under here?”
She held up the book. “You must promise you won’t tell anyone.”
He stared in disbelief. “You teachin’ Lottie to read?”
“Not exactly,” she hedged.
He plunked himself down. “I wanna learn too.”
“Abel, I can’t teach you.”
“Why not? You teachin’ her.”
“I’m just reading to her!”
He remained planted, as unmoving as the willow.
She sighed. “Lottie, can you show Abel what an A looks like?”
***
“I sho’ ’preciate yo’ help, Miss Emily.”
“It’s the least I can do after you tended my roses in my absence, Abraham.”
Emily had spent the last twenty minutes drawing the gardener as he worked, sketching in bone and muscle and noting in particular the placement of spine, hips, and shoulders. Abraham was tall and spare, with a figure that stooped toward the earth he’d spent his lifetime tending, but he was still spry enough to fork up tubers easily enough. And he hardly ever speared one. Now Emily followed behind, collecting the unearthed potatoes in a basket. None of the slaves seemed to mind doubling as models, especially when she pitched in with a task afterward or gave them the completed image.
“I have noticed that my wildflowers have mysteriously disappeared, however,” she added. The tumultuous collection she had planted after her visit to Detroit had been tamed to match the rest of the garden.
“I be sorry, Miss Emily,” he said sheepishly. “Yo’ daddy made me take ’em out.”
Emily laughed. “I forgive you, Abraham. I may have outgrown my adolescent fancy, anyway. Nowadays, with things spinning so rapidly out of control, I’ve taken a greater liking to structure and order.”
“You growed into a fine lady, miss. Mos’ ever’body sayin’ so.”
Emily straightened her back. “The slaves are saying that?” About the master’s daughter? “Why?”
“Well, not every white chil’ would spirit away four slaves right under dey daddy’s nose.”
Ah, that would explain all the recent odd behavior. Of course the outburst directed at her father would have been overheard. She suspected that most of what happened in the big house was regularly jawed over in the slave cabins.
“It was nothing.” But even as she said it, she remembered the risks she had taken that night. It hadn’t been nothing and everyone knew it.
“You de first Preston ever done so.”
She shrugged, trying to make light of the situation. She didn’t desire the expectations the attention seemed to imply.
The harvest took only a few hours. After the last of the potatoes were wheelbarrowed into the cellar beneath the kitchen, Emily washed off at the well pump. The soft strains of a piano flowed across the backyard to lap at her ears. Her mother hadn’t played since her father took ill. She followed the stream to its headwaters within the open French doors of the music room and let Pachelbel’s Canon in D flow wash over her.
Marie hailed her, hands still manipulating the keys. “Emily, Mr. Cutler has been to town and dropped off our mail. You have a letter here.”
Emily spied several envelopes on a music stand. She collected the one bearing her name. Loath to interrupt the music, she nevertheless needed to know what prompted it. “How is Father this morning?”
Tears filled Marie’s eyes, and Emily knew she was pouring her soul into the sad, beautiful strains. “Margaret’s with him.”
Emily didn’t ask for a more complete answer. Sensing that her mother had more to say, she simply waited as the song grew in intensity. The piece ended in powerful crescendo that left the air clean and vacant. The ensuing silence felt as fragile as glass. Marie shattered it with a quiet announcement. “I’d like to go over the books with you this evening.”
Emily’s fingers tightened around her letter. Marie’s faith in William’s recovery had been unshakable, even while the rest of the household had recognized his utter lack of improvement. “What happened?”
“Nothing’s happened. That’s the problem.” Marie clenched her fists in an effort to rein in her emotions, but this time they’d grown unruly. Her voice wavered. “It’s been weeks, and there’s no change in your father’s condition. None.”
Emily sank onto the bench and wrapped her arms around her mother’s trembling frame. She could count on one hand the number of times she had seen Marie’s poise crumble, but now the dam of propriety burst apart. Wracking sobs pumped dry the cistern that had long contained her tears. “I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay, Mother.” Emily held her tightly. “Just let it out. Sometimes you have to allow yourself to be human.”
Marie wept harder. “I’m so scared, Emily. What will we do without him?”
Shamefully, Emily acknowledged how much she enjoyed the peace that had accompanied William’s convalescence. But even incapacitated, his presence had been a wall around them, guarding them against outside forces. She had taken it for granted. What if that protection was suddenly removed?
Marie’s wails began to wind down. She leaned heavily on her daughter, drawing in long, shuddering breaths. “I’m so very, very tired.”
“Go lie down. Let someone else tend Father this afternoon.”
But she shook her head and pushed Emily away. “I need my music more than rest. You will help me with the books?”
/> “I’d be happy to.”
“Very well. After dinner then.” The piano started again, one of Chopin’s nocturnes, and Emily sensed her mother’s desire to be alone. Quietly, she slid her letter in her pocket and slipped away.
Plenty of time remained before the evening meal. Moving into the shade at the back of the house, Emily opened her envelope. The words “Flag of Truce” immediately signified its northern origin. She read the name Mildred Buckle and her heart quickened. It was the pseudonym Jeremiah used to deflect suspicion and protect his identity. Impatient to break his long silence, she tore open the envelope.
My dear sister,
I received your latest letter and am overjoyed at your news! It is humbling to know that Sarah has been waiting and praying and hoping just as I have been these last years. Please convey my love to her the next time you see her. Knowing she shares my affection, I can hardly bear our separation.
To make time pass more swiftly until our reunion, I have decided to throw myself into the conflict on the side of the Union. This summer I have joined the 4th United States Colored Infantry—
Emily froze, her breath cut off in horror. She could not have read that right. Jeremiah could not be joining the Union army!
She closed her eyes, breathing out a quick prayer, and refocused on the page. There it was, spelled out in his own hand. She had lost one brother to the Southern ranks. Now must she give up the other to the North? She forced herself to read on.
All of Baltimore feared an attack when Lee invaded Maryland this summer, not long after you and I parted. Free blacks were impressed to dig hasty fortifications around Fort McHenry. Men of color couldn’t even walk the streets without being harassed by press gangs. So I volunteered and saved myself the abuse. Me and two thousand others. We stayed with the military until Lee bypassed us and went on to Gettysburg. Our ranks were disbanded, but many of us found we missed the service. And so the 4th was born.
We’ve been drilling for several weeks. You’ve never seen such a fine sight as all those black men lined up in their navy suits, caps pulled low, marching in step. It makes me mighty proud to be on the right side of this conflict now and in a capacity to do some good for others still trapped in slavery. We’ll be shipping out soon for Virginia…
What was Jeremiah thinking? He’d seen war. He’d traveled with Jack and witnessed battle. He knew exactly what was at stake. How could he put himself in danger like this?
Sinking to her knees, she crumpled the letter to her chest. Jack was dead, Jovie missing. Now Jeremiah. Oh God, she couldn’t bear another loss!
7
“This is everything I’ve managed to find,” Emily announced, dropping a heavy stack of papers onto her father’s desk. She began dividing it into piles. “I’ve sorted it by property. I have deeds, surveys, tax assessments, receipts, purchase orders, slave lists, assets, loans—all going back for years. Father was very organized. And this,” she said, waving a leather-bound volume, “is his financial ledger. I’ve cross-referenced everything by property. It’s all in here.”
Marie stared blankly at the papers. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“We’ll start with the finances.” Emily produced a page with rows of neatly written numbers. “To put it simply, the war has been hard on Father’s portfolio. A number of his investments have gone sour, he’s lost the Wadmalaw estate to the Yankees, and the blockade has cut off most of our exports. Rather than gamble on unreliable shipping, Father very wisely switched most of our fields to subsistence crops, so at least we won’t starve. But the last two years have brought in very little income, and with the currency depreciating so severely, we’re on a path to bankruptcy.”
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s not good. We also have a number of outstanding debts.”
Marie looked stricken. “What can we do?”
“Meet with Father’s lawyer, for starters. He can give you much clearer direction than I can. But I’ve also spoken to Lewis and Mr. Turnbull. We have harvested far more than we need. Both have advised me to sell the surplus.”
“Surplus,” Marie repeated. The word shimmered in the air, a ghostly remnant of days past.
“With father’s contacts, we could sell directly to the army and at least receive compensation for what they’ll take anyway. Charleston would make another ready market. The railroad links us directly, and food is selling there for exorbitant prices. And the people there need the food.”
“The army and Charleston.” Marie was still tracking with her.
“If you write to Richmond, I could make arrangements in Charleston and pick up any items we need for the winter while I’m there.” It was a small independence, one unmarried women didn’t usually engage in. Perhaps that’s why the idea appealed to her. She felt certain her offer would be accepted. No businessman in Charleston could afford to be a chauvinist.
Marie gave her permission with a vague wave of her hand.
Emily pulled out another page of numbers. “This is what I really wanted to speak with you about. Our greatest liability is our slaves. It’s the area Father refused to address.”
Marie cocked an eyebrow. She wasn’t unaware of the source of friction between her husband and her daughter.
Emily plowed on. “The initial price of each slave is substantial. Then they need to be clothed and fed. They need shoes, medical treatment, pots and pans, coats, tools.” She was watching her mother’s eyes. Marie knew very well the truth of her words. “And at the speed they’re disappearing, our rate of return has dropped far below our cost of investment. Do you know how many people we’ve lost since January?”
Marie shook her head. “Seven?”
“Fifteen. Lewis verified the number. I looked up the purchase price for each one. Over ten thousand dollars in equity walked off Ella Wood this year alone.” She paused to let the number sink in. “Mother, the old system is no longer sustainable.”
“Perhaps we should sell some of them and recoup our cost.”
Emily pretended to think about this. “We could. But we still need a labor force. If we have too few workers, you and I will be out in the fields.”
Marie closed her eyes and pressed fingertips to her temples, looking as if she wished herself anywhere but engaged in this conversation. “What do you suggest?”
Emily pushed ahead, uncertain how her proposal would be received but confident that it could work. She’d gone over and over it with Zeke. “I think we should give our people some incentive to stay.” She leaned closer. “What if, once our debts are clear, we begin crediting our adults a wage based on their skill and the hours they work? They could earn their own bread and eventually purchase the freedom of themselves and their families.”
Marie straightened. “I believe you’re being overgenerous with your father’s money.”
Emily clutched her hands in her lap, behind the desk where her mother couldn’t see. “I disagree. By granting them some dignity, we could actually increase Ella Wood’s productivity. We’d be giving our people a reason to stay, to work.”
“Your father is already heavily invested in our slaves. He doesn’t owe them dignity, but they owe him their labor. By paying them, you’re suggesting we purchase them twice.”
“No cash need change hands until they’ve earned out the cost of their purchase,” Emily corrected. “It’s quite fair. I’m just afraid if we go on as we always have, we’re going to lose everything.”
Marie’s face turned down with skeptical thoughtfulness.
“We don’t have to make any decisions right now,” Emily said. “In the meantime, you should contact the overseers of Father’s other properties to find out what condition they are in. The war is causing the situation to shift so fast that Father’s records are most likely outdated. And talk to Father’s lawyer. He’ll give you professional guidance on how to proceed.”
Marie sighed. “I hate taking any action at all without your father’s involvement. What will he say when he recovers?
”
Emily folded her hands. Perhaps it was time to open another difficult subject. “Mother, be honest with me. What kind of prognosis has Dr. Wainwright given Father?”
Marie’s eyes sparkled with tears. “What does that old quack know, anyway?”
Her answer confirmed Emily’s suspicions. “Have you asked Dr. Malone to come?”
“Twice. He’s been unable to get away.”
“Then I believe I’ll look him up in Charleston.”
***
“Lottie, I have an errand for you to run before we begin our lesson,” Emily said to the girl who awaited her eagerly in the stable.
“Can’t I do it after?”
Emily could see the impatience in the child’s eyes. Lottie greatly anticipated their reading of The Coral Island, so their lessons with Abel had increased from every other day to every evening in the stable. They had nearly finished the book. But Emily needed a few minutes to leave the conversation with her mother behind and settle into her role as teacher.
“I need you to tell Sarah to meet me under Mr. Cutler’s grape arbor as soon as full darkness falls. I have something very important to tell her.”
Curiosity leaped into the girl’s eyes. She wasn’t aware of Emily’s blood ties to Jeremiah or the romance between him and Sarah. Emily had considered confiding in her and utilizing her as messenger. The child had certainly learned a valuable lesson about secrecy. But this time, at least, she thought it best to communicate Jeremiah’s difficult news herself.
“Hustle, child, before daylight grows too dim for us to read by.”
That pushed Lottie up the path on quick feet.
Emily entered Chantilly’s stall and cupped the horse’s warm muzzle in her palm. Jeremiah’s letter gave enormous significance to the court drama that took place in Charleston last month. The trial had concluded with a ruling in favor of the black defendants that had been nothing short of miraculous. She’d seen it referenced in one of Mr. Cutler’s hand-me-down newspapers. But now that her brother could one day find himself in their shoes, she wished she better understood the implications.
Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3) Page 8
