Swept into Destiny

by Catherine Ulrich Brakefield

  “There, there, it can’t be as bad as all that.” Her mother guided him to a chair. “And you must remember your age; a fifty-year-old man should not be riding in the dark and going for days without sleep.”

  “John Brown had it coming, Marie. What with raiding the federal armory at Harpers Ferry. Why, it’s clear what he was trying to do, arm the Africans in a revolt against us. General Lee was stupendous. Brown’s five sons dead, and Brown hung for treason. Do you know, until his dying breath he did not repent of his deeds? Even with that rope hanging about his throat, he had the nerve to act like he was a religious martyr dying for a sacred cause, and him looking down at the crowd like he was some dignitary. Then he handed the guard a note and the guard read, ‘I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land can never be purged away but with blood.’”

  “Oh, my!” Her mother covered her mouth with her hand and paused, then resumed her task at hand and set down a steaming cup before him. “Here, drink this tea. It will calm your nerves.”

  “The northerners were crying and saying that the court hung a hero. And some of the southerners yelled back at them that Brown was the devil and that hanging was too good for the likes of him.” Sweat seeped from her father’s forehead and he wiped his face with his handkerchief.

  Her mother picked up her cup of tea and gulped it down, dabbed at her mouth and then her brow.

  What would happen now? Maggie shuddered, recalling Reynolds words. A slave uprising? With their northern neighbors considering Brown a martyr, the South could little expect aid if the slaves did revolt.

  “There will be more talk about—”

  “I don’t want the South seceding from the Union, Marie, and I don’t want this slave issue on my conscience either. Why, most of our neighbors never even owned a slave! Well, maybe, one or two, that doesn’t count. And I found out that there are slaves in the north, too. After Virginia, I went up to Washington to see for myself what was brewing.

  “Why, you can’t believe the factories I saw in Pennsylvania. Children as young as ten years old working in deplorable conditions, and those Irish, my, my.” He clicked his tongue on his teeth. “The women, so tired, dressed in rags… I don’t even know if this Lincoln fellow understands what’s he’s up against. How will our slaves take care of themselves… they don’t even know how to—”

  “That’s being taking care of.”

  “And no one knows?” Maggie’s father got up from his chair and gathered her mother into his arms giving her a shake. “You are certain that Reynolds knows nothing about what we are doing at the Glenn. I cringe to think how he would not hesitate to rally our neighbors against us. He seems bent on ruining me.”

  “We have more to worry about than that.” Maggie stepped forward. “Mr. Reynolds has been having his way with—”

  Mother’s look silenced her words.

  “What is it, Maggie?” Her father lifted his tired head. He looked like an old man. Father had always been a pillar of strength, a colossus of wisdom in the most perilous of times.

  “A friend is coming to visit from Kentucky,” her mother said.

  Was mother afraid to tell Father it was Ben?

  “He should be here sometime tomorrow. Now, husband, why don’t you go and lie down, you look exhausted. I have something I need to attend to in town, but I promise, I will return before you are up from your nap.”

  Father looked from Maggie to her mother questioningly. “Who’s coming?” The candle’s glow displayed the deep haggard crevices of her father’s face.

  “An acquaintance of your sister’s.” Mother smiled into Father’s worried face.

  “Oh.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Well, I am a bit tired. I believe I shall retire with a good book.”

  Her father climbed the steps to his bedroom, one foot dragging behind the other, his broad shoulders bent.

  “He, he looks like the weight of the South is upon his shoulders.”

  “It is, Maggie. Our gracious lifestyle is changing with the times and there is nothing we can do about it. Come now, we must hurry before the meeting begins without us.”

  Ben packed his saddlebags carefully: a clean white shirt, a pair of dress pants, and his new derby hat, along with food and his canteen. He’d been counting the days when he could see Maggie again. He was hoping for an invitation to spend Christmas with them, but didn’t want to accept Maggie’s invitation until he was certain of his future. He could hardly believe his good fortune as 1859 drew to a close.

  He’d not told Maggie about his farm or his fine horse. He patted his dapple-gray stallion Caedmon on his ample neck. “’Tis not a finer Thoroughbred anywhere, and I gave you a fine Irish name meaning ‘wise warrior,’ so be livin’ up to your name, if you please.” He’d be riding to his Maggie in style, mounted on his white horse.

  “Son, hurry. The auction will begin before we get there.”

  “You and Big Jim can go without me. I haven’t got the heart for it.” Ben jumped into the saddle, not bothering with the stirrups, and urged his horse forward. “You know my feelings.”

  His father swished his hand in front of his face like he was shooing a fly. “We’re landlords now and need a proper look to our plantation.”

  “Well, we don’t have to follow in the steps of these people we always loathed. Dad, having slaves when we’ve just gotten out beneath the yoke ourselves, makes no sense, no sense at all!”

  “Who needs to make sense of it? We’re in America and yours and my citizenship will soon be returning to us final like. Now, my boy, let us be off .”

  It was a day’s hard ride to Whitley, but it was on Ben’s way and he enjoyed the company. The quiet town had become a bustling metropolis overnight. Buckboards filled with rifles, and wagons carrying men, women, and children littered the dusty main road. It made it hard for a body to be getting to the large tent staked at the end of the road. People scurried about; ladies in fine silk dresses and lacy parasols blended with the men’s suits and vests adorned with fancy gold chains and watches.

  Big Jim leaned forward and whispered, “After that John Brown hanging, I’m not sure that some of these aren’t his abolitionist friends roaming these hills ready to take a pot shot at us.”

  “You’d think with all the yapping about slavery Dad would get it in this thick skull that it isn’t fashionable anymore. What with Kentucky statesmen yapping about going the Union way, most likely we’ll have to let our slaves go free if war is declared.”

  Big Jim poked his finger at a wagon. The bed was filled with men, women, and children. “’Tis not a nice memory, but I’m recalling a similar wagon, only littered with the bodies of my dead mother and father. Starved to death they were because of the potato blight. In Ireland we had our freedom, but were life-long bondsmen to our landlords.”

  “True, there are more shackles that can tie a man’s feet from freedom than slavery. Being in debt is one of them.”

  “Those poor folks in the coal mines for another, spending their hard-earned money in the saloon and the company store. You did the right thing, Ben, holding our money. Like a bank you were.”

  A tall, muscular man with a crown of curly hair and a chin that poked out enough to hang a coat on ran past them. His feet were bare; his trousers barely covered the knees of his long legs. A volley of gunshots followed.

  “You on the white horse, get him!” The sheriff motioned with his gun.

  Ben bent low, putting his heels into his horse’s sides; he shoved the running man to the ground. Then leaped from his horse and held him down in the dusty road with his knee. “What has he done, sheriff?”

  “I’ve got to get back to my family,” the black man said.

  “That’s your crime?” Ben said, wishing he hadn’t tackled him. A man shouldn’t be separated from his wife and children.

  The sheriff locked the man’s wrists into handcuffs. “Now stand up!” The sheriff nodded his head in thanks to Ben. “Got to get this buck to the auction b
lock.”

  “Okay, let’s start the bidding.”

  Ben was tussled back and forth as the men around him barked out their price. The bid rose to $75, then stopped. What good luck, most of the slaves had gone for over a thousand, too far from Ben’s limited pocket book. Just before the gavel hit for the last time, he yelled out $100. There was a murmur in the crowd. Someone said, “Well he did ground him, let the Irishman have the runaway.”

  “The black man named Jacob goes to—”

  “Mr. Ben McConnell, if you please.”

  Jacob’s previous owner, a short, burly man, eyed Ben up and down. One eye was larger than the other, like he’d been squinting into the sunlight too long. “Well, keep your horse saddled. I spent more time hunting him down than him working my plantation, and I paid $1000 for this buck.”

  “Did you ever think of purchasing his family?”

  “I would gladly. Only, his family got passage up north by the Underground Railroad. Jacob was with them, only he got caught and sent back to me. Good hunting!” The man patted Ben’s shoulder and walked away laughing.

  Chapter 11

  T he courthouse curtains were drawn and the windows closed. A musty smell engulfed the room. Maggie couldn’t breathe in enough air. Her pulse slammed her ear drums and she inhaled deeply, preparing for the next onslaught of verbal attacks.

  The woman in the bright sapphire blue bonnet glared at her. “Mr. Reynolds is a fine gentleman. His slaves are his property to do with as he chooses. We should not take a slave girl’s word over a gentleman like Mr. Reynolds, that he, he had his way with her. How preposterous!” She laughed.

  Maggie trembled with anger. Fine gentleman? A polecat was more of a gentleman than Reynolds. She gripped the side of the table, determined to remain calm. The wood felt smooth and cool, solid as the Holy Bible. “The girl had no reason to lie. We are Christians first and our duty as such is to uphold God’s laws. Fornication is a sin and we cannot allow any woman to be raped, especially an innocent young girl.” She leveled her eyes on the group, daring anyone to argue this point.

  “And, of course, you have never sinned, Miss Gatlan?” replied the woman in the sapphire blue bonnet. The murmur of the thirty women of the women’s society buzzed about the room like nervous wasps. The president pounded her gavel on the table, void of everything but a poinsettia plant brought in to give the courtroom a little color. Maggie grimaced. More than color was needed here. The president nodded for Maggie to proceed.

  “Have your consciences been seared? What is wrong with you, ladies? Can’t you see that we cannot turn a deaf ear or blind eye from these… atrocities? When the Jewish council told Christ’s disciples not to teach in His name, Christ’s disciples said, ‘We ought to obey God rather than men.’”

  Maggie’s eyes scanned the group. Only two women, donned in black bonnets and black dresses, met her gaze. “John 14:23 states: ‘If a man loves Me, he will keep My words: and my Father will love him.’ And what does James 1:22 say? ‘But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving your own selves.’”

  The two women in black rose and left the room. A gleam of the setting sun filtered through the door and into the meeting of Maryville’s Society of Friends. Dust particles rose like little fairies from the feet of two departing ladies.

  “Well,” a lady drawled, “I do see Miss Gatlan’s point. No telling what a husband would do if not for his good wife’s direction in reading the Good Book.” The lady fidgeted with her collar and cleared her throat. “But I can’t rightly see how we can judge Mr. Reynolds until one of us asks him.”

  “He’ll deny it, Mable,” another woman said. “Most likely say it was… someone else that got this girl pregnant.”

  The president smiled at Maggie. “You may sit down now.”

  Maggie took one last look at the women. She’d failed. Why God? Why hadn’t the Bible verses she quoted done any good?

  “Is there any other business?” The president looked around. “Then I call this meeting adjourned until next month.”

  Matron Burns motioned for Maggie. She was an elderly widow whose husband had died some ten years ago. She had a set of eagle eyes she used to acquire knowledge about everyone in Maryville as well as everyone in Bount County. She was a large woman, with ample hips, a high sloping forehead, and gentle hands, ready and willing to offer a dish or give aid to a down-and-out neighbor.

  It wasn’t too late. With one word Matron Burns could change the tide of indifference. People flocked to her for kindly and wise advice, and she usually ascertained everyone’s problems with a single word. She gave Maggie a gentle pat on the arm.

  “My, you have grown into a caring young lady. You must be proud of her, Marie.” Her hoops swayed to her large torso and hit the sides of the chairs as she bustled toward the door. Maggie felt like a dog that had tried to please its master, but had fallen short. Just a tidbit of praise for a job as inconsequential as the air one breathed.

  With the room empty, her mother busied herself with straightening the chairs. The noise of her footsteps echoed in the stillness. Placing her dainty hand to Maggie’s cheek, she smiled. “You spoke the truth when everyone else ignored it. Remember that, my darling.”

  After everyone else’s rejection, her mother’s praise gave solace to Maggie’s wounded spirit and made the night’s defeats a victory.

  “That’s all any of us can do. You didn’t desert Jesus.” Her mother’s face glowed in the half-light filtering through the windowpanes. “Remember, Maggie, you are never alone when you stand up for truth. ‘But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth.’”

  Streaks of burnt orange and blues swept the horizon. Darkness would engulf them soon. But she had shared this moment with Mother, and she knew she would never forget it.

  As they walked in silence toward their carriage, she felt someone touch her shoulder. She turned to find one of the women clothed in black.

  “Could thee follow our carriage?”

  Marie stepped forward. “Ada. I thought I recognized you.”

  Ada ushered Maggie and her mother into the Quaker’s house. A fire burned in the stone hearth and a kettle of something bubbled just above the yellow-orange flames. Lively red curtains at the windows offered some cheer to the brown walls. Blue and red checkered goose-feather pillows adorned two wood-spindle rocking chairs. A handcrafted baby rocker sat between the chairs. The young woman Ada addressed as Elizabeth smiled back at her as she rocked the cradle.

  Two bearded men sat at a wooden table. The older one, wearing reading glasses, looked up from his Bible, then laid his glasses aside. The younger of the two stood up and smiled at Elizabeth.

  “This is my husband, Amos. Husband,” Ada said, “this is Mrs. Gatlan and her daughter, Maggie. They are in need of our services for two girls who have been abused by their master.”

  Ada summed up in one sentence what had taken Maggie ten minutes in front of the woman’s society to explain.

  Amos, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, reached for a log and laid it beneath the bubbling kettle. “Where are these girls residing?”

  “At Mr. Reynolds’ estate, which is next to Spirit Wind, their manor.”

  “Ah… yes. I have heard of the good thing thee are doing. Please, sit thee down.” As he rose, his chair scraped across the shiny wooden floor. His wool socks made no noise on the floor as he walked closer to get a better look at them.

  Was this man referring to the Glenn? How did he know about that? Maggie looked at him curiously. “Sir, to what are you referring?” She could be arrested for teaching slaves to read and write. The school must be kept secret.

  “Ya, so thee are Miss Maggie?”

  It was obvious the Quaker had seen the alarm generated by his words. He motioned with a hand to Elizabeth. “Go fetch the boy.”

  Maggie moistened her lips, eyeing the drink of the younger Quaker man, evidently the husband of Elizabeth whom
she heard addressed as Isaac. Her throat felt as cracked and dry as her lips.

  “Would thee like some tea?” Ada offered them two seats near the fire.

  Maggie nodded and took a seat. She cupped her cold hands around the warm mug and sipped the brew. Blackberry, her favorite. Jonny, one of her students, entered from a back room. What was he doing here?

  Jonny was an energetic ten-year-old who could do with an extra ten pounds, only it was hard to get him to sit still long enough to eat a complete meal. His bright brown eyes spotted her across the room. He skipped toward her, his bare feet tapping a tune to his happy words. “Miss Maggie, I’m going to Ohio, goin’ to join my mother there.” The boy held out the slate and chalk she had given him. “See, I was just studying. So I can help my mom to learn how to read and write like the white folk.”

  The baby awoke and let out a scream, as if to join Jonny’s elation. “That’s wonderful, Jonny.” This home must be one of the stations of the Underground Railroad. So now these Quakers knew about… “But if you learned about my school, what if—”

  “Thy secret is safe with us,” Ada replied.

  “Please excuse me while I feed the baby,” Elizabeth said.

  Maggie’s mother patted Jonny on the head. “You’re Mr. Reynolds’ house boy, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He mighty bad to just about everyone, especially the girls, but some of the boys, like me, he likes to have his way with, too.”

  “Mr. Reynolds is giving southern gentlemen a bad name.” Her mother returned Amos’ stark, disapproving gaze. His long black beard and dark hair resembled the pictures in the paper of John Brown. Maggie shuddered. Her mother, however, appeared unafraid, probably because of her outrage.