A Guardian of Slaves

by Naomi Finley

  AFTER THE EVENING MEAL, WHITNEY headed upstairs to help prepare the twins for bed as I stepped outside onto the back veranda. Beau, our golden-red cocker spaniel, lay near the top of the steps. He lifted his head and looked at me, his tail waggling eagerly. I bent to scratch him behind the ears before straightening to look out over the plantation.

  The moon hung lazily in the black velvet sky, bathing the plantation in a soft, shimmering glow. An outline of the horizon rippled its reflection along the Ashley River.

  Everyone in the quarters had retired. The piercing reverberations of a hammer hitting metal cut through the peaceful quiet of the evening. Jimmy often could be found in the shop, fiddling on whatever task he could find to keep himself busy.

  I descended the steps, holding a lantern high to guide my footsteps across the yard to the blacksmith shop. As I drew near, the fire from the forge bathed the outbuilding in a serene and rosy radiance. I watched Jimmy set aside his hammer, lift a set of tongs, and submerge the red-hot metal he’d been working into a bucket of water. It sizzled violently, and a gust of steam rose. Jimmy straightened and arched back his shoulders while rubbing his lower back.

  Sensing my presence, he swung around, and a tender smile softened his weathered face. “Miss Willie!” He rounded the forge, and in a low voice asked, “How did ya fare wid de cargo?”

  “It arrived damaged, and we had to dispose of it.” I shrugged, and tears filled my eyes.

  “Dere, dere, gal. Et ain’t your fault. De goods were too spoiled from de start.”

  “It doesn’t make the loss any less heartbreaking.”

  “Dat is true, but one person can only do so much.”

  “I wished I had—”

  “Don’t you do et, Miss Willie. No call to blame yourself for evvything dat goes wrong. You’re doing your share of right in dis world, and dat’s all you can do.”

  “But it’s not enough.”

  He drew closer, coming to stand within arm’s reach in front of me. “Et’s ’nuf for one person. No one expects you to go ’bout taking on de whole world by yourself. You’ve done mighty fine on your own. You’ve done right good by dese folkses. Teaching dem to read and write, allowing dem to larn skills and crafts to better demselves, dat’s more den any slave can ever hope for.”

  Jimmy had a way of instilling hope in me and relieving the debilitating anxiety that often consumed me. “How’s the mood in the quarters lately?”

  “Peaceful, for de most part. Some content wid de current situation, and others biting at de dust to head out on deir own.”

  I lifted my fingertips to my temples. “We can’t afford to have unrest here if we’re to continue my parents’ work.”

  “Dat be so, but as long as dere be humans, dere will be unrest on dis earth. Et’s jus’ de way et be. Folkses talk of how you run dis place and what you do for dem. But some of dese people, all dey see is de invisible chains dat hold dem here.” He peered around and leaned his head in, saying in a whisper, “Dere’s talk amongst some of de folkses of making de journey to de promised land.”

  “I understand they want a chance at a life of their own. If I could, I’d set them all free.” I sighed. “To think just a year ago, I thought I’d do exactly that. No person and no laws would keep me from doing what was right. At every turn, I challenged my father, making his struggles to run this place that much harder. I had so much to learn, and learn I have. That sort of childlike foolishness would only find me at the end of a hangman’s noose. Then what good would I be to anyone?”

  “Dat’s what growing is all ’bout. But dat spirit and fire you have burning in you is what makes you de gal you are. Strength and courage dat sets you apart from all de other young fillies.”

  “Sometimes I don’t want to be strong anymore. Some days, I want to run and keep running and leave all this behind. Maybe become a nun and forget all the pressures of this life.”

  His hearty chuckle stormed the walls and circled back. “You, a nun? I don’t think dey would want de laks of Miss Willie dere. Meek and obedient ain’t what you ’bout.”

  “At least there, no one would be questioning me on why I’m not married yet.”

  “Don’t go letting de naysayers git in your head.”

  “I try not to, but sometimes I do think running this place would be easier with a husband at my side.”

  “I happen to know a young man who’d be happy to claim you for his wife.”

  My cheeks heated, and I averted my gaze. “I’m grateful for Bowden’s faithfulness to me, but how long can that last?”

  “Et takes a strong man wid an abundance of patience to put up wid a gal wid a mind of her own. I think Mr. Armstrong be dat kind of man. But don’t hold him off too long, ’cause all men have deir breaking point.”

  “The thought of marriage frightens me. Even though I know my father was trying to do right by me, the worry of going back into a cage and being controlled keeps me from moving forward with Bowden.”

  “In time, maybe you’ll see differently.”

  “Maybe…” I heaved a sigh. “I suppose I’d best be going. If you catch wind of any talk of running, you must let me know.”

  “I’ll do jus’ dat. We can’t have dem putting de wrong attention on dis place, or gitting demselves caught.”

  “That’s the last thing we need, and I can’t protect them if they run off. By the way, have you seen anyone checking out the plantation?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “The Widow Jenson has sold out to a Mr. Anderson.”

  “Sold out?”

  “Yes; he mentioned that she was frightened for her life.”

  “Dat woman ain’t afraid of nothin’. Tough as nails, dat one.” He laughed and shook his head. “But maybe her place was becoming too hard to handle widout any menfolk around.”

  “This could be true, but you’d think she’d have at least stopped by on her way out and said goodbye. Whitney believes we’ve reason to be cautious of Mr. Anderson.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I don’t know, but until we do, I think we need to be on the lookout for anyone watching the plantation.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Dat be wise.”

  “On another matter, have you heard mention of this person the Negroes are calling the Guardian?”

  “Guardian?”

  “The man mentioned he came here seeking the Guardian.”

  “I can’t say I have.” He stroked his beard, pondering the name that had played in my mind for the last few days.

  “I may be able to help you there,” a male voice said from behind me.

  My hand went to my chest as if to still the sudden thud of my heart. I spun around to find Jones, the overseer, leaning against a post a few feet behind me. I remembered the day he rode up to Livingston and asked my father for a job. It was the early spring before my tenth birthday. Although he was a trusted employee of Livingston, all these years later, I still didn’t know much about the man, except he didn’t mistreat the slaves, and there’d been no talk of him taking the slave women to his bed.

  “You scared the life out of me. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long. I saw you headed this way and needed to speak to you on a matter.” He walked out of the shadows. The spurs on his boots jingled as he entered the light. “This ‘Guardian’ you speak of has been a rumor amongst the slaves around these parts for a while. They believe he lives in the swamps like a bushman and carries slaves away in the night.”

  “Carries them away?”

  “Aids them in reaching the promised land, they say.”

  “Does the rumor hold any truth?”

  “I think it may hold some truth, but I’m not certain this man lives in the swamps.”

  “No? Why?”

  “It’s the stirring of the townsfolk that’s more of a concern to me than the whisperings of the blacks.”

  “The masked men?” I said.

  His ink-colored eye
s swept over my face. “The bigger thing you need to concern yourself with is why that injured slave came here, looking for the Guardian.”

  “That does concern me. The man seemed adamant he’d find the man here. Keep your ears open, the both of you, for any news on this Guardian and these masked men. I don’t like this. Trouble could be brewing for us, and we need to be aware of it before it strikes.”

  Jimmy’s keen eyes narrowed with concern. “Sho’ thing, Miss Willie.”

  “Jones, you come with me. We’ll walk a spell.” I patted Jimmy’s arm. “Try to find some time to relax.”

  “Don’t you worry ’bout ol’ Jimmy. I’ll wander over to de cabin soon ’nuf.” He turned and began to whistle the same sweet tune he always did. The familiarity of the tune stroked the knots in my shoulders.

  “Come now, let us speak before I retire for the evening,” I said to Jones.

  We walked in the direction of the main house.

  “I’ll get right to it. You asked me to check the condition of your father’s land to the south.”

  “I’m assuming you’ve something to report?”

  “I reckon with some clearing of trees, we could build a house, and the ground, in time, would be workable and provide a good crop.”

  “That’s great news! Please arrange a crew to clear the land.”

  “As you say. I’ll have some men on it tomorrow.”

  “Very well. Is there anything else?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then I bid you a good evening.”

  He tipped the brim of his hat and backed away a few feet before turning and sauntering off toward his cabin. I stood for a moment, watching him. He stopped and fumbled around before placing something to his mouth. A flame sparked and flickered in the darkness, followed by white wisps that floated upward. He continued on, vanishing into the shadows from whence he’d come.

  LATER, IN MY BEDCHAMBER, I sat at my dressing table while Tillie pulled the pewter horsehair brush in long, even strokes through my hair.

  “He says he’ll be in Charleston the first of February,” I told her as I read over a letter from Kipling, the man father had tried to marry me off to. After my refusal of an arranged marriage, Kip had accepted my friendship, and we’d become steadfast friends. “Says he’s bringing his assistant, Ruby, with him.”

  “Dat be nice,” Tillie said.

  “Ruby’s a free black woman.” I glanced at her in the mirror. “Her folks are white abolitionists. Along with her parents, Ruby has aided many fugitives to freedom.”

  “Is she dis Moses folkses talk ’bout?” She stopped brushing, but never lifted her gaze.

  I’d met this “Moses” Tillie spoke of: a colored woman of the finest quality, a former slave who had taken her own freedom. No fear or worry could hold her back from creeping into plantations and stealing slaves away. Planters feared her, and there was a bounty on her head.

  “No, but they uphold the same goal, to free all slaves.”

  “Lak you? Dey jus’ be black folk?”

  “I suppose so.”

  The brush began to glide through my hair again. I sat quietly for a minute, watching Tillie in the mirror.

  After the birth of Evie, Mary Grace had moved to the quarters and shared a cabin with Tillie’s mother, Sara. Tillie now shared the room by the back stairs with Mammy, never once complaining of Mammy’s snores that rattled through the main floor like the rumbling of the train leaving Charleston station.

  Tillie had never been much for talk, but she’d proven to be a good listener. Lord knows, she’d put up with my ramblings. The twins demanded all of Whitney’s time. Mary Grace spent her free time in the quarters with her children: Noah, the boy from the swamp massacre, and her daughter.

  Tillie was always there, hovering over me or standing back, waiting on orders. She was a skittish girl, and awkward in appearance, with arms almost as long as her legs. Whitney made it clear she thought I was out of my mind when I went to the quarters seeking Tillie. She said Tillie was absentminded. But there was something about the quiet, reserved girl that I liked. She’d proven herself to be loyal and trustworthy. I found myself talking to her the way I used to talk to Mary Grace.

  Folks would frown and say the way I talked to my handmaid was improper. That I was a lover of a race thought to be nothing more than machinery, without emotions or smarts to think and fend for themselves. People were afraid that if the slaves claimed their independence, the South would crumble. For without their human machines, the planters would have to pay the wages demanded from the whites, or they’d have to invest in machinery and build factories like their Northern competitors.

  “What do you want in life, Tillie?”

  She froze.

  I waited, urging her with my eyes in the looking glass.

  She never looked up. Silence occupied the space between us. Down the corridor, the twins’ laughter echoed.

  Tillie said hesitantly, “I don’t rightfully know.”

  “Do you want to be free?”

  She wrinkled her forehead, puzzled by my ridiculous question. “Evvyone wants to be free, Missus.”

  “What would freedom mean to you?”

  “I’m sorry, Missus, but I don’t understand what you want from me.”

  “I’m not the enemy. Don’t be frightened. If you were free, what would you do with your life?”

  “I can’t…” The brushing stopped, and I felt it tremble in her hand. “Mama says talking about such things can only mean death for a slave.”

  I turned to face her and removed the brush from her long fingers before clasping her hands in mine. “You can trust me. Have I proven otherwise?”

  “No, Missus.”

  “Speak candidly.” I gave her hands a gentle tug of encouragement.

  “I’d… I’d lak to teach chillum to read and write.”

  “A teacher?”

  She bobbed her head up and down.

  “Why, that’s a splendid and honorable purpose in life.”

  A smile curved the corners of her mouth. “I never cared much to larn to read and write. But wid de larning you bin doing wid me, I realize I want to give dat to others.” She rushed to finish what she wanted to say, as if she’d lose the courage at any moment. “White folkses try to keep black folkses from larning ’cause dey scared ef we larn to read and write, we become jus’ as smart as dem. Den dey can’t keep us no slave no more,” she said with a boldness I’d never witnessed in her before.

  “You keep learning all you can, and when the day comes that all slaves are free, you use all the knowledge you’ve learned here on Livingston to make it on your own.” I smiled, released her hands, and turned back to the mirror.

  “Do you think dere will be such a day?” She began to braid my hair.

  “It’s the belief I hold to. Something we all must hold onto, because without hope, what do we have? I believe God has a plan, just as he did for the Hebrews in the days of Moses.”

  “Mama says I’m not to question de ways of de Lard. But I don’t understand why he chose us colored folkses to place dis yoke upon.”

  I grew quiet. Her question had been one I’d asked God countless times. At night, in the sanctuary of my room, my screams of frustration were muffled in my pillow, my fist pounding at the linens as I wailed silently in my desperation to set things right. Why? Why? I begged for God to hear my cries and the cries of the slaves. Where was His mercy?

  “Miss Willow?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you suppose de Lard let dis happen?”

  I let out a weighted breath. “Why does he allow a lot of things? I don’t understand it myself.”

  Finished with my hair, Tillie stepped back.

  “I can manage from here,” I said, pushing to my feet. “You run along and enjoy your evening with your mama. Tell her I send my greetings. You’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, Missus.” She curtsied, pivoted on her heels, and strode to the door.

  “Tillie…�
��

  “Yessum?” She swung back. Her eyes were directed at the cypress planking in front of her while her hands hung loosely by her sides.

  “Maybe we can pick a day or two a week that you can help in the quarters with the teaching of the children.”

  “I’d like dat.” Her voice quivered.

  “Very well, then. We’ll discuss a schedule tomorrow.”

  “Mussiful be de Lard,” she mumbled as she left the room and closed the door silently behind her.

  Tillie

  FROM THE WARMTH AND SAFETY of the big house, I crept out into the night. The oak trees and outbuildings painted the backyard with eerie silhouettes like deformed creatures. The far-off cry of a wild animal turned my head toward the dangerous cypress forest where they lay—waiting. Watching. Wanting to shred the meat from my bones.

  The hoot of an owl threw me forward. My feet beat down the steps and I pelted toward the quarters like hell had been unleashed behind me, the lantern I held swinging wildly. My heart pounded in my ears as the unnerving noises closed in. Imaginary claws tore at my skirts, trying to pull me into the darkness beneath my feet. I pumped my legs harder.

  Only when I reached the overseer’s cabin did I slow my pace. Mr. Jones sat on the front porch, whittling away on a piece of wood. He stopped mid-stroke when he caught sight of me.

  I tried to catch my breath while keeping my eyes glued to the bottom step of his stoop.

  “What’s your hurry, girl?” His voice sounded none too friendly.

  “I jus’ wanted to give my mama a squeeze.” Men sent my knees a-knocking. Mama said never to trust no man. She said men were out to hurt girls like me. I still wasn’t sure what girls like me were. But in my fifteen years, I’d seen a lot of ugly things before I came to this place. Things I’d never forgotten. Things that scar your mind forever.

  Jones adjusted himself in his rocker and leaned forward.

  I shuffled backward and became tangled in my feet, which landed me on the ground. Rattled my teeth clean up to my skull. Ignoring the pain stabbing through my cushionless backside, I scrambled to my feet. A grunt came from him, and the pulse throbbing in my head sped up.