by Naomi Finley
I’d bent to gather the basket but froze at his words. Gulping back the tightening in my throat, I lifted the basket and turned to look at him. The same innocence from moments ago shone in his eyes. Had I spoiled the boy so much that he had formed a belief or understanding that Negroes were here to serve us? Guilt tightened my gut. “Those times are gone,” I said.
He tilted his head to eye me. “You mean it’s always gonna be this hard?”
My eyes welled. “No, I think in time it will get better.” I wondered how I could explain to him in a way he’d understand. “My wish is that all of this won’t be for nothing. That when Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Hendricks return, there will be no more slaves.”
“But I heard Parker say that the…Con-fed-er-ates fight to keep slaves.”
“That is true.”
His brow pleated. “So that’s what Masa’s fighting for.”
“No.”
His brow dipped lower. “Then what is he fighting for?”
I waved a hand around at the grounds and the main house. “For our land and home.”
“Oh.” He looked around the plantation in dawning understanding. “I like being a slave. I wish Evie still lived here—then we could be slaves together.” He lowered his head and kicked at a stone. “I miss her real bad.”
“I know you do. Now come, let’s get these bandages hung.”
He walked beside me, and I noted his slouched young shoulders. Love gripped my heart, and I wanted to gather him in my arms and protect him from the world. Gone were the days when I could pull him onto my lap and soothe away his pain. He had become more independent and sought an understanding of the world. He had declared in recent months that he no longer wanted to be treated like a baby. It had broken my heart, but I recalled a similar incident when I was younger: the evening I’d informed Mammy I no longer wanted her to tuck me in at night. The pain in her expression had mirrored the pang I felt at Sailor’s request.
“Missus Willow?”
“Yes.”
“Evie told me that Masa Bowden or Masa Ben be my pappy.”
His response snatched my breath and caught me off guard. I ached to tell him that he wasn’t born a slave and that no paperwork of ownership existed. He deserved to know the truth about his parentage, and that he had the blood of a prominent Charleston family in his veins. I wanted to share his parents’ love story with him, to let him know he was conceived from love, not a masa’s lust, but I knew that would mean danger for everyone involved.
“You…” The words stuck in my throat. Too afraid to speak them, I halted and turned. He paused and looked up at me. “You are special to me, and I love you very much. Do you understand that?”
“Evie said ’cause of your love for the masa, you love me too.”
“That simply isn’t true.” My heartache echoed in my tone, combined with annoyance at Mary Grace’s daughter for planting seeds of doubt and confusion in the boy’s head. I brushed that away. The girl had the same cleverness as her mother, and of course her mind would shuffle through possible explanations for the affection I held for Sailor.
I busied myself with pinning the bandages on the line.
“Do you know which one is my pappy?” Sailor said.
I braced, and my heart thumped harder as I grappled with the right words to say. “I can’t say. But you must know we all love you.” I shifted to look at him before looking toward the house to survey for prying eyes. Finding no one, I turned back and cradled his cheek with a hand. “Mr. Armstrong and I love you as though you were our son.”
“But why? White folk don’t like us blacks.”
“Not all white folks see it the same. In fact, a lot of white people don’t own slaves at all.”
“Why do you?”
I shifted with unease at the question. “Because my family owned slaves long before I was born. When my father died I became the owner of all he owned, and that included the slaves.”
“But ya hardly got any slaves now.”
“Yes, and that is for the better. We aren’t meant to own people, nor should we seek to have power over another. One day I hope that all slaves are free. But we can’t tell anyone that, or it would endanger us all.”
“Does Masa Bowden think like you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What if slaves are freed? Where would I go?” His lip quivered. “I don’t want to leave you.”
I bent to look him in the eye and gripped his chin. “You never have to leave here. This is your home and we’re your family, regardless of what the looking glass reveals. You are my son!” Passion erupted in my chest.
He threw himself at me and squeezed me around the neck. I rocked backward from the impact but caught myself and wrapped my arms around him.
“There is nothing for you to worry about.” I held his trembling body. “I will never leave you.” The truth in my claim resonated to the very depths of my soul. I would die for the boy before I let harm come to him. Although I hadn’t carried him in my womb like I had my son, I loved him just the same.
After a moment or two, I pulled back and regarded Jimmy in the pasture, tending the horses. “Why don’t you go help Jimmy.” I pointed in his direction.
Sailor followed my finger and quickly shifted back to look at me. His face brightened.
“I can finish up here,” I said with a smile of encouragement.
He let out a cheer, and I stood to watch him sprint across the yard. Jimmy greeted him with a tender pat on the head. My soul ached. One day I would tell Sailor the truth about his parentage, and I hoped he would forgive me for keeping it from him.
Balancing the empty basket on my hip, I strode back to the house and inside.
I collided with a soldier exiting the library and dropped the basket. I clutched his arm to keep him from falling. “My apologies,” I said.
He shuffled and rebalanced his weight on the crutches Jimmy had fashioned. “It ain’t no trouble,” he said with a pleasant smile.
My shoulders relaxed. When he glanced at my hands still clutching him, heat washed over me and I laughed. Releasing him, I mumbled another apology. He grinned, appearing amused, before inclining his head respectfully and continuing down the corridor to the front door.
Tillie exited the warming kitchen without a look in my direction, appearing flustered and on edge. Balancing a rattling silver salver holding wooden bowls of steaming stew, she hurried across the hall to the library and disappeared inside.
“Girl, get on over here.” Impatience echoed in a soldier’s voice that I recognized as belonging to Corporal Jacobson. Whitney had identified him as a problem, and I couldn’t have agreed more. Darkness burned in his eyes, revealing his anger at life itself. “Get me on the chair. What took you so long to return? I’ve needed to relieve myself for the past twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sah,” Tillie replied softly.
I retrieved the basket from the floor before walking into the library. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. What do you say we get you situated to have your afternoon meal?” I strode to each window and drew back the drapes to allow the sun’s rays to embrace the room. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. A bit chilly, but I say those who are up to it can join Private Tanner on the front veranda.”
Someone entered the room behind me, and I turned to find Whitney. “Mrs. Tucker.” Relief washed over me. “I was just telling our guests that those who want to sit outside for a while can enjoy their meal on the front veranda. Corporal Jacobson needs to visit the privy. Do you mind assisting him?” I glanced at the corporal and reveled in the crimson creeping over his cheeks and ears. If anyone could handle his demands, it was Whitney.
She marched forward. “Now, I’m not about to put up with any of your sass today. I’ll leave you in the privy with your drawers down.”
He glared at her. “You watch yourself, ma’am. Don’t forget who I am.”
“And don’t you forget we’re here to help, not to be abused because you’re angry at the world,” she sai
d before looking at me. “Willow, do you mind helping me?”
“Be right there.” I turned to Tillie. “Go to the parlor and see which of the men want to go outside.”
“Yessum.” Tillie curtsied and dashed from the room.
I hurried to help Whitney. We got the corporal into the wheelchair, and despite his sour disposition my heart went out to him. A canon had taken his legs, and now, unable to fight, he’d soon return home a mere shadow of his former self. Three others in our care would return to the front lines. Following their departure new soldiers would come, and the long nights of sitting with the men who darkened death’s door would continue.
CHRISTMAS APPROACHED, AND LIKE MANY festivities across the nation the yearly banquet at Livingston was canceled. The melancholy of the war had overshadowed the joyfulness of the season. Still, Pippa, Whitney, and I tried to bring life and gaiety to the parlor and library to lift the men’s spirits.
Humming a Christmas carol, I draped holly on the mantel before stepping back to admire my work.
“It looks right fine, Mrs. Armstrong,” a pleasant voice said, and I turned to smile at our newest arrival.
Bobby Jo was a messenger boy of ten, with bright copper hair that gleamed in the sun pouring through the window. The mass of freckles on his face reminded me of an army of ants that left little ground unoccupied. I had become quite fond of the boy and enjoyed time in his company.
“We will make this season what we can…” My words drifted as I noted the crimson stain on the bandage around his middle. I strode to his bed and knelt beside him to inspect his dressing. “It appears you have opened your wound again.”
“I reckon I moved around too much last night.” His cheerfulness faded, replaced by a solemn expression.
I eyed him. “Something troubling you?”
“It’s, well…my ma.” He looked at the other soldiers to ensure no one was eavesdropping before continuing in a low voice. “You see, she died the eve before the war broke out, and we were already losing the farm. The neighboring plantation owner had tried to buy my ma out for years, but she refused. I reckon he is the proud owner now.” His shoulders slumped. “A man from the bank was set to come the following day. With my ma gone and the farm—I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I enlisted. When this is over, I don’t know where I’ll end up.”
“Surely you have relatives or someone who’d take you in?” I removed his dressing.
“No, ma’am. I’m afraid it’s just me.” His jaw trembled ever so slightly as he struggled to suppress his worry.
I gulped at the fear in his gray-blue eyes. He was too young to face the world alone. “I don’t know what the future holds. I suppose no one does. But, when this is over, perhaps you could find your way back here.”
His brow furrowed. “Here?”
“That’s right. Maybe we will have work. The grounds are vast and require many hands. Depending on the situation in the South, if we can’t offer you a wage, at least you’d have a home and food.”
“You’d do that for me?” His eyes welled with tears.
I nodded. “I know what it’s like to feel alone in the world.”
“You?” He gawked. “But, how is that possible?” He swept a hand around the parlor. “You have all of this, and slaves to wait on you.”
“Possessions do not fill the void in one’s heart. My mother died when I was a little girl, and I don’t remember her. My father was always away on business, and he wasn’t the easy sort. I had no extended relatives I knew of, and my father left me in the care of overseers and the quarter folks.” I glanced at Mammy as she entered the room with a vessel of water. After a quick glance at the other soldiers, who sat playing cards at a nearby table, I turned back to him. “You see that woman over there?”
He bobbed his head.
“She was the only mother I knew.”
“A black?” His jaw unhinged.
“Yes, and if it wasn’t for her and the blacks of Livingston, I would have felt more abandoned and alone than I did. They embraced me as their own. I played with the slave children, and Miss Rita tucked me in at night and comforted me when I fell down. She held me and wiped my tears when I cried for the love of a parent.” I applied fresh bandages to his wound.
“But why would she do that? People say the blacks are incapable of love.”
“Is that how you honestly think, or is that what others have told you to believe?”
“Well, I reckon I don’t rightfully know. Folks never treated my ma and me any better than the blacks. Ma said because we were poor, they looked down on us.” He rested his head back against the pillows, weariness sweeping over his visage. “There was this slave boy about my age—his master’s plantation bordered our farm. I watched him work the fields from dawn to dusk. Our eyes would meet across the property line—him with his cotton bag and me driving the plow and mule. Sometimes he would wave, but I was too afraid to wave back. Ma said if you get too close to a black, they will suck out your soul because they’re heathens. She said, in their country, they feed on humans. The day I decided to cross the property line and speak to him, ma took a horsewhip to me. I couldn’t sit or lie down for weeks.” He winced at the memory.
My jaw tightened at such ignorance and the fallacies people created about the blacks—no wonder uneducated prejudices continued for generations. Folks had schooled hatred and mistrust about the blacks into their children. “In all due respect, your ma was misguided.” I spoke tenderly for the boy’s sake while inside I seethed at such idiocy. I adjusted the blanket around his naked torso.
“Maybe so,” he said.
“Did you ever speak to this boy?”
“No. The last I saw of him was when he sat in the back of a wagon headed to market.” He took another gander at the other soldiers and said in a low voice, “After he left, I daydreamed about him and me running through the woods and fishing in the stream. I suppose he was my imaginary friend. It made the days on the farm seem less long and lonely.”
I smiled. “I’m glad you allowed yourself that friendship.”
His face softened as though I had given him permission to embrace the memories.
I stood and looked down at him. “You rest now.”
“Mrs. Armstrong,” he whispered as I turned to leave.
I shifted to regard him. “Yes?”
“I wish I had gotten his name.” Sadness played on his young face.
“How about you give him a name of your own.”
His eyes widened and then, as though delighted at the idea, he nodded.
I squeezed his hand where it lay beside him. “You’re the master of your own thoughts. Our parents and the adults in our lives influence us with their belief systems. But there comes a pivotal time in our lives when we must make our own choices and shape our own beliefs. We can see others as different, or we can view each other as God intended. We can choose light and love, or hate and darkness.”
He lay staring at me as though pondering my words. I left him and walked down the hall to the library.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Armstrong.” A private lifted his hand in greeting.
“How do you fare today?” I strove to appear happy while my mind remained on Bobby Jo.
“Oh, I’m good enough. Missing my girl, is all.”
I recognized the homesick look I’d witnessed in others. “Maybe I can ease your heart by providing a listening ear.” I strode to his bedside and helped him sit up.
Pippa sat next to a gravely ill soldier and spooned broth into his mouth. We hadn’t expected him to pull through another night, but when the morning had come, he still breathed, and I’d offered a prayer of gratitude.
I propped the private’s pillow, and he leaned back. “Are you going to tell me about this girl or not?” I said with a smile.
Red tinging his ears, his eyes met mine, then he ducked his head. “It’s just, I miss her something terrible. And I’m afraid she will move on while I’m gone. When I signed up, I didn’t think the war wo
uld carry on so long.”
“I don’t think anyone did. But we must believe in its end.”
“Reckon so. I figured maybe if I signed up, Betty Sue would see me as a war hero or something,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Sounds rather foolish, don’t it?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You needn’t worry about another gentleman swooping in and stealing the heart of the lucky Betty Sue.”
“How can you be so certain?” Hope and yearning reflected in his green eyes.
“We women like our men brave,” I said lightly. “Besides, with our country at war, who is left behind to win her heart? There isn’t anyone but old men, children, and women.”
A grin broke across his face, and his shoulders relaxed. “You make a good point.”
I laughed and patted his shoulder. “You will be back in her arms before you know it.”
His eyes took on a far-off look as I pushed to my feet, and I left him to his daydreams of Betty Sue.
“Willow, do you mind giving me a hand?” Whitney balanced on a ladder, holding a garland. I dashed forward to assist her. “I thought we could drape this above the window to conceal the remnants of the fire.”
“A splendid idea.” I gathered the other end of the garland. The fresh scent of pine delighted my senses, and for the briefest of moments, joy danced in my soul. Until I locked gazes with Sergeant Absher, who sat on the edge of his cot, his full head of silver hair glistening like threads of gleaming silk. “How are you today, Sergeant?” I asked him.
Ignoring me, he reached for his cane and struggled to get to his feet.
When he’d arrived, I felt uneasy when his piercing eyes had met mine. He hadn’t given any reason to heighten the feeling in his time with us, but still, it hadn’t diminished. I’d brought my concern to Whitney, and she’d reminded me that we’d stopped aiding runaways at the commencement of the war, so I needn’t worry. However, my apprehension continued because, in the secret room in the attic, we’d hidden all articles about Harriet Tubman, Douglas Fredricks, and other abolitionists; records of slaves passing through Livingston; and books, papers, and slates we’d used to teach the quarter folks. Not to mention the grain, food, and miscellaneous supplies we’d stored.