by Naomi Finley
“Missus Willow!” Tillie barreled up the stairs in a panic.
“Shh, you luking to wake de babe,” Mammy said, looking back at the nursery as the baby let out a cry. “And, gal, since when did you find your voice?”
“Sorry.” Tillie’s voice dropped to the murmur we were accustomed to hearing from her. “Mister Carlton and his men are here. Dey bring news. You bes’ come talk to him.”
The baby’s wails erupted.
“Don’t you worry ’bout de babe, I got her,” Mammy said, already marching back to the nursery.
I followed after Tillie. “What did they say?”
“Heard dem talking amongst demselves. Said somepin’ ’bout Union soldiers attacking along de Combahee River. Said dey torched plantations, mills, and cotton, evvything.”
“Combahee River? That is some distance from here.”
“I don’t rightfully know, Missus. Mister Carlton told me to git on in here and fetch you,” she said as we reached the foyer. “I fixing to make myself scarce. I don’t lak dat man much.” She curtsied before hurrying down the corridor to the back door.
I strode outside. “Mr. Carlton, is it true?”
Theodore removed his hat. “Reckon so, ma’am. Folks said that a black woman guided Union soldiers to plantations and helped hundreds of slaves escape on gunboats. And that isn’t the worst of it. Union troops torched plantations, warehouses, cotton, and mills and took out a pontoon bridge. Shot it to bits, from what I heard.”
“When did this occur?”
“A week or so back. I came here as soon as I heard. It isn’t safe for you womenfolk out here all alone without a man to protect you. I thought the boys and I could offer you extra protection. We’d be willing to add your plantation to the top of our priority list—come by more often so you aren’t left defenseless.”
I contemplated his priority list and what hapless souls had been added to it. My stomach clenched at the thought of how he had misused his position since the onset of the war.
I peered past him to the men and boys he had brought with him. “Mr. Barlow doesn’t join you today?”
His upper lip curled with disgust. “I won’t have no nigger-lover riding with me, not after this attack. He can sit at home with his nigger wife. This is white man’s business, and the way I look at it he’s nigger at the core.”
My heart sped up as concern for the Barlows took precedence.
“Well, what do you say? Do you want the boys and I to stop in more often? Although I’d have to come up with a price.” The hungry look in his eyes sent shivers through me.
My back stiffened, and I said, firmly, “That will be quite all right. I appreciate your consideration, but we’ve managed so far.”
“What are you fixing to do if them damn Union soldiers show up here? They’d rape a pretty woman like you without hesitation.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leveled a stern glare on him. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Suit yourself.” He jerked his horse’s reins and spun it around. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He waved a hand in disgust. “Come on, boys.”
After they rode off, Whitney wandered out on the veranda as I stood waiting for their dust to settle. “What did Carlton want?”
“To offer his protection in exchange for…well, you know the man and his tendencies.”
Whitney gasped before her face read murder. “He has a lot of nerve, showing up here like we are some brothel or something, planted here in the middle of nowhere to serve his needs. We’ve done just fine taking care of ourselves without his help.” She paused, and her brow puckered. “What did he want to protect us from now, besides the obvious threat?”
“It appears a black woman led hundreds of slaves onto ships down by the Combahee River,” I said with a smile.
“Tubman?”
“I believe so. That woman never ceases to amaze me.”
Whitney’s expression was one of awe.
“With the good news comes the bad,” I said. “Union soldiers pillaged the area, torching everything in sight.”
Whitney spun to gawk down the lane. “But the Combahee River is some distance from here. What makes Carlton think they would come here?”
“I don’t know if he does. I do believe, however, that he continues to endeavor to embed fear in the womenfolk left to operate their plantations and farms in hopes of satisfying his perversions.”
“Taking advantage of women in a time like this,” Whitney scoffed, and narrowed her eyes. “No woman is safe around the likes of him.”
“You can say that again. And to think Josephine is married to the despicable man.”
“She would have been better off to run with Jethro.”
“Some days, I wonder.” I looped arms with her and walked back into the house as Mammy ascended the stairs, carrying my crying daughter.
Whitney pulled away and held out her arms. “Here, let me have a go at her.”
“You?” Mammy angled her body away to shield the babe from her. “You gwine to bounce de babe’s head clean off wid how you try to soothe her.”
“And you don’t?” Whitney glowered and removed her from Mammy’s arms. “All that fussing won’t get you anywhere.” Bless Whitney’s heart, as dry and lacking in warmth as her words came off, the babe’s cries softened, and she stared at her with curiosity. Whitney delivered us a cheeky grin and sauntered off down the corridor.
Mammy gaped after her with her arms crossed over her bosom. “I don’t git et. Dat woman ain’t got an ounce of baby manners to her, but all de babes lak her.”
I laughed and nudged her shoulder with mine. “She did handle Evie’s fits splendidly.” I cringed at the memory of Mary Grace’s daughter’s screams. “Let’s be thankful my daughter doesn’t carry on so. I suppose Whitney has more skill than we give her credit for.”
Mammy scowled at me. “I be in the kitchen house if you need me.” She whirled, and grumbling under her breath, wandered off outside.
I walked to the door and leaned against the frame to peer across the landscape. My daughter would be raised around strong women who would teach her strength and courage, and for that, gratitude sang in my heart.
Bowden
Gettysburg
A POST CARRIER RODE INTO camp before nightfall, and I pushed through the men clinging to the hope of news from home. A year had passed since I had returned to Livingston, and each time a carrier came through, I stood waiting for my name to be called, and yet it never had.
Tomorrow General Lee would lead the Army of North Virginia into battle against the Union General George Meade of the Army of the Potomac, and a sense of dread hung over me.
“Armstrong. Bowden Armstrong.” The carrier waved an envelope high in the air.
My heart leaped. “Here.” I threaded through the men to retrieve the envelope and released the air constricting my lungs as I observed my wife’s penmanship.
I strode a short distance away from the gathered men and tore the letter open.
April 12, 1963
My dearest husband,
I bring you delightful news. You are a father. I gave birth to a beautiful daughter last month, and she thrives.
I lowered the letter, dumbfounded, my mind spinning. A daughter. I gulped back the tears gathering in my throat and gawked at the black cook stirring the steaming evening meal in a cast-iron kettle. I walked to a log by the fire and sat down before my legs gave out from under me. Well, I’ll be. I swiped a hand through my hair. I was a father.
“I’m guessing that letter brings news from home?” The cook nodded at the letter.
“It does. My wife sends word that I’m a father.” I noted the date on the stationery. “I suppose she would be three months old now.”
“A daughter,” he said with a grimace.
“You got children?” I asked.
“I did. I had a daughter, and she was cursed from the day she was born with the face of an angel. She died while giving birth to the master’
s son’s child. To white men, a daughter is a gift; to a slave man, she is a curse.”
I bowed my head and quietly said, “If only it wasn’t so.”
Shuffling ended with a grunt as the cook came over and seated himself on the opposite end of the log. I peered sideways at him. His shoulders hunched with age, he sat regarding the happenings around camp.
“I heard what you said. Am I to believe you’re a black sympathizer?” he whispered.
I glanced over my shoulder. “You could say that.”
“And you’re here, fighting for the South?” He kept his voice low.
“I fight for my home and land.” I eyed the group of chained slaves huddling together at the edge of camp. During our march north, General Lee had collected former slaves and free blacks with the intention of selling them.
“That look on your face isn’t one of vengefulness, but one of empathy.” The cook’s observation summoned my attention, and I peered back to observe him studying the slaves. He shifted on the log to face me. “I’ve seen that look once or twice on other soldiers’ faces. You sure you’re a Southern boy?”
“You sure you aren’t a Union spy? You speak with more refinement than most of these farmers I fight alongside.” I looked him square in the eye.
His eyes smiled before he said solemnly, “I’m here with my new master. Folks on the old plantation considered me a kept slave. They were right. Masa Williams taught me to read and write. I ate food from his table. Life was good for the most part. But he had a son, and the man hated me. Said his pa favored me, and I reckon he did.” He dropped his head and peered at his hands. “My daughter’s mother was from the next plantation, and the young masa visited there often. Took a fancying to my daughter, and I reckon that, and his abhorrence of me, caused him to do what he did.”
I wanted to give my condolences for his loss, but such a statement felt insincere amidst the adversity he’d faced. I stifled the guilt for my own sins and the families I’d separated, all in the name of personal gain. “You said you came with your new master,” I said.
“That’s right; a few years back, Masa Williams died. His son purchased my grandbaby and wife from her master before he sold me off the next day. Guess he wanted me to leave knowing he had taken my daughter and laid claim to my wife and granddaughter.”
“There are no words I can say that could express my sorrow for what has been stolen from you.” I gulped back simmering emotions.
“The sins of another white man aren’t every white man’s burdens to carry.”
Perhaps it was homesickness that overtook me or the sobering knowledge of the countless lives lost in the war, or maybe apprehension of what tomorrow’s battle would bring that caused me to say what I said next. “That is true about my wife, but not me.”
He regarded me with a perplexed expression. “What is your story, soldier?”
“Born and raised in Texas. Went to medical school and returned home to run my family’s plantation outside of Charleston after my grandpa became ill.”
He stiffened. “You’re a slave owner?”
“I am.”
He wiped his hands on his trousers as fear gripped his face. “I thought you said you were a black man’s ally.”
“I did. Don’t fret none. What you said is safe with me.” I lifted my hands in a gesture of peace before lowering them and staring into the fire. “Do you really want to hear my story?”
“If you want to share, I’d be obliged to listen.”
“Very well, but I can’t promise you’re going to like it.”
“You are an unusual man, soldier,” he said. “You claim to be a slave owner. You fight for the Confederacy. But that look in your eyes when you observed those slaves over there wasn’t the look of a slave owner, but a man who questions on what side of this war he stands.”
“You read much into a look,” I said dryly.
“I’ve nothing to do but analyze people. Besides, this war proved we are all just men trying to make our way in life. I’ll do my best to listen with an open heart.”
I swallowed hard and continued to let the flames hold my gaze. “Thank you,” I said. “My wife was born into a family of slave owners. But her heart has always been for the good of mankind. She has made it her mission in life to right the wrongs of her family. It took some convincing and some hard lessons before I saw the South’s ways through her eyes. I suffered a loss that would take me to my knees…” I stopped as an officer walking by paused to give us a questioning look.
The cook and I stood. I nodded. “Evening, sir.”
The officer looked from me to him. “That meal had best be ready at seven, sharp.”
The cook inclined his head. “It will be.”
I thought of the meatless slop we had eaten night after night and how it left your stomach hollow and aching.
The officer gave me another glance before moving on.
The cook waited until the officer disappeared before he gestured at me. “Tell me of this loss you mentioned.”
I told him of Gray, and despite the time that had passed the ache of his loss hadn’t diminished.
“You buried him in your family’s cemetery,” he said with reverence.
“In a different world, I would have freely called him my friend. Instead, I hold the friendship as though it is a filthy secret.” Bitterness soured my tongue.
“You best not let anyone hear you talking like that, or they’ll shoot you dead on the battlefield the first chance they get.”
“Yes, well, he was a great man.” I stood. “It was nice to meet you…”
“Name’s Teodoro. Folks call me Teo.” He extended a hand.
I clasped it. “Bowden Armstrong.”
“Stay alive, Mr. Armstrong. We are going to need men like you when this war is over.”
I bowed my head in respect before turning and escaping into the shadows of the night.
I wandered through the camp, passing soldiers assembled around open fires. They stared back at me with eyes blank with weariness. The cloud of tomorrow loomed heavy over the men.
At the outer boundary of the camp, I paused to gaze up at the moon as it took guardianship of the night. Although I’d never been a praying man, the war had left me no choice but to hope that a greater being was safeguarding my family and me.
“It’s me again. I know you got your hands full, but I sure would like to hold my daughter just one time. Reckon I’m here asking you to watch over me out there tomorrow.” I grappled with the fear chasing my thoughts and inclined my head. I kicked at the earth and waited as though I expected an answer. After several moments had passed, I turned and made my way back.
Willow
REPORTS OF GENERAL LEE’S DEFEAT at Gettysburg against the Army of the Potomac had left me shaken and worried about Bowden. After his defeat, he and his army had fled back to Virginia, accompanied by a wagon train of wounded troops that stretched many miles long.
Knox had been stationed as a support troop in Charleston and he’d tried to gain information on my husband, but to no avail.
“I’m going to go mad, waiting for news.” I rested my elbows on the pasture fence.
Jimmy lowered the horse’s hoof he had been tending to and regarded me. “I know et hard. But try not to think de worst. Masa git word to ya as soon as he can.”
“It’s impossible not to fret,” I said. “What if he is left wounded somewhere and in need of help? Or worse, one of the bodies left in the streets for the citizens to bury.”
“You got to have faith he will return. Don’t let your mind make you a widow ’fore your time.”
“This war has taken so many lives and will leave the landscape of the South forever changed. Families destroyed. Wives without husbands. Children without fathers. Mothers and fathers without sons.” I stared down at the piece of straw I separated with my nails. “So much death. I just hope it will be worth the cost.”
“War is an ugly matter,” he said. “Ain’t no good dat can come ou
t of et. ’Cept I guess Lincoln freeing slaves. Never thought I see de day.”
“I doubted Lincoln’s intentions, and after he instated the proclamation I had hope in the man’s ambitions. But I’ve come to see Lincoln’s proclamation as flawed. It says nothing about freeing slaves in states faithful to the Union. It exempts freeing the slaves in the Confederate states already under the Union’s authority. Furthermore, freedom is promised if the Union Army is successful. However, after the proclamation, the war has been reborn, and it has become about slavery. My hope is that it has awakened the hearts of our country, and freedom for all will be achieved.”
A broad smile crossed his weathered face. “Dat would be a day of rejoicing.”
“Indeed it would.” My chest expanded with optimism before old anxieties reared. “What do you plan to do with your freedom?”
He sauntered to the fence and leaned on the rail, and looked at the main house. “Well, I bin thinking ’bout dat, and I suppose my gal Magnolia may want me to go to New York.”
My throat tightened, but I peered straight ahead and said in a quiet voice, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
I felt his gaze on me. “No call for sorry. Ain’t no crime you committed. When Masa Charles purchased me, I was a dead man walking. Coming here saved me. Having you follow me ’round evvywhere I went wid your constant chatter and questions breathed life back into me. You and de masa gave me de option to leave. Risked prison and discovery wid de way you helped people escape to freedom, but I stayed ’cause my heart right here at Livingston. I miss my gal, and I wish I could see her and her family more, but New York ain’t no place for me. I was born and raised in de South—dis my home. Bin thinking, after de war, ef you and Masa still require a blacksmith, carpenter, or ranch hand, I would lak to stay on. Won’t need but food and a place to lay my head.”
I smiled through my tears and shifted to look into his earnest brown eyes. “I want nothing more than for you to remain at Livingston, not as a slave but a freed man. We would pay you a decent wage. I have grand plans for this place, and I will need all the love and assistance I can get to see them into fruition.”