By the Wind's Will

by Nat Burns

  “What is amiss, Da?” she cried out, suddenly remembering the scalping of the morning. “Are there more Indians about?”

  Giles sat at the roughhewn wooden table, a bewildered frown creasing his brow. “Wot are you on about, daughter?”

  Foxy flushed crimson and stammered an excuse. “I thought the reason for your excitement might be another Indian attack. I was remembering the scalpin’ of Roarke.”

  Giles smiled, understanding finally. “No, no, Foxy, ‘ough ‘e reason for me rushin’ does ‘ave to do wif the tragedy of ‘e mornin’. It seem ‘at I’m to take poor Roarke’s place as overseer. Charles offered me ‘e job moments ago.”

  Mary, who all the while had been standing by the hot fireplace listening intently, suddenly rushed forward, her face twisted with emotion.

  “Aye, Giles Nelson, ‘tis a fittin’ place for ye. Wot ever ‘appened to ‘e gran’ ideas of ye bein’ lord of the manor? Where is me rose garden? ‘ere is me new kitchen? ’ere, pray tell, is me beautiful home?” She leaned back and folded her arms in front of her lean belly, her manner contemptuous. “Ha! Yere one for ‘e dreams, Giles, shame ‘at ye’ll ne’er live up to ’em.”

  Giles stared, his face growing ashen. “But Mary,” he protested. “‘ese things wew come t’ us. We just ‘ave to wait an’ be patient. Ye aren’t wantin’ for anyfing, are ya?”

  “Yes! Yes! I wan’ a house of me own, not some ramshackle nigra cabin. That’s aw I see, day after day, darkies. I tell ye, here and now, I hate ‘is heathen country for its brought us naught but loss.” She paused then, chest heaving and eyes ablaze with anger.

  Foxy sat horrified by her mother’s outburst while Giles quietly rose and left the cabin. Foxy knew she should try to reason with her mother but the words refused to come and after a painful moment, she too left.

  That night Foxy spent under a willow tree along the creek bank. She lay awake for a long time pondering the problems of her family. She truly loved Georgia and would not let the thought of leaving this new land cross her mind. Tossing and turning, she tried to think of a way to ease her parents’ torment. They had plenty to eat, an abundance, actually, a better place to live than they’d had in London and the prosperity that her father envisioned would come to them if they had patience. She couldn’t understand her mother’s anger and in the early morning hours, still confused, she drifted into an exhausted slumber that was haunted by green eyes flecked with gold and shining tawny hair.

  Chapter Eight

  March 1757

  THE MORNING OF Foxy’s sixteenth birthday dawned bright and beautiful. Feeling the sun bathe her face, she smiled and stretched languidly in her new four-poster bed. Eagerly, she rose and began the automatic chore of washing while she let her mind wonder aimlessly across the past few years.

  Those years had been good to the Nelson family. Giles had accepted the job as overseer and his daughter had soon become a much-needed help to him. Foxy got up early each morning while her father snored off the effects of his nightly drunken sprees and rode out over the large plantation checking fences and stock, then starting the workers on another long planting or harvesting day. Midmorning, her daily inspection complete, she would head for home, collect her yawning sire and together they would supervise the day’s labor. When darkness fell, Giles would head toward town to his favorite tavern and a hot supper while Foxy went to their cabin and her mother’s sparsely prepared meals.

  Though her days were long and often tedious, Foxy didn’t mind. There were candles galore here, not so precious as they had been in England, and Charles had given her complete access to the huge, book-stuffed library that had come with the Finley property. Foxy was voracious, consuming the tomes as easily as breathing. Each evening was spent reading old friends and meeting new literary acquaintances until sleep won out.

  She was able to save a little money for Giles gave her half share of the overseer’s wages. She earned that wage, too, for lately, because of her father’s love of drink, she found herself carrying almost the full load of duties. She glanced over at her new bed lovingly, then around the cozy lean-to that she had built practically with her own two hands, adding extra space to the cabin she shared with her parents. It was her early birthday present to herself and how nice it felt to have her own room with her own big bed! She’d gone from a straw pallet on the floor of the kitchen to a full-sized feather bed. Chuckling softly to herself, she thought that Georgia was indeed the land of prosperity.

  While washing, she paused and took a good long look at herself in the stained cracked mirror above her washstand. How quickly she’d matured into a woman. Without noticing, her features had lost their child-like roundness and had grown slim and comely. She had inherited her mother’s dark auburn hair and black bushy eyebrows and her father’s strong jaw, wide forehead and piercing, dusky blue eyes. She’d also acquired her father’s strong muscular build, not optimum for a woman, of course, but her muscles daily served her well while working the plantation. Giving in to vanity, she flexed the muscles of one arm and watched them jump with satisfaction. She grinned crookedly at herself in the mirror, flushed with embarrassment, and finished preparing for the workday.

  After a while, she heard her mother stirring in the kitchen. Hurriedly, she finished pulling on the altered breeches and shirt purloined from her father and her scuffed work boots. She stepped out from behind the heavy curtain that separated her room from the rest of the cabin.

  Her mother was bent over the large fireplace stirring the embers into new life. Foxy stood a moment and watched her with renewed eyes. She looked so old and worn. Her mother’s bitterness during the past seven years had certainly taken its toll. Foxy wondered suddenly how much more weight she’d lost and when those new wrinkles around her mouth had appeared. Impulsively, she strode across the room and hugged her mother tightly around the waist. Wordlessly, Mary pulled away and stared at Foxy with shocked, almost hurt, eyes. Foxy’s eyes were moist with unshed tears and upon seeing this, her mother looked away and scurried to the fireplace. After a long painful moment, she found her voice.

  “Whatever’s gotten into you, Fidelia?” She tried to make it light, but it came out choked and harsh.

  Foxy watched her with sadness. Why must she pull this veil down to separate them, pull mother and daughter farther apart? She couldn’t understand her mother’s bitterness lasting so long. Why couldn’t she forget her pain and disappointment? It seemed to be the only thing keeping her alive. She dwelt on it as though it were her nourishment. Disgusted suddenly, Foxy sat at the table and gruffly answered her.

  “Nothing Mother, a foolish flight of fancy.” Foxy saw her mother’s back stiffen and immediately regretted hurting her.

  “And I thought you a sensible, levelheaded young woman,” her mother replied scathingly.

  A miserable silence fell between them and Foxy quickly gobbled down the eggs and cold cornbread placed before her. Escaping out into the sultry morning air, she breathed a sigh of relief and figured her day ruined. Angrily, she kicked at a rock. Her ma hadn’t even remembered her birthday. Lord knows, she should be used to it by now, she had forgotten it for the past six years. She pushed thoughts of her mother away and strode briskly toward the stables.

  As she entered the cool dimness, she recognized a loincloth clad rump poking out of one of the stalls.

  “Ho, Fid!” she called cheerfully, and a tall, thin Negro rose up from rubbing a stallion’s legs. He shared a curt, half smile with Foxy.

  Fid was a pure bred Maasai, from one of the most warlike African tribes, as his ceremonially scarred face attested to. Because of this background, he seemed uncommunicative and bowing and scraping to white men like the other slaves did was abominable to him. His capture had been especially brutal, and his arms and legs bore deep scars to prove it.

  Nevertheless, he and Foxy had formed an almost close friendship, as Foxy also thought little of the practice of slavery. Foxy, as no one else did, understood the fearsome Maasai’s pride a
nd anger to the white man and Fid, though gruff, was sensitive to Foxy’s feelings about being a strong-minded woman in a man’s world. They got on well together and often went fishing or hunting when they could get away. In the evenings, when the day’s work was done, they would sit by the fire and Fid would enthrall Foxy with tales of his home in Africa.

  Now, as Fid silently moved off to fetch Foxy’s mare, Caution, Foxy yanked her saddle from the wall. After a few moments of impatient waiting, she heard an odd snickering sound and curious, followed it. She rounded the bank of stalls and saw Fid doubled over in the doorway to the tack room. His face was twisted in a grimace and tears shot from his eyes. Foxy rushed to him. “Fid! Fid! Are you ill? What’s wrong?”

  Fid, still snorting frantically, pointed wildly in the direction of the tack room. Foxy peeped in and finally understood why Fid was laughing, for a ridiculously postured Giles lay on the straw strewn floor. Ten or so cats were licking happily about his face. As the two laughed helplessly in the doorway, Giles stirred from his drunken stupor and began fighting and swatting at the beasts he imagined were trying to devour him. This caused Foxy and Fid to laugh even harder, but they somehow stumbled in to help shoo the felines away. A tousled Giles sat up and licked his lips. Suddenly, his eyes widened in realization.

  “Milk! Some bloody bastard done dumped stinkin’ milk aw o’er me!” His words were slurred and he struggled to stand. Unsteadily gaining his feet, he mustered what dignity he could and sauntered proudly from the room and promptly fell into the watering trough.

  It was a long time before Foxy was able to ask Fid, through gasps of much needed air, who had dumped the milk on her father. Fid, tears of merriment still streaming down his cheeks, lifted a bucket from the floor and poured the last few drops of milk from it onto the straw. He shook his head and shrugged. Foxy looked at the cats, clamoring for the now empty bucket held in Fid’s hand and understood what must have happened. The greedy cats must have toppled a bucket left by one of the kitchen workers.

  Chapter Nine

  CHARLES SCOTT, WITH Fid’s help, mounted his favorite black stallion. Today was his regular day to inspect the plantation grounds. Once a week he made the trip to ensure that things were being maintained properly. Not that he didn’t trust his overseers, it just gave him a sense of satisfaction for he usually found everything perfect.

  Besides, he enjoyed this time away from the pressures of his office in town. The sun on his face and the fragrant smell of country air left him refreshed and feeling youthful.

  Leaving the dimness of the stables, he mentally checked it off his list. The leather gleamed, the straw in each stall was new, and all the horses were brushed and had fresh grain and water. When his eyes had finally accustomed themselves to the bright sunlight, he was happy to see a share of the slaves busily going about the spring landscaping. They were singing a happy song as the lawn shaped up beneath their skilled hands.

  Going around to the back of the main house, he rode slowly through the slave compound. The cabins were in their usual state of cleanliness. He smiled as he took note of repairs made since last week. Men, too old for field work, sat in wooden rockers or fed chickens. A few of the older women were sweeping and tidying cabins while a couple heavily pregnant women supervised a handful of children. It was a peaceful, quiet scene, broken only by their raucous, friendly greetings. He grinned and waved, calling a few by name.

  Guiding his horse along the footpath beyond the slave quarters, he rode up on a small hill. As he did every week, he reined his mount to a standstill so he could survey his property. He breathed in a deep breath and let his eyes rake across the land before him. Barren now, by midsummer it would be a riot of pink and white. Perfectly squared off acres stretched as far as he could see. Dots, like tiny insects, scurried about, swarming over the wide expanse of soil.

  Slaves and overseers. Charles now had three overseers and God knew how many slaves. Well, God and Teddy Marshall. Marshall had been the boss overseer for most of his adult life and had taken care of the buying and selling of slave stock since Finley’s time. He had always done his work well but was working on past his prime. He’d have to be replaced soon.

  Charles spurred his horse on down the hill and sadly thought of Eddie Coswell. He was dying, no doubt about that. Dr. Stevenson had been explicit—consumption. Every day he’d wasted away a bit more until finally, he was now bedridden. He’d been a damn good overseer and it pained Charles to see him down like this, especially when he wasn’t yet thirty years of age. At the bottom of the hill, he paused and noted the progress of clearing the land. It was uneven. Some fields were almost completely cleared and plowed but others were barely broken. He frowned and rode closer. The fields, as a rule, were usually finished at about the same time so cotton planting could be done all at once.

  As he got closer, he saw the problem immediately. Foxy, and Charles’s indentured servant, Hyram, were taking an active part in the work, riding into the fields, talking and encouraging the workers while Giles and Teddy sat their mounts sullenly on the outskirts of one barely turned field. Why, Teddy was even dozing in the morning sun. Worse yet, unemployed workers had congregated to one side as if awaiting a purpose. Angered, Charles stood in his stirrups and whistled shrilly.

  Startled, the overseers looked up, Teddy rubbing his eyes anxiously. Charles beckoned them impatiently. The first to reach him was Giles, who still reeked of the previous night’s cheap rum. Next came Teddy, his rheumy eyes full of fear. Foxy and Hyram raced one another to Charles, laughing and full of spirit.

  Charles glared at all of them angrily, ignoring the high spirits of the younger two. “Well, let’s have some news of the progress you’ve made on these acres.”

  Teddy smiled, showing bare, red gums. “We coming ‘long just fine, Master Scott. Be ready for the plantin’ real soon.”

  “Hmph,” Charles snorted. “It doesn’t look that way to me! What’s gotten into you, Teddy? Time was, you could have your fields cleared completely and plowed in just a couple of days.”

  Teddy looked frightened but didn’t dispute the fact. Charles, still mad, dismissed the older two. “Go on. Get back to work and speed it up a little. I better see you all over them workers when I ride back through here. Hyram, Foxy, y’all stay a minute.”

  He fell silent as Giles and Teddy rode grimly toward the idle slave hands to round up a bigger crew. After they were out of earshot, he turned to the younger two who by this time were considerably cowed.

  “Fox, Hyram,” he began, smiling. “Y’all are doing fine but just keep it up.” He shook his head regretfully. “I just wish them older fellows had half the spirit you do. Go on, now, you can go on back to work.”

  Grinning sheepishly at his praise, they wheeled their horses around but held up as Charles voice hailed Foxy.

  “Foxy, by the way, I’m puttin’ you on full wages. You can have poor old Eddie’s place for good.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, sweaty skin drying from the cool evening breeze sneaking into her partially unbuttoned shirt, Foxy sat by the slave fire, mentally frolicking in her good fortune. Finally, she was a full overseer! Not, perhaps the most illustrious position but it was more money in her pocket and even more that she could save. She didn’t plan on being an overseer forever, but she had saved a tidy sum, even though she wasn’t exactly sure what she was saving for. Who knew? Maybe one day she’d have enough to buy her own plantation.

  Excited by her thoughts, she stood and flexed sore muscles, wincing as her newly sunburned skin stretched to accommodate the bunched-up flesh. She glanced around and figured she might as well head on to bed. Most of the slaves had already done just that and she was practically alone by the dying fire. Fid obviously wasn’t going to show up which disappointed Foxy for she had wanted to share her good news.

  Tired, she started toward her family’s cabin. For some reason, she detoured and went in the direction of the stables. Some sixth sense of foreboding was nagging at her. Worried, she increased he
r pace so that she was almost running.

  Bursting into the barn, she was immediately choked and blinded by a wave of smoke. Hurriedly, she raced around trying to find the fire. Eyes streaming, she went into the tack room. Through blurred vision, she saw her father and the source of the smoke. Giles was sprawled out on a loose pile of hay, an empty bottle dangling precariously from his fingers. A lantern was sitting askew in the hay and a few pieces of upright straw had caught fire.

  Foxy quickly lifted the lantern and placed it on a shelf. She grabbed a bucket and filled it with water from the trough to douse the smoldering fire. Furious, she yanked her father up by his shirtfront and slapped him hard on both cheeks. His only response was a muffled moan and disgusted, Foxy let him drop. Rubbing at her abused eyes, she went about blindly opening all the windows and doors to clear the air. Abruptly, she tripped and went down on all fours. She turned and reached to move the obstruction and encountered something soft and wet. Leaning back on her haunches, she shook her head and tried to clear her sight, then almost wished she hadn’t. She saw that Fid was huddled on the floor, a dark stain spread out beneath him.

  A MUSCLE WAS clenching and unclenching in Charles’s cheek as he faced the two who had just entered his study. Foxy looked as though she’d be all right given time and something to keep her busy, but Giles, no, Giles would never be all right. The years of hard drinking were finally beginning to show. His face had thickened and reddened, and the once brawny man was now a shadow of his former self. As far as Charles was concerned, his once close friend was as good as in the grave.

  He leaned back in his chair and eyed them cautiously before speaking.

  “Fid was good worker. A valuable addition to my plantation and you have robbed me. He told me the whole story, Giles.”