Storm Clouds Rolling In

by Ginny Dye

  -------------------- The Bregdan Chronicles # 1 -------------------- 33 33

  Storm

  Clouds

  Rolling In

  Ginny Dye

  Together We Can Change The World Publishing

  Bellingham, WA

  Storm Clouds Rolling In

  Copyright 2010 by Ginny Dye

  Published by Together We Can Change The World Publishing

  Bellingham, WA 98229

  www.BregdanChronicles.com

  www.GinnyDye.com

  www.TogetherWeCanChangeTheWorldPublishing.com

  ISBN 0982717105

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the Publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my grandfather,

  Wallace Lorrimer Gaffney

  1893-1976

  “Dandy”

  Thank you for encouraging me

  to follow my dreams

  no matter what the cost.

  My gift of writing

  is yours – the Bregdan Chronicles

  are for you.

  A Note From the Author

  There are times in the writing of history when we must use words we personally abhor. The use of the word “nigger” in Storm Clouds Rolling In is one of those times. Though I hate the word, its use is necessary to reveal and to challenge the prejudices of the time in order to bring change and healing. Stay with me until the end – I think you will agree.

  My great hope is that Storm Clouds Rolling In will both entertain and challenge you. I hope you will learn as much as I did during the months of research it took to write this book. Though I now live in the Pacific Northwest, I grew up in the South and lived for 11 years in Richmond, VA. I spent countless hours exploring the plantations that still line the banks of the James River and became fascinated by the history.

  But you know, it’s not the events that fascinate me so much – it’s the people. That’s all history is, you know. History is the story of people’s lives. History reflects the consequences of their choice and actions – both good and bad. History is what has given you the world you live in today – both good and bad.

  This truth is why I named this series The Bregdan Chronicles. Bregdan is a Gaelic term for weaving. Braiding. Every life that has been lived until today is a part of the woven braid of life. It takes every person’s story to create history. Your life will help determine the course of history. You may think you don’t have much of an impact. You do. Every action you take will reflect in someone else’s life. Someone else’s decisions. Someone else’s future. Both good and bad. That is the Bregdan Principle…

  Every life that has been lived until today is a part of the woven braid of life. It takes every person’s story to create history. Your life will help determine the course of history. You may think you don’t have much of an impact. You do. Every action you take will reflect in someone else’s life. Someone else’s decisions. Someone else’s future. Both good and bad.

  My great hope as you read this book, and all that will follow, is that you will acknowledge the power you have, every day, to change the world around you by your decisions and actions. Then I will know the research & writing were all worthwhile.

  Oh, and I hope you enjoy every moment of it, and learn to love the characters as much as I do!

  I’m already being asked how many books will be in this series. I guess that depends on how long I live! My intention is to release 2 books a year, each covering 1 year of history – continuing to weave the lives of my characters into the times they lived. I hate to end a good book as much as anyone – always feeling so sad that I have to leave the characters. You shouldn’t have to be sad for a long time!

  4 books are already written and will all be released in Spring 2010. If you like what you read, you’ll want to make sure you’re on our mailing list at www.BregdanChronicles.com. I’ll let you know each time a new one comes out!

  Sincerely,

  Ginny Dye

  PROLOGUE

  1850

  Moses had come to watch his daddy die.

  Slinking back into the sheltering brush, he struggled to evade the probing fingers of light groping for him from the blazing fire. The two men coaxing the fire into a roaring mountain of flame had not heard him creep to where he could see into the clearing. His ebony skin and rough dark clothes merged into the darkness. The only evidence of his presence was the glowing white of his eyes. He would take his chances. Nothing would keep him from this last glimpse of his Daddy.

  He knew his Mama would thrash him good when she found out he had come. He could well imagine her fear when she discovered he was gone but he’d had no choice. He had to. At eleven years of age he was now the man of the house. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t do this. He had to say good-bye to his Daddy.

  “Bring him on, boys!” A hoarse shout exploded into the still night.

  Moses slunk back further into the darkness, every muscle tense with fear. They were coming!

  “The rope’s ready. There’s soon to be one less nigger to bother us.”

  Moses shuddered at the hatred oozing from the unknown, and as yet unseen, man’s voice. He knew if they found him they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him as well. Killing was in the air tonight. He could feel it as surely as he could feel the velvety leaves brushing against him.

  It had started the night before when the slaves on the Manson plantation revolted. Before the night was over they had killed Master Manson and set fire to his barns. Over fifty slaves had disappeared into the inky Virginia night. News had spread fast to the other plantations. Over two hundred slaves had made their break for freedom. Moses’ Daddy, Sam, had been one of them. Most of them had not gotten far.

  The slave owners and overseers had banded together and called their hunting dogs into service. Sam, along with a large group of slaves unfamiliar with the low lying swamp land northwest of Richmond, had gotten bogged down. Lost and confused, he had been easy prey for the diligent hounds. Word of mass captures had filtered back to the plantations. Everyone knew the one they called the giant black could only be Sam. Moses’ Mama, in from a long day in the fields, had slapped her hand over her mouth, screamed, and fainted dead away.

  Moses was the only one who had overheard the overseer talking on the porch when he delivered some wood to the Big House. Crouched behind a thick bush, risking a beating if he were caught, Moses had heard him say they were going to kill the giant black to teach the others a lesson. He had grabbed his chance, slipping away in the ruckus that followed word of the capture of at least a dozen slaves from their plantation.

  “Daddy!” Moses slapped his hand over his mouth and looked around wildly. The excited voices of men surging into the clearing covered his mistake. Though Moses couldn’t slink into the lush growth any further he could feel his slender body almost pulling into itself. Fear knotted his stomach and made his teeth chatter in the stifling July heat.

  Sam was at the head of the line of six slave men being led into the clearing. The towering oaks formed a mighty tunnel for the procession. The trees, like the air embracing them, were still and somber, reflecting back the light from the roaring flames. They seemed to know only sorrow would come from this night. Moses hardly recognized his own Daddy. The chains holding the six together were a mockery. Their bashed and broken bodies could have not afforded them another escape attempt. His Daddy was the worst. Moses figured that was because Sam had been a leader. It was the only way he could explain the open bleeding cuts, the face swollen almost beyond recognition, the useless broken dangle of both arms.

  He wanted to call out and run to him. Fear kept him silent. Fear… a
nd the understanding he would have to take care of his Mama and three sisters now. They needed him. He feared what awaited him back at the plantation but he feared what was playing out before his eyes even more.

  Time seemed to stand still as the drama unfolded. The trees, the brush - even the air - seemed to be holding their breath.

  “Get the head nigger over here. It’s time to even the score!”

  Moses stared at the overseer from his own plantation. James Stewart was a large man, with coarse features and a vicious temper. More than once he had seen it turned on his fellow slaves. He had felt the lash himself. Now the big man was after his father. His trembling deepened to shuddering spasms as he fought to control the moans wanting to explode from his body.

  Sam was prodded with vicious pitchforks, like an animal, until he was below the waiting noose. Slowly it was lowered to where he waited quietly. At that moment Moses felt a surge of pride for his Daddy. The man who had taught him from childhood to always be proud of who he was might be broken and battered, but he was not beaten! The glow of pride still burned in his eyes. In spite of the pain racking his body, he held his head high and stared defiantly at his killers. It seemed to enrage them more. They wanted this slave - the one they considered less than human - to cower before them.

  “This one seems to think he’s something more than the animal he is! I think he needs a little more education.” One man, clothed immaculately in gentleman’s clothing strode forward from the pack. “I’ll consider it an honor to provide that education.”

  Moses felt sick at the hatred pulsing through the clearing. What else were they going to do to his Daddy? He watched as the noose was pulled tight around his glistening neck and Sam was prodded up onto the wooden platform assembled in the clearing. He leaned in a little closer as the fancy dressed man approached with an evil sneer on his lips, and then gasped as a flash of light reflected off the huge knife the man pulled from his tunic. Moses’ eyes flew back to his Daddy. He couldn’t take his eyes off him one more time. He had come to watch him die. Watch him he would.

  “Think you’re too good to be a slave, don’t you, boy?”

  Silence filled the night.

  Moses finally recognized the voice. It belonged to Master Borden who owned the plantation two miles down the road. He had lost close to thirty slaves and two of his barns had been burned. Master Borden wasn’t a large man but his bearing spoke authority as firelight glistened off his silver hair. His bronze face was set in harsh lines.

  “I spoke to you, boy!” His deceptively gentle tone had sharpened with the obvious anger surging through his body. “Answer!”

  Moses’ eyes were glued on his Daddy. He saw Sam’s eyes glitter with hatred but no words came. His shoulders squared a little more and his ebony eyes fixed on his attacker. Moses saw something else. He saw the lines of Sam’s mouth tighten. He saw the brows come together. He knew that look. It meant his Daddy was getting ready to do something important. But what? The rope, pulled snug around his neck, was holding him upright. Leaning forward against the protecting darkness he held his breath.

  Turning his back on Sam, Master Borden held the knife high in the flickering light and yelled to the other five slaves watching from the side. “Let this be a lesson. For you - and for whoever might be watching!” His evil laugh filled the night air as he waved his knife at the darkness pressing in around him.

  Moses gasped and shrank back even further into the stifling night, ignoring the blackberry thorns tearing at his skin. Did they know he was there? Were they coming after him next? It seemed to the boy that even the giant oaks pulled back from the venom in Master Borden’s voice. It was almost as if he could feel the brush draw him a little closer into its protective embrace.

  “This creature standing before me is no more than an animal. His Master was good to him. And what did he do? He repaid him by running away. By setting fire to his barns!”

  Moses barely kept from crying out. He knew his Daddy hadn’t done any fire setting. He had just wanted to be free. He had wanted to go North and make enough money to buy freedom for his family. He had overheard his Daddy and Mammy talking just days before the revolt. Daddy talked about the freedom available in the North where a man could take care of his own family and be free. There had been no mistaking the longing in his voice. He’d heard something else, too. Hope - hope that things might someday be better.

  “He doesn’t just deserve to die. I think maybe we should carve on him a little, so his body will be easier to bury!” Master Borden gave an evil smile as he shouted into the night. The madness of the night, the killing in the air, was reflected in his wild eyes. He waved the knife in the direction of the other plantation owners. “Loosen that rope a little. I don’t want him to have an easy way out. He’s going to get what’s due him!” Waiting until his orders had been obeyed, he laughed triumphantly and moved forward, knife raised.

  Moses couldn’t stifle the groan that rose from his gut. For the first time he questioned the wisdom of his coming. Could he watch while these men cut his Daddy? It was all he could do to not bolt and run. He had to know. He had to see. Afterwards he was never sure if the words he whispered were audible or if they only echoed in the empty fear of his heart. “Good bye, Daddy...”

  The men in the clearing, however, had made a mistake. They had assumed Sam’s broken arms were useless and had not tied them behind his back. Moses watched as his Daddy shifted his weight and tightened his face in concentration.

  Sam made his move. Master Borden was holding the knife high in the air, waving it as he yelled wildly. Sam lunged and with a cry of pain managed to grab the knife with the hand of his right broken arm. The knife was pointing down when he fell from the platform, no longer held by the rope, and knocked off balance by the momentum of his lunge. All two hundred and fifty muscular pounds of him came crashing down on the unsuspecting Master Borden.

  Wild yelling and cries filled the clearing. When quiet reigned again, Master Borden lay dead, stabbed through the heart by his own knife.

  Sam swung quietly from the end of the coarse rope.

  Blinded by tears, Moses stumbled through the dark woods – running to escape the scent of death. He would never forget what he had seen that night.

  He would never forget.

  ONE

  April 14, 1860

  “Miss Carrie, if you don’t sit still I’m never going to get this braid right! How do you expect me to get it straight with you bouncing around like a rabbit?” Rose, her black eyes flashing, stood back and laughed helplessly.

  “I hate having braids! I wish I could just get my hair cut short and be done with it. It takes way too much time to have to fiddle with it!” Carrie Cromwell’s brilliant green eyes snapped as she gazed with disgust at her long ebony hair. She knew people thought her wavy hair was one of her best features but right now it was getting in her way. Then she laughed merrily. She could just imagine her mother’s horror if she were to do such a thing. Not to mention the rest of her proper, southern Virginia neighbors. They already shook their heads when they talked of her to one another. “Couldn’t you just see mother? She would give up all hopes of ever raising a proper daughter.” A feeling of mirth replaced the impatience she felt with her hair.

  “What are you in such a hurry for anyway?” Rose teased, her hands flashing faster.

  Carrie flashed her slave a look of exasperation. “Do you really need to ask? Look outside!” she demanded. “It’s a day as perfect as a new born baby. Spring is busting out all over this land. Granite is waiting for me.”

  Rose nodded her head knowingly. “Now I understand.” Her hands continued to flash. “You may not care how you look but Missus Cromwell would skin me alive if I let you out of here without every hair in place.”

  Rose and Carrie had been friends from the time they were old enough to toddle around. Master Cromwell, the owner of Cromwell Plantation, had encouraged the friendship between his daughter and the slave child born just two weeks earlie
r. At the time it had suited both of them just fine. Neither had thought to question the arrangement. It was simply the way things were. The two had spent countless hours wandering the plantation until Rose, at age ten, had become old enough to fill her role as Carrie’s personal maid. At least they could continue to be together. Eight years later, they were both still satisfied, but beginning to question the restless stirrings they felt sometimes.

  Giving a final tug, Rose secured the braid and then quickly twisted it into a bun. “There. Now get out of here. I think you have a horse waiting.”

  “Thanks Rose. You’re wonderful.” As Carrie leaped from her bench in front of the dressing mirror she stopped long enough to give Rose an impulsive hug “Carrie!”

  Carrie halted in her flight and turned impatiently. “What now?”

  “Dinner is in two hours. That doesn’t give you much time.”

  Carrie waved her hand. “Dinner is dinner. As long as I get there on time everything will be fine.” She knew that wasn’t really true. Her mother expected her to appear for each meal looking like the wealthy plantation owner’s daughter she was.

  “There is company coming tonight,” Rose reminded her.

  “Oh bother!” Carrie groaned. “You’re right. I had totally forgotten.” Her face clouded for just a moment, then cleared. “I’ll be back in time,” she declared defiantly. “I’ve got to get out of here.” The last words were thrown over her shoulder as she disappeared through the open door.

  Drawing deep breaths of the fragrant spring air, Carrie strode to the stables. She knew her mother would disapprove of her hurried pace but she couldn’t be bothered with her mother’s opinions right now. She didn’t have much time. Then, just as she reached the stable corridor she saw Granite being led out.