by Ginny Dye
“You have him ready!” Carrie’s voice was filled with childish delight as she gazed lovingly at her towering, gray thoroughbred gelding. Granite had been a gift from her father when she turned fourteen. They had been inseparable since then.
“Of course, Miss Carrie. You expected less?”
Carrie flashed a smile at the pretended hurt in Miles’ voice. Miles had been in charge of her father’s stables since before she was born. She had heard her father comment several times that Miles was one of his most valuable slaves. He managed Master Cromwell’s stable of twenty horses with a skill unmatched by any in the area. Carrie knew her father had received several excellent offers to buy him but had turned down each one. “Of course not, Miles, but I know you have a mare in there about to foal. You don’t ever get too far from them. Thank you for having Granite ready for me.” She took hold of the reins and then walked to the mounting block where she could gain access to the towering heights. Usually she enjoyed spending time talking with her friend. He had taught her many secrets about horses - and people, too. Not today, though.
“I ain’t never lost a baby for yo’ daddy yet, Miss Carrie.”
Carrie smiled at the pride in his voice and leaned down just long enough to whisper confidingly to Miles. “Someday I’m going to ride like a man. This silly side-saddle business is for the birds. No one is meant to ride a horse like this.”
Miles nodded. “I believe you, Miss Carrie. You done always wanted to do things a better way. You be a round peg.”
“A round peg?” Curiosity kept Carrie from dashing off. “What do you mean, a round peg?”
“People been making you square holes all yo’ life. Can’t put a round peg in a square hole, Miss Carrie. You still be tryin’ to find where you fit.”
Carrie stared into his open face for a long moment. How had he gotten inside her head? Then, straightening, she waved gaily and headed Granite for the open gate.
Rose, from her place by the bedroom window, watched Carrie go. She shook her head with amusement, and then turned to straighten the dressing table. She paused to gaze at her appearance in the ornate mirror gracing the cream colored wall and examined her face critically. People told her she was beautiful. She didn’t know if she was or not. Not that it made any difference. She was just a slave. Perfect caramel colored skin set off with exquisite features did her no good because she was never going to fall in love and get married - it meant nothing but pain. She had seen too many couples separated - one sold - while the other stayed. Her own father had been sold right after she was born. It was hard to watch her mother’s pain all those years.
A noise down the hall startled Rose from her reverie. She couldn’t be found staring into Carrie’s mirror when there was so much work to be done. She didn’t know who was coming to dinner tonight but it must be somebody important. Mistress Cromwell had called all the house slaves together that morning and instructed them to have the place shining before nightfall. Company was common around the Cromwell Plantation, as it was on all Virginia plantations, but not all of it warranted special instructions. Who could be coming? Rose shook her head at her questioning. There would be no answers until the carriage arrived at the door. Usually Carrie filled her in on what was going on. This time even she didn’t know. Rose didn’t know if it was because it was a big secret or because Carrie just didn’t care and thus hadn’t taken the time to find out. She suspected it was the latter.
Rose’s first job was Carrie’s room. She had already made the spacious four-poster canopy bed with its exquisite rose-bordered, white coverlet. The bed had been a gift from Carrie’s doting father after his last trip to London for business. Moving easily about the room, which was familiar as her own, she straightened the floor length rose-colored drapes and readjusted the bows on the tie-backs. She grabbed the broom and made quick work of the gleaming, hardwood floor, rearranging the white and rose rugs scattered about. Finally, she reached into the closet and pulled out the dress Carrie would wear that evening. Rose always selected Carrie’s clothes. She had a natural eye for what would look best on her young mistress and what would be most appropriate for any occasion. Carrie simply didn’t care. Her young mistress didn’t consider herself beautiful, but those who saw her when she was excited about something couldn’t take their eyes from her. She exuded a life that drew people – strangers and friends alike – to her.
Rose allowed her hand to travel longingly down the gleaming yellow satin gown. Then she shook her head firmly and snatched her hand back. Dreams were useless. She would never wear anything like this. Dreaming would only make her unhappy. She grabbed the water pitcher and wash bowl and headed for the kitchen. She had work to do.
Carrie laughed as the cool, soft air enveloped her. She leaned forward and spoke softly into Granite’s ear. He immediately burst into a smooth, ground-eating canter. She needed her place today. Even if it meant being late for dinner and incurring her mother’s disapproval, she needed her place. No one else knew about it – it was Carrie and Granite’s secret. Not even Rose knew where she went when her heart was burdened and she needed to figure out life.
As she rode, she gazed out over the twenty-five hundred acres that comprised Cromwell Plantation. She loved the land passionately. Carrie knew all its moods - all of its secrets and hidden places. When she was just eleven, in spite of her mother’s protests, her father had set her free. She could still remember the conversation.
“Daddy, I want to ride alone.” Even then, Carrie was determined when going after something she wanted.
“Alone?” Her father’s expression at that time had been one of amused patience.
“Yes, alone! I don’t want Miles to ride with me. I don’t need him. I want to explore on my own. I want to find secret places. I can ride as good as him any day!” she boasted.
Her mother, seated at the other end of the table had watched the interchange with a horrified expression. It deepened as silence stretched in the room. Finally, “Thomas! You aren’t considering giving in to this latest crazy request are you? I simply won’t hear of it. My daughter running around the countryside on her own? Preposterous!” she snorted.
Carrie remained silent. She knew from long experience that saying anything would not further her cause. Pitting her mother and father against each other only thwarted her plans. She was hopeful, however. Her father’s extended silence meant he was thinking about it.
Her mother jumped in again. “Thomas, please tell me you’re not considering this. Carrie is getting to the age where she should be spending more time around the house. It’s bad enough that she spends hours on that crazy horse with Miles. Carrie is getting older. She needs to learn how to run the plantation. She needs to spend more time on her studies. More time practicing the piano. Heaven only knows how much practice she needs with her sewing!”
It had been all Carrie could do to control her groan. She forced herself to remain quiet with her eyes glued on her father. He turned to look at her; his eyes challenged and gave her confidence at the same time. She knew her father believed in her. She returned his gaze with a confident one of her own.
Thomas Cromwell looked down the table at her mother. “Her studies are fine, Abigail. And there is still plenty of time for her to learn to run the plantation. She’s young. And she needs her freedom. All of our people adore her. They’ll look out for her.”
Carrie could have shouted with joy. Somehow she maintained her composure. The only evidence of her excitement was the slight excited wiggle of her body in the velvet chair.
Her father turned to look at her sternly. “You and I will talk later about where you are allowed to go. If you do anything foolish - it will be the only time. With freedom goes responsibility. You can’t have one without the other.”
Carrie pulled herself back to the present. That had been seven years ago. Since then she had covered every square inch of the plantation. She knew it better than her father himself. Would her intimate knowledge of the land come in handy someday?
Carrie pulled up - surprised by the thought that had just crossed her mind. Where had that come from? She shook her head; sometimes her vivid imagination made her laugh even at herself.
She took a few minutes to look around her now. To her, Cromwell Plantation was the most beautiful place on earth. The gentle rolling fields, the embracing woods, the undulating pastures that were home to their horses. She had stopped her mad dash in the middle of one of father’s tobacco fields. The tiny sprigs of plants had just begun to force their way through the rich soil; their brilliant green reached for the sunlight that sank into the dark earth beckoning them to life. The even rows spread out before her spoke of the abundant harvest that would be theirs in several months. They had Edmund Ruffin to thank for that. Carrie could remember the worried look on her father’s face as he had watched the yield from his tobacco harvest become less and less. Master Ruffin, from nearby Evelynton Plantation, had been her father’s salvation. His many experiments in agriculture had revealed the secret of marl. The fertilizer, applied to their fields, had worked a miracle, restoring the calcium years of tobacco growing had leached from the soil. Declining crops had been reversed. Prosperity was once more a commonality of life. Tobacco was still the primary crop but many fields were now sprouting the new growth of corn and wheat as well.
Carrie’s father had made sure she knew about the workings of the plantation. Most fathers would have hidden their struggles but he wanted to make sure she understood what they were up against - and what it took to make it all happen. Carrie knew her father really saw her as the son he had never had. Her mother had almost died at her birth and had never conceived again. As hard as her mother tried to conform her into the perfect southern lady, her father fought even harder to give her freedom and let her learn in the direction her interests lay. While she could have cared less about her sewing skills, she was deeply dedicated to understanding crops and fertilizer. The mystery of growth - the magic of death necessary to cause renewal in spring - was one she never grew tired of. She loved to ride over the cold, barren fields during the winter months. It always amazed her that underneath the hard, unyielding ground lay everything needed to produce abundant growth. She would sit for long minutes contemplating how the harshness of winter was necessary to bring about the beauty of spring.
“Miss Carrie! What you doin’ here?”
Startled, Carrie looked around. Only then did she realize she had stopped less than one hundred yards from a group of slaves at work in the fields. “Sadie! You shouldn’t be asking me that question. I should! What are you doing here? I told you not to start back to work until day after tomorrow.”
Sadie ducked her head and spoke softly. “I’m fine, Miss Carrie. I just came over to say howdy. You look mighty fine up on dat horse.” She looked back over her shoulder, and her next words came out in a rush. “I got’s to be goin’ Miss Carrie. Have a nice day.” She hurried back over to the group and bent to her work of weeding the fledgling plants.
Carrie returned the wave the rest of the slaves sent her way. Her eyes, however, were fixed on the horizon. What made Sadie leave so fast? The dust in the distance told her another horse was on the way. As the pair drew closer Carrie recognized their overseer, Mr. Adams, and his bay mare, Ginger. She stayed long enough to give him a casual wave, but she didn’t want to get pulled into conversation. She had already wasted valuable time. She urged Granite back into a canter and then let her thoughts return to Sadie.
She would have to go down to the quarters to check on her tonight. Sadie really shouldn’t be working today. Just two days ago she had spiked a high fever which took hours of cold compresses to bring down. The one area Carrie showed an interest in that sparked her mother’s approval was her nursing in the quarters. Medicine fascinated her. She had started young - going with her mother on her rounds as she took care of the slaves. Owners were expected to take care of their own people. Carrie had watched, enthralled, as her mother doctored cuts and sprains, and ministered remedies to colds and other ailments. Mistress Cromwell helped deliver babies and she had even sewn up some nasty cuts. Carrie was determined to duplicate all her mother did. By the time she had turned seventeen, she had taken her mother’s place at all but the most critical illnesses. The slaves had always loved her, but now they seemed to view her with adoration. Not only did she take care of them, she treated them with respect and caring. Still, she couldn’t help but feel the restless resentment simmering in the air at times.
She would talk to Mr. Adams about Sadie later. Or maybe she would have her father do it. Mr. Adams always did what she told him to, but his mocking politeness unnerved her at times. It was hard to tell what he was really thinking behind his calculating gray eyes. All she knew was that at times he made her feel uncomfortable.
In retaliation against such serious thoughts, Carrie gave a very unladylike war whoop and leaned forward in the saddle. Responding to her light mood, Granite launched forward into a dead gallop. His strides devoured the last mile to the river. Carrie could feel her bun loosen and fall as the gushing wind tore at Rose’s careful work. She smiled as the braid cascaded down her back. No matter. She would look proper again before dinner. For now she was free and she meant to make the most of it.
Granite’s mad dash slowed as he entered the trail into the woods. He knew where they were headed. Carrie allowed him to choose his own way as they wove their way through the thick trees. There was a trail but you could see it only if you were on foot and moving slowly. Carrie had discovered it the same year her father set her free. She suspected the only other inhabitants were deer meandering their way to the river for a drink. It was perfect. No one could ever find Carrie here. She should know. There were times her father spent hours searching for her in a fruitless game of hide and seek. He was always frustrated in his attempts, but he understood her need for secret places. He actually seemed to take great pleasure in the fact that his spirited daughter knew his own land better than himself. Carrie was sure that even if he had suspected her hiding place, he never would have tried to find it because he knew how special it was to her. Carrie loved both her parents dearly but her father understood her almost better than she did herself. Her brow creased as she thought of her father. He had changed lately - all he talked of was politics. And the look of worry on his face seemed to have become a permanent fixture.
Granite gave a soft nicker as he broke out into the clearing that was their destination. Carrie gave a soft gasp of delight.
“Oh, Granite. I knew it was time for them. I was right!”
Them were the trailing vines of wisteria which had turned the tiny clearing into a royal lavender palace. The fragrant blooms hung down in cascades that filled the air with a heady perfume. Fragments of sunlight seemed to dance diamonds through the flowers. Dogwood trees, lush with luminous white blossoms, mingled with Red Bud trees sporting their own purple blooms. The hum of bees busy in the wisteria, mingled with birdsong, provided a background symphony as butterflies swirled and fluttered through trees. Carrie sat quietly for a few moments and then dismounted. Looping Granite’s reins around a nearby branch, she circled the clearing slowly, breathing in deeply to fill every part of herself with the beauty.
Not a week went by - unless weather made it impossible - that she didn’t come here. It was here she had pondered the deep process of growing up. Here she had retreated after misunderstandings with her mother. Here she had struggled with the complexities of understanding herself. Of course it was here she would come on a day like today.
She breathed deeply and moved to where the clearing perched on the side of the James River. Brushing off her favorite boulder she settled down, smoothing the folds of her forest green dress around her. Her eyes gazed into the distance. The river had always had the power to cast a spell over her. Its ever changing personality seemed somehow to always match hers. Today was no exception. The surface seemed to be a contradiction as the sun cast bright laughter into some spots, while fluffy clouds cast shadows on the water
all around them. Was the river laughing or scowling? Indeed, it seemed to be doing both at the same time. Carrie understood. Tucking her feet underneath her she rested her chin on her fist and allowed the play of light to pull her in. Maybe it would give her answers today. Maybe the river would help her understand the contradicting swirl of her own emotions.
Carrie loved Cromwell Plantation. She loved every inch of it - the fields, the woods, the river, the tiny meandering streams. She loved the horses and all the other animals. She especially loved the slaves - they were her friends. Her mother thought it proper to keep more distance, but Carrie had fostered relationships that were deep and bonding. She would just as soon spend a day in the slave quarters as she would with her friends on the neighboring plantations. More so if she were completely honest. Her friends were all proper young plantation mistresses. They were content with sewing and knowing the proper ways to run activities and functions. Carrie was bored with what she considered their silly talk - which brought her to her dilemma. If she loved the plantation so much, why did she want to leave?
The question had been burning in her mind for months now. She could no longer ignore it. The future stretched before her, empty and boring. She loved many things about her life, but she was no longer satisfied. She wanted something more. Long days of running a plantation, of duplicating her mother’s life, caused her to feel as if she would be sick sometimes. Carrie knew her days of avoiding it would soon be over. She had turned eighteen just the week before. Even her father was going to expect her to give up her wild, carefree days in return for responsibility and duty.
Carrie could no more help the trapped feeling welling up inside of her then she could stop the flow of the mighty James River. She had tried, but to no avail. All she knew was that she wanted more. She wanted more! She wanted her life to stand for something. But what? That’s where she kept drawing a blank. She didn’t know what she really wanted. But she was sure of what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps. She didn’t want to fill her days with plantation details. She didn’t want to give orders about the condition of the house and the preparation of meals. She didn’t want to select fabrics, make clothes, and order draperies.