Southern Republic (The Downriver Trilogy Book 1)

by Ramsay, Lex

  She still remembered how gentle Octavius had been with her when she’d been so terrified the first time she’d had to witness the reading of the Rules. It had been a cold morning when they’d all been awakened, their eyes still filled with salty grains and the grogginess that comes from being snatched too soon from a deep sleep. The sky was still dark and a light fog hovered down around their feet. All the little children had been ushered into the nursery yard and there they saw a figure clothed in a robe, head completely obscured by a large hood.

  Holding a large ornate lantern in one hand, the figure placed it at his feet, then stepped in front of it so that he was lit from behind like some ghostly specter. From out of the folds of his robe he pulled a gilt encrusted book, the likes of which the children had never seen before, and opened it to a place marked by a shiny ribbon. With great ceremony the hooded figure held the book aloft, shaking it so that the golden braid on its binding shimmered in the lantern light and the tassels suspended from its corners danced.

  Then the specter started speaking in a loud and awful voice, calculated, she now knew, to frighten the children even further.

  “Thou art the chattel of thy Protector, the soil for thy Protector’s crops, the yeast for thy Protector’s bread, and in all things thy shall obey thy Protector’s words and provide him with thy service for his comfort and his ease.” The man intoned to the group of children huddled under blankets for the meager warmth they could provide.

  “The Rules shall be thy Bible, the Protector shall be thy Lord, and know ye always that you live, and you serve, at the Protector’s pleasure. Your life is in his hands from the cradle to the grave; and the length of your life, and the manner in which it is lived shall be measured by the quality of your devotion to Him.”

  Sulla didn’t know what the words meant then, other than the fact that this Protector person sounded like a scary, mean man; and for years later she thought that the Protector was the terrifying figure standing before her in his sinister looking robe, for surely such an all-powerful person couldn’t be a mere man.

  “Listen closely and know ye these Rules. Abide by these Rules at all times and your lives shall be as God intended: lives of worthwhile service to your superiors. Violate these Rules and the punishment shall be swift and final. No mercy shall be shown to the violator, not on account of tender years, nor on account of ignorance.”

  At this point the old folks who minded the children stepped forward, and in a call-and-response format that Sulla had only heard at night when the other slaves sang songs, began what was to become their catechism.

  “Know ye all your color and condition and accept your fate as the will of God.” The man said, raising his hands over his head to signal the required response.

  “For we are the Children of Ham and are put here on Earth to serve.”

  “Lift yourselves up and lighten your race, for the purer your blood, the higher your station.” The robed figure continued, now lacing his fingers together as if to symbolize the mixing of the blood.

  “And if your blood is purified, serve your master in his House and enjoy the blessings of his grace until the tenth year.” A look of beatific rapture crossed the faces of the old ones as they mouthed the words, joyfully imagining the bliss of serving at the Big House.

  “Never practice the sin of deception, for the stain on your soul can be seen by God even if the mask of darkness has been lifted from your face.” The figure splayed his fingers apart and raised his hands to the early morning sky still cloaked with fog, as if offering himself up for God’s inspection.

  “And so the Lord in his wisdom commanded: ‘At the eighth breed mix no more and return instead to your flock. For the sin of deception shall be punished by death and your soul cast down into Hell.’” The old ones chanted in response.

  “Honor thy Protector above all things and in all ways for the glory of God.”

  “For He is our master and the Protector of our faith and our only purpose is to bring him the joyful bounty of our labors.”

  “And for a lifetime of devotion you shall be rewarded in your seventy-fifth winter with your Final Rest. And from there shall you live out eternity amongst the angels.” The man brought his hands down, commanding the old ones onto their knees as they answered.

  “Oh Lord our God may we see the Promised Land!” From their position on their knees they thrust their hands forward and placed their foreheads upon the ground in supplication and there remained until the robed figure picked up his lantern and walked away into the fog.

  That evening Sulla had been so agitated she couldn’t sleep, and old Octavius sat with her on her little narrow cot, rocking her gently and giving her comfort.

  “Don’t you worry none ’bout all that, little one,” Octavius whispered, “Those ol’ Rules are the false prophet’s work. They ain’t no Bible, ’cause they’s only one of them, and it wadn’t writ by no Protector, that’s fo’ sho.

  “They’s only one true God, and his chosen son our Lord will come for us one day and deliver us from our bondage. That’s what the true Bible say, so don’t you take them Rules to heart. You jus’ have to pretend to believe ’em, and the white folk’ll never know the diff’rence.”

  That was Sulla’s first introduction to the Rules, and in the next several years she would learn more of them. But she always remembered what Octavius had told her, and she never really believed they should apply to her.

  She waded out of her memories long enough to re-fasten the strap on Gabriel’s shoe. Sulla had fashioned a way to polish the wood floors by strapping dust cloths onto her children’s shoes and letting them run around—as they were wont to do anyway. Sulla was always coming up with creative ways to do her chores, and, as the one responsible for running the household, her chores were many.

  Little Gabriel, only 3, was assisted by his younger sister Sarah, an 18 month old toddler, who hung onto her brother both for fun, and out of necessity.

  “No, Gabriel, not like that sugar, push your feet forward, chile …” Sulla said. Gabriel scrunched his little face up in concentration, and, without knowing it, perfectly mimicked a figure skater gliding across the wood floor as if competing on the finest skating rink.

  “Like this, Mama?” he yelled from the other side of the entry hall.

  “Yes, baby, you’re doin’ it right, now.” Sulla smiled her encouragement.

  Sulla sat back down, basking in the love of her children. She knew Protector Askew was breaking the Rules for her. By all rights, both her children should have been in the nursery. Of course, S.P.s were often the beneficiaries of small displays of special treatment. Sulla was usually able to spend a couple of hours each day with both of her children. She viewed this as evidence of Protector Askew’s love for her; for she knew that him allowing her to break the Rules with such regularity caused folks to talk. Let them, she thought, for her man was the boss of everybody on this Protector—slave and white—and what he said was law.

  Sulla felt special, and loved, because Protector Askew had chosen her among all the other half-breeds, to bring into his household. He hadn’t cared about what the other slaves thought. He had treated her like something good to eat.

  Sulla still remembered back to when she had been race-graded, and assigned to the sweatshop as a garment worker’s assistant at 6. Later at the age of 12 she was told that she and her brother Cassius—the Protector had a fondness for taking names from the Roman Empire for his slaves—were to be moved with her mother to the Enrico County Protectorate in Virginia.

  Her mother Antha was a garment worker at the Augusta Georgia Protectorate who had been mated with a Protector’s Assistant, and had earned the special favor of the Protector, apparently, since she was allowed to take her children with her in the move. In fact, as a half-breed, Sulla should have been sent to the Protectorate Compound straight from the nursery. But an exception had been made for Antha in that way as well, and Sulla spent her first assignment in the garment workers’ compound at her mothe
r’s knee. Probably, Sulla considered, Antha’s fine embroidering and needlepoint had been deemed worth enough to keep her happy and to let her keep her children.

  But when Sulla and Cassius had arrived here, they had been separated—Sulla to the Protectorate Compound cookhouse and Cassius to the stables. Sulla had been 12 and Cassius 11. Although they both lived in the Protectorate Compound, Sulla only saw her brother Cassius occasionally, and they had grown distant even before she was moved to the Big House.

  Of course, their already strained relationship cooled even more after her move. Eventually, he had been sold off to a South Carolina Protectorate, but by then they rarely saw each other and when they did, rarely spoke. He probably resented that she was the Protector’s woman, almost all the other slaves did. But hell, Sulla thought, he knew what they all did—she only had so many options, and they shouldn’t blame her because she was trying to make the best of hers.

  She looked over at little Sarah now, and knew that what she was trying to do—solidify her position with Protector Askew so he would continue to break the Rules for her—wasn’t just for her benefit but for her children’s as well. Especially for Sarah. As the saying goes, “Ain’t no greater sorrow than a quarter-breed gal.” She could never have a lasting love ’cause she was meant for the white man, who had to trade her off every 10 years. And she couldn’t keep her children since as eighth-breeds, they were sent back to the fields with the full stock. Yes, unless she could find some way to change Sarah’s charted course, every moment of her life after she was selected for some white man—whether that was Mister Bryce or even little Winston—would be filled with tragedy.

  She remembered back to when she first met Protector Askew. When Sulla reached 17, she’d been transferred from the cookhouse to the Protectorate House as an upstairs maid. From the time she arrived at the Big House, Sulla had been the object of Protector Askew’s attentions. Little things at first, like remembering her name when he passed her in the upstairs hallway; or asking how she was coming along with the rest of the help as he watched her do some small household chore.

  Protector Askew was the first person who had ever taken the time to care, in any way, or pay the slightest attention to Sulla. Sulla still remembered what it felt like to burn with the hope that some day he would notice her as something more than just a little girl. She was a budding woman when she came to the Protectorate, yet Protector Askew seemed to barely notice. Until one early evening she was changing the linens in his bedroom, and Protector Askew walked in and watched Sulla without her knowing it for who knows how long. When Sulla turned from bringing the comforter up to the pillow shams, she saw Protector Askew gazing at her with what even she knew was unbridled lust.

  That was the summer Miss Olivia had first come home from school, she recalled. Yet it took another year and a half for him to act on the desire she witnessed that day. Sulla recalled how she longed for the chance encounter with him in order to seek out that look on his face. How she pushed out her breasts and swayed her hips just a little more whenever he was around.

  Finally, he started giving her little gifts—a sachet for her clothes, an extra pair of shoes; the odd ribbon he had found from God knows where. Even then he would not touch her, except perhaps the lightest brush of his fingertips on the soft skin of her face or a lingering touch at her waist as he stood admiring her.

  Sulla knew she was beautiful. She saw it in Protector Askew’s eyes and in the angry glances she caught of the other S.P.s, both men and women. Sulla’s skin was the color of caramel-sugar, and her hair was curly and long, deep brown with flecks of auburn and reaching well past her shoulders. She had reached the height of five feet nine inches, and had a figure that spilled out over her bodices, nipped in at the waist and flared out again at the hips, with long shapely legs she showed off whenever possible.

  By the time Protector Askew finally claimed her as his woman—and that was the way he had described their first coupling—Sulla had been waiting for three years and was more than ready.

  Now, for the last 6 years, Sulla had been the center of Protector Askew’s attentions and he the sole object of all of her fantasies. Sulla had borne him two fine children, and Protector Askew had made it plain that the only downside to the joy of Sulla’s becoming pregnant with his children was the fact that he could not enjoy her fabulous sexual delights for some period of time surrounding each birth.

  Sulla was glad her children had creamy light skin. She was proud that they were fine looking quarter-breeds. If all she could give them was a chance at a little less misery in their lives, she aimed to do just that. All she knew was that everything associated with being white was put up on high; while everything black like her mother was pushed down. She was glad she was in a position to make her children better; and herself in the bargain. So what if she wasn’t Protector Askew’s wife. Hell, he treated Miss Eugenia like a bad cold—like he knew she was inevitable and just tried to get over it as soon as possible.

  She was the one Protector Askew came to willingly. She was the one he poured his passions into. She was the one he really wanted; and he had done everything in his power to show her how special she was to him.

  Sulla glanced up from her daydream to see her children sliding across the floor on their bellies. They had become bored with floor skating and had taken to belly-sliding instead. Sulla called them over and unbuckled the straps on their shoes and started with the dusting. She was happily engaged in one of the thousands of tasks that occupied her days, when a frightening thought pushed its way unbidden into her consciousness. Sulla was 26 years old and had been on staff at the Big House for 9 years—she was less than one year away from reassignment according to the Rules.

  “My man will protect me from that,” Sulla tells herself. “He needs me far too much to let me go now.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “We’ve gone over these figures a million times,” fumed Senator Woolridge, “and they always come out the same. What do you expect, Lewis, the answer will magically appear from your damn calculator?”

  Senator Alfonse Woolridge turned abruptly from his office window with a panoramic view that included the Capitol building in Atlanta, and whirled on his number crunching assistant with fresh vigor.

  “The facts are these, Lewis, we are a nation of 40 million souls carrying a burden of nearly 25 million worthless slaves whose average output doesn’t amount to enough to feed and clothe them.

  “Of those 40 million, only 15 million are living in today’s world as far as tech is concerned—and out of those, only 12 million, the urban workers, are actually contributing anything of real value to our economy. The other 3 million are F.F.C., a necessary arrangement in its time, I’ll admit, but hardly a match for nations whose citizens actually DO something other than administer the institutions. Hell, Lewis, that’s what low level functionaries like yourself are for!”

  Senator Woolridge continued his rant, barely stopping to acknowledge his jab at Lewis, which he now did with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Our slaves are forbidden to know tech—with good reason—but as a result, we cannot truly compete in the global economy against other tobacco, cotton and sugar producing countries that have automated machines to do the work of our slaves at one-tenth the cost. We have become a schizophrenic nation, Lewis, with one part operating in the dark ages, and believe me Lewis, my pun was most certainly intended; and the other fast becoming the world’s leader in automation technology.

  “The urban workers have had to become geniuses at automation ’cause they’re so damn few of them in the cities. And as long as the tobacco industry was making money hand over fist, that was O.K. But, hell, Lewis, every damn Yankee state in the U.S. has started class actions against the tobacco companies, with multi-million dollar verdicts being handed down every other day. So now, we’ve got 25 million slaves devoted to producing cotton and sugar that other countries make at a fraction of the cost on the one hand—and on the other, tobacco that’s bankrupting the l
argest sector of our economy at a fast clip. Great day in the morning, Lewis, we’ve become a Frankenstein monster of a country, and there’s only one way out of this mess we’ve made and you know it.”

  Lewis knew better than to challenge the Senator when he was so worked up. The Assembly meetings always left him that way. As if it weren’t enough that the Senator had his regular legislative duties in the Confederacy to attend to, he was also one of five members of the Assembly—that stealthy organization of puppet-masters and king-makers that somehow managed to be right in the middle of most things that mattered in the S.R. of a political or economic nature.

  “So what are we supposed to do?” Senator Woolridge had caught his breath sufficiently to continue.

  “Let the slaves go? Go where? Any country that’d take ’em would make us pay more than we can afford for the privilege of bein’ shed of ’em. We couldn’t dump ’em in the North, hell, they’ve been damn careful to only take the trickle that comes in through the R.A. over the last 150 years. How in the hell would they support an additional 25 million worthless beings? If anything, they’d send them back here, refusing them asylum … and we’d be stuck with them again. Plus, at that point, if anything untoward happened to befall the slaves, it’d be obvious who the culprit was, now wouldn’t it?

  “Put them all down? And risk being sanctioned by the very governments we’re trying so desperately to do business with? I don’t think so.

  “Dammit man, I feel like the weight of this whole God forsaken country is on my shoulders. What in the hell were the First Fathers thinkin’ when they negotiated the peace from the Big War?

  “Sure, we got some rep-ar-ations,” the Senator pronounced the word as if an epithet; “but considering the havoc the Yanks wrought on our cities, it didn’t even turn out to be enough to repair the damage. And we gave up Maryland, when we could have kept it and surrounded D.C., but no-o-o-o, that would’ve made too much damn sense!