by Wayne Grady
“Do you have a deposition from her, Mr. Parker?” asked the judge.
“A partial one. But I think we need to hear her whole testimony.”
“Do you mean, put her on the stand?”
“I do, Your Honor.”
Fritts bolted to his feet. “Your Honor,” he said, “the law specifically forbids a black or mulatto to testify at the trial of a white person. And we just determined that Sarah Franklin is a white person!”
“The law,” replied Parker, “specifically allows it. It just hasn’t been done in Indiana before.”
Judge Amery leaned back in his chair. “He’s right, Fritts, the law allows it.”
“But there’s no precedent,” said Fritts.
“Then we’ll make one,” said Parker.
Judge Amery considered. “This isn’t a trial,” he said, “it’s a hearing. I don’t recall any law forbidding black testimony at a hearing. In any case, such a law would forbid black testimony only in a case concerning a white person. Now that we have determined Sarah Franklin is white, the trial no longer concerns her, it concerns Leason Lewis. And we haven’t determined yet whether Leason Lewis is white or black, so such a law wouldn’t apply in any case. I’m going to allow it. Mr. Parker, you may proceed with your witness.”
“Tamsey,” said Parker, “will you please step up here to the witness stand?”
Moody squeezed her hand as she stood, as would any good friend, and she began walking toward the front of the suddenly quiet courtroom. By the time she reached the witness stand she was faltering a little. Parker took her arm and helped her into the chair, and when the clerk asked her to place her hand on the Bible and tell the truth she hesitated, but then did. When asked her name, she said Thomasina Lewis clearly, and then Parker began talking as though they were having afternoon tea in his office.
“Now, Tamsey,” he said, “you remember we talked about Leason before, didn’t we? When you made your statement. But I’m still not clear about a few things. What year was Leason born?”
“I don’t know the year,” she said.
“There is no record of his birth?”
“No.”
“You were a member of the Luce household in Kentucky at the time?”
“Yes.”
“How long had you been there?”
“Eight years.”
“How long after Leason was born were you freed?”
“Two years.”
“That was in 1833?”
“I guess. Yes.”
“So you went there in 1823, and Leason was born in 1831. Does that sound about right?”
“About.”
“Will you tell us how you came to be in Kentucky?”
“Massa Luce won me.”
“How do you mean, he won you?”
“You want the whole story?”
“Please.”
“It a long story.”
“Make it as long or as short as you like.”
Tamsey looked at Parker, then swept the courtroom until her eyes found Moody’s. He was careful not to nod. This was her story, and her decision to tell it or not tell it.
“Well,” she said, “I already told you my mam was slave to a horse farmer in South Carolina, name Reuben Lockhart, when I was born. Massa Reuben, we called him, kept me, and when I old enough to work he took me in the Big House, and Mam and me slept in the woodshed behind the kitchen.”
“Why was that, do you think?” asked Parker.
“Why was what?”
“Why did Reuben Lockhart keep you and your mother in the Big House?”
“Massa Reuben was fond of my mam, I guess. My mam used to say he fooled her.”
“Fooled her? Do you know what she meant by that?”
“He promise to free her. But he never did.”
“All right. Please go on.”
“When the Lord took Massa Reuben, Young Massa Lockhart, his son, took the plantation and sold my mam to a tobacco farmer nearby, and moved me out to the nigger house until I had my first baby, and after that I was brought back into the Big House and put in the old woodshed again, this time by myself.”
“With the baby?”
“No, the baby was sold.”
“Again, if I may interrupt, why do you think he brought you inside?”
“I telling this story. Let it come.”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Young Massa a mean man. He married a pale, red-haired woman from the next county, name of Euphemia Rettis. And Miss Euphemia’s brother also a mean man. His name was Hugh Rettis, and he come to live in the Big House with his sister and the young massa.”
She stopped and her eyes searched for Moody.
“I was brought inside for him. Nobody said it like that, they said I did for Massa Hugh. But that what I did.”
Fritts was on his feet again. “Your Honor,” he said, “surely we don’t need these lurid details. The ladies, Your Honor, the children.”
Moody looked at Granville and Sabetha. “Do you want to wait outside?” he asked them quietly. They both shook their heads.
“Then what happened, Tamsey?” asked Parker.
“When the young missus took over the care of the house, Massa Hugh took what he want and give nothing back for it, did no work, walked in the fields from time to time to see if there was something there he wanted, played cards and drank every night, and there was bad blood between him and the young massa. I was afraid Massa Hugh be sent away and take me with him. My work was in the kitchen and serving at table, and I slept in the woodshed unless Massa Hugh sent for me, which he did most nights. I had another baby that was sold, and that was how things was until the card game.”
“What card game was that?” Parker asked when she fell silent.
“I getting to it.”
“Would you like some water?”
“No, thank you, I fine.”
“The card game?”
“I served at table that night. There were four men, the young massa and Massa Hugh; a neighbor planter named Rufus Pettigrew, who was a widower and often ate with the Lockharts; and another man, Silas Luce, a horse trader from Kentucky who was a friend of the old massa’s and still supplied the plantation with most of its horses. They were all drinking and playing bouillotte, that a card game, and Massa Hugh drinking more than the others, as usual, and also losing more. At some point Massa Hugh put his cards facedown on the table, set his whiskey glass on top of them and stepped outside, and when he came back he looked at his cards and accused the others of switching his hand. The other men denied any such trick, but Massa Hugh, he was mean enough when he sober, and downright vicious when he had liquor in him, and he insisted, and raised his voice, and refused to sit down. I stayed behind a door, hoping he wouldn’t see me. He walked about the room, waving his arms in a fury. I don’t think he believed his cards been touched, he just had a poor hand, but once he took a position on a thing he would not back down from it. Young Massa told him sit down and play the hand the Lord give him, and Massa Hugh inflamed to such a height that when his eye fell on me, standing by the door trying to make myself invisible, I knew I was done for. He shout at me, ‘You! You saw what happened!’
“I said, ‘No, Massa Hugh, I didn’t.’
“But he yell at me to get over there. He say I saw them switch his cards! I moved to the center of the room to let him get a better swing at me, as I was taught, and I said, ‘I in the room, Massa Hugh, but I didn’t see anyone switch any cards. I wasn’t paying attention.’
“But Massa Hugh call me a liar, and he hit me hard on the side of the head, but only with his fist, and I thought I might survive this, but then he look about the room, and his eye fell on the laundry paddle lying on the sideboard. I don’t know what that laundry paddle was doing there, it belong in the laundry house, but there it was, it maybe Kwaku put it there, but Massa Hugh pick it up and hit me across my back with it. I felt the numbness start at the bottom of my spine, and my legs tingle, and the air leave my lungs.
‘I’ll put more stripes on you than a zaybra!’ he said.
“I knew better than to move. I looked to the young massa, but he busy tracing whiskey rings on the table with his finger. It was Massa Luce, the horse trader, who save me.
“ ‘You ain’t a-going to beat her to make her tell a lie, are you, Rettis?’ he said.
“ ‘I’ll damn well beat her until my arm gets tired,’ said Massa Hugh.
“ ‘And then what?’ said Massa Luce. ‘Would you accuse us of cheating on the word of a nigger?’
“Then Massa Hugh stop with the paddle in the air, and lower his arm, swaying slightly on his feet.
“ ‘Are you, sir,’ he said, ‘interfering with a man disciplining his own property?’
“ ‘No,’ said Massa Luce. He spoke quietly but there was iron in his voice. ‘But I will defend myself from the charge of cheating at cards, no matter who it comes from.’
“My left ear was still ringing from the first blow, but I heard Mr. Pettigrew clear his throat and speak in his high voice: ‘Why don’t we just shuffle the cards and deal out a fresh hand?’
“Massa Luce gather the cards together and began to shuffle them. Massa Hugh watched him, then set the paddle down on the sideboard and said, ‘Good idea,’ and he sat down and picked up his glass. He and Mr. Pettigrew and Massa Luce anted, and the young massa deal out a fresh hand, and I thought the worst over. But when I saw how Massa Hugh look at Young Massa, I knew some unpleasantness still on the way, only not what it would be. The young massa had a stack of dixies in front of him and Massa Hugh did not, and when Young Massa look at his three cards and the retourné he push the whole pile to the middle of the table.
“From where I standing I could see the young massa had a good hand, three natural jacks. I didn’t dare to move around the table to look at the other hands, but I knew they have to be good to beat the young massa’s. Mr. Pettigrew look at his cards and shake his head. Massa Luce said he had a pair of Kentucky Thoroughbreds out there worth a good deal more than that, and Young Massa nod.
“When it come Massa Hugh’s turn he study his hand so long everyone look at him. He could only win what he put in; if he put in half as much as the others and beat them, he only win half of Young Massa’s money and one of Massa Luce’s horses. He study his cards again and drank some more whiskey.
“And he said he warrant me worth at least two horses, and Young Massa kept his eyes on his cards and said yes, I was.
“ ‘What about you?’ he said to Massa Luce. ‘Will you accept my bet?’
“Massa Luce nod yes, too. My knees trembled so I could barely stand. I knew if Massa Hugh won that hand, he would win a pile of money, two fine horses and me. He would own me outright, and no longer need the goodwill of his sister to keep me. I be his to do with as he please, and I knew too well what please him. For the first time in my life I thought of running away. We taught there nowhere a slave can flee unless it be into the arms of Death, and I learn that lesson here in Indiana, but I was ready that day to take my chances with Death rather than go with Massa Hugh. There was a river run through the farm, and I vowed to myself I would throw myself into it if I could get outside.
“But when Massa Hugh show down his hand, it was weaker than the young massa’s: a pair of kings and an ace. Young Massa would show his hand last, but with three jacks, it was better than Massa Hugh’s; he would win and my life would go back to what it was before the missus made a present of me to her brother. Young Massa might even put me out with the field workers, to keep me away from Massa Hugh. My heart lift a little. Then Massa Luce showed down his hand, and it was a brelan of tens, which was also better than Massa Hugh’s but not as good as Young Massa’s natural jacks.
“Massa Hugh knew he lost, but he thought he lost to Massa Luce. He sit back and let out his breath. Massa Luce look at the young massa, waiting for him to show his hand. I felt sorry for Massa Luce, for he was about to lose two fine horses. But instead of laying down his hand, Young Massa look at Massa Hugh and said, ‘Sorry, Hugh,’ and he fold his cards and threw them facedown on the table.
“Massa Luce was quick. He pull the money toward himself and look up at me and said, ‘You got anything to pack you better go get it now. We ain’t staying.’
“And that how I come to Kentucky. Massa Luce won me.”
There was deep silence in the courtroom. Some of the women were weeping. Most of the men were staring at their feet. Sabetha had buried her face in her hands, and Granville had put his arm around her. How could any of them, Moody wondered, having heard Tamsey’s story, not want to rise up as one and condemn the conditions that had made it possible? “A story a story,” Tamsey had told him, but this was not a story. “Brer Fox and Brer Rabbit” was a story. This was a tragedy.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lewis,” Parker said quietly. He paused, turned toward he table as if to release her, then turned back and addressed her again. “And in Kentucky,” he said, “you worked as a house maid, is that correct?”
“I work in the Big House, yes.”
“Why was that?”
“What you mean, why?”
“Why didn’t Silas Luce put you out to work with the horses?”
“Massa said I wanted inside to look after Missus Luce.”
“Mrs. Luce, Silas Luce’s wife, Rebecca. She was sick?”
“Yes. She often was.”
“What were your duties in the Big House?”
“I was the upstairs maid, chamber maid, kitchen maid for the missus. Cook,” she added, looking at Moody. “Anything she want she had me doing.”
“What work did that entail?”
“Changing bed linen, dusting and cleaning, emptying the chamber pots, tending to the missus when she in bed.”
“They were fairly light duties, then, were they?”
“Compared to what?”
“Well, compared to what your duties would have been outside.”
“I suppose so, at first. Missus thought they was too light, anyway.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She kept finding harder jobs for me to do.”
“What kind of jobs?”
“Fetching water. Chopping wood, carrying it up to the upstairs parlor for her fire. Turning the mattresses over. Moving furniture around. Up and down them stairs a hundred times a day. Soon as I come up with a fresh glass of water she send me back downstairs for a slice of toast.”
“You were by this time carrying Leason?”
“Yes.”
“She must have known how hard these tasks would be on a woman in your condition, mustn’t she?”
“She knew.”
“She’d been pregnant herself, had she not?”
“The missus never had any children.”
“Do you mean that Silas and Rebecca Luce were childless?”
“The missus couldn’t have children, that was part of what her sickness was. Every time she tried, she got the sickness and lost the baby.”
“That’s what happened this time? She was sick and she lost a baby?”
“Yes.”
“In other words, Mrs. Luce became pregnant about the same time you did, and you were called into the Big House to look after her. And she subsequently lost her child?”
“Yes.”
“Was it before or after she lost her child that she started finding harder work for you to do?”
“Right before, I guess.”
“So you were pregnant when she set you these heavy duties?”
“Yes.”
“And Mrs. Luce died shortly after this?”
“Yes. I was outside her room when she died, she wouldn’t let me come in. The doctor in with her. But we could hear her. She moan like she too weak to cry.”
“You say, ‘We could hear her.’ Who was outside her room with you?”
“Massa Luce. She wouldn’t let him near her, neither.”
Parker walked over to his table, picked up a piece of paper and brought it to Judge A
mery, who pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead and read it.
“More paper, Your Honor,” Fritts protested.
“Calvin Luce died in 1835,” Parker said, ignoring Fritts, “two and a half years after the death of his wife, which Tamsey has just described, and when Leason was two years old. This is his will, or a copy of it made by Luce’s lawyer, Brockton Temple, in Lexington. As you can see, Luce set Thomasina and Leason free upon his death, leaving them his last name and two hundred dollars for their bond. Your Honor will note the wording of the will: ‘My wife Rebecca’s kitchen slave Tamsey along with the child Lison, her son.’ That’s what it says here in the copy, that is what Brockton Temple read to Tamsey and Leason when he issued them their free papers.” He turned back to Tamsey. “Tamsey, Leason was with you at the time of Calvin Luce’s death, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You’d had six other children before Leason while you were at the Luce plantation, is that right?”
“Hm.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to them?”
“They sold when they weaned.”
“Why wasn’t Leason sold, like the others?”
She sat very still, her hands folded in her lap. She searched the crowd for Moody again. “I don’t know,” she said. “He was always good with horses.”
“At the age of two?” Tamsey said nothing. “Your Honor,” Parker said, taking a second paper from his desk and handing it to Judge Amery, “this is the original document, Luce’s will, which I have procured from Brockton Temple. Here you will see that the word her was written over another word, and the word it is written over was our. There has been some attempt to blot it out, but you can see it if you hold the paper so. In other words, Your Honor, the will as originally written by Calvin Luce, the original from which Brockton Temple’s scrivener made the copy I read earlier, stipulates: ‘My wife Rebecca’s kitchen slave Tamsey along with the child Lison, our son…’ ”