Underground

by Gayle O'Brien

  Nessie tore a rag and dipped it into the bucket. “You been ripped up something fierce.” She leaned over Amira. “We’s just gots to clean you up for now, and then I want you to sleep without anything on under your skirt. We need these wounds to dry out so they can start to heal. You understand me, girl?”

  Amira nodded.

  “You got any more clothes?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Lemme get you somethin’.” Nessie pushed her big, soft body upright and made a hunched approach towards the hatch. Samantha moved out of her way, and together they exited the wardrobe.

  “Poor girl,” said Nessie.

  “I don’t understand,” said Samantha. “What happened to her?”

  Nessie stood with her hands on her hips. “You want to tell me why there be two runaway Negroes in there?”

  Samantha stumbled over the words. “Eli … Eli brought them to me. He said I needed to keep them for a week and that it would convince Father that he and I should marry.”

  “And you believed that fool of a boy?”

  Samantha crossed her arms. “Yes, I did. I do. Now, what’s making her ill?”

  Nessie paused. “Best you don’t know, Miss Sammy.”

  “Know what? Nessie?”

  The slave shook her head.

  “Nessie, I demand you tell me. Whether you approve of them being here or not I am responsible for them for the next week. I need to know what’s happening to her.”

  Nessie spoke quietly. “Same thing that’s happening to ever’ female slave you ever met.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Happens all the time, Miss Sammy. Why you think some of us ain’t as dark as the others?”

  Samantha didn’t understand.

  Nessie shook her head. “Why would you know, Miss Sammy. Ain’t your job to know.”

  “For the love of God, Nessie, just tell me what’s going on!”

  “Keep your voice down, Miss Sammy. If I tell you this, you promise you never breathe a word of this to your mama.”

  Samantha crossed her heart.

  “It be like this, Miss Sammy, and I’m gonna tell you plain. If a white man wants his way with us, then they ain’t much we can do.”

  “What?”

  “I said if a white man wants his way with us then they ain’t much we can do.”

  “His way? What way?”

  “Miss Sammy, I knows you have some idea of how babies are made. Sometimes we ain’t got no choice in who helps us make them. You understanding me yet, Miss Sammy?”

  Samantha took a step back. “No … that can’t be right. Who would do … No, I don’t know anyone who would do such a horrible …”

  “I need to go get some things for the girl. You stay here.”

  “But Nessie, you can’t mean what I think you mean …”

  Nessie left the room before Samantha could finish.

  Samantha sat on the edge of her bed, the weight of what Nessie had said bearing down on her stomach. As she stared into space, memories flooded her senses.

  There was the day she and Eli sat by the river and watched four male ducks chasing one female, finally catching her when she was too tired to run anymore. All four of them took turns with her, her little head just barely above the water each time.

  “That poor thing,” she’d said.

  “Poor thing nothing,” Eli had said. “She’s just doing what she’s supposed to be doing. It’s life.”

  At the time Samantha agreed.

  Then there was Samantha’s mother. Every week since Samantha’s cycle had started two years ago, her mother made Nessie come in to check Samantha’s virginity was intact, looking as Nessie inserted her finger in between Samantha’s legs, awaiting Nessie’s verdict. Even though Nessie did her best to be gentle, every time Samantha thought she might burst.

  “Good,” her mother would say every time. “Good thing you’re still sensible.”

  She closed her eyes, but all she could see was the time one of her father’s friends had cornered her on the terrace by herself and pressed himself to her. His manhood was hard and he ground it into her hip. She’d never been so frightened in her life. It was only because her mother called from inside that he stopped. She shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t.

  Nessie came back upstairs and went into the eaves. When she emerged several minutes later, Samantha was sitting on her bed, tears streaming down her face.

  Nessie knelt down at Samantha’s feet and put her hand to Samantha’s wet cheek. “This just how life be for us, Miss Sammy.”

  “But … but, who? Who would do such a thing?”

  Nessie hesitated, then spoke. “Round here, the overseer is the worst.”

  “Clement Durant? He … he … how?”

  “He the overseer, Miss Sammy. If he comes into a cabin with his mind set on it, ain’t nothing no one can do. Unless you want a beating. Or a whipping.”

  “But … but … has he … he hasn’t done it to you?”

  “He be leaving me alone the past few years. I’m too old for him now. But Oma and Chimi and mos’ of the other young slaves, you can be sure he done had his way with all of us by now.”

  Samantha wrapped her arms around her torso, as if trying to protect herself from the truth. “Does it … hurt?”

  “Well, sure it does, Miss Sammy. It’s a big, hard thing going in a small, dry place. That’s why poor Miss Amira is bleeding where she is. The man who had at her must have got her hard.”

  Nessie went back into the eaves. Samantha stayed sitting on the edge of her bed, unable to move.

  Over an hour later, Samantha stood up and looked out her window. She squinted, barely making out the roofs of the slave quarters hiding beneath the moon’s shadow. For every night she’d slept safely in her bed there had been a slave girl stifling her screams.

  She thought of all the plantations she knew and tried to do the math in her head – how many slaves had been violated like Amira? Did her father know? It didn’t matter, she decided – this was her father’s plantation and his responsibility. Whether he knew about Clement Durant or not, he was complicit in the crime. Who else? she wondered. How many other white men thought it within their right to take such grotesque liberties? What other lies had been woven into the very fabric of her being, absorbed into her skin like sunshine?

  Samantha put her palms to her temples to calm her racing mind. It was all too much. The questions were too heavy, the truth too prickled.

  Something stirred in her, something she did not recognize.

  She crawled quietly into the eaves and opened the hatch. Odus slumbered in the far corner. Amira slept against the wall nearest the hatch. Her breathing was deep and calm. Samantha reached up and stroked Amira’s hair, running her palm over the beautifully kinked curls.

  “You rest now,” she whispered. “You’re safe here.”

  Samantha crept out of the eaves and felt a cool breeze coming in from the windows. She did not pull the hatch shut, but instead left it open so cooler air could make its way in. Once back in her bed, Samantha wrapped herself into a ball and cried herself to sleep.

  Chapter 15

  Annie watched the long scroll of correspondence appear, starting with the first Facebook message she’d sent from the internet café in Charleston.

  My Father’s Daughter, March 31: I thought you might like to know two things:

  We survived the fire, and;

  I am going to make your life hell.

  Hope you enjoy the photo. There are lots – and I mean, LOTS – more where these came from.

  She remembered setting up the My Father’s Daughter account and sending that initial email. She wasn’t sure she’d get a response. She wasn’t sure she wanted one. But she wanted him to know that he had tried to get rid of the photos – and her – and failed.

  Rob Sanchez, March 31: Is this some kind of sick joke? Where did you get these photos? They are the property of Virginia Stat
e Police and you are committing a crime by having them in your possession. Give me your number immediately and turn in this evidence.

  My Father’s Daughter, April 8: Stop trying to sound all official. It makes you sound like an idiot. Enjoy the next photo. I think I’ll give you one a week. You know, to keep the suspense up.

  Rob Sanchez, April 9: You are only making things worse. Do yourself a favor and tell me how to find you. Trust me – you don’t want me to have to come find you.

  My Father’s Daughter, April 17: I’m only making things worse? THINGS COULD NOT BE ANY WORSE. YOU HAVE RUINED MY LIFE! AND NOW, I AM GOING TO RUIN YOURS. Hope you enjoy the new photo. I like how it’s obvious a bullet is leaving your gun.

  Rob Sanchez, April 18: Ok, I didn’t want to have to do this, but you give me no choice. How much do you want for the photos? Is $5000 enough? You give me a Western Union number and I’ll wire it as soon as you send me the photos.

  My Father’s Daughter, April 25: You actually think this is about money? THIS IS NOT ABOUT MONEY. You are a murderer. You destroyed my life to try and cover that up. And guess what? It didn’t work. You know what I’ve learned? That justice does not always include the law. This is my justice.

  The truth was Annie did need the money then. She could have copied the photos and sent him duplicates. That wasn’t the point. She’d had no say in the course her life was now on. This was her one vestige of control and she would not let it go, especially since the more powerful she felt, the more scared he became.

  Rob Sanchez, April 26: Don’t think those photos scare me. I can tell everyone they’re doctored. And where will that leave you? EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE RIGHT NOW. You can’t run and you can’t hide.

  My Father’s Daughter, May 5: I think it’s obvious that I run and hide just fine, thank you very much. Because hey – YOU haven’t been able to find us yet. What kind of cop does that make you?

  A year was a long time to be corresponding with someone you despised. The more enraged he became, the more Annie reveled in what she’d started.

  Rob Sanchez, June 19: Bet you think your funny, bitch.

  My Father’s Daughter, July 3: Ok, I didn’t pay much attention in English class but even I know that that ‘your’ is a possessive noun used to attribute a noun to a single person, i.e. your idiocy. ‘You’re’ is the conjunction of ‘you’ and ‘are’; as in, ‘you are a moron.’

  I’d say ‘I hope this helps’ but ‘you’re’ clearly beyond help.

  Rob Sanchez, July 15: I will get these photos from you if it’s the last thing I do. You think your clever. I’m here to tell you that you’re not.

  My Father’s Daughter, July 23:

  Dear Wingnut,

  Please see previous.

  Hugs,

  You-know-who

  Every email made her feel braver, bolder, more grown-up and more in control.

  Rob Sanchez, July 24: I’ve found you before and I’ll find you again. What makes you think I’m not going to trace where you’re posting these from?

  My Father’s Daughter, August 1: Because you’d need a warrant. And for a warrant there needs to be a suspected crime. Since you are the one who committed that crime, I doubt you’ll want to draw attention to the existence of this account. Then again, you might. Go for it. Because what you haven’t yet realized is that I am not afraid of you. You’re a coward and I hope you rot in hell.

  This was a lie – he did scare her. The beauty of email was you could hide behind everything you wished to show.

  My Father’s Daughter, February 3: I am now posting one of my favorite photos from this collection. It is the one in which I can best see your cowardly face as you turn to shoot more bullets into AN UNARMED WOMAN. Bet that made you feel really big and strong, huh? Didn’t your mother teach you to pick on someone your own size?

  She scrolled down to his most recent email. The date showed he’d written it after she posted the photo at Theo’s house. For the first time in their correspondence, he’d included an attachment.

  Rob Sanchez, March 21: Bet you think you are the only one who has photos. I’ve got plenty of photos of my own.

  It was Annie, eight-years-old, sitting on his lap in her backyard. A cigarette burned in his hand. Her mother stood to the side, staring into space.

  The message below the photo was simple.

  I’m going to kill you.

  Annie thought she might be sick.

  She typed the first reply that came into her head.

  My Father’s Daughter, March 29: Not if I kill you first.

  “Hey Annie!” Theo shouted a whisper from across the room. He held up a pile of Xerox copies. “I’ve got the maps. You ready to go?”

  “Coming,” she said, taking out the memory stick. She logged off Facebook, cleared the browser history, and hoped Theo wouldn’t notice she was shaking.

  “Hold these,” said Theo, handing Annie the papers and leaning over her to take a map out of the glove compartment.

  “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  Theo unfolded his map of Virginia and spread it across the dashboard. He took one of the papers out of Annie’s hand and set it down on the map.

  “You went with Blondie to Xerox maps when you had more in your glove compartment the whole time?”

  “Easy there. She had older ones.”

  “So?”

  His eyes darted between the two maps.

  “Eureka!” he shouted.

  “What is it?”

  “Look at this,” he said, leaning over and pointing to the photocopy. “It’s an ordnance map from 1840. Everything we want is on here – Mont Verity, Dominion Royale, and the actual train station for Beckwith Station. It even marks the railroad line. The best part,” he said, setting the photocopy on the map, “is that it can be matched up to the current map of that area. See this road here?” Annie followed his finger along the paper. “It’s on both maps. They both curve around this lake, and over here, just behind what used to be Mont Verity, are some woods and a stream. Let’s just hope it’s not all privately owned so we can explore without ruffling anyone’s feathers.”

  He started the truck and revved the engine. “We’re getting closer,” he said, “I can feel it. The old Beckwith Station site is on the way. Let’s start there first.”

  Annie looked at the map. Mont Verity was in the parts of Virginia where she and her family never ventured. She’d hoped she could say she’d walked where Samantha Weston had walked, that they’d climbed the same trees, even though Annie had never climbed a Virginian tree in her life. The thought made her want to cry.

  Annie rolled down the window and wanted to go to sleep. Something about Sanchez’s emails always left her exhausted. She didn’t want to be in the truck, driving aimlessly through Virginia. The story of Samantha Weston was supposed to be revealed in that library and the fact that it wasn’t made her want to scream. Why couldn’t this one thing be easy?

  They drove down the four-lane highway she knew so well, past multiple mini-malls, the black tarmac of their sprawling parking lots baking in the midday sun. There were no sidewalks and therefore no people – just shiny cars and bulky SUVs, most of which, Annie noticed, were carrying only one passenger. The occasional older house, ranch-style from the 1950s, sat forlorn amongst all the newness.

  Annie reached down and pulled Elijah Fabre’s knife out of the loop in her boot. She held it flat over her palms, being careful not to let the sharp blade near her flesh.

  “Now that’s what we came for,” said Theo.

  Annie looked up. The four-lane highway was gone; they had turned onto a two-lane road, surrounded by fields and woods. Up ahead, a mountain range rolled high over the landscape.

  “The Blue Ridge Mountains,” Annie said.

  “They really are blue,” said Theo. “And all this time I thought it was just a name.”

  Annie expected to be happy at such a familiar sight, but instead she felt disappointed. The mountains in Vermont are prettier, sh
e thought.

  “Hey!” said Theo, abruptly pulling onto the gravel at the side of the road and jumping out of the cab.

  “What is it?” said Annie.

  Theo stood in front of a small sign, its raised bronze letters reflecting the sun. Annie got out of the truck.

  Theo read from the sign: “Site of slave uprising on April 12, 1861 that saw the destruction of Beckwith Station. More than 100 slaves either killed or captured and executed. When did the girl at the library say Fort Sumter was?”

  “April 12, 1861. Same day.”

  “I wonder if the slave uprising is related to it,” he wondered. “You know – maybe the slaves heard what had happened and decided to stage their own fight.”

  Theo reached inside the truck and pulled out a roll of paper and a piece of drawing charcoal. He held the paper onto the sign with one hand and brushed the charcoal over it with the other.

  “What are you doing?” Annie asked.

  “A rubbing. Now we’ll have our own copy. We can do this at the cemetery, too,” he said. “If we find anything, that is.”

  “Wow. That would never have occurred to me.”

  “We do them a lot at school. You know that old cemetery behind my house? Once a year the school takes a field trip there and they have us pick a grave, do a rubbing and then do some research on that person.”

  Annie watched as the letters on the sign appeared under the charcoal and onto the paper. “Who have you done a report on?”

  Theo grinned. “I sort of cheat. Most of my family are buried in there, so I’ve been able to get away with doing projects on them.”

  “How many of your ancestors are buried there?”

  “Over twenty. The first Theodore Mason died in 1801 and he had six kids, and they’re all buried there, and it just keeps going. Although I tend to just stick with the Theodore Masons and their families. Makes it easier to find out what I need at home.”

  “But how come you knew your way around the Town Hall records? Was that just to supplement what you had at your house?”