Remembering how wonderful that time was for him, Tobias pulled out the small white button and the marble from his tin box. The white button represented a bittersweet season, while at the same time, the marble represents one of his longest gifts of friendship. Both of these had come to him on the same day. The button reminded him of the beautiful Miss Buttons, and the marble had been a gift from Sulley. Rolling them around in his hand, Tobias slid back into his childhood…back when his life became much too real.
Auntie Ruby cleared the table and washed the dishes while Ms. Pearl helped me with my homework. When homework was finished, Ruby would return to the table with her mending, and Pearl would read the newspaper to us while I played on the floor of the dining room with whatever toy I had conjured up with my imagination.
Once the homework and newspaper reading was finished, Pearl would take out the current novel she was reading to us, and I would be transported to strange and wonderful lands. I spent my evenings living with swashbuckling pirates or with Oliver Twist and the pickpockets on the streets of London. I loved these stories, but the stories I loved the best were the ones the sisters told me about their life with their big brother Samuel. They were careful with their stories. They avoided telling me the whole truth about slavery. As a seven-year-old, they felt I was too young to hear the dark side of their experiences, so they filled my heart with all my grandpa’s amazing accomplishments as a young boy.
I learned how my grandpa always watched over them. For the first two years, they shared with this excited young boy about how Grandpa Samuel found the caverns, stocked them with supplies, and kept his sisters hidden and safe during the final months of the Civil War. Stretching my imagination, they took me from there right into the livery where they had lived for the first four years of their newfound freedom. I never tired of hearing their exciting stories.
Auntie Ruby was so good at telling a story, I believe I could smell the fresh hay. I remember the first time she told me about my Great-Grandmother Hannah. Before she started, I pleaded, “Ms. Ruby, could you please wait a minute? I want to get my tin box and put it on the table. Grandpa Samuel said Momma Hannah gave it to him the day your daddy went away. I’d like to look at it while you tell me about her.”
Once the tin box was in its place of honor, Ms. Ruby began. “Momma Hannah was born on the Stewart Plantation in 1824. Momma never knew who her daddy was, and then she lost her momma when she was only seven years old. Momma Hannah never even knew her Momma’s real name; she only knew her as Momma. Since all of the family records were owned and kept by Master Stewart, our family had no way of knowing where we came from or what our real family name was. For this reason, Momma always insisted that we always use ‘Momma Hannah,’ as her whole name. It always bothered our momma that she never knew her momma’s name.”
When I was young, Auntie Ruby glossed over certain details, simply jumping over to the happier facts. “Our momma married Charlie Bascom when she was twenty years old. Charlie worked in the gardens, while Momma managed the kitchen. Young Master Stewart was much nicer than Old Master Stewart, and he allowed Momma and Daddy to live in the cook’s cabin out beside the canning shed. One year later, Brother Samuel was born. Three years later in 1849, Pearl and I were born. We were the first set of twins ever to be born on the plantation. Our Daddy Charlie was a slave on the Stewart Plantation for only eight years. We never knew where he came from or where he went after being sold, but we loved him.”
At this point in Ms. Ruby’s story, she would always reach over and open my tin box, lift out the old, discolored button with the thread still hanging from it and say, “Toby Boy, this is all we have left of our Daddy Charlie. When our momma was saying her goodbyes, she tore it off his shirt as a remembrance. Some people are left mansions, some are left noble titles, but none of that is any more important to those people than this button is to us.” Then with a big smile, she would put it up to her lips and kiss it. “This was my daddy’s shirt button.”
Over that first two years, the tin box and the button became anchors from which all these stories were launched. They were repeated so often, they became emblazoned into my memory, but in September of 1906, everything changed.
The Atlanta Riots of 1906
For two long and wonderful years I had gotten up every morning, eaten breakfast and headed off to school, but that Monday, September 24, 1906, I was told my school was closed. They were not sure when it would reopen. That whole weekend we sat home, hearing about the terrible riots going on in the business district of Darktown, an area of Atlanta where all the business owners were Negros. Ms. Pearl worked there, and, on Saturday morning, her boss, Mr. Ward, stopped by and warned her to stay home. “The mobs are everywhere, Pearl. They broke out all of my windows and beat old Smithy almost to death when he tried to keep them from torching the place. Pearl, Jackson saw them beating Smithy and tried to rescue him but they shot and killed him.”
I knew Jackson was a friend of Ms. Pearl’s. He had sat at our table many a night. She dropped into the kitchen chair and lowered her head to the table. Her boss warned all of us to stay inside. “Don’t you even think of going to church tomorrow. Most people believe the mobs are going to go after the black churches tomorrow.”
I remember how shocked I was, and I blurted out, “Mr. Ward, you mean the mobs are white people? I had just figured they were black men, angry at having to go without.”
Mr. Ward then asked me this question: “Toby, why are you surprised the mob is white?”
In my nine-year-old mind, my answer made sense to me. “Mr. Ward, all my life when I lived in Harlem, everything bad that was ever done to me and my family was done to us by black people. I just figured it is the same here.”
Mr. Ward turned to Ms. Pearl and said, “Pearl, how are you preparing this boy to live in this world? He needs to know how dangerous it is out there for a black boy, and he can’t know it without knowing what his people have gone through. You cannot paint a pretty picture of slavery and send him out there and expect him to know how to act around people who still believe he should be a slave.”
That day the stories began to grow up, and so did I. That Sunday we heard that my teacher, Miss Buttons, had been shot trying to defend her father; both had been killed. Reality was hitting me hard. No more sweet stories. That weekend, I lost my innocence. More than two hundred blacks were killed during that four-day riot. Only one white person died, and she died of a heart attack at seeing all the violence.
I am thankful I was told the truth. When I hear comments like, “Most slaves had it pretty good,” they do not understand what it was like to live without self-control or self-determination; nor to be treated as if you were inhuman and emotionless. I learned how unjust it was to live under even the kindest of masters. Once I lost my beloved, Miss Buttons, I no longer felt like a child. Reality had knocked on our door and would not be denied entry.
My little boy’s heart was crushed. Ms. Pearl cautioned, “Toby, while we are trapped here in this house, Ruby and I need to tell you the whole truth about our lives as slaves. Toby, you can only appreciate how wonderful your grandpa was when you fully understand what those before you went through. We’ve told you all about when we ran and hid in the caverns, and you love those stories. What we have not told you is that our Momma would not go with us. She wanted us to run and be safe, but she refused to go with us. At the time, Sister and I were fifteen, and Brother Samuel was nineteen. We all knew Sherman’s army was coming, and we needed to hide because no one was safe. We didn’t understand how Momma could feel so loyal to Ms. Victoria that she would choose her over us. It took us years of thinking about her life before we finally understood why Momma did what she did. Toby, it is important that you know what people experienced back then—so you won’t judge them for what they did.”
A fast moving southbound train startled Tobias back to the present. Ruth was still deep in conversation with the woman across the aisle so, instead of interrupting them, Tobias lifted his gr
eat-grandmother’s tin box and silently repeated Ms. Pearl’s caution so many years ago: ‘Toby, it is important that you know what people experienced back then—so you won’t judge them for what they did.’
As a boy, he had struggled when he had learned what Momma Hannah had done. He did not understand it—even when the sisters told him why. Today, thinking about all that ‘Little Hannah’ had endured, he no longer judged her for her choices.
Today, more than ever, this box represented the best and the worst of his family history. Holding the same tin box that Great-Grandma Hannah once held brought both comfort and real sorrow. Rubbing his fingers across the surface, he could not help but ponder, “Did my great-grandma ever rub her fingers across this surface?”
Momma Hannah was not simply a character in one of Auntie Ruby’s great stories. She was as real as this tin box, and I love her because she deserved to be loved. She had a hard life and did the best she could. I am so thankful I was allowed to get to know her through Ms. Ruby’s great storytelling. She repeated Momma Hannah’s words so smoothly, that even all these years later, I can sit here on this train and imagine myself being in that canning shed with Momma Hannah.
Aunt Ruby always started this story with, “Toby Boy, as children, Samuel, Pearl, and I did not understand our momma. Her blind loyalty to Ms. Victoria, the Master’s wife, was always a puzzle to us, and to be honest, it hurt our feelings. It was not until our four months in the cavern that her reasons for being loyal to Ms. Victoria became clear to us. But Toby, even though we understood, it was hard to watch our momma choose Ms. Victoria over her own children.
“Toby, it is not fair to tell you that Momma picked Ms. Victoria over us without telling you why. There is always a ‘why’ behind every choice we make. Our whys are not always good ones, but we all have a why. When someone’s choices hurt our feelings, it helps to look a little deeper and try to understand that person’s why.”
Ms. Pearl joined in and added, “Toby, sometimes we will never know a person’s why. Our momma would never talk about her life. We might have lost her for good, without knowing what she had experienced, had it not been for that canning season the year Sissy and I were six. After that canning season, Momma Hannah refused to speak about the matter again, but at least we finally knew her story.”
Aunt Ruby’s face would brighten up whenever she talked about her time in the canning shed with her momma. Ms. Ruby would change her voice so it sounded like Momma Hannah whenever she would quote her. I had no trouble believing every word.
“Toby, while we were in the canning shed, Momma said, ‘As far as slave owners go, the Stewart family is fair enough. They is known to use a gentle hand with their slaves, but don’t you never let down your guard. One slip of the tongue, and you gunna find yous self sold off. Believe me, I know what I is talking about. You best always keep your thoughts to yourself. No storytelling. Ms. Victoria won’t care if you is just a child. She won’t care that you is just repeating something one of the old slaves told you. You best remember, even if’n those stories are only half true, it is lots worse where Ms. Victoria would be send’n you.’ ”
Pearl would smile and say, “That is exactly how Momma talked.”
Then Ruby would add, “Momma always warned us, ‘Now, Young Master Stewart is a kind man—better than his daddy was, but he ain’t gunna brook no rebellion. Ms Victoria is always saying she don’t trust none of us, so don’t you give her no reason to send you away from here.’ ”
Looking over at her sister, Ruby said, “Remember how hot it was in that shed, Sister?”
Pearl nodded, smiled and said, “But it was worth it, wasn’t it, Ruby? If not for that canning season, we might never have learned our momma’s story.”
“Toby, the only reason our momma told us her story was because it was so hot in that canning shed. She knew Master Stewart would never come close to the shed during canning season. The heat was terrible, and the flies were everywhere. Ms. Victoria would not be caught anywhere near the shed, so Momma felt safe to talk.
“Pearl and I were given the task of water bathing the peaches, pulling off the stems, and making sure no rotten peaches were sent to the hot-water dip. Momma made sure we stayed away from the big copper pots filled with boiling water. As we filled a basket with clean peaches, she would carry the basket over and dump them into the boiling water to release the skin more easily. She would then take a large ladle and scoop out the peaches before they cooked, dip them into ice cold water and give them back to us. Then we would pull off the skin and place them in another pot for Momma to cut and pit. We spent weeks with Momma out in the canning shed during the height of canning season.
“It was hot enough during a Georgia summer, but that shed, with those three big copper pots full of boiling water, represented such hard work. But we loved it, didn’t we, Sister? That was the only time we could get Momma to talk.”
Pearl sat back and smiled at her sister. “Ruby, you tell Toby Boy this story. You tell it so much better than I do. Besides, when you tell it, I can sit back, close my eyes, and be right back there in the canning shed with our momma.”
“Well, it started out plain enough. Momma got the fires started, and the big copper pots had been filled with water when all of a sudden, she said, ‘I remember canning with my momma when I was about your age. This shed wasn’t here then. Old Master Stewart hated all the flies that came with canning, so he had a shed built out at the far edge of the garden. That shed has been gone a long time, but I still remember.’”
“Toby,” Ms. Pearl added, “we were so excited to hear our momma telling her story we did not dare say a word—for fear of stopping her.”
SECTION FOUR
HANNAH:
Me and Ms. Victoria
1824-1853
10. Ms. Victoria’s Helper
11. How I Married Charlie
CHAPTER 10
Ms. Victoria’s Helper
I WAS BORN to one of the favorite house cooks, but I don’t even know her name. I was only seven when she died. All I ever called her was “Momma.” I never knew who my daddy was. Old Master Stewart did not believe in letting any of his slaves live under his roof—not even his favorite cooks.
Seems there was a cook from somewhere down in Louisiana, and she up and poisoned the whole family for selling off her children. I was only three years old, but I became the Master’s taster. Old Master Stewart would not touch a bite of food until I took a bite first. I had to take a bite of everything that was served at the family table while standing right in front of old Master Stewart. Didn’t matter if I liked it or not; I took a bite, and I swallered. He was sure my momma would not poison me—at least that was what he counted on. This went on for three years—every single meal. I swallered some right nasty stuff back then.
I got two canning seasons in with my own momma before she died. Up until then, Momma and I had the cook’s cabin all by ourselves. Old Master Stewart was so afraid of catching some sickness from the slaves, we were kept away from the field workers.
I was seven when my Momma died. I don’t know what she died of; she just died. But once she did, old Master Stewart just sent me down to live in the slave’s quarters with the older women. I was too young to work in his kitchen without my momma, so I was sent out into the fields for two long years, working beside the older women. I hated that work, and I hated the field cabins, but what was I to do?
It was really dirty in the field cabins, and the old women were worn out and mean. I had been accustomed to clean clothes and good food, but out there you fought for every single scrap. I stayed out in the field sheds for two long years. About the time I turned nine, Master Stewart brought home his cousin’s daughter, Victoria, who was about eight years old. Her parents had died in a smallpox epidemic in Charleston, so he went and got Victoria. One day, old Master Stewart walked out into the field, pointed at me, and said, “Go clean yourself up, Hannah. From now on you will live in the cook’s cabin with Molly because I won’t ha
ve a dirty girl walking around in my house. The Missus has some new clothes for you, and, from now on, you will be Victoria’s helper. You are to do everything she tells you to do or else you will find yourself right back here in the fields. You understand?”
I was so happy. No more field work! Clean clothes and good food, and all I had to do was keep Miss Victoria happy. Life was good again. I learned all kinds of games, but I always had to let Ms. Victoria win. I learned how to braid her hair and how to keep her clothes in order. It was my job to listen to her constant prattling all day long. As a young girl, Ms. Victoria was a spoiled, tantrum-throwing brat, but it was better than the fields. I was to walk beside Ms. Victoria when she took her pony out for a walk, making sure to have plenty of fresh water whenever Ms. Victoria wanted any. For four long years I was in and out of the main house from sunup to sundown. The most serious rule old Master Stewart had was: “Once the sun goes down, all slaves must be out of the house, and the doors are to be locked.” Old Master Stewart never trusted any slave.
My life was good until the day I got too comfortable and forgot my place. Ms. Victoria had insisted we play a game that day, and Ms. Victoria thought I had cheated. Angry at being accused of cheating—especially when I always let her win—made me mad, and I defended myself and yelled back at Ms. Victoria. She took my outburst well, but just outside the bedroom door, Old Master Stewart heard me yelling and came in, snatched me up, and dragged me right out to the field house. I was thirteen years old, and it didn’t matter that I had been good for four long years.
Old Master Stewart did not trust his slaves—especially anyone showing anger, so I was banished from the house. The stories I heard from the field slaves scared me something awful. The slaves who had been traded in would talk about how small our plantation was compared to others. They said most were many times larger, but old Master Stewart was known as a dabbler. When I asked what that was, one old woman pulled me aside and asked, “How old are you girl?”
Treasure in a Tin Box (Wall of Silence Book 1) Page 8