I fumbled for the light and squeezed it on. I’d moved the trunk out into roughly the center of the narrow space. I tried the lid again, and it came fully open. The rusty slide hinges protested but held. I shined the light inside, onto neatly folded stacks of old clothes. On top of them sat a set of delicate gray gloves and a brooch. I picked up the small piece of jewelry and turned it over in my hand. It was tarnished and difficult to see, but had some type of beautiful, swirled pattern. Maybe it belonged to one of my ancestors. I put it in my pocket. I’d get a better look at it in the light.
I gently lifted the folds of delicate patterns and ruffles. I sat back on my heels, my stomach making my insides feel fluttery. I’d found the costume closet from the set of Gone with the Wind. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it is one of my favorite movies. I had no idea why I would be drawn to such an over-idealized drama, and yet I’d watched it countless times. And now, I had my own plantation. I shook the bizarre thought aside. I could never keep this place and pretend to be Scarlett. There were simply more practical things to be done.
I eased my hand through the fabric and ran my fingers along the bottom of the trunk. There didn’t seem to be anything else in there. Still, I really wanted to get the trunk out and go through everything in the light. It looked really old. I wondered how long it had remained hidden.
I pulled down on the lid to close the trunk, but the metal hinges were stuck. I pulled harder, jerking on the outer latch. Finally, it gave and slammed closed, sending me backward for a second time. I sat there for a moment, letting my breathing return to normal.
What was that? A faint sound came from inside the trunk. I leaned closer and heard a soft, scratchy sound, like…fabric ripping. My breath caught in my throat as I eased the lid open again. The noise became louder, and something fell from the torn lining. It landed on the clothes below with a soft thud. I shined the light inside.
A book.
My arms bubbled into gooseflesh. Someone had hidden a book inside the fabric lining of the trunk’s lid. My nerves tingled. Gingerly, I lifted the small leather-bound volume and shined the light on it. Nothing marked the cover, and it was wrapped and tied with two leather strings. I set it on the floor next to me and gently closed the trunk, which no longer protested. Scooping up my treasure, I hurried back into the blinding light of the attic storage room.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I gently untied the leather strings and opened to the first page. The paper was yellowed and brittle at the edges, but I could still open the binding far enough to see the entire page. Flowing cursive filled it; the date at the top read April 25, 1862.
A diary. I’d found something no one had seen in over a century! I plopped on the floor and leaned against a stack of boxes, drawing my knees up to balance the journal. Excitement coursed through me, pushing the dragon and his poison back into his hiding place. At least for the time being, I felt a tangible sense of destiny. Who could deny the serendipity of my finding the trunk? And, who knew what secrets this little leather treasure held?
Taking a deep breath, I began to read.
April 25, 1862
Today I shall finally have something to record of more consequence than my nerves over my wedding and the subsequent doubts that I have tried to dispel in these past weeks since coming to my new home. For today I must record the events of my rather peculiar trip to town. What started as any other errand quickly turned into quite a spectacle. My stomach’s still fluttering, thinking on what I’ve done. Heaven knows how Charles will respond. He’s always saying I’m trying to act too much like a man. Well, today I am inclined to think he may be right. But I couldn’t let that poor girl suffer, could I?
I’d just stepped onto the front porch of Willard’s to pick out fabric and maybe some new tubes of paint, if any had been delivered from Natchez, when I heard a whip crack. I assumed a wayward horse to be the cause of such a sound, until it was followed by the most unholy moaning.
In the middle of the street, surrounded by a cloud of dust driven up by the shuffling of hooves and bare feet, stood a line of slaves hooked together by a single rope. Behind them, a man flicked a whip through the air, encouraging the sluggish procession to move faster. A man’s slaves were none of my business, so I turned to continue on my errand.
“Got fine stock here, folks. Come and see! Fine stock.”
This man actually had the gall to conduct a sale in the middle of a public street? I shook my head and reached for the doorknob.
“Excellent prices! All strong workers. Three hundred fifty dollars for the males, and three hundred for the females.”
I turned to study the driver. A bull of a man, thick-set and mean-looking. I glanced around. Several other persons of standing had paused to watch the filthy driver pull a floppy hat from his head and run his arm across his forehead. I recognized several of the townsfolk, though I still can’t remember their names. Perhaps none would notice if I tarried a while longer.
A few men stepped forward to inspect the line of slaves. The lot of them looked pitiful. Torn clothes hung on their gaunt bodies. I wondered where they might have come from. The man with the floppy hat walked down the line of them. The Coloreds shuffled their feet, keeping their eyes on the ground. Except for one. A slim woman with skin the color of maple stood in the center of the line, her chin lifted and her shoulders square. Her dark eyes studied the onlookers, whose curiosity had drawn them as close as they dared. The driver noticed the girl and snatched at her short hair with his beefy hand. He pulled her forward.
“This one here’s strong. Good field worker. Got straight legs and a strong back.” He sneered. “Make good breeding stock, too.” I cringed.
From my place on the porch, I could see over the heads of those on the street. I’d never witnessed a slave sale before, and the thing fascinated me. The big man grasped the girl’s face to show her teeth to his prospective buyers. As the driver’s finger reached for her mouth, she jerked her head away. He quickly grabbed for her again, clamping her jaw in his hand and holding her still. No one would want a defiant slave. He pried her mouth open.
“Got all the teeth!” he declared.
He pushed her face away. I expected she’d submit now, but instead she leaned her head back and landed a wad of spittle on his boots. A collective gasp rang out from the onlookers.
The driver turned slowly, his voice rumbling from his chest. “Yer going to regret that.”
The female stared at him, refusing to lower those flashing obsidian eyes. The driver pulled the whip from his side and let it go with a sickening crack. When leather met flesh, the girl reeled back and clasped her shoulder, but she didn’t cry out. He cracked the leather snake again and again, ripping through the ragged cloth that hung from her frame. She fell to her knees, unable to withstand the pain yet still not uttering a sound. Blood oozed from several places on her shoulder and bare arm. The man tossed the whip to the side and raised his hand high above her head.
He was going to kill her right there in the middle of the street. I knew it like I knew my own name.
“Stop!” Startled faces turned to me. Had I no control over what came from my own lips? I bounded down the steps, my skirts kicking up red dust.
The man turned away from the girl, and his eyes roamed over me. I forced myself to maintain my composure and hold my head high, befitting my status. Better to keep moving forward than to make a fool of myself for nothing.
“That’s quite enough, sir,” I said. “I intend to buy this one, and I’ll not have you damaging her any further.”
The man frowned at me, weighing his greed against his temper.
I fumbled with the drawstring of my reticule before finally getting my trembling fingers inside. Still holding his gaze, I thrust every note I had into his face.
“I’ll give you two-fifty for her. She’s obviously going to need some work.” I held my breath. The sight of cash tipped the scales, and he snatched the money from my hand.
“She’s your proble
m now, lady.” He turned and grabbed the girl by the scalp and untied her ropes, thrusting her toward me. “Bet your husband ain’t going to be too pleased you spent all your dress money on this here Negro.”
I bit back the retort on my tongue. I grabbed the girl’s torn sleeve and tugged on her to follow me. I half-expected her to turn and bolt. Truthfully, that might have been much simpler, but she followed silently behind me.
I hurried through the throng of onlookers, who stared at me with open astonishment. I bet they’d never seen a woman buy a slave before, much less from off the street. What would my husband think, indeed?
I quickened my steps, glancing behind me. Still there. I made it to the carriage to find Tommy slumbering in the sun. How could a man sleep in the middle of town? Charles finds Tommy’s habit much more amusing than I do. I suppose his fondness for the man overshadows his judgment.
“Tommy! Wake up!”
His eyes flew open, and he ran a hand over his ebony face. “Sorry Ma’am. I thought—” he stopped short, noticing the girl behind me. Surprise flickered across his wrinkled features but he snapped his unhinged jaw shut.
“We are going home, Tommy.”
“Yes’um.” He glanced at the girl again. “Where do I put, um, where do you want…?” He eyed the large chicken feed sacks stacked next to him in the driver’s seat.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t know. I guess she’ll just have to ride in the back with me.” I flung open the door and climbed in, not bothering to wait for Tommy to climb down and get it. I plopped down on the seat. The girl didn’t follow. I thought perhaps she’d ducked into the crowd and disappeared. I stuck my head out the door. She still stood on the street. I sighed. “Well, come on. Get in. We need to get Betsy to look at those cuts. Hurry up.”
She looked up at me then. Those eyes were unnerving up close. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever. When she finally spoke, her voice resonated, calm and purposeful.
“It ain’t proper for a field hand to ride in the carriage with a white lady.”
I nodded. This was true, although it usually only applied to males. “As of now, you are my personal house girl. You will be traveling with me quite a bit, so you might as well get used to it.” More words tumbled from my mouth without prior thought. Mother would be furious.
She stared at me a moment longer. Finally, she shrugged and stepped into the carriage, sitting awkwardly across from me. The wounds on her arms left trails of caked blood nearly to her wrists, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Despite how awful they looked, they didn’t appear to be deep.
Tommy hollered at the horses to get up, and the carriage lurched forward. The girl grabbed onto the cushions to balance herself and watched the passing town from the window. I took a moment to study her. If she noticed, she paid no attention. She was certainly different than the others. Even Lucy seemed not to possess the presence that surrounded this girl. A smile tugged on my lips. I’d chosen one that could not be more the opposite of Mother’s Sally.
I’ve been getting along well enough with Lucy, who tends to leave me be whenever she isn’t frowning over some misstep I’ve made. Did I really need someone to be my shadow? Yet, something about this girl intrigued me.
“What is your name?” I asked.
The girl settled her gaze on me. “Ruth.”
“Hello, Ruth. I am Mrs. William Charles Harper of Ironwood Plantation.”
She nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Where did you come from?”
Something flickered across her features, but disappeared just as quickly. “Cedar Hall, in Natchez.”
“How did you wind up in the Delta?”
She stared out the window, her voice hard. “House burned down, and fire ate up most of the land with it. We ran off through the woods, tryin’ to stay alive.” She narrowed her eyes. “Not to escape.”
Perhaps. Then again, she had followed me with little prompting. She might not be the type to run. I was about to ask her why she did not return to her master when she spoke again.
“But, them white men, they didn’t believe us. Said we was runaways. I don’t know if Mr. Harris even knows they took us.” She lifted her slim shoulders. “We were too tired to remember much ’bout how it happened, but we ended up with that….man. Then we was here.”
I wonder if she is telling the truth. The story seemed much too simple. Yet, what difference would it make, anyway? I had no intention of sending her back to Natchez. We settled into silence, the soft plodding of the horse’s hooves creating a soothing rhythm in the quiet afternoon.
Dust boiled from the road, unhindered by the slightest breeze, and the red mist settled about me. I brushed at my skirts, but the stubborn filth insisted on clinging to everything.
Ruth kept her focus outside the carriage, and I let her be until we neared Ironwood. I cleared my throat. “So, you were a field hand?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Do you know anything about house work?”
She looked at me a moment. “No, Ma’am. Ain’t never been in the big house.”
An honest answer. Perhaps she did tell the truth of her origins. “No matter. I’ll have Lucy teach you everything you need to know.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She fidgeted in her seat. “Thank you, Ma’am,” she said, her voice nearly inaudible.
I lifted my eyebrows. “Nonsense. My husband’s been saying I need a girl of my own.”
She dipped her chin.
“Besides….” I sighed. “That man was a monster.”
I closed my eyes and laid my head against the cushion for the moments remaining until we reached the house. When the carriage came to a stop, I sent her straight to Betsy to get cleaned up and have those cuts bandaged. She obeyed without a word, ignoring the stares that followed her.
I found Lucy in the parlor, dusting the pianoforte.
“Lucy, I will need you to prepare the unused room above the kitchen.”
She straightened and drew a sharp breath. “What for?”
I raised my brows. “Because I have found a new girl, and she will need a place to stay.”
“You found a girl? In town?”
I wondered at Lucy’s behavior but dismissed it. “Yes. That room isn’t being used, and so it shall be hers.”
Lucy looked uncomfortable, though I can’t imagine why. I doubt it is because she does not want to give up tending me. “Let the girl alone for tomorrow so she will heal. I’ve sent her along to Betsy. She looks in need of some tending.”
Lucy nodded. “Betsy’s good at tendin’.”
“Then I will expect you to teach her about the duties around Ironwood.”
Lucy brightened. “Yes Ma’am. I’ll take care of her teachin’.” She ducked out the door before I could say anything more. I have the suspicion Lucy is the type who will enjoy giving orders.
So, that has been my day, little book, and I am grateful for your open pages. I find the writing to be therapeutic for me. Upon releasing emotions into ink, I can then shut them behind leather confines and move onto something else. Even now, I am feeling much less stressed, having gotten all of this out of my head and onto a page.
Perhaps someday I will even be a lady writer. Perhaps this strange day will even be the beginning of such a story. So, I shall continue to write, and see what becomes of it. I will confide more of this story with you later, little book, as I am sure there will be much to tell. For now, I must resume with my duties and further seek to understand my place here.
I stared at the book. The woman’s name was Harper—just like Adela! She had to be an ancestor! I realized that was an extremely plausible insight, given the book’s location and the history of the house, yet I found my excitement over the fact somewhat surprising. I thought I didn’t care about my genealogy, and yet I found myself ecstatic over finding the writings of a Civil War great, great, great-something-or-other.
I ran my finger over the page, a second thought dampening the first. Alth
ough I’d found something personal from someone in my family, that someone had bought and sold people like cattle. Having grown up on the Union side of the war, I became uncomfortable with this revelation. Sure, I should have put the pieces together. This was, after all, a plantation in Mississippi. It made sense. Still, I guess I hadn’t really thought about it until reading the diary.
Somehow, this new knowledge shook the foundations of who I thought I was and where I’d come from. I’d pictured myself descending from generations of gritty factory workers and industrial revolutionists, a regular Rosie the Riveter. I suddenly felt a little more like Scarlett than I’d planned. I guess every family has its dark past. This just wasn’t what I expected mine to be.
I took a breath to keep myself from getting carried away and surveyed the attic. Waning light filtered through the dusty window, evidence that I must have lost track of the time. I studied the book in my hands, thinking I really ought to put it back where I found it. But, then, who would miss it? Besides, it was almost mine anyway.
I latched the access door and scrambled down the stairs, hugging the book to my chest. I locked the door and started my car just as the sun dipped below the trees. Questions rolled around in my head about the woman whose diary sat in my lap. Was she heartless for buying a slave? Or kind for rescuing one the only way she knew how?
I put the car in reverse and backed out. The diary author might be a slave owner, but she was also a writer. That put a few points back in her favor.
As I headed down the winding driveway, I cast one final look in the rearview mirror and thought about how many generations of my lost family had once called this place home. I swallowed down the thickness in my throat and ignored my imagination flexing its muscles. I didn’t have time to drift away to the land of make-believe.
Heir of Hope: Return to Ironwood Plantation (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 2) Page 4