by Jana Petken
She looked at her hands. They were trembling at the thought of setting foot once more in the house she had left all those months ago, a sick broken-hearted girl, fearful of a life without Jacob and filled with thoughts of revenge against Madame du Pont. In June, she had imagined going back to Jacob’s home, riding Coal beside him and Thor, happy and optimistic. She had pictured a glorious homecoming, not this grief-stricken road.
“Nelson, we have to give you a new name!” she exclaimed. The thought had burst into her mind after thinking about the past and Madame du Pont. “Nelson Stuart is still a wanted fugitive. It will only take one person to find out that you’re at Stone Plantation to bring a bunch of bloodthirsty Southerners down on your head. We have to give you a new name. That’s all there is to it.”
“But I like my name.”
“I like your name too, but Sheriff Manning might come for you if he knows you’re here. I’m going to tell everyone that you are my slave. We both know you’re not a slave, but we’ll have to pretend you are, at least for a little while. I’ll say I brought you from Richmond. You have to agree to this, Nelson. It’s the only way. Pick a name – any name you like.”
“No.”
Mercy stopped the cart and stood up, holding the reins tightly inside her clenched fist. She looked at him with flashing eyes and a stubborn pout to her lips. “I’m fit for nothing, Nelson! I can barely think about anything other than poor Isaac. I’m ready to shoot someone for saying the wrong word to me! God’s truth! For once in your life, can you not agree with me on something?” Sobbing, she sat back down, hands covering face and body swaying.
“Thomas – Thomas, like your father,” Nelson said. “I’s sorry, Miss Mercy. You ain’t got to weep no more.”
“Thank you,” Mercy croaked hoarsely. “Thomas will be fine. Thomas Freeman, just so you remember you’re not a slave.”
“Thomas Freeman,” Nelson repeated. “That sure sounds nice.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Mercy drove the horse and cart onto the road leading to Stone Plantation, passing barren fields devoid of cotton, tobacco, and slaves. When the house came into view, she noticed lawns covered in sparse clumps of grass, yellowed with the sun and dry weather. Jacob had often spoken to her about his gardens and their spectacular summer rose beds, which graced the land and house with fragrant air, but she neither saw nor smelled flowers on this sad desert-like plain.
The horse and cart threw up the dust which lay on the surface of the hard-crusted dirt road leading to the front entrance of the house. She choked on the dry taste of earth in her mouth, covering it with her hand and sighing with relief when the cart halted at the foot of the porch steps. “We made it, Nelson. Welcome to your new home,” she said, cheered somewhat.
Slaves, appearing from behind tall hedges at the bottom of the garden, walked in a long ragged procession up the driveway towards Mercy and Nelson. Mercy looked at the black faces and smiled at their eagerness to welcome her, but on closer inspection, she noted that they were not a happy bunch. Their faces held lost and forlorn expressions, and her smile froze. Mercy left Nelson with the cart and the hordes of Negros now surrounding it, telling Nelson she would be back momentarily, after she had greeted Belle.
The door to the big house was open. She walked inside and called loudly for Belle. The hallway was covered in a fine film of dust. It was filthy and had an air of abandonment. This was a strange sight, Mercy thought, especially with the mistress of the house being in residence. She looked up the curved staircase and called out again. “Hello, Belle? Are you home? Is anyone here?”
She walked into the drawing room – no one. The dining room, salon, and library were also empty. The house was deserted. There was no evidence at all of Belle and her parents living here. The big house was in a sorry state. Some couches remained, but the Yankees had ransacked most of the furniture. Mercy remembered the fine oak dressers and walnut tables which had graced the rooms. They were gone, leaving only their marked outlines on the bare walls where they had once sat. The walls had also been stripped of paintings and fine carvings, and only a cracked mirror remained, hanging lopsidedly.
Missing too were crystal vases and glasses, rugs from Morocco, and unusual ornaments from France and Spain. The house was a mere shell of its former self, as though the pearl had been snatched from the oyster.
She stood in the hallway with a worried frown. Where had Belle gone? she wondered. Why had she not sent word?
Mercy felt a presence behind her and turned to see a slave standing cap in hand and with an anxious expression on his gaunt face. She smiled at him. He had no idea who she was, she thought, other than a woman who did not appear threatening. “Hello, what’s your name?” she asked him.
“Reginald, ma’am, but the massa call me Reggie.”
“Hello, Reggie. My name is Mercy Carver.”
“You come to call on Mistress Belle?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Mercy, distracted by noise, turned to the entrance. A growing number of slaves had now appeared at the front door. They did not cross the threshold. Instead, they crowded its frame, staring at her with open curiosity. Mercy had never seen such a ragtag bunch of people. They were pitifully skinny, scared, and looked like lost children seeking guidance. “Where is your mistress?” she asked. She wore a worried frown, still staring at the Negros.
“Mistress Belle, she done take Miss Grace to New Orleans, to Massa Hendry,” Reggie told her. “He on his ship, and she say she needs to see him – I don’ rightly know if she’s comin’ back. She done take Handel too, cause she was mighty scared to go alone. She say she need Handel to look after Mr Hendry when she gets to Louisiana. We ain’t got no one tellin’ us what to do. Handel, he done look after us. What we do now? We ain’t got nothin’ to put in our empty bellies.”
Mercy heard her sharp intake of breath. Belle gone, Hendry back in America, and where in God’s name was Louisiana? “Where are Mistress Belle’s mother and father?” she asked him.
“They gone too. They livin’ in Portsmouth.”
Holy mother of God – what was she to do now? She looked at the black faces pleading for help, eyes filled with sadness and confusion. She had to think quickly. She had come to an empty house without the right to be inside it, in the eyes of the law. As soon as Portsmouth folk found out, they’d throw her out on her ear. “Please ask my man, Thomas Freeman, to come inside. Wait outside, Reggie. Get all the slaves to gather round. I’ll be with you shortly – everything is going to be all right,” she added quickly.
Mercy sat Nelson down on the couch in the drawing room. She sat next to him and held his hand. “Nelson, we are alone, and I don’t know how long we’ll be able to stay. But whilst we are here, you must help me to help the slaves. These Negros are not like you. They haven’t seen or done anything bar live and work on this land. Handel was in charge of all these slaves. The poor souls don’t seem to know what to do without him. You know the land. You have worked on a plantation for most of your life, and you know the white man’s world. I can’t do this without you.”
“What you want me to do?”
“You will do what you do best: give orders. You’ve always liked ordering me around, haven’t you? And you can see to the slaves. The poor souls have no one to protect them or to give them guidance. This is what you can do as a free man.
“We have to get his house in order before Mr Jacob comes back. We will plant some vegetables. I don’t know how we’re going to feed all these mouths, but we had better try. I can hunt, but I doubt if I’ll get much more than a few rabbits – and, Nelson, my money is running out. God’s truth, the last thing Mr Jacob will want to see is this chaos – and us starving!”
Nelson’s eyes shone bright with contentment. He had dreaded stepping foot on a white man’s land. On the drive here, he’d recalled his days with Massa Stuart, a period in his life he had tried so hard to forget. Plantations and massas were a thing of the past, he’d thought, and he ha
d sworn never to work the land or serve a white massa or mistress again. But this was different – he was free. Miss Mercy would not treat him like a slave. He would be a bossman. And he knew Miss Mercy. She would work harder than them niggers livin’ here.
“I ain’t afraid of hard work, Miss Mercy. You knows me, and you knows I can help you real good. I reckon we can get these niggers workin’ those fields in no time, and I’ll toil right along beside ’em. I ain’t no slave, but these my kin here, and I aim to give them some hope back – they ain’t gonna have no cause to sit around here all day on their nigger behinds when we needs food to eat. No, sir, they got to work fir their supper.”
Mercy hugged him and smiled brightly. We’re going to make a good team, you and me. You’ll make a wonderful gaffer.”
“What dat word?” Nelson asked.
Mercy laughed. “It means you will be in a position to order everyone around, bar me, of course. I know you’ll enjoy that very much.”
After Mercy had spoken with the slaves and had formally introduced Nelson as Thomas Freeman, Abby, the slave she had been given when she first arrived in America, handed her a letter. It was from Belle.
My dearest Mercy,
Please forgive me for not being here to greet you. It is quite unforgivable of me, I know, but circumstances compelled me to leave hurriedly and I barely had time to write this letter. I do hope you understand.
By now, you will have found out that Hendry is in New Orleans and I have gone to meet him. Louisiana is far from Virginia, and I do not know if or when I will return. But I am so very happy to be reunited with him, Mercy, and I know had you been in my position, you would have run to Jacob.
I’m so sorry, darling. I should not be talking about my happiness when you are grieving for Jacob. I also miss him. He was my brother, and I loved him dearly. What a terrible day it was when we went to city hall. A list of casualties had been put up. There were so many dead and missing, all from Portsmouth. The list was about three inches long. It broke our hearts to look at the names of our neighbours and people we did business with for years. Jacob’s name was on the list, and next to his name was his status: “Missing – presumed dead.” You must accept his death, Mercy. If you don’t, you will go mad with hopeless expectations.
I have informed Sheriff Manning that you might return to Stone Plantation. He will call on you from time to time – he was one of Jacob’s oldest friends, and I just know he’ll do all he can to give you assistance, should you need it.
Mercy crumpled the letter and scowled. People were talking about Jacob as though he were already buried, but she still had hope. How could so many men disappear into thin air if they were supposed to be lying dead? She understood that bodies could be missed, or were unidentifiable, but when she was in Richmond, she saw lists covering all states, and there were hundreds of men missing. Surely it made more sense to believe that no one could find them because they were taken prisoner? She was angry. Belle had lost faith, and she of all people should be ashamed of herself. Belle never gave up on Hendry when he set to sea. She smoothed the pages and read on.
Jacob’s home is not your responsibility but please remain there for as long as you wish. I wanted to comfort you in your devastation, and I have let you down terribly. Poor Jacob, he loved you so.
I must rush away now, Mercy, but I leave you with a last piece of news about, Elizabeth and her family. Mrs Coulter has belly sickness. Personally, I believe she talked herself into a malady, for she threatened she would be ill with something or other. We must pity her deeply, though. She has just lost her youngest son, George. She has borne so much pain.
The Coulters are still in North Carolina. I hear tell that Jacob was sending them money to pay for their lodgings and for Elizabeth’s appeal. From what I hear, the appeal has every chance of succeeding, thanks to your testimony about that awful Mrs Mallory. The judge in Richmond was spittin’ mad at Elizabeth’s lies, but those judges in North Carolina seem to be more sympathetic, what with her being a wronged woman and all.
Finally, I am praying to the Lord, hoping he will see fit to save Isaac. Please send him my love and tell him to be strong. I will get news to you, and an address, and hope that you will write me soon.
God bless you, my dear Mercy. Stay safe.
Belle
Isaac, oh, Isaac,” Mercy mumbled. She walked from the house into the fading afternoon sun. She would ponder Belle’s letter later, she thought. She didn’t want to think about Elizabeth right now, for she, Mercy Carver, was now a Southern planter, and there was much work to do.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Jacob sat in front of a Union Army lieutenant, knowing yet barely believing he was being paroled and would be going home within hours. It was early August, and his wounds had healed reasonably well. His general state of health, however, had been sorely affected by cramped conditions. There was a lack of decent food and water, and a blistering August heat had also contributed to making the dire situation inside the makeshift prisoner of war camp worse. Dysentery, poisoned wounds, and exhaustion had infected many of the prisoners, delaying the parole programme set in place by both governments.
The camp was overflowing with Confederate prisoners, and they were as unwelcome as ticks on a horse’s back, as far as the Yankees were concerned. Both the North and South had agreed to a prisoner exchange policy as a necessity rather than a goodwill gesture. The North in particular was unwilling to incarcerate, house, and feed prisoners on the Virginia Peninsula over a long period, for the year-long blockade had meant limited food supplies for its own army.
Jacob was silent as he waited for the lieutenant to sign his final parole papers. Sitting inside the tent felt like a luxury long denied him. It was as hot as a furnace but shaded from the sun’s rays, which had blistered his forehead, swollen his eyelids, and cracked his lips. He had no hat, for that had been lost in some cornfield. His uniform had not been washed since the day he’d been wounded, and it still bore blood and bullet holes. His gut was particularly painful this morning, and it had grumbled loudly the entire time he’d been in the tent. As he waited, he wondered if he would make it home at all without having to find places to shit or vomit every five minutes.
“Looks like I got all I need, Captain,” the lieutenant said finally.
“Then I’m free to get out of this shithole?”
“Yep, if that’s what you want to call it. I reckon you should remember that this shithole saved your damn life, and considering you’re a traitor to your country, I believe you should be mighty grateful for that small mercy.”
Jacob decided to shut up before he scratched his powerful need to insult the smug son of a bitch any further. “Yes, sir,” he said sarcastically.
“Alright, so you understand that you are being paroled by the United States government and her army.”
Jacob nodded, but he refused to say yes to the United States, for anything.
The Union officer lifted a quizzical eyebrow but didn’t force Jacob to answer. “Now, there are terms attached to your release. You got to sign this paper here, stating that you will take off that uniform and not put it back on. You ain’t got no cause to rejoin your army, but if you get a hankering to fight us again and you’re captured, we’ll string you up just a quick as you can sing Dixie. You got that?”
Jacob said nothing.
“What I’m saying, just so you understand, is if you put that uniform back on, you will be under the sentence of death. Nod your damn head!”
“I understand, Lieutenant,” Jacob said, “and I don’t have a hankerin’ to fight no one. I’m going home to grow vegetables.”
“Where you from, Captain?”
“Portsmouth.”
“Then I figure you’ll be transported along with some of the other Rebs to Newport News and put on a ferry to Norfolk. You get yourself home now – and don’t let the Union see your face again.”
“I’m going to Richmond first,” Jacob told him. “I need to see my girl befor
e I go home.”
“Captain, you’re getting out of here today because the federal government is allowing it. If I had my way, I’d string you up right now for what you’ve done to our country. Don’t try my patience. You will not be going anywhere near Richmond, you hear?”
Jacob’s horse, loaned to him by Dolly, stood passively underneath the stone arch that marked his land’s border. He sighed with relief as he looked up at the sign reading Stone Plantation, feeling a measure of disbelief. He’d learned on his arrival in Portsmouth that his home was intact and still his. He had also learned from Dolly in Norfolk that Belle was with Hendry in New Orleans, Mercy was alone at the plantation, Elizabeth had been released from prison, and Isaac had died.
He kicked the horse into a smooth canter on the last mile of his trip home, tears streaming down his face. His mind flashed with Dolly’s words. Her news about Mercy being here and Hendry and Jack home safe at last had been the best possible welcome home gift he could have received – but Isaac … Dear God, Isaac was gone, and heated words at a train station still etched in his mind.
Jacob’s body was racked with pain, and he felt dizzy, with imaginary pounding fists inside his belly. But he was almost at the house. He had made it home. Mercy was at the end of this road, and she would tend to him and make him well. He’d look into her eyes and let her know that there would be no more separations, no saying goodbye because of duty to war or spouse. This was his journey’s end and hers too.