“Great-Grandmother Eleanor?”
He nodded. “She also played a significant role in the purchase and management of Ella Wood. The estate was named after her, you know.”
“You never told me that. I thought it was just a pretty name Great-grandfather pulled out of his head.”
“Not at all. It was named in honor of his bride, Eleanor Woodson Preston. Quite a remarkable lady. Not only did she survive the War of Independence alone while her husband was off privateering, she is credited with killing four Hessians single-handedly.”
That got Emily’s attention. “How’d she do it?”
He rocked in the saddle as he spun out his story. “She and Grandfather owned a small farm ten miles outside Providence, Rhode Island. My father was about nine years old at the time. The way he told the story, the Hessians were out on a raiding party. Grandmother was terrified. She cooked them a meal and followed it with a jug of whiskey. When they were ‘well-medicated,’ as she used to say, she shot them with a pistol one by one and buried the bodies behind the chicken coop. My pa had to help dig the hole. They were never found out.”
Emily veered toward a grove where honeysuckle and crepe myrtle blossomed especially thick each spring. The shrubs pressed against a wrought iron fence, weeping over a dozen monuments cradled within its clasp. Emily reined Chantilly to a halt and gazed at the marble marker that indicated her great-grandmother’s resting place. “Grandmother Eleanor did all that?”
“She was an amazingly strong woman. And I see that same fortitude in you.”
Emily gripped one of the pointed iron uprights. “I hope I never have to kill anyone.”
He gestured to four tiny graves. “Not everyone is called to the same challenges. Your mother, too, is a remarkable woman.”
Emily read the names and dates. Four siblings, all dead before she was born. Her parents seldom spoke of them, but she knew her mother often wore a brooch with four red stones. “Do you ever think about what they might have been like had they grown up?”
“Every single day.” He focused steadily on a distant point of horizon before turning Tobias toward home. “As much as I regret it, I really need to get back.”
They covered the last quarter mile at a contemplative walk. As they neared the wharf, a crew of black men could be seen transferring rice barrels from a mule-drawn wagon onto the schooner and wrestling them into place. William wheeled the gelding in the direction of the river. “Excuse me. I didn’t expect so much activity at this hour.”
Emily followed.
“Turnbull!” William shouted as they drew near.
The only other white face in the yard turned in their direction. Edward Turnbull was a skeleton of a man with a bald head perched directly on thin, bony shoulders. Emily always thought he resembled the scarecrow in the kitchen garden. Though he looked weak, he could move decisively when necessary.
As the overseer strode toward them, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his hat, and mopped his forehead. Emily didn’t miss the bullwhip tied at his belt. “Good day, Mr. Preston,” he rumbled in a voice as deep as a bullfrog’s. “Miss Preston. It’s a warm one, ain’t it?”
“It will be winter soon enough,” William snapped. “I figured you’d be finished loading by now. Is there a problem?”
“Not anymore, sir. That threshing machine is as temperamental as an old mule. For a time there, I thought we’d have to get out the hand flails.”
“I assume Herod has it in working order again?”
“Yes, sir. The boy can fix anything, though I suspect he may have had a hand in the malfunction.”
William’s brows knit together. “The situation is in hand?”
“It’s been dealt with, sir. The machine is spitting out grain as fast as we can fork in the stalks.”
“And the loading?”
“Lewis has it well underway. One more wagon and she’ll be full up. You can get an early start in the morning.”
William nodded in satisfaction. Then his eye fixed on a black man who wrapped thick arms around a barrel and lifted it without assistance. It measured half Emily’s weight again. “How’s that new fellow working out?”
Turnbull crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance. “That slave,” he said in the same unruffled voice, “is sullen as an old goat. But he hasn’t caused any disturbances. Lewis assures me he won’t be a problem.”
“Call Lewis over.”
At the sound of his name, Josephine’s husband left off what he was doing and moved purposefully in their direction. Emily smiled and he dipped his head toward her respectfully. “Yes, sir?”
Turnbull grunted. “Boss wants to hear your thoughts on Ketch.”
Lewis looped his thumbs in the front of his trousers. “He know rice, sir,” he answered unhurriedly. “No man un’erstand more ’bout growin’ it.”
“I was told when I purchased him that his will is as strong as his arm. Is he putting in a full day’s work?” William asked.
Lewis squinted his eyes at the man in question. “He sour, but it his own free time he squanderin’ when he dallies.” The driver turned back and shifted his stance. “He got a chil’ over de Cooper River he like to visit time to time. Take some bit o’ walkin’.”
“And that has kept his behavior in check?”
“He love dat chil’, sir.”
“I see. Thank you, Lewis. That will be all.”
The driver nodded and returned to his duties.
“You let me know of any trouble,” William warned his overseer.
“There won’t be any trouble,” Turnbull said, pulling off his hat and waving it at a mosquito. “A man who loves something can be more easily persuaded.”
William spun Tobias in the direction of the stables. “I’ll see you in my office in half an hour.”
“I’ll be there,” the overseer agreed and sauntered off toward the schooner.
Emily brought Chantilly even with the gelding. “Is Ketch the man you purchased last month?”
William nodded. “Bought him off Elijah Johnson. We lost two to yellow fever and one to typhus this summer. Then Wilson broke his leg. I needed another hand for the harvest.”
“Why didn’t you buy his child, too?”
“I tried. Johnson wasn’t selling.”
“Then why did you take the father?”
“If I hadn’t, someone else would have.” He aimed a frown in her direction. “He’s only a dozen miles away. When he completes his work, he’s able to go see him.”
They reached the stable yard and handed their mounts over to Abel, one of the young grooms. Emily gave Chantilly a final pat and followed her father into the house. From the front entry, she could hear the fluid sounds of the Gullah language drifting softly from a nearby room. “How old is the child?” she persisted.
“Too young to be of any use,” he answered shortly.
The situation pricked at her like a stocking full of nettles. “If I was in his shoes, I guess I’d be sullen, too.”
Her father’s brow inched lower. “Emily, are you questioning the way I run my estate?”
“No, I’m just saying I understand why he might be disagreeable.”
He studied her with thinly veiled disapproval before motioning her to follow him down the hallway. The slaves’ conversation faded behind them as they neared his study. Closing the door, he leaned against it and crossed his arms. “I do my best by our people, Emily. You know that. Slavery is not perfect, but it’s necessary for an agricultural livelihood.”
“I know.”
“We could never afford to hire enough labor to keep Ella Wood running. And even if we wanted to shift to a free labor system, the South hasn’t enough manpower to support it.”
“I understand.”
“We…you do?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded.
He relaxed, pleased that his lecture had been so easily received.
“But couldn’t we press Mr. Johnson to sell the child?
”
“Emily,” he growled, his impatience spilling over, “I have a plantation to run. I have neither the time nor the inclination to pester Elijah Johnson about a Negro child.”
Emily pursed her lips, dissatisfied but unwilling to provoke him any further. “I enjoyed our ride, Papa.”
He stepped aside and opened the door. “So did I, sweetheart.”
She kissed his cheek, but at the door she paused. She so seldom witnessed Ella Wood as she had seen it today. “Have you ever let Mr. Turnbull use that whip?” she asked quietly.
Her father closed the door with a sigh and stepped behind his desk. “Sit down, Emily.”
She perched uncomfortably on a lip of leather-bound mahogany, the wide desktop reminding her of the vast power gap between a man and a daughter.
“I pay Mr. Turnbull to ensure things run smoothly,” he said in the patient tone he had used when she was a young child. “He does not punish indiscriminately, nor will I allow unwarranted cruelty. You’ve seen correction applied here in the house. It teaches right and wrong and can be avoided with appropriate behavior.”
Her mother kept a leather riding crop in a hall closet, though she rarely had to administer it. Just knowing it was there usually encouraged an efficient household. “But a whip seems so…barbaric.”
“It is a form of mercy,” he countered. “Scores of people depend on what Ella Wood produces. I feel that responsibility heavily. We must maintain order and productivity for the sake of all. Would it not be unfair to others if they should suffer for one man’s misbehavior?”
Her father’s words held a certain logic, and she struggled to understand the confliction she felt. She loved Ella Wood and took pride in her family history. The plantation was beautiful, serene, and functional, like the grandfather clock that ticked endlessly in the corner of the room. But she was gaining an uncomfortable awareness of the cogs that made it work.
Her father extended a palm flat on the desktop, a symbol of constrained indulgence. “Emily, you must consider things rationally. Where would all these people be without the security of the plantation? At best, in poverty. Sharecroppers. Subsistence farmers barely eking out a living in the dirt. At worst, they’d turn to crime and corruption and no one would be safe.”
“It’s not like that in the North,” she protested, remembering the doctors, tailors, and ship’s captains that made up Detroit’s Black community.
“It’s like that here. These people are uneducated, lacking the skills and intelligence to function in a free society. They are children who need our guidance and care. Here on the plantation we can give that to them. We provide structure, teach them a proper work ethic, instruct them in the ways of Christianity. We’re doing God’s work, Emily, and I bear that responsibility with all seriousness. It weighs heavily on me.”
“Has anyone thought to ask the slaves for their input?” She hadn’t planned to voice the question. She hardly knew how she dared.
William crossed his arms, his visage hardening. “Emily, listen to me. You’ve asked plenty of questions since you’ve returned from Detroit. Intelligent questions. I’m proud of the interest you’ve taken in Ella Wood, but sometimes I wish I’d never sent you North.” He sighed and shook his head. “You’ve come back with this…sentimentality you never displayed before. Ideas bordering on defiance. I simply cannot allow it to continue.”
“It’s not defiance, Papa. I just want to know—”
He held up a hand. “I said I’ll hear no more of it. And for your own safety, you must promise to never voice these kind of thoughts outside Ella Wood.”
“What is the harm in starting a dialogue?” she asked. “I would think in the interest of human decency we should all be seeking ways to improve slavery. If we could pass some simple reforms, perhaps the politicians in the North would leave us alone.”
William rose, towering over the desktop. “You must never suggest such a thing. Aren’t you aware of the repercussions of such talk?”
She winced, sliding to the back of her seat. “Repercussions?”
Her father’s face darkened. “Haven’t you heard of Sam Fuller or Aaron Ridgepool?”
She shook her head wordlessly.
“The Texas fires?”
Emily dreaded the explanation.
William drew in a sober breath. “Fuller was a North Carolina abolitionist. Someone left a skull and crossbones in his front yard. He disappeared shortly thereafter and was never heard from again. Ridgepool was lynched by an angry mob after speaking out against the punishment of a Negro that ended in death. I could name a dozen cases from the past few years.”
Emily felt the blood drain from her face.
“Just last month,” he continued, “right here in South Carolina, a fellow by the name of James Hitchins was run out of town just for voicing support of Lincoln. And as we speak, vigilante groups are lynching Blacks suspected of setting the fires in Texas as well as any Whites thought to be encouraging them.”
“Why?” she choked out.
“Because slavery is our birthright, Emily. One that good men will defend with desperate deeds. I spent a decade in local politics and four years in the state assembly in Columbia. I’ve weathered slave revolts and Nullification, the mail crisis, and the battle over Western territories. But I’ve never seen emotions as high as they are right now. Promise me you will never speak of such things outside these walls.”
“I promise,” she whispered.
William relaxed. “We carry an obligation for the well-being of our people, but we must be sensible. I will not bring danger on my household.”
“Pa,” she asked, “if people become so aggressive over talk, what’s going to happen if Lincoln wins?”
William’s mouth drew into a tight line. “I believe South Carolina will excuse itself from the Union.”
She gasped. So this was the discussion taking place behind closed doors.
“There’s been talk of secession for twentyfive years,” he continued, “ever since Washington started trying to legislate us into the image of their choosing. The time may have finally come to act.”
Emily’s face paled. “We’re going to start a war.”
“Not if we proceed cautiously and in the company of others,” he stated firmly. “Even so, principle sometimes dictates that we stand up for ourselves. The alternative is too fearsome.”
“What could possibly be more frightening than armed conflict?”
He wiped a hand across a face that suddenly appeared haggard. “Being swallowed by the North.”
7
Emily followed Zeke up the stairway as he carried her trunk to her room. “Where would you like it, Miss Emily?” he asked.
“Just set it there on the bed.” Opening the wardrobe, she flung several gowns over a chair to be packed for her river trip.
Lizzie entered with a stack of clothing. “I got yo’ ridin’ habit washed and pressed. Marse Preston say you to wear it on de boat as it take up less space den hoops.”
Emily took the pile and dropped it absently in the trunk Zeke had just opened. Lizzie snatched it out and set it aside with a trace of impatience. “No sense packin’ what you got to put on in de mornin’.”
Emily didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes wandered in the direction of the slave village. “Zeke, do you know a man by the name of Ketch?” For three days, her thoughts had lingered on the new slave and his son.
“I know ’im,” he answered. “He a bachelor like me. Marse Preston assign ’im to my cabin.”
“What’s he like?”
Zeke shrugged. “Like any other field hand, I s’pose.”
Emily met the old man’s eyes. “No, I really want to know. Is he angry? Impatient? Stubborn? Depressed? Or is he a good man? Kind and gentle? Loyal? Loving?”
“What dis be about, Miss Emily?” Lizzie asked with a suspicious narrowing of her eyes. “You make a heap o’ trouble fo’ dat man if you tangle wid him.”
“If I tangle…?” Emily drew herse
lf to her full height. “Lizzie, I am ashamed of you! I am merely curious what kind of man he is.”
“Why?” Lizzie asked stubbornly.
Emily reached around her maid to grab the neatly folded riding habit and crammed it angrily into her trunk. This time Lizzie didn’t stop her. “Because my father seems wary of him, and I’m trying to figure out the clockworks inside a man like that.”
Zeke regarded her shrewdly. “He a strong man, Miss Emily. Strong enough to keep on livin’ when life turn sour.”
“But why would he bring trouble on himself? Mr. Turnbull said his visiting privileges are revoked when he doesn’t complete his work in time.”
Lizzie snorted. “Ain’t no white man gunna hold him back if he wanna go.”
“Do you know him, Lizzie?”
The maid shook her head. Emily’s face corkscrewed into a contemplative frown.
“He ain’t gunna run, if dat’s what you thinkin’,” Zeke told her. “He too attached to dat chil’.”
“Well, Turnbull has orders to watch him closely,” Emily commented.
“You be needin’ anythin’ else, Miss Emily?” Zeke asked.
“No, Zeke. You may go.”
Lizzie eyed Emily carefully after the old man left. “I hear Ketch pitched in and helped Wilson wid his garden. And he mind de wee ones so Ada can get her spinnin’ done. Maybe Ketch has grace your father and Mr. Turnbull can’t see.”
Emily cocked an eyebrow at her. “It sounds like you’ve taken more than a passing fancy to him, Lizzie.”
The girl removed the riding habit from the trunk and set it on Emily’s bureau beside a vase of purple asters. “Ketch a stranger to me, Miss Emily,” she said, smoothing out the wrinkles.
“Then maybe you should get to know him. He sounds like a fine man.”
Lizzie began folding her gowns without acknowledgment.
“Lizzie, I’m only teasing.”
The maid folded another gown. “I know it, miss.”
“Then don’t be sore.”
“I ain’t sore.”
“Wait a minute.” Emily stretched out the phrase and sank onto the bed. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
Ella Wood Page 6