Return to Shirley Plantation

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “I…I had wanted to take you to Granny because…” She stifled a sob.

  “You said she’s dying. I’m sorry.”

  Tears freely streamed down her cheeks. She wiped them with her hands.

  His head throbbed. “Why did you want me to come?” With the increased pain in his head came the memory of a grizzled elderly woman bent over him in the field and Angelina beside her.

  “Do you remember when you first arrived?” She wiped her nose with his handkerchief.

  “What did Granny mean about me looking like someone?” A chill of recognition crept up his spine as he recalled her words—and that she knew the names of his grandparents.

  “Matt, what did your parents tell you about your family?”

  “Only that my father’s family was from Virginia and that we had no family members on his side—that my paternal grandparents were dead.” He rubbed his chin. The letter he’d seen contradicted his father’s assertion.

  “Do you know what Granny said about you?” Angelina lifted her skirts as they approached the quarters.

  He shrugged.

  “She said now she could die.”

  “Why?” Chills ran up his back.

  “Granny said now her vision had come true.”

  Matthew sighed. Superstitious nonsense, but he’d humor Angelina.

  Angelina led him to the first cabin, surprisingly large, perhaps about 20 feet long—bigger than many of the log cabins around home in Ohio. They entered the well-swept structure, meeting not the odor of death but the scent of bacon grease, cold ashes, and dried fruit and tobacco.

  “There he be.” Granny pointed a bony arm in his direction.

  A stout woman, the color of strong coffee, raised the frail woman’s head from her shabby pillow. The caregiver narrowed her eyes at Matthew, her expression angry.

  “Sit there.”

  Angelina continued to cry. She sat next to Granny, taking the place of the other woman, who left the cabin muttering something beneath her breath. Unease gripped Matthew.

  “I see you now, boy, and you be well—now I can go on to heaven.” Her lips flattened into a satisfied smile.

  Patting the woman’s wrinkled hand, Angelina bent and kissed her brow. “Granny Scott, don’t say that…”

  Matthew’s head jerked up. He licked his lips and moved closer to the rustic bed, made from what appeared to be four narrow tree trunks.

  “It be true—my dreams come true.” Her voice resonated beautifully. How marvelous she’d sound in a theater.

  “God told me in a vision—your descendant gonna come back to you in a soldier’s uniform.”

  A chill went down Mathew’s arms. Was he a descendant of this slave woman? This poor dying soul? He took one of her hands, dry as a corncob, recollecting her words as he’d lain in the field. “You said you had a son and daughter—Theodosius and Eulalie…Scott?”

  She closed and then opened her rheumy eyes as though agreeing. “Eulalie a fine girl and Master Scott’s son love her—he do. They go to Kentucky long time ago. Her father white.” Granny Scott gave a sharp nod as though Matt should know this.

  He swallowed.

  Angelina dipped a cloth into a basin of water nearby but when she made to press it to Granny’s forehead the woman swatted her hand away. “I be 92 years now. I be goin’ home soon but I ain’t sick, child.”

  Above the fireplace, on a narrow mantel, a pencil sketch of a prosperous-looking man and woman was set inside an inexpensive picture frame. Granny followed his gaze.

  “Go look. That be my baby girl and her husband.”

  When she released her hand from his and then waved it birdlike at him, Matthew stood and went to look. The man’s face resembled his own. High cheekbones were shaded. His lips were the same shape and he even had the slight mocking uplift to his right corner. His shoulders were broad, like his own, and his arm rested protectively around the shoulder of the woman beside him—a woman whose features were more African than European, and whose hair was shown as waving gently around her narrow shoulders. There was something endearing about the way she was portrayed.

  “That be done when they young—like you. They have a son and a passel of daughters.”

  “The son’s name?”

  The elderly woman stared at him. “You know, boy.”

  Embarrassment caused him to feel all of five-years-old—standing in the kitchen, his Father yelling at him to never inquire again about his ancestors.

  “In those visions God sent me, you always wearin’ a gray uniform. I never understand. Then when the South choose them colors I prayin’—Lord have mercy, don’t tell me my great-grandson gonna show up here with a band of Confederate soldiers.”

  Tears flowed down Angelina’s cheeks and two tiny drops coursed down Granny’s.

  “Yet there you be lyin’ on the ground and I be wonderin’—did Theodosius’s and Eulalie’s son despise his past so much he done workin’ to keep his own people in slavery?”

  “My father never said…”

  Angelina kissed the top of the elderly woman’s head. “I’m sure he thought he was doing what was best for his child—passing as white and starting a new life for himself.”

  Patting her hand, Granny looked up. “You do the same, girl, and don’t you regret it. Don’t you look back. My great-grand, he gonna get you and those children up north—you’ll see.”

  Her great-grandson. The past he knew nothing about had caught up with him. Matthew struggled to wrap his mind around what the slave woman was saying. His own great-grandmother—enslaved here. “What can I do for you, Granny?”

  “Nothin’—you already done it. I can go home to Jesus now that you be here and now the Union soldiers stayin’.

  Moisture pooled in his eyes. This altered script for his life left him as confused as though someone had changed all his lines to Greek. Yet everything, his whole life, Father’s strange behavior all made sense. He was the descendant of a slave woman. He’d returned to Shirley Plantation from whence his grandparents had left decades earlier to begin a free life together. God had brought him full circle. His father had chosen to leave his family behind—to deny them. At a cost. Perhaps not to Theodore Scott, but to his son.

  Matthew had no family other than his mother’s wealthy parents in New York. And his Abolitionist-minded mother had rebelled and fled from them, in marriage to a political upstart from Ohio. What would his Copperhead grandfather think? And would he help Matthew if he knew?

  Chapter 8

  September 1862

  How he’d consented to almost three long months toiling in the fields of Shirley Plantation, Matthew couldn’t figure. One day had seemed to blend into the next and one need turning into hundreds of others. Without food they’d not be able to feed the family nor the troops. With his dizzy spells subsiding, he’d gained strength by toiling alongside the field workers. Some days it was as though he was doing penance for something, perhaps his father’s turning his back on his people. Other times, he allowed himself to experience the labor as though he was a slave.

  A bent figure, leaning heavily on a gnarled wood cane, awaited him at the edge of the field. Granny Scott lifted her grizzled head as he approached.

  “Matthew, boy, come sit a spell.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He wiped his brow.

  His great-grandmother’s smile spread like honey on hot cornbread she now offered him.

  “Thank you, Granny.” He tried to imagine his wealthy grandmother Merriweather meeting Granny Scott and stifled a chuckle.

  “You bring your banjo down to the cabin tonight, boy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He laid his suntanned hand over her ashy ebony fingers and squeezed gently. “I’ll bring Angie and the kids, too.” Sounded like they belonged to him.

  “It comin’, boy, you know.” She rocked gently on her cane. “Like the good book promise in eternity but I gonna get it sooner, I think.”

  “Granny?”

  “Freedom. I gots dreams every
night now. Freedom comin’. For me and all us colored folks. Freedom for you, too, Matthew. You can be whoever you want to be and not who your Mama or Daddy make you be.”

  How much of his acting had been in reaction to his father? To his mother? He’d found, in helping Hill Carter, that he enjoyed farming. Not that he’d relish being enslaved here. But it had suited his nature better than hospital work did. And Dr. Probst as well as Dr. Carter believed that good nourishment was essential to the soldiers’ recoveries.

  “I pray you are right, Granny.” Matthew scratched the stubble on his face.

  Mother’s recent letter told of Father’s sojourn to Canada. After her protest to the president, Father had been released—to the Confederate army. She’d been furious and Grandfather was intervening and had traveled to Washington.

  “Here—your family now.”

  Trodding across the fields, Angelina approached, a child in each hand. A smile split her beautiful face. She released Charity and Julian and they ran, waving their hands wildly.

  The desire to embrace her in his arms consumed him.

  “This be it.” Tears rolled down Granny’s precious face.

  “He freed us, Granny, he freed us!”

  Carter or Lincoln? Regardless if Hill Carter freed the children, where would they go? Matthew wasn’t safe anywhere. Not as the son of Congressman Theodore Scott.

  “President Lincoln emansupperation us!” Charity threw herself into Matthew’s arms and he lifted her into the air. She smelled of sunshine, earth, and sweet tea.

  “E-man-sup-ated.” Julian sounded out the word.

  As he set the little girl down, Angelina came to his side and whispered in his ear. “Lincoln hasn’t made it official yet—”

  Granny prodded him with her cane. “You go on and give her a hug. She special. She be mother of my great-great-grands one day.”

  She laughed softly as Matthew pulled Angelina into his arms, her soft embrace balm for his soul yet exhilarating, too. Mother of his children—he liked the sound of that.

  “Come on, I’m going to play this banjo. I’ve got a song for you.” Matthew grinned at them, wondering what they’d think of the words. He’d written about waiting, longing, and ultimately—leaving together. He’d come to his great-grandmother’s and grandmother’s home, if it could be called such. But he’d kneeled last night and asked God to take him, Angelina, and the children to freedom.

  But where could they be free from the armies and from bounty hunters who might snatch any of them and sell them in the deep south? They could do the same to him, yet he’d never had to consider it before. One drop of blood. Someone who thought that way could easily rationalize selling Matthew into slavery as a black man. What was he? A child of God.

  November of 1862 came swiftly. For the first time in Matthew’s life he had to ensure the fruits of harvest would be ready to produce some semblance of a Thanksgiving meal. The officers at nearby Berkeley Plantation asked for them to honor the day. Berkeley claimed to have hosted the first Thanksgiving. God was still on His throne. And Angelina seemed to be falling in love with him, too.

  They stood in the parlor of the Old House, arms wrapped around one another, foreheads pressed together. The children helped in the kitchen with the noon meal. Soup—generously laced with greens thanks to the crop yield, cornbread with butter, and weak tea sweetened with molasses awaited the men. For dinner there would be a hearty pumpkin stew with venison. His stomach growled.

  “If we weren’t living in the same house, I might let you kiss me.” Angelina’s tone teased but he sensed the underlying seriousness of her comment.

  “I might just steal me a kiss, anyway.” Matthew leaned in, Angelina’s blue-gray eyes widening, her lips parting slightly.

  He inhaled her verbena soap and nuzzled her neck. When she sighed, he grinned and pulled away. Best control himself.

  The door flew open and the flames in the fireplace danced.

  “Mr. Carter got a letter for you, Uncle Matt.” Julian hollered down the hallway.

  “Come here, Julian.” Angelina’s lips compressed as she backed away from him.

  “What?” His petulant tone reminded Matthew of his own when he was a child.

  “Who is it from?”

  “He don’t tell me, just say Uncle Matt should come. Now.” The boy turned and ran back out of the house.

  Angelina and Matthew both sighed. Then laughed.

  After pulling on his wool overcoat, one of Hilly’s from his days at seminary, Matthew headed over to the house.

  When Matthew entered the office, Carter waved an envelope at him.

  “Your Father sends word.”

  Father. “Thank you.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Scanning the missive, Matthew drew in a deep breath of relief and held it, then slowly exhaled. “My father is in Windsor, Canada—across the river from Detroit.” But how to get to him?

  “If it were within my power to loan you the money to get you there, I would. You’ve worked harder than any overseer I’ve ever had on this plantation.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Did any of the slaves ever receive thanks for their hard work? A vein throbbed in Matthew’s temple. Still, he’d been glad to help salvage what they could of the crops so that the army and the family could be fed. They’d had some of the recovering soldiers take short stints in the fields when the late crops came in. How grateful they’d all been for greens and vegetables that still grew in the southern climates in late fall. And they could celebrate, albeit modestly, with the Berkeley owners, relatives of the Carters.

  “Mr. Scott, I will understand if you are ready to leave. But your Grandfather—well, he won’t receive my letter about my lack of immediate funds for a spell. I feel sure he’ll get money to you once he receives my mail. I am sorry to cause you delay.”

  Horses’ hooves clattered up the carriageway then continued on, as though the riders galloped onto the Queen Anne forecourt. The sounds of someone wailing outside carried through the window.

  Hill Carter crossed to the window. “Two Confederate soldiers.”

  Matthew joined him. “Isn’t that your son Hilly’s horse?”

  Several Union cavalrymen trotted up but stopped behind the other two. A man lay horizontal across the back of the black gelding.

  Mr. Carter pressed a hand to his chest. “My sons…”

  Angelina watched, numb, as Hilly Carter’s casket was lowered into the ground in the family cemetery. Nearby his widow sobbed into her father-in-law’s shoulder while Mary B.’s glassy eyes remained unfocused, staring past them all.

  He never should have gone. Of all the boys, Hilly belonged at home. A man of the cloth, someone whose seizures had affected his life – why had he enlisted? Now his poor mother and widow and family were left to grieve him. I am left to grieve. Oh, Hilly, how could you?

  Matthew’s arm wrapped around her shoulders and drew her closer. They stood in the back of the group, at a distance, but Angelina could hear every word the pastor said. Why, why, why? He’d broken his mother’s heart. She’d never be the same again. And something in Angelina twisted, too. Hilly had been a man of God. But he’d not been spared. And he’d been wrong in his thinking. In error about fighting for a nation that would keep many of its citizens enslaved. But he’d been a Christian man. How could he justify his actions? He, like all of them, would stand before God and give an account of his life.

  She shivered. What about her? Would her account to the Lord be lacking? Matthew’s grandfather had yet to send money. Lord, what would you have me do? Tell me Lord.

  1863

  “President Lincoln’s emancipation proclamation has become law.” Angelina fed Granny Scott thin broth as she sat up in bed.

  Granny sipped slowly, her strength in recent weeks fading. “You free now, Angie girl—you and Matthew take those sweet children and go.”

  “We’re free, Aunt Angie.” Charity grinned up at her from the rocker, where she knit a scarf for her brother w
ho’d just returned from fetching more wood for the chilly cabin.

  Butler’s troops lay positioned across the river from Shirley. He seemed to be spying on them. And he’d construed Hilly’s death and burial as some kind of ploy to deliver Confederate news via the Carter family. When boats appeared at the boat landing and emancipated slaves—now soldiers—appeared, she couldn’t believe her eyes. And when they were placed as sentries at Shirley’s gates, Hill Carter had a fit. He sent a protest believing Butler deliberately slighted the family. The general relented and then sent white soldiers as sentries. But the appearance of the black soldiers had inspired a thrill of hope and pride rippling through the slaves in the cabins.

  Angelina held another spoonful to Granny’s trembling lips. “Mr. Carter is still being held by the army.” As was Dr. Carter, who was sorely needed at the hospital, with so many men still struggling to recover.

  Granny’s filmy eyes showed no surprise. “You and Matthew and the children—you go tell that General Butler to let old Master Carter come home. And you tell him to send you North. As far as that man will send you.”

  Was God speaking to her through Granny? The Lord had been telling her something similar even before the army had come and taken Hill Carter and Dr. Carter across the river. That had been several days ago. She shivered. Would they hurt them?

  A quick rap on the cabin door preceded Mary B.’s entrance into the cabin. She closed the door behind herself as Julian placed another log in the fireplace.

  Mrs. Carter, whose demeanor had utterly changed since her son’s death, stared up glassy-eyed at Angelina. “Warrington had brought down the chests from the attic—winter clothes. He did that before those foul men came and dragged him and his father off. I want you to go through them and gather up bundles for your trip to Ohio. God is surely telling me you shall need them. And that you will receive favor. Go to that beast, Butler, and tell him the truth about my husband. Oh Angelina…”

  The matron collapsed in sobs into Angelina’s arms. She patted Mary B’s back, the scent of rose water a comfort that somewhere, inside this shadow, was the godly woman she knew.