Glory Over Everything (34 page)

After that time the three of us watch out for each other until the day when Hester and her girl, Clora, and me gets sold up here to Southwood plantation. They don't buy Emma.

A
T
S
OUTHWOOD THEY
need somebody to run their new hospital, so they put me in there, thinking I know more than I do. I don't say otherwise; lucky for me I got all of old Tony's medicines writ down. It don't seem to bother nobody that I can read and write, and they like that I don't talk.

There's a man at Southwood who right from the start was good to me. When he got the fever, I treated him, and after he got back on his feet, we get together and he the daddy of this baby. It take some time before he lets me know that he helps colored folk that are running, and it don't take long before I'm helping him out. He got a big job on this place, heads up some of the field workers. The two of us talk about running one day, but we know we can't go together. They'd track us till we was dead.

Almost every time another runner comes through, my man says, “Sukey, girl, you wanna take this chance, you go.” But even though I want this baby free, I guess I'm just too scared. Where am I gonna go? I used to think I could try to find my way back to Virginia and Miss Lavinia at Tall Oaks, but then Masta Marshall would just sell me again.

Even if I never get away, I feel good helping others make it out. We never know for sure when the next bunch of runners is coming through. Sometimes it's only one, sometimes four or five. One more scared than the next, but that don't stop them. I keep hoping that one of these times Emma or maybe even one of my boys is going to come through.

I
T WAS ALREADY
June, the Monday morning we set out for Southwood. I used great care to dress, taking it upon myself to polish my tall brown boots and brush out my best dark brown jacket. Hester provided me with a clean and pressed white shirt and cravat, and before donning it, I gave myself a close shave. As I patted on my Bay Rum, I peered into my traveling case mirror and was relieved to see that wearing a hat had served its purpose, and the sun had not affected my complexion.

Surprisingly, Adelaide joined us at the morning table, dressed prettily in a pale green riding costume. When she announced her decision to accompany us, her father first objected, but she pouted in the way he could not resist, and with a shrug meant for me, he gave his assent. In fact, I was happy to have her along, thinking she might prove an added distraction if anyone looked me over too carefully.

The horse provided me was a gray thoroughbred. I was anxious to leave and did not use the mounting stone but made the leap up onto the horse's back.

“You see, Father! That is how it is done.” Adelaide nodded at me approvingly.

“Well, maybe if I were ten years younger and a few pounds lighter,” Mr. Spencer said, patting his round stomach, but he did not smile at her as usual, and I realized then how tense he was. In fact, he appeared as anxious as I felt. All I desired was to get hold of Pan and to leave this place. I had my purse in the saddlebag, and with any luck, by tomorrow, Pan and I would be on our way up to Williamsburg. There I could only hope that Robert and my daughter safely awaited my arrival.

Adelaide chattered merrily as the three of us rode together toward our destination, but as we approached the drive leading up to Southwood, my horse shied, setting off skittish behavior with the other two horses.

“I'm afraid these horses haven't been worked in a while. Use a heavy hand if you must,” Mr. Spencer directed. “Here, Addy, let me take your reins,” he said as she worked to calm her horse.

“No, Father!” she said, using her crop to take command, while glancing at me to see if I noted her accomplished riding skills.

As we approached Southwood, we moved our horses out of the brutal sun and into the shade of the tall cedars that lined the long drive. Past the trees on either side lay open fields with workers bent over vegetation. We were approaching one of the largest cotton plantations in this northern Carolina region.

I looked about hopefully, wondering if I might see Pan out in the fields, but my horse, sensitive to my nerves, began to sidestep.

“Use your crop!” Mr. Spencer instructed, but I knew the problem was with me and not the horse.

“He'll be fine. He'll settle down. How many acres do they have in cotton?” I asked as a means of distraction.

“That is a question you might ask Thomas,” Mr. Spencer said, his attention on his own spirited horse.

The night before, Mr. Spencer had warned me to tread carefully with Bill Thomas. My host explained that for years Thomas had complete run of Southwood and the absentee owners relied on him exclusively. No one in the area could dispute that this was one of the most efficiently run plantations and that the cotton production was enviable. However, Mr. Spencer said, “Bill Thomas is a man who runs his place by his own rules.”

I knew what he insinuated, for I remembered Tall Oaks and the absolute control Rankin had enjoyed. His actions were seldom, if ever, influenced by the law, and as a result he was ruthless.

T
HE FIRST BUILDING
that came into view was a fair-sized clapboard house set at the head of the drive. It had a balcony protruding from the second floor, a place where a man might observe all of the many buildings under his jurisdiction. I was not surprised to learn that it was Bill Thomas's home.

A wide brick path was laid parallel to the drive and both ran up and past a row of neatly constructed whitewashed buildings. Farther down, the two trails divided, and while the road wound around to the right, the brick path turned left toward a handsome house set in the center of a heavily treed garden. This house, too, was white-painted clapboard, but it was easily four times the size of the first, and from it protruded three large balconies.

From atop my horse I could see the entire plantation laid out on flat terrain, with a river at the far end creating a natural boundary. A good distance from the main house, set back from the riverbank, was an extended row of small but orderly gray cabins that constituted the quarters.

Another boundary was set to the left of the house by a canal that intersected with the river and traveled down the property out and away as far as I could see. I later learned that this waterway was used to transport the cotton via a series of rivers and other canals that wound their way down to Edenton.

We stopped in front of the manager's home and before Mr. Spencer had time to dismount, a woman came to the door. Although she was white, her faded homespun dress, worn face, and disheveled hair alerted one to the fact that she was not a woman of leisure. She dried her hands with a rag, then tossed it over her shoulder as she squinted at us. “You looking for Bill?” she asked in a hard voice. Not waiting for a reply, she pointed toward the big house. “He's up there, workin' on something. But he don't have no time for sittin' around talkin'.”

“We've come on business,” Mr. Spencer answered.

“You'll just have to go on up, then. Ask any of the niggas you see where he is. They'll tell you.”

My horse was prancing and so agitated that I decided to dismount. “Give him the crop!” Mr. Spencer directed, but my feet were already on the ground.

“I'll straighten him out tomorrow,” I answered.

“We might as well join you on foot.” Mr. Spencer slipped down from his horse and handed me the reins, thereby freeing himself to assist his daughter.

“I'll get Alfred from the barn to take your horses,” the woman said. Without warning, she put her fingers to her mouth and gave a shrill whistle for help. Addy was preparing for dismount when her horse, startled by the whistle, jumped back. Addy, tossed forward, flew through the air and landed hard on the brick path. With her scream of pain, her father rushed to her side. As Mr. Spencer helped her stand, her face went white. “Daddy,” she cried, clutching at her arm and falling against him. “Daddy! My arm!”

He scooped her up and frantically looked about. The woman hesitated but then opened the door of her home and waved the two of them in before she looked back at me. “Give Alfred your horses,” she said, nodding toward the newly arrived servant, “then go on to that building up there, the sickhouse, the one with the glass windows. Get Sukey. She's a nigga, but good as any doctor hereabouts.”

I did as directed and moved swiftly past the washhouse yard where women boiled and scrubbed and slapped at the air with wet laundry. Though concerned for Addy, I hadn't forgotten Pan as I hurried up the road. I glanced into the next building, where the door stood open and inside a lone woman clanked away at a room-sized loom. I kept moving, and in the shade of the loom house, I startled a group of women who looked up, grim-faced, from their spinning. I greeted them with a nod, but they did not respond. This might have been a peaceful scene, but something was amiss. Unsettled by their silence, concerned about Addy, and growing more desperate to get a glimpse of Pan, I left the drive to cut through a yard and found myself at the back of the cooper's shop. I brushed past some dozen or so newly constructed wooden barrels and rounded the building so quickly that I almost tripped over the cooper. The man worked like one possessed. Wood shavings flew as perspiration dripped from his face, and even as I greeted him, he didn't take note of me. Then I saw why.

In front of him, in the center of the work yard, set a type of stockade. There, seated on a thin wedge of board, a nude Negro man was locked into a wooden contraption. With his feet tied straight out and his hands secured behind him, he had nothing to support his back; the pain of the wood cutting into his buttocks must have been unbearable. Added to his torture were the scorching sun and the clouds of flies and mosquitoes that surrounded him. His head lolled to the side and his eyes were glazed with pain, while his breathing came in short guttural grunts.

Because of his location, all of the yard workers were witness to his torment yet almost certainly were forbidden to do anything to relieve his suffering. I stared, sickened, before turning away.

I ran then toward the building with glass panes and rapped heavily on the door. When there was no response, I pushed in and closed the door behind me. My breathing finally quieted as I looked about the sparsely furnished hallway, and when I heard voices, I followed the sound through another door. The large room I entered had at least twenty pallets lining the walls, and though most were empty, it was well built to serve this community of more than two hundred slaves.

The floorboards creaked when I stepped across the doorsill. A young boy, assisting a Negro woman who was caring for a patient, turned at the sound of my entry. He stared for only a moment before he dropped the wooden bowl he held. “Mr. Burton! Mr. Burton!” he called out as he ran toward me. “I knew you'd come for me! I knew you'd come for me!” He clutched at my waist, his whole body trembling. It was difficult to believe that this sad, emaciated boy was Pan.

As I patted his shorn head, I felt the long jagged scar. What had they done to this gentle boy? How had he been so badly injured? In those moments, my fear for myself turned to rage for this child. I wanted to snatch him and go, but after what I had already seen, I knew that now more than ever, I needed to hold myself in check. I had been warned that this place was governed by its own law, and guards were likely everywhere.

All eyes were on us as I pried Pan loose, then set him back and looked directly into his eyes. “Listen to me!” I said, speaking as low as I could. “Do not say another word! You must not address me. Do you understand?” I held both of his frail shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Your leaving here will depend on this.”

He nodded, but he reached for my hand again as though for reassurance.

“No!” I said, pulling back. “You must go back to work.” I turned him around, then directed him toward the large homely woman who watched silently. “I'm looking for Sukey,” I said.

Pan pointed to her. “That is Sukey, Mr. Burton!”

“Pan! Do not use my name!”

The boy's shoulders slumped. “I'm sorry,” he said, his eyes enormous in his drawn face.

I forced my attention away from him. “Are you Sukey?” I asked the woman.

She nodded, then slowly came forward as she readjusted her faded head wrap and smoothed out her brown skirt. She was a heavyset woman with plain features, and as she approached me, her black eyes kept darting to my eye patch.

“She can't talk,” Pan said.

“Tell her that she is needed at Mr. Thomas's house,” I said.

“She can hear, she just can't talk,” said Pan when the woman shot me a look. Did she mean the boy harm? Would she tell Thomas what she had seen the boy do?

I wanted to ask her for help, but she moved quickly. As I left, I glanced back at Pan and put my finger to my lips, reminding him of silence. His eyes sparkled when he nodded his understanding.

By the time we reached Thomas's house, he had come and gone and the doctor had been sent for. It appeared Addy's arm was broken, and the decision to take her up to a bedroom in the big house had been made. When Mr. Spencer requested that I go to fetch Hester so she might attend to Addy, I could not ride out fast enough, wanting only to head for the north. But I had found Pan, and now I had only to extricate him.

A
DDY WAS TO
remain at Southwood for seven days. Her arm had been set, and though it was a clean break, the doctor insisted that she not be moved. She was made as comfortable as possible in a guest room of the big house.

Following her first day of confinement, Mr. Spencer returned from seeing her and called me into his study. “Hester will remain with Addy for the duration of her stay. I will spend the mornings with her and go back every evening, but I need some time in the afternoon to see to my work. I realize this might be considered unusual, but I wonder if I might ask you to visit with her in the afternoons. I can't say that I like to leave her and Hester alone on the place without someone to oversee to their welfare. Perhaps you would be willing to check in with her and read to her for an hour or so?”