Authors: Shana Chartier
Chapter Nine
Midnight Train to Georgia
It took one day to fully convince my father that we needed to get the hell out of Boston. I sat in our room quietly all day while everyone else went to work, too scared to leave it without my brother. Jack had come back later in the afternoon with a few small coins in his hand, and he let me play with them until our father returned.
“Why do they look different from our money, Jack?” I asked, amazed at the grainy feel of the edges and the little bumps of words on the hard metal. I stroked the pieces lovingly, my only substitute for a doll.
“All countries have different forms of money, J,” he answered patiently. “That’s how Americans are able to buy their freedoms. The boys today were telling me all sorts of stories about the fun things you can do in town with a few coins,” he smirked. Obviously whatever those boys had in mind had nothing to do with little girls. Our father swooped into the room in a rush, agitated.
“Don’t get comfortable here, children,” he said, gazing around the room wildly, like he was trapped in his own prison. I suppose it was a type of imprisonment, really.
“You say that as if it were possible, father,” my brother said wryly. The glare my father gave him wiped the smirk from his face in no time. We were no longer a family that joked. My father sat down heavily against a wall, leaning back against it for support. He grimaced as he wriggled his spindly limbs into a more comfortable position. When you are destitute, there really is no such thing as comfortable.
“I’ve been listening around today at the stables,” my father went on, a plan in his eyes. “No Irish who lands here can survive these conditions. The children don’t make it past your age, J. The city has forced us into a pile of disease, and there’s no getting out!” he ran a frustrated hand through his thick blonde hair, which was beginning to turn gray already. My brother and I sat and listened, waiting for the point. After getting himself back in control, he looked from my brother to me and back.
“We’re taking the next southbound train out of here, as far as it will go, and we’ll see if we can start anew with our own land.”
I couldn’t hide my excitement at getting to leave Boston. It might actually have been worse than living on that boat forever, if the boat hadn’t killed my mother and made me watch her float away. I hoped never to board another vessel for as long as I lived.
“When is the train, papa?” I asked, the silver coin in my hand flipping over and over wildly with my excitement.
“Tonight. It arrives right after suppertime.”
“Do we get to eat supper tonight, papa?” I asked, hopeful. He stared at me, his expression sadder than I had ever seen before. I immediately regretted my question.
“It’s a sad world that that is something you must even have to ask, plum. Of course we will eat tonight. I will pay for some soup downstairs, but then we must go quickly if we are to purchase tickets in time and go.”
Everything became kind of a blur after that. I remember holding onto Jack’s hand and focusing on nothing else as he led me through the streets of Boston to the train station. I didn’t want anyone to spit on me or call me a dirty name. The only tickets he could afford for us were in a cramped car with many other people, and as we squeezed in, I huddled in a corner and waited for the train to start moving. When it did, I found I enjoyed it much more than the boat, and that was my last thought before falling once again into the peaceful sleep of youth.
***
Once we got out of the city, I discovered that America is an astoundingly beautiful country. I watched intently as we passed by forests and small towns and open fields that you could run through for ages. I hoped that heaven looked something like it, so that mama could know what we were experiencing, but without the constant hunger. By the time we made it to the end of the line—Georgia—my father had nearly run completely out of funds.
We stepped out onto dusty ground, the world around us boisterous and noisy. I had been trapped among so many unwashed bodies for so long that I relished the scent of the town, all burning wood and horses. Tall wooden buildings lined two sides of a main street, horses tethered out in front of some of them. Women in billowing, fancy dresses walked daintily on wooded boardwalks, the fabric of their umbrellas floating on the warm breeze. Gentlemen passed them by and tilted their hats respectfully. It was a world I instantly wanted to be a part of. My stomach growled.
“Look over there, Papa!” Jack exclaimed. My gaze drifted to where he was pointing. Just outside of the main road a stage was built up. A large group of men in hats stood in a crowd, waiting to purchase something the caller was yelling about, some of them spitting brown goo onto the ground. It was an auction.
“Maybe we can sell something for some lunch?” he asked, rooting around in his pockets. My father looked sad, as he always did now.
“We have nothing to sell, son,” he said, defeated. Then his expression changed at the gold watch Jack pulled out from his ratted pocket. Jack held his head down shamefully, raising the watch up in offering to our father.
“I stole it when I was with the boys in the city. Everyone got a piece of the loot,” he said, his eyes downcast. I looked askance at our father, afraid he would punish Jack for his indecency, but he just sighed and placed a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“Alright then. Let’s go see what they’re buying.”
As we made our way to the crowd, I looked around in bewilderment. Georgia architecture was far different from that of Boston. The houses were made of wood instead of brick, with a walking space on the second floor of the two-story buildings. All the ladies carried parasols…presumably to shield their delicate skin from the glaring sun, which was much hotter than in the north. I found myself wishing for a glass of water, though the only water I could see was being slurped greedily by the local horses at a trough. Tall men towered above me, and I grasped Jack’s hand as we wove our way toward the crowd. A sweaty man with a potbelly stood at a podium, talking real fast while people shouted out numbers at him. Finally, we made it close enough to the front for me to see what was being sold.
A tall, wiry, black man stood defiantly on stage, glaring at the crowd. I looked up at him in wonder, unsure what he was doing just standing up there looking at everyone. A man a few paces behind me shouted out.
“How’re his teeth? He got any diseases?”
The potbellied man smiled, his teeth mossed over with black pieces of something awful. He walked over to the black man and pulled his lips apart, dragging his jaw to make him lean down toward the crowd. Everyone around us nodded in approval, murmuring out more numbers. I heard a man next to us call him “slave,” and my young mind struggled to understand what that meant.
Finally, after several men kept shouting numbers higher than I could count, the potbellied man banged a gavel and declared the black man to be sold to a burly looking fellow in the back. The slave was then pulled offstage and handed over to his new owner.
“It’s a damn shame,” said a man next to my father. I looked up at the well-dressed gentleman, surprised he was willing to talk to us at all. My father grunted. The man took that as an invitation to continue speaking.
“What I really need is someone who can manage my land. Thought maybe a man fresh off the boat might know a thing or two, and be able to work with his own kind,” the rich man said thoughtfully, staring at the empty space on the stage as though he had really lost something.
“I might be able to help you out with that,” my father said, his Irish brogue stark compared to the strange mouthy way the other men talked. The rich man considered my father closely. Then he surprised us all by looking down at his other side and talking to thin air.
“What do you think, son? An Irishman over a black? We’d have to pay him a bit, but I reckon that’d be alright.”
A well-dressed boy who couldn’t have been much older than Jack poked his head out from the rich man’s side. His hair and eyes were light as a midsummer day’s noon, though the expression he wore bore a maturity well beyond his years. He walked over to us and began his inspection, looking each of us up and down, his eyes resting on me with an expression I didn’t understand. He looked up at my father, and to my complete surprise, spoke to him as though he were an equal!
“You know farming?”
My father said that he did. The boy looked us over again. To Jack he asked, “You got any kind of experience working with your hands?”
Jack looked up at our father, not sure what to say. Despite the hard times, his hands were delicate…he had had no real need for hard work at eight years old. The boy motioned for Jack to put his hands out, his face cracking into a smile as he saw how, in spite of the dirt, Jack was obviously someone of fair breeding. He pulled Jack’s wrist up to show the rich man, who smiled in return.
“I feel for y’all. I really do. I take it you came from up north?”
“They didn’t like us there,” I chimed in, gulping back the air that had somehow pushed that comment out. The rich man chuckled.
“Well, they don’t like
us
a lot up there either, little darlin’. Yankees are the worst kind of folk, make no mistake. We don’t have a lot of Irish down here. You said you have experience?”
We hung on his every word like the starved animals we were. One wrong word could have us out on the streets of a foreign land where no one else would even glance our way. Carefully, my father explained that he had run a large farm back in Ireland and knew how to manage it.
“Then it was taken from you?” the man asked, not unkindly. My father said nothing. The man sighed.
“We should take them on, father,” the blonde boy said. “It is our Christian duty to help those in need, even if they are Irish. They’re not Yankees, for heaven’s sake!”
The man chuckled again, and I found myself in awe of him, and in envy of him. He had clearly lived his whole life without having to worry about anything at all. It left him looking youthful, in spite of his lightly tanned skin. He held a hand out for my father to shake.
“John Liddell, though you can call me Sir or Mister Liddell. Would you accept a job running our little plantation just a ways out from here?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. He knew the answer. He knew he could get anything from us for a scrap of food. Still, he didn’t flaunt it too much, and I was grateful for that. My father agreed, and we all began walking in the direction he had pointed until we reached a carriage.
“Y’all can ride up top with the driver,” Mister Liddell said, stepping up into the black carriage and getting comfortable.
“I’ll help them, father,” the blonde boy announced, smiling broadly at Jack and I. We glanced at each other before giving him our own small smiles in return. We liked him instantly. I especially liked him when he held out his small hand for mine to lift me into the carriage. I was embarrassed; sure I looked like a perfect ragamuffin and smelled even worse. Washing wasn’t a luxury we had been able to afford in a very, very, long time. Still, I placed my hand in his, remembering the little manners I had learned from my mother in regards to acting like a lady, and allowed him to hand me up onto the hard block of wood that was the driver’s seat.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, politely, as I had been taught. He bowed elegantly, and I giggled.
“May I have the pleasure of your name, miss?” he asked, gallant as ever. I did my best seated curtsey.
“My name is J, of the great Cliffs of Moher,” I said, wanting him to be impressed. It worked.
“The Cliffs of Moher! That sounds like a great adventure!”
“Yes,” I agreed, thinking back wistfully to the misty air coming off the cliffs. Then I realized I was being rude. My father and Jack had already come up from the other side, and the boy was getting ready to hop into the carriage with his own father.
“I don’t believe I know your name, sir?” I said, craning back and looking down at him. When he gazed up at me, his eyes were filled with untapped mirth.
“Sebastian Liddell, at your service,” he said, and winked.
“But you may call me Bastian.”
Chapter Ten
The Plantation
I’ll never forget the first time I set eyes on the sprawling landscape of the Liddell plantation, which stood in stark contrast to the cramped and polluted world of the north. The open cotton fields, dotted in white, were a perfect backdrop to the large mansion that was the main house. Draped on either side by tall willow trees, the main house itself was white as cream, towering above us in two-storied splendor. The second floor of the house had its own wrap- around balcony, and it was ten times more majestic than any of the smaller houses I had seen in the town we came from.
I glanced over at Jack, who grinned wildly at me, desperate hope dancing in his eyes. Could we really be saved from the certain death the city slums had promised us? Not only that, but to exchange it for the most beautiful place in the world to call home? I looked to my father, though his expression was decidedly grim. He wasn’t looking at the house. He was looking at all the black men and women sweating in the heat, some of them struggling with a plow that was being tugged along by two large oxen. Although we were quite far away, I could hear the large man behind the plow yelling at the two women who were trying to straighten it out.
I wondered which part of this world we would get to join, and my joy began to dim. There were dirt pathways that swept around both sides of the house and a grand entranceway accessed by red brick steps. Never, in all my life, had I seen anything so beautiful. As the coach pulled up to the front of the house, we waited to be told what to do next. Bastion was quick to jump out of the carriage.
“What do you think?” he asked us, breathless. Jack and I smiled at him, but said nothing. Under the shadow of the grand house, the reality of who we were and what we might be was setting in quick, nerves taking over. Our father stepped down from the carriage and pulled me to the ground, my feet finding purchase on the fine gravel. Mister Liddell was speaking with some members of the house who had come out to greet him, dressed in fine serving clothes of black and white. Some more black men rushed out and began tending to the horses, the driver pulling the carriage away with them toward a large white stable in the distance. Bastian sidled up next to Jack and me.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “I’ll look out for you,” he winked, waiting silently by us until his father turned around. He gazed warmly at his son, a small smirk toying at his closely shaved lip.
“I take it you’d like to show our new staff to the servants quarters to be settled in?” he asked Bastian, who nodded enthusiastically. Mister Liddell nodded in approval, approaching my father and stretching out his hand to shake, sealing the deal.
“Welcome to the plantation, Sean. I’m sure you’ll do just fine here, but if you have any questions, pick out an assistant manager from the hardest workers and ask him. No one knows the farm better than our workers,” he said proudly. I found myself also swelling with pride. Obviously these men weren’t slaves after all—just workers. It made me feel much better…even if that man was yelling so loudly at those women.
“Come on, come on!” Bastian yelled, grabbing Jack’s hand and pulling us along to the back of the house, where a plainer set of doors led to a large kitchen. Inside, a thin white woman with wild red hair was violently throwing dough against a flour-covered counter, but she stopped when she saw us coming in.
“You’re taking in vermin now, master Bastian?” she asked wryly, glancing up and down at our clothing and ratted hair. Bastian looked very serious.
“These are not vermin, Dolly, they are new members of the house! Their dad is going to run the plantation!” he said, eyeing the counter to determine if what she was making involved sugar. I didn’t think it did. Dolly gazed upon us with a new expression on her face.
“Well hmm,” she said thoughtfully. Then to me, “you have any skills, little one?”
I stared. I was five. Of course I didn’t have any skills. Scared that this would make her send me away, I began to cry. Bastian frowned deeply.
“Oh there’s no need to cry about it, child,” she said impatiently, pulling a small kerchief from her apron and handing it to me. I wiped my face, pulling back the kerchief to reveal a black smattering of dirt. I looked up helplessly at Dolly, afraid that I had ruined something of value. Her expression lightened, and she kneeled down to meet me at my level.
“How’s about this. You keep that kerchief as your own, and I’ll start you as a little kitchen maid to come work with me. We can use all the help we can get down here around dinner time,” she winked, and I rewarded her with a small smile. Then she turned to my brother.
“And you, young gentleman? What is it that you do?”
Bastian cut in. “He’s going to be my man.” Dolly raised a ginger eyebrow. To prove his point, Bastian placed a trusting hand on Jack’s shoulder, the gratitude in my brother’s eyes enough to solidify Bastian as the best person in the world. Finally, Dolly acquiesced.
“We’ll have to get him some clothes, then, to look the part. And you’ll likely have to teach him yourself.”
“We can do it,” he said, smiling warmly at Jack, who smiled back. Even at five years old, I knew those two were about to embark on a lot of trouble together. For my part, I began thinking about what it might be like to learn how to cook. I hoped that she would give me a stool or something so that I could reach the counter. A male servant came in and instructed Bastian to leave us for his lesson, and he bid us a cheery farewell. A small black girl was called on to show us our new house, and once again we were swept away.
Our house was a tiny, one bedroom shack—one among many. It was about a half mile away from the main house, and we learned that our neighbors were all slaves, living in the same conditions. At this point, it was the nicest accommodations we had ever been given in this country, and Jack and I breathed deeply of the fresh air pouring through our tiny windows, taking a moment to each lay on two of the three small cots reserved just for us, one lining each side of the wall in a perfect U. We were not given a tour of the main house by Mister Liddell or his pretty blonde wife, but one afternoon when they were out visiting friends, Bastian led us through the mansion himself. Jack had already been through, of course, being Bastian’s primary servant and newly accepted best friend, but it was the first time I stepped on the bright red oriental rugs. It was a glittering world that wanted nothing to do with me, and for a moment there was a part of me that felt indignant about that. Why had I been born into the world at the back of the house, and not at the front?
I ran my hand along a smartly painted wall, gazing at the heavy, dark, wooded furniture. Echoes of string music danced through my mind, and I shook my head to remove it. Suddenly being in the main house was too much to bear, and I ran back through the willows to our small little hut. It was the first in a long line of experiences that would leave me bewildered, unable to understand why I was homesick for a life I had never had.
***
Learning to cook came surprisingly easy to me. As time passed, sticky Georgia summers and cool winters aged us all. I grew up with my whole world revolving around the kitchen, making hearty meals that were delectable in every possible way, and then eating servants’ fare while the masters dined. Still, I never griped about it, because meal times were when I got to see my brother, who looked so much my superior in every way. Since he was seen by people on the outside, he was always dressed smartly, and during our childhood years he was cunning enough to get Bastian out of many, many scrapes.
Bastian, for his part, was always kind to me. His parents disregarded me completely, and as a kitchen maid I was not to be seen, but for some reason he always looked out for me. When I would spill a bucket of dirty cleaning water or leave a rag out of place, he’d distract the household until I could clean it up, winking at me as he pulled ridiculous stunts to attract their attention away. Sometimes he would even sneak wildflowers into the kitchen, and I would breathe them in during the brief moments of respite that dotted the landscape of my life. It wasn’t proper for us to communicate like this, so I remained silent through every act of kindness directed my way. Bastian always knew how to make my day a little more cheerful without ever saying a word out of place.
I grew up playing with the black kids at night during the few precious hours we had when we weren’t working…which was practically never, really. Preparing large and elaborate meals takes hours at a time, and I would wake far before the sun to meet with Dolly and prepare breakfast for the family. Sometimes, when I was younger, she would send me back to our house to get some sleep before it was time to prepare lunch, and as the sun rose in oranges and pinks over the cotton fields I would watch my neighbors stretch their weary, lash-scarred backs and make their way to the cotton fields to spend a day bent over.
I had heard about the cruelty of other plantation owners from the slaves who lived one house over from us. Even though my father was forced to have bad behavior punished with the crack of a whip, he never did so without legitimate reason. My friend Giselle was very grateful for this in particular, for she was always running off and getting in trouble. She became my closest friend, other than Jack, and as we entered our teenage years I would giggle wildly as she went on and on about which new boy she liked that week. I couldn’t imagine liking boys, even approaching the age of seventeen. Of course I had been introduced to very few, and I very much disliked all the ones who worked at the stables. Their teeth were brown and muddy from tobacco, and their language was foul.
One night, when my father was off drinking with some of his men, Giselle came over and we sat on my bed chatting. She worked in the fields, her hands destroyed from the plow and the picking. She found it peaceful to braid when she needed to take her mind off the work, and I was a willing participant. I moved to the floor so she could have her way with my wild Irish mane, and she sighed, her calloused, torn up hands gently pulling at my scalp.
“What is it, Giselle?” I asked, concerned. Giselle was rarely in a bad mood, which was amazing, because she was a slave. As hard as my work was, I was never whipped when I accidentally left eggshells in the batter. She got a flogging if she bothered to slow down when pushing the plow.
“You know what’s happening to you, right?” I grew afraid. Was my job going to be taken away? Where would I go? What would I do? I turned and looked up at her in panic, and she laughed.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s nothing
bad
for you. The boys around town been talkin’ about how you’ve filled out. Now they all wish they could be with ya,” she said, smirking. I stared.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, bewildered. I didn’t own a mirror, so I never bothered with what I’d looked like. Servants weren’t meant to be pretty. She sighed again, dramatically.
“It’s so unfair that the people who get lucky in life never take advantage of it. Girl, you are stunning, and you don’t even know it, which makes it even more attractive to men.”
I frowned. I didn’t want to be an object of attraction to men. The only ones I trusted, truly, were my brother and my father…but mostly just my brother. Dolly had stepped in as a mother to me, and I owed her everything. The concept of marriage had never even appeared as a glimmer of a cloud in my mind. Not that it mattered.
“The only boys you talk to are on the plantation, Miss Giselle. You think they’d let me marry a black man, even if I am a dirty Irish immigrant?” I laughed. It was a well-accepted truth that on the hierarchy of Americans, even as I was scum, slaves had no status at all. At least scum was a status. Giselle snorted, most unladylike.
“All I know is you better start watching your back. Because there’s eyes on you now, and they’re not looking for cookies.”
I allowed her to finish braiding my hair before widening my mouth in a yawn, the signal for us to part ways. As I lay back and closed my eyes to sleep, I reflected on how useless it was to be beautiful and poor. Though she had given me some food for thought in regards to thinking about finding a nice man to marry, I knew in that moment that my face would have no impact on my life whatsoever.
Boy, was I wrong.