Silent Thunder (16 page)

Thomas Farnsworth didn't waste no time runnin' things. After we cleared the supper dishes, Missy Claire called Mama, Thea, and me together. She told us her brother had rented us out to Penelope Bates for making food and serving guests at the Christmas cotillion.

After Missy Claire was gone, Thea put a finger to her cheek. She shook her head. “I had me a special holy service planned, and now I gots to be watching a bunch of white folks get merry. The coming of the Savior's birth is meant for prayin', not party-makin'. Too much vice on Christmas Eve calls up haints and opens the door to evil. This cotillion ain't good. It ain't good. I tells you.”

Mama didn't speak on the cotillion at all. Me, I was feeling two ways at once about it. Some of me was glad for the cotillion. A night in Doc Bates's warm parlor sure beat saying prayers with Thea in the drafty quarters, wishing with all my muster that Christmas would bring me a china-headed dolly.

But then there was a whole other piece of me that looked upon this cotillion—and Christmas—with sad eyes.

I never
would
have me a china-headed dolly, no matter how much wishing I did. And even though I'd been given the gift of learning letters, it was a gift I had to keep hidden. I couldn't show it off under the lighted tree candles as if it were a shiny new hair clip.

The Hobbs Hollow Christmas Cotillion was a party for young'uns and grown-ups alike. Girls my very own age would be dressed in velvet and lace, and soft-soled bad slippers. They would dance with each other, and would let their mamas rest so's their daddies could take
them
to the dance floor.

I
would never dance with my daddy, and neither would my mama. (And surely Mama would have not a moment's rest this night.)

I could never even speak my pa's name, except when I was calling him “Master.”

And when it came time for the holiday toast, I would try to swallow back my misery while everybody white drank in the sweetness of Mama's best-made eggnog.

December 22, 1862

H
E'S HERE. SECESH TO THE BONE
. Thomas Farnsworth.

Me and Clem were at the smithing shack picking dean Dash's hooves when we heard the bell. The holler bell, we called it, coming from the far fields. Only time that bell rang was when something couldn't wait— a haycock on fire, or somebody's child fallen into the well. Every slave on Parnell's place knew that when the holler bell sounded, you had to stop whatever you were doing and get to the smokehouse at the tobacco field's north end.

Lucky for Dash we were just about done picking. I turned Dash's back hoof free from between my knees. Clem threw his hoof pick to the dirt. “We'll take Dash to the stables on the way,” he said. I gave Dash's hind quarters a slap. “Git, horse, the holler bell's calling.”

The north end of the tobacco field stood on a slope of land, way past the toolshed. You could see the whole spread of the field from the stables. Dusk had started to sweep her cape across the sky. Up ahead in the distance, folks wove their way across Parnell's property. The brittle ground crackled under our feet. We stepped full and fast to meet the holler bell's clang.

Most everybody coming up on the smokehouse was breathing heavy, wondering 'bout the reason for the holler bell. Some of us were rubbing our hands to warm them from the cold.

At the smokehouse, Farnsworth was standing on a turned-over bucket, waiting for all of us to come inside. He stood among the hanging pork parts, which were stored in the smokehouse. Farnsworth looked like he belonged with those meats. He was just as pink as the rest of them.

As uppity as Missy Claire was, you'll have thought her brother would look like a king. But Thomas Farnsworth was as sloppy as they come. A scalawag in britches. His hair needed combing. His face needed a shave. His clothes could have used a good mend.

It wasn't until Clem and I got full into the smokehouse that I noticed it was only men in there, no women. No Mama. No Summer. No Thea. Once we had gathered—most all of Parnell's men—the holler bell grew silent. A rustle of voices filled the small stone house. Then Farnsworth spoke, and everybody got quiet.

“Listen good now,” he said, “I'm going to tell you about the Farnsworth way.”

Now I could see the resemblance between Missy Claire and her brother. It was in their way of talking. They both dragged their words when they spoke, like what they said was being pulled out slow from their way-back teeth.

“Look around you. There are no womenfolk here because I sent them all back to the quarters,” he said. “What I got to say is for you only, because the Farnsworth way is the way of he-folk.”

Even in the dim lantern light, I could see Clem's chest heaving. Me, I was waiting and watching and listening close.

“Gideon Parnell ran a profitable plantation. But my brother-in-law hasn't always been known for his ability to keep his slaves in line. I'm the one who first showed Gideon the proper way to lash a nigra, though I hear Gideon's slow to have his slaves meet the whip.”

Farnsworth was talkin' real proud about himself, like he'd invented something. “I'm a longtime believer in the bullwhip, especially for breaking bucks like some of you,” he said. “That's the Farnsworth way. Any buck who gives me even a speck of trouble can expect the leather from me.” Farnsworth brought a whip out from behind his back. Biggest bullwhip I ever saw. Big as a boat rigging.

Clem flinched. He slowly backed away toward the
smokehouse door. Something was rising up in Clem. He was losing his good sense.

“I don't believe in whipping womenfolk,” Farnsworth said. “I got my own way of dealing with them. Besides, it's bucks who give me the most trouble.”

It was then that Farnsworth saw Clem backing up. He was looking right at Clem, and talking at him, too. “And there's always one buck—one at every plantation—who can't help but volunteer for a beating.” Farnsworth stepped down from his bucket. He pushed past the rest of us to get to Clem. He snatched Clem by the collar. “I think I got me a volunteer right here,” he said, his words dragging slow.

Now
my
chest was heaving. I heard myself praying silently to Thea's Almighty. I was scared for Clem. Scared Farnsworth would beat him to sawdust.

“Where you going, boy?” Farnsworth wanted to know. “Nobody—especially no darkie—backs out on me when I'm speaking.”

Farnsworth let his whip uncoil. He still had Clem by the collar. “You see, men, this here is a buck who's begging to be whipped.”

Farnsworth leaned in close to Clem. “Take your shirt off, boy.”

Clem did what Farnsworth said. Did it without blinking. Peeled his shirt off his shoulders and let it drop.

A few of us raised our lanterns toward Clem. Even
in the dusk light, you could see Clem's back real good. You could see where Parnell's overseer had beat him before.

Clem's back was a spider web of whipping scars. Natty rinds of flesh. An ugly memory sewn deep into his skin.

Farnsworth slowly lowered the very tip of his whip and quietly traced Clem's scars with it. Same way a finger traces a map drawn into soft dirt. Farnsworth was teasing Clem with that whip. Frightening him with the torment of uncertainty.

Now I was praying to Thea's Almighty like I ain't never prayed before.

“There's no good flesh left on you, boy.” Farnsworth was shaking his head. “Looks like somebody's whip has already taken care of you.” He gave Clem a single shove. He swung open the smokehouse door and walked out into the night with his whip trailing behind him.

A small group of us rushed to Clem. I knelt to pick up Clem's shirt. When I handed it to him, he didn't take it He just kept his eyes ahead, still hardly blinking.

The other men started to leave the smokehouse, till it was only me and Clem alone with the pork parts.

When everybody was gone, some kind of demon got a hold of Clem. He started talkin' crazy. Talkin' out of his head. His words flung into the empty darkness in an angry, mixed-up stream. Some of what he was saying made sense; some of it was gibberish. But there was
no mistaking that Clem was speaking with a sure force—with a fever. He was trembling, spit flying when he spoke.

“Gots to
go
,” he said. “I'll run till my feets fall off. North . . . North. Freedom wants me. Callin' my name, freedom is. Open wide, freedom, Clem's comin'— runnin', fightin', scratching', bitin' to find you.”

Clem was hugging himself. He was rocking with the heat of his own words. “Oh, freedom, you so sweet. I gots to get to you.
Gots
to!. . .
Will
find you, freedom—
will
. Any, any way I can. Won't stop till I do. Comin' to you, freedom—soon. Gettin' me
free.”

Clem crouched to the dirt floor. Under the single flickering light of my lantern, the dangling smokehouse meats made odd shadows against the stone walls. Clem pressed the heels of both hands to his forehead. He started to weep softly. “Gettin' me
free
.”

I knelt beside Clem. This wasn't no demon dream. Thomas Farnsworth was a haint, come to life—come to
my
life.

Mama wasn't gonna wake me this time from night terrors and calling out in my sleep. All that I was seeing and feeling was real. A real I didn't want to live, even though I had me plenty of doubts about leaving Parnell's.

I helped Clem on with his shirt. He was still rocking and weeping. It was me who spoke next. “Gettin'
we
free.”

December 24, 1862

G
OODNESS LANDS!

I ain't never seen the likes of all the fancy footin' that graced the Bates parlor on Christmas Eve. All day it had been raining a cold, icy rain, but that didn't dampen the party one bit.

Miss Penelope, she was a sight. She was dressed in a watered silk gown the color of honey. Glistened like honey, too, that gown did The whole room glistened.

Mama and I had dressed Missy Claire for the evening. Missy had chosen the emerald green with flounces. It was her first pick, and the best pick of all. Under the light of the parlor candles she was a true emerald. (The whole time spent at her vanity she'd complained to Mama about the rain. She'd urged Mama to make her curls tight enough to stay put.)

After Missy Claire was fully dressed, Mama and I
left to go to the Bates plantation, before the cotillion was to start. Miss Penelope told us we were to work 'longside the Bateses' house servants. She gave all of us a starched apron, and laid out each of our duties for the evening.

“Kit, I'm putting you in charge of the hors d'oeuvres. Arrange them as you would tea cakes, in spirals.

“Thea, you'll help serve the spirits. Make sure the glasses of my guests stay filled. At midnight, my husband will propose a holiday toast. As the hour approaches, see to it that each guest has a champagne flute filled and ready to raise.

“Summer, you'll be responsible for arranging all the confectionery items.”

I didn't know what “confectionery items” were, but I nodded. “Yessum.”

It wasn't until Miss Penelope left the room that I learned what I was supposed to do.

Mama said, “White folks always got to have fancy words for everything. All Miss Penelope had to say was for me to put the snacks real pretty on the tray, and for Summer to take care of the sweets.”

Thea said, “I been servin' the spirits my whole life. And anybody who's walkin' with the
Holy
Spirit knows true spirits ain't found in no whisky glass.”

I tugged at Mama. “
I'm
the one doin' the sweets?”

Mama set me clear, right quick. “You're puttin' the sweets out for the cotillion company, that's
all
That
don't mean tastin' or dreamin' on them sweets. Tonight's sweetnesses is for Miss Penelope's party, not for you.”

“But, Mama, it's Christm—”

“You hard of hearin', child?”

I slid my hand into my apron pocket. “No, Mama.”

I turned toward the larder to fetch a tray. But Mama stopped me short. “Summer, before you go gettin' all long in the face, let me give you something that's as sweet as any tea cake.” Mama came up close behind me. She wrapped me in one of her hugs. She held me in that hug for a good, long squeeze.

With my arms folded inside of Mama's, I squeezed, too.

Mama kissed the top of my head. “Merry Christmas, Summer,” she said softly.

Even though I wasn't allowed to taste none of the party sweets, I could sure dream on the sugared apple slices and honey-pears I was to serve throughout the evening. And I'd already put my eye to the crystal urn filled with hard candies that sat near the pianoforte in Miss Penelope's parlor. Them candies looked too pretty to eat. But, oh, they still set my mouth to watering.

The Bates home had a funny little clock that hung at the top of a long staircase. That clock had a regular face like the had clock at Missy Claire's home. But Miss Penelope's clock was shaped like a house, and had a bird living inside—a chirping dolly bird that popped out on his nest!