The Wedding Gift (9 page)

What nonsense to suggest that the slaves should be freed. They would not be able to care for themselves. The publishers of the pamphlet claimed that one of James Ezekiels’ brothers could read and write, but I had never known of a Negro who could do so, although I knew that Northerners published books that they claimed were written by Negroes. Papa, however, taught me when I was younger that there was scientific evidence that the race of the slaves had limited mental faculties and that their brains were smaller than our own. Even President Thomas Jefferson said in his
Notes on the State of Virginia
that Negroes had inferior minds. The narrative that Mrs. Oldwick gave me related tales of the vicious treatment of field hands by an overseer, who supposedly had bloodhounds tear a boy into pieces and had whipped pregnant women, one of whom had died after the beating and another thereafter delivered a dead infant.

I did not seriously think of attending the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, but I was curious about it, and Mrs. Oldwick seemed like a polite, educated lady. I thought that it would be fascinating to speak with her, to engage in frank conversation about the reality of slaves’ lives on a plantation. I could tell her that her understanding of slavery was incorrect and could give her examples of how well our servants and field hands were treated.

“You all right, Mrs. Allen?”

“Yes, Bessie. Thank you. I just have a few things on my mind.”

When I was dressed, my husband came to my room to take me to supper. He dismissed Bessie.

“Where is the newspaper that that lady gave you?”

“How do you know about that?”

“That is not your concern. Where is it?”

“I burned it in the fireplace.”

“Did you read it?”

“In part. It was rubbish.”

“Good. That woman will not be permitted in the hotel again. She is an incendiary. What did she say to you?”

“She told me to read the newspaper.”

“Should you see her anywhere again, you are not to speak to her. Some of these Northerners are confused and refuse to acknowledge that our cotton is the foundation of the economy. They will try to win some of us to their side, but we will not let that happen, will we? And…what is that? Why are you reading the
Evening Post?”

“Why should I not?”

“Because its editor is that liberal abolitionist William Cullen Bryant.”

“He is a poet, and a well-respected one.”

“It is not his poetry that concerns me. Do you not know that he calls for the destruction of the Southern states?”

“Perhaps that is an exaggeration.”

“What did you just say to me?” Cornelius grabbed my arm and twisted it until I cried out. “Don’t ever speak to me that way again. Do you hear me?”

“You are hurting me. Stop.”

“I will do worse if you ever show me disrespect again. And listen to me when I try to teach you something. You will not read that nonsense again. I had better not even hear that you have bought a copy of this paper.” He threw it in the fireplace.

That Friday evening, we went to the country home of Mr. and Mrs. Heath, which was located in the northeastern part of the island, by boat. On Saturday afternoon, I was reading in the parlor after walking in the woods with Mrs. Heath when my husband, Mr. Heath, Mr. DeWolf, and two other gentlemen arrived from riding. Before they went into the library across the hallway, they presented to me a man who was a merchant captain from Maine. They did not close the door.

“We will have to fund the remaining twenty-five percent ourselves, as the bank is not willing to risk more than their present twenty-five percent.”

“But I was told in Charleston that we could count on the bank here for fifty percent,” my husband said.

“Mr. Allen, perhaps a solution would be to get an investor. I can make an introduction to a gentleman who may be interested in joining this venture,” the captain said.

“No, it would be too dangerous to involve more people in this transaction. While prosecutions under the piracy laws are rare, international trafficking in slaves is a capital crime, after all,” Mr. Heath said.

“Then we have no other recourse but to fund the remaining twenty-five percent ourselves. I can contribute an additional ten percent,” my husband said.

“I will put in another ten,” Mr. DeWolf said.

“And I will add the remaining five. Well then, the lawyers will create a second set of documents on Monday with different names for the captain and crew in the event naval officers board the ship on its return voyage. Captain, how much longer until the ship is completed and you can assemble your staff?”

“I believe in two more weeks.”

“I cannot stay in New York that long because we have to begin planting the cotton seedlings shortly after I arrive home,” my husband said.

“You don’t have to be here for these transactions. Once the contract is fully agreed to by all the parties, you may leave. We have your order for one hundred children and fifty adults to be delivered to Mobile.”

We remained in New York for five more days, during which time my husband instructed me to purchase Negro cloth and other items in bulk that were not available to us in the South. We then sailed back and retraced our steps through Charleston and Mobile. I looked forward to being home because my husband had promised me that, as soon as we arrived, we would conceive another child.

CHAPTER FIVE

SARAH CAMPBELL

BELLE’S ABSENCE AFFECTED ALL THE HOUSE servants. Everyone loved her because she was kind and had a serene demeanor, but there was another reason they were sad. Her sale enacted their worst fear, being separated from their families. The day after they took Belle, my mother told me to go to the fields and ask Miss Mary, the midwife to the slaves, to bring her herbs for curing fever. She had delivered Belle and me, and we thought of her as our aunt. She was so successful at her work that she never lost a baby or a mother. She began caring for a slave woman immediately after she was known to be expecting and attended to her for at least two weeks after giving birth. Because she knew so many of the women among us and sometimes helped with pregnancies on other plantations, Miss Mary was privy to information from all corners of the plantation and beyond. When Miss Mary arrived in the kitchen that afternoon, she and my mother and I went to our cabin to speak.

“Mr. Allen sold her and two others. I don’t know where,” Miss Mary said.

“But somebody must know something. Didn’t nobody say they had to drive the girls to some other plantation? What about the other girls’ families? Did they say anything?”

“No, Miss Emmeline. I’m sorry. I talked to everybody I trust and who know about these things. I ain’t heard nothing.”

“Miss Mary, please, when Mr. Allen hire you out to other plantations, please ask if anybody know if Belle got sold there.”

“You don’t even have to ask. I already started telling people at the fields and the coachmen when they get hired out or go deliver goods to other plantations to try to find out where they sent her and the other girls. But like I told them, we all got to be very careful about what we say and who we ask. Even you two. You all know we can’t ask questions about Mr. Allen’s decisions.”

“Yes, you’re right, and we understand that you doing the best you can. Thank you so much, Miss Mary.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Your girls are like my own.”

“I baked a cake and a pie for you to take back to your family, Miss Mary,” I said.

“Come here and give me a hug, my sugar darling.”

For about a month after Belle was sold, I felt no desire to do anything but sleep and read. My mother had to shake me to wake every morning, and she had to force me to eat. I performed my work, but I might not notice that the pot had boiled over or that I had made no progress in rubbing the English wax into the grain of the wood. My thoughts always were of Belle. Why Belle? Why not me? I was the one who always wanted to flee. I was the one who barely hid an escalating rage against Mr. Allen. I wish I knew where they had taken my sister. Even if I did know where they had taken her, what could I do? I could not do anything to rescue her.

Belle and my mother had warned me not to run. If you run, they will hunt you. They will find you and bring you back. Everyone who runs is caught. When they bring you back, they beat you. If you run again, they cut you before they sell you. What of my mother? She now had just one child. If I ran away to find Belle, it was unlikely that I could find her, but my dear mother would be alone. I had to have faith in Mama that she would get back Belle. After all, these many years she had managed to keep the three of us together. These were my thoughts all my waking hours and in my sleep.

My mother went back to Mr. Allen after Belle was sold, which meant that I could read in our cabin. One night I was reading Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry and came across a sonnet unlike his other works. It was about a man named Toussaint L’Ouverture. This poem sang to me about my life.

TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE

TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy of men! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon’s earless den; O miserable Chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies; There’s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.

Who was this Toussaint L’Ouverture? How could I learn more about him? Why was he “in some deep dungeon’s earless den”? I would have to search for answers the next day when I was laboring in the library. I returned to the first pages of the book where I read that certain sonnets in this collection, including the one about Toussaint L’Ouverture, were published in London’s
Morning Post
in 1803.

The next morning, I looked in the library but could find no reference to Toussaint L’Ouverture or the
Morning Post.
I realized that there were never newspapers in the library, although I sometimes saw Mr. and Mrs. Allen reading them in the parlor. I did not know where they put them after reading them. That night, before she left, I asked my mother what happened to the newspapers after the Allens read them.