Plantation Nation (9781621352877) (3 page)

"Oh, Tilda!" Emma fell into Tilda, sobbing.
"I'm sorry! I never meant for this to happen! I'm so sorry. Please
forgive me." Emma's grief rolled in like the tide over the salt
marshes. Tilda, overwhelmed by Emma, said nothing. She clung to
Emma as her own anguish for her son unleashed.

"Deys ain't nothin' we can do 'bout it, Miss
Emma, 'cept pray." Tilda's voice sounded soft and injured, making
Emma sob even harder.

The slaves' deeply religious ways perplexed
Emma, as did the Almighty. She found no comfort in the
fire-and-brimstone sermons Reverend McGee performed each Sunday
from his pulpit. Instead, Emma found herself drawn to the worship
services the slaves held in the Quarters. Their hymns and
spirituals, sung with unbridled love and raw freedom, always piqued
Emma's curiosity when she listened, perched from a tree. Now, she
wondered why such a mighty God had failed Basil.

"Hush now, Miss Emma," Tilda whispered.
"Dey'll hear you all way up at de house."

Emma understood her concerns. Slaves knew
well the virtue of capping emotions in their brittle existence. As
Emma tried to pull herself together, her arms slid from Tilda's,
and she struggled to find her voice.

"I'm sorry, Tilda. I
—
"

"Shh. Best to hush. Weez ain't sleepin' much
'round here. Dem awful nightmares. Henry, he don' hardly leave
Basil's side." Her voice buckled. "I know you'll be wantin' to says
your goodbyes."

Tilda took Emma to a pile of freshly tilled
earth in the slave cemetery. Emma sank to the ground. Tears erupted
anew. Emma clutched a handful of moist soil as uncontrolled
lamentations poured from her lips. She slid facedown to the dirt
and wept apologies to Basil's grave.

Emma exhausted herself. Images of Basil
skipped through her mind. Remembering his big, bright smile made
her chest tighten. He had only been eighteen. She recalled the time
he told her about his dream to one day own a boat. Basil had loved
the water, and on occasion, he and Emma had escaped to the docks at
Port Royal. Ships and cargo arriving from around the world teased
of adventure.

"That one," he would say as he pointed to the
largest ship he could find. "I'm gonna get me a ship just like that
one. I'll get Mamma and Henry, and weez goin' to sail far away from
dis place. Maybe we'll go someplace where dey have snow. No rice
and none o' dat cotton. Just snow."

"And I'll help you, Basil," Emma promised.
"I'll help you get that ship."

Basil would laugh. Emma had laughed, too. She
didn't know why. Maybe Basil didn't think she could help. She
wanted to show him, wanted to prove him wrong. But she was glad she
had laughed with him when she could.

"Miss Emma," Tilda said.

Emma roused from what must have turned into a
dream. A chill rattled the air, and she noticed the moonlight had
waned. Her slacked body moved like cold molasses. Numbness engulfed
her.

"Best to git you back to de house now. I'll
git Henry. He'll walk wit you."

"No, don't wake him." Emma gave one last look
to Basil's resting place. "This is all my fault, Tilda. If I
hadn't
—
"

Tilda shook her head. "Dis life full o'
uncertains, Miss Emma. Now I'll miss ma boy ever livin' day I have
left, but ain't nothin' promised to no man. Ain't no understandin'
some thangs. Best wez can do is trust de Lawd and know wez be
together again someday."

"Let me help you. I'll help you and Henry.
We'll get you some papers, and then you can escape, head up North,
across the Ohio River, where no one will ever come looking for
you."

"Naw."

The remark stunned Emma. "I know, I know it
can be dangerous, but you'll have Henry. He can face
anything
—
"

"Naw, chil'." She squeezed Emma's hands
affectionately. "Dis here is our home. We don' wanna leave Basil,
or even you and Master Knox. He's always been good to us. Makes
sure we got shoes in de cold, even gave us dem turkeys for last
Christmas."

Emma recalled the turkeys. She knew such
offerings were bittersweet for Knox since the Uprising, but he
continued his gifts in order to lighten the malicious authority
exercised by George Napier. Before the tragedy of both the Uprising
and the addition of Napier to the plantation, Knox had often been
accused of treating his slaves too well. In the present political
climate, turkeys for slaves at Christmas would rile fellow
Southerners and threaten Knox's good standing.

"Ain't nothin' wrong here, 'cept dat Mr.
Napier," Tilda said. "Weez all know he's de reason Basil bein'
gone. Weez knows Master Knox
—
and
your daddy
—
ain't like dat."

She took Emma's hand and pressed a root and
leaves into her palm. Tilda specialized in herbal remedies and
nursed the ill-stricken on the plantation. Her peppermint broth
soothed upset stomachs, and her mustard plasters eased a cold.
Emma, ignoring her mother's reservations, preferred Tilda's teas
and plasters over Doc Hadley's sludge-like elixirs.

"Make dat into tea. May help ye back." Tilda
swallowed hard and hung her head. "You done suffered enough."

Emma's hand trembled.

"Prolly best you keep away from here, Miss
Emma. Don't want no mo' trouble fo' you. Basil wouldn' either."

Emma knew Tilda was right. Hers would be an
unwelcome presence now, the public beating had seen to that.
Despite the fact she had suffered too, she would be shunned in the
rice fields and Quarters alike, greeted with bent-down heads and
silence.

Emma couldn't look at Tilda. "Please don't
hate me."

"Aw, chile, ain't no one a blamin' you. You
always been good to all of us, helpin' in de fields, carin' for de
li'l ones at times, and I knowed you wanted to help Basil, wanted
to give him a chance rest of us don' have. Ain't no hatin' you fo'
dat." Fresh tears glided down her cheeks. "He wid de Lawd now. He
free now."

The words hit Emma like another lash to her
back.

"I won't let him die for nothing," Emma said.
"It won't be for nothing."

Walking through the patch of trees that
separated the Quarters from the house grounds, Emma felt weak from
grief and shameful for the sensation of relief. Tilda had not
chided her, had not unleashed bitterness toward her. Emma would
have to find a way to feel comfort in Tilda's forgiveness, and
someday, Emma would have to forgive herself.

Her aches and eagerness for her bed grew when
the house came into sight, but someone grabbed Emma from behind.
Leathery hands covered her mouth as she was dragged into the nearby
stable, kicking and struggling. Once inside, the horses stirred
from the sounds of Emma's stifled protests. Her captor took her to
an empty stall, turned her around and struck her face. She was then
shoved backward and into a pile of hay.

"Running off to see your little coons. What
would your granddaddy say about that?"

Emma swiped her hair from her face and saw
George Napier standing over her.

"Never gonna learn, are you, girl? Stubborn,
ain't ya?" He bent on one knee, then leaned over and ran his hand
over Emma's bare leg. "I like that."

She kicked away his hand.

"Get away from me!"

"Just settle down, now. You're gonna do just
like I say and be real nice, else I'll have to wake up your
granddaddy, tell him what you been up to."

Emma rolled off the hay and made a lunge for
an escape. George grabbed her around the waist and forced her back
down. He fell on top of her and pressed his weight into her while
he fiddled with the button on his trousers. Emma yelped from the
impact as the straw poked into her.

"Yeah, go ahead 'n wrestle around. Better for
me that way."

She smacked him, pounded him in the back to
no avail. His hat toppled off. A thin patch of his brownish-red
hair flopped in front of his face. Emma clawed his bare head.

George cursed and snatched Emma's hands. With
one hand he clutched both wrists. His whiskey and cigar-laced
breath nauseated Emma. A weak yell escaped her. George grunted his
satisfaction. He lifted his head, a smarmy smirk across his
face.

"I been waitin' for this a long time," he
said. "You're mine now."

Emma's mind flashed to every inappropriate
touch and salacious stare George had helped himself to since
stepping foot onto the Cartwright property over a year ago. She had
fended off his advances
—
and kept
him from Sylvia
—
but he had
cornered her in the barn once. Drunk, as he typically was by day's
end, he had pressed himself against Emma and licked the side of her
neck. The sudden entrance of Emma's grandfather had foiled his
intentions.

Now, Emma gasped at the sound of a whack.

George stared blankly for an instant, then
slumped into the hay.

Henry stood a few feet away, a piece of wood
in his hand. He reached down and pulled Emma up. "You okay, Miss
Emma?"

She nodded. "How did you…"

"Mamma woke me. Wanted you to get in all
safe. Never know what's in dem woods."

"Snakes, apparently." Emma kicked George in
the gut with her bare foot. "Wish we could drag him down to the
marsh, let the gators find him."

"I take him der myself." Henry's chest
expanded. Standing well over six feet and thick as the trunk of a
mighty oak, Henry had muscles stacked on top of each other from a
lifetime of hard labor. When it was time to thresh the rice, Henry
manned the flail for long, hot hours. His massive hands could snap
the head off a chicken before it had a chance to squawk. Born on
the Cartwright plantation more than twenty years ago, Henry had
fended off a gator in the marsh once and took pride in keeping an
eye on his younger brother. Other slaves revered Henry, though he
was also known for bad bouts of temper.

He took a step toward George's limp body.

"No, Henry, we can't. That's not us. We're
not like him. Besides, it won't bring Basil back."

The hatred in Henry's eyes softened at the
mention of his brother.

"But I have an idea." Emma grinned.

They scrambled and dumped George at a
strategic location near the front of the house. With his trousers
still loose and drooped around his ankles, George Napier and his
glaring white rump waited to greet the rising sun.

****

Much of the Cartwright household erupted in
the early morning hours, due in large part to Olivia's discovery of
George's rear end on the other side of her bedroom window. Emma's
brother Quinn did the honors of rousing George with a bucket of
water.

"Maybe Granddad will get rid of him now,"
Sylvia said. Wearing the new lilac dress Olivia had brought in the
room yesterday, she danced and twirled around while Emma dealt with
a lack of sleep. She wished she hadn't dropped the root and leaves
Tilda had given her, as her body aches ramped up.

"Maybe he'll leave." Emma did not believe
that. In fact, she worried that last night's incident would only
heighten his determination to trap her and have his way with her
once and for all. She understood men like George Napier, and she
knew Knox had hired him in a moment of desperation and weakness.
After the Uprising, Knox had wanted to send a firm message to the
slaves and to reestablish the lines between master and slave.
Though he had never raised a hand against a slave, Knox overlooked
George's cruel treatment.

George would seek his revenge, Emma knew.

"Either way," she said, giving up on her bed,
"I'll be glad to see him go."

Emma had never mentioned her encounters with
George to Sylvia or anyone else. She had considered telling her
grandfather when he had found them in the barn, but resisted. She
believed she could handle the likes of George on her own. But after
last night, doubts crept in.

"Do you think I should wear this tonight?"
Sylvia twirled in front of a mirror and tried to catch her
reflection from different angles, even though the dress was too
long and too big to fit her slender frame properly.

Emma glanced at her sister in the gown. "It
suits you more than me."

Despite the compliment and Emma's warm smile,
Sylvia sat on the cushioned bench seat and slumped her
shoulders.

"Momma says I can't go to the party tonight.
It's only for the adults."

"Trust me, Sylvie, I'd trade places with you
if I could." Emma splashed her face with water from the basin.

"It's not fair. I can get married in a few
years, but I can't go to some party."

Stunned, Emma let the water trickle down her
face and onto her nightgown.

"Who said anything about you getting
married?"

Sylvia shrugged a shoulder. "I'll be old
enough, and I want to be like you and Stella."

Oldest of the Cartwright girls, Stella had
made her mother proud last summer when she wed Dawson Larrimore,
owner of the largest cotton plantation in the neighboring county,
and their second cousin. An antique wedding dress that had been
worn by generations of Cartwrights, relatives from far and wide,
and week-long festivities had all set the pace Emma knew she was
required to repeat
—
or out-do.
The thought hurt her head.

"I'm not like Stella." Sorrow tinged Emma's
voice. From time to time, tormenting thoughts bombarded Emma,
thoughts that reminded her how different she was from both Stella
and her younger sister Annabelle, and how far she drifted from her
mother's expectations of what a lady should be. "I don't want to
own slaves and play lady of the estate."
I don't want to be like
mother
, she thought
—
and
wondered if there was truth to her mother's concern about poisoning
Sylvia against her.

There were moments when Emma had difficulty
separating marriage from slavery. If being married meant she had to
live a set, structured life of someone else's rules and standards,
Emma decided it would be best for her to avoid any union. But such
a notion clashed with the legacy left by nearly every female in her
family tree. She had no alternatives, no other plans she wanted to
pursue, but the possibility
—
or
probability
—
that she had little
say or control over her predicament disturbed her.