The Letter Writer (8 page)

She spoke so calmly, I wondered how many times she had seen this happen. We drank our coffee and continued to just sit there as if we were afraid to go back into the house when the servants weren't about. As if they owned it and we were just guests.

So we sat there. Pleasant rocked William and put him down for a morning nap in a cradle kept on the veranda for the purpose. Margaret fell asleep on the settee. Mother dictated a letter and I wrote it down. Emilie just sat there staring into space. Soon a strange smell started to fill the air.

Emilie sniffed and sat forward and looked around. "What is that?" she asked. "That vile smell?"

Mother Whitehead sniffed, too, with her delicate nose but kept silent.

I breathed in. It smelled like something rotten. "Like something dying," I said to Mother Whitehead.

Her blue eyes sought mine. And in an instant we both knew. And Emilie didn't. At first it seemed that Mother Whitehead was not going to tell her, but then she had a change of heart.

"They're burning him," she said.

At precisely that moment Nat Turner came from the cool inner house, like one of its shadows, stepping out onto the veranda. He just stood there, tall and quiet and knowing, looking at us. "Mayhap y'all best get inside," he suggested, "so you all don't get sick from that smell."

"A good idea, Nat," Mother Whitehead said. And for all their concern they could have been talking about the slaughter of pigs on the first cold day of winter.

He helped her up. He took her coffee cup and set it on the tray and handed the tray to me, and then took her arm and brought her inside. He brought her into the front parlor and closed whatever windows were open and even drew the curtains. Then he went outside to wake Margaret and fetch her, Emilie, and Pleasant inside. He carried in the cradle with William in it.

He took Margaret aside for a moment and spoke to her, low and soft, before he brought her in. I think he was explaining to her what the smell was. I think the calmness and reasoning in his voice prevented her hysterics. When he brought her in and sat her down, he offered to make a new pot of coffee, assuring Mother Whitehead that he knew how. She said yes, and oh how nice, and before we knew what had transpired, Nat brought the coffee in along with washed cups and more cake.

I tried to catch his glance, to see the expression on his face, but I could not. He was like a stone idol, carved out of granite by someone who had more memories than
they could bear and was carving them on his face to get rid of them.

He left us there in the parlor with nothing to talk about now, with nothing to do but wait for something terrible to happen, only we didn't know yet what it was to be.

Dear Uncle Andrew: The half of Violet that is white was strong on the outside, pleasing Mother Whitehead, who thought she was strong through and through. Violet served us at supper that evening after she came home and her face was placid, as usual, and she had about her the wits that always carried her through, though she would scarce look at me, for fear her true feelings would show and she would make a disgrace of herself.

That night, after she went to her attic room, I heard her crying from my bedroom down the stairs. I waited a bit to be sure the house was settled, and then I went up to her.

"Oh, Harriet," she said, her face buried in the pillow, lest anyone should hear, "it was terrible. I would die before I would let your brother make me attend one of those happenings again. And do you know, speaking of Richard, what he did?"

I was afraid to ask, so she told me, anyway.

She told me that just before they burned the slave, Richard got up there and gave a sermon! He told of the command God had given the servants, concerning their masters. He said they should love and obey their masters. He quoted all those passages from the Bible about slaves and masters.

Oh, Uncle Andrew, Violet was terrified. "I'm half negro," she said. "Do all those things apply to me? Are you my mistress? Would you have me burned? Would you try to stop it if Richard wanted it? And how can anyone who considers himself an upright human being order or attend the burning of another human being?"

I didn't know what to say, Uncle Andrew. I never think of her as being colored, or my servant. She is just my friend, and more of a sister to me than Margaret. I don't understand this slavery business at all. But I do understand that Violet never should have been made
to go to this killing. After all, she is only three years older than I.

Anyway, she didn't want me to leave her that night, so I got under the quilt with her and held her, and she was shaking. I have never before seen this girl frightened of anything. We both soon fell asleep and, since she gets up at five thirty in the morning, I was able to slip downstairs to my own bed in the early hours so Mother Whitehead didn't catch me with her.

Violet was up extra early that morning. And do you know what for? To burn the clothes she attended the burning in! She said they had that terrible smell on them and she could never wear them again. And sure enough they did smell. And so did the clothing of the other household help.

And when they saw what she was about, soon, one by one, they all came out with the clothing they had attended the burning in. And soon there was a great pile of clothing burning out in the barnyard pit. When Richard came down for breakfast he asked what was going on. And he became very angry when Violet told him.

"
So you've all thrown out a good set of clothes, have you?" he asked the house slaves. None of them
answered. "Well, then you can just do without a set of clothing for the rest of the summer and fall," he directed.

They moaned and he went straight into the dining room for breakfast. And later, Mother Whitehead went into the kitchen to "address" the women who had burned their clothing. She would send to town for new fabric, she said, and each one of them could stitch up their own clothes. But she did not want them to think she was undermining her son, Richard. Richard was not himself this morning and, if not for pride, would take back the order. Did they understand?

They said yes. Massa Richard was the boss, but they would still have new clothes. They understood. And you know what, Uncle Andrew? I believe they understood more than Mother Whitehead gave them credit for.

The house was strangely quiet all that day. We scarce looked at each other, as if we were ashamed to acknowledge that we belonged to the white part of the human race.

Emilie is staying with us for a while. Margaret went back to school, so now I have only Emilie and Violet to worry about. I spent the day trying to
convince Violet that Emilie is not to blame for what happened to the slave, even though it happened on her mother's plantation.

Since Emilie doesn't want to go home yet, I am in charge of her. She, too, seems not to want to let me out of her sight. She even sat herself down next to me when I wrote letters for Mother Whitehead. I know Mother Whitehead wouldn't have wanted her there since all her correspondence is private, so I sat Emilie in a chair a bit away from us. I gave Emilie a book of poetry and told her not to move or speak, because then Mother Whitehead would know she was in the room.

All went well. Except that Richard insisted, after lunch, on reading from the Bible. He must have known how upset we all were by yesterday's events, because he assured us that the master is not to blame for whipping his servant, but that
he is only doing his duty as a Christian!

By the time he was finished, both Violet and Emilie were in tears. So I asked Connie in the kitchen if we could make some taffy and she said yes. And we spent the afternoon pulling taffy. Do you believe, Uncle Andrew, that such a simple task helped us? It
was more comforting than hearing those Bible passages of Richard's. Just as taking little William for a walk in his wagon helped. He fell asleep and it turned out that we were a help to Pleasant.

So we gave the afternoon some sanity after all and I wonder, Uncle Andrew, is life sane, as we tried to make it? Or is it insanity, as it was yesterday on the Gerard plantation? And why don't more people try to make it sane?

Or if it is full of sanity for them, why do they try to rip that sanity to pieces and impose their form of insanity? Can you help me understand?

You have lived a very long time, Uncle Andrew, and you must know some of these answers. Perhaps someday you can answer them for me. Because you have survived to be such a respected gentleman as you are, I wish you every good thing there is.

I wish you wonderful books to read and poetry inside your head and words there, too, that you may yet write and good afternoons filled with sunshine and laughter and a glass of wine that glimmers in the sun and peace and hope.

Your loving niece, Harriet

There is a grapevine of communication the negroes have that runs from plantation to plantation around here so that they know everything, sometimes before the white people know it.

The word started going around two days after the Gerard slave was burned to death. You could see it in the faces of the negroes, both outside the house and inside.

Usually there were good feelings between me and most of the negroes on the place. If not downright friendly, they always gave me a smile when we passed each other, or tipped a hat or nodded a head and acknowledged my presence.

This day, there was none of that. This day, they lowered their eyes or looked the other way.

I felt left out of the circle of their trust. I felt as if they were avoiding me. Violet, recovered now only so she could present a good face to do her chores and grateful to me for helping her recover, came over to me after breakfast when everyone was finding their place to hide themselves for the day.

Mother Whitehead retired to her space in the corner on the veranda where the clematis and the passion-flower climbed and made a sweet-smelling curtain for her pleasure.

Pleasant went to her reading room to prepare lessons for me. Little William went for a walk with Owen. Margaret, who had come home out of fear and with Richard's blessing, and Emilie left to gather some flowers to make a bouquet. And Richard rode over to the Williams place, about five miles north of us, because Mrs. Williams was ailing and had asked for his prayers and comfort.

"Harriet, I must talk to you," Violet whispered.

"About what?"

"It's a secret. Don't speak so loud."

I lowered my voice. "Is it the same secret all the servants know about?"

"You know it, then?"

"No, but I know they have one. I can tell because they are all agitated. And because they won't look at me, as if looking at me will give it away."

She was pulling me toward the kitchen, where the morning dishes were being washed and dried, where preparations were already being made for lunch, potatoes being peeled, fruit arranged in a bowl, cake being mixed.

Usually when I walked through the kitchen, Winefred the cook would take a piece of whatever she was cooking and give it to me. And I would take it as if it were a sacrament and put it in my mouth. Because it was sort of a sacrament, a sign of friendship and love between black and white.

This day she was slicing leftover turkey. She turned her back to me.

Connie was scraping batter for cake into a pan. At this juncture she would always hand me the spoon and allow me to pause and lick the bowl.

This time she did not.

We did not hesitate, Violet and I. She pulled me through the kitchen and outside.

The sky was blue on this hot August morning and there was already a hint of September in the air. In the distance the pond glistened and ducks swam innocently. And slaves were gathering in the orchard to pick the beautiful apples that were bending down to them. I breathed deeply. I would spend this day outside. I would ride. Mayhap I'd take Emilie with me. Do her good.

"Did you hear me, Harriet?"

"No, I'm sorry, I was thinking I'd like to ride out today."

"Look, I think you heard, but you don't want to admit it, so I'll say it again.
There was a warning from Nat Turner to Owen, who passed it on. 'Look out and take care of yourselves. Something will happen before long.'
"

I snapped back into reality. "Nat Turner said that?"

"Yes. That's his message."

I felt dizzy. "Let me go. I must see him."

"What makes you think he wants to see a little white girl like you? After that burning the other day, I don't think he wants to see anybody."

"He wasn't angry the other day. He waited on us. Made us fresh coffee, brought us inside, away from the smell."

"He's part actor. And he knew he had to do it. And not display his anger. That if he displayed it at the wrong time, he would give himself away."

I did not understand. "Where is he?"

"Down at the orchard. Supervising the apple picking. He has strange men with him. Told Richard they are his friends and they'll help for the day. One of them is named Hark, another Will. I don't know if he'll talk to you."

"He'll talk to me." I broke away from her and ran to the orchard.

***

"Nat? Nat Turner?" I looked up into the apple tree and sure enough, there he was, near concealed by the branches. He was plucking apples and tossing them down to one of his men.

"Watch yourself, Hark, you almost missed that one," he said. "Can't have bruised apples. Bruised slaves, now, that's something different. But not bruised apples."

I waited until he came down from the tree, wiping his hands on a towel. "You want to talk with me, little Harriet? Come on over here by the fence. These lieutenants of mine have big ears."

They said things to scoff at him. He waved them off.

At the fence he offered me an apple, which I took, and then, with perfect white teeth, he bit into his own.

"Is there trouble over the map?" he asked.

"No. But Violet told me this morning about your message."