The Promise Between Us, page 1
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
ISBN: 978-1-989165-13-3
Cover designer: Victoria Cooper Art
Website: www.facebook.com/VictoriaCooperArt
Editor: Scripta Word Services
Website: scripta-word-services.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Reading Order for Series
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Review Note
Available Now
About the Author
Novels:
A Slave of the Shadows: Book One
A Guardian of Slaves: Book Two
A Whisper of War: Book Three (Coming Soon)
Novellas:
The Black Knight’s Tune: Novella One
The Master of Ships: Novella Two
The Promise Between Us: Novella Three
The Fair Magnolia: Novella Four
Novels can be read alone or with the novella series. The author's shorter works are best read in the suggested order.
Charleston, South Carolina, 1832
I CLUTCHED MY BABE TO my breast, curling tighter against the wall of the pen, yearning to fade from the slave traders who’d soon come to retrieve us. Within iron-railed cages, I waited with forty-three other slaves rounded up from plantations along our journey to Charleston. The excited voices of planters and purchasers conversing in the open-air auction echoed off the stone corridor walls.
Terror of the outcome of the day glistened on brows and shone brightly in the eyes of the men and women crammed into the small holding cells. Spent tears stained the cheeks of children old enough to understand what was about to happen, and they clung to their mammies and pappies. Those too young to comprehend used stones to draw in the dirt floor while others had fallen into a peaceful sleep in their parents’ laps.
I glanced down at Mary Grace, who slept heavily. Breath lightly whistled through her lips, and a soft smile played on her cheeks. Tracing a finger over her sweat-soaked hair, then her perfect mouth, I wanted nothing more than to return the babe to the protection of my womb.
Tears I’d expelled from Masa Adams’s plantation to Charleston left my eyes scratchy and red. I wept for what lay ahead and for the love I’d left behind—my African prince. The man who’d loved Mary Grace as his own, and had taught me to love again. I needed him to wrap me in his big, strong arms and whisper words of encouragement to ease the anxiety gurgling like a creek within me.
Early in the morning, the slave traders had come to the pens and ordered we strip before dousing us with buckets of cold water. Our bodies were scrubbed raw, but with care not to break the skin. Then we were greased to infer health and youthfulness, and those with scars that might reveal a troublesome slave were painted with tar to deceive the purchasers. Women’s hair was braided or covered with a head rag before they and the children were clothed in clean Negro cloth shifts. Men were given matching trousers and shirts.
Next to me, a man adjusted his position against the wall and bumped my arm. He mumbled an apology. Our gazes met, and the gutted pain in his dark eyes reflected the terrors that had thrashed his body the night before and caused him to cry out, then sit upright to stare endlessly at the wall across the pen.
He looked at Mary Grace, his jaw tight and flexing. “She your only one?”
“Yes, and de last, ef I can help et. My heart can’t handle no more loss.”
“Death be easier den having another,” he said before resting his head against the cool of the stone wall and closing his eyes. I stared at him a moment longer, wondering what fate had marked his soul with such hardness.
The sound of shoes scuffing on stone pulled us all to our feet. My heart hammered against my ribcage as paralyzing fear gripped me. It was time. Now our future would be assigned for us, as the white men once again played God with our lives. “Please, Lard, don’t let dem take my babe,” I whispered silently.
Two men came to stand in front of us and I crept back, trying to disappear into the others. My knees trembled, and sweat poured down my inner thighs, trickling over my bare feet. I slumped into the man behind me, and firm hands reached out to steady me.
“I know you skeered, but you got to be strong for de chile ’til you got no other choice.” His whisper was gruff yet comforting.
A tear slid down my cheek. How? I screamed inside. Life without my daughter was a life I couldn’t survive. Before, I’d thought that without my family I couldn’t go on. Then, when they ripped Big John from me I crumbled, and only Mary Grace’s wiggling body had pushed me forward and helped me stay upright as I was put in a wagon. Big John had run alongside the wagon until he reached the property line, where he had to stop or be shot down like an old dog. Brushing at the tears marring my vision, I’d seared every last detail of him into my memory.
When we passed by the swampland surrounding Charleston, alligators’ heads broke the surface of the murky waters, their beady eyes patrolling with anticipation. I envisioned leaping over the side of the wagon and wading out into the waters and letting the creatures maul my body until nothing remained but my bones, bare of my human flesh. Then the cooing of the babe in my arms and her small fist striking my chest had ceased the crazed thoughts, and I curled in the corner of the wagon to feed her as the slave trader positioned on the seat beside the driver watched on.
The iron gate rattled as keys were thrust into the lock. The auctioneer entered with another man I recalled from the previous day. They moved throughout the pen, inspecting us all.
The auctioneer stopped in front of me. “You’re a pretty thing. You should fetch a hefty profit.” Prying my mouth open, he inspected my teeth before circling me. His hand gripped a handful of my buttocks, and I froze. My breath caught. He grunted and inhaled deeply before he released his hold, circled again, and squeezed my breast before moving down to the tender place between my legs. I cringed at his touch but stood still, enduring the inspection.
“Yes, a fine profit.” His blue eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
I hadn’t realized my grip on Mary Grace until she began to fuss. Easing my hold, I swayed her gently in my arms. The auctioneer said to the other man, “I’m wondering if we might sell her alone without the child. Market her as untouched. Mr. Thames likes them like that. What do you say, Lewis?”
No! Again, I looked upon a white man’s face. Tears bit at the corners of my eyes. Lard, please! I’ll die. Noting my fear he postured, thrusting out his chest. I dropped my gaze to stare at his boots. I prayed for the cruelest death to befall him, a disease that would cause the flesh to peel from his bones.
“Ain’t no way you can sell dat one lak she be pure,” said a deep voice behind me. I eyed the man chained to me as he continued. “She let me have my way wid her last night, and you won’t be fooling no one ’bout de looseness dat heats between her legs.”
My flesh burned with humiliation, but my heart swelled with gratitude at the man’s attempt to keep them from separating me from my daughter.
The auction masa struck the wall by the man’s head with the butt of his whip. “Silence, you dog! Breathe another word and there won’t be anything left of your hide to sell.”
“I could save you de trouble,” the man said, as though he had a death wish.
The auction masa’s hand clenched at his side at the rebellion of the man, but to harm him now meant he would forgo the profit an attractive, strong man like him would bring.
“All right, line them up. The good people of Charleston await.”
Herding us into a single line, they pushed us forward, down the corridor toward the auction block. The clanging of the chains secured around our ankles sang loud and haunting against the stone ground. Soon the human train halted, and our ankle shackles were removed. Traders sectioned the men off from the women and children. The first man took his station on the platform, and the auctioneer’s voice penetrated the afternoon, and the shouts of purchasers rose to meet his. Minutes ticked past and the man’s future was decided.
“Sold!” the auctioneer called.
The slave twisted to look in my direction, his dark eyes dripping with fear as the piercing wail from a woman split the chatter of the auction. Turning, I saw the woman drop to her knees, rocking back and forth, her hands extended to the heavens.
A guard charged at her and yanked her to her feet, shaking her roughly. “Shut your mouth if you know
The woman’s sobs muffled to a soft whimper.
I glanced back at the slave man as they led him toward us. His shoulders shook with silent sobs. He reached for his woman, but the slave trader elbowed him on. The pain of their separation stirred the ache of my longing for the gentle giant who visited my daydreams. The white men could take my body, but they would never take my mind or the memories of the man that owned my heart. “Ain’t no white men’s auction dat could sell dat,” I whispered through gritted teeth.
My cellmates’ fates were determined, one after another. Women, men, and children openly grieved as their families were torn apart. The guards stepped in to silence them and quell unease amongst the whites.
The man who’d come to Mary Grace’s and my rescue mounted the steps and moved to the middle of the platform. His shoulders sloped forward and his head hung, the fight he had shown earlier a fleeting memory.
Using the butt of his whip, the auctioneer hoisted the man’s head. “We got a prize picking today, folks. This buck is a skilled blacksmith. And one of the finest you will find.” He started rambling off prices, and the bidding began.
“Sold,” the auctioneer said moments later.
Again, the man was escorted past us to await his new master to settle his debt and come to retrieve him. As the man shuffled by, I grabbed his wrist. “May de Lard watch over you,” I said.
He stopped, his dark, hollow eyes chiseling through mine. “Ain’t no God in dis place.”
“Come on, move.” The guard prodded him onward.
The blacksmith moved down the line as instructed. A woman reached out and touched his shoulder. “Keep heart, James.”
The blacksmith grunted and continued down the aisle of slaves.
“Surviving is how we win.” A man held out shackled wrists, beseeching us all. “Dey may divide our families, but dey can’t take our souls.”
The blacksmith paused in front of the man. “You be a man widout a family, ’cause you know not what you speak.”
“Friend, what have you lost?”
“Evvything,” he said, followed by a gasp as a blow to the back of the head from the guard pushed him on.
A calloused hand grabbed my arm. “Move along. It’s your turn.”
With weighted legs, I climbed the steps and allowed a man to move me into position.
“This handsome Negress is a domestic slave and will make some family a good nursemaid.” The auctioneer’s words muffled as I stood rigid, looking out over the crowd of eager faces studying me as one would when purchasing a racehorse.
My gaze fell on a woman swollen with child. Something in the way she looked at me puckered my brow. Kindness bestowed on us coloreds by the whites was a rarity. But the woman’s face reflected concern as she looked from me to my child. She leaned close to the man who stood tall and proud beside her, a handsome man with blond hair and a firm jaw. He tilted his ear to hear the woman, and his eyes fell on me. My heart stuck in my throat. They exchanged a few words; he patted her hand resting on his arm and nodded.
“We start the bidding on the Negress,” the auctioneer said, and I realized he made no mention of my child. No! My gaze swung back to the pregnant woman to find her eyes locked on me.
Find mussy! I sent her a silent plea, willing her to hear me. One mother to another. Please help me. I held Mary Grace tighter to my chest.
“Sold!” came again from the auctioneer and panic surged within me. “Number Thirteen goes to Mr. Hendricks.”
The crowd became a blur, and panic seized me as a trader stepped forward and tried to pry Mary Grace from my arms. “No!” I said, my voice cracked and hoarse. “You can’t take my chile.” I crept back, swatting at the man’s hands.
“Cause a scene, and I’ll see to it your child doesn’t live to see the dawn,” the auctioneer whispered in my ear, his fingers biting into the flesh of my upper arm.
Fear drummed in my chest.
A woman’s uneasy voice lifted above the crowd. “We wish to purchase the mother and the child.”
The auctioneer twisted to seek the speaker of the claim and his hold loosened on my arm. Looking askance, I saw the pregnant woman had pushed her way through the crowd to stand below the platform.
The blond gentleman also pushed through the crowd, a look of bewilderment etched across his face. “Olivia!” He tugged on her arm.
The auctioneer laughed. “Mr. Hendricks, is your wife making the financial decisions for your household now?”
“Watch it, Thompson.” A firm warning flared in the husband’s eyes. “As my wife said, we wish to purchase mother and child.”
“Have it your way, then. You can settle your debt after the auction.”
The husband guided his wife away from the crowd, and as I was led off the block I saw them immersed in conversation. Most men wouldn’t abide a public display of sass from a woman, and I feared the punishment she would receive from her husband for coming to my aid. She had forgotten her place, but in doing so she saved me from being separated from my daughter and, for that, I’d serve her well for all the days I belonged to her.
In the pen I sat waiting with the others sold, feeding Mary Grace, when the soft scent of jasmine touched my nose. Looking up, I found the dark-haired woman from the auction standing at the bars watching me.
“What is the baby’s name?” she asked.
I removed the baby from my breast and covered myself. Rising to my feet, I placed the sleeping baby over my shoulder and gently patted her back. “Mary Grace,” I said.
“Is she a good baby?”
“Mostly.”
“That’s good.” A soft smile touched her brilliant green eyes. “This is my first child.” She caressed her stomach affectionately. “As my time draws near, I wish my mother were alive to help me. I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about raising a child.”
I crept closer to the bars. “Dey mostly need feeding and changing and a li’l bit of love.”
She laughed—a pretty, musical sound. “You make it sound so simple. Yet I fear I’ll have one of those babies that scream for hours upon end.” Her merriment slipped and worry played on her face.
“I’ll help you,” I said, finding myself wanting to ease her anxiety. I recalled the day when I’d found out I was with child, and the fear that plagued me, as it did most slaves. Little pleasure came from the birth of a child to a slave, because family became leverage the whites used against us. If we didn’t follow what the masas said, the ones we loved most would be taken, often never to be seen again.
Missus’s eyes held mine, her expression sincere. “I’d like that more than you know.”
“Olivia, there you are.” The husband appeared. “I told you to wait by the wagon.”
“I know. But I wanted to make an acquaintance with our child’s nursemaid.”
A look of helpless appeal glinted in his eyes. “Surely you could’ve waited ’til we were on our way home.” He glanced at me, and I inched back under his unnerving stare.
Would he want from me what Masa Adams had desired? I shivered, choking back my fear. But when my new masa turned his attention back to his wife, I noted the tenderness softening the tautness in his face, and I hoped the lovely, dark-haired creature on the other side of the bars was enough to satisfy his needs.
“You’re impossible,” he said with a shake of his head.
His wife bestowed on him a soft smile and stroked his arm, showing visible affection, a gesture between husband and wife that society scowled upon. I’d once heard of whites placing a board in the marriage bed to separate the man and woman, yet white babes kept coming, and any slave with something between their ears grasped the plank was as ridiculous as the inventor of such an idea.
Masa’s eyes paused on the missus’s lips, and I knew the plank got put by the bedside often enough. He looked away at the sound of the cell guard unlocking the gate.
“You.” He pointed at me. “Come on.”
Livingston Plantation, Three Years Later
MISSUS OLIVIA WAS MISSING. NIGHT faded and the morning sun guttered through the live oaks and soon dissolved into the afternoon, spreading unrest throughout the plantation. I eyed the lane from the front veranda, hoping to catch a glimpse of Masa Charles and Missus Olivia. My tension peaked with each drawn-out, lamenting tune of the mourning dove perched on the limb of a nearby magnolia tree.
