Neither Bound Nor Free, page 3
Calvin turned to the inner door. “I’ve been a long time on the road, sir.” If he didn’t get out of here, away from this hypocrite, he was going to explode. “Perhaps I’ll rest for a while.”
five
The next morning when Calvin joined the colonel and his family for church services, Willie stood in the back with Minta and the other slaves.
Calvin sat in the pew beside the colonel, not beside Sarah where he wanted to be. The colonel and his wife were both between them, as was only right and proper, Calvin knew. But that didn’t stop him from wanting, from wishing that he had the right to sit beside Sarah, for all the world to see. Sitting across the table from her at dinner last night had only made him admire her beauty more, wish more for the chance to get to know her. But it didn’t seem likely.
Sorry, Lord. I know I should be listening to the sermon, not thinking about Sarah, even though my thoughts of her are most respectable.
Calvin looked to the pulpit. The clergyman was a short man, almost as round as he was tall. But a man’s looks, Calvin reminded himself, have little to do with his standing in the eyes of the Lord.
“Brothers and sisters,” the preacher was saying, “I ask you, didn’t the Lord tell us to be good servants?” In front of Calvin, heads nodded in agreement. “Oh, yes, He did,” the preacher went on. “And when you neglect your duties, when you’re impudent and saucy—what does this mean?”
Impudent? Saucy? To God? Calvin couldn’t imagine being either to the God his mother had raised him to believe in. A man did his duty, however irksome it might be, because the Lord had laid it on him. Just as Mother had done her duty, raising the family after his drunken father had been killed.
“When you do wrong toward master and mistress, why—” the preacher went on, “why, that’s sin. The worst sin of all.”
Calvin swallowed, hard. This sermon wasn’t even ad-dressed to the planters. It was meant for slaves! To think that a man of God—or at least a man who claimed to be a man of God—could preach such infamy.
But the preacher went on. “When you do wrong to the master or mistress, you’re doing wrong against God Him-self.” He glared at the slaves clustered along the back wall. “Yes, sir. Against God Himself. Master and mistress were put over you by God. A divine institution. He ’spects you to do your duty by them. To obey them. And if you don’t, God’ll punish you. He’ll punish you for your sins.” He brought a fist down on the pulpit. “That He will. And it’ll be bad, worse than anything you can imagine. Fire and brimstone, that’s what it’ll be! Burning forever—in fire and brimstone!”
A murmur went through the gathered slaves. Calvin dug his nails into his palms. How cruel. To enslave people and then use fear of the Almighty to keep them in line. That the God who had sent His only Son to free men from sin should be used in such a perverted way made Calvin’s bile rise. Christ had been outraged at the buying and selling in the temple courts. And that had been only animals. How much more would this have angered Him!
But Calvin sat on, schooling himself to silence. There was nothing he could do here, but once he got North he was going to become an active member of the Anti-Slavery League. He was going to fight this evil until it was completely eradicated. I promise, Lord. And I’ll leave manumission papers for Willie, too. In case something happens to me. He’s never going to be a slave. Never.
The rest of the service passed slowly, but finally it was over and they filed out. Calvin made himself shake the hand of the fat little minister, who was perspiring profusely, and even managed to mumble something about an interesting sermon. A good thing Pinkerton trained his operatives to keep their true feelings hidden.
Then the colonel began introductions. Calvin couldn’t begin to remember all the names and faces. But he recognized one face, one he’d never forget. The fat, slovenly planter who’d bid on Willie was Reginald Gordon. Calvin wasn’t likely to forget the man or the menace in his eyes. Gordon’s wife, a slight woman dressed entirely in a pale gray almost the color of her skin, was practically invisible. Their son, the Beau who would someday, God forbid, be Sarah’s husband, was tall and well dressed, with broad shoulders and curly blond hair. His only resemblance to his father was in the eyes—they exuded the same steely menace. Beauregard Gordon was not a man to thwart—those eyes said so plainly.
Watching him take Sarah’s hand, Calvin discovered in his heart an unchristian urge to do the man physical damage. Forgive me, Lord, he prayed. But the urge was still there.
Sarah smiled at Beau and withdrew her fingers from his. Was it just wishful thinking on his part, Calvin asked himself, or did she really edge a little away from her intended? But why should she? The man was personable enough. He could take good care of her. And she was Southern raised.
True, she cared about Willie and his sister. But she was the colonel’s daughter. So she probably held for slavery, too. Calvin sighed. It was time for him to face reality. All the hard work in the world couldn’t bring him an inch closer to making Sarah Hawthorne love him. Or keep him from loving her.
Later that day, Calvin looked around the colonel’s dining room table. Besides the Gordons and the fat little minister, there were some others whose names he couldn’t remember.
“That’s stupid,” Beau’s father said, wiping gravy from his chin. “Nigras don’t need to read. Just makes ’em uppity. Gives ’em ideas they don’t need. You take what happened at Harper’s Ferry this October last.”
Mrs. Gordon shivered and grew even paler. “Mr. Gordon,” Mrs. Hawthorne said, glancing her way and back to Beau’s father. “Perhaps we should talk about something else. Your wife—”
“My wife knows her place,” Mr. Gordon said. “She’ll keep to it.”
Mrs. Hawthorne opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking. Calvin wondered how she had survived this long in such a climate.
“They hanged John Brown,” the colonel said. “And rightly so. Though hanging was too good a fate for a man who instigated a slave rebellion.”
“I’ve heard that he was insane,” the preacher said. And heads nodded in agreement.
Calvin nodded, too. For once he was in agreement with these people. Brown must have been crazy to believe that a slave rebellion would lead to the end of slavery. Instead it had led to harder and more repressive measures.
He cast a quick glance in Sarah’s direction. She was across the table and down from him, Beau at her side, of course. What was she thinking? How could she have grown up with any compassion at all, raised with sentiments like these?
“Maybe Dr. Cartwright’s theories are correct,” Beau said, looking at Calvin.
Calvin took the bait. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Dr. Cartwright’s theories.”
Beau smiled and Calvin’s hackles rose. Beau already had Sarah; the man needn’t look at him with such obvious condescension. “Let me see if I can summarize it for you. And the ladies.” He patted Sarah’s hand. “Dr. Cartwright says the nigras run away because they suffer from a mental illness. Drapetomania, he calls it. He says the illness is common to nigras and cats. In our cold climate, the nigra brain tends to freeze, inducing insanity.”
Again heads nodded in agreement.
“I see,” Calvin said. And indeed he did. He saw that these people would grasp at anything, even the most ridi-culous claptrap, to justify the enslavement of those on whose labor their life of luxury was based.
The colonel’s gaze was on him, his eyes steely. “Ever own a slave before, Mr. Sharp?”
“No, sir,” Calvin replied. “In my business they aren’t real useful.” Another lie. But no one at this table would believe that Willie—Willie who couldn’t read or write and was only seven years old—had been instrumental in helping him catch Cooper and his cronies. But it was true.
Sarah looked at him, her dark eyes pleading. He wanted to reassure her that he wouldn’t divulge her secret, but he couldn’t, so he went on, telling the truth—just not all of it. “It’s nice to have a boy, though. To do for me.”
The colonel smiled. “Long as you don’t let him learn to read.”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” Calvin said truthfully. But he was thinking about it now. Oh, yes, the minute he got the boy away from here, Willie was going to learn to read! I promise it, God.
six
Late that evening Calvin reached his room. The strain of pretending to agree with these people combined with that of hiding his feelings for Sarah had left him drained. With relief he saw that Willie had laid out his night things. Generally, he traveled light while on assignment, but a trip of this duration required some luggage. A Pinkerton operative was always neat and clean, unless his assignment demanded otherwise.
As usual, Willie had put out the worn Bible, the one physical possession Mother had left him when she passed on to her heavenly reward. After Calvin was ready for bed, Willie stripped off his own clothes and laid them carefully to one side, his boots precisely aligned. The boy did love those boots. Then he wriggled into his old homespun shirt, now clean and serving as a nightshirt, and sat cross-legged on the quilts that made up his bed. “What story you reading me from the Good Book tonight, Massa?” he asked, his face eager.
Calvin smiled, the first genuine smile of this difficult day. He picked up the Bible and settled into the room’s comfortable chair. “Tonight’s story is about a king.”
“Ain’t no kings here,” Willie said.
“Right,” Calvin agreed. “This king lived a long time ago. Far away. In a place called Egypt. He was called the pharaoh.”
“Massa! Minta taught it me.”
Calvin nodded. “Then why don’t you tell it?”
Willie straightened his nightshirt and sang softly.
“When Israel was in Egypt’s land,
Let my people go.
Oppressed so hard they could not stand,
Let my people go.
Go down, Moses,
’Way down in Egypt’s land.
Tell ole Pharaoh,
To let my people go.”
When the boy finished, Calvin said, “That’s very good, Willie.”
Willie crossed the room to peer into the Bible. “Where the story in there?”
Calvin pointed. “It starts here.”
Willie heaved a sigh. “Wisht I could read.”
Calvin opened his arms. “Climb up here on my knee and I’ll show you the letters.”
“Can’t, Massa.” Willie’s eyes widened. “Slaves ain’t ’llowed to read.” He glanced at the door as if he expected it to burst open and reveal the colonel, ready to drag him away. “And they puts you in jail.”
Calvin shrugged. “Will you tell them?”
Willie made a face. “Oh no, Massa. Willie don’t tell.”
“Then come on.”
Willie climbed into his lap. “Now, Willie,” Calvin said, looking into the dark eyes so near his own. “First, remember we’re partners.”
Willie nodded. “Partners. I ’members.”
“Now, supposing we’re on a job, like when we were after that counterfeiter, Cooper. And supposing I need to send you a message—a secret important message. How could I do it?”
Willie shook his head. “Don’t know, Massa. How?”
“Well, if you could read, it would be easy.”
Willie considered this, his dark face thoughtful. “I got to learn to read,” he said finally, nodding. “But I won’t tell no one. Never. Not even Minta.”
“Good,” Calvin said. “Then that’s settled. We’ll start by learning the letters. Now, this is an A.”
“A,” Willie repeated, staring at it. “And there’s one, too.” He pointed with his finger. “And there’s ’nother.”
“Right. You watch for the As,” Calvin said, “and I’ll read the story.” And he began reading Exodus 5:1–2, “ ‘And afterward Moses and Aaron went in, and told Pharaoh, “Thus saith the Lord God of Israel, ‘Let my people go, that they may hold a feast unto me in the wilderness.’ ” And Pharaoh said, “Who is the Lord, that I should obey his voice to let Israel go? I know not the Lord, neither will I let Israel go.” ’ ”
❧
On the other side of the great house, Sarah sat in front of her dressing table while Minta brushed her hair the required one hundred strokes. The nightly ritual was a comforting one for Sarah, a time for her and Minta to talk.
“Willie looking real good,” Minta said, her words timed to her strokes. “Mr. Sharp, he a good man. I pray for him, Miss Sarah. I pray for him and Willie both. Every night.”
Sarah smoothed her nightgown over her knees. “Me too, Minta. I have ever since that day at the auction house.”
Minta’s gaze met hers in the mirror. “Mr. Sharp, he a nice-looking man. Got a good heart, too. Too bad you promised to Mr. Beau.”
Sarah felt the heat creep up to redden her cheeks. “Why, Minta. Whatever makes you say a thing like that?”
Minta laughed the deep, throaty laugh that was hers alone. “I seen how Mr. Sharp, he look at you. I seen.”
What if Papa had seen? Sarah’s skin went cold. She thought her heart might pound its way right out of her chest. “Oh, Minta! Do you think Papa saw? Do you think Papa knows?”
Minta’s dark hands came to rest on Sarah’s shoulders, holding her on the stool, calming her. “Now, Miss Sarah, don’t you go worrying yourself none. The colonel, he ain’t gonna pay no mind to a Yankee man. He know you a good girl. You ain’t marrying no Yankee. He can rest easy ’bout that.”
As always, Minta’s soothing made Sarah feel better. “Thank you, Minta. I know you’re right. Papa won’t even think of Mr. Sharp as a prospective husband. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is.” She knew she was blushing again. “I do like Mr. Sharp. I like him very much.” She turned toward Minta, watching her face. “Do you really think he likes me—like that?”
“I knows it,” Minta said firmly. “He got that same look when he look at you that my Hiram got when he look at me. That loving look.” She laughed again. “Mr. Sharp, he taken with you, all right. Question is—what you gonna do ’bout it?”
“Do?” Sarah whispered, her heart pounding. “What can I do? I’m promised to Beau. Ever since we were babies, we’ve been promised.”
“I knows that.” Minta raised an eyebrow. “You loving Mr. Beau?”
Sarah shook her head. “Of course I don’t love him. How could I? You’ve heard the stories—how cruel he is to his slaves.” She shuddered. “And look at the way his father treats his mother. It’s just awful.”
Minta nodded solemnly. “I knows.”
Sarah shivered. “I don’t want to marry Beau. I never have. But, Minta, what can I do?”
Minta looked thoughtful. “If I was you, Miss Sarah,” she said. “I’d pray hard. Real hard.”
Later, after Minta had gone back to Slave Row for the night, Sarah read her Bible. Then she knelt beside the bed and bowed her head. “Dear Father in heaven,” she prayed, “I know the Bible tells us to honor our parents. But I don’t want to marry Beau. He’s cruel. He frightens me so. I know Papa wants me to marry Beau, expects me to marry Beau. But Mama doesn’t want me to marry him. She knows how I feel about him. She’s afraid of him, too. I’m sorry to be disobeying Papa, but I have to help the runaways. I know that’s what You want me to do.”
She shivered there on her knees and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I think very highly of Mr. Sharp, God. He’s a good Christian man. But You know that. You know how I feel about everything. I think I would like to be Mr. Sharp’s wife. But if that isn’t possible, God, at least don’t let me belong to Beau.” Her whole body went cold. “I know it’s a terrible sin to say so, but I would rather die, God, than be Beau’s wife. I really would. When he touches me, I feel sick inside. So sick.”
She swallowed hard. “And please bless Mama and Papa, and Minta and her Hiram, and Mr. Sharp and Willie. And whatever happens, Your will be done.”
Climbing into bed, Sarah snuggled down under the covers. God hadn’t appeared to her in a burning bush or a pillar of fire, but still she felt He had heard her prayers. Mama was praying, too, she knew, that the marriage to Beau would never take place. And back in the slave cabins, Minta was doing the same. Surely their prayers would be answered. Surely God would help her escape marriage to Beau. And if He didn’t—well, there would be time to think about that later.
She wanted to think about other things now. There were still a couple days ’til Christmas, a couple days before Mr. Sharp had to start north again. A couple days more of his smile, of his pleasant conversation, of— She would think of that, not of how she would miss him when he was gone.
Christmas was going to be a busy time. Beside all the usual festivities, the baking and the decorating, the kissing ball and wreaths, the swags and the hanging of the greens, the songs and the guests and the gifts, there would be Minta’s wedding to Hiram. Of course, it wouldn’t be a real wedding with a minister. Papa thought that was unnecessary for slaves. But Minta had said, “It all right, Miss Sarah. Lord Jesus know our hearts. He know we be truly married.”
There might not be a minister, but there would be a feast, the best feast Sarah and Mama could arrange. All the slaves on the plantation would be there, eating and dancing and laughing. And Minta and Hiram would be together at last.
Sarah sighed. Together. That was what married meant—being together. She’d never wanted to be married before. How could she when she saw how Mama was afraid of Papa? When she saw how Beau’s mother was afraid of Mr. Gordon? When she herself was afraid of Beau?
But it was different now. She could see that being married might be good. She smiled there in the darkened room. She wasn’t afraid of Mr. Sharp. He would never hurt her. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she knew it. She was as sure of him as she was of Mama—or Minta. And knowing that, she asked the Lord once more to keep him safe, and drifted off to sleep.
