April 1853
Silas Noble stood on the stoop of the run-down log cabin and gave an exasperated sigh. This wasn’t what he had been led to expect. Not at all.
He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a copy of the letter he had received six weeks ago, shortly after he had completed his medical training in Baltimore:
Rivermont Plantation
Cambridge, Mississippi
To Dr. Silas Noble from Col. Robert Henry Warren, Esq.
5 February 1853
Dear Dr. Noble:
We have learned of you through correspondence with your school in Baltimore, an institution well known, even as far away as Mississippi, for the quality and dedication of its physicians. We understand you are nearing the completion of your medical training, and we wish to invite you to establish your practice in Cambridge County, Mississippi. There are numerous large plantations in the county and outlying areas, families with children, and we are greatly in need of the services of a young and energetic physician. You may not be aware of it, but you come highly recommended, and this county could do with a man of your caliber and commitment.
I understand that you are planning to marry within the year, and I anticipate you may wish to purchase property in the area. I am prepared to offer you a modest, fully furnished house with fifty acres of land for a reasonable price. It was my grandfather’s original plantation home, and it sits on an oak knoll on the south end of my property. I am sure you will find it suitable for your needs.
If you agree to accept our offer, kindly apprise me of your intentions. When you arrive, I will send a driver to the rail station to convey you to Rivermont and will provide one of my best nigras as a personal attendant.
Sincerely yours,
Col. Robert H. Warren, Esq.
A furnished house at a reasonable price. Silas groaned inwardly. He supposed it was a reasonable price, all things considered. But it had been his life savings, money he intended to use to make a home for Regina so he could send for her and they could be married.
Now his fate had been sealed. He had agreed to the bargain sight unseen, but instead of the grand old plantation home he had envisioned, he was faced with a log house with a plank floor and holes in the chinking the size of his fist.
It wasn’t that Warren had deceived him, exactly. Clearly these people in Cambridge County needed a doctor and had been desperate to get him. But when the carriage had pulled into the long drive that led to Rivermont, he had entertained visions of his “modest” house being a smaller version of that magnificent jewel, with its wide front porch and fluted columns.
Robert Warren was an aristocratic gentleman with soft, pale hands and an aura of refined elegance. He had greeted Silas at the door and led him to an opulent parlor decorated in rose and green and cream. Mrs. Warren, a bustling, effusive woman, had sent one of the house slaves for coffee and pie and made over him as if he were a long-lost relative.
Silas sat in that parlor, sipping coffee and gazing in wonder at the display of wealth, convinced that he could send for Regina immediately. In this place, with these lovely people, he could offer her the kind of life she was accustomed to—a life of graciousness and hospitality, a life of ease and comfort.
Then he got his first glimpse of the house he had purchased from Robert Warren.
It was his, all right. He had the deed in his suitcase. A house and fifty acres. But what a house! One large rectangular room with a stone fireplace, a tiny sleeping alcove, and a rough kitchen with a small wood stove along one wall. With a bit of fixing up, it might be adequate for a bachelor doctor who needed only minimal accommodations. But he couldn’t bring a wife here to live. Especially not Regina.
“Needs some work, don’t it, Massah?”
Silas turned. The big colored driver, the same one who had picked him up at the depot and delivered him to Rivermont, stood behind him with a wide grin on his face.
“It’s not exactly what I had hoped for,” Silas admitted.
“Massah Robert’s grandpappy, he built this place when he first come. Live here for a while, he did, whilst he was having the big house on the river done up.”
“I take it Colonel Warren’s grandfather didn’t have a wife and children.”
The black man threw back his head and laughed. “Naw sir, I reckon not—not when he lived here, anyways. Later on, though, he ’bout filled up that big house. Had hisself ten chillun, and nine of ’em lived. Law, there’s prob’ly a dozen Warren grandchillun spread out all over the county, each one of ’em with his own big plantation, just like Massah Robert.”
“You’re privy to a lot of Mr. Warren’s business, aren’t you?”
The dark eyes flitted to the ground, but Silas saw the man’s barrel chest swell with pride. “Yessir, Massah, I reckon I am. My daddy worked the land for Massah Robert’s daddy. Massah Robert, he trusts me—I reckon that’s why he lent me to you to help out some. I’s born on this plantation—and I ’spects to die here.”
Silas scrutinized the big black man. He stood well over six feet, with a solid, square jaw, clear eyes, and massive shoulders. “What’s your name?”
“Sir?”
“I asked your name,” Silas repeated.
“I’s called Booker, Massah.”
Silas smiled and scratched his head. “Not Master. Doctor. My name is Dr. Silas Noble.”
“I knows, Massah.”
“Seems to me like you know just about everything, Booker. But please, don’t call me Master.”
“Yessir, Massah Doctor.”
Silas shrugged and gave up. “Where’d you get a name like Booker?”
A gleam of pleasure passed over the slave’s countenance. “My mammy, she was a real smart woman. Taught me to read.” He paused. “I can write my name and even do a little ciphering. Massah don’t mind, so long as I don’t raise no fuss about it and don’t teach none of the others. Maybe that’s another reason he give me to you, you being a educated man and all.”
“What do you read, Booker?”
“Only got one book, Massah Doctor. My mammy’s Bible.”
“And you read that?” Silas gazed at the slave in wonder. Back in Baltimore, Silas had attended church with Regina—an ancient cathedral with high stained-glass windows and a massive pipe organ. He appreciated the ritual and loved the music, but that was about as far as his religion went. The few times in his life he had tried to read the Bible, he had found it mostly incomprehensible.
“Ever’ day. Sun don’t rise without me putting a few verses in my heart. Seems to me the Lord gots something to say to his chillun, and we’s obliged to find out what it is.”
“Do you understand it?”
“I understand enough to get by. Some of the words is real hard, but that don’t matter. I get the hope, and that’s what counts.” Booker scratched his head and peered at Silas. “You a Christian man, Massah?”
Silas felt an uncomfortable chill run up his spine, and he fidgeted. “I guess I am, Booker. I try to be a good man, to do what’s right.”
A strange expression passed over the black man’s face, and he averted his eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”
For a brief instant Silas felt like one of the cadavers he had examined in medical school—cut open, with his innards exposed to scrutiny. He didn’t like the feeling one bit. He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So, I guess we’d better get my belongings into the house and clean it up a bit.”
Booker didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at Silas and jabbing the toe of his boot into the dirt. Finally he asked, “You really a doctor?”
“Yes, Booker, I am. That’s why I came here, to serve as a physician to Colonel Warren’s family and the other plantation families in the area.” He shook his head. “I had planned to send back east for my fiancée as soon as I got settled. But I guess the wedding will have to be postponed. I certainly can’t expect her to live here.”
Booker’s expression brightened, as if he had just been struck by an idea. But he kept silent.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, Massah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I’s just thinking, and—”
“And what?”
“You sure you a doctor? You seem right young—meaning no offense, Massah—”
Silas laughed, relieved to be back on more comfortable ground. “None taken. Yes, I’m young—I’m twenty-five. But I’m sure I am a doctor. Very sure, Booker.”
The black man’s expression went grave. “My woman, Celie, she expecting a baby in a coupla months.” He paused and took a deep breath. “She done had two babies, and both of ’em died. One of ’em was strangled by the cord.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Booker. If I can be of any help—”
Booker shrugged. “Massah, he pay for a doctor when a big buck gets hurt, so’s not to lose a good field hand. But he don’t pay for no nigra babies to be born. If Middie can’t do it, well, the babies just go on and die.”
“Who’s Middie?”
“She’s the one who helps with the birthin’.”
Silas chuckled. “Let me guess. She got her name because she’s a midwife.”
Booker shook his head and smiled faintly. “Naw. Her name’s Midnight, cause she real dark, and cause that’s when babies seem to come around here.”
Silas stared at the big black man, and his mind turned over all the changes in his life. Two weeks ago, he was in Baltimore, in the hub of city life, celebrating his completion of his medical training, making plans with his fiancée for their wedding. Now he was standing in the middle of an oak grove on the porch of a log cabin, having a conversation with a slave about a midwife named Midnight. What next?
“So I’s thinking,” Booker said, bringing Silas back to the present, “maybe we could strike us a deal.”
“A deal? What kind of deal?”
“When Celie’s time comes, you help her out. I can’t pay, ’course, but I got something you need more’n money.”
Silas found himself intrigued. “What’s that?”
The Negro pointed to his head with his forefinger. “Know-how. You take care of my woman, and I’ll build you a house. A real house. Not as fancy as Massah Warren’s RiVermont, but a fine house, sound and sturdy, with big rooms and a curved stairway and a nice wide front porch for rockin’.”
Silas’s heart leaped within him. “You can do that?”
“’Course I can. Look.” Booker strode across the covered porch of the cabin and out into the yard, pacing off a huge rectangle. “We start with the cabin, and build on from there. The porch where you are can be the front entryway. Over here”—he indicated the area where he stood—“can be a parlor, and here a bedroom, and then three more rooms upstairs. We’ll do it up real nice for your lady. White clapboard and tall columns and green shutters.”
As Booker talked, the house took form in Silas’s mind. A glorious two-story home, sparkling in the spring sunlight, surrounded by oak trees and overlooking acres of rolling land. His land. His house. The place he and Regina would call home.
Booker went back to the carriage and started unloading Silas’s trunks. “We got us a deal, Massah Doctor?” he asked over his shoulder as he set one of the trunks down on the porch.
“A deal.” Silas extended his hand to seal the bargain with a handshake, but Booker stood there, arms at his sides, staring at the outstretched hand with wide eyes and looking as if he had just been snake bit.
“Oh, I—well—” Silas dropped his hand and felt his face flush. Of course. A white man didn’t shake hands with a slave, even to confirm a bargain. “Sorry.”
When he recovered from his faux pas, Silas followed Booker back to the carriage. “But you can’t do this all yourself,” he protested.
“No, sir. But lots of it I can do on my own, when I’m not drivin’ you round or helping with your doctoring. And when I get to needing help, there’s plenty of nigras on this here plantation who’d ’preciate a real doctor from time to time.” Booker looked at him pointedly. “We needs you, too, Massah Doctor.”
“Of course.” Silas stood there awkwardly for a minute or two. When he was just a boy, his best friend, Gerald, a lad from the poorer quarter of Baltimore, took sick and needed an operation. Gerald’s parents couldn’t afford the hospital fees, but a benevolent doctor performed the surgery without compensation and saved Gerald’s life. Silas remembered with startling clarity how he had begged for his friend to live, and how he had promised God—or fate, or whoever—that he would work hard to become a doctor like that, so that he would be able to help people who could not help themselves.
Against his father’s wishes—and against Regina’s, if truth be told—Silas had turned down the opportunity to join his father’s law firm, where he would have been ushered into a life of wealth and privilege among the Baltimore elite. It had been a hard-fought battle, convincing Regina that she would not have to live in destitution. When the invitation had come for him to begin a practice among the plantation owners of Cambridge, he had spent countless hours painting for her a scenario of gracious Southern living in the company of educated and genteel folk. At last she had given in, kissed him, and promised that as soon as he was settled, she would join him. Silas suspected that Regina considered Mississippi as half-swamp, half-wild Indian territory, but once she got here, she would see. It would be a different kind of life from Baltimore society, but she would adjust.
If he managed to get this log cabin turned into a livable home, that is.
Suddenly a surge of remorse washed over Silas. What was happening to him? What was he thinking? Against formidable opposition, he had made good on his promise and begun his medical training. He had given up a life of luxury for his dream of becoming a doctor. And now, not six weeks into his career, was he already succumbing to a vision of ease and comfort with the beautiful Regina at his side?
The memory of the physician who had saved Gerald’s life churned uncomfortably in Silas’s mind, and his conscience began to nag at him. Was he really going to barter his services as a physician for the sake of a house? This wasn’t what his calling as a doctor was all about.
“Booker?” he said softly to the Negro’s back.
“Yessir?”
“I feel I have to tell you—I’m obligated by my oath as a physician to help anyone who is in need of medical attention. You and your . . . your people don’t have to trade extra work for my services. I’ll help you whether you build me a house or not.”
There. It was out, and Silas felt better, even as his vision of the fine white house and Regina at his side began to fade into oblivion.
Booker turned to him, and his dark face brightened in a wide grin. “I reckon I knows that, Massah Doctor. But I ’preciate you telling me, truly I do.”
“When we’re done here, you can drive me over to take a look at Celie.”
“Yessir. And after supper, I’ll get some stakes in the ground.” Booker gave a determined nod. “We gonna start on this house first thing tomorrow morning.”