CHAPTER 9 The Funeral

Aunt Hope woke me at first light and sent me back up to the house to do my morning chores. Lovie assigned me tasks away from Missus Delphina’s eyesight, which included washing sheets in the scullery, beating the rugs behind the house, and polishing the silver in the service nook. Halfway through the polishing, the sky let loose and seemed to cry heavy tears for Mama. Fat raindrops beat against the outside shutters, and the roof shingles clapped with the gusty wind. Whenever it rained during the middle of the day, Missus Delphina favored a nap. The moment she took to her bed, I slipped out the side door and over to the loom house to retrieve some of our treasured items before the loom house was assigned to someone else, now that Mama was gone.

Since my birthday was on Christmas Day, Miss Sally had taken to giving me a birthday gift in the morning when I arrived, and a Christmas gift in the evening before I retired with Mama. On my twelfth birthday, Miss Sally had given me a leather-bound diary. The book was a little bigger than my palm. Brown leather, with a thin strap to tie around the middle to keep it closed. The rag pages were a faint beige, with scalloped edges. Miss Sally had said the book was imported from England and showed me where that was on her world map. On the inside flap of the diary she’d inscribed:

Dearest Pheby,

Hold fast to your dreams, whilst they come true.

With affection,

Miss Sally

That evening she gave me a bottle of ink and a metal pen point. Mama fretted the moment I brought my gifts into the loom house and constantly cautioned me. “Slave got they fingers chop’t off and eyes burn’t wit’ lye for readin’ and writin’.”

Now, a film of dust had collected over Mama’s jars. My fingers grazed the bottles, and in that moment Mama’s recipes and lessons came alive in my head. I had to get them down. From the underside of our mattress, I retrieved my diary. With it in my hand, I could almost conjure up the feel of Miss Sally’s bony fingers. Then I walked the shelves in the back of the room until I located the yellow jar that contained my ink bottle, deep below the hempseeds, and the pen I had hidden in my pillow, wrapped in tin and stuffed between the straw.

At the kitchen table that Mama and I had shared, I opened my diary and began to write. Mama’s husky voice steadied my thoughts as my hand glided across the page. Healing herbs, powerful teas, where things grew, the right time to pick them, what leaves need to be crushed, steeped, and left whole. The amount of mint to mix with cow manure to make tea “fur consumption.” Where to find the jimsonweed for muscle pain and the chestnut leaf for better breathing. Which herbs to place in the bath to help with dropsy, and how much sassafras root to use for searching the blood, and healing all that ailed.

The sun had moved to the other side of the plantation, so I knew I would be missed up at the house, but I could not stop. Mama’s roots and recipes were all I had left, and I scribbled until I’d exhausted my memory.

Mama had always sewn secret pockets on the inside of my skirt so that I could move goods around without being detected. I decided to start carrying the diary with me tucked in the hidden pocket of my petticoat. I wrapped the book inside of Mama’s mauve headscarf; that way I could smell her like she was in the room with me. Not wanting to leave all of Mama’s hard work behind, I loaded up the containers and made several trips to the sick house, where her herbs and tinctures would be of use, then carried the mixtures Aunt Hope would appreciate to the kitchen.

Back up at the big house, the lanterns were out, and Missus Delphina had gone down for the night. The next morning, she did not utter one single word to me. All my instructions came through Lovie. I was not sure if the encounter between us had spooked her or not, and I did not have room in my thoughts to care much. Mama’s funeral was only two days away, and with my workload I had no time or material to pull together a proper mourning dress. Aunt Hope sent me with a basket of scraps down to Lowtown, and on my way back I stopped in the loom house to see if I could find anything to wear.

When I climbed the ladder, the room smelled like lemons and vinegar, and I suspected that Aunt Hope had come over and tidied up the way Mama would have. Draped on the hook behind the door hung the red calico dress that Mama had worn on the day she left with Master Jacob for Charleston. I had not noticed it when I recorded her recipes, but it jumped out at me now. The red was rich and bright. I brought it to my nose, then held it at arm’s length. It was the finest piece that Mama owned, and the perfect way to honor her memory.

For the next two nights, I snuck over to the loom house and worked on Mama’s dress, taking it in to fit my slimmer size and repairing the lace on the bodice. When Saturday morning arrived, I had one last piece to hem to complete the transformation of the dress, but I still felt anxious that I would not finish. Lovie must have sensed my angst, because when she noticed me struggling with waxing the floor, she offered to take over so that I could prepare.

I stripped out of my house clothes, splashed down with water, and then tied a piece of material around my waist to suffice as a corset. My diary I hid in the pocket of my petticoat. Next, I put on Mama’s hoopskirt, being careful with the grapevine. When I buttoned the bodice of the red calico dress and caught sight of myself in the small hanging mirror, I clutched my chest. Looking back at me was the spitting image of Mama. Just younger, with fairer skin. I wrapped my arms around myself and exhaled my grief. She had been meant to see my freedom and now it would never happen.

A piece of silk bobbin lace was left over from a tablecloth, and I used that as my mourning veil. At sunset, I met Lovie and Aunt Hope in front of the kitchen house.

“You look so beautiful.” Aunt Hope teared up.

Lovie squeezed my hand. “Your mama be proud.”

The three of us walked to the clearing in Lowtown where the service would be held. The clearing served as the slaves’ meeting place for Sunday church services, jumping-the-broom ceremonies, and general time-off gatherings. Farther down, behind the old barn house, was the cemetery where Mama would be laid to rest.

People arrived in pairs and groups to pay their respects. The field hands cleaned their faces, but most did not own a second set of clothes in which to honor Mama. A few girls picked rosebuds and put them in their hair, and the men tied bows made of plant stems around their necks. Once everyone arrived, we stood around the fire holding hands. Aunt Hope and Lovie stood on either side of me. Johnnie White, our preacher, gave the word.

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Don’t let your heart be troubled and be not afraid.”

I took Mama’s needlework and placed it over the rough, homemade coffin for her to use in the afterlife. Aunt Hope put down a cup and saucer, Parrott a medicine bottle filled with her favorite herbs, and Lovie woolen socks to keep her warm. I then removed the white orchid from my hair and tossed it over the coffin. All the women and children followed. Then the men picked up their shovels and started layering the box with dirt. The smell of soil reminded me of burying Missus’s infant boy and covering up her lie. A woman started to sing a hymn.

Voice by voice, more singers joined in, and soon I was enclosed by song. The kids clapped their hands to the beat. All of us swayed, sang, and prayed until Mama’s coffin was buried.

Missus had lifted her constraints on the food rations and allowed a feast to be prepared for the occasion. Aunt Hope ushered everyone to the long wooden table; it was covered with stewed chicken, sweet potatoes, dumplings, spinach, corn, and sweet bread. The field hands brought their bowls, and I watched as Aunt Hope made sure they were filled to the brim. I did not have an appetite for food, so I dished out the applesauce for dessert. Once people’s bellies were content, the music started up and the dancing began. The griots had brought with them homemade instruments; the banjo, a drum, tambourines, a balafo, and panpipes.

A new wave of sadness came over me. I usually danced with Essex at our parties, but now Parrott lifted me to my feet and we moved together. I closed my eyes and pretended he was Essex, the necklace he had given me pressing against my neck. Everyone clapped and I stirred my hips, trying to shake all the pain from my body. My feet stomped and the movement rinsed and released my heart. I had not felt so free in weeks. As I curtsied to Parrott I heard horses up the hill. With the wine being passed around it seemed that most were too relaxed to notice. Aunt Hope looked in the direction of Hightown and I knew she heard it too. I scooted over to her, wondering if the patrollers had come with news on Essex.

Aunt Hope and I kept looking up the hill, but the darkness made it hard to see past the thickness of the bushes and trees.

I heard a rustling of branches being crushed and pushed aside. Then Snitch appeared through the thicket. His dark eyes fell upon me. Before my mind could tell me to run, he had me in his arms so tight that I could not smell anything except the whiskey seeping through his pores. I kicked and screamed but he held me tighter.

“What’s the cause of you ’rupting the funeral like this?” Aunt Hope demanded. “Ain’t you no respect?”

“Mind your bizness, old lady. I am in charge here.”

“Not of Pheby. She works the big house. Missus know you down here causin’ trouble?”

“Shut up.”

“Poor child just buried her mama. Ain’t you got no manners?”

Snitch turned around and with one hand slapped Aunt Hope hard across her face. She stumbled but did not fall. Then he dragged me by the arm up toward Hightown. I was terrified of what I would find up there. Remembering Aunt Hope’s son, Jasper, and how swollen and bloody he looked when he got hauled back from running away, I tried to prepare myself to see Essex that way. Snitch pulled me past the loom house. I looked up at the window, recalling Mama’s sign of the lit candle. Wished it was there now, telling me to come on home.

When we reached the front of the big house, Missus Delphina stood in the light of the porch. There was a rickety wagon parked in the lane with three men in irons and two women, sparsely clothed and tied in ropes, but I did not see Essex. If he had not been caught, then what were the slave traders doing on the plantation? Before I could figure out the puzzle, Snitch heaved me by the waist and carried me toward the wagon. I kicked him, screamed, pounded my fist into his chest. When he put me down, I tried to run, but he grabbed me by the hair. Then I felt a knock in the back of my head. Static flooded my eyelids as I felt myself being scooped into the air. That was when I realized: the wagon had come for me.

I looked up at the big house. Missus was standing on the edge of the porch, hawk eyes blazing.

“You dare put your hands on me.” Her mouth turned into a snarl.

“Master Jacob would not approve of you selling me,” I shouted, staring her squarely in the face.

“You telling me what to do with my property, girl?”

“I am not property. Now let me go.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “You have a lot to learn, child. Take her to the Lapier jail, where she will be punished properly for helping my best nigger escape. Then have her sold as a fancy girl to live out the life she deserves, as a whore.”

Missus twirled her finger to the burly trader behind the carriage. On her command, he reached for me. I struggled to get free, but the trader’s hands were coarse and quick as he tied me to the other women in the wagon. One of the women had knotted hair, and she reeked like Mama had when she lay dying. Blood stained the front of her dress and her gaze was unfocused.

The field hands who just a few minutes before had been celebrating my mother’s life had gathered to watch the scene. Some reached their hands out toward me. I could hear Lovie calling my name, and then Aunt Hope dropped down on her knees, raised her hands up to the sky, and crooned:

In my sorrows, Lord walk with me

In my sorrows, Lord walk with me

When my heart is aching, Lord walk with me.

Folks followed Aunt Hope’s cry and sang too. I had never felt so powerless in my life. Even still, I refused to give Missus Delphina the satisfaction of seeing one tear leak from my eyes, or one plea of mercy fall from my lips. Instead I turned my terror into fury and glared at her.

“I curse you and all of your unborn children in the name of my grandmother, Queen Vinnie Brown. May all your worst fears come to pass, and all the evil you do come back on you tenfold. This plantation will be your living hell. Mark my words.” I spat on the ground, bracing myself for her to march down the stairs and slap me. But she stood as if stunned.

All eyes were on me as the wagon pulled away from the house, so I kept my back straight and my sight on the road ahead. Once Master recovered from his injury, he would come for me and send me to that school in Massachusetts where Essex and I would be reunited. He had been a good master, and when he found out that Missus had let Mama die and sold me to traders like I was a common slave, he would be outraged. With Miss Sally gone, I was the only blood family he had left.

“Neigh,” called the driver to the horses.

The old carriage picked up speed, rocking me against the bloodstained woman. I ducked my head under some low brush and then closed my eyes to the rising dust.