CHAPTER ONE
Beaumont, South Carolina
April, 1861
Specks of blood stained the blooming white bracts of the nearby dogwood tree. It streaked the hitching post and dampened a patch of ground. Most of the blood belonged to Basil. Some came from Emma. No one recalled how many lashes had been promised, yet everyone knew this was no longer about punishment. The interminable sound of the thrashing continued. Muffled sobs broke the eerie rhythm. Clouds of dust rolled in and stung weeping eyes. Foul mutterings from George laced the breeze while pine warblers chirped and basked in the springtime glory.
Emma could no longer raise her head or open her eyes. She tasted her own blood and withered under the sun’s brilliance. Her back and legs throbbed from the lashes with the leather belt. The scent of honeysuckle drifted to her nostrils, but Emma quivered with agony and trepidation. She fought the oblivion that threatened to engulf her¾fearing it was death.
Her heart searched for a prayer or a plea but nothing came. She wanted to cry out for her father, forgetting he was long dead.
Someone snatched a fistful of Emma’s hair and held up her head.
“Look!” Quinn said through gritted teeth. “Look at what you’ve done.” He touched his mouth to her ear. “Ain’t like he didn’t deserve it, though. Worthless wretch.”
Emma tried again to focus on the scene. At first, through the narrow slits of her swollen eyes, all she saw was a row of brown feet, naked and caked with mud past the ankles, a sure sign that rice planting was underway. She couldn’t find or concentrate on their faces now, but she knew that among the clan of thirteen laborers, Basil’s mother and brother were there watching. Fear reverberated from the mass. Children cried and stirred, but no one moved or averted their eyes. George had insisted.
Emma’s eyes rolled back into her head, but she made herself concentrate on her surroundings. She saw Basil, prostrate and an arm’s length from the hitching post planted near the back of the house. His hands were still bound. Twine had been strung through the cast-iron ring at the top and tied to Basil’s hands, but the thin string had broken when Basil fell to the ground. Seeing Basil coated in blood, Emma knew he had to be dead. Tattered scraps from his shirt trembled in the breeze, but Basil, with his head facing away from Emma, didn’t flinch. Basil’s desperate pleas for mercy and ear-splitting wails had ceased. George had made sure.
George Napier, the overseer, had started off by hitting Basil with a pestle the slaves used to whiten harvested rice. When the pestle split and broke, he repeatedly whacked Basil with the broken end. Eventually, he had tired and tossed the busted tool aside. Then he had gone after Emma with his thick belt.
Emma squinted up at George now. He stood near Basil’s feet, panting and wiping sweat from his brow. The belt in his hand dripped blood onto the thirsty dirt.
“I believe that’s enough,” Knox said. Enthroned on his favorite steed, Knox Cartwright gave the scene a solemn look. He addressed the predominately dark-faced crowd. “There will be no more of this nonsense. Is that understood?” His deep, gentlemanly voice lacked its usual warmth. “You are to be about your work and nothing else. Disobedience and insolence will not be tolerated. You must remember your place, or suffer the consequences. Let this afternoon be a lesson to you all.”
He glanced at Emma. A discrete yet profound sadness gripped his face. Emma wanted him to slide from his horse and kneel beside her. She ached for him to undo the hurt, to comfort her, but it was useless to hope for. Such a display of sympathy, she knew, would make him appear weak. Knox couldn’t look weak, not after everything those darkies had put him through. His gaze abandoned Emma, and he turned to George. “Mr. Napier, I trust that you can reestablish order.”
“Yes, sir.” George tipped his hat then spat.
Knox thumped his heels into the thoroughbred’s sides and dashed off across the meadow.
Quinn let Emma’s head fall to the ground. Dirt met her split lips. Flies invaded. Turkey buzzards squawked overhead.
Emma noticed her mother slowly approach. The slaves migrated back to their quarters, the condescending yelp of George ushering them along.
“Hurry, children,” mother said. “It’s best to get her inside before someone sees.”
*****
A storm swept in that night, washing the spilled blood into the parched earth. Pelting rain woke Emma, and agony pulsed from her lashed back and legs. In her darkened room, she wondered what had happened and how long she had been unconscious. She forced herself out of bed, slowly, and to the window. Lightning flashed and illuminated the room. Emma caught a glimpse of Sylvia, curled up and sleeping on a rug near the bed. Her strawberry-colored curls and freckled face looked even more delicate in the night. Emma assumed Sylvia didn’t want to get in bed with her for fear of bumping Emma’s wounds ¾ or perhaps sleeping on the floor kept her from being detected by their mother.
It gave Emma comfort, seeing her younger sister there and knowing she wasn’t alone. She knew better, though, than to hope for anyone besides Sylvia. None of her other siblings ¾ and certainly not her mother ¾ would lavish her with concern. She told herself she didn’t care, that she didn’t need them, but if watching their sister get bludgeoned didn’t jar their concern, she wondered, what would?
Emma wanted to scoop the twelve-year-old into her arms and into bed with her, like they had done so many times. Storms usually bothered Sylvia and kept her from sleeping. Emma would brush her hair until Sylvia nodded off. Tonight, though, everything was different.
Emma had to make her way to the Quarters, had to know what became of Basil, or at least his body. She needed to make sure he wasn’t still sprawled on the ground and forsaken like a newborn foal that failed to thrive. Not in this storm. Tears gripped her as pain flooded her body, and images of Basil’s lashing struck her mind. Strength failed her, but she had to find Tilda.
Emma unlatched the window and tried to push it open, but it didn’t budge.
“It’s no use.”
Emma whirled around at the sound of her grandfather’s voice. Seated in a rattan chair on the other side of the room, he struck a match and lit his pipe. Immediately, the odor of tobacco stung the air. Unlike everyone else under the Cartwright roof, Emma welcomed the smell. Strong and pungent, it reminded her of Knox and his authoritative presence that filled any room, a presence that, for most of Emma’s life, had been a good thing.
When she thought of her grandfather, Emma thought of her hands. Knox had frequently surprised her with gifts and experiences through her hands. She could recall the coarse mane of her first horse, which Knox taught her to ride like a man, despite her mother’s protests, and the hefty feel of Knox’s revolver that he had taught her to shoot.
But now, the thrill of those memories wafted, like the smoke from Knox’s pipe.
Emma glimpsed Sylvia on the rug. Sylvia didn’t stir, but Emma wondered if her grandfather already knew the young girl was there.
“I had the windows nailed shut this afternoon,” he said. Even under a cover of darkness, Arthur Knox Beauregard Cartwright’s features were prominent. His full, white moustache curled at the ends and hid his upper lip. Silver lined the sides of his thick, snow-white hair, though he was rarely seen without his Panama hat. Deft with both business matters and pistol alike, Knox defied his fifty-six years, in that he rarely tired of dancing at social events and held his whiskey better than men half his age, but the Uprising had drained him, corrupted his goodness.
Emma’s hand slid from the window’s latch.
“I know you’ve always been fond of mischief, Emma, and since the passing of your daddy, I’ve allowed a great deal of upheaval from you. Seeing as how close you two were, I thought it was your way of dealing with the loss.”
The mention of her father made Emma’s wounds throb even harder. Knox drew on his pipe, as if subduing his own emotion. Since the death of Thomas Edward Cartwright, Emma had felt her relationship with her grandfather wane, and it terrified her. Besides Sylvia, Knox had been Emma’s lone ally remaining within the family, until today.
“I suppose I had my own grieving to do,” Knox continued, “seeing as how he was the last of my boys I had hope in. Times have changed a great deal. A military conflict is imminent, and we must be ready to defend our way of life, if necessary. I don’t expect you to understand the political difficulties we find ourselves in, Emma, but I do expect you to do your duty in this family.”
Emma couldn’t keep her eyes from glancing at her bed. Underneath, she kept a modest amount of materials that would offend devoted Southerners and heap further calamity on her if they were discovered. The materials had been secret gifts from her older brother, Franklin, who shared her disregard for slavery. Pamphlets, political cartoons, and newspapers from a variety of anti-slavery sources engrossed Emma, and she had a greater insight into issues than Knox could have imagined.
“I never intended for today’s events to go so far. Napier was instructed to reprimand you, not brutalize you like one of them.” Knox stood and approached his granddaughter. “But this peculiar fondness you have for the darkies must end. You need to understand and accept that some men are designed by God to be subservient and to live in a capacity that would be unfit for others.”
“I don’t believe that.” Emma surprised herself by speaking.
“Your opinions on the subject, young lady, are irrelevant. Your concern should be how to best serve your family. Teaching slaves how to read ¾ or helping them escape ¾ is illegal.”
Emma caught her breath. Disheartened with changes on the plantation since the Uprising, including the hiring of Napier, Emma had aided two slaves in their escape last summer. However, she didn’t realize Knox knew of her involvement.
“The law will show no leniency because you’re a female,” he said. “You could find yourself hanging from a tree. I know you’re only sixteen, but can’t you understand that, Emma? Dead, right along with a slave!”
Emma cringed and tried to cap the growing fear inside her. She couldn’t recall the last time her grandfather had stepped foot into her room. In recent months, he had kept his distance from his once beloved granddaughter, as though she had been struck with the Shakes, an illness that randomly struck slaves who worked in the bogs. Even so, she wanted to fall into her grandfather’s arms and be wrapped in his strength. She loved him, always had, and she wanted to feel his love for her. His forgiveness, reassurances, and affection would give her relief from her discomforts, even though he had failed her today. But she knew those were luxuries Knox Cartwright could not give. Emma had crossed a forbidden line, and with political tensions rising, she had jeopardized her family.
“I’ll not have you risk your life, or this family’s reputation, for the likes of them any longer.” Knox tempered his voice. “Think of what they’ve done ¾ what they’ve taken ¾ from us.”
She knew he meant the Uprising, a bizarre incident on the plantation eighteen months ago that had taken the lives of four people, including Thomas Cartwright. Nothing had been the same since the tragedy. Especially Knox.
His eyes glistened with tears, and he cast a pained, loving look to Sylvia, still sleeping on the floor. “In light of today’s event, you may consider yourself fortunate. Others would have called for your death, especially when you take into account that this wasn’t the first time you’ve spoiled them with compassion.” With his pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth, he took Emma by the shoulders and briefly examined the gashes on her back. “I pray you won’t soon forget the cause of those marks.”
“How could I?” she whispered.
He removed his pipe and regarded her as though she had insulted him.
“From this moment forward, I expect from you what I expect from the rest of your siblings ¾ pure devotion to the upholding of the Cartwright name. This land, this family, is everything. Protecting it and preserving what we stand for should be your every thought.”
“Perhaps I don’t belong in this family anymore.” Her words lacked the rebellious tone that usually accompanied the confrontations she had with her mother.
Knox bent his head. Distress marred his countenance.
“If it be my last and dying breath Emma Olivia Louise Cartwright, I will ever pray for your soul.”
****
Three days later, Emma awoke in her room to the sound of blackbirds outside her window and the soft touch of a salve being smoothed over her wounds. It still hurt to move, but Emma turned her neck and found Sylvia on the edge of her bed. She raised herself slightly and checked the room. Only her abaca furniture with the sea grass weave occupied the space.
“Does mother know you’re in here?” Emma asked.
Sylvia smiled and kept applying the ointment to Emma’s back. “Of course she does. Where else would I be?”
Emma returned the grin and sank back into the bed. Gratitude eased over her. Yes, where else would Sylvia be but next to Emma? Aside from a four year age difference, little separated the two. Although Emma’s passion for her grandfather’s horses exceeded Sylvia’s interest, and Sylvia’s adoration for frilly dresses and shaping her hair wasn’t shared by Emma, they could be found dangling in an oak tree, playing in the salt marshes, crawdadding, helping in the fields, or reading Dickens together.
“Doc Hadley says you’re healing up fine,” Sylvia said. “Nothing’s broken, and as long as none of the wounds get infected, he said you’ll be up and out of bed by week’s end.”
“And Basil? What about Basil? Did Doc Hadley bother to check on Basil?”
Silence permeated and deflated Sylvia’s cheerfulness. She wiped her hands clean from the salve then folded them in her lap.
Emma stared past the walls of her room. Anger and guilt battled on her insides, and tears welled in her eyes. She had been helpless, useless when it came to protecting Basil, and she had promised him nothing could go wrong. After all, she knew how to forge papers and help slaves escape.
Teaching Basil to read and planning his getaway had been her idea, ever since he had rescued her from the smokehouse. Quinn, performing one of his sinister pranks, had locked Emma inside. Slabs of pork hung over a bristling fire that Emma couldn’t extinguish. She yelled and beat on the door but soon became desperate for air. Basil responded to her cries, though he never told her exactly what he had done to make Quinn relent. Emma had her suspicions when she noticed Quinn trying to hide a limp and favoring his side. When it came to a display of brawn, Quinn knew defeat well.
But there had been more to Basil. Unlike many of the other slaves, Basil wasn’t resigned to hopelessness. He dared to dream of a life far from rice fields and the rawhide whip of a drunken overseer, a fantasy his mother discouraged. Emma found his zeal for freedom and the desire to build a life of his own contagious, and she vowed to help him do it.
With hostility brewing from Lincoln’s election in November ¾ and with South Carolina’s secession from the Union in December ¾ Emma believed it was the perfect distraction and an ideal time for her to unfold her plan. She committed to giving Basil reading lessons in a corner of the barn, late in the evenings when both of them could slip away without being missed. Basil had been a quick study and planned to head to New York where free blacks were abundant and work plentiful, or so the newspapers made it seem.
“Basil…” She covered her eyes and wept. Thoughts of Basil’s mother tore into her mind, and Emma sobbed for the pain she had caused. She had grown careless and unmindful of George Napier, who had taken to stalking Emma’s actions in hopes of catching her alone and off guard. He had, and he had nabbed her with Basil and a McGuffy Reader.
Sylvia reached out her hand to soothe her sister but held back. Emotion consumed Emma’s battered frame. Tears of empathy threatened. Sylvia leaned in and whispered, “We shouldn’t talk about it anymore.”
“She’s right, Emma,” came their mother’s voice from the doorway. “We’ll have no more mention of that embarrassing incident.”
As if the sight of her mother wasn’t enough to twist her stomach, Emma considered crawling under the floorboards when she noticed the dress in her mother’s arms. Lilac-colored, spotless, ruffled, and lined with crinolines, the dress might as well have been made of chain mail and iron shackles, as far as Emma was concerned. She sensed the argument about to ensue and wanted to spare Sylvia.
“Sylvie, do you think you could go out and catch some blue crab for me? Sounds awful good for supper. Please?”
Sylvia glanced at her mother, then nodded when she looked at Emma. As her mother hung the dress up on the wardrobe and fluffed it out, Sylvia turned and flashed Emma a scrunched up face and stuck out her tongue. Emma smiled as her sister scurried from the room.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Dressed in a similar version of the lilac frock, Olivia Hollingsworth Cartwright spun around and clasped her hands together. Born and bred in New Orleans, a trace of her Louisiana accent still remained. Known for her fine manners and lavish dinner parties, Olivia never had a strand of her dark hair out of place among her carefully sculpted ringlets, and her cheeks never lacked a touch of rouge. She took great pride in maintaining her figure after having nine children, though displaying unconditional love and affection to her offspring did not come naturally to her. She flattered men, undeservingly at times, but rushed to criticize most every woman she knew. Her daughters included.
“Yes, mother, it’s something.” Emma squirmed and sat upright, noting that her mother wasted no concern on her daughter’s condition, emotional or physical.
“I think it’s perfect for tomorrow evening.”
“What’s happening tomorrow?”
Olivia gasped. “Why Emma Louise, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that we’re having company. Very special company.”
Having watched her friend die and having endured the greatest trauma of her life, Emma had forgotten. But now, she remembered. In the recesses of her mind, she had hoped her mother might find a pinch of sensitivity and reschedule the dreadful event.
“Mother, you can’t be serious. I know it’s escaped your attention, but I’m in no condition to wear that… thing tomorrow night.” Emma tried to subdue the bitterness gnawing inside her.
“If you would eat and commit your strength to getting well, you would be fine.”
“Since I’m not fine, I think you should send word to Vaughn and his family and reschedule your dinner.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Emma. I would never dream of inconveniencing the Jacksons on account of your foolish behavior.”
There were moments in Emma’s life when she desperately wondered how Thomas Cartwright ever fell in love with Olivia Hollingsworth. Her mind tried to imagine their courtship. What did they talk about? How had they fallen in love with each other? But Emma credited that to her father. A man whose patience knew no end and whose kindness knew no limits, Thomas had been the sort of man who would have fallen for Olivia’s heavenly beauty and charms. Emma had grown to believe that her mother’s loving-kindness had deteriorated and rotted from life on a plantation. Though festivities were grand on the estate, plantation life was isolated and devoted to routine. Olivia wanted to entertain and bask in the adoration of others. Planting, raising, and harvesting the rice didn’t enthrall her.
“Tomorrow will be one of the most important nights for this family. I think you know what I’m referring to, Emma.” Olivia cast her a scornful look. “And I do believe you know what’s expected of you.”
Emma said nothing. Apparently, Knox and Olivia had decided that a united front would be an effective tactic. Loathsomeness simmered inside Emma. She preferred doses of castor oil to one of her mother’s parties or lectures, and in light of tomorrow night, she would prefer cuddling with a hungry gator from the marsh.
“You owe this to your grandfather, and you know I’m right. That man has endured enough. He’s hardly taken a bite since the uproar you caused. He hasn’t slept well, either. I’ve heard him pacing in the night. You’re exhausting him, Emma. You’re exhausting all of us. With the way things are with the Confederacy right now, you need to focus on your family, not forcing slaves to read or squabbling with Quinn ¾ or poisoning Sylvia against me.”
“Mother!”
“You know it to be true. She defies me to please you. I’ll not have it anymore.” She ran a hand over her hair and touched her cheeks as if the matter wasn’t worth getting upset over. In a calmer voice she said, “Let me be clear. You will wear that dress tomorrow night, and you will fulfill your duty to this family. You will be polite and gracious ¾ and you will not trouble Vaughn or any of our guests with mention of your irrational actions. Do you understand me, young lady?”
Emma knew an answer wasn’t sought. Her zeal to argue abandoned her while pain began to spike. She fell back into her bed, welcoming the throbbing aches and the escape into unconsciousness.
****
Emma could bear it no longer. The tension and uncertainty threatened to suffocate her. Three days had crawled by since the beating. Since Basil’s death. She had to get to the slaves’ quarters, had to see Tilda, and she had to find a way to explain.
Emma checked for her grandfather but saw the chair was empty. Slowly and carefully, she dressed in the dark. Sylvia stirred from Emma’s bed but settled back into a peaceful sleep. Emma smiled, thinking how useless it was for Sylvia to have her own room.
Leaving her room, Emma was mindful of the floorboards. She had ventured out at night enough to know which sections would betray her with creaks and groans. Her heart raced as she worried that her grandfather ¾ or worse, one of her brothers ¾ might spring from the shadows at any turn. However, a surge of exuberance hit her when she stepped out into the moonlit night.
At the sight of the hitching post, though, disgust crept over her. With trembling legs, she moved near it. No obvious signs of what had happened showed, thanks to the rain, but Emma knew traces of blood had to be there, embedded in the wood. Her hand reached out and grabbed hold of the post. She sobbed at its touch. Long ago, it had been a safe spot during games of tag with her brothers and sisters. Now, the weathered pine felt raw, splintered from ages of wear, humidity, and low country sun.
Emma struck it with her hand. The post budged, and her hurt turned to rage. She smacked it with her palms, then drove her shoulder into the wooden stake. The post snapped, causing Emma to tumble to the ground. Pain wrestled with her for a moment before she got on her knees and beat the ground with the broken top piece. Her sobs resumed, and her aches needled her, telling her she could not make it further from the house.
Refusing to listen to her body, Emma dashed from the lawn, fearful she might be heard, and ran toward the slaves’ cabins. She passed the dogwood tree and ignored the faint glow of the delicate blooms in the tender blue light.
Emma had no idea how late it was. She hadn’t thought about that. Basil’s family and the rest of the laborers, she assumed, had to be asleep. No light outlined the sackcloth covered windows of the six cabins. Emma felt imprudent. She wanted to see Tilda but wouldn’t wake Basil’s mother if she was sleeping.
Instead, Emma made her way to the cemetery. Of course, no slave could share eternal resting space beside a Cartwright, so the family allowed the slaves a separate plot for burials. She walked to the hallowed grounds with shaky reverence. Through tear-brimmed eyes, she looked for a fresh grave. The scent of smoldering ash hinted in the air while a swarm of mosquitoes buzzed by her.
Emma gasped at the sight of a kneeling figure. A head turned in her direction.
“Miss Emma?” Tilda whispered. “Chil’, whatchu doin’ here in de middle o’ de night?” She stood and dabbed her eyes with her apron. Thin and fragile, Tilda wore a bandana around her head and a dirty linen apron over her front. Grief and a lack of sleep marked her face. Her bony hands, warped from decades of scrubbing and wringing the Cartwright wash, reached for Emma as they had since Emma was a baby. Both Tilda and Harper had tended to and raised the Cartwright children while minding their chores. Emma had grown especially attached to her caregivers, ever deepening the gap between her and her mother.
“Oh, Tilda!” Emma fell into Tilda, sobbing. “I’m sorry! I never meant for this to happen! I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” Emma’s grief rolled in like the tide over the salt marshes. Tilda, overwhelmed by Emma, said nothing. She clung to Emma as her own anguish for her son unleashed.
“Deys ain’t nothin’ we can do ’bout it, Miss Emma, ’cept pray.” Tilda’s voice sounded soft and injured, making Emma sob even harder.
The slaves’ deeply religious ways perplexed Emma, as did the Almighty. She found no comfort in the fire-and-brimstone sermons Reverend McGee performed each Sunday from his pulpit. Instead, Emma found herself drawn to the worship services the slaves held in the Quarters. Their hymns and spirituals, sung with unbridled love and raw freedom, always piqued Emma’s curiosity when she listened, perched from a tree. Now, she wondered why such a mighty God had failed Basil.
“Hush now, Miss Emma,” Tilda whispered. “Dey’ll hear you all way up at de house.”
Emma understood her concerns. Slaves knew well the virtue of capping emotions in their brittle existence. As Emma tried to pull herself together, her arms slid from Tilda’s, and she struggled to find her voice.
“I’m sorry, Tilda. I—”
“Shh. Best to hush. Weez ain’t sleepin’ much ’round here. Dem awful nightmares. Henry, he don’ hardly leave Basil’s side.” Her voice buckled. “I know you’ll be wantin’ to says your goodbyes.”
Tilda took Emma to a pile of freshly tilled earth in the slave cemetery. Emma sank to the ground. Tears erupted anew. Emma clutched a handful of moist soil as uncontrolled lamentations poured from her lips. She slid facedown to the dirt and wept apologies to Basil’s grave.
Emma exhausted herself. Images of Basil skipped through her mind. Remembering his big, bright smile made her chest tighten. He had only been eighteen. She recalled the time he told her about his dream to one day own a boat. Basil had loved the water, and on occasion, he and Emma had escaped to the docks at Port Royal. Ships and cargo arriving from around the world teased of adventure.
“That one,” he would say as he pointed to the largest ship he could find. “I’m gonna get me a ship just like that one. I’ll get Mamma and Henry, and weez goin’ to sail far away from dis place. Maybe we’ll go someplace where dey have snow. No rice and none o’ dat cotton. Just snow.”
“And I’ll help you, Basil,” Emma promised. “I’ll help you get that ship.”
Basil would laugh. Emma had laughed, too. She didn’t know why. Maybe Basil didn’t think she could help. She wanted to show him, wanted to prove him wrong. But she was glad she had laughed with him when she could.
“Miss Emma,” Tilda said.
Emma roused from what must have turned into a dream. A chill rattled the air, and she noticed the moonlight had waned. Her slacked body moved like cold molasses. Numbness engulfed her.
“Best to git you back to de house now. I’ll git Henry. He’ll walk wit you.”
“No, don’t wake him.” Emma gave one last look to Basil’s resting place. “This is all my fault, Tilda. If I hadn’t¾”
Tilda shook her head. “Dis life full o’ uncertains, Miss Emma. Now I’ll miss ma boy ever livin’ day I have left, but ain’t nothin’ promised to no man. Ain’t no understandin’ some thangs. Best wez can do is trust de Lawd and know wez be together again someday.”
“Let me help you. I’ll help you and Henry. We’ll get you some papers, and then you can escape, head up North, across the Ohio River, where no one will ever come looking for you.”
“Naw.”
The remark stunned Emma. “I know, I know it can be dangerous, but you’ll have Henry. He can face anything¾”
“Naw, chil’.” She squeezed Emma’s hands affectionately. “Dis here is our home. We don’ wanna leave Basil, or even you and Master Knox. He’s always been good to us. Makes sure we got shoes in de cold, even gave us dem turkeys for last Christmas.”
Emma recalled the turkeys. She knew such offerings were bittersweet for Knox since the Uprising, but he continued his gifts in order to lighten the malicious authority exercised by George Napier. Before the tragedy of both the Uprising and the addition of Napier to the plantation, Knox had often been accused of treating his slaves too well. In the present political climate, turkeys for slaves at Christmas would rile fellow Southerners and threaten Knox’s good standing.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong here, ‘cept dat Mr. Napier,” Tilda said. “Weez all know he’s de reason Basil bein’ gone. Weez knows Master Knox ¾ and your daddy ¾ ain’t like dat.”
She took Emma’s hand and pressed a root and leaves into her palm. Tilda specialized in herbal remedies and nursed the ill-stricken on the plantation. Her peppermint broth soothed upset stomachs, and her mustard plasters eased a cold. Emma, ignoring her mother’s reservations, preferred Tilda’s teas and plasters over Doc Hadley’s sludge-like elixirs.
“Make dat into tea. May help ye back.” Tilda swallowed hard and hung her head. “You done suffered enough.”
Emma’s hand trembled.
“Prolly best you keep away from here, Miss Emma. Don’t want no mo’ trouble fo’ you. Basil wouldn’ either.”
Emma knew Tilda was right. Hers would be an unwelcome presence now, the public beating had seen to that. Despite the fact she had suffered too, she would be shunned in the rice fields and Quarters alike, greeted with bent-down heads and silence.
Emma couldn’t look at Tilda. “Please don’t hate me.”
“Aw, chile, ain’t no one a blamin’ you. You always been good to all of us, helpin’ in de fields, carin’ for de li’l ones at times, and I knowed you wanted to help Basil, wanted to give him a chance rest of us don’ have. Ain’t no hatin’ you fo’ dat.” Fresh tears glided down her cheeks. “He wid de Lawd now. He free now.”
The words hit Emma like another lash to her back.
“I won’t let him die for nothing,” Emma said. “It won’t be for nothing.”