Late April, 1859
A few miles away, at Ashland, the Clay plantation, Albinia and Lucy faced each other across the breakfast table. The paneled walls, long shining table, and white marble fireplace were a stark contrast to the rude cabin of the Crumps. Albinia enjoyed her visits here, which provided a window into a world of the aristocracy that she longed to be part of but could only glimpse from the outside. Lucy sat, propped by pillows, in her new cane-backed chair with wheels. She was often in pain, due to a spinal injury as an infant, and unable to walk well. She enjoyed Albinia’s friendship, for she had few visitors despite having a cheerful and agreeable disposition.
The contrast in their social station was obvious from their dresses. Albinia wore a sky-blue taffeta she had made herself with castoff materials, in the Levite style of some fifty years past, with a white lace collar. Albinia was scarcely over five feet tall, with a slim figure, but she looked taller next to Lucy, whose slight, sickly frame made her look as delicate as a china doll. Lucy wore the latest fashion: a beige gown—which complemented her light brown hair and cheery blue eyes—with lace-and-fur trim, a hoop skirt, voluminous petticoats, and open bell sleeves. Lucy’s curls danced as she listened to Albinia and laughed, her small mouth showing perfect teeth. A slave boy hovered in the background, in case the two young women might desire anything. Lucy and Albinia took no notice of him.
“And did you just see that ridiculous hat Martha Binsley had? I mean really, it looked like a dinner platter with a bird’s nest tied on top!” Albinia was saying.
“How it stayed on with her nose stuck so high in the air I’ll never know,” said Lucy. “I don’t mean to be unkind, but she acted like some kind of princess.” She began to cough, and when she recovered, she said, “Luther, fetch me some water.” The slave boy moved quickly to comply. He was about five feet tall and looked about fourteen years old, dressed in homespun breeches and a rough cotton shirt two sizes too large that hung loosely on him like a flour sack. Luther poured the water, careful to keep his distance from Lucy and his eyes cast down as much as possible. Lucy took the crystal glass automatically, without any acknowledgement of where it came from.
Albinia looked at Luther, pausing while he poured. Though used to the plantation slaves, she wondered what he was thinking. She pitied him and thought, I suppose we should just be grateful that the Lord has provided us with fine clothes and fathers that love us.
Luther kept his eyes to the floor and retreated a discreet distance, the picture of respect and decorum. Albinia wondered what he thought of Lucy. She was kind enough, she supposed, as a slave owner. Lucy’s father had purchased him from the Jameson plantation two years ago as a birthday present, along with Phoebe, who served as her lady’s maid. Albinia supposed Luther might be thankful he was a house slave and not a field hand. She had heard rumors of the cruelty of Jameson and others. Surely, the boy must be grateful for the relatively benign treatment of the Clays.
Lucy commanded, “Luther, push me onto the veranda and bring Albinia a chair. Fetch my writing desk. Albinia will want to be going home in an hour or so. Tell the groom to have the chaise ready. I will write you a pass, and you will escort her home. And I’ll want my sewing; tell Phoebe to fetch it.”
Luther hustled to comply and, after returning, spent another hour standing on the veranda. Albinia helped Lucy learn some complicated embroidery stitches to adorn a new pillow sham. She visited Lucy regularly, both for friendship’s sake and to teach her to sew. They had met when Lucy’s father, James Clay, had commissioned a special dress for Lucy from the dressmaker’s shop in town, where Albinia helped for wages. In the process of the fittings and alterations, the girls became fast friends, and Albinia had come to the plantation often due to Lucy’s limited mobility. Lucy prevailed on her father to engage Albinia for sewing lessons. As an aristocratic young lady, Lucy should learn needlework, and Albinia delighted in an excuse to come visit.
At the end of Albinia’s visit, Lucy wrote a pass for Luther, which he carefully put in his pocket. The pass would prevent someone thinking he was a runaway.
“Thanks for your company and the lesson. I so appreciate our times together. Perhaps next time you would like to try playing our pianoforte? I love music. I am not skilled like my mother, but I could teach you what I know. It is a small thing to help pay for all you teach me. Sometimes when I handle a needle, it feels like I’m all thumbs,” Lucy said, laughing.
“The pleasure is all mine. I love to visit with you, and I would love to learn to play piano. I could only play when I come here, of course, but it never hurts to know such things. Coming here is restful, compared to taking care of Lydia and doing the chores at home. Will I see you at church? And then perhaps late next week we can get together again, if Ma can spare me. But I’d best get home now. Wouldn’t want Luther out after dark,” Albinia said, glancing at him.
She put her sewing into her reticule and took her leave through the ornate arched doorway of the dining room, past the spiral staircase, and out the front door of Ashland. A chaise was waiting, a two-wheeled light buggy meant for two people. Luther followed silently and mounted the carriage box, taking the reins from the groom. Albinia thought he enjoyed these brief times when allowed to drive, allowed to be with the horses and to see the world beyond Ashland’s hundreds of acres of hemp and forest. The six-mile drive from Ashland to the Crump homestead was a familiar respite from constantly attending Lucy’s needs. Albinia knew the Clays trusted Luther, or they would not allow him to go so far from home.
She settled herself into the chaise. They were off at a slow trot, the bay horse’s mane and tail flying in the wind, the reins gathered in Luther’s right hand. The black chaise had a covering over their heads, the cloth adorned with the Clay family crest. The red wheels and spokes had iron tires that clattered over cobblestones as they jolted along out of Ashland and onto the country roads leading north and west toward Versailles and the Crump homestead.
“Getting hot today, isn’t it, Luther?” asked Albinia, attempting to pass the time.
“Yes’m, likely gonna be unusual hot for April,” Luther said, keeping his eyes on the road and skillfully maneuvering the bay around roots and potholes.
“Think the hemp will do well this year?”
“So I hear, ma’am. I only know what I hear from darkies in the fields.”
Albinia remembered wondering what he was thinking earlier and now took a chance. Usually, she just sewed on the way home.
“Do you get bored working in the house?” she said, looking over at him.
Luther showed surprise, then said simply, “Not my place, ma’am. I just serve Miss Lucy and do as I’m told.”
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be free?” asked Albinia.
She could see by the look in his eyes that he was frightened by such a question.
“No, ma’am. De good Lawd seen fit to make me a slave, an’ brought me to Missy an’ Massa Clay. Dey good to me, as massas go. Got no reason to question de good Lawd,” he said, not looking at her.
“But why? I have often wondered why God made me a white woman, one who’s poor and just waiting to be married. I wonder what it would be like to travel, to see the world, the things my brother talks about from books—like the ocean. Don’t you have any dreams?”
“Miss Albinia, why talk like dat? You know well enough ain’t no use for a slave to dream. I belong to Miss Lucy. Dangerous for any slave to dream beyond dat. One day, we all be free with Jesus. Dat be freedom, on the shores o’hebbin.”
“Do you have family, Luther?”
His face looked pained and sad. “Yes’m. But not at Ashland. My mama Jemima, an’ my sisters Olivia and Clara, over to Jameson’s farm, where Massa Clay bought me from. Olivia, she just thirteen, I reckon, and Clara about ten.”
“And your father?”
Anger and fear flickered over his face quickly.
“I don’ know. You know ain’t no real marriage for slaves. An’ asking about yo pappy just askin’ trouble. Now why don’t I sing for ya rest the way? De horse, he likes it when I sing.”
It seemed Luther was trying to divert her from her questioning. Albinia, sensing his discomfort, nodded and allowed it. His voice had already changed, and in a surprisingly melodic baritone, he sang hymns and songs about Jesus and “de debble.” The horse’s hooves trotted on the lane, the bump and creak of the wheels seeming to act as a percussion section, keeping time to the music.
After two hours, they drew into the dooryard of the Crump farm. The Crump men were not there, but Sara and Lydia greeted them. Luther set the brake and helped Albinia down from the chaise. Then he watered the horse at the trough and gave him a nosebag of oats, brushing him and checking his feet. He let horse and chaise stand resting in the shade of an enormous ash tree.
Turning to Sara, he said, “Missus Crump, could I get a drink from yer pump? I got my own cup.” He produced a carved wooden cup.
“Of course, Luther, help yourself,” said Sara. She hurried inside and emerged just as he had gotten a drink and doused his head. “And here are two johnny cakes for your trip home.”
Albinia saw he was amazed by this simple kindness. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. Lawd bless you! I best be getting back. My pass is no good after dark, and Miss Lucy be worried.”
Waving, Albinia, Sara, and Lydia went into the cabin as Luther mounted the chaise.
✳ ✳ ✳
Luther set out at a fast trot. He knew he had to pace the horse, but he also had no desire to meet a patrol alone, especially as afternoon lengthened into evening.
Once or twice he stopped and pulled off the road, to let the horse rest, but also to listen for the sounds of approaching hooves that might mean a patrol. Still more, he feared the baying of hounds, signaling slave catchers chasing their prey.
More than once, he touched the precious pass in his pocket. He had no idea what it said and knew even this could be scant protection against some of the patrols, but he had to trust the fact that Lucy, a Clay, had signed it, and few would be willing to cross her father, James.
Luther guessed Lucy either did not know or did not care about these fears and dangers when she sent Luther to drive her friend home.
He turned onto Richmond Road leading to Ashland and stopped for what would be the final time. Suddenly, he heard hooves and drunken laughter coming up the road from behind. Fearing the worst, Luther urged the horse to just under a canter, not wanting to lose control or break a wheel on a rock, and dashed wildly up the road for the safety of his home plantation.
About one hundred yards from the turn onto Ashland’s drive, three horsemen came out into the road in front of him. He pulled back hard on the reins to stop, so as not to run into them and injure Massa Clay’s trotting horse, the chaise, or the horsemen themselves, any of which could spell his doom. He sat, gazing about wildly and gripped by terror, sweat dripping down his face and back as froth came off the horse’s flanks, its sides heaving. The hoofbeats and hollering from behind came steadily closer until they surrounded him. There were four horsemen in back and three in front, all of them carrying pistols or clubs. One had a long black snake whip attached to his saddle.
Luther glanced from face to face in sheer horror, forgetting to lower his eyes. The men hooted and jeered. The one on the far left riding a common paint pony had a gray slouched hat with a feather sticking jauntily out of it, yellow teeth, and a stubbly black beard. His unkempt clothes showed him to be a poor “cracker” farmer, volunteering for slave patrol duty to show himself a man of power. His face pulled into a condescending sneer with a hungry look in his eyes that seemed to want to devour Luther. He shouted to the others, “Looky what we got here! Got us a black out for the evening, boys! Or maybe he done stole a horse and buggy, trying to run away.”
The man next to him sat on a long-legged chestnut stallion that kept fidgeting and trying to get the bit between his teeth. “Naw, Frank, I think we got us a blackbird thinks he can fly away. But round here we put blackbirds in pies for supper, cook’em good.” His red mustache and beard wrinkled in ugly laughter at his joke, his finer clothes denoting he must be one of the lesser planters. The gold stickpin in his red cravat glittered in the failing sunlight, the last rays glinting off the silver fittings on the pistol stuck in his waistband.
“Why, I recognize this black, boys!” said the last horseman in front. His terror mounting further, Luther recognized the voice of his old master, Jameson. “He used to be mine, but he got uppity and thought he was special. Clay offered me a good price for him, worth at least a couple of hunting dogs, so I let him go. Looks like he’s still uppity, thinks he can just up and take a horse and buggy! What say we teach him some manners, boys?”
“Shore nuff, Jameson,” said one of the riders from behind. “But if he’s Clay’s, we best find out his business first ‘fore we have any fun. Wouldn’t do to get the Clays down on us.”
“All right, boy,” said Jameson, fingering his black snake whip, “What’s your business this evenin’ that you’re out on the roads? Running away?” Jameson laughed nastily.
Luther, remembering his role, made sure to keep his eyes down on the road. He wanted no reason for Jameson to hurt him—and hurt him he knew he would, given half an opportunity.
“Massa Jameson, I’m a good slave. You know dat. I been sent on business by Miss Lucy Clay to deliver her friend Miss Albinia home, ‘bout six mile from here. I try my best to get home by dark. I gwine show you de pass Miss Lucy give me.”
He carefully reached into his pocket with two fingers to give them no cause to think he might be pulling out a weapon and brought out the pass signed by Lucy. The man called Frank moved his horse over and examined it in the fading light.
“He’s shore nuff got a pass—says here signed Lucy Clay. Reckon it’s legitimate?”
Luther reached for the pass to retrieve it, but Frank held it just out of reach.
Jameson said, “Let me see that.” Spurring his horse over, he took the pass from Frank, to Luther’s alarm.
“Why, this ain’t nothing! This is just a grocery list he probably stole. I don’t see a pass; do you, boys?” he jeered, tearing the paper into small shreds. “I think we got us a runaway. Everybody knows a black off his plantation after sundown, regardless whose he is, gets nine lashes. Right, boys? We got to do our duty as patrollers. Get’im down!”
Three men behind dismounted, and Luther’s terror knew no bounds. Wildly he looked for a way of escape, but the forest was thick on both sides of the road, and the ditch on each side was too deep to allow the chaise to pass without flipping over. Returning to Ashland without the chaise would earn him a whipping there.
“Please, Massa, please! Don’t do this! Ya know it ain’t dark yet, and I got a pass from Miss Lucy! The house is just up the road—go an’ ask her if she done sent me out with her friend.”
Rough hands pulled him down from the chaise. One of the men set the brake and tended the horse while the others tore off his shirt, tied his hands over his head, and bound him to a tree. Jameson dismounted with a wicked grin on his face, unfurled the black snake whip, and cracked it a few times in the air to test it. He broke a small branch near Luther’s head and laughed.
“All right! Let’s see how uppity you are now.”
Jameson coiled the whip and prepared to lay on the lash, standing only about eight feet from Luther, helplessly tied to the tree. “I don’t have to worry about damaging my property now, and the law is on my side.” He struck viciously, with all his strength, drawing blood and leaving a long, angry cut across Luther’s back.
Luther cried out in agony, “No, Massa, no! Please!”
Just as Jameson prepared to give a second stroke, the sound of hooves thundered on the road. A fine-looking sorrel stallion came to an abrupt halt. A burly man climbed down and, pitching the reins at the nearest man with an air of authority, bore down upon Jameson. The sun was just disappearing behind the ridge.
“And what do ye think ye’re doing with Mr. Clay’s property, eh?” came the Irish-accented voice, belonging to Sean Flanagan, overseer at Ashland. “I don’t believe it’s after sunset, and this young buck was sent to do a job by Miss Lucy herself. Ye’ll kindly drop that whip, Jameson.” Flanagan drew a pistol from his belt. “Else I’ll blow a hole in ye the size of Georgia.” The pistol was pointed at Jameson’s head. “Did ye not see tha lad’s pass?”
“Pass?” Jameson said innocently. “We saw no pass, right boys? Only a list of grocery supplies that he does not have. I could not see the use of that. I figured perhaps he’d been sent on an errand, tried to run away. We’re just protecting Mr. Clay’s property, as the law says.”
“With that kind of protection, Mr. Clay would be bankrupt in a fortnight. Cut him down!” Flanagan cocked the pistol to add emphasis to his words.
Begrudgingly, Jameson signaled one of the other men, and they cut Luther down from the tree.
“Pick up your shirt, boy,” Flanagan ordered, without taking his eyes or the pistol off Jameson. “Now you gentlemen stand aside, or me boys will be forced to give you reason for horsemanship.”
Glancing over their shoulders, Luther’s tormentors saw a number of Negroes with pitchforks standing behind them, menacing the horses. Reluctantly, they parted. “My boys will just follow us home. Luther!” Flanagan commanded. Luther slowly and painfully mounted to the driver’s position, as Flanagan climbed in as passenger, tying the reins of his horse to the rear of the chaise. “Anyone who moves gets a ball in the head or Mr. Clay to deal with tomorrow,” he said.
Recovering his evil joviality, Jameson called after them, “That’s all right, boys, let’em go. Hey, Luther! Shall I pay a visit tonight to your mother, or your sister, do you think?”
Safely in the buggy, Luther glared at Jameson, but did not dare respond. He knew that any provocation would be taken out on his mother and sisters—Jameson’s threat was not empty. Anger blazed in him, but outwardly he kept it in check, except for the burning in his eyes. He clicked to the horses, and the buggy began to roll, the other slaves serving as a rear guard, walking backward warily toward the plantation road.
Luther was still bleeding and in pain, but he dismounted from the chaise and gave it and the horse into the care of the groom, an elderly slave named Albert who had been born on the plantation in Henry Clay’s time. Albert had white specks of hair and wizened features, a ready smile and a soft whisper for the horses he cared for. He stooped with age. Seeing Luther’s pain, he clucked softly. “You got one dem patrols on you? Lawd a-mercy! Go see Auntie May. I’ll take care all dis. Get cho sef fixed up ‘fore you go to Miss Lucy. Ain’t no sense upsettin’ her wid it.”
“Thanks, Albert. Believe I will.”
Instead of going to the yellow-brick slave house near the great house that served as his quarters, Luther went down to the lower slave quarters nearer the fields. Night was falling rapidly; he knew he did not have long before quarters would be checked, and he still had to look in on Miss Lucy for any last-minute orders before she retired. A fire burned in front of Auntie May’s cabin, who acted like his mother. She had a huge heart and looked after four motherless boys on the plantation. She was sitting on a stump by the fire, a wiry, middle-aged woman with premature gray streaks in her hair, wearing cotton homespun dress, and humming softly, staring at the fire just outside a whitewashed brick hut. The slave quarters were luxurious by most standards; they even had glass windows. Auntie May looked up at his approach.
“What’choo doin’ down from de big house, Luther?”
“Ran me across patrollers, got cut.” He turned, showing the blood that had seeped into his shirt.
“Oh, hon. Take dat shirt off and lemme see what I can do.”
“Gotta be quick. I still got to see Miss Lucy before dey goes to bed.”
Rising, May went to fetch a bucket of water and a rag. Luther took his shirt off, and she carefully washed away the dried blood from the angry welt on his back. He winced a few times but made no sound.
“At least dey only got you once. How’d you manage that?”
“Flanagan came and stopped ‘em. Jameson was in de group. He’d a taken my hide off.”
“Didn’t Miss Lucy gib you a pass?”
“Yes’m, but Jameson, he just rip it to shreds, say it don’t count. Nobody gonna take de word of blacks like us.”
“Ain’t dat de truth,” she said, finishing up. She went into the hut and got a clean shirt. He tugged it on gingerly, trying not to break the wound open. “Get on up to de big house; don’ want more trouble. I see you Sunday. Pump some mo’ water over it if’n ya gets de chance,” advised May. She gave him a brief hug, and Luther hurried off toward the mansion.