It has been five long years since I set foot on this land. The land itself has not changed one bit. Everything is as familiar to me as if I had just left yesterday. One would think that with the comfort of all the familiarity I would be calm and reassured. However, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I may have appeared calm on the outside, but on the inside, I was a nervous wreck. Internally, I was filled with conflicting emotions and thoughts: How will they receive me? Will they understand my absence? More importantly, I was troubled by the harrowing thought of whether or not my family were even still here, better yet alive at all. The war had ended almost four years ago; maybe they left after the emancipation. Maybe my brothers found a way to escape as I did. Escape would be the desired idea over the worst possible alternative. I dread the thought that my brothers may have been killed. After all, George Wright, my former owner, may have sought retribution for my escape by punishing my family. This was not the best last thought to have on my mind as I arrived at the steps of the main house.
Before I could reach the top of the steps, the door flung open and I was staring into the eyes of a man whom I can only describe as a scoundrel.
George Wilson Wright Jr. was not your typical Southern slave owning white male of this time period. Mr. Wright was the type of man who wanted more for himself than he truly deserved. He earned a reputation as someone who would do or say whatever it took for things to work out in his favor. One time in town, he pretended to be blind because there was this Northern tycoon philanthropist making charitable donations for the care of the deaf, dumb, and blind. He was indeed a low-down snake in every sense of the term. I knew dealing with him would be a task in itself, but I had to go through him to get my family.
Physically he would not strike you as someone of whom to take notice. He was forty-eight years old, five feet ten inches tall, and weighed 155 pounds. His frame was wiry and lanky, which resembled that of the old scarecrow in the field out behind the main house. The bony prominences of his joints were highly visible as they protruded through his flesh. His skin was weather-beaten with a leather like appearance. Deep lines were etched into his face, giving him the appearance of a man twenty years older than his actual age. His hair was of dirty blond color and poorly kept, similar to that of an old stray dog.
“What in da hell do you want, you runaway nigger!”
It was immediately obvious that he missed me. “Well, since it is clear you recognize who I am, it would be safe to assume you also know what I want.”
“Well, looky who done learn to speak all fancy like. Well, I don’t give a damn how many books you done read while you was running nigger, that don’t give you no right coming here thinking you da boss of me! I know you came back for your brothers, but you can’t have’em because dey’s in to me for a lot of money, and I aims to collect on what dey owe. Since you left and the war ended ole Abraham ‘Give the Niggers Freedom’ Lincoln saw fit to ruin the good labor situation I had going on here with his whole Emancipation Act. So I had to start paying for the services of you, uh, umm ‘good colored workers,’ but since dey was using my equipment, my supplies, and living in my houses on my land, I had to charge them a rental fee for the equipment, a retail markup for the supplies, and a rent for the fine living quarters.”
“Mr. Wright, I will be glad to settle any debt with you on my brothers’ behalf. Tell me the total cost of what it is that they owe you and I will see to it that you have your money by this time tomorrow.”
Not expecting to hear those words, he took a second to gather his thoughts.
“Five hundred dollars!”
“Five hundred dollars? That is a lot of money, Mr. Wright. You wouldn’t happen to have record of all the charges they have accumulated, would you? Not that I don’t trust your fine financial business savvy, but I am curious to know how they could have run up such a total.”
“Well, nigger, I don’t keep records, I have my word. My pappy once told me that if a man ain’t got his word, then he ain’t go nothin’. So if a man’s word was good enough for my pappy, it’s damn sure good enough for a uppity ‘runaway nigger,’ so you can take it or leave it.”
“Mr. Wright, I have no problems with what your father believed in. He was indeed a fair man.” Unlike his son who uses the integrity of others against them as if it were a gun, holding you hostage by your virtues as he manipulated and twisted situations to his advantage. I had no doubt that this instance was no different but found no advantage in debating the legitimacy of his claims. Besides, there would be plenty of time to settle the score with George Wilson Wright Jr., but for now I just wanted to be reunited with my brothers.
I left the main house, and as I approached what use to be the slave quarters, I could hear the distinct sound of my middle brother’s deep baritone voice.
Jeremiah “Bear” Abbott was the middle of three boys born to Abel and Elizabeth Abbott. He was thirty-two years old, six feet four inches tall, and weighed 270 pounds, hence the reason we called him Bear. My brother was without question the biggest man I had ever seen and had the strength of ten men. Bear preferred to keep his head clean-shaven. His appearance was equally matched with his brutish, hot-tempered, militant personality. The only contradiction was that he had what we called well-timed truthful humor. Bear had a keen sense of dropping the perfect anecdote to fit the situation.
The next voice I heard was unmistakably that of my baby brother, Joshua Abbott. Skin the complexion of a peanut, curly brown hair, light olive green eyes, not the typical description of the son of slaves, but there was an obvious explanation for my brothers’ physical appearance. Josh was now an eighteen-year-old young man, five feet nine inches tall, and weighed 170 pounds. What he lacked in size, he more than made up for in smarts. You see, he received what would be as close to a formal education as a slave could get in these times. The reasoning for this also helps explain how he got his looks.
My mother worked in the main house as Mrs. Wright’s personal aide. If I recall correctly, it was the fall of 1840 when she became terribly ill with what was later determined to be cancer. Because of her illness she received constant treatments. She would have good days and bad ones, which led to her leaving her position as a schoolteacher. My mother tended to her every need until her death. This arrangement created a bond between my mother and Mrs. Wright. Mrs. Wright grew to respect my mother for her pride, spirit, and determination. She was also envious of the obvious love and devotion shared between my mother and father. This was something that she lacked in her own marriage, for Mr. Wright was known for lying down with any woman he could climb on top of, whether willing or unwilling. This is something that he shared in common with Willard Mason, Mrs. Wright’s youngest brother.
He was the black sheep of family and wore it like a badge of honor. You see, Mrs. Wright came from a rich family. Willard was the only family member that actually stayed in contact with her since her parents did not approve of her marrying Mr. Wright, who they considered poor white trash. Her great-grandfather founded a shipping business, and the men in the family have nurtured it into a successful enterprise. Every Mason male since her great-grandfather has worked in the family business in one manner or another. All that is until Willie, as he liked to be called even by us slaves. He, on the other hand, blazed a new trail for himself by wanting to become a politician. Unfortunately for his family, who could have found the help of a politician useful, but the only thing that he truly applied himself to doing was drinking, partying, and chasing women.
One night after hours of partying and drinking, Willie stumbled through Wright’s house and up the stairs headed to his room. Just as he reached his doorway, my mother was leaving Mrs. Wright for the evening. Mrs. Wright was in a deep sleep from her medications, and Mr. Wright was still in town, so Willie knew that this was the opportunity he had been waiting on for so long. He had always had eyes for my mother. Always saying that he would never touch a nigger woman but for her he would make an exception. He knew he may not get a chance like this again. My mother sensed his intentions as she made her way to the linen closet at the end of the hall, hoping he would be in his room passed out drunk before she had to make her way past his room and down the stairs. No such luck was to be had that night. As she turned around, he struck her in the head, knocking to the floor and unconscious. Half dazed, she awoke and realized what had been happening to her while she had blacked out. She had been taken into his room and raped, and now he lay on top of her, asleep.
Nine months later she gave birth to a mixed race baby, and named him Joshua. My father never asked any questions, and she never told him any tails. Their bond was so strong that she knew he would love this child as if it were his own, purely because it came from her body and soul. Mrs. Wright, however, did ask questions and was so grief-stricken by the truth that she promised my mother to give Joshua the gift of an education. Although educating Negros in the South was considered a crime, she felt so guilty for what happened to my mother she disregarded the notion. We also knew that there was another motivating factor. She was unable to have children of her own because of the damage the cancer and medication had done to her reproductive organs. She felt as though God was punishing her for marrying Mr. Wright against her parents’ wishes. She also believed that is why Mr. Wright indulged in other women, because she couldn’t give him children. The one thing that is for certain is that she carried a lot of emotional baggage. However, no matter what her reasoning, my brother surly gained a lot of knowledge and it made him the most idealistic of the three children.
Funny, how being back on this land has flooded my thoughts with so many memories. I hadn’t thought of that whole ordeal in many years. Even though Joshua is a living, breathing, walking reminder, I’m sure seeing their faces will ignite even more memories. Now that I am only a few feet away from reuniting with my brothers, I must admit the emotions are a little overwhelming.