Plantation Nation (9781621352877)

  Plantation Nation

  by Mercedes King

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2014 MERCEDES KING

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  PLANTATION NATION

  Copyright © 2014 MERCEDES KING

  ISBN 978-1-62135-287-7

  Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGNS STUDIOS

  For all the women who daringly served in the Civil War, disguised as men, and for Kevin.

  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 her—fearing 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 — 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 — and certainly not her mother — 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 — or helping them escape — 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 — what they've taken — 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 — 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 — and with South Carolina's secession from the Union in December — 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.