Plantation Nation (9781621352877) Read online

  George would seek his revenge, Emma knew.

  "Either way," she said, giving up on her bed, "I'll be glad to see him go."

  Emma had never mentioned her encounters with George to Sylvia or anyone else. She had considered telling her grandfather when he had found them in the barn, but resisted. She believed she could handle the likes of George on her own. But after last night, doubts crept in.

  "Do you think I should wear this tonight?" Sylvia twirled in front of a mirror and tried to catch her reflection from different angles, even though the dress was too long and too big to fit her slender frame properly.

  Emma glanced at her sister in the gown. "It suits you more than me."

  Despite the compliment and Emma's warm smile, Sylvia sat on the cushioned bench seat and slumped her shoulders.

  "Momma says I can't go to the party tonight. It's only for the adults."

  "Trust me, Sylvie, I'd trade places with you if I could." Emma splashed her face with water from the basin.

  "It's not fair. I can get married in a few years, but I can't go to some party."

  Stunned, Emma let the water trickle down her face and onto her nightgown.

  "Who said anything about you getting married?"

  Sylvia shrugged a shoulder. "I'll be old enough, and I want to be like you and Stella."

  Oldest of the Cartwright girls, Stella had made her mother proud last summer when she wed Dawson Larrimore, owner of the largest cotton plantation in the neighboring county, and their second cousin. An antique wedding dress that had been worn by generations of Cartwrights, relatives from far and wide, and week-long festivities had all set the pace Emma knew she was required to repeat — or out-do. The thought hurt her head.

  "I'm not like Stella." Sorrow tinged Emma's voice. From time to time, tormenting thoughts bombarded Emma, thoughts that reminded her how different she was from both Stella and her younger sister Annabelle, and how far she drifted from her mother's expectations of what a lady should be. "I don't want to own slaves and play lady of the estate." I don't want to be like mother, she thought — and wondered if there was truth to her mother's concern about poisoning Sylvia against her.

  There were moments when Emma had difficulty separating marriage from slavery. If being married meant she had to live a set, structured life of someone else's rules and standards, Emma decided it would be best for her to avoid any union. But such a notion clashed with the legacy left by nearly every female in her family tree. She had no alternatives, no other plans she wanted to pursue, but the possibility — or probability — that she had little say or control over her predicament disturbed her.

  Emma checked her face in the mirror and went pale. Her long, dark hair lacked its sheen, and her nourished build looked scrawny and defeated. Her busted lip and bruised chin were still healing, but Emma was convinced no amount of ruffles or rouge would save her appearance that night.

  "At least Stuart will be there tonight," Sylvia said.

  Yes, Emma thought. Knowing her favorite cousin would be there for support, and mischief, gave Emma a sense of relief. Of course, she would have to tell Stuart about Basil and all that had happened, if word hadn't reached him yet. Stuart had warned her months ago about her endeavor to teach Basil to read, but she knew Stuart would understand her grief.

  "Emma," Sylvia hesitated, "why don't you like Vaughn?"

  Before she answered, Emma gave it careful thought. She refused to burden her twelve-year-old sister with the truth. Wealthy and handsome, Vaughn was also shallow and self-serving. He only showed interest in Emma because she wanted nothing to do with him. Marrying Vaughn would take Emma off Olivia's hands, liberating her from a disagreeable daughter. But how did one skip the dramatics and veil her distaste for Vaughn Jackson?

  "His nose it too big," Emma remarked, causing her and Sylvia to laugh. "And I don't care for the way he eats his food. It's almost like watching a horse at his trough." Giggles struck both of them.

  "Well, I'm delighted that you're in such fine spirits." Olivia stood at the threshold to Emma's room. The sight of their mother dissolved their laughter. "Vaughn will be pleased as well."

  Emma felt certain her mother's cheeks looked rosier than usual. How Emma wished she had glimpsed her mother's horrified countenance earlier that morning, when she spread her curtains and George Napier's backside greeted her. Fortunately, Emma's imagination served her well.

  "I would suggest that you be more mindful of that dress, young lady." Olivia scowled at Sylvia. "I want nothing to spoil this evening." She turned her subtle yet blazing glare to Emma. "And I do mean nothing."

  Emma produced a faint smile but made no audible promises.

  ****

  As scores of friends and relatives migrated to the Cartwright estate that evening and transitioned smoothly from carriages to lawn, receiving superfluous hospitality and refreshments, Olivia's hopes for a successful gathering had manifested — until the arrival of Montgomery Jackson. He leapt from his carriage before it came to a complete stop. A dangerous feat for a man of his girth. Pushing through a throng of guests, he waved the latest edition of the Charleston Mercury and shouted forth the headline.

  "War has begun! The war is upon us! War is at hand!" Monty favored white tailored suits year-round. The color complimented his wiry whiskers, but the buttons on his undershirt and coat endured the utmost stress from Monty's sizable middle.

  The Cartwright family poured onto the front porch. The four younger children, Annabelle, Preston, Pierce, and Sylvia were not as disturbed as their older siblings. Alexander, Quinn, and Emma knew the outbreak of war meant their very livelihood could be at stake. Months of suppertime conversations and evening porch chats had been dedicated, dashed, or dominated with mention of war. Olivia appeared on the brink of fainting while Knox took the news with stoic calm.

  "Where'd it start, Mr. Jackson?" Quinn asked.

  "Fort Sumter. Our boys fired the first shot. I'm sure you've heard tell of them Billy Yanks taking control of the fort since our secession. Well, General Beauregard done figured those cowards had been hiding in there long enough. Wasn't hardly what you might call a battle of any sort. A few men were wounded but none killed from the crossfire, and the Union made its first surrender." Montgomery handed the newspaper to Knox, who became surrounded by his family.

  The rest of the Jackson family stepped from the carriage. Vaughn emerged after his stepmother, looking as dashing and arrogant as ever. Unlike most men, Vaughn kept his face clean-shaven as he preferred to show off his sharp jaw line. Having had his portrait done several times, he was accustomed to posing and receiving compliments for his striking countenance. Charming ladies and coaxing them from their undergarments were primary among his talents. He found Emma's face among the population of Cartwrights and flashed a wry smile.

  Unamused, Emma lifted her chin and pretended to concentrate on the newspaper. To her, little difference existed between Vaughn Jackson and George Napier.

  Surprisingly, George appeared from the side of the house. Limping and slow going, he made his way onto the porch. He avoided eye contact with Emma and the rest of the clan, focusing instead on Knox.

  "What's all the fuss about?" George scratched his legs. Emma assumed his legs were covered with mosquito bites. Along with his hind end.

  "War, Mr. Napier. Looks like we had best enjoy our evening while we can. There's much discussion to be had, for I believe great change will be thrust upon us."

  ****

  To a degree, Emma regretted not being truthful with her sister about Vaughn. Had she taken the time to release some of her contempt toward him, perhaps her evening would have been more tolerable seated beside him at the supper table. His hand slinked around her waist several times, and his eyes attempted to venture a peek down the front of Emma's dress. Instinct told her to gouge him with her fork, but she exercised supreme self-control.

  To distract herself, Emma scanned the dinner table. Across from her sat Stella, aglow and fawning over her pregn
ant belly. Emma shuddered. Could such a fate soon be hers? Dawson, Stella's husband, with his friendly face and broad smile, had trouble keeping his eyes off his wife. Other guests included the usual aunts, uncles, and cousins Emma had grown up with, though she was beginning to lose track of all the new additions to the family. The younger brood, which happened to include Sylvia and her twin brothers, had been banished to a separate parlor for their meal.

  The night's main menu, low country boil, married Creole crab with local shrimp. Olivia's nod to her upbringing and her subtle theme of combining cultures was not lost on Emma. Naturally, Olivia knew Emma despised shrimp and ignored the disgruntled leer her daughter sent her between courses. Slices of venison and smoked ham hocks joined the feast, along with a bounty of vegetables.

  Feeling suffocated by the idle chatter surrounding her, Emma felt a pinch of relief when Stuart and his family finally arrived. He maneuvered into a spot next to Emma, and they exchanged greetings. Vaughn sulked as the two dove into conversation.

  Stuart leaned in toward Emma so only she could hear him. "Have you seen this?" He showed her an edition of Harper's Weekly, a northern newspaper publication that included a declaration of war from Lincoln and a call for seventy-five thousand volunteers for the Union army.

  Emma shook her head as the enormity of the situation sank in. The very mention of Abraham Lincoln at the supper table would spark a flurry of vehement remarks. Emma felt neither hatred nor admiration for Mr. Lincoln. She wondered how deep his dedication ran to end slavery. Was he a man of great morals, or a man who had been elected at the most inconvenient period in history?

  "If I had my legs," Stuart said, "I would go and join the Union army in an instant." His eyes slipped to his wheelchair. At the age of two, Stuart had endured a near-death bout with an illness that claimed two of his siblings. His survival had been scarred by the paralysis of his legs. What he lacked in ambulatory skills, though, Stuart made up for in cleverness. Being confined to his chair, he made good use of his hands, sketching, reading, and crafting devices that increased his utility. One such object was a hook fastened to the eyepiece of telescope. Stuart could extend it and reach for items on tables and shelves. Though it often resulted in said items tumbling into his lap, Stuart felt more useful around the house. In recent months, Emma had assisted while Stuart tinkered with iron rods, hoping to craft leg braces. He playfully ribbed that his small inventions might one day surpass the notoriety of Eli Whitney's cotton gin.

  His zeal for inventions matched his passion for abolishing slavery. When he could, Stuart, much like Franklin had done, contributed to Emma's forbidden reading materials. Leaflets, small books, news of Senate debates, and even a copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin passed from him to Emma and helped nourish her awareness of various viewpoints and the political pulse of the country.

  Emma squeezed his hand briefly and sympathized with his disappointment. She and Stuart both believed in not dwelling on unfortunate circumstances, especially ones they could do nothing about. She thought about Basil but resolved not to speak of it until they had a moment alone, in case her emotions got the best of her.

  "Could you do it?" she asked. "Could you really go and fight with the Yankees?" She surprised herself, sounding like Alexander or Quinn.

  Stuart looked at her with a steady gaze. "I hate that my dead legs tell me what I can and can't do."

  Emma let that sink in. She had never focused on his limitations, but Stuart was right. Like a slave, Stuart was trapped by circumstances he could not alter. Emma struggled to find words of encouragement, but Montgomery Jackson made a point of speaking loud enough to drown out all other conversations.

  "I do rightly declare, Ms. Olivia, that was the finest venison I've had in a spell." Montgomery reared back in his seat, satisfied and straining those buttons.

  "Well, I'm afraid I don't deserve your kind gratitude, Mr. Jackson. You'll be beholden to Alexander here. His outstanding hunting skills brought this addition to the table."

  "Indeed?" Monty turned to Alexander, who replied with a curt nod.

  Contempt flashed across Quinn's face. Emma wondered if only she noticed. Quinn had yet to bring down a deer, or any wildlife for that matter.

  "Job well done, young man," Monty continued. "If you're as fine a shot as all that, I believe you should consider volunteering your skills to the Confederate army. Gonna need some outstanding men like yourself."

  "You sound eager to send our boys off, Monty," Knox said, puffing his pipe.

  "We haven't time to waste, Knox. Now, I know you're a man who likes to bide his time and take care with his decisions, but we must act accordingly, and while this tide is in our favor. There's word of a blockade on all Southern ports."

  Knox listened, but no reaction registered upon him. "Is that so?"

  Montgomery nodded. "That's bound to cause a mess o' trouble, especially come harvest time. How will we get our cotton and rice to Europe?" He lectured about each southern man's duty to protect his homeland and way of life. The Cartwrights had heard the same from Knox, and it appeared that a united Southern front was highly contagious.

  "I am to believe then, Vaughn, that you have already signed up and committed to this cause?"

  Vaughn cleared his throat. "Not at the present moment, sir, no. Currently my attention, as well as my heart-felt devotion, is set on changing my marital status and wooing this lovely granddaughter of yours." Vaughn took Emma's hand into his and pressed it to his cheek. Slick cheeks to match his slick manners, Emma thought. She flashed a shy, pensive grin for the sake of her relatives while she daydreamed of yanking her hand from his touch.

  Unable to stomach Vaughn's phony sentiment and the "awws" that oozed from the dinner guests, Emma dropped her gaze to her lap, while Pierce and Preston snickered and fired their pea-shooter from another room. Ammo struck Vaughn in the side of his head, causing the twins to chuckle.

  "Boys, please," Olivia said. "We're at the dinner table."

  "I'm encouraging Vaughn to step into politics with me." Montgomery finished his third serving of gin-spiked punch and proudly slammed down his glass. "Why, Lord knows we'll need all the common sense we can corral against that black-republican in the White House and his talking heads. And with Senator Brooks no longer serving in Congress, who's going to give those Yanks a good beating when they need one?"

  Montgomery and several others laughed while recalling the 1856 thrashing of Senator Charles Sumner, a senator from Massachusetts. Two days after Sumner delivered a malicious speech, The Barbarism of Slavery, in which he slandered Senator Andrew Butler, a relative of South Carolina's own representative, Preston Brooks, Brooks assaulted Sumner with his metal walking cane on the Senate floor. Brooks continued to serve in the Senate until his death in 1857, while Sumner required three years to recuperate.

  "I abhor violence," Knox said over their merriment.

  A hush fell over the guests, and Montgomery fought embarrassment, having let the Uprising and the loss of Thomas slip his mind.

  "However," Knox spoke with the tip of his pipe tucked into the corner of his mouth, "I am certain this conflict over states' rights is about to be settled once and for all, and it will boil down to a matter of sheer brawn. Way I see it right now, though, the North has some mighty advantages."

  The men around the table, Alexander and Quinn included, perked up, but Montgomery was first to ask, "Such as?"

  "The railroads. A great deal of those tracks are laid up North. Could make for some trouble for a number of reasons. Then there's the navy, or our downright lack of one here in these parts. It's doubtful we can provide much resistance against that blockade you mentioned. Fightin' vessels are manufactured up North — along with firearms and other weaponry. Telegraph lines run mostly in the North. In some respects, the odds are stacked against us."

  After a pulse of flabbergasted silence, Montgomery said, "Why, Knox Cartwright, you talk like our boys wouldn't stand a chance against a northern army."

  "Dear friend, I don
't know that they do, that's why our secession was necessary, to preserve our way of life — and our men. The North wants this war, and there will be no peaceful resolution of the matter. One might say that war has been a long time in coming. Perhaps the North's been strategic, preparing for this all these years now. Slavery, as you know, almost kept the nation from being founded. Most politicians might even admit that unity between the states has been hopeless on account of this here matter since day one."

  Olivia forced a lighthearted laugh. "Oh, Knox here spends a great deal of his time reading and discussing politics in town. Perhaps too much time."

  Montgomery's eyes didn't move from Knox. "That manner of talk could get you branded a Unionist."

  Silverware silenced. All eyes turned to Knox.

  He grinned.

  "It is doubtful, I'm sure, that my patriotism or my love for the South would ever come into question, Monty. Now, let's not confuse the youngsters here." Knox shot a reassuring glance to his grandsons. "I'm simply stating that there's reason for concern. War is never easy, Monty, for either the winning or losing side."

  "There will be no such thing as loss for the South. We'll not welcome or tolerate defeat."

  "Gentlemen, please," Olivia said. "We're forgetting that this evening is supposed to be a celebration of our young people here getting married and upholding our family traditions." She placed a hand on Montgomery's arm. "Enough of this discussion on war. Why, the best we can do is have faith that our men are perfectly capable of defending our fine lands, and our God-given property."

  "A toast then." Knox raised his glass, an emptiness registered in his glance at Emma. "To the new couple. May your days of happiness be everlasting."

  The crowd cheered and drank to Emma's future while she fought the urge to run from the room, screaming.

  CHAPTER THREE