Plantation Nation (9781621352877)

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.

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.