Plantation Nation (9781621352877) (2 page)

"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.

"Yes, mother, it's something." Emma squirmed
and sat upright, noting that her mother wasted no concern on her
daughter's condition, emotional or physical.

"I think it's perfect for tomorrow
evening."

"What's happening tomorrow?"

Olivia gasped. "Why Emma Louise, don't tell
me you've forgotten that we're having company. Very special
company."

Having watched her friend die and having
endured the greatest trauma of her life, Emma had forgotten. But
now, she remembered. In the recesses of her mind, she had hoped her
mother might find a pinch of sensitivity and reschedule the
dreadful event.

"Mother, you can't be serious. I know it's
escaped your attention, but I'm in no condition to wear that… thing
tomorrow night." Emma tried to subdue the bitterness gnawing inside
her.

"If you would eat and commit your strength to
getting well, you would be fine."

"Since I'm not
fine
, I think you
should send word to Vaughn and his family and reschedule your
dinner."

"Don't be ridiculous, Emma. I would never
dream of inconveniencing the Jacksons on account of your foolish
behavior."

There were moments in Emma's life when she
desperately wondered how Thomas Cartwright ever fell in love with
Olivia Hollingsworth. Her mind tried to imagine their courtship.
What did they talk about? How had they fallen in love with each
other? But Emma credited that to her father. A man whose patience
knew no end and whose kindness knew no limits, Thomas had been the
sort of man who would have fallen for Olivia's heavenly beauty and
charms. Emma had grown to believe that her mother's loving-kindness
had deteriorated and rotted from life on a plantation. Though
festivities were grand on the estate, plantation life was isolated
and devoted to routine. Olivia wanted to entertain and bask in the
adoration of others. Planting, raising, and harvesting the rice
didn't enthrall her.

"Tomorrow will be one of the most important
nights for this family. I think you know what I'm referring to,
Emma." Olivia cast her a scornful look. "And I do believe you know
what's expected of you."

Emma said nothing. Apparently, Knox and
Olivia had decided that a united front would be an effective
tactic. Loathsomeness simmered inside Emma. She preferred doses of
castor oil to one of her mother's parties or lectures, and in light
of tomorrow night, she would prefer cuddling with a hungry gator
from the marsh.

"You owe this to your grandfather, and you
know I'm right. That man has endured enough. He's hardly taken a
bite since the uproar you caused. He hasn't slept well, either.
I've heard him pacing in the night. You're exhausting him, Emma.
You're exhausting all of us. With the way things are with the
Confederacy right now, you need to focus on your family, not
forcing slaves to read or squabbling with Quinn
—
or poisoning Sylvia against me."

"Mother!"

"You know it to be true. She defies me to
please you. I'll not have it anymore." She ran a hand over her hair
and touched her cheeks as if the matter wasn't worth getting upset
over. In a calmer voice she said, "Let me be clear. You will wear
that dress tomorrow night, and you will fulfill your duty to this
family. You will be polite and gracious
—
and you will not trouble Vaughn or any of our guests
with mention of your irrational actions. Do you understand me,
young lady?"

Emma knew an answer wasn't sought. Her zeal
to argue abandoned her while pain began to spike. She fell back
into her bed, welcoming the throbbing aches and the escape into
unconsciousness.

****

Emma could bear it no longer. The tension and
uncertainty threatened to suffocate her. Three days had crawled by
since the beating. Since Basil's death. She had to get to the
slaves' quarters, had to see Tilda, and she had to find a way to
explain.

Emma checked for her grandfather but saw the
chair was empty. Slowly and carefully, she dressed in the dark.
Sylvia stirred from Emma's bed but settled back into a peaceful
sleep. Emma smiled, thinking how useless it was for Sylvia to have
her own room.

Leaving her room, Emma was mindful of the
floorboards. She had ventured out at night enough to know which
sections would betray her with creaks and groans. Her heart raced
as she worried that her grandfather
—
or worse, one of her brothers
—
might spring from the shadows at any turn. However, a
surge of exuberance hit her when she stepped out into the moonlit
night.

At the sight of the hitching post, though,
disgust crept over her. With trembling legs, she moved near it. No
obvious signs of what had happened showed, thanks to the rain, but
Emma knew traces of blood had to be there, embedded in the wood.
Her hand reached out and grabbed hold of the post. She sobbed at
its touch. Long ago, it had been a safe spot during games of tag
with her brothers and sisters. Now, the weathered pine felt raw,
splintered from ages of wear, humidity, and low country sun.

Emma struck it with her hand. The post
budged, and her hurt turned to rage. She smacked it with her palms,
then drove her shoulder into the wooden stake. The post snapped,
causing Emma to tumble to the ground. Pain wrestled with her for a
moment before she got on her knees and beat the ground with the
broken top piece. Her sobs resumed, and her aches needled her,
telling her she could not make it further from the house.

Refusing to listen to her body, Emma dashed
from the lawn, fearful she might be heard, and ran toward the
slaves' cabins. She passed the dogwood tree and ignored the faint
glow of the delicate blooms in the tender blue light.

Emma had no idea how late it was. She hadn't
thought about that. Basil's family and the rest of the laborers,
she assumed, had to be asleep. No light outlined the sackcloth
covered windows of the six cabins. Emma felt imprudent. She wanted
to see Tilda but wouldn't wake Basil's mother if she was
sleeping.

Instead, Emma made her way to the cemetery.
Of course, no slave could share eternal resting space beside a
Cartwright, so the family allowed the slaves a separate plot for
burials. She walked to the hallowed grounds with shaky reverence.
Through tear-brimmed eyes, she looked for a fresh grave. The scent
of smoldering ash hinted in the air while a swarm of mosquitoes
buzzed by her.

Emma gasped at the sight of a kneeling
figure. A head turned in her direction.

"Miss Emma?" Tilda whispered. "Chil', whatchu
doin' here in de middle o' de night?" She stood and dabbed her eyes
with her apron. Thin and fragile, Tilda wore a bandana around her
head and a dirty linen apron over her front. Grief and a lack of
sleep marked her face. Her bony hands, warped from decades of
scrubbing and wringing the Cartwright wash, reached for Emma as
they had since Emma was a baby. Both Tilda and Harper had tended to
and raised the Cartwright children while minding their chores. Emma
had grown especially attached to her caregivers, ever deepening the
gap between her and her mother.