The Slave Master's Son (14 page)

“Why would he invite me to his home? Why would he want to double-cross my father? Isn’t he afraid I’ll run away with her? Tracking a demonic mind like his is almost virtually impossible. He’s my best option currently since I’ve been discovered.” John frowned as he sorted out the variety of ideas assaulting his conscious. His carefully orchestrated plan had fallen apart at the seams thanks to Mr. Grant. His weariness suddenly took its toll. He succumbed to the pressure as he slumped between the sheets, flowing into a nebulous slumber. Three hours later he awoke to a clamor. He rubbed his eyes as the door swung open.

“John! Hannah’s in labor. Your timing’s impeccable. Stay here until further notice.” Before John could respond, Mr. Grant briskly walked away. John stood up and began to pace. Thoughts of the story he was told of his mother’s giving birth to him crept into his mind. It was the morning of October 7, 1846. Rebecca Stewart sat up in her white canopy bed with two midwives, a doctor, and three female slaves gathered around as her husband paced back and forth anxiously in their parlor. Her screams rang throughout the house, causing the hairs on Master Stewart’s neck to stand up on end.

“Rebecca, try to stay calm,” urged the doctor as he looked at the newborn whose bright red feet were clearly visible. Rebecca’s peach-colored face was covered in sweat. Long strands of drenched, black hair cascaded across her hazel eyes. The doctor tried earnestly to turn John around to no avail. He shook his head as Rebecca teetered on the verge of unconsciousness. John began to squirm causing her to grunt.

“Thank you, Lord,” whispered Mary as she watched John turn head first. Rebecca was granted renewed strength and pushed. John was born three minutes later. Master Stewart laughed and danced as he heard his son’s first cry. Rebecca’s chest rose and fell erratically. Perspiration flowed down her neck, between her cleavage, then by her hips. Her dry lips shook, and her face appeared stark, like a full moon. Blood escaped from between her legs. Her shaking increased. The doctor asked for additional towels as he worked frantically to stop the hemorrhaging. After Rebecca was stable, she complained of feeling hot. A fever and infection had quickly set in, delivering her to death’s door in less than four hours. Master Stewart held his new seven-pound-seven-ounce son as he grieved the loss of his wife. The single miraculous moment of time he believed was promised to him was now soiled, intertwined with sorrow.

* * *

“She’s not speaking,” Mr. Grant explained to Mary. “I tried to talk to her, but she looks off into the distance.” he continued. Mary walked slowly to her daughter’s bed and knelt before her.

“Hannah, Honey – it’s Mama. I want you to snap out of this, now. You about to have a baby.” Mary smiled weakly as she held her daughter’s shaking, frail hand. Hannah slowly turned towards her mother, her once effervescent eyes void of light, luster and exuberance. Her roasted chestnut colored skin was dull. She held her mother’s hand and whispered plainly, “I want to die.” Mary held her daughter tightly as she rocked her.

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that again!” Just then, Hannah doubled over from a contraction. She suffered silently as her small hand gripped the sheets causing her tiny knuckles to ripple under the thin, tawny flesh and the bone to illuminate its whiteness as it finger painted her agony. Mr. Grant approached the room with the doctor in tow. He rubbed his hands together in great anticipation.

“Is she healthy? Is she speaking?” he asked anxiously as he stayed securely outside of the door with it only cracked to continue communication. Master Stewart stepped out of the room, out into the darkness with Mr. Grant.

“She’s fine,” responded the doctor as he examined her.

“Have you seen my son?” Master Stewart whispered to Mr. Grant while he lit his pipe in the cool darkness.

“I have good news. No, I haven’t.” Mr. Grant crossed his arms and temporarily looked away into the shadows.

“His wife said he went hunting. It’s unlike him to hunt for several days at a time; two days is usually his maximum. Additionally, his friend left without him.” Master Stewart looked at Grant suspiciously.

“Well, this is quail season. You also said he’s been under quite a bit of pressure as of late, so maybe this will help him alleviate such anxiety,” Mr. Grant responded while lighting his own pipe. They were startled by a scream. Hannah’s voice cut through the air like a dagger.

“It’s OK, Hannah,” Mary said calmly as she gripped her daughter’s hand.

“Master Stewart, if you don’t mind me inquiring, why are so concerned about John’s whereabouts? Surely he’s self-sufficient and a man able to conduct his own leisure. He’s proven his capability of survival as well as success,” Mr. Grant said as he studied Master Stewart’s body language. There was a brief pause.

“My son’s safety and whereabouts will always be of importance to me. He’s my heir,” Master Stewart responded, avoiding eye contact.

“Why would he come here? I’m confused by such concerns,” Mr. Grant continued to drill.

“Well, you shouldn’t be since they aren’t your concerns to be held first and foremost!” Master Stewart said sharply. Mr. Grant ignored Master Stewart’s annoyance and pressed on.

“I regret your agitation, however, you did ask that I stake out the perimeter, train station, and ferry landing. I believe that my inquisition is warranted considering valuable time was removed from my previously planned schedule. I’m concerned about Hannah due to the property she has in her womb. Her happiness is key, so it’s essential that all of us aid to ensure that she does not slip into an even further sullen state. If there’s something you aren’t telling me which is contributing to her behavior, then you’ve put me at a great disservice.” With that, Mr. Grant walked away towards the direction of his house.

* * *

John slipped his boots on. He ran his fingers through an ivory basin of lukewarm water that sat on the table in the pristine room. Above it was a small mirror. He glanced at himself as he splashed his face. Trickles of water ran down, mingling with his two day old stubble. A long, thick strand of azure black hair fell in front of his face. He hurriedly pushed it back, exposing a slight widow’s peak. He opened the bedroom door slowly and approached the front door. He suddenly hesitated as he heard heavy, quick footsteps drawing near. John quickly backed away heading towards the bedroom and disappeared once more behind the door. As soon as he sat down, the door opened slowly. Mr. Grant came inside.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, John. It appears that Hannah is, in fact, in labor. I wish to warn you that your father is with her as well as her mother. Your father wouldn’t confirm the information that I suspect for your visit. I want to make something very plain to both of you. Should either of you cause disruption with this birth, I’ll seek retribution. If you’re here to assist, then do so. My concern is…”

“Money and the newborn slave,” John said avoiding eye contact. Instead, he concentrated on his hands as he wrung them together as a surge of violence was stifled by his rationale.

“Yes, I am, but I also wish for Hannah to be content,” Mr. Grant added.

“You don’t give one red hair about, Hannah, Mr. Grant. You see her as profitable to you. You know she’ll bear strong offspring. She’s young. She has many skills, and you were filled with the greatest of joy when you were given the opportunity to use one of your slaves to help whore her out. You talk about her like she’s a heifer, some meager cow to supply you with milk,” John said bitterly as he stood erect facing Mr. Grant in the dimly lit room.

“This isn’t personal, this is business. Stop thinking with your heart and make rational choices, and you’d go much further in life. You have a knack for numbers and figures, and you have a keen sense about yourself. What a terrible waste. If I had your position, I would’ve been able to triple what I currently have. Women flock to you. You’re charismatic. You’re a war hero and now you stand here all torn up about a slave girl that you can never have,” Mr. Grant said curtly. John looked away as he swallowed deeply. His body temperature rose and his eyes slit into silver slices of ice.

“Speechless?” Mr. Grant laughed huskily as he slowly approached John. “I tell you what, John. I can make you a deal. What if I sold Hannah to you?” he asked with a sly smile. John looked at him.

“You can’t sell her. She does not belong to you.”

“I can convince her Master to sell her if the price is right, especially with her current behavior. He’s taken a dislike to the arrangement. After she gives us this baby, I can work that out for you if you wish.” Mr. Grant licked his lips and smiled.

“How much?” John asked as he crossed his arms and sighed heavily.

“Oh – let’s say nine thousand,” Mr. Grant smiled.

“Nine thousand dollars – are you mad!” John balked.

“Either pay for her or leave, John. We know you can afford it. Now, those are your choices. Or I can tell your father of your whereabouts. The choice is yours. You can win or lose. The parameters are clear,” Mr. Grant smirked.

“I could break your neck in two seconds like a twig of a dead apple tree,” John said hoarsely. “You wouldn’t have time to run or scream for assistance.” He closed in on Mr. Grant, his hot breath over his face like factory vapors.

“Yes – yes, I imagine you could as tall and strong as you are. However, there’s no need to be a brute about this. I need to be compensated if I’m going to allow you to take her away,” Mr. Grant stated, his voice slightly shaking.

“I could just take her and leave you here dead,” John said slowly. “My plan was to take her away from here and I still can. I don’t need your permission. If I have to fight my father, so be it. I’d never allow you, of all people, to stand in my way. Please let there be no misunderstanding. I could snuff you out like a burning candle. Some people would most likely thank me afterward and throw a celebration in my honor,” John smirked.

 “However, you’d be on the run. This lends you the opportunity to not live in fear and live your life with her. Also, if she refuses to leave due to wanting to be with her baby, you’d face a conundrum. If you own her, she’d have to do as you say. You’d own her free and clear. I’d take thirty-five percent of the payment. John, I’ve been in love before. I understand what a man will do in order to preserve that passion. It’s just a matter of what you’re willing to spend to protect it,” replied Mr. Grant. He stepped away from John, slightly unnerved and intimidated as John stared him down.

“So, you’re willing to exploit that love by gouging a great portion of my savings for your selfish gains? Yes, I can see you’re a bleeding heart for romance,” John responded sarcastically.

“Well? What’s your decision?” Mr. Grant asked.

“Bring Hannah’s slave master to me. I’ll meet him myself and negotiate the contract. I’ll be purchasing her and her child! You’re untrustworthy and just as despicable as I pegged you to be. You wreak of immorality and greed. Regardless, we’re on the same page, for I was wishing to purchase her but was fearful my offer would be rejected, thus forcing me to do as previously stated. I also didn’t want my father alerted of my presence. If one word of this gets out to him beforehand, consider yourself not only out of your allotted amount for both Hannah and the child, but also – well – just understand you’ve been warned!” John yelled. He stared down Mr. Grant before making his way out of the house, walking the track to the Washington estate in the bitter, night air.

* * *

CHAPTER 15

“I can’t go any farther!” Hannah screamed. Her soft, dark coarse curls pressed securely to her moist, perspiration coated face. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she held her knees to her chest.

“Yes you can!” Mary encouraged. “Women been doin’ it for years. You ain’t the first, and you won’t be the last. You can have this baby, and you will.” Mary rubbed her daughter’s hair back and put a cool cloth around her neck. Hannah nodded, closed her eyes, and pushed. Her scream once again tore open the evening sky like a slowly healing wound. As John grew closer to the house, feeling his way around in the pitch darkness, he heard the faint shriek of his beloved. John’s heart pounded in his chest as he drew closer. He saw the small home and a light coming from the side window. He panted as he crouched down in the grass, crawling slowly, slithering towards the back of the house. When he arrived, he slowly slid up and made his way to the right side where the woods gave camouflage. As he peeped around the front, he could see the back of his father. Master Stewart stood in silence with his pipe. The wispy, grey swirls belly-danced upward into the star-dusted, ebony sky. John crouched down into the grass, crossing his arms stiffly over his chest. He grimaced each time Hannah screamed out.