The Slave Master's Son (2 page)

She continued to set the table, then took the long, wooden broom and headed towards the expansive, front porch. She looked up at the swirling, disorganized sky and felt the tickle of the cool breeze against her skin. The steel-grey clouds threatened torrential despair. In the distance, Hannah spotted a Quaker family. She stood still, peering into the darkness as the dark-colored dresses and hats floated towards her as if they too were low-lying clouds.

“Quakers,” she said under her breath as she turned to continue sweeping. Her abrupt to-and-fro motions caused her light feet to make the porch boards creak.

“Hannah!” yelled Master Stewart, in a booming, commanding voice. “Come off the porch, please.” Hannah dropped the broom and scurried inside without a moment’s hesitation. She noticed that as soon as John Jr. left, Master Stewart became warm and affectionate towards her again. She surmised that John was, in fact, telling her the truth the day before he left. Master Stewart patted Hannah’s shoulder lightly and pointed to the kitchen. She walked slowly away from him as she heard him slowly open the front the door.

“Good day, Mr. Madison. Please, won’t you come inside?” Master Stewart asked as the darkly-clothed family of five entered the large estate. Hannah headed to the unnatural quiet of the upstairs. Most of the slave quarters were on the first floor with a couple outside the house in the back hidden amongst lush grasses and wild flowers. However, Mary was allowed to have a sizeable second floor bedroom, well-heated and furnished, that she shared with Hannah. On her way to sneak in a fast nap, Hannah noticed something unusual. The door of Master Stewart’s coveted and off-limits boudoir was ajar. A thin stream of orange light leaked out into the expansive hallway. Typically, he always had it closed and locked. Hannah stood in the dimness of the hall with only candlelight from the bedroom casting shadowy illuminations that teased her, daring her to come closer.

She slowly approached the bedroom, her footsteps fluttering. She opened the heavy door the rest of the way. It squeaked as she pushed it towards the left wall. She quickly looked behind her, making sure no one heard. She carefully walked inside, quietly closing the door behind her. She looked at the elaborate decor featuring gold-framed pictures depicting horseback riding, beautiful country sides, and elegant women. The four-post, hand-carved bed stood high in the air, demanding attention and reverence. It was dressed in rich shades of chocolate, ruby, cream, and purple throughout. She’d never seen such a bed before. Her tiny iron bed with a sunken mattress paled in comparison.

Paranoid, she looked behind her to make sure no one was there. She could barely see as she quickly took in the sights and scents. She hid all of her treasures under her bed and thought that maybe Master Stewart did the same. Taking the lit candle, Hannah got down on all fours, delicately lifted the bed skirt, and lowered her head, looking deep into the blackness. She looked to the left, then to the right. She could see a large yellow box. Hannah set the candle down and drew the box towards her for inspection. She opened the lid and brought the candle near.

Inside were countless letters in thick envelopes. Some were rainwater stained, others smelled of dirt while others had the faint aroma of perfumes and dried flowers. Some were wrapped in ribbons and some in thick twine. Hannah sifted through the papers, her fingers moving feverishly. She stopped as she saw her name written on a stack of letters that were bound in unraveling, threadbare, red ribbon. She looked at them, her mouth ajar. She slowly traced them with her index finger and brought them near her nose. The faint stench of mud and gunpowder lingered. Recognizing John’s handwriting, her excitement grew as she reopened them, scouring them vigorously, line after line.

October 2, 1863

Dear Hannah,

My love for you is stronger than ever. I wish I were there to hold you in my arms. I’m in a place that could only be compared to the depths of Hell. I entered into this war for one purpose, and this has caused my father much disappointment. He’s discovered the true source of my recent indignation.

My fear as of late is that you will find someone else of greater interest or be given to the arms of another and could subsequently be lost from me forever. I know it would be without your implicit consent, but that does not make it any easier for me. I left schooling for this. My mission has vastly changed, but my priorities have remained constant. I’ll continue to write to you and ask that, when it’s plausible, you write me as well. As instructed, give your letters to Ben, and he’ll ensure they arrive. As for my letters, they will always be addressed to Ben so as to avoid interference in your receiving them. I sincerely doubt that you will have any problems reading them. You’re an excellent pupil.

Your sincere lover,

John

Hannah wiped her freshly-fallen tears as she opened another letter from John addressed to Ben.

December 16, 1863

Dear Hannah,

For safety’s sake, I was unable to write you for two weeks. This war is getting worse, and my affiliation and convictions are leaving me vulnerable. I have no intention of causing you alarm, but understand I’m a changed man after some of the atrocities I’ve witnessed. I believe it’s only by the grace of God that I’m still drawing breath. I continue to fight. I no longer see faces of the fallen men – only blurs. I don’t know their names. I only know it was my life or theirs. The threat of pending danger is met with my skilled archery or gun. Hesitation will get you killed as I’ve seen countless times.

My nights are filled with tossing and turning. The worse nightmare thus far, however, isn’t hearing from you. It has become painfully apparent that either my letters have been circumvented by someone or you’re no longer leaving room for my presence in your heart. I give you my sincere apologies for my departure which I saw upset you so. Hannah, I miss you as much if not more than you miss me. Please speak to me if you’re receiving these correspondences. If my letters are, in fact, reaching you, please acknowledge receipt of this letter by simply writing your first name on a piece of paper and sending it my way. I won’t trouble you any more should I receive it.

Please know that regardless of how you may feel towards me, I still love you deeply, and there’s nothing that will change this fact.

With deepest gratitude,

John

December 25, 1863

Dear Hannah,

I received your response letter. It’s clear that you wish to have nothing further to do with me. It wounded me to the core, but I appreciate your honesty. I suppose I deserve this. I want to let you know that I’m in the abolitionist movement. I left the army and joined the abolitionists. My father is dismayed, disappointed, and finds ill favor upon me. He’s sent correspondence alerting me of such. Though he sympathizes with the poor treatment of many who are enslaved, he does not believe that the entire institution needs to be eradicated. I’m baffled by his stance. He taught me that the slaves deserved fair and equal treatment and for me to never believe I was above them – above you – in any fashion. I followed that philosophy, and now he disapproves. I’m terribly confused by his repeated mixed messages. He also does not believe that I have deep, earnest love for my country. The fact that I love my country is the very thing which compels me to do this. I love this country, Hannah. That’s why I want it be great, not just good. We can’t be great if we continue to utilize slavery. Either pay the negro a livable wage or let him or her go. No one should be forced to labor against their will and then go uncompensated for their diligence.

As a child, I must admit, I didn’t understand the severity of the situation. Even when I left to fight, I didn’t fully grasp what this has done to us as a nation. I’ve had a great deal of time to think, write, and develop my ideas. I’m discovering by each second of the day what I believe and stand for, especially now that I’m not under my father’s firm thumb. He’s concerned that, upon my arrival, I won’t be welcomed at the university. This is highly unlikely. He’s attempting to scare me into submission. Nevertheless, I hope you’re well, Hannah. I miss you. I’ll keep to my promise and never trouble you again.

Always with love,

John

Hannah flipped through the rest of the letters as she wiped the tears flowing from her eyes. “I never wrote him a letter,” she thought to herself, horrified. She knew Master Stewart responded on her behalf. She clenched her jaw and swallowed her hatred that slowly grew inside her as she envisioned Master Stewart creating the counterfeit letter and signing her name. She wrapped the ribbon around the stack of letters, placed them back into the large yellow box, slid it neatly under the bed, and placed the candle back in its original location before carefully exiting the bedroom. As she headed down the stairs, she saw her mother looking out of the window. Mary suddenly spun around.

“Hannah! Where you been, girl? I been lookin’ all over for you!” Mary yelled.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I had gotten ill and needed to rest.”

“I was just up there and didn’t see you!” Mary insisted.

“I wasn’t in the bedroom. I had went out back to get fresh air before the storm arrived.” Hannah hated lying to her mother. She quickly hid her face, trying to disguise the recent crying that had wrapped her up in extreme discomfort. Mary grabbed Hannah and held her close to her large bosom.

“Don’t scare me like that again. It’s time we serve dessert. Help me pour milk and cut up the bread pudding.” Hannah walked behind her mother, entering the kitchen, her heart heavy and full of silent grief.

* * *

CHAPTER 3

June 1864

“Hannah, wake up.” Mary shook her daughter’s fragile shoulder, her nightgown falling delicately off her smooth shoulder. Hannah’s eyes fluttered open. Her brain scattered, full of muddled thoughts.

“I need to speak to you,” Mary continued to whisper. “Master Stewart’s hostin’ a large gala tomorrow night. He doesn’t want you there. I need you stay up here. I’m tellin’ you now because we start the preparations today.” Mary clasped her dry, worn hands together, looking deeply into her daughter’s sleepy eyes.

“Why can’t I help, Mama?” Hannah rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand in confusion. Mary took a deep breath and sighed, sitting down next to Hannah.

“I don’t know. You just can’t. Now don’t bring it up again. Just do as you’re told.” Mary stood up, crawled back into her bed, and quickly fell asleep. Hannah sat up awake. She peered into the darkness, looking around at familiar shapes. For the first time in weeks, she wept for John.

* * *

The next evening…

“Emancipation Proclamation – horse radish!” laughed Master William as he drank the dark-red wine from his heavy, crystal glass. “If anyone dares try to take my property, they best be prepared for a gun battle. This damn proclamation doesn’t account for slaves in
Missouri
, Maryland, good ol’ home – Richmond, Virginia, or Delaware!
We haven’t acknowledged secession. Our Niggers are still ours,” he declared, raising his glass in the air unsteadily as his words slurred from the libations.

Hannah could hear faint chatter, music, and musing of what sounded like hundreds of people. Her mother left her a lantern to sew. Instead, she was using it to read. Mary did not know that her daughter was literate. When Hannah was caught, she told her that she was only looking at the words and pictures and had no idea what they meant. It was the first time Hannah had lied to her mother but felt it was imperative, especially after the warnings John had given her regarding what could happen to slaves that were proven able to read. Hannah realized her mother kept a tight grip on her out of love but knew in her heart it wouldn’t protect her from the atrocities of the cruel world in which they lived. She recalled her mother twisting her arm and carting her away in distress a month before John left. She sat Hannah down abruptly on the back porch. The sun was setting. Painted streaks of orange and light-blue bled across the dusky sky.