Chapter 3 #2
He was permitted to hire himself out to plantation owners in the region, offering his expert craftsmanship, which earned Master Ryland extra money.
I had no idea if that devil allowed Buck to keep any of his earnings or apply a portion to buying his freedom.
I could only pray fairness existed despite the Tollivers claiming ownership of our labor and our lives like cattle and oxen.
“I appreciate you holding space for this final packing. Now, sit. You haven’t eaten since the midday meal. And that was a paltry offering with all this activity.” I set the plate I’d put aside for him on the table and nudged him towards it.
“Much obliged, Miss Zinnie.”
I patted his shoulder. “Feeding a hardworking man’s never a burden.”
“Glad to know y’all’re working for what I give rather than taking from me freely.”
My hand fell away from Buck’s shoulder. He sprang to his feet. Any pleasure anyone in the room might’ve felt dissipated instantly as Lucifer’s offspring entered the kitchen.
Our actions were automatic. Quiet as clouds on a star-kissed night we assembled in formation, eyes lowered, waiting on whatever his business as Ryland Marion Tolliver plodded into the room bringing malice with him.
Southern to the bone and marinated in fallacies of racial superiority, his presence was as wanted as the plague.
We’d mastered the art of masking true thoughts, preventing any inkling of our aversion.
He was a tenant farmer who hadn’t achieved enough success to own his own homestead, yet he’d acquired ownership of humans.
Maybe dubious wealth left his soul drenched in discontent, for rarely did a kind word cross his lips.
He was famously impatient, dispensing punishment for the slightest infraction.
I wish shadows were powerful enough to hide me from him.
I’d learned to say little in his presence and wanted nothing from him except distance.
“No sir, we wouldn’t take anything… or nothing we didn’t earn, at least.” Buck’s reassurance held a tinge of resistance Master Ryland somehow missed.
I glanced up wondering what distraction had his interest and found his sights set on me for God knew what reason. I wrapped my arms protectively about Hattie and quickly looked away.
“Earned only. I don’t tolerate thieving.” He moved towards our assemblage. “Everyone here’s aware, but it’s important enough to bear repeating. God has called me and mine to Salt Lake Valley to build the Mormon community. That’s a mighty calling. Heaven helps the chosen.”
We listened without offering sounds of agreement.
“My calling makes y’all a part of a holy pilgrimage.
We’re traveling the Mormon Trail once we reach Nebraska.
It’ll be rough until then. But God is for this, so you’re favored and fortunate.
” He plucked the untouched cornpone from Buck’s plate, broke off a piece, and tossed the remainder in the open flames of the kitchen’s fireplace.
He chewed while speaking, unnecessarily naming yet again the other white slavers rounding out this caravan. “We gather at sunrise with the Jessups, Carters, and Petersons. It’s late but nobody retires tonight without everything being ready for leaving.”
Our “yes, sir” was by rote, collective.
“Buck, I want every brat on this place secured in the shed.” He turned to leave, pausing in the entryway. “If you can’t find enough chains, there oughta be plenty rope still about the homestead. Go handle it.”
“Sir, you want the children restrained?” Buck’s tone vibrated with the disbelief I felt.
Ryland Tolliver hawked something up in his throat.
“One of Peterson’s niggers tried running the other night.
She didn’t get far. Patrollers caught her and she got her comeuppance.
I won’t endure such inconveniences. Anybody thinking about running gonna do it without their offspring.
” He expectorated sputum in the fireplace where a cooking pot was still suspended from its spit.
“Like Peterson’s wench you’d be caught and brought back.
But I ain’t merciful as him. By the time a runaway’s returned to me those little burr-headed whelps of yours’ll be sold off somewhere. Hope I’m clear.”
I nodded in tandem with Lovie and Ella as violent fear ripped through me. I tightened an arm about my newborn. I wanted to flee and ensure Annabelle and Abigail’s safety. Instead, I waited for the men’s footsteps to retreat, for menace to disappear, before daring to fully breathe.
Venom burst out of me in a hiss. “Got us cramming our whole world onto conveyances like vagabonds in the name of his newfound sanctification!” Verbalizing was my only outlet. “He’s binding our children? I swear he’s Satan’s reflection!”
I wanted to race ahead and make certain my girls weren’t harmed in any way, but interference on my part would escalate matters to degrees I was powerless to mitigate or contain.
“Hell has a home in Massa Marion. That’s for certain.”
The pleasure typically found in our secret use of his womanish middle name was lost right then.
Shared horror and contempt was evident in Ella and Lovie’s faces.
I grabbed the last box of kitchenware, hands trembling with anger and frustration while acknowledging Ella’s observation.
“Only thing worse than being a slave woman subject to wickedness is being a slave mother tryna protect her children from two-legged serpents.”
I whirled towards the door and quickly exited, fighting hot angry tears as I lugged my crate down rickety steps, praying for deliverance from this diabolical system of enslavement and its every injustice.
I camped on the ground in the shed that night at my daughters’ feet, refusing to be separated from them.
Humming them to sleep was my only means of softening the insult of their being tethered like wayward beasts.
My little ones. Ella’s and Lovie’s as well.
The cruelty kept me awake despite my fatigue.
When I accidentally dozed, I was awakened by nightmares of my children being marched to the town’s auction block.
Iron shackles about their ankles transformed into viperous, sinuous snakes that bit them repeatedly, inflicting life-altering venom.
That horror helped me sacrifice sleep in exchange for vigilance and watching over my oldest two while periodically nursing Hattie. I kept her close, seeking solace in her tiny, warm body—fighting off the helplessness I felt in my inability to save them. Or myself.
Through chinks in the shed I wearily watched stars melt into the dawn of a new day before nursing my newborn and placing her in a basket between her siblings.
I eyed those hateful manacles binding my girls and uttered a prayer for captivity’s end before stepping from the shed into the chill of early spring and plodding towards the area where the conveyances would meet.
Easily, I located the oxcart holding earthly gems most precious to me.
My fatigue lessened at the sight of the jars, bottles, and bowls nestled in crates—softly padded by bedrolls and readied.
I touched them, sensing their sweet serenity.
Every pod, leaf, blossom, tincture, powder, and seed were a link to the loving women—the fill-in mothers who raised me.
They taught me, loved me, shared their wisdom and strength.
Through them I learned the magic and majesty of plants—which roots could heal. And which would kill.
If I had some nightshade, I’d brew Master Ryland some morning tea.
Murderous thoughts weren’t a godly way to start the day. I shook off residual indignation spiraling through me while plucking a petal from a bowl and crushing it.
Sniffing the voluptuous fragrance on my fingertips, I thanked heaven for this divine connection and reminder that my mothering women were with me.
I was with them. The earth and its offerings proved our eternal link and keepsakes.
We possessed no cameo brooches, dainty heirlooms, or niceties owned by plantation women.
Lessons of root work and kindness, and how to hope despite the darkness of bondage, were their legacies bequeathed to me.
I tucked the petal in my bodice, appreciating the botanical jewels that were nearly as precious to me as my girls’ water sacs.
God knew what kind of challenges, illnesses, or ailments we’d face on the way out west, but I refused to shame my teachers or my legacy.
I was ready because of them and vowed to make them proud at every opportunity.
Sweet pride, warm as oil, spread over me as I covered my cache of roots and herbs with a cloth and weighted its corners with large rocks, preventing debris from the trail or other contaminants.
“Zinnie! Massa Marion wants everybody up and ready. The others’re coming up the roadway.”
I turned to find Ella rushing to the shed where our children slept.
My heart raced as I hurried in her direction, arriving in time to find Buck removing those loathsome fetters. He mumbled a greeting as Lovie wobbled in to join me and Ella in rousing the children.
“We double-checked we got everything. Right, Zinnie?”
I tucked my sleeping Hattie in her harness while responding. “We triple-checked. Ain’t nothing left behind, Lovie. Except freedom.”
“Can’t leave freedom in Mississippi on account we ain’t never had any.”
“Freedom was ours some place, some time too far behind to remember or find.” My sentiments left us silent.
I retrieved the cornpone wrapped in cheesecloth last night and, with Lovie and Ella’s help, distributed it to the children.
“Y’all little bits hurry now and eat so y’all can relieve yourselves and wash your faces and hands at the creek before leaving. ”
The children’s “Yes, ma’am” floated on the soft wings of dawn.
They finished quickly. Moments later our small tribe was assembled and ready.