Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
ZINNIE
Our caravan made it through Missouri without encounters with Natives.
That did nothing to lessen the new-sprung tension between plantation folks and the enslaved.
Those with skin like mine were suddenly suspect, malevolent after Alretha’s disappearance that overshadowed whatever joy those Mississippi Mormons experienced at the Petersons’ new addition.
Plantation people became tight-eyed and suspicious. Accusatory. Malicious.
We were interrogated. Accused of collusion.
Threatened with whippings and denied the ability to congregate in the evenings.
We were chained to the wagons each night and made to endure Mister Jessup’s long-winded sermons.
He condemned us for our evil disobedience and deception and threw purported holy water in our faces.
Struck us about the shoulders and heads, casting out our supposed demons.
I wasn’t new to plantation people’s paranoias or punishments.
But when they chose to withhold our food, I panicked.
I’ve lived my whole life with lack. I can go without. But not my children!
I lay down to sleep that week, stomach grumbling.
What little we were allowed I divided between my Annabelle and Abigail.
I was sturdy enough to survive such devilment and hid bits of cornpone in my apron pocket when food deprivation made my milk weaken.
Hattie hadn’t cut teeth yet, so I softened small bits in my mouth before finger-feeding them to my youngest. Her delight in the tasty mush was a joy to see, but not enough to ban my nightmares and fitful sleep.
I fell asleep, harassed by Mister Jessup’s condemning sermons—fearing a lightning strike if I dared to even think about freedom. No matter that she’d taken my baby to the river’s edge, I didn’t break and confess Alretha might’ve been pressed against the bottom of Zion’s skiff.
Doing so might’ve meant my death.
I wasn’t supposed to think independently.
Form my own opinions. In plantation people’s twisted system, I owed faithful devotion.
Withholding what I had the past two days was treasonous.
I saved my life—or worse, being sold from my children—by swallowing what I knew and filling my mouth with silence.
Hattie being safe put my heart back in my chest. I can wish Alretha well.
Buck and several of the enslaved men were forced into a posse comprised of Mister Peterson and Master Ryland.
They pursued the runaway while Misters Carter and Jessup remained with us, camped near the river, armed with rifles in case anyone else “was filled with the devil” and tried to escape.
When the posse returned empty-handed the following evening, I thanked God.
Alretha was gone. Again. The Petersons had been bested.
“I played the fool showing mercy when she ran the first time. I should’ve done more than branded her face. Should’ve chopped her foot off.”
“You weren’t a fool. You were kind and Christian.” Master Ryland’s soothing of Mister Peterson scraped the warm night like claws dipped in venom. They’d returned not long ago, polluting the air with smoky danger.
Awakened from sleep and ordered from my oxcart, I’d been demanded to serve supper to them as Buck and the posse were sent to bed, denied an opportunity to eat when the hunt proved fruitless.
“The local sheriff’s circulating that notice of a reward for her return.
You were wise to brand her. She can’t get far with that mark.
” Master Ryland squeezed Mister Peterson’s shoulder in fraternal commiseration.
“The sheriff knows our route and the trading posts along the way. He’ll send word when he has her. ”
“May God make that sooner than later.” Mister Peterson flung his scraps in the fire. “The missus needs her maid. And I didn’t pay good money for nothing.”
He stood and stretched, leaving his tin plate on the ground. “Let’s get some rest, brother. We’re getting up earlier than usual to make up for lost travel time.”
Master Ryland clapped his fellow plantation man on the back as he stood. “Don’t fret none. God will show you how to punish the wench and break her unclean spirit.”
I stood in the dark waiting for them to leave so I could gather their discarded plates and return to my children.
“Zinnie.”
It wasn’t my name in Master Ryland’s mouth that shot knives into my gut. Its dark timbre and tone composed a dreadful summons I’d hoped to never hear again.
I hadn’t been ignorant enough to think his vileness with me was finished. I’d somehow believed traveling like a nomad, living without walls to shield his deeds, would somehow offer divine interruption. It hadn’t.
Even outdoors amid a caravan he commanded my subjugation. My humiliation. And punishment for the sins of another’s defiance.
I would be forced to lie on my belly, for to him I was plain. In his estimation I was nothing to look at and barely a woman. Distaste wouldn’t keep him from thrusting into me his outrage and disgust at Alretha’s escape and the time her pointless pursuit had wasted.
I was the rubbish bin for his life’s woes and frustration.
I would not run. Cry. Or scream. Resistance would only incite violence. Punching. Beating. Choking. My horror and hate were of no consequence. I was usable property. Inhuman.
With leaden feet I sent my mind away, allowing it a freedom my body couldn’t experience as I followed that man beyond the light of the campfire into darkness. I was the vessel for his vindication—a powerless, brutalized chalice.
Kansas was wide plains and prairie grasses.
Gophers. Groundhogs. Rocky hills and blacktail jackrabbits.
It was flat grasslands in want of shade trees capable of combating the blazing summer heat.
Sweat rolled and dripped down my face, drenched my armpits, and puddled between my breasts.
Its salty stream stung my eyes and offered nectar for mosquitoes that came to feast.
“Zinnie, you got more camphor to keep away these dang blasted things?” Ella slapped the side of her neck and pulled away her pale palm to find a mosquito, squashed beyond living.
“Supply was low. I’ll have to check.” I plucked berries from the patch we’d stumbled onto before stopping for the midday meal, grateful for this mundane task that didn’t require excess exertion.
Or spirit. Mine was bruised. Wilted. Feeling lackluster, vexed, I avoided eye contact with my sister-women.
There was no need to recount the prior night.
That man’s violating ways were a part of enslaved living, a shared experience, and unnecessary telling for my fellow bondswomen.
Perhaps the knowing was a sense, or a defiling stench.
Or sorrow’s shadow and the angle of a head too heavy to lift.
Lovie and Ella were easy with me, offering solace in companionship.
Ella scraped the lifeless insect from her hand. “I pray there’s enough left. I’ve had my fill of being a bug’s biscuit.”
Lovie laughed and dropped ripe, fat berries into the tin pail near my feet before mopping her sweaty face with a tattered kerchief.
I merely grunted and stretched, feeling strange without Hattie’s weight. I’d left her in her basket in the care of her sisters, sparing her being infected by my ugly malaise. Now, I missed her sweet innocence. “If the camphor’s gone, we’ll get mud at the creek. It’s good for soothing.”
“I’ll take some of that mud for this belly.” Lovie exhaled and patted her protruding stomach. “I feel like a hothouse pumpkin.”
“You feel like a pumpkin. I’m feeling like a biscuit. Zinnie, you feeling like some kind of food, too? Maybe a roasted chicken in this June heat, or hog maws and cornbread?”
I couldn’t help grinning at Ella’s nonsense.
“I don’t feel like nothing except a tired, shoeless woman.
” Navigating the terrain with one brogan after the other had been taken by the river made for an unsteady gait, so I’d tossed the forlorn mate onto the oxcart and wrapped my feet with fabric scraps.
“Zinnie… maybe… ask Master Ryland—”
“I’m not asking Satan for nothing!”
My sister continued softly as if I hadn’t spoken. “You can’t walk from here to there on bare feet, Zinnie. If not him, tell Miss Norene. Sometimes she’s reasonable. You need shoes.”
“Only thing I need is for me and my children to be free.”
Ella and Lovie shushed me, eyes wide and panicky.
Ella quickly looked about, making sure no one had approached without our notice. “Zinnie, don’t let that man plunk you down in misery—”
“I said what I said, Ella. I wanna be free. I deserve to be. All of us do.” Their silence was thick. “I have three children and can’t run like Alretha did. But I’ll tell you what. God’s gonna show me a way to get free one day. And if He don’t, I’ll find it.”
I went back to berry picking.
A moment passed before Lovie dared to speak. “What y’all think freedom feels like?”
Ella’s response was quick. “Like something that ain’t this.”
Lovie snorted agreeingly, wiped a berry against her shapeless calico shift, and popped it in her mouth.
“I ain’t met freedom yet and most days it takes too much to wonder if I ever will, but I think it probably feels like floating.
Nothing’s sitting on your chest. Nothing’s holding you down or terrorizing your head. Whatchu think, Zinnie?”
I looked at both women before closing my eyes and inhaling the aroma of fresh berries. The night was over and couldn’t be undone. I refused to stay drenched in sorrow or marked by his filthiness. Lifting my head to the sky, I let myself imagine. “I suppose freedom feels like… the color yellow.”
“Yellow?”
I opened my eyes to find Lovie’s eyebrows knit in a downward line. “Yes, yellow. Warm. Bright. Sweet like butter. Light as sunshine.”
“You painted a pretty picture.” Ella smiled and lifted the berry pail. “I’ma hold it through the dark days.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Y’all think Alretha’ll make it north to safety?”