Infidelity: Manor (Kindle Worlds Novella) Page 2

  As the city of Savannah grew wealthy on cotton, slaves, and shipping, Wilhelm had maintained a healthy craft of carpentry, wood carving, and knowledge of the founding families. He handed over his business to his son Jacob who likewise thrived. But there was one business my skilled artisans-as-ancestors didn’t entertain and that was the ownership of land and people, the true wealth of the Deep South and its original sin that would never be forgiven.

  Our own home was a beautiful, quaint chalet-styled home on the Savannah River, with just enough of a yard for us to run about, splash in the river, chase toads and snakes…but not enough for us to grow cotton or tobacco. Wilhelm hadn’t wanted more, and this was far more than he could have owned in Zumikon. He was a simple man. He wanted enough for his family and nothing more. As the community became settled and fewer homes needed building, our family fell on hard times. The home was all we had left, and it slipped into disrepair.

  I never noticed it as a young girl. My early childhood was idyllic. I played with my friends and twin older brothers. I came home covered in dirt and bug bites. I once fell out of a tree and broke my left arm, and to this day it’s shorter than its match. But life was for fun…adventure awaited me every day. We’d swim across the river, kicking water snakes and fish with our childish abandon. We’d chase opossums and raccoons. My father could shoot an arrow and bring down a shearwater, and that was often our dinner. As a child, I felt we had everything we’d ever need, right there on the banks of the river.

  ~

  “Goodness, child,” my mother would fuss as she’d wipe the dirt from my face, “you must think you’re a boy! I’ll never be able to find you a husband if you don’t start acting like a little lady.” That never bothered me: the idea of a husband sounded terrible to me. My pappy drank white lightning from a mason jar and slapped us if we didn’t move out of his way fast enough. He went fishing and hunting and only came back when he ran out of booze or had a big catch. Why would I want that in my life? My mother worked as a seamstress and did chores to feed and clothe us, and most all he did was take from her wages, maybe leaving a deer for her to dress and prepare. What could she have possibly gotten from that exchange?

  But then I changed and all too suddenly. My own body betrayed my sex. My slim, boyish frame developed curves almost overnight. My hair grew thick and shiny, golden brown from sun and river water. To me, my features were nothing special, but others felt differently. In my schoolhouse, I would get comments from boys. “Hey Sarah,” they would chirp like birds, “wanna meet me behind the school?”

  But of course, I didn’t. I’d slap any boy who tried to steal a kiss from me. Boys would bump into me to put their slimy hands on my body. I was sickened by them.

  And their attraction to me changed me. Made me feel foreign…different. Instead of being my playmates, they were now awkward and dopey and grabby. The other girls began to dislike me, and I began to dislike their snipes. Since I couldn’t play with the boys any longer, and since the girls began to make sour comments, I began to dress less like a boy and more like a girl. That might sound odd…why would I accentuate the very thing that brought me all this trouble?

  Well, I think it was more an act of defiance. It made the girls fiercely sore when the boys they were interested in liked me instead. And the prettier I dressed, the more the boys would offer to carry my books or do chores for me. I guess I learned to turn something negative into something positive. Use my feminine charms to my advantage. But it meant nothing to me; I never thought of it as anything more than simply an ungraceful gesture at a judgmental community. A small measure of revenge to those I felt had it coming.

  My mother, though, was only too happy to throw out my overalls and replace them with dresses.

  Though we were poor, my mother had skill with her hands, and she made lovely dresses for me. It was as if she inherited the skills my father’s side lost through the last few generations. She had, after all, fed us with her sewing skills. She did this despite a husband who taxed her wages with his drinking. As I developed into a young woman, I increasingly enjoyed wearing her dresses, though the layers of petticoats were almost more than I could stand in the summer swelter. Summer in Georgia seems eternal. I’d often sneak out to sit under a shady oak, taking with me a favorite book or just my imagination. There, I’d feel the soft breeze kissing my damp skin, and I’d take in the whole world around me. The drone of the bugs. The call of birds. The moss hanging from the live oaks. The rolling river. This was the art and music of my heart and mind, a soft symphony at my disposal. Savannah spoke to me in the music of nature, and painted pictures with its ancient trees and burbling water. The more I stayed by myself, the more I enjoyed staying by myself. Books kept me company, and I lived in a world of stories and my lovely nature. I never thought of the dresses as anything more than window dressing.

  1861 – The Slaver’s Trade

  Sallie was right. More than I could have expected, she knew the details of the operation of the farm and the house. When the Colonel left, she immediately took charge of all operations. In her sweet, insistent way, she put people in the right places and moved the cotton and tobacco from the fields to the ports and beyond. She managed the money. She dispatched couriers. She kept me involved so that I’d learn it, but Sallie ran the home. When a ship’s captain or county official needed dealing with, Sallie would tell me exactly what to say and what to demand.

  She had only one request. With that soft, knowing smile of hers, she said, “May I ask a favor on behalf of the colored folk on this farm?” It was the fourth day since the Colonel’s caravan of carriages had left. I had moved her from her quarters in the clapboard field house to the guest bedroom down the hall from me.

  “Of course, Sallie. You can ask me anything.”

  “The Colonel, bless him…” I knew bless him was code for something much harsher. “He was never very gracious with the food and resources for the field folk. Those of us in the house eat just fine, but the field folk work long days without much to eat at the end.”

  “Oh my God,” I had said, feeling horrible at what they must have gone through. In my two years as the woman of the house, I had never known much about what happened in the field. The Colonel handled all of those affairs. I had been his trophy for dinners and events. Otherwise, I kept to myself and read in the expansive library. “Well, we have to change that. We need to purchase more food today.”

  She smiled, a big smile I knew to be her true one. “We don’t usually go to market until the weekend.”

  “Sallie, we need to go today. Let’s get the carriage and drive to market right now. Also, I want the best hogs slaughtered. We’re having a cookout when we get back.”

  “I’ll take care of it, missus.” And she did. By the time we returned from the general store, in a carriage tilted with the weight of potatoes, corn, flour, butter, and other necessities, I could see two large hogs on spits cooking outside the kitchen house.

  By early afternoon, I called Simmons, the overseer, up to the house.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, taking off his sweaty hat as he walked into the living room, possibly for the first time.

  “Hello, Mr. Simmons.” I could hear Sallie bustling about in the next room. She was humming. “For all your hard work, I’m going to send you home early today.”

  He looked nervously at me. “But, ma’am,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other, “we have a lot of cotton to move. The shipment will be loaded onto the boat day after tomorrow…”

  “I understand you keep to deadlines exceptionally well, Mr. Simmons. This is only one day. I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”

  Sallie entered the room, carrying a tray of drinks for us. “Begging your pardon, ma’am…I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m accountable to the Colonel for these shipments…”

  “As you’ve noticed,” I said, becoming a bit irritated, “the Colonel is not here. You’re accountable to me for these shipments. I’m telling you that we will be fine. We�
�ll ship what we have or we’ll delay the shipment a single day.”

  He looked with sour eyes at Sallie. “Missus, I encourage you to not give heed to what these neegrahs tell you…”

  “That’ll be enough, Mr. Simmons! I’m sending you home right now, either to return tomorrow or not to return at all.” My face was on fire.

  His eyes bulged, then he looked down at the floor, turned, and walked out the door. I watched him from the window as he mounted his horse and rode off.

  “Was I too harsh?” I asked Sallie once I felt my calm return.

  “Miss Sarah, you just told a bad man something very good. You don’t know how proud I am of you.”

  “Is he a bad man?”

  She smiled that beautiful smile of hers, and her dark eyes shone. “It won’t be me that will tell you. Let the people who work under him tell you.”

  And tell me they did.

  We laid out long tables and put out a feast. Fresh corn that snapped when you took a bite. Fat potatoes bursting out of their skins. Greens of all varieties. Grilled pork, still sizzling from the fire. I took the china from the house, and the silverware we reserved for company. I was hungry and ready to eat, but I noticed something odd.

  As they came in from the field, they stood in a ring about twenty yards from where we set up in the back of the manor.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Sallie. “Why won’t they come up?”

  “The Colonel told them they must never get closer to the house or they would be whipped.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. What had I not seen in my years in this home? Maybe I hadn’t wanted to know? I was horrified.

  I took Sallie by the hand and together we walked to the men, women, and children standing away from the house. As we drew closer, I saw what I could not unsee. I had never noticed how slender they were. I had never noticed their ragged clothes. They were all barefoot. It was as if they had been found on a deserted island after a shipwreck.

  As I drew closer, they looked away, eyes downcast. Then I saw him. One young boy. He was peeking out from behind his mother, but he was looking up at me with curious brown eyes.

  “Hello, young man.” I held out my hand to him but he didn’t take it. “What’s your name?” No answer. “Would you please say hello to me?” He was now completely behind his mother.

  “Hezekiah,” his mother said softly, “say hello to the nice lady.” She turned to reveal him behind her.

  I smiled at the young boy, and he smiled back. But he still didn’t say a word.

  “Ma’am,” I said to Hezekiah’s mother, “I know you’re all worried. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I have some food ready for you, and I’d like it very much if you’d all join us.”

  “But Missus Montague,” she replied, trepidation in her eyes, “Mr. Simmons will whip us if we get too close to the house.”

  I took her hand. “Mr. Simmons is gone for the day. It’s only me and Sallie. Won’t you please join us?” I pulled her hand gently. She stood firm for a minute, then took a step forward. I pulled more. “Please, it would be my honor to have you all as guests for dinner.”

  She looked to the tall man next to her. He nodded. She took a few more steps forward. Sallie waved to the others and bid them to come forward. I pulled this young lady and slowly, very slowly, the rest began to move toward the house.

  “What’s your name?” I asked Hezekiah’s mother as we walked together.

  “Ruth, like the woman in the Bible.”

  “Well, Ruth, thank you for trusting me. I hope you enjoy the food.”

  As they arrived at the tables, they stood staring at the food. Sallie encouraged them, but they seemed too frightened to even take a plate and start eating.

  “Why won’t they eat?” I asked Sallie.

  “Most of them have never seen china or silverware before, Miss Sarah. This is very new to them.”

  I again took Ruth by the hand, and put a plate in that hand, and put the first cut of grilled pork on her plate for her. I then got a plate for Hezekiah. As I handed him the plate, he turned and walked back to his mother. Through a tear on the back of his shirt, I saw two large crisscrossing scars on his back, from shoulder to waist. After she had helped several people get plates and get started eating, I asked Sallie, “What happened to Hezekiah’s back?”

  “Mr. Simmons.”

  “Mr. Simmons did that?”

  She looked me in the eyes. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Oh dear.” She looked away for a moment. Looked far out to the field. Then she turned her eyes back to me. There was fire in those eyes. “Mr. Simmons rules with his whip. Man, woman, or child gets a whipping. He doesn’t care. Move too slowly, you get a lash. Talk back, you get two.”

  “He whips them? Even children? Hezekiah is no more than ten years old, for pity’s sake.”

  “Oh, Miss Sarah, I’m so glad we did this. Look at how they are enjoying this feast. Look at how happy they are. You have made a wonderful thing happen here today, and I love you for it. But I’m sorry that it took this for you to know. Montague Manor is a beautiful home for us that work and live in it. For the slaves in the field, it’s a house of torture and hunger. It’s worse than death for most.”

  We enjoyed our feast that afternoon, but my heart was breaking. These beautiful people lived a horrible life just yards from my home.

  A light breeze picked up. I saw the truly beautiful smiles from people who were so happy just to have a full meal. Children chased each other. Women talked and smiled. I talked with people I’d never met and heard their stories. Heard the hardships and degradation. Saw the scars and the pain. They showed me that the bondage of my marriage was a beautiful dream compared to the harsh lives they lived. I promised myself and them to do better by them.

  A man whose shirt was in tatters broke out a fiddle, and we had dancing and singing until the sun went down. I felt truly blessed by an angry God that day, more than I had since I first met Colonel Montague. Something as simple as a meal could make this much difference. I vowed to do much more.

  The next day, Mr. Simmons was relieved of his duties. I knew from his evil glare that he and I weren’t finished, and that there would be hell to pay, but firing him made me smile. I then hired another overseer, and I gave him strict instructions. I wrote them out for him, lest he forget. The rules I wrote were as follows:

  No slaves shall be whipped for any reason. Any violation of that will result in your firing.

  Children will not work in the fields. They can be given chores, but no manual labor. There will be enough women given oversight duties to ensure the children have someone with them at all times.

  Food for the slaves will now be prepared by the house staff and served at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. During these meal times, slaves are to be given enough time to eat their meals. Thirty minutes each for breakfast and lunch. Dinner will mark the end of the workday.

  If any slave becomes ill, they will be given time to rest and recuperate. You may not force them to work when they are ill. If you are unclear, speak with me.

  You will call the slaves by their Christian names and avoid foul language. This is a Christian household, and all Christians deserve to be treated thusly.

  You are responsible for ensuring every man, woman, and child is appropriately attired, including work shoes. I will issue you money for this clothing. Any tattered clothing is to be thrown out and replaced.

  Once a month, there will be a family cookout for all workers and their families. You are welcome to bring your family as well.

  When I handed these rules to Mr. Charles, the new overseer, he looked at them, then at me, then back at them. He had a look of disbelief.

  “Do you understand these directions?”

  He looked at me blankly. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

  Two months later, Sallie and I compared our production and sales numbers. We both started laughing when we saw the results. Our productivity was up
22 percent. Shipments of tobacco and cotton were going out faster and more regularly. By decreasing the work hours and feeding them better, the workers in the field rewarded us with harder work and more production.

  “Miss Sarah,” Sallie said, “you should hear how happy the field workers are. They talk all day about how Missus Montague is the kindest owner in all of Georgia.”

  I sat back in my seat. The weight of it all settled on me. Owner. I owned people. I shivered at the thought. I could no longer simply blame the Colonel. He was gone, and I was here. And I hated that feeling. Nobody in my family had ever owned a single slave. Yet here I was, with more slaves than anybody else in Savannah.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” She touched my hand.

  “I keep thinking about those little boys and girls. Whipped and beaten like animals. It breaks my heart.”

  She smiled her beautiful smile at me and her face shone. “But you fixed that. You have changed their lives so completely.”

  “But it won’t be long until the Colonel comes back home. The news is that the Confederacy has the Union on the run.”

  She looked down. “Oh my.”

  “If he returns, I don’t think he’ll let things go on as they have.”

  “I think you’re right…I think you’re right…” And now her face was as blank as mine.

  “Sallie, I want to ask you something.” She looked back at me, not knowing what I meant. “I’ve heard that there are ways that slaves have escaped. Gone north.”

  Her eyes grew wide, and she jerked her finger to her lips sharply. There was terror in her eyes. She looked around and then got up and closed the doors of the living room. She came back and sat closely. She spoke just above a whisper.

  “Honey, you have to be careful even mentioning the freedom of slaves here in Georgia. I love you for talking to me about it, but these are words that could get even a white woman hanged. Abolitionists swing from trees every day.”