Toward a Distant Shore: Civil War Engulfs the Tidewater

Chapter 1

Mt. Pleasant Plantation, Surry County, Virginia

August, 1859

As she trotted Kitty into the yard past the summer kitchen Fenton noticed that the usual bustle was missing. Strange. Where was everybody? Old Uncle Mingo, whitewashing the fence, didn't look up and nod as he usually did when she passed. Maria shooed little Pip, his coarse shirt not completely hiding his bare bottom, back into the kitchen without so much a glance at her, never mind a smile or greeting. No one else was around, no signs of anyone in Grandfather's office back under the trees. Just a few chickens scratching. Over by the big house, a cloud of dust hung in the still air above the circular drive; someone had just left in a hurry. I bet they already know.

Now she smiled as she saw Charles' erect figure heading her way. He was her favorite of all the slaves, had carved her any number of small wooden toys when she was younger, but today he looked grim.

Morning, Miz Fenton, he said, doffing his hat to bare a full head of salt-and pepper hair. You best head right in the house. Miz Ann looking for you and she not happy.

Thank you, Charles. Fenton quickly slipped off the sorrel and handed him the reins, embarrassed to be seen by the servants in such a mess, her hair dangling in strings and her dress all wadded up and wrinkled. She was nearly grown after all, not some messy child. Picking up her skirts, she loped toward the big house, the sun beating down on her bare head.

Charles managed a fond grin as he watched her trot away.

Fenton figured she was in trouble with her grandfather for not asking if she could take his riding horse, but even worse because she had skipped morning prayers. If he knew what she'd run into out there by the river he wouldn't even think of those irritations, she was sure. But he'd probably never let her ride Kitty again.

Usually, both the front and rear doors of the brick mansion were left wide open to let any breeze off the river blow on through, but today everything was shut tight. They knew, all right. When she opened the door she found her mother waiting for her in the entry hall, one hand on her hip, the other trying in vain to cool her flushed face with the fan she kept attached to her wrist on a cord. The anxiety on her face changed to anger as Fenton stepped in.

Ann Wilson Garnett was a short, buxom woman but her erect posture made her seem much taller, especially to her children and the servants. She never had trouble commanding the attention of any of them. (Her older children called her Little Ma, but never to her face.) Even though it was still early, circles of sweat already dampened her bodice in the wretched heat, and her wavy dark blond hair, already starting to frizz, was working its way out of its tight bun. Ann was by now nearly a head shorter than her daughter, but that only meant reaching a little higher as she shook her finger.

Grace Fenton Garnett, do you have the least idea of the problems you've caused today? she demanded. Just where have you been this time?

Earlier that morning, as Fenton let her grandfather's mare meander along the shallows of the James River, she glanced under the family dock. No sign of Belinda in her hidey hole this morning, although that was probably the coolest place on the plantation on a day like this. Too bad she herself was too old for such stuff, but maybe she could catch the early morning river breeze if she rode out on the point. As she lifted her damp hair away from her neck she realized that she'd forgotten her bonnet again. Oh, well, what were a few more freckles? Best not let Little Ma hear her say that. When Fenton was sure no one was looking she stood on one leg in the stirrup of the sidesaddle, hiked up her limp calico skirts and threw her other leg over to ride astride as she had as a child.

A half-mile ahead a patch of cypress swamp promised at least shade, if not breeze. In the sudden gloom she allowed Kitty to pick her own way whenever the path dipped into the brownish water trickling between stumps and other rotting vegetation on its way to the river. Might as well take her time here where it was a little cooler. Even though it was still early, the flies were already fierce. Although she made a conscious effort not to think about it, the strong odor of decay brought back another early morning ride when she'd come across a dead body that had washed up from the river right along here. The colored man had been face down, drifting gently in the shallow water, his bloated legs straining against his rough pants. A shiver twitched down her spine as she remembered the horrible stench and the angry natter of the flies in the gaping wounds across his back. They never did figure out where he came from, just buried him in the slave graveyard in an unmarked grave. It still seemed wrong to her that her grandfather hadn't made much effort to find his kin.

She broke from the shade and trotted Kitty up onto a slight rise near Swann Point, hoping for at least a flicker of breeze. The sky was white with humidity, hinting at rain that should come but no doubt wouldn't. Hooking a damp strand of hair behind her ear, she peered out through the haze toward the low hump of Jamestown Island across the broad river. The James was empty for a change, no boats heading to or from Richmond, miles on upriver. She wiped the sweat from her neck with her handkerchief. Not much breeze out here after all. Still, as Kitty cropped the grass, Fenton relished a quiet moment away from the bustle of the plantation. The only sounds were a few birds twittering and some feral pigs rooting around in the swamp. After a bit, giving up on the breeze, Fenton turned Kitty's head for home, knowing that Grandfather Wilson would be itching to ride the sorrel out into the fields as soon as prayers were done.

Back in the swampy gloom Fenton leaned over to watch Kitty's footing where the path crossed a streamlet. When she glanced up again, two field hands had appeared silently on the dappled path in front of her. She gasped and clutched the reins as Kitty whickered and splashed sideways in nervous steps.

Where had they come from all of a sudden? She was certain that these men weren't from Mt. Pleasant, had never seen them before. They were breathing hard, their ragged pants soaked and muddy, bloody stripes glistening across their bare black shoulders. A gun glinted in the waistband of the taller one. Both were staring insolently straight at her, spreading their arms wide to snag her reins if she tried to pass on the narrow path. Neither said a word.

Fenton’s heart thudded in her chest. She was desperately exposed out here—no one would see or hear a thing if these men decided to attack her. But then anger flooded up. She could kick herself for riding off without telling anyone and putting herself in this situation. Now she just had to get herself out of it. She briefly considered turning back for Swann Point, but that was a dead end.

Only one option.

Holding the reins high, she kicked the startled sorrel in the ribs as hard as she could and charged right at the two men. She would have ridden them down if they hadn't jumped aside in a hurry, the tall one stumbling backward on a rock and falling into the mire on his rear. Ducking forward to avoid the low-hanging branches, she kicked Kitty to go faster over the uneven ground away, away, away.

After an endless few minutes, the mare broke from the gloom into the open fields at the top of the bluff. Fenton chanced a look back over her shoulder but the swamp was completely still. Not even a leaf twitched. Taking a big, shaky breath, she slowed Kitty and resumed the sidesaddle position, arranging her limp skirts to cover her legs like a refined young lady should. Her heart gradually slowed to normal as she put Kitty into an easy canter and rode over the fields toward home, all the while trying to think of how to tell her mother about her scare. Maybe she wouldn't say anything at all, come to think of it. Avoid the predictable fuss. But of course, these weren't the usual runaways.

These men were armed.

In the distance she could see the big boxy house dominating the low bluff on the river. Mt. Pleasant was a medium-size plantation, really a large working farm, owned by her grandfather, Dr. George Wilson. Grandfather said that this land had been farmed for over two hundred years. Hard to imagine. She'd always loved the two-story mansion, with its columned white porticos at both the south and the river entry opposite. The big house and outbuildings were surrounded by the green and gold acres of ripening oats, wheat and corn, but as she got closer the sight that caught her eye was the spectacular double line of blooming crepe myrtle trees tracing a deep pink path from the north portico to the edge of the bluff. She loved to sit on the portico in the shade, watching the river traffic through the pink alley of trees. But today she had no time for such daydreaming. She had critically important news for her grandfather.

Sorry, Ma, I was looking for some cool down by the water. I meant to have the horse back for Grandfather, but it got later than I thought. She glanced under her brows at her mother, trying to gauge her anger. Regardless, she couldn't avoid telling her what had happened. Not this time. She took a breath. You can't imagine what I saw down in the swamp.

Fenton told her mother briefly of meeting the slaves, bracing for her usual outrage.

Oh, my Lord! Ann collapsed on a hall chair, staring at her daughter, her face suddenly pale. Did they hurt you, Fenton?" she asked in an uncharacteristically faint voice.

Fenton batted her hand. Of course not, Ma, I just rode right through them and came back as fast as I could. No need to describe her fear. I figured Grandfather should know right away. Is he here?

No, he’s not. While you were out wandering God knows where we got word that Mr. Graves and his oldest son have been shot by two of their field hands. Father is riding over to Four Mile right now. He wanted to leave as soon as he heard, but of course you had his saddle horse so he had to wait for Charles to hitch the buggy. Oh, he was furious! Not to mention frightened for your safety. He had to choose between going out after you and possibly saving the lives of the Graves men. I thought he would have a stroke right there. You know he hasn't been well. She glared at Fenton.

I’m really surprised. Everything seemed like usual when we were there for dinner yesterday. Except, I guess, for Mr. Graves complaining about having to correct a couple of hands for insolence. But he always complains about that. She’d think about her grandfather’s priorities later.

Correction according to Mr. Graves meant a severe horsewhipping administered by his overseer. In contrast to her more lenient grandfather, he insisted that the only thing that Negroes would respond to was harsh discipline for every single infraction, particularly insolence. But with the shooting of white men this time, Fenton knew that those field hands would get far worse than more whippings if they were caught.

What about the rest of the family? she asked. Is Mrs. Graves all right?

She wasn’t hurt, thank the Lord. Father went over to see what he could do for the men, and Mr. Brubaker is off rounding up the patrol to go after the runaways.

A chill passed through Fenton as she thought about what might have happened to her alone down by the river on a valuable horse, faced with those desperate men. Her mother was thinking the same thing.

Lucky for you that you're still alive! My heavens, what were you thinking, child? You know perfectly well that it's not safe for a refined young lady to ride out over the fields without any companion whatsoever. Ann fanned herself furiously.

I do know that, but I feel like I’m just as much a prisoner here as the servants are, Ma! she pleaded hopelessly. Besides, I figured that with our people all busy with harvest there would be no one to bother me.

Well, I hope that your close call today will convince you that you can never, ever take a chance like that again.

If Fenton was forbidden to ride Kitty as she expected, going off alone wouldn't be much of a problem, come to that. She briefly wondered whether Grandfather's concern was more for her or for his prized mare. No, that was unkind. But she had already come in second place behind the Graves men.

Now Ann stood up with a nod, twitching her skirts around her. As she started giving orders, she began to regain her starch. Well, that's settled. With those armed fugitives so close by, all of us will stay in the house with the doors and windows locked until your grandfather gets home.

What about the servants?

There will be no servants inside today; Charles can get the house servants to help Maria put up the preserves and Big Peter can make sure the field hands stay busy until Mr. Brubaker gets back.

Why can't the house servants be inside at least?

Ann sighed and said impatiently, Fenton, surely you understand by now that all servants are entirely untrustworthy, no matter how pleasant they may seem to you.

But who wouldn't run away if they were beaten until they bled? Our people don’t have to worry about that, so why would they turn on us?

Have you forgotten about Sarah? Besides, they’re all so lazy they have to be corrected for something every single day or nothing would get done. You know that! Why, with a little encouragement from their kind they could turn on us at any time. Nat Turner's revolt happened only a day’s ride from here, after all. All manner of whites slaughtered, women and children, too. She shuddered. Out here this far from town we are only as safe as we keep ourselves.

Now Fenton remembered reading about the Turner uprising in her grandfather's library, the book written by her cousin Dickie's grandfather, Thomas Ruffin Gray. Her mother was probably right to be worried.

Now, I want you girls and Henry to stay upstairs and I'll keep Dickie down here with me—where is that boy, anyway? She glanced around as if the lanky fourteen year-old might be hiding behind a curtain.

Why cousin Dickie? I could stay down here with you, Ma. I'm almost year older than he, after all. He's just a child! protested Fenton.

But a foot taller! While your grandfather is gone Dickie is the oldest man of this house. It's his place to be here. Good training for him, besides. Just then, Ann took a good look at Fenton's disheveled state for the first time. Here it came: there would be no reprieve.

Now, look at you, Fenton. You're simply not presentable! Where are your petticoats? And you were out in the sun again without your bonnet? Get upstairs and change out of that rag, Miss. And no more impertinence. Her mother turned and marched to the door. Charles, where have you gotten to? she called in a shriller than usual voice. Dickie? Where is that boy!

Yes, ma'am, Fenton mumbled. Her mother certainly seemed back to normal. She glanced around at the unusually quiet house. No drone from the classroom, where Miss Rathbone usually had the children reciting their lessons during the mornings, no sound of Sissy practicing her interminable piano in the parlor. No servants chattering as they moved around the rooms. Sighing loudly, Fenton flounced up the uncarpeted stairs, creating her own racket. At the top she found her brother, impish four-year-old Henry, trying mightily to work his blonde head in between the balusters.

Henry! Stop that! You'll get stuck, you silly boy. Where's Sissy?

Thumb in mouth, Henry pointed down the hall past the bedrooms toward the nursery at the end. Fenton headed along the corridor, glancing out the front windows to see if she could see anything exciting. But all was quiet out in the yard. The spacious nursery, which doubled as a classroom, was quiet. Miss Rathbone, a dour Scotswoman with dark hair pulled tightly into a bun on top of her head, was seated at her desk in her usual shirtwaist and dark skirt. Fenton's three younger sisters, Georgie, Lucy and little Emily, had their heads bent over their lessons. Clearly none of them knew what had happened. Sissy, as they called their oldest sister Mary, sat in a corner, embroidering a pillowslip for her hope chest. She glanced up quickly when Fenton appeared at the door.

Morning, Miss Rathbone, said Fenton, remembering her manners.

Good morning, Fenton, responded her unsmiling old teacher briskly, nodding but not rising. Fenton certainly didn't miss the early part of her education under this grim woman.

Sissy, may I have a moment? asked Fenton, signaling her sister with her eyes.

The girls walked out into the hall, eleven year-old Georgie watching enviously as her two older sisters escaped. Sissy, seventeen years old and a year out of the Norfolk Female Academy, was perfectly groomed even in the hellish heat, her reddish blond hair parted down the middle and coiled in two neat buns over her ears. She was truly beautiful: flawless creamy skin, huge gray-blue eyes and a tiny waist accented by a corset. Fenton could never compete with all of that, so she didn't try. Too tall already for current fashion, Fenton had unruly brown hair, freckles across her nose, wide-set green eyes and a grin that lit up her face. And folding spectacles usually pinned to her blouse for her far-sightedness. Not exactly the epitome of the budding southern belle, but then she was never going to get married so she didn't care. Much. Let her sister be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty at the riding tournaments. She herself hadn't the slightest interest in such silly business.

They stopped out of hearing of the nursery. Did you hear what's happened? Fenton demanded without any preliminaries, folding her arms and standing with her legs apart.

Sissy took in Fenton's bedraggled state but didn’t comment on it. Oh, Flip, I'm so glad you're safe! Little Ma was just furious with you. Before Fenton could get a word in, she rattled on, Isn't it just terrible the Graves men were shot? I hate it when the Negroes act up like that. You can never feel secure out here. Frankly, I wish I was back in Norfolk. And now Ma told me I couldn't practice because she's too upset and has one of her headaches coming on. You know I never do my sewing until I've put in several hours at the piano," Sissy sighed, frowning. Fenton had been nipping at a hangnail, only half listening. Looking out the front window they could now see several riders galloping by on the road raising a rooster tail of dust. Must be the patrollers.

Flip, do stop biting your nails! It's so common! You know how Little Ma hates that.

But she's not here, is she? Fenton scowled, imagined the two fugitives being caught by that angry crowd.

Ignoring her, Sissy went on, I swear, I'm starting to get really nervous with all this violence going on. Yesterday when we were at Four Mile did you hear Amanda Graves say that her parents sleep with a pistol nearby, just in case? Now I'm wondering if we need to do the same.

So that's how the runaways got a gun, thought Fenton. Fat lot of good that pistol did the Graves. But Ma was probably right about not trusting house servants. Look at that Sarah. Couldn't trust her at all.

I don't care, Sissy said. When Clarence and I are married I will insist that we live in town. Negroes frighten me.

Quit worrying, Sissy. Surely the whole thing will blow over as soon as they're captured, she said, hoping to get her sister on to something else. Fenton decided on the spot not to tell her sister about the runaways she had seen down by the river. Sissy was likely to faint, which would be unpleasant. And, in fact, nothing had happened, really, so Fenton planned to forget about the whole episode herself.

Instead, she became annoyed again by the way Sissy was always going on about marriage. Sissy was infatuated with Clarence Garnett, her second cousin, who was studying to be a doctor by shadowing his father over in Essex County. Fenton didn't think much of marriage herself because of the way it tied a woman down, but Sissy was wildly enthusiastic about having her own household to run for that insipid boy.

Fenton would never understand her older sister: All she did was parrot her mother's opinions—she didn't seem to have an original idea in her head. She wasn't interested in reading or discussion about important things, but the fact that she wasn't that intelligent didn't seem to matter to the young men around there. Her beauty alone had charmed any number of them, even though she had her heart set on Clarence, of all the poor choices.

Fenton herself found sewing and other ladylike pursuits boring, would spend every waking minute buried in a book if allowed. The women of the family frowned at her unladylike impatience and forwardness, but she noticed with perverse satisfaction that they also let her speak up for them when the occasion demanded.

Not getting any commiseration from Fenton, Sissy wandered back to her hope chest and Fenton headed down the hall to the girls' room to change out of her wilted calico. The large chamber overlooking the river was somewhat crowded, with four-poster mahogany trundle beds in each of three corners and a screen for the commode in the fourth. Usually six girls slept here, but they doubled up when there was company, often sleeping four to a bed to make room for visiting women. It was hard to find any privacy at all.

Today she found her annoying cousin Alice stretched across the nubby white spread on one of the beds staring into space, ignoring the book in her hand. A pale, undersized child of twelve, Alice should have enjoyed being home from boarding school for the summer as much as Fenton did, but instead she spent all her time moping about having to spend the summer at Mount Pleasant. She much preferred staying at Belmead, the far grander plantation owned by her wealthy uncle, Philip St. George Cocke, and she let everyone know it. Fenton really did try to be kind to her cousin, but had little patience with Alice's whining ways.

Have you seen Dickie? Ma is looking for him, Fenton said, heading toward the wardrobe.

I think he went fishing. Alice grabbed her book and hurried out to look for a quiet spot to read before Fenton could make any of her usual sharp remarks.

Ma doesn't want us to go outside or even downstairs, Fenton called over shoulder as she hooked a hank of hair behind an ear and opened the wardrobe to eye her dresses. She poked through the frocks disinterestedly. If she was going to be cooped up in the hot house all afternoon with the younger children she needed something as light and cool as possible. She laid out her pale green short-sleeved muslin, which was the best she could come up with, and decided on only one petticoat and no corset. Even though she had a shape as flat as a washboard, with only a vague suggestion of a waist, she was blasted if she would wear a corset to look fashionably curved just to impress the children. Maybe Little Ma wouldn't notice.

*

The summer kitchen was stifling, hot glare bouncing off the packed bare dirt of the yard and into the open door and windows. More waves of heat radiated from the huge fireplace, where Maria had the iron crossbar hung with a pot for tea, a big kettle of hot water for the canning, and another with simmering stew for dinner. The iron oven on the hearth sent forth the aroma of baking bread that mingled with the cloying smell of overripe peaches. Maria and wizened old Millie sat at the big wooden work table peeling fruit and batting at flies. The three house servants, gossiping at the end of the kitchen farthest from the fireplace wiped the sweat from their faces and necks with their kerchiefs as they chatted, none of them offering to lift a finger to help. Maria a round, cinnamon-colored woman of about thirty, spotted Charles outside heading toward the open door.

Charles had to step around little Pip, who was squatting on the steps with his knees around his ears poking at a line of ants with a straw. Pip, let the man by, said Maria. As Charles ducked his head and entered she could guess the orders he was bringing from Miz Ann. Keep the house servants busy. Sure thing. She doubted Charles could get them to do anything. There they sat, the three of them like crows on a fence, watching her sweat while they ran on about the latest runaways. Phyllis helped out once in a while but the others were useless. Hard to figure why good clean kitchen work was so far beneath them. That damned gossip Dolly, the white childrens' nanny, thought she was special because she got to sleep in the big house. Lizzy thought she was better than all of them because she got to look after the master. Honest work was below the likes of her, too.

Charles, I need to quit in a minute and pull the big house dinner together. Can't you get these lazy fools to help with the peaches? she asked.

Maybe they will when I tell Miz Ann they out here sitting on their hands, he commented. Miz Ann says give Maria a hand, now, y’all, he ordered. Nobody would meet his eyes. He stepped back over Pip as he said over his shoulder, Y’all get busy, hear? I got to check on the field hands and then run down that scamp, Belinda. I swear she disappear quicker than any child I ever saw.

Get her to help Uncle Mingo pick those pole beans, make herself useful, Maria called after him.

When the house servants still made no move to help, Maria lost her temper. She drew herself up to her full five feet and slapped her hand down hard on the table. They all jumped and looked at her in surprise. Y’all hear what the man said! Get your lazy behinds over here help with these peaches or get the hell out of my kitchen. I ain't got no time to be tripping over y’all. She looked them each in the eye. She had a glare that could make a dewy rosebud wilt on the stem. Pretty soon Phyllis was peeling peaches along with her and Millie, but the others still ignored her. She hustled them out of the kitchen before they could take a breath to protest.

Millie, nearly eighty and toothless, waved away the flies buzzing around the ripe fruit and grumbled, I don't understand why everybody so excited about some slaves acting up. Just make me mad. When them fools gone learn, anyway? They always get caught and then they'll pay dearly. So will we. Her withered chin moved up and down and sideways, as if she were chewing the words.

Phyllis nodded, hands dripping with peach juice, You just wait, the overseer's gone start tromping through our cabins any old time again and locking us in at night. I hate to be locked in—worry all the time about fire. And more whippings, too. Not that Master's much for whippings, but tell that to old Brubaker when Master's off somewhere.

Maria thought about her sister Sarah, but decided to let it go. She said, Getting the white folks riled ain't doing my Belinda no good either. She'll probably get another switching today if Miz Ann be the one catch up with her. Frowning, she got up, wiped her juicy hands on her stained apron and crossed to the fireplace to give the stew another stir.

That child’ll get sold off if she’s not careful, she muttered, half to herself. She sits and kicks her leg through Master's preaching every Sunday, but never pays no mind as to how to behave. Always daydreaming. She be sorry one these days. She lucky she gets to work the big house most of the time, but that could change in a hurry, ‘specially since she set that fire. Eleven years old plenty big. She nodded to herself, her usually fierce brown eyes softening as she thought of her two older girls who were not much older than Belinda when they got sold away a few years back. She never did find out what happened to them. Now she lived in constant dread of her last daughter being snatched from her as well.

Millie scratched through her thin white frizz with a long nail. Lowering her voice and leaning toward the others, she said slowly, with great emphasis, Charles say they's rumors in Norfolk about more crazy fools getting ready to do something big—like burn something down. Her nephew always picked up the latest rumors for her on his trips. Now Millie sat back smiling to observe the effect of her words. Not much response, turned out.

Ain't that right, Charles? she added as he stepped back in.

Always rumors about some uprising or other, Auntie. Probably this one no more real than them others. Her smile faded. He took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

It's terrible hot out there. A man could fry an egg on a rock in that wheat field. Maria, them hands mighty thirsty and wore down. Can you make them something to fix them up?

The cook sighed. One more chore. But she said, I'll make up some molasses and water with a little vinegar ginger and Belinda can take it with their dinner. That is, if you can find her. She added, You be sure Big Peter rest the hands a bit 'fore they get back out there in that heat. That was more than Brubaker would do, for sure.

I'll tell him the real boss say so, Charles grinned. Big Peter always listens to the wife!

He better, he know what's good for him, she replied. But she was too hot and busy to be much amused.

If you find Belinda, tell her to come help me bring dinner to the big house. Probably beneath these other lazybones to help her with the likes of that. Probably expect her to serve them as well.

Think they gone catch them two runaways, Charles? asked Millie, her creased black face screwed up tightly.

Yes ma'am, and it ain't gone be pretty, said Charles. I just hope it's soon. The longer it go on the more they'll decide that we gone murder them in their beds. So we need to watch ourself. Don't do nothing to rile them up any more than they already are.

*

As the waning sun created slanting pools of shade under the fruit trees Dr. Wilson returned from the Graves plantation. Ann stood and watched from the south portico as he slowly stepped down from the buggy. He grunted slightly as he made his way up the steps. He was getting too damn old for this. He barely nodded a greeting as he reached his daughter, fatigue overwhelming him.

Come inside and rest, Father. As he made his way inside, she asked, How are the Graves?

Well, he sighed as he took off his hat and wiped his forehead on a big white handkerchief, Joseph has a scalp wound where a bullet creased him, and his son has a deep flesh wound on his arm. But they should heal well unless the wounds mortify. Good thing those field hands don't know how to shoot a gun.

I'm amazed they even had a gun. Where did they get it?

Apparently someone in the house stole the revolver Joseph keeps by his bed and gave it to them. But they shouldn't get far. Brubaker has a good dozen men riding out, plus the dogs, of course.

Ann told him briefly about Fenton's run-in with the fugitives, reassuring him that she and the mare hadn't been harmed. Well, too late to do anything about it now, he slowly rubbed his forehead when he'd heard her out. When Brubaker gets back I'll let him know where she saw them in case he hasn't found them yet.

Why don't you sit still for a bit and I'll have Belinda bring you some sweet tea, said Ann, patting his arm. She headed out into the late afternoon glare to unlock the ice house.

Dr. Wilson closed the door to his library, dark except for a single shaft of sunlight slipping past the heavy curtains to glance off the bookshelves. He sank wearily into his comfortable old leather armchair and propped his swollen feet up as he continued to ponder the problem he'd been mulling all the way home.

Much as he loved Mt. Pleasant, it was isolated miles from town and here he was, the only man responsible for protecting three fatherless families. Three women and eleven grandchildren, not even counting the frequent guests who usually stayed days at a time. Oldest daughter Ann had been forced to move home from Norfolk with her six children when her husband, William Garnett, died in the yellow fever epidemic of 1855. His son James’ widow Julia and her three rambunctious boys also lived at Mt. Pleasant when they weren’t visiting around. Then there were the two children of his oldest son, Richard: Dickie and Alice weren't actually fatherless, but Richard came to visit them so seldom they might as well have been orphans.

Dr. Wilson was not satisfied with the options he had for the family’s safety. Son Richard would be of no help in a crisis, even if he were close by. He seemed to make a hash of most things--he had never made enough to support his family, and was always borrowing money from his father. A few years ago he'd gone to work as a clerk in Richmond, saddling his father with his wife Ellen and their two children. Then last year, Ellen, relying increasingly on opium drops for her severe headaches, had died suddenly at the age of thirty-seven. This left Dr. Wilson essentially responsible for her children, even as he privately worried whether he had inadvertently hastened her death by supplying her with the opium.

George Riddick Wilson, his younger son but the more responsible of the two boys, would not be any help in a true crisis either, unfortunately. He and his family lived in Norfolk, six hours away by packet steamer. So all of the plantation family, which included three dozen slaves, relied on Dr. Wilson alone to keep them safe.

With this business with the Graves men today he was not at all sure he could go on here. There were increasing slave problems all along the James River: Besides a noticeable rise in runaways in the area over the last few months, Tom Coke down the road had lost his entire wheat crop last fall when some arsonist, most likely a slave, burned his barn. And even under the doctor's reasonable discipline his own plantation was not immune: Early this spring some devil had made so bold as to castrate his prize hog. He had to chuckle a bit even though he was still damn mad about it. That was no mean feat even for the bravest of men, given the beast's nasty temper and the fact that it could break through the strongest fence. Or could have then, anyway. Why one of his own people would have castrated the hog was a puzzle to him, unless maybe they were upset that it made a habit of marauding through their miserable vegetable patches behind the quarter.

Then there was the problem of the fire in his bedroom caused by that feckless Belinda. Fire was the one thing he dreaded the most out here because they had no way to stop it once it got started. If Alice hadn't seen the bed canopy in flames when she was passing by the whole house might have gone up. He shuddered, remembering. That was one of the few times he'd had a servant child caned, but Belinda truly deserved it. He knew that the cook was pained by his discipline of her young daughter, but he was convinced that Belinda was acting maliciously rather than just carelessly. After all, she'd made no attempt to hide her anger that he had sold off her beloved auntie Sarah.

Dr. Wilson recalled the painful day he decided to sell Sarah: The night before, he had been up during the night because several of the children were ill again with high fevers. Coming downstairs at one or two in the morning, he had discovered Sarah prowling around the house for some unknown purpose, but no doubt something evil. Furious, he had demanded to know her business. A striking young mulatto with honey skin, wavy chestnut hair and green eyes, Sarah had just stood there with her arms folded, insolently looking him in the eye but refusing to speak.

That had been the final straw. He had owned her only a year, but it seemed like a lifetime. The purchase, part of a package, had looked like a real bargain at first. An excellent cook, Maria had commanded a high price, but for some reason the owner had thrown in her half-sister Sarah and two children, Sarah's mulatto baby Peter (Pip) and Maria's daughter Belinda, for next to nothing. What the doctor didn't know, not that it would have made any difference to him, was that from the age of twelve Sarah had been forcibly and repeatedly raped by the owner, who was also her father, as well as by her teenage half-brother, the master's white son. Such things were common enough to be unremarkable. Whenever she ran away she got whipped, but she wouldn't stop trying to escape. Her master/father/raper had finally decided to get rid of her, foisting her off on the unsuspecting Dr. Wilson, who soon discovered her violent temper and vicious disposition.

Dr. Wilson had tried to rent Sarah out, but by then everyone along the river had heard about her evil ways and there were no takers. Although she had not yet tried to run away from Mt. Pleasant, Dr. Wilson had been infuriated by her repeated stealing and neglect of her work. She even attacked her sister Maria, beating her severely. Correcting Sarah with whippings made her even more determined to lash out.

Finally, even the other servants at Mt. Pleasant had begged their master to sell Sarah because they were all afraid of her. So the morning after he discovered her sneaking around the big house, he had sent Sarah off with one of the slave traders passing through. Not with the child, of course. Maria could take care of Pip until he was worth some money.

He regretted selling her away from her kin, but what choice did he have? He was the son of a planter and had dreamed of owning his own plantation for as long as he could remember, an ambition finally satisfied when he bought Mt. Pleasant. There was simply no way to earn a profit without slave labor. He was familiar enough with all the slave issues that would be part of the bargain, but he kept telling himself that a humane approach would avoid most of the trouble. And it had, except for Sarah, but for how much longer?

Besides the escalating slave problems, Dr. Wilson had increasing health issues. At seventy, he knew he was failing physically and wondered how long he would be up to giving the farm the close supervision he had in the past. His overseer Brubaker was tolerably competent but too lax. It was up to the owner himself to see that things were done properly day after day. Could he live a half-day's ride from the farm and still make the operation profitable? Or should he give up even trying? When he had bought the plantation eleven years back, he had dreamed of turning it into a model farm by trying the latest agricultural techniques. However, since his dear wife had died he found himself less and less enthusiastic and involved. He had not managed to put more than a third of his six hundred acres into production, and even that was a struggle to maintain.

Overlaid on all these worries was the increasingly realistic fear that they were headed for war with the North, with unknown consequences for the plantation. With tension building over the issues of state's rights and abolition, it seemed only a matter of time. Then what would the slave situation turn into? Maybe it was time to give up the dream: sell and move the family to Smithfield.

A knock at the door interrupted his train of thought: Belinda bringing iced tea.

*

Just as the family was sitting down to tea that evening the overseer trotted up the circular drive on his big bay, both man and horse dusty and streaked with sweat. As Dr. Wilson stepped out on the south portico to hear Brubaker’s report, Fenton glanced out the dining room window and saw Brubaker's bloody whip coiled around his horse’s pommel, still dripping gore. Pushing her plate away, she rushed out the river door, barely making it to edge of the portico before she vomited into the bushes.

Chapter 2

Norfolk, Virginia

Late October, 1859

First on the plantation to hear the astounding news was Charles, who happened to be at the Norfolk docks on a buying trip for Dr. Wilson. His friend Demetrius broke loose from a knot of excited dock workers when he saw Charles and rushed over him, eyes alight with news. You hear, Charles? A white man up at Harper's Ferry talk a bunch of Negroes into raiding a armory full of weapons! I bet a uprising gone happen any minute!

Although Charles felt a sudden quiver of excitement, he didn't dare hope that much would change. More urgently, he dreaded that the fury of the whites would be taken out on the likes of him.

A little later, Charles leaned against Miss Polly’s door and watched his old friend coming down the street toward her gate. She had her head down, completely ignoring the spectacular fall reds and golds of the trees lining the street. An imposing dark-skinned woman old enough to be his long-forgotten mother, as usual she wore a no-nonsense work dress, her graying hair tightly bound in a kerchief. He knew her bloody apron would be folded away in her satchel with all of her birthing supplies and herbs, even so her dress hem was stained with blood. Must have been a hard birth. Miss Polly’s face, with its strong jaw and serene eyes that had seen