Freedom Stone

Table of Contents

 

 

 

PHILOMEL BOOKS
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Copyright © 2011 by Jeffrey Kluger. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof,

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eISBN : 978-1-101-47537-9

Chapter 1

THERE WERE TWO kinds of slaves on the plantation Lillie and her family called home: those who could sleep on the night before the slave seller came and those who couldn't. Lillie's little brother was too young to understand exactly what the job of the slave seller was, so this morning, just before sunrise on the day the terrible man was going to arrive, the boy lay deeply sleeping beside her in the narrow bed the two of them shared. Mama knew the slave seller well, having seen too many of his visits over the years and watched too many people she knew and even loved get sold off like prize heads of livestock. For much of the night, Mama had thus tossed and thrashed in her bed on the other side of the family's little cabin, giving in to sleep only in the last hour or so. Lillie had slept even less than Mama, drifting in and out of a fitful doze for much of the night and awakening fully a short time ago, just as the sky was beginning to show a faint shimmer of dawn outside her window.

As most of the slaves on the plantation knew, the slave seller was not actually a slave seller at all. What he was—or at least what the white family called him—was a slave appraiser, a man whose sole job was to visit plantations throughout the county, examine the slaves working there and report back to the auctioneers about which ones looked likely to bring the highest price. Slaves who were selected this way were usually gone within a month and almost never seen again. Rumors had been swirling for weeks that the appraiser would be making his rounds soon, and that was no surprise.

The last harvest had been a poor one at Greenfog—which was what the plantation where Lillie lived was called—and the war between the North and South, now in its third year, was making money even harder to come by throughout Beaufort County and the rest of South Carolina too. Masters who could not raise enough cash selling their crops would often turn to selling some slaves. Yesterday, just after the quitting horn sounded, the overseer called the Greenfog slaves together in a field near the stables and announced that their Master had decided that some of them would have to go, and they'd all be priced for sale in the morning.

This, of course, was the worst news a group of slaves could hear, but the Master had tricks to try to make them forget that—or at least to think about it less. Last night, as on all nights before the appraiser came, an extra ration of pork—pink and fresh-killed, not salted and dried—was distributed to all the cabins. Fresh pork was said to brighten moods and soften skin, giving slaves the healthy, well-fed look the auctioneers liked to see. The pork had been delicious—it was always delicious before slave appraiser days—and Lillie's little brother had stuffed himself with it. Despite her worries, Lillie could not resist it either. Mama would not eat a bite.

Even better than the ham the slaves ate was the rest they'd get. Today, the morning horn would sound a bit later than usual and there would be no fieldwork to do. Well-rested slaves were also thought to be more appealing to the appraiser. For Lillie, however—and for all the other slaves who lay awake on the night before the slave seller came—extra time to sleep just meant extra time to brood, and as morning now broke, Lillie found herself staring ahead into the shadows of the cabin, her mind filled with thoughts of the sorrow that at least one family would feel before the sun went down on Greenfog again.

Lillie stole a glance at her sleeping brother, who was called Plato, and envied him the things he did not know. She was thirteen now, old enough to understand when trouble was coming. But she had been barely the boy's age—which was six—the first time the appraiser called. Back then, if Mama and Papa told her not to worry about what was going on, she wouldn't worry. If they told her that none of them would ever be sold away or flogged, she believed that too. When a child was marked for sale and its mother dropped to her knees and wailed with a terrible, animal sound, Mama would pick Lillie up and carry her off and sing in her ear so close and strong that the sound of the weeping woman's screams would seem to fall away.

But Lillie was too old to pick up now, too old to sing to and too old to believe good things were going to happen just because Mama said they were. All the other children who'd lost a family member to the slave traders had had mamas who told them the same things, and that hadn't helped them a lick.

As Lillie lay in bed, lost in these dark thoughts, a terrible, choking feeling came over her, and her skin went prickly hot with fear. In time, the sun would be up and she would face the day as well as she could—which she reckoned would probably be good enough. But here in the still-dark cabin, the low ceiling and the deep silence and even the thin, scratchy blanket under which she lay seemed all at once as if they would suffocate her. She flung off the blanket, causing her brother to stir slightly, and drew three or four deep, trembly breaths. She needed to get up, she needed to be outside, at least until day broke and her mama awoke. And she needed to go see her friend Bett.

Ever since Lillie had been old enough to explore the plantation on her own, spending time with Bett had lifted her mood. Bett was an old slave who lived on a tiny patch of unfarmed land just beyond the tobacco field. She had spent nearly all her adult life working the ovens in the Master's kitchen, baking cakes and muffins and loaves of bread and all manner of sweets and treats. When Bett was too old for Big House work, the Master had allowed the other slaves to build her a cabin of her own where she could live out her remaining years. She would still be required to work, of course, but now it would be for the other slaves alone, baking their weekly portion of bread, which the mamas were usually too busy in the fields to make on their own.

Bett had been old for as long as Lillie could remember, but no one seemed to know her exact age, including Bett herself—who also didn't seem to care. “There ain't but two states of things,” she liked to say. “There's alive, and there's dead. I expect I'll be one until I'm the other.”

When Lillie was feeling sad or cross, she'd often as not find her way to Bett's cabin, where she would help with the cleaning or water fetching or sometimes even the baking itself, and would always get something fine and fresh-baked for her troubles.

All the same, Lillie had not visited Bett much in the last year. She had an older girl's thoughts and an older girl's troubles now, and was not so easily soothed by a child's work and a child's reward. This morning, however, the comforts of Bett felt like just what she needed. Lillie glanced toward the window at the faintly brightening sky. Bett, she knew, would surely be awake now; she made it her business to be up before the sun. If Lillie hurried to her cabin now, she could help herself to one of the old woman's smiles—and perhaps a bite of her fresh-baked bread—and be back before her brother and Mama even knew she was gone.

Quietly, Lillie climbed out of bed. She was wearing nothing but her nightshirt, but it was long enough—nearly to her knees—to protect her against the morning chill and against being punished for going about undressed should anyone spot her. She tiptoed toward the door, taking care not to make the floorboards creak. She cast a nervous glance back toward Plato and Mama and then, before her courage could fail her, slipped out the front door.

The pebbly soil outside the cabin felt damp and gritty against Lillie's feet, and she shuddered a bit at the touch of it. She looked ahead toward the tobacco field and set off in its direction in a light trot. It was early September, and the days were still hot in the Carolinas, but the mornings were cool and pleasant, and Lillie enjoyed the feel of the air against her face and her bare arms and legs. Running through the tobacco plants, she squinted toward the end of the field where Bett's cabin lay. As she drew closer, she picked up the scent of baking on the air and smiled. It smelled like cornbread, and it smelled fine—but it also surprised her. Bett always baked her morning bread the night before, and on most days, she did not light her oven much before noon. Still, the smell alone helped lift Lillie's mood. It was almost as if Bett knew she'd be coming and knew what she'd need. Bett did seem to know such things without being told, a fact that delighted Lillie most of the time—and spooked her a little at other times.

At last, Lillie broke out of the field and into the clearing where the little cabin stood. She could see the curl of white cook smoke rising from the small chimney, and she came to a stop, scanning the quiet scene. As she did, her eyes widened in surprise. Bett raised a thick garden of flowers and vegetables behind her cabin, and that garden often drew a thick cloud of bees. But there was something queer about Bett's bees—or at least sometimes there was. Unlike most bees, which could fly a lot faster than a person could duck and run, Bett's bees were often strangely slow. Their wings moved with the sleepy sweep of swan wings; they floated from flower to hive so lazily that Lillie could sometimes beat them there at a walk. And if one of them came at her cross enough to sting, she could step out of the way and brush it out of the air with barely a thought. Few other people ever saw the bees, just a slave child now and then who might be playing nearby and whose story of having seen such a thing was never believed by any adult. Lillie and her brother did see the bees. They took to calling them the slowbees and loved to watch them when they appeared.