Mary enjoyed the walks with her mistress; she liked being out away from the farm. Sometimes Mary skipped up the road and back again and Victoria would laugh at her antics. The boys never skipped; they were too venerable for that. But the boys would nudge each other, then push and shove, but always when the mistress wasn’t looking. Dark Henry was the tallest and usually won the scuffles. Mary could play, but they knew better.
Mary came back home one evening and there was a great commotion going on. Nan, Liza’s daughter was given permission to marry Gabe, the farm’s smithy. This was cause for celebration and planning. Master Anderson had given his permission for them to marry on Sunday next. He had given the couple permission to have the next day off from field and farm work for their honeymoon.
Nan was a strapping sixteen-year-old; her ample figure had caught Gabe’s eye. Nan had an easy smile and a wonderful laugh that made you want to laugh along with her. Gabe was a big man, his shoulders broad from wielding the large hammer he used to forge and shape iron and metals. He wasn’t a handsome man, but his kindness more than made up for his shortcomings. Gabe even had his own small cabin, filled with pots and skillets and assorted tools he had made over the years.
It was a good match for Nan and she was thrilled about it. Especially since Gabe lived there on the farm. She would have him every night, not just once or twice a week. Liza was happy, but a bit melancholy; her youngest was leaving the nest. Liza was glad that Nan hadn’t been taken from her, her oldest girls had been sold long ago. Luckily, they were bought together, so she knew her daughters had each other and their children. That she could see them periodically helped as well. That was all anyone could hope for.
THREE
When Sunday arrived, everyone finished their gardening and chores just after noon. Nan was hurried away to dress for the wedding. Old Bitsy would officiate over the jumping ceremony. Old Bitsy officiated over all the important ceremonies. She was the oldest slave there, near ninety years old. She watched over the babies and smaller children when their mothers were out in the fields. Old Bitsy was frail and shook terribly, but was sharp in mind and spirit. She was the storyteller as well, telling stories of the old days. She would hold her audience in awe and could scare the hell out of them with her stories. Old Bitsy was taken care of by the whole community of slaves, she was their treasure.
She had come over from Africa as a young child. Her mother and father had died on the crossing and Bitsy had watched numbly as her parent’s bodies were thrown overboard to the waiting sharks. Bitsy told them of the cramped ship’s hole; where the air was foul with vomit and excrement. She spoke of the rusting fetters that were cruelly fastened to their ankles, cutting into their tender flesh. Some of the dead slaves were left to rot, still in chains, before they were disposed of. The water given once a day was brackish and stale. Sometimes there was no water at all, for days. The old and very young died. Many times, Bitsy had to fight for the little food she was given. She had to fight the men who had wanted to rape her. A large man had protected her though and saved her from the savage rapes below decks.
Bitsy and her parent had been going to visit family in another village. They were jumped and attacked by another warring tribe and carried in woven nets to the coast. From there, they were sold to white men and put aboard the death ship. The below decks were tightly packed with humanity and it had been difficult to breathe the fetid air. Only when many died, was there more room and more air. Bodies were slung indifferently into the naked ocean, mothers screaming for their dead babies, children trying to follow the beloved parent. It had been a ship of anguish, and young Bitsy couldn’t understand the horror of it all. Several were able to make it over the side before they could be caught and taken below, drowning in the dark depths of the cold ocean, to be eaten by leviathans.
Old Bitsy had been sold alone, no mother or father to hold her, her family long lost to her. Old Bitsy told stories of the auction block, where the white men pushed and shoved to look at all the slaves.
“The stench was horrible. We were all sick. I wanted to die. We all stood naked before those white pasty faces. I was afraid. I didn’t understand these strangers. The world was strange here.” She said, looking at the children, who fearfully clutched each other.
“It was nigh on winter and it was cold. I’d never felt that kind of cold. We docked at Charleston Harbor and we were off loaded, chained to each other. Women and children cried. I cried and my fingers and toes stung from the cold that blew off the water.” She said and shivered in illustration. The children around her shivered too.
“Everyone from the ship was taken to holdin’ stables, where we was kept until it was time to go onto the block. I was crammed in with twenty other wretched folks, in a cell no bigger than a horse stall. I had warmed up with all them bodies, but it
