Clark was loading up baggage in the back of the carriage, with the help of two young livery slaves. He saw Ida walk up with Mary. Clark pulled Mary around to the back of the wagon and put her into the bed with the other children. They huddled together for warmth and security. Mary was shaking like a leaf, not from cold, but from terror, Ida knew. Ida’s eyes curved over her child’s face, memorizing, should this be the last time she saw her. Ida heard the screams in the distance, screams and cries and anguish from the other mothers. Their cries burning her heart and her soul.
The mistress and master came out of the house and climbed into the waiting carriage. They seemed not to hear the plaintiff cries, not so far away. Clark hopped up onto the wagon and gave Tall Tom orders to make sure everything stayed quiet at the farm. Tall Tom, who watched the farm while the master was away, merely watched over the slaves. Master Anderson’s son, Theodore, would take over those duties once he returned in a few years, from school. Todd, the oldest Anderson boy was thirty-two, stopped by from time to time whenever the Master was away. Samuel, the middle son never came home. This was a sore spot with John Anderson. There were no secrets that the slaves didn’t know about on the Anderson farm.
Ida stood rooted to the spot long after the wagon and carriage had driven away. Her heart was in her throat, the tears freezing on her lashes. She prayed very hard that the good Lord would send her daughter back. Liza walked up from the cabins and guided Ida back to her cabin. Bodies littered the yard around the cabins, women still screaming, hoarsely, for their children. Their men were trying to drag the prostrate women into the warmth of their cabins before they froze to death, it was an unusually cold February.
Old Bitsy stood in the dooryard of her cabin, shaking her grizzled head. She had lived too long. Surely God had forgotten about her and left her here to witness this tragedy once again. She had seen it all too many times, and still it tore her heart out anew. Babies being ripped from their homes, sent out into the pitiless world, alone and without family. She hoped the children found good homes, she hopped there were mothers who needed them and would care for them.
Master Anderson sold the children and other problem slaves from time to time. Old Bitsy had seen it countless times over the years. The last time master had sold children was some six or seven years ago. Anderson wanted to keep the slaves at a reasonable number, too many and he would lose money. The farm wasn’t small, but it wasn’t as big as some of the surrounding plantations. Housing, clothing and feeding the slaves had to be balanced with the crops that were sold. Anderson rarely bought new slaves unless a sickness took too many of them. Like his father before him, Master Anderson shaped the destinies of all within his realm. The man did so with no thought of the wreck and ruin he left behind, though he was less cruel than his father. Terrance had been a monster.
Old Bitsy went back into her tiny cabin, the sound of crying had eased some what, but still followed her through the thin walls. She hobbled over to the low fire, and pulled the kettle off the fire. She poured the steaming water into a cup, which contained dried herbs. She let it steep while she rocked in an old rocking chair, one of the men had made for her years ago. Its rich warm color and shiny smooth surface was from the oils in her old hands and fit around her like a loving embrace, encasing her old tired bones, and rocked her into contentment. She had a pillow that she’d made, stuffed with cotton that she’d picked and saved. The man who had made the rocking chair was long dead, as so many of her contemporaries were. Sipping the tea, she closed her eyes. Old Bitsy felt the familiar sting of tears in her old eyes, and let them fall down the rivets of her ancient face.
It’s done past the time of dying, she thought glumly. She sipped and rocked a while longer, then went over to her small pallet on the hard dirt floor. She felt a thousand years old this morning. The cold seemed to seep into her old bones and made her ache for death. The tea helped and she settled her old sticks more comfortable among the ragged quilts. Her breath softened to light snoring. Later in the morning, as the blue jays called among the leafless oaks, God remembered Old Bitsy and took her with Him. She was very happy to see Him; her smile said so when she greeted Him.
FOUR
The day was long and cold; the wagon bounced and hit ruts in the road that jarred the children riding within. The children sat on a bed of straw, but this did nothing to soften the ride, neither for their physical comforts nor their emotional comforts. Many of the children cried themselves to sleep, sucking their thumbs for calm. Mary and Ellis held hands, holding each other for warmth and security. Ellis was a couple months older than Mary. It broke her heart to think she would never see him again. She was glad that Patina wasn’t here. She didn’t want to think about her mother. Would she see her again?
Mary’s eyes were dry, they felt
