The Slave Master's Son Read online

  The Slave Master’s Son

  By Tiana Laveen

  Copyright © 2011 by Tiana Laveen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotes embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Jerry Drury

  January 2012

  First Edition

  Acknowledgment

  This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Mary Alice Paul, as well as my ancestors and the pioneers of racial equality that helped pave the way with their blood, sweat, and tears so that we all could love freely.

  CHAPTER 1

  August 13, 1863

  The thin, wispy, sorrowful trees swayed in the Richmond, Virginia summer heat. Two youthful bodies, covered with long, wet strands of grass, dipped into the jeweled water of the James River. John Stewart, a strapping seventeen-year-old young man with shimmering, pastel skin, midnight hair, and piercing blue eyes took Hannah’s deep tawny brown arm and led her to their favorite spot under the trees to dry off from their dusk swim. The sun would soon retreat. Earnest worry and concern covered Hannah’s fourteen-and-a-half-year-old, doll-like face. Her knotty, off-black, wild, long hair, adorned with a crimson wildflower John had placed in a cluster of her tight curls, was the source of his great wonder. As small children they played together in the fields and at night snuck around the house in concert, stealing ginger cookies from the kitchen and giggling under layers of compactly woven quilts and worn sheets while the twinkling stars bathed their contrasting bodies in the sweetest expressions of adolescent love. This particular evening, John held Hannah close.

  “Hannah, it will be fine, I promise you,” he said as he slid his tweed trousers over his long, thin legs. “The state of Virginia is at war with itself. Much is at stake. These are things you may not understand right now, but you will in time,” John assured.

  “John, you’re my best friend. I ain’t got nobody else,” Hannah pleaded.

  “I love you, Hannah. Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean I’m going to forget about you. Besides, I’m at the university, and I still have a year to complete my program. Come, sit with me. Let me explain what’s going on.” John took Hannah delicately by the wrist and laid her on her side facing him while they adjusted themselves amongst the long blades of grass. He looked up at her. His fingertips traced her chin as he admired her large, dark-brown eyes.

  “My father is vehemently afraid of behavior he’d deem unsuitable as I grow older. He stated that as children, it was fine. Your mother nursed me, and since we were of approximate age it made good sense that we became close. I cherish all of those memories, Hannah. The circumstances, my beloved, have now evolved beyond this. I do truly love you, and that’ll never change. I declare it to the stars and the moon that I can see so clearly in your eyes. I declare it to you and to all the birds that’ll listen.” John reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny locket. He sat up, gently turned Hannah away, and reached around her, pushing up her soft coif of thick curls as he snapped the necklace closed around her delicate, extended neck.

  “Hannah, this belonged to my mother. It now belongs to you. I’ll be back. Keep practicing your reading with the books and lessons I gave you. Keep them hidden away under your bed. Don’t allow even your mother to see them. I need you to be able to read the letters I mail you. I have full confidence that this wish of mine will be granted. Please remember that I’ll be back. I assure you.” A single teardrop emerged and ran slowly down Hannah’s satiny, dark-bronze face. Her ebony eyes, enhanced by long, dark eyelashes caught the moisture of subsequent tears, webbing the watery anguish amongst them. John raised his index finger and wiped Hannah’s face.

  “What’ll I do? Who’ll I trust?” Hannah asked as she buttoned her soiled green dress.

  “You’ll be fine. My father takes a special interest in you because of your mother and me. He won’t allow anything to happen to you or your mother. Just be mindful of any instructions he may give.”

  “Master Stewart doesn’t like me, John,” Hannah said in a worried voice.

  “Yes, he does, Hannah. As I’ve stated to you time and time again, he’s concerned about our closeness. He says it’s inappropriate. He used to treat you well until a year or so ago. You said it yourself,” John corrected.

  “Well, that ain’t what’s goin’ on right now,” Hannah said angrily. John sighed.

  “Hannah, your mother told her friends that you’d come into your womanhood. Word spread to my father in preparation for you to be bred. I didn’t want to tell you this,” John explained. “He was upset that your mother withheld this information for at least six months. She was trying to protect you from such experiences.” Hannah hung her head in shame.

  “Why do you speak of such things, John?”

  “Hannah, I don’t wish to embarrass you or cause you harm. I’m simply explaining why my father has had a change of heart. It has nothing to do with any detestation of you personally. I need you to find my words sincere, Hannah. He’s afraid of – us.”

  “I know. You don’t need to say it.” Hannah hung her head again. A part of her burned inside as she recalled the speculation that Master Stewart had allegedly created five mulatto children with various slave women, her mother excluded. Hannah had seen them occasionally. One she’d even befriended, although their contact was sporadic. Suddenly, all five seemed to vanish. The last rumor was that Master Stewart sent them up north. Unable to express her rage to John about such hypocrisy, she simply screamed aloud. John touched her, turning her around to face him.

  “Why did you scream? What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “Nothing.” Tears ran down Hannah’s face once more. John held Hannah tightly, burying his narrow face in her cluster of cottony curls. He delicately kissed her cheek as he held her close. She could feel the thumping of his heart, vibrant and fast, fear and excitement woven together. John shook water from his black hair, picked up his gun, took Hannah by the hand, and quietly led her back to his father’s house.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  “There’s a Quaker family coming to speak with Master Stewart,” whispered Andrea to Mary. Mary was Hannah’s mother. She was a striking, dark-complected woman with thick, wavy, waist-length hair. Unlike Hannah, she was born in the Deep South but was later sold to a family in Virginia as a teenager. It was known that Mary’s mother was Native American and her father West African, both of whom were slaves. Mary gave birth to twelve children beginning at the age of eleven. Several of them were sold immediately. One was sired by her former master, Master Corbin, who passed away after a sudden heart attack. Mary’s soul bore the scars. Her youngest, Hannah, she guarded with all she could. Mary had been sold three times. When Master Stewart purchased her, he promised that Hannah would be well taken care of and never sold. Upon Master Stewart’s wife’s expiration from complications during the birth of John, Mary swiftly stepped in and cared for the infant as if he were her own flesh and blood. Still having milk in her breasts from Hannah’s older brother, who later passed from tuberculosis, she nursed John.

  Soon after, she gave birth to Hannah. Hannah’s father was a slave that belonged to Master William who had the reputation of being very hard – downright abusive to his slaves. He had fourteen strapping males whom he’d often rent out for mating, two of which were rumored to be his own kin. Hannah was the product of such an arrangement.

  “What are they c
omin’ about?” Mary asked Andrea as she placed a stack of sturdy ivory plates on the long kitchen counter.

  “They want to talk to him about us and God’s word,” Andrea whispered as she stirred the pot of beans and peeked on the cornbread. Mary rolled her eyes.

  “The truth is they don’t want us around they chil’rin,” Mary snapped. “Most of ’em Quakers are just pretendin’ to care and use the Lord as the reason.” Mary took the hog fat from the butcher paper and sliced off a few, thin pieces.

  “Hannah!” she called out. Hannah entered the kitchen holding one of her long plaits between her fingers.

  “Yes, Mama,” she responded docilely.

  “I need you to set the table and sweep the porch. Come here,” Mary directed. Hannah approached her mother who began to comb Hannah’s hair with her fingers. She gathered her daughter’s thick, curly tresses, twisting them into a braided ball.

  “There – now your hair’s outta the way.” Mary smiled and patted Hannah on the shoulder. Mary looked at her beautiful daughter, taking notice of her developing body. She winced. “Somebody gonna hurt my baby,” she thought to herself. Her eyes watered with pain as she recalled the day Hannah received her first period. She tried to hide it but could no longer when Hannah bled through her dress six months after the curse first manifested. She knew it meant Hannah would be solicited to make babies.

  Hannah gathered the delicate tea cups and placed them on the elaborately ornate dining room table. Other slaves mingled about humming songs as they placed fresh bread on the table, dusted furniture, and completed other chores. Hannah looked up and saw a picture of John Stewart, Jr. in the dining room. Her heart thumped. She hadn’t seen nor spoke to him in over six months. She’d been practicing her reading and writing, just as he’d instructed, but hadn’t received any letters of correspondence. Her heart sunk a bit more each day as she convinced herself he’d forgotten all about her.

  She continued to set the table, then took the long, wooden broom and headed towards the expansive, front porch. She looked up at the swirling, disorganized sky and felt the tickle of the cool breeze against her skin. The steel-grey clouds threatened torrential despair. In the distance, Hannah spotted a Quaker family. She stood still, peering into the darkness as the dark-colored dresses and hats floated towards her as if they too were low-lying clouds.

  “Quakers,” she said under her breath as she turned to continue sweeping. Her abrupt to-and-fro motions caused her light feet to make the porch boards creak.

  “Hannah!” yelled Master Stewart, in a booming, commanding voice. “Come off the porch, please.” Hannah dropped the broom and scurried inside without a moment’s hesitation. She noticed that as soon as John Jr. left, Master Stewart became warm and affectionate towards her again. She surmised that John was, in fact, telling her the truth the day before he left. Master Stewart patted Hannah’s shoulder lightly and pointed to the kitchen. She walked slowly away from him as she heard him slowly open the front the door.

  “Good day, Mr. Madison. Please, won’t you come inside?” Master Stewart asked as the darkly-clothed family of five entered the large estate. Hannah headed to the unnatural quiet of the upstairs. Most of the slave quarters were on the first floor with a couple outside the house in the back hidden amongst lush grasses and wild flowers. However, Mary was allowed to have a sizeable second floor bedroom, well-heated and furnished, that she shared with Hannah. On her way to sneak in a fast nap, Hannah noticed something unusual. The door of Master Stewart’s coveted and off-limits boudoir was ajar. A thin stream of orange light leaked out into the expansive hallway. Typically, he always had it closed and locked. Hannah stood in the dimness of the hall with only candlelight from the bedroom casting shadowy illuminations that teased her, daring her to come closer.

  She slowly approached the bedroom, her footsteps fluttering. She opened the heavy door the rest of the way. It squeaked as she pushed it towards the left wall. She quickly looked behind her, making sure no one heard. She carefully walked inside, quietly closing the door behind her. She looked at the elaborate decor featuring gold-framed pictures depicting horseback riding, beautiful country sides, and elegant women. The four-post, hand-carved bed stood high in the air, demanding attention and reverence. It was dressed in rich shades of chocolate, ruby, cream, and purple throughout. She’d never seen such a bed before. Her tiny iron bed with a sunken mattress paled in comparison.

  Paranoid, she looked behind her to make sure no one was there. She could barely see as she quickly took in the sights and scents. She hid all of her treasures under her bed and thought that maybe Master Stewart did the same. Taking the lit candle, Hannah got down on all fours, delicately lifted the bed skirt, and lowered her head, looking deep into the blackness. She looked to the left, then to the right. She could see a large yellow box. Hannah set the candle down and drew the box towards her for inspection. She opened the lid and brought the candle near.

  Inside were countless letters in thick envelopes. Some were rainwater stained, others smelled of dirt while others had the faint aroma of perfumes and dried flowers. Some were wrapped in ribbons and some in thick twine. Hannah sifted through the papers, her fingers moving feverishly. She stopped as she saw her name written on a stack of letters that were bound in unraveling, threadbare, red ribbon. She looked at them, her mouth ajar. She slowly traced them with her index finger and brought them near her nose. The faint stench of mud and gunpowder lingered. Recognizing John’s handwriting, her excitement grew as she reopened them, scouring them vigorously, line after line.

  October 2, 1863

  Dear Hannah,

  My love for you is stronger than ever. I wish I were there to hold you in my arms. I’m in a place that could only be compared to the depths of Hell. I entered into this war for one purpose, and this has caused my father much disappointment. He’s discovered the true source of my recent indignation.

  My fear as of late is that you will find someone else of greater interest or be given to the arms of another and could subsequently be lost from me forever. I know it would be without your implicit consent, but that does not make it any easier for me. I left schooling for this. My mission has vastly changed, but my priorities have remained constant. I’ll continue to write to you and ask that, when it’s plausible, you write me as well. As instructed, give your letters to Ben, and he’ll ensure they arrive. As for my letters, they will always be addressed to Ben so as to avoid interference in your receiving them. I sincerely doubt that you will have any problems reading them. You’re an excellent pupil.

  Your sincere lover,

  John

  Hannah wiped her freshly-fallen tears as she opened another letter from John addressed to Ben.

  December 16, 1863

  Dear Hannah,

  For safety’s sake, I was unable to write you for two weeks. This war is getting worse, and my affiliation and convictions are leaving me vulnerable. I have no intention of causing you alarm, but understand I’m a changed man after some of the atrocities I’ve witnessed. I believe it’s only by the grace of God that I’m still drawing breath. I continue to fight. I no longer see faces of the fallen men – only blurs. I don’t know their names. I only know it was my life or theirs. The threat of pending danger is met with my skilled archery or gun. Hesitation will get you killed as I’ve seen countless times.

  My nights are filled with tossing and turning. The worse nightmare thus far, however, isn’t hearing from you. It has become painfully apparent that either my letters have been circumvented by someone or you’re no longer leaving room for my presence in your heart. I give you my sincere apologies for my departure which I saw upset you so. Hannah, I miss you as much if not more than you miss me. Please speak to me if you’re receiving these correspondences. If my letters are, in fact, reaching you, please acknowledge receipt of this letter by simply writing your first name on a piece of paper and sending it my way. I won’t trouble you any more should I receive it.

  Please know that regardless
of how you may feel towards me, I still love you deeply, and there’s nothing that will change this fact.

  With deepest gratitude,

  John

  December 25, 1863

  Dear Hannah,

  I received your response letter. It’s clear that you wish to have nothing further to do with me. It wounded me to the core, but I appreciate your honesty. I suppose I deserve this. I want to let you know that I’m in the abolitionist movement. I left the army and joined the abolitionists. My father is dismayed, disappointed, and finds ill favor upon me. He’s sent correspondence alerting me of such. Though he sympathizes with the poor treatment of many who are enslaved, he does not believe that the entire institution needs to be eradicated. I’m baffled by his stance. He taught me that the slaves deserved fair and equal treatment and for me to never believe I was above them – above you – in any fashion. I followed that philosophy, and now he disapproves. I’m terribly confused by his repeated mixed messages. He also does not believe that I have deep, earnest love for my country. The fact that I love my country is the very thing which compels me to do this. I love this country, Hannah. That’s why I want it be great, not just good. We can’t be great if we continue to utilize slavery. Either pay the negro a livable wage or let him or her go. No one should be forced to labor against their will and then go uncompensated for their diligence.

  As a child, I must admit, I didn’t understand the severity of the situation. Even when I left to fight, I didn’t fully grasp what this has done to us as a nation. I’ve had a great deal of time to think, write, and develop my ideas. I’m discovering by each second of the day what I believe and stand for, especially now that I’m not under my father’s firm thumb. He’s concerned that, upon my arrival, I won’t be welcomed at the university. This is highly unlikely. He’s attempting to scare me into submission. Nevertheless, I hope you’re well, Hannah. I miss you. I’ll keep to my promise and never trouble you again.