Second Daughter (11 page)

20

The war kept the master and his friends busy with planning and scheming how to get more men for the Continental Army. Bett, again, found herself always rushing between her regular chores and keeping the master's company satisfied in the upstairs room. Not only did they deal with the demands of the war, but they were also writing a constitution for their state, Massachusetts.

Bett was often ill-tempered. “I am beginning to understand what Josiah and Grippy meant about how these people make a difference between laws that have to do with people and those that have to do with property. The rights of the people will not be decided by all of the people, but only by those who own property.”

I listened, but I didn't care about their laws. I was worried about Nance, who was not at all well. And about Josiah. We hadn't heard from him in a long time. We didn't know whether he was dead or alive. The only thing we heard was that the Africans in the war could not sign up for just three months; they had to sign up for the duration. Josiah had been gone now for more than a year and we had received only one letter.

“Aissa,” Bett said, “I heard them talking about raising money for the families of soldiers in the war. Wouldn't that be nice?”

“You think the master will let you have your share?”

“I don't know, but they seem to be concerned more than other colonies. And they are angry, too. They're doing more and getting less credit. They don't like that General Washington. They wanted somebody named John Hancock, but their own representative there in Philadelphia, John Adams, chose Washington.”

“I don't want to hear that. The only soldier I want to hear about is Josiah.”

Bett rushed from the room, leaving me and Little Bett alone in the darkness. I knew I had hurt her feelings. She always refused to talk about things that might let me know that she had feelings like the rest of us.

The next time I was sent into the main street for oil, candles, and other items for the house, I saw men marching up and down with guns practicing for war. Some as young as fifteen. I heard they had to have their own guns. Some of them had big rifles, and others had what appeared to be guns for shooting birds. Little John told his father that he wanted to sign up, but the mistress would hear nothing of that. She would buy him a replacement first.

There was some excitement in the house one day when Little John walked in with a young man about his own age. The two were having lively talk and I could tell the friend was not a gentleman's son. The mistress was sitting in the room and when she heard the chatter, she stood. John was sort of taken back with surprise, but the other young man stood smiling, waiting, I thought, for John to say something.

“Don't stand there with your cap on like the ruffian you are. Remove your cap in my presence,” the mistress said, coldly.

The young man, confused, stood with a look of disbelief on his face, then he jerked the cap from his head, leaving his hair untidy. Finally John said, “Mother, this is Simon. He will be going to war soon. I want him to see my guns. Come with me, Simon.” John spoke as if the outburst had not occurred.

“I must be on my way,” Simon said, squaring his shoulders. “I feel I'd be intruding if I stayed. But thank you anyway. Maybe I'll see your guns in battle.” He stuffed his cap back on his head and was about to leave the room.

“Wait,” the mistress said. “I will give you sixty pounds if you will agree to take John's place in the service.”

“Sixty pounds?”

“His father will add more, I am sure, if that is not enough.”

“Enough for what?” the master said as he walked into the room.

“This young man is willing to take John's place in service.”

“And who said John's place is for sale?” the master asked. “Is this your doing, John?”

“I brought him here to see my guns because he is off soon. It's not my idea.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Simon said. “There's a mistake. I'm going in my own place.” He hurried off.

“John,” the master said, “you are excused.” After John left, the master said to the mistress, “Why did you assume John will not do his duty as a soldier when it is time?”

“Because I don't want him to,” she cried.

“It's not left up to you, or to me. It is strictly his decision and I don't want you to interfere. Is that clear?”

I soon left the house for chores away from the mistress, for I knew she was angry at the master and my very presence could easily spark a violent storm.

Nance got no better, and when Sarah came in for sewing she helped Nance with the cooking. Sarah did the strenuous things like kneading bread and lifting heavy pans out of the oven. Her news was sad. More and more men were joining the service, including Agrippa.

That year, 1778, we had an early fall and the days were cold and damp. With few men to harvest the fields and orchards, the mistress and the girls had to help. The mistress did no picking; she took the pails back and forth to the cart that held the picked fruit. I was surprised to see that she was getting older and still she hadn't learned to control her temper.

Though Nance had been coughing and had a fever, she had to come into the orchard to help pick the fruit. I tried to work close to her and put fruit in her pail so that the mistress would not complain. I was off at the cart with a pail of pickings and when I returned, Nance had fallen, facedown, and could not get up.

“Come, boy,” the mistress called to Brom. “Take her to her quarters and hurry back to work.”

“I'll go with her to see that she's all right,” Bett said.

“She'll be fine. We must get this fruit picked.”

“Mother,” Mary said, alarmed. “I'll go with her.”

“You will do no such thing. I am sure she'll be all right.”

It was late when we returned to our room. Immediately we went to see about Nance. She was unable to talk, but groaned as if in great pain. Bett went for the master. When he saw Nance he said, “Why have you waited so long to tell me she was sick?”

“When she fell in the orchard, the mistress said she'd be all right and that I must keep working.”

“When did this happen?”

“Just before midday meal.”

He sighed deeply. “A doctor could have been called then. I'll have to wait until morning now.”

We sat all night. Just before the cock crowed, Nance became quiet and I fell asleep. Day was dawning when Bett awoke me. “Nance is dead,” she said.

“She can't be. She can't leave us now.” I began to cry.

“Aissa, don't. Let her spirit depart in peace. For sure, Nance is now free. Let us rejoice in her freedom.”

I could not rejoice. I could only feel angry that nothing had been done to make sure that nothing could be done.

Nance's funeral was held in the early evening on a warm autumn day so that other slaves could come after their work. The mistress gave Bett cotton to make a winding sheet and the master provided a coffin. The men brought wood to make torches to lighten the dark. A friend, Felix Cato, who was also a Methodist preacher, was asked to do the service.

We all met around the coffin that lay on a trestle in front of the building where we lived. Only Mary came from the house. She stood with us, a small figure, her fair hair falling to her shoulders, and listened silently as we all lifted our voices in a hymn. When the prayer was said, we knelt in the soft grass and sand. At first Mary seemed uncertain, then she sank to her knees.

Minister Felix closed his prayer with a blessing upon the master and mistress and upon the little mistress who had graced us with her presence.

I glanced at Mary. Her head was lowered, her face and neck scarlet, and tears were beginning to flow. In this act of facing God, did she accept us as equals? The full moon hung golden on the horizon as we walked to the small plot where slaves were buried, under the sound of those words that assured us that there was a resurrection and life, and those who died would live again. After prayer and song at the grave, Minister Felix said a few words, once more assuring us that Nance would live again. “Didn't God raise Lazarus from the dead?” he asked in his deep, spellbinding voice. “Then why not our sister, Nance?”

It was not until the body was lowered into the ground that we all sensed our loss and poured out our grief in cries and lamentations, Little Bett most piteously. My sister stood dry-eyed and Mary looked amazed and a little frightened at our outcry, but she stayed until we were all ready to walk back.

Mary walked alone ahead of us and went directly home. For a few minutes we stood about while Bett expressed our thanks to all for coming. The full moon was now a cold white light as we said good-bye to our friends and went to our room.

We quietly undressed and while we were saying our prayers, Bett broke down and cried. “Oh, if only there was someone I could turn to who'll be there.”

I wanted to take her in my arms and assure her that she could turn to me. I was there for her, but I could not move, and the moment was lost forever.

21

After Nance's death, the mistress tried to make a cook out of Bett. Bett had never been a kitchen person. She was always lady's maid, housekeeper, errand-runner, plus assistant to the master. I was at my best alone, outside in the field. The master often came by and looked at my work. My rows were straight and always shaped so that the water settled to nourish the roots. I made ditches nearby to hold water that could be used when we had a dry spell. He noticed, but never said anything. Where I worked, the yield was better. I knew if I had owned land, I would have been a good farmer.

I was also a good cook. I had spent too many years in the kitchen not to have learned from Nance. But did the mistress ask if I could cook? She did not. And I didn't tell her. The less she expected of me, the less I had to do. She expected me to be stupid and so I fulfilled her expectations.

With Bett in the kitchen, we suffered. The bread was heavy, the gravy lumpy, the meat over- or underdone. There was never a leaving-the-table feeling full and satisfied. Finally, the mistress hired Sarah.

Nance had been a good basic cook; Sarah was a fancy one. She had worked in many different homes: the Kellogs', Callenders', Ingersolls', and Deweys'. Therefore, she brought to the Ashleys' a range of new ideas that Sarah called her own. I learned much from her and more about her.

At first, I found it hard to work with her. She had her own way of doing things. She seldom used the wooden sour tub for making bread, and when she did, she used honey and salted it strong. “You must wash all the silver before you do the dishes,” she always reminded me. “And wash the glassware before the china.” What difference did it make? All things had to be washed. I learned that if I did it Sarah's way, it was easier and the dishes looked cleaner.

Sarah could read and write. Sometimes she made things from a book that she hid under her skirt so that the mistress would not take it away from her. Her pastries were crumbly good, her pheasant was never dry, and the way she used wines made all of the mistress's guests wonder what she did to make things taste so good. Sarah never showed her book.

One day I saw her reading and said to her, “Sarah, do you think I could learn to read?”

“You learned to talk, didn't you? I remember when you came you couldn't speak English at all. You and your sister spoke Dutch. You learned to speak English, I would say too fast.” She laughed.

“What's that got to do with reading?”

“Everything. The words we say are made out of letters.” She wrote an X, an A, and a T. “People let the X stand for their names when they can't write. You know what a bird is. B-I-R-D stands for that creature that sings. So you see, writing is nothing but things standing for things. We call them words. You read words, and anybody who talks as much as you, girl, can read.”

I began to pay attention. But the mistress didn't let up for one minute. There was always something that I had not done, or had not done right. But when she was not around, Sarah and I found time for me to learn to read. What joy!

My sister was happy that I was happy, but she did not get along with Sarah as well as she had with Nance. Nance was motherly, Sarah youthfully fresh. Sarah knew a lot, but I soon learned that she did not have the wisdom my sister had. And my sister knew that. I also learned a lot about my sister, looking at her alongside Sarah. She treated Sarah the way she treated most people, friendly but always held at a distance. Bett never made small talk, and she could talk all day and never say enough about herself to give you a clue to who she really was.

Sarah admired her, but there was some competition between the slave and the hired woman. The very first day, Sarah said, “Miss Bett, can you come and show me how to set up for the guest?” Bett in her most friendly manner said, “I am neither miss nor mistress in this house. About things like that you must speak to Mistress Anna.” She smiled and walked quickly from the room.

Sarah soon learned that Bett would not oversee her work, nor was Bett interested in what was going on in the kitchen. She had her chores on and off the place that kept her busy, and besides, even though she didn't show it, I knew she was deeply worried about Josiah. A whole year had gone by since we had last heard from him.

Fall turned to cold, rainy, icy winter. Long after our prayers for Josiah were over, I struggled by candlelight, bundled in my clothes and old blankets, to read the worn primer and speller that Sarah had given me. Bit by bit I learned the miracle of reading and writing.

What joy I found reading to Little Bett. My sister had almost no time with us, but sometimes when snow was falling and the wind was whistling in the trees, she, too, was delighted with the prayers and Bible stories.

Sarah brought word that wounded soldiers were returning from the slave battalion. Bett and I began to hope that maybe Josiah would be among them, or that we would have word from him. We waited.