Second Daughter (13 page)

“I hear a lot about it, but they don't tell us much. There is little in the few newspapers,” Sarah said.

“The bill of rights states that all men are born equally free, that each man has certain rights, and that all are bound to obey only those laws to which they have given their consent.”

“Why're you so excited? You're not a man. They're not talking about us, Bett,” I said.

“That doesn't mean just men, it means
people
, men and women,” Bett replied.

“Most of the men upstairs will say that, but they are not about to make it a part of their lives. They are the rulers and they will never give up their property. Of course the poor can be equal when fighting in the army,” Sarah said. She spoke as if she knew them well.

“They're asking up there if the poor can do anything but fight in the army,” Bett said. “Can they make decisions about property when they have none? Their answer is no. It's only them, the educated and property owners, who have the wisdom,” Bett said.

“They're the same people in the courts who would not give us our freedom, so how will it be different this time?” I asked.

“This time it's not left up to the court and the king. The people will vote and every free man twenty-one years old and older will be voting on that constitution. They have to talk about it in every town. That's why they are so busy upstairs. They want to have their way in the town meetings and get all they can for themselves. But we'll see how the people vote.”

“Why do they have to go through all that for just some bill of rights?” Sarah asked.

“There are lots of other things that are important to them: What church will be the main one, who will pay taxes, things like that.”

“Won't matter. The poor will be poor, and we'll still be slaves.” I was not that interested.

“Lizzie, you have
no
faith. I have to believe that if it is said, it can be done. If all of us are created equal, then we all have the same rights to life. I have to believe that. Otherwise I couldn't go on living, knowing that Josiah died for nothing.” She went hurriedly upstairs. She must not keep them waiting.

That night she came home very excited. “That lawyer, Tapping Reeve, was there, and when he was leaving he said to me that he was sorry that I had lost my husband in the war.

“I was so surprised, I hardly spoke above a whisper when I thanked him. But I calmed myself and asked if he knew whether I could get Josiah's pay or a wife's stipend.

“He seemed surprised that I had not been given anything. He said he would look into it for me and see what he could get. You see, I have faith that there are good people everywhere, you just have to know how to be open to receive that goodness.”

“He hasn't done anything for you yet.”

“He promised. For me, that is enough to hold on to my faith.”

The meetings upstairs went on. Tapping Reeve kept his promise and Bett received the twenty pounds offered to families in the state of Massachusetts and forty shillings from the Continental Army, two months of Josiah's pay. She was so happy, and wasted no time before going to the master to ask to purchase Little Bett. He laughed. Did she not know how little money that was? Twenty pounds would not purchase any slave. He could raise five times that much for a healthy slave child. His answer was a firm
no
.

Finally after many town meetings, in 1780, the Massachusetts Constitution was finished and voted for. Bett told me that anybody voting for state officials had to own
twice
as much property as they had had to own before the constitution was written; and that to vote they had to pay something called a poll tax, which could be raised at any time.

I said to her, “But you said the people would decide that, not the court. How could the people vote to double the amount needed to vote? And why would they want to pay to vote? Did they really vote for that?”

“Yes, and two-thirds had to agree to all of it.” My sister refused to be upset. “They got the bill of rights.”

“They deserved something.” My tone did not tell her, in the least, the way I felt, and we closed that conversation without her reminding me of my impatience and lack of faith.

On November 25, one month before our days off at Christmas, a terrible thing happened. We were finishing up in the orchards and with other odds and ends when I heard an argument between Zach and the master. Suddenly the master took his rifle from his saddle and handed it to his white foreman. While the foreman held the gun, the master beat Zach in the face and across the head, and when Zach fell, he kicked him. We watched. I felt frightened and helplessly angry.

Then the master called the constable, who took Zach away and put him in prison. We didn't know what to do or where to go to see him. So each night we added Zach to our prayers along with all the others we knew wearing the yoke.

23

Bett went about her duties in the house as if she had not been denied the right to own her child. And as if her husband had not given his life for a mere twenty pounds, forty shillings. When the master asked, she gave. When the mistress commanded, she responded as though she was there only to serve. Sometimes I wanted to scream at her, You are more than just a slave! My anger burned like white heat while she remained cool. Was she biding her time? Did she know something that I didn't know?

At times I could see the disrespect Sarah felt for my sister, thinking that Bett accepted slavery willingly. After Bett had sought to buy Little Bett's freedom, the mistress had made life as miserable as possible for my sister. One day we were doing general cleaning. Bett was dusting windowsills.

“Bett,” the mistress asked, “when did you oil this dining table?”

“Just yesterday, Mistress.”

“Then do it again.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Bett went on dusting.

“Did you hear me, Bett? Do it again.”

Before Bett had finished the table, the mistress called from upstairs. “Bett, these bedclothes need airing badly.”

“Yes, Mistress. As soon as I finish the table.”

“Finish the table later. Do this bedding now!”

Bett started up the stairs. Sarah said, “Slow down. She pays me, and she'd better not do that to me. Finish that table.”

Bett ignored Sarah and went up the stairs. Sarah sighed and said to me, “Too bad your sister doesn't have your nerve. I bet if you were not a girl, you would've run away by now.”

I was ashamed but, even though I sometimes felt that Bett had too much patience in that house, I defended her. “My sister has the strength and the wisdom that I would do well to have. My impatience is a weakness.” Sarah never again hinted that my sister bowed to the master and mistress.

The war went on without either side being able to win a decisive victory. The house was in turmoil. The mistress daily confronted the master about getting John out of the service and with other matters that were trivial to say the least. I will never forget one day in March. The wind whipped up clouds that threatened a storm. I knew those clouds could bring hail as big as small donkers. But we had to remain in the field. Suddenly Zach was before us, as if he had been blown in by the wind. How happy we were to see him. His wounds were healed, but there were scars to remind us of that awful day.

In April, Bett came to our room. “Lord, trouble never seems to end. Listen to this: Zach Mullen has gone to the courts and accused the master of abuse and imprisonment. He is asking for the sum of nine pounds and nineteen shillings. They're going to court when it meets in August.”

“What? Bett, why can't we go? We're slaves. The mistress has beat me and she's always saying mean, nasty things.”

“The master beat Zach under the gun. But the court will decide.” While Zach waited, he still worked and the master kept his distance.

One evening, not long after Zach returned, we were in our room. I was reading to my niece and sister when someone knocked on our door. I rushed to open it. There in his uniform, with his sword by his side, stood John. He was so pale, and he looked years older. He smiled and asked, “May I come in?”

Bett jumped up, pulled him into the room, and put her arms around him. As she hugged him, tears flowed down his cheeks. “I'm so glad to be home,” he said, and looked embarrassed.

Bett told him that she had lost her husband, and they cried some more.

“Are you home for good?” Bett asked.

“Unfortunately. I can no longer be the best soldier, because of a head wound.”

I thought of the little boy who used to act like Bett was his mother, and watched the young man now made old by war and I felt his pain.

One lovely morning in May, not long after Little John returned, we were together in the kitchen. Brom had come to saddle John's favorite horse for John to go for a ride. After her son had left, the mistress, tearful, went to her room as she always did after watching him do anything. The girls went to help roll bandages and make the canvas bags for soldiers still at war.

All seemed well, and we were ready to have breakfast before going to work. Sarah had prepared a fine meal, including fresh scones. Little Bett, Bett, Brom, Sarah, and I began eating in a happy mood.

“Brom,” Sarah said, “I saw you far from here with a pretty girl.”

“You didn't see me with a girl,” Brom said. “Wasn't me.”

“Brom,” Bett said, “tell the truth and shame the devil.”

“Now, Bett, you know I love to brag. If I had a pretty woman, I certainly would tell.”

During pleasant moments when you forget you're a slave, the rude jerk back to reality is always a blow to the spirit. The mistress, hearing our laughter, burst in on us and said, “No one has declared time off for you. Bett, I would think you had better sense than to let this happen. Up from here, all of you, and get to work.”

Everyone rose to go, but I couldn't bring myself to move. Why would my mind refuse to send the signal to my feet? Move! All the others froze, knowing that I was putting myself in danger. The mistress was not to be disobeyed and
never
confronted. Still I could not move. It was as though time and motion slowed. The mistress shivered with anger; then she grabbed the shovel that had been left in the coals. The metal gleamed red and flashed as she seemed to float toward me, the shovel raised at my head.

Bett screamed and ran between me and the red-hot shovel. It landed on her arm just above the elbow, and the stench of burning flesh filled the room. For a moment I heard and saw nothing. Then the bedlam. Brom grabbed the shovel and Bett screamed, “No!”

Calmly, he placed the shovel on the hearth and quickly left the room. “Oh, Bett,” the mistress cried. She moved toward my sister.

“Please, don't.” Bett stepped away. “Come, Little Bett. Come, Aissa.” That was the first time she had ever called my name in front of the mistress. “Come, we're going home.”

“You can't leave here. You belong in this house.”

“I belong in
my
house! And if you call the constable, I will charge you for cruel treatment of your slave.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No threat, mistress. I merely state the truth. I'm leaving and I'll never come back.”

Then I realized what I had done. I had placed my sister and brother in danger. My sister's arm, seared, was white to the bone. What if my brother had hit the mistress? He would have been hanged.

I saw my sister in a different light as I packed our things to go to her house. The blow to Bett's arm was severe. I somehow felt that it was as much to her pride as to her arm. I was so ashamed and hurt. But how grateful I was to her for not letting Brom defend us. How sad for him that he, as a slave, could not protect his sisters.

When we were well down the road, Brom came through the forest and joined us. He took our bundles so that I could support Bett who was in shock. Bett collapsed in pain as soon as we reached her place. She tried hard to disguise it, but I knew she was suffering. What would happen to us? The master was probably setting things in motion to make us return.

The deep wound that had been seared white was now scarlet like the flame that had heated the shovel. And what should have been blood was a clear liquid oozing around it. In spite of the pain, Bett was able to tell me what herbs to mix that would help prevent infection. That night I was so busy trying to relieve Bett's pain that I had no time to worry about the master.

Next morning I was the first to hear the sound of a horse-drawn cart. “Bett, he's coming. Let's hide.”

“I don't know who it is, but no matter, I will not hide.” She got up and went to the door. It was the master, and before he had a chance to get down from the cart, Bett met him. “I will not go back to a place where our lives are in danger,” she said even before he spoke.

“I have never raised a hand to you. You have been treated with respect and with kindness in my house.”

“You've not beaten me, but I've done nothing to deserve a beating. I've worked hard and long for you and your wife's family. For that I've not earned one pence. The work I did for others, you were paid for that. That's not respect nor kindness. I've suffered the abuse your wife heaped upon my sister and finally upon me.” She showed him her arm.

He winced, his face reddened, and he spoke harshly. “You will return with me now or I will call the constable and have you brought back.”

“I think the constable would agree with me that I've been abused, and you have no right to abuse a slave. I'll stay right here until the constable comes.”

I listened, so afraid. What if they put us in jail? I felt that my life with my sister was over. The mistress would probably insist that I be sold off to Barbados or down south. Not long after the master left, the constable came and arrested us all and took us to the master's.

Sarah greeted us and insisted that Bett sit down. “The mistress is getting dressed,” she whispered. “She knows you all were coming so she'll be down soon.”