The Slave Master's Son

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 comin’ 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.