Chariot on the Mountain Read online

  The people of Rappahannock County were never quite sure what to make of Fanny Withers. She was, indeed, the belle of the county—beautiful, educated, and charming—yet she had also become one of the shrewdest property investors and toughest negotiators around. She and her sister, Katie, had inherited the largest plantation in the county when their father died, with hundreds of acres of fertile land and dozens of slaves, and under Fanny’s direction, their holdings had expanded dramatically. And although she was in her early thirties, she remained steadfastly single, not, however, from a lack of attention showered upon her by nearly every bachelor of good social standing ranging from the farms of Rappahannock County to the salons and drawing rooms of Richmond. For her part, Fanny seemed to enjoy the puzzlement, reveling in her paradoxical roles as both a paragon of Southern culture and a perplexing social renegade.

  “You’ll manage,” Fanny answered, brushing away a tear rolling down Mary’s cheek. “You’ll find a way.”

  “Thirty years together,” Mary said, drying her face with a small lace handkerchief. “Sometimes hard years, but mostly good years. And now I’m left here all by myself.” She forced a smile. “I’m going to miss that cranky old bastard.”

  “He was a cranky old bastard, wasn’t he?” Fanny said, laughing gently.

  “Yes, he was,” Mary said. Then, after a pause, she added, “But he was my cranky old bastard.”

  Their private reverie was shattered when two new mourners approached, a man and a woman, walking arm in arm. Fanny released Mary and stepped back.

  “I hope we’re not intruding,” the woman said sweetly. “But Sam and I wanted to offer our condolences before we left.”

  “Katie. Sam. It was very kind of you to come,” Mary said a bit formally.

  “Nonsense,” Katie Withers said behind a wide smile. She was somewhat shorter than her older sister and very attractive, although with her darker hair and broader features, she was not quite as stunning as Fanny. And her dress, while certainly more fashionable than those of the other guests, did not match the flair and elegance of her sister’s ensemble.

  “Of course we’d be here,” added Sam Maddox. “After all, he was my uncle and me bein’ the only blood relative he had left. Certainly ain’t gonna miss his funeral ’cause of some occasional disagreements with the ol’ man.” He was ruggedly handsome, with a thatch of thick brown hair, a sharp nose jutting out of a lean, hawk-like face, and deep-set dark eyes. Even in his late thirties he remained an imposing man, taller than most, with strong, square shoulders. He offered his aunt his most engaging smile, although his eyes remained vacant and cold. “And I surely want you to know, Aunt Mary,” he said in his soft, comfortable drawl, “that y’all aren’t alone. I’m here to help whenever you might need it.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” Mary answered stiffly. “I’m sure your uncle would appreciate that. And thank you, too, Katie, for your kindness.” She nodded to them both and then turned back toward Fanny, who had remained standing silently a few feet away.

  Having been fairly unceremoniously dismissed, Katie Withers and Sam Maddox exchanged sullen glances, then turned on their heels and joined a group of younger mourners at the food tables.

  “For the life of me,” Fanny whispered, shaking her head, “I still can’t believe that man was kin to your Samuel. Not just blood kin but carrying the same name, for goodness’ sakes.”

  “I know,” Mary answered. “Always felt the same way. Never could figure why my Samuel didn’t just shut that boy off. Always trying to bail him out of trouble. And young Sam just never appreciated what all he did for him.” She shook her head balefully. “Well, maybe now that Samuel’s gone, I won’t be bothered by him near as much.”

  “You can certainly hope,” said Fanny. “But I’m afraid that as long as my sister stays sweet on him, and as long as he stays sweet on her money, I’ll still be stuck with them both.”

  Mary smiled ruefully and then took Fanny’s arm in hers. “Come. Let’s go spend some time with these nice folks.” She paused. “Even though when Samuel was alive, he had little time for most of ’em,” she said, chuckling.

  CHAPTER 3

  BY SUNDOWN, THE MOURNERS HAD PAID THEIR LAST CONDOLENCES, offered their last embraces, climbed onto sleek horses and swaybacked mules, rickety wooden-wheeled field wagons and elegant carriages with fine-tooled leather canopies, and left the Maddox farm. Mary and Fanny sat on the porch, in whitewashed wicker rocking chairs, a half-empty bottle of good Virginia bourbon on the table between them and full glasses in their hands.

  “Thought they’d never leave,” Mary sighed. “Nearly ate and drank me out of everything I got stored up for the winter.” She reached out with her free hand and patted Fanny’s arm. “Thank you for offerin’ to stay with me tonight. Think it’s going to be a bit lonely here for a while.”

  “Nonsense,” said Fanny warmly. “No need to thank me. You were the first one to our house when my mother passed away—and the last one to leave. And you’ve been like a mother to me ever since.”

  The women rocked in companionable silence for a time.

  Fanny nursed a sip of the bourbon and then looked caringly at her friend. “Y’all going to be okay here?” she asked. “By yourself?”

  “No, no, I’ll be just fine,” Mary answered. “I think Samuel had a sense, even before his heart gave out, that the end of his time on earth was drawin’ near. He left things in pretty good order. I’ll be fine for a while.”

  “What about the farm?” Fanny asked. “Who all’s going to run it?”

  “Gonna have to pray on that a bit,” said Mary, and then she took a long pull from her whiskey glass. “My guess is there’ll be a line of folks knockin’ on the door soon enough, lookin’ to buy it. I can hear them right now,” she said, snickering. She lowered her voice and mimicked the anticipated sales pitch. “‘A poor, lonesome widow like you shouldn’t have to be botherin’ herself about runnin’ no farm. I got a right nice price I’m willin’ to offer you to take it off your hands.’ ” She laughed again, louder this time, the bourbon now a cohort in the conversation.

  They sat silently for a while, rocking and sipping.

  Then Fanny asked in a soft tone, “What about Kitty?”

  Mary didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “What about her?”

  “We don’t need to talk about this now if you don’t think it’s the right time,” Fanny said, reaching over and grasping Mary’s hand in her own. “Just thought you might be needin’ to talk a bit, that’s all.”

  Mary stopped rocking and gazed off into the distance. After a time, she looked at Fanny, her brows raised quizzically. “Do people know?”

  Fanny nodded. “Some. At least they suspect,” Fanny said.

  “How?” Mary asked softly, anguish and embarrassment creeping into her voice at the realization that others knew her secret.

  “Hard not to,” Fanny answered. “Just look at her. Except for her color, she’s the spittin’ image of a young Samuel. Same hair, same eyes, walks the same.” Fanny shrugged. “And he always treated her different, teachin’ her to read and write, keepin’ her out of the fields.” She shrugged again, offering a kind smile. “Hard not to see it if you look close,” she repeated.

  Mary looked off into the distance again. “I almost left him,” she said quietly, as if offering up a confession only to herself. “A few times. Couldn’t stand the idea of him sneakin’ off to the shacks at night and dippin’ it into some slave girl.” She waved her hand in the air, as if trying to banish the memory. “Not like I didn’t know lotsa men would go take their pleasure with slave girls in the middle of the night, but I just didn’t want to believe that my Samuel would be one of ’em. And then, when Kitty was born, he swore on the Bible she wasn’t his.” She paused, a painful look etched across her face. “So I stayed. Not sure where I could’ve gone, anyway,” she added with a resigned shrug.

  Mary grew silent again for a moment and then turned back to Fanny. “But you’re righ
t,” she said, shaking her head. “And deep down, I always knew. All you had to do was look at her. No question she was Samuel’s.” She paused, her eyes narrowed. “It was hard for me every time I looked at her. Knowin’ that he was her father. Even when she was just a little child—and she was a sweet little thing. Then Samuel sold off her mother to some plantation owner in Louisiana. Guess he thought that might somehow help a bit. And I never tried to stop him . . . ,” she added, her voice trailing off.

  Neither of the women spoke for a time, Mary seemingly lost in some private musing, and Fanny unsure whether to continue the conversation, aware now of the torment that dwelled in Mary’s heart, even after all these years.

  Finally, Mary breached the strained silence. “Not very Christian-like, is it?” she said.

  Fanny looked at her, puzzled.

  “What I mean is, how am I going to explain to God how I’ve been angry with a young girl for so long—and didn’t stop Samuel from sellin’ off her mother—when her only sin is bein’ the product of my own husband’s weakness? Even after we brought her into the house and treated her different from the other slaves, there was still always this barrier between her and me. I tried. I really did. I’ve always been kind to the slaves—probably kinder’n most white folks thought proper. And I’d go out of my way with Kitty, teachin’ her about cookin’ and sewin’, lettin’ Samuel learn her to read and write, despite the law frownin’ on it. And Kitty’s grown to be a good woman.

  “But the notion of her bein’ Samuel’s was always lurkin’ about. I’d catch myself staring at her sometimes, angry at how much she reminded me of Samuel. I knew I shouldn’t be holdin’ it against her, that he was the one at fault.” She shook her head sadly. “Then I started blamin’ myself. Maybe ’cause I could never give him any children—and Lord knows we tried—I somehow started feelin’ responsible. Like it was someway my fault that he had to go runnin’ off to the slave quarters at night.” A small sob caught in her throat. “What kind of Christian am I . . . to do those things?”

  “Well,” Fanny offered, “I don’t pretend to be much of a Christian myself. But I’m pretty sure that any forgiving God might just understand how you feel. Fact is, it was Samuel did the strayin’ . . . and you were left to live with the consequences. And I’m sure God will balance out your feelings for Kitty with the fact that you’ve treated her well over the years, a lot better than most wronged wives would’ve.”

  The sun had just dipped below the horizon, staining the low sky a slash of brilliant, fiery red. The women remained quiet for some time, gazing unfocused at the florid vista, the bourbon glasses now nearly drained, as they wordlessly grappled with their thoughts.

  Finally, Mary broke the spell. “He asked me to free her,” she murmured.

  Fanny said nothing and simply nodded.

  “On his deathbed,” Mary continued, “he said he would like to go to his Maker with a clear conscience. He finally apologized to me for what he done. And then he asked me if I would please think on settin’ her free.”

  “Does Kitty know that?” Fanny asked.

  “Not sure . . . but I don’t think so,” Mary answered.

  “So? What’ll you do?” Fanny said.

  Mary took a deep breath and then let out a long, despairing sigh. “Don’t rightly know,” she answered. “He didn’t put it in his will, knowin’ how valuable she and her children could be if I needed to sell them off for the money to keep the farm goin’. But it was his dyin’ wish.”

  “Well, she’d probably fetch a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred dollars—maybe more—if you needed the money. And her children could bring five hundred or so each. Could sure help if you’re havin’ problems with the farm,” Fanny said. “And,” she added pointedly, “you wouldn’t be reminded every day of Samuel’s infidelity.”

  Mary answered softly, gazing off into the distance. “Never had any slaves round when I was growin’ up. Nobody waitin’ on us or doin’ our work. Papa couldn’t afford none. When I married Samuel, he already had a handful workin’ the farm. Understood why we needed ’em. Couldn’t run this place without ’em.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Never felt real comfortable with the idea, though—the idea that one person could actually own another. Own ’em just like you owned a horse or cattle. And do with ’em whatever you pleased. Always wondered what God really thinks about it—despite what folks say about slavery bein’ talked about and accepted in the Bible. Not sayin’ I’m some kind of abolitionist. Seems to me folks up north should just stay outta our business. Got no right to tell us how to live our lives.”

  Mary shook her head. “Like I said, just never been sure about it in my heart. Always tried to treat our slaves well, better than most other folks do. But”—she shrugged in resignation—“don’t think this place could survive without ’em.” She remained quiet for a moment and then sighed again in frustration. “I just don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “Think I’m just gonna have to pray on this awhile before I can figure out what to do,” she said softly.

  CHAPTER 4

  KITTY WAS AWAKE BEFORE SUNRISE. AFTER CHECKING THAT HER CHILDREN were still asleep, wrapped in blankets and tangled together like wild vines on their single sleeping pallet, she tossed her shawl around her shoulders, gently closed the door to her room behind her, and snuck out through the back of the chilly and dark kitchen.

  The farm was cloaked in silence, all the slaves still locked in the grasp of their last precious moments of much-needed sleep. Kitty picked her way carefully around the farmhouse, across the front yard, and into the slave quarters. Even the soft wash of the false dawn couldn’t hide the grimness of the ramshackle single-room structures, each a battered mirror image of the others. She headed directly toward the one shack that showed a small gleam of light through the single paper-covered window, and rapped gently on the rickety front door.

  The door cracked open just a fraction, and an arm snaked out and pulled her swiftly through the doorway and into the small room. The inside of the shack belied the shabby exterior. It was neat and clean, with a hard-packed earthen floor. A rough wooden sleeping platform covered by a checkered quilt was in one corner; a cloth-covered table, where a single tallow candle flickered smokily, was in another; and two hand-hewn chairs were perched before the slumbering fire in the mud and brick fireplace. The familiar smell of stale wood smoke and old cooked bacon greeted her as she stepped into the room.

  “Thought you might come a-visitin’,” said the man who had drawn her inside. He was tall and cornstalk thin, and his face, beneath a nearly bald pate, was deeply furrowed and dark like the bark of an old tree. The slowness of his walk and the hobbled, painful gait betrayed his age as he pulled a chair out from the table and nodded for her to sit. “So,” he said, his voice a kindly, syrupy deep baritone, “why you skulkin’ round here so early?”

  “Uncle Joshua, I be needin’ your advice,” Kitty said hesitantly, unconsciously sloughing off her white-folks speech pattern and shifting easily into the patois of the slave quarters.

  The old man nodded but said nothing, his eyes sad and tired. Ol’ Joshua, as he was known—to distinguish him from his son, known as Young Joshua, who worked in the fields—had been the closest thing Kitty had had to a father since the day she was born. When her mother had been sold off, Joshua and his since deceased wife, Sarah, had taken her in and raised her until she was seven years old. That was when she had been moved into the big house by the master and had become a house servant.

  “I be afraid,” Kitty said, her voice shaking.

  “ ’Fraid of what, chile?” he asked.

  “Now that Mastuh be dead, I be afraid that Mistress be sellin’ me. And maybe be sellin’ my chillun, too,” she said.

  “But you bein’ a part of that family in the big house fo’ years now,” he said, leaning toward her and reaching out to clasp her hand. “Master and Mistress be treatin’ you kindly all these years. Why you be worryin’ now ’bout bein’ sold off?”


  Kitty dropped her voice. “Mistress know that Mastuh be my daddy. She done know it for years now. She ain’t never been evil to me. . . . But sometimes . . . I see somethin’ in her eyes when she look at me. Most those times her eyes just be hurtin’, like a small chile who had somethin’ taken ’way. But every once in a while, they be angry, like it be my fault the master be strayin’ from her bed. And at the funeral, she look at me real strange, like somehow he dyin’ be my fault and now it be her chance to get rid of me. And rid of them memories.”

  Ol’ Joshua was silent for a moment and then nodded again. “Mebbe,” he said. “Mebbe not. Mebbe it just be you imagin’ it, chile.”

  Kitty’s eyes flickered around the room, as if her mind was seeking some escape. Then she turned and looked at him, eyes narrowed. “I got to run,” she whispered. “I got to run and take my chillun with me.”

  The only sound in the cabin was Ol’ Joshua’s shallow, raspy breathing. After a minute, maybe two, he struggled to take a deep breath, coughed a bit fitfully, and then leaned closer to Kitty.

  “You cain’t be talkin’ like that,” he said quietly but firmly. “You know what be happ’nin’ to slaves be runnin’. Dem slave catchers and their trackin’ dogs be nasty. Dey beat you, then bring you back here, where you get beat again. In front of ever’one. Whipped till you cain’t even stand. Make an example of you fo’ all to see. Make sure anyone else thinkin’ a runnin’, they know good an’ well what be in store for them, too.” He shook his head, his eyes now stern and glinting in the candlelight. “No, chile. You cain’t be doin’ no runnin’.”

  Kitty stared directly into Ol’ Joshua’s eyes, her face hardening in a mixture of fear and anger. “I be leavin’ here . . . with your help or without it,” she said. “I never known my own mama after she got sold off. I sure as hell ain’t gonna let my chillun grow up without they own mama. That for damn sure!”