Copper Sun

  Cato replied seriously, “No, little one. Don’t nobody go back to Africa. When they put you in the rice fields, you’ll be dead in five years, so don’t matter no how.”

  “Five years? Why?” Polly asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

  “Let me ’splain,” Cato replied. “I spent eighteen years out there—some kinda record they tells me. Every day the rice hands be exposed to the burnin’ sun. Sometime it seem like the very air we be breathin’ is hotter than human blood. Then there’s the malaria, and the new-monia and the snakes, plus the mosquitoes and the flies and their maggots—all joinin’ us to keep us company while we sweat. Pregnant women be havin’ stillbirths, and the babies that end up bein’ born die young—like they sickly or somethin’. That’s why Massa keepa bringin’ in new Africans—they knows the rice, and they strong.”

  Amari inhaled deeply and looked at Cato, her eyes wide.

  “Hey, boy!” Cato called to Tidbit as he heard the dog bark with alarm. “Get away from that water! You want a gator to eat you?”

  “Gator can’t catch me!” Tidbit replied, but he ran back up on the grass.

  “You know how rice be planted?” Cato asked the girls as he continued. They shook their heads. “One seed at a time.”

  “But rice be so small!” Amari remarked.

  “Yep, that it is. You makes a hole in the mud with your toe. You drops the one tiny little rice seed in the hole. Then you closes the hole with the heel of your foot. Toe. Plant. Heel. All day long. Bendin’ over. Knee-deep in swamp water.” Cato coughed once more and looked down at the ground.

  “And that’s just the first part. Then you gotta tend to the plants and flood the fields and cut the stacks and thresh the seeds—seem like it go on forever. That’s what be in your future, Miz Africa. And when he get old enough, this here boy’s future too.”

  Polly looked at Cato in disbelief. “They’d put Tidbit out there?” she asked, horrified. The thought of little Tidbit sweating and working in the dangerous swampy water made Polly feel ill.

  Amari put her hand to her mouth, barely holding back a sob. “What to do?” she finally asked.

  Cato shrugged. “It might help if Miz Isabelle like you, but she ain’t got no say-so over much round here. I s’pose you gotta keep on makin’ yourself useful in Massa Clay’s bedroom—that be all any slave woman can do,” Cato explained sadly, “lessen she run away.”

  At that moment they heard a bloodcurdling scream coming from one of the slaves in the rice field. Cato moved astonishingly quickly for an old man, and he hurried down to see what happened. Polly, Amari, and Tidbit followed.

  “Oh, my Lawd! Copperhead!” a slave named Jacob cried hoarsely. “My Hildy been snake-bit!”

  Polly watched, horrified, as Jacob emerged from the swampy mud, carrying Hildy’s limp body to the shore. He laid her gently on the grass. Polly could barely see the two small wounds on her leg; there was very little blood. Some of the slave women quickly daubed her leg with mud and wrapped it tightly with strips of cloth ripped from their own dresses. The woman’s eyelids fluttered, she called for her husband, then she arched her back and was still.

  “She be dead?” Amari asked, her voice barely a whisper. Tidbit, for once, was still and quiet.

  “Not yet,” Cato replied quietly. “Just passed out. But the poison likely to kill her by sunset. Copperhead don’t play.” Cato looked directly at Amari as he spoke again. “Two dead of snakebite this season. Two more died of the malaria. One gator bite. One drownt. Do whatever you can to stay outta this here place, gal. Ya hear?”

  Amari looked terrified, Polly thought, and rightfully so.

  As they left the rice fields, Polly could hear the workers being called back to work—no free time just because of a little snakebite.

  22. LASHED WITH A WHIP

  WHEN POLLY AND AMARI RETURNED TO TEENIE’S kitchen, both of them clearly upset, Teenie didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “How’s Hildy?” she asked as she pulled Tidbit close to her.

  “Cato told us she might die,” Polly reported, tucking her shaking hands under her arms. Then she asked, “How’d you know?”

  “I declare, chile. You oughta know by now that it don’t take long for news to travel round here,” Teenie said. “So, did Cato also scare you ’bout how gals like Myna here be endin’ up in rice fields?”

  Polly nodded, then frowned. This time last year, when she was back in Beaufort with her folks, she wouldn’t have given a second thought to a slave going to work in the rice fields. That’s what a slave was supposed to do. Who cared about the feelings of an ignorant slave, anyway? But this was someone she knew, maybe even felt sorry for. Somehow that made a difference.

  “Cato speaks true,” Teenie said solemnly. “But I got an idea. Let’s see what we can do. The two of you go out back and wash yourself. Get back in here real quicklike.”

  The two girls returned with clean faces and hands, and Teenie handed them each an outfit worn by the house serving maids. “Flora, one of the serving gals, is Hildy’s daughter. She done run down there to see to her mama,” Teenie explained. “Massa don’t allow such behavior, but he don’t know yet. So you two gonna take her place at supper.” Polly and Amari exchanged looks of surprise.

  “Polly, you just do what Lena, the head serving gal, tells you to do. Say nothing except for ‘yes, sir’ and ‘yes, ma’am.’ Myna, you copy everything they do and act like you know what you doin’! You understandin’ all this, gal?”

  Polly was pleased that Amari replied as she had been taught, “Yes, Teenie.” But she was thrilled about the chance to go work in the big house. Finally!

  Teenie looked worried, however. “Don’t you drop nothin’, you hear! Now git!” she told them.

  Polly changed quickly into the stiff black uniform, inwardly praying that perhaps this would be the start of her move up to the main house and out of the kitchen with the slaves. She then helped Amari tie the sash on her apron. Tidbit laughed out loud when he saw the two girls dressed as maids.

  Polly shooed him away. “Have you seen Mr. Derby since the first day we arrived here?” she asked Amari as they prepared to take the food to the main house.

  Amari shook her head. “Not see, which be good.”

  “Have you ever been inside the main house?” Polly asked. Then she gasped as she realized what Amari’s answer would be.

  “Only nighttime,” Amari replied harshly.

  “Oh, Myna, I forgot.”

  “I not forget,” Amari stated, her voice sharp as broken glass.

  “Do you think Mrs. Derby knows what Clay is doing?”

  “She know,” Amari said angrily.

  “Maybe she can help you,” Polly offered tentatively. “She seems to be very pleasant.”

  “She need help herself,” Amari replied sharply.

  Polly tried to understand, but she couldn’t truly fathom the depths of Myna’s apparent distress. Slave women were always called to the bedrooms of their masters—it was simply a fact of life. Myna should understand that by now and be getting used to it. But she let the subject drop as they prepared to carry the food.

  Amari took a platter of venison, while Polly carried a huge, glistening corn pone on another large platter. They walked carefully up the path from the kitchen to the big house and entered through the back door.

  Lena took one look at the two girls and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. “Lawd have mercy, we gonna get in trouble for shure! Tell Teenie if I gets a beatin’ over this, I ain’t never forgivin’ her. Now go on back and bring the rest of the food.”

  Polly and Amari dashed back several more times to get the rest of the food for supper for Mr. Derby and his wife. All of it was laid out on a sideboard, to be served as Lena directed.

  Polly looked around the room in rapt curiosity. Now, this is where I belong, she thought with a smile, taking in the dark green curtains covering the windows to keep out the afternoon heat, the fine, pale green, embroidered carpet decorating each floor, a
nd the pictures of ancient Derby relatives lining the walls. Fancy silver eating and drinking utensils lay in a huge cupboard on the other side of the room. Polly had never seen such finery. Oh, how Mama would have loved this! she thought.

  Polly tiptoed to peek into the adjoining room, which was obviously Mr. Derby’s study. She inhaled with pleasure. Shelves of leather-bound books filled one wall. She’d give anything to simply touch them; to have access to them would be heaven. Her mother had taught her to read using the Bible and occasional pieces of newsprint that came their way, but Polly longed for books of her own. If I could get assigned to the main house, she thought, I would sneak into this room during every free moment. She sighed and returned to the dining area.

  Standing silently near the door of the dining room, almost like a statue, was the coachman who had driven the two girls here from the market just a few months ago. Once again he was dressed in an elegant coat and a shirt with lace cuffs. “This here is Noah,” Lena explained. Noah nodded slightly but continued to stand stiffly and formally. “He’s the coachman, the butler, Miz Isabelle’s bodyguard, and prob’ly the fanciest house slave we got round here—best lookin’, too!” Lena laughed. “Massa trusts him, and”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“word is that Miz Isabelle done taught him how to read! He—”

  Suddenly, Lena cleared her throat and snapped to attention. Polly and Amari did the same. Mr. Derby, dressed in a red velvet suit, escorted his now very pregnant wife into the room. Clay sauntered in behind them, gave a look of undisguised disgust to his stepmother, and sat as far away from her as he could. He seemed to be trying to get Amari’s attention, Polly thought, but Amari had dropped her head and refused to look at him.

  “Where’s Flora?” Mr. Derby demanded as soon as he had helped his wife be seated.

  “Her mama got snake-bit today, sir. Real bad. She done run to the quarters to see her,” Lena explained quickly. “But we got something special for your supper today, yes we do. Polly, pour the wine like I showed you.” Polly hurried to obey.

  “Well, I hope she’s not too badly injured,” Mr. Derby said irritably. “I hate it when my workers are laid up.”

  Mrs. Derby spoke up, although barely audibly. “Shall I check on her tomorrow, Percival?”

  “No, my dear. I really disapprove of you dealing with the servants. It’s not wise in your condition, you know.”

  “She might need medical attention,” Mrs. Derby suggested softly.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” her husband said. “It is you I worry about, Isabelle. Right now the most important things on my mind are your happiness and comfort,” he said firmly, “and the safety of our child. I could never forgive myself if anything happened to that baby. I have not been this excited, or this happy, in many years.” He took her hand in his. It seemed to Polly that he gazed at his wife with genuine concern.

  Mrs. Derby smiled at him, touched her belly, and let the matter drop.

  Turning to Clay, Mr. Derby said, “Son, run down to the quarters tomorrow and get one of the slaves from the fishing gang to take her place.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Father,” the young man replied lazily, “but why not just send Noah? He’s able-bodied. Perfectly good waste of a strong worker, seems to me.” Polly saw Clay look at his stepmother with a wicked grin.

  Isabelle Derby inhaled, then looked at her husband in alarm. “You promised, Percival. You promised when we married that I could keep my bodyguard.”

  Mr. Derby’s face softened as he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and gave her what seemed to be a reassuring hug. “I think Clay is merely teasing you, my dear. I wouldn’t think of upsetting you by doing such a thing. All I care about right now is your health and your happiness.” To Clay he said, “Try to be kinder, son. You’ll have a brother or sister soon.”

  Clay rolled his eyes, looked at Mrs. Derby with disdain, and drank another glass of wine. It was clear to Polly that he truly disliked his stepmother.

  As they continued to serve the food, Amari looked nervous, so Polly tried to help whenever she thought Amari might not understand a command. She wasn’t going to let Amari spoil her chance to impress the Derbys. Noah continued to stand like a sentry at the door, never moving, never displaying any emotion.

  Mrs. Derby drank very little of the white wine that Amari had carefully poured for her. She had given Amari a pleasant smile, however, and had thanked her as Amari deftly slipped a white linen napkin onto Mrs. Derby’s lap.

  “You must eat more, my dear Isabelle,” Mr. Derby said to his wife. “You want our child to be healthy, don’t you?”

  She looked up nervously. “Yes, of course you are right, Percival,” she replied. She motioned to Polly to put a little more corn pone on her plate, but Polly noticed she only nibbled at it. “Please tell Teenie the supper is delicious,” Mrs. Derby said to Lena.

  “Now, don’t compliment the slaves on doing their jobs, my dear. Your kindness only makes them weak and careless.” It sounded to Polly that Mr. Derby admonished his wife almost as if he were speaking to a child, but he also seemed to dote on her. He touched her constantly, fixing a ringlet of hair that had fallen into her face, brushing a speck from her shawl, and patting her left hand with his right.

  As Lena skillfully served the stew, venison, corn, and beans to the Derby family, Amari and Polly were kept busy taking plates back to the kitchen, bringing up steaming baskets of bread, and, finally, a fresh-baked blackberry pie.

  Mrs. Derby continued to pick at her food, and her husband sometimes stopped his conversation with Clay to cut a small piece of meat for his wife so she would eat it. “Now, don’t you feel better?” he would say after she had swallowed it. She would smile wanly in agreement. It seemed to Polly that he treated his wife more like a delicate possession than a real person. Any genuine conversation he seemed to save for his son.

  “I’m thinking we can bring in a few more slaves,” he told Clay. “The rice crop will do well this year, and the market has gone up. Let’s plan on making a bigger harvest next season.”

  Clay nodded, casting another glance at Amari. “That means expanding the fields by the river. We’ll need fresh Africans for that—they know rice so well.”

  “How many, do you think?” his father asked.

  “Three or four, at least,” Clay replied. “They don’t seem to last long out there.”

  “Well, I’ll keep my eyes open the next time I go to market,” Mr. Derby said. “We best be getting them soon, so they can be broken in by planting time.”

  They speak about buying slaves the same way they discuss the purchase of cattle or supplies, Polly noticed, surprised at how uncomfortable that made her feel. When I am the mistress of such a place, will I discuss the purchase of people as they do? She was not sure of the answer.

  “Do you think we’ll need to sell any slaves to get money for next year’s supplies?” Clay asked his father.

  “Not this season, son. I’ve monitored the books quite closely, and I think this year we will make quite a profit without selling any property.” He seemed pleased.

  Property. They call the slaves property. Polly thought about the slaves she had come to know since she had come to the plantation. The thought of one of them being sold distressed her in a way she had not thought possible. Without Amari and Teenie and Tidbit, how awful it would be here, Polly suddenly realized.

  Clay stopped to scratch his head, then said to his father, “I hear talk in town of folks in the North starting to speak about ending slavery.”

  Mr. Derby, sipping his third glass of wine, snorted, “That will never happen. Those Northerners. They can’t even grow the rice they love so much. They know nothing about how a business is run. Rice, tobacco, corn—where do they think it comes from?”

  Clay, who had had even more wine than his father, leaned back on the two back legs of his chair carelessly. “Slavery just makes good sense to me. Anyway, our slaves are better off here than in some jungle eating bugs and sl
ugs like savages.”

  “Of course they are. They need us, son.”

  Mr. Derby is right, isn’t he? Living here has got to be better than a jungle, right? Polly wasn’t sure anymore. She could see Lena grinding her teeth in anger. She glanced over at Amari to see her reaction, but Amari stared straight ahead.

  Isabelle Derby sat pale and quiet, her eyes cast down through most of the meal. It was as if she were one of the many room decorations. Unhappiness seemed to ooze from her like perspiration on a humid day. Polly shook her head as she realized that being a fine lady didn’t necessarily mean finding joy. Clay’s antagonism toward Mrs. Derby was almost palpable—he glared at her every time she picked up a spoon or wiped her lips with a linen napkin.

  Finally, the meal was over, and the last of the dishes were being removed. Polly, relieved that neither she nor Amari had done anything to call negative attention to themselves, congratulated herself on a successful evening. I’m going to speak to Mrs. Derby right after dinner, Polly vowed bravely. This might be my only chance. I will offer my services as her personal assistant. Surely, with the new baby, she will need someone to help her.

  Mr. Derby finished a last glass of wine, then lit his pipe and stretched his long legs out from his chair just as Amari was walking by with the final platter of leftover blackberry pie. Amari, looking at Polly rather than the floor, tripped over his legs and fell. No! No! Polly breathed as the platter flipped and the pie careened to the floor. Purple-red berries splattered onto the pale carpet. There was a moment of absolute silence.

  Amari cowered on the floor in obvious terror. Polly, too afraid to breathe, waited for the thunderous voice of the master.

  “You stupid black wench!” he roared. “Lena, go get my whip!” Polly gasped at the same moment as Amari did. Polly knew Lena had no choice but to obey. She returned quickly and handed it to Mr. Derby, never looking at him directly. Coiled like a snake, the whip was made of leather. The tip of the lash was laced with wire.

  Polly inhaled and held her breath.