My Name Is Mary: A Reincarnation Read online

  “This here nigger done flew the coop. As ya’ll can see, we done got him back again. Now ya’ll know that Master Anderson is the spirit of goodness, he don’t work ya’ll niggers too hard, you get fine homes and good victuals.”

  There wasn’t a word from the large group, all silent, waiting and watching. Fear was now a living thing that moved through the group. Two white men walked up to watch to proceedings; they were the patrolmen, with torches to illuminate the growing darkness. Clark was in his element, a cruel showman. He was showing off to the other white men that were holding the torches. Should the mood strike him, Clark could pick out another soul and torment them as well. In their world, life was lived on a razor’s edge.

  “Now this here thief was punished and was sent ta work out in the field, ta make an honest man of him. But he thinks he’s too good for that. This here nigger dog tried to run away. As ya’ll can see, we caught him quick. As an example of what will happen, should any of ya’ll get any ideas about doin’ the same, I’ll show ya’ll what happens to niggers that run.”

  Motioning to two field hands, the men took Thomas from the ground and tied his hands to the bloody pole. Clark pulled out his bullwhip, a wicked and vicious looking weapon and cracked it in the air. Everyone jerked, Ida could see that the sound was satisfying to Clark and the patrollers. The strong smell of urine indicated that Thomas had jerked hardest of all. It mingled with the stench of fear.

  “I am gonna to whip this here boy until he can’t never think about runnin’ away again.” Clark said. With that, he reared back and flung his arm forward, the whip cracking once again, this time biting into Thomas’ scarred back. A high-pitched scream rented the moist night air.

  Mary and Patina had been in the cabin and had come out when Clark started talking. Mary’s body prickled with chill bumps, primal fear skittering up her spine. She stood by her cabin, unable to tear her eyes away. Patina was behind her, her head buried between Mary’s shoulders. Mary could feel her trembling and soft weeping. The screams wound down to a whimper and was followed by another crack of the whip and another pain filled scream. Mary wanted to run and hold onto her mother, her body vibrated with every stroke of the whip, her small fingers gripping into the splintered logs of the cabin. Patina’s arms slipped around Mary’s waist and clung on.

  Silent tears flowed uncheck down her small face. Her luminous honey eyes reflected the torchlight. To look away was unthinkable, her eyes were riveted. She felt like vomiting. Mary felt her mother’s hand gripping her shoulders tightly. Jerking, Mary realized her mother was by her side. She too jerked with every lash of the whip. Her mother turned her and Mary buried her face in her mother’s breasts. Her mother smelled of sweat, dust and fear. Patina was beside her, holding onto Ida as well.

  The faces of each man and woman, who stood captive sentinel to the brutality, reflected the pain of loved ones who had also fallen under the tender mercies of Lester Clark and his lash. Each man and woman bore a series of scars for some small transgression, whether real or imagined. Clark was a vicious and sadistic man, who took pleasure in his job. None would or could step forward to put a stop to this horrible thing.

  Time passed; still the whip fell in fatal rhythm. The surrounding faces were devoid of emotion, though behind those masks, the slaves died a little with each stroke. Thomas’ agonizing pain was were their own. Thomas had done nothing wrong to their way of thinking, but their way of thinking didn’t count in this world. Each slave became numb inside; perhaps it would be best if Thomas did die. He would never be the same after this.

  Silence permeated the yard, not even the crickets and frogs would lend their voices to this tragedy. The harsh panting from Clark could be heard and nothing more, the slaves stood as though carved from seasoned mahogany. Still as death, waiting and watching. Goose bumps rippled across Mary’s arms once more, the silence was ominous.

  Clark threw down the bloody whip and pulled a wicked looking blade from his belt. He walked over to the hanging form that had once been Thomas. Squatting down he quickly sliced the knife through the motionless Thomas’ Achilles tendons. Collectively, breaths were sucked in among the slaves, but no one spoke. Thomas didn’t move, nor did he show any signs of life.

  Lester Clark wiped the bloody blade on the slave standing closest to him, it was Tall Tom. Tall Tom’s face was like hard mahogany, no expression but his burning eyes. Clark returned the blade to its sheath. Observing the solemn faces about him, Clark’s voice jolted them back to the present.

  “This here mongrel will hang here all night. If one of you even thinks about going near him, I will put you up in his place.” That said, Clark turned around and nodded to the two men holding torches and all walked off toward the main house.

  There was no movement for a few moments, it was only when the frogs and crickets started chirping once more, did some of the men start to move away. Slowly, everyone else moved away from Thomas’s body, going quietly to their homes. There were no cooking fires that night, all was quiet and subdued. No whispers, no talking, nothing but total silence. No one had the stomach for living. Matilda walked over to Ida, as though in a trance and took Patina home.

  Mary turned and walked to the bushes and promptly vomited. The spasms pulled at her stomach causing her to moan in pain. She felt the cool hand of her mother and felt water being fed into her dry, numb lips. Mary barely remembered being pulled along with her mother into the cabin.

  Ida gave her daughter a bit more water and wrapped Mary in her arms and rocked her late into the night. Ida’s lips moving in silent appeal, asking God to take His mighty vengeance on Clark. Mary woke several times during the long night, crying in her sleep. Ida held her tight and together they found oblivion in sleep. It was a terrible night for Ida, her heart raw with hurt and sorrow for Mary. She loved Mary so much and hated for the child to see such cruelty and violence. It was the way life was for slaves, they knew nothing else.

  Dawn came too quickly and soon Ida was up fixing a quick breakfast for Mary and herself, cold cornbread and milk. She ignited a small cup filled with cooking grease, a wick of wool hanging down. The soft light illuminated her face as she looked down on her daughter. She let Mary sleep a bit longer, knowing her child had many nightmares during the night.

  “Lawd, watch over my baby. And that poor soul, young Thomas.” Ida whispered softly. The distant sky was tinged pink and Ida could hear the other slaves rousting and preparing for a new day. She shook Mary awake and gave her a tin of warm milk and some cornbread. Ida fried up some potatoes and onions with a bit of okra and served that to Mary as well. Around her, it was quiet. No one was talking.

  Ida and Mary stepped out of the cabin and looked around at the other slaves, who were coming out as well. No one wanted to look over at Thomas, but they had to. Thomas’ body still hung from the pole, the blood had dried and caked on his back. The drone of many flies buzzing around him, on his face, his back and around his heels filled the quiet morning air. His eyes stared vacantly into space. Thomas was unnaturally still; everyone knew he was dead. They also knew he would be left up there to rot. His sorrows and his pain were over now. They had their own suffering still ahead of them.

  As though of one mind, the large group turned and started walking to the fields, as the morning bell tolled its command. Sadness was palatable, like a living thing, marching its way down the road. No one talked that day; no one hummed, nor whispered or sang, no one gossiped or laughed. It was silent homage to their brethren; he had gone to glory, free from earthly shackles. All knew Thomas sat by Jesus and knew his pains were eased. His joy restored.

  Mr. Clark rode his big bay up and down the fields; the only noise was the wind that blew across the crops and the sound of the horse’s hoofs. It was as if he were the only living thing on earth. Clark felt a deep unease, it tingled through his body. He felt shivers run through his lanky frame. His watery eyes scanned over the men and women in the field, watching their every action. He could not fault them for their wo
rk, they moved like a well-oiled machine. His hand lay on his old musket that rested across his lap. Clark’s eyes darted from one dark face to another. All were blank, no one looked up. The fine hairs lifted on his body. Some antediluvian sense told him to go carefully.

  Lester Clark didn’t pick on anyone that day, he seemed to sense the tension and his instincts cautioned him to be still. Riding up and down the land, he watched his charges. But said nothing. Only the hum of cicadas in the tree line and the constant squabbling of birds filled the dusty air. When the long day was through, he went to Thomas and cut the insect covered body down. Goose bumps covered his body, Clark could feel the hatred, as though a living, breathing thing. It radiated off the people near him. He ordered several of the men to bury the body. Then went to his own cabin, away from the malevolent hate, which nipped at his heels.

  Life went on, and no other slaves tried to run away. Mary and Patina were sent out with Dark Henry to hoe the corn, and pull weeds. Henry was downcast, his friend, Theo, had been sent off to school in some faraway place. Mary and Patina were also tasked with pulling the fat worms off the corn stalks, putting the wriggling things into an old pail. Mary like the feel of the wiggling worms, as they tickled her fingers. Dark Henry only grinned and rolled his eyes at her antics; he was far too old and dignified for such nonsense.

  The seasons crept along and the air was crisp, with a hint of cold; Mary knew that fall was close on the heels of summer. She had been sent to the main house to work in the kitchen. Mary was eight years old now and had more responsibilities. Though she was glad not to be working in the fields, she missed seeing Patina and her mother all day and fretted over her mother’s health, which hadn’t gotten better from last winter.

  Mary was given a clean homespun frock to wear around the house, with a crisp white apron over it. She was also given a kerchief to wear. It was a pretty indigo blue and Mary wore it with pride. She came at dawn to the kitchen where she was fed flapjacks and eggs. Mary had inherited Big John’s height; she was a tall lanky girl, her delicate bones showing through.

  Cookie was the kitchen matriarch; she ran her domain with brutal efficiency. She had many minions under her hand and guided each one. Cookie was a tall elegant woman, with a long slender neck. Her slender form belied her talent with food. She’d lived nearly all her life on the Anderson’s large farm, she’d been brought over from Africa when her mother had been captured by a rival village. Her mother and several other women had been caught by the hostile neighbors and taken to the coast, where they were sold to European slave traders. Her mother had died on the long voyage and she’d been cared for by a stranger. Her memories were vague, only that she had always been hungry and thirsty. She also remembered the stench of packed and shackled humanity.

  Cookie didn’t remember her native tongue nor her mother’s face. Now in her early fifties, Cookie knew no other way of life. She had no children of her own. She did however care for those small ones in her charge. Cookie had seen a few children that had Big John’s mark on them, though none as pretty as Mary. Mary’s appetite matched her tall stature and Cookie let her eat her fill.

  Once Mary finished her breakfast, Mary helped Cookie and the other kitchen slaves with duties around the large kitchen. Cookie thought that she might extend Mary’s tutelage in the kitchen. The child was very bright. It was something to think about.

  Mary swept the floor and took scraps out to the chickens and passed a pail to the pig boy, so he could slop the hogs. Then Mary went back into the kitchen and wiped down every surface with a damp rag. When she was finished, she went to Cookie for further instructions.

  “I’ll teach you how to knead this dough for the bread. Once we do that, you can peel some apples and pears for tarts and pies.” Cookie grinned down at Mary. Mary smiled back and nodded. Climbing up onto a stool, Mary took her place beside Cookie.

  “Now, you have to be a tough gal to move this here dough. Don’t you take no nonsense from it.” Cookie instructed as she showed Mary how to move the sticky dough on the counter. From time to time, Cookie sprinkled flour onto the mass and moved the bread dough. Mary watched intently and her arms struggled to bend and fold the heavy mass. It was hard work for the eight-year-old.

  The bread was set aside, a towel draped over and left to rise. Mary went to a cleared area of the large work table. The table ran nearly the whole length of the kitchen. Various slaves were working on different project. Mary picked up a knife and began to peel the fruit that had been set aside for the pies and tarts. Cookie was off doing something at the stove, her soft humming was comforting to Mary. Mary hummed along with Cookie, her head nodding side to side and her legs swinging back and forth.

  Mary was good with the knife and peeled long curls of apple peel. She was quick and soon the fruit was ready for another slave.

  “Alright, you did a good job Mary. Take this corn and go shuck it out on the back porch. I’ll bring some snap beans for you to snap once you’re finished.” Cookie said, smiling down at her.

  “Yes’um.” Mary grinned up.

  Mary sat with a stack of corn cobs beside her. She looked out over the back yard of the kitchen. There were chickens scratching around. The air was crisp around her but not cold. There were blue jays squabbling in the oak tree just off to the side of the house. As she pulled the outer layers off the corn, she watched as the jays jumped from branch to branch. It was peaceful out back. She hummed softly to herself.

  She heard children and looked up, seeing several children running after each other. They were younger and didn’t have as many chores. She smiled at them and their laughter. It was contagious. The children disappeared into the trees. She wondered how her mother was doing. It was a constant worry in her small heart. Winter would be there soon enough. She just hoped her mother would be well. The door opened behind her and she looked up.

  Missy came out to take the shucked corn cobs and handed Mary a large bowl. Mary took the bowl filled with snap beans and began to work. Her nimble fingers were fast and Mary like the sound of the crisp snapping beans. In no time she was finished and got up to take the bowl of beans into the kitchen.

  “Go and take care of the chamber pots now. Be careful not to spill any.” Cookie warned.

  Mary started on the first floor, going to each bedroom to check the chamber pots. Though no one slept in the first-floor bedrooms, that didn’t mean someone didn’t use the chamber pots. She went to the second floor, when she discovered that the first-floor chamber pots were empty. Going into the master’s bedroom, Mary quickly looked around, to make sure no one was there.

  She lifted the pot, not bothering to look inside. The weight of it told her the pot had been used. She carefully made her way down the back stairs and out the back door. She walked, carefully holding the heavy chamber pot away from her. Once she arrived at the outhouse, she knocked, to make sure no one was inside. Then she dumped the pot. She then rinsed the chamber pot out by the old well and returned it to the master’s chamber. This was her least favorite chore and she was careful not to spill the contents of the pots. Sometimes Mary look down into the well and saw her reflection far below. She grinned at herself and licked the gap between her missing front teeth. Looking around, she saw that no one was watching, she threw some pebbles down enjoying the sound of plopping they made when the pebbles reached bottom. She turned and went back to the house.

  Master Anderson had three boys, but only one of them lived at the house. Theodore’s pot was always the fullest. Mary wondered what he ate to make him crap so much. He was off to school now and so it was one less pot she had to empty. She didn’t like the outhouse, there were always flies. The flies buzzed annoyingly around her and she had to hold her breath, for fear of breathing one of the insects in. She felt them bump her face and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  When Mary was finished with the chamber pots, she was given a dusting rag and sent to dust anything that wasn’t moving. During her day, Mary would see her mistress about the house. Sometime
s her mistress would come up to Mary and speak with her. Mary knew to keep her eyes down. The whites didn’t like it when you looked them in the eye, it made them skittish and mean.

  “Mary, how do you like working in the house?” Mistress Anderson asked.

  “Oh, I likes it just fine, missus. Thank ya.” Mary said, her eyes looking down at her feet. Her toes wiggled, indicating her nervousness. Even at her young age, Mary knew how to answer. Life had nothing to do with liking. Mary wondered why this woman asked her the question. She wondered what the woman would say if she said no? They were never allowed to say no.

  “I’m so glad Mary, I asked for you to come up here. Later, I want you to come out with me to the flower garden.” Mistress Anderson said softly.

  Mary curtsied quickly and responded, “Yes um.” Mary remained still until after her mistress left. Mary liked her mistress, but she was wary of her. Clark had taught her mistrust of anyone white, as had her mother and Liza. Mary remembered when the mistress had given her treats when she was little. Her mother told her that the mistress was a fine woman, though a bit high strung.

  “She lost her only daughter durin a smallpox outbreak years ago. She ain’t never got over that.” Ida had said. Mary had been sad at the thought and felt great sympathy for the mistress. Mistress Victoria had also lost two sons, but she still had three big strapping boys left. Mistress Anderson had doted on her daughter, Megan, and when Megan had died at the tender age of five, Mistress Anderson’s soul had been devastated. Mary felt sorry for the lady, and tried to speak sweetly and softly to her. She knew her own mother would be devastated should she die.

  For some reason, the mistress had taken a shine to Mary, and Ida urged Mary to be kind. She hoped that if the mistress felt kindly to her daughter, perhaps Mary’s life would have some kind of safety and security. None of them had that and Ida thought maybe she was just hoping for too much.

  “The missus will do right by you; taint no need ta be scared of her.” Ida had assured Mary the first night Mary came back from the main house. Mary had brought a towel filled with cornbread and a small crock of fried apples; Cookie had given them to her. Mary made sure her mother ate well, so Ida could keep her health up.