Antebellum Struggles Read online

  Now thirty five, she’d long ago perfected the art of charm and attracting men by feigning a slight helplessness. She was adored at the regular social gatherings at the plantation, and often left her female friends jealous with envy.

  5

  A MANA REMEMBERED THE SLAVE SHIP that brought her here to New Orleans.

  Captain LaCrosse was a thick burly hulk of a man, as mean and heartless as he was ruthless. Not only to the slaves on his ship, but to the sailors who were under his command.

  The Captain’s first mate was a thug named Santiago, recently released from prison after his third stint.

  “Mister Santiago! Is all secure?” LaCrosse yelled from the ship’s bow.

  “Aye sir. We’re good to set sail”.

  Amana wasn’t good. Immediately after being sold, she was stuffed like a naked sardine in the bottom belly of the ship. She sensed that she’d never see her beautiful Martinique Island again. Shackled to a single handcuff bolted into the ship’s flooring, on either side of her were other prisoners, each with at least one wrist securely fettered.

  The ship was named the ‘Hope’, an ironic title given the hopeless condition of its unwilling passengers.

  Hours passed as the ship slowly started her planned voyage toward the British Virgin Islands, then Cuba, and onward to her final destination, New Orleans. But this was only the ‘plan’, which could change without warning. Hurricanes, yellow fever, pirates, crew mutiny or slave uprising could arise with little or no advance notice, creeping ever closer until the ship was overwhelmed.

  Amana listened to the cries and screams of the other females, wailing calls that prevented any sleep. Now needing to defecate, she cried out in vain to be unshackled and escorted to the top of the ship. Her cries also went unanswered, and in humiliation she allowed her bowels to perform their natural function. She wasn’t alone.

  Within hours, many of the others succumbed to the same degradation. The putrid stench increased until both men and women vomited, leaving them thirsty and dehydrated. While living on the various plantations, Amana had often come to peace with the idea of death. Now, in the belly of the ship’s hell hole, suicidal thoughts began to occupy her mind.

  Dysentery was rampant. High fever, chills, stomach pain, dehydration. These were only some of the symptoms. Not only among the slaves, but the crew as well.

  ‘Sanitation’, such as it was, was only addressed when the stench from the slaves’ fecal matter became so overwhelming that the crew couldn’t take it anymore. The only concern was to wash it overboard to eliminate the odor, not disinfect. No one knew of germs. They knew of bad odors and, of course, naturally took whatever action was available to reduce it. Elimination wasn’t possible.

  Bucket after bucket of salt water would regularly be poured onto the wooden floors of the slaves’ holds, mopped into other empty buckets, and emptied into the sea. Vinegar would sometimes be sloshed across the floor, and tobacco would be burned, anything to mask the rancid smells. Parasites and bacteria were in heaven, thriving on open wounds and being transported to the food and water that kept all the ship’s souls alive.

  The crew was relatively well-off in handling nature’s demands. They could squat over a ‘head’ board at the front of the ship and drop their doings into the sea. Waves and wind would wash away the remaining mess and clear the odor.

  Now, four white crew members descended the stairs, one holding a whale oil lamp for light, the others carrying tin plates or balancing pots of gruel. The two rows of slaves were separated by a narrow path, just wide enough for the crew to walk back and forth as they haphazardly tried to feed each prisoner. If they missed a hungry soul, tough.

  There was no set day or time to move the prisoners to the open deck of the ship so they could stretch and have a ‘bath’ of salt water thrown on them while their bottom holding areas were cleaned. But it did generally occur every other day or so, weather and sea conditions permitting.

  The Captain and crew were always on alert for an attempted revolt, planned or spontaneous. No more than four male slaves were ever brought to the top deck at the same time. Violation of this rule was cause for forty lashes to the negligent sailor, keel-hauling, or both. There was no police force. With few exceptions, each crew member had authority to immediately punish any threat, real or imagined.

  For the first few days, Amana wasn’t able to communicate with the others because most spoke different languages. But at night, as exhaustion calmed most to sleep, she was able to whisper to a few men and women who spoke some broken English.

  All prayed to ‘Bwana’ for salvation, rescue, or a quick death to end their misery. Amana’s prayers were more practical: She simply wanted to go on deck to breathe fresh air. Unfortunately, her prayers would soon be answered.

  6

  R UTH WAS DEAD. Collette had come to the kitchen to get some tea and help her prepare breakfast. The table wasn’t set, there was no noise, and no outside fire had been started to boil water.

  Ruth and Sadie had been Collette’s house servants for many years. Like Amana, when Ruth first arrived at the plantation she started out working the hot kettles. But unlike Amana, she never complained or gave anyone a reason to punish her. Ruth always had a warm generous smile and, fortunately for her, was given the opportunity to work in the mansion and leave the miserable life of a field nigger behind her.

  Over the years, Collette developed a genuine love for her. She knew that Ruth’s caring and compassionate personality was real, and that she loved caring for Trent and took pride in maintaining the splendor of their magnificent house.

  Ruth was also there at the birth and untimely death of Collette’s only child. She consoled and comforted Collette when she later miscarried. She had the patience of Job, and was instrumental in convincing Trent not to have Collette institutionalized when she nearly went insane over the loss of Trent, Jr.

  And so it was bewildering and out of place for Ruth not to have coffee and breakfast ready.

  She didn’t want to yell Ruth’s name, for fear of waking Trent. So she quietly walked up the stairs to the third floor and down to the end of the hall to Ruth’s room. She knocked softly. No answer. Then she gently turned the doorknob and quietly opened the door. Ruth looked peacefully asleep, tucked under a blanket with her head on the pillow.

  “Ruth, you silly woman” Collette teased. “Get up this very moment. It’s a beautiful morning and the Colonel will want his coffee right away”.

  “Ruth! Ruth?” She poked her arm. Nothing. Then jostled it. Collette let out a blood-curdling scream. “Trent! Trent! Help me! Come quick!”

  The Colonel jumped out of bed and bounded up the flight of stairs. “Where are you?”

  “In Ruth’s room” she yelled. “Oh, please come quick”.

  He entered the room, looked at Ruth and then at Collette, quietly sobbing with tears flowing down her cheek. He knew Ruth was gone. Rather than try in vain to wake her, he instead turned to Collette and drew her into his arms.

  “I’m so sorry” he whispered softly. “We both loved her, and she loved you most of all”.

  7

  N O ONE REALLY KNEW whether the Doctor ever attended any medical school. He did hang a shingle over the front porch of his office, though. It was also where he lived. A wooden shack with two small windows in front. A rumpled bed, a small desk and table, and two chairs. A long wooden table completed the centerpiece of his ‘examination’ room.

  A man in his early 60s, he had a sully disposition. No friends, just acquaintances. He bathed and shaved maybe once a week. His thinning hair was too long. He combed it over, in vain, to hide his balding scalp. When he sweated, it clumped together into ugly black strands.

  Trent had sent his main plantation manager, Mr. Tolivar, to New Orleans to find a doctor. One of the Colonel’s slaves was badly cut by a machete that slipped from his grip while cutting cane stalks. The blade sliced through his pants leg and deep into the muscles of his right calf.

  Tolivar c
ouldn’t have cared less whether the slave received timely treatment, whether gangrene developed, or he died. He wasn’t his property and, besides, it was a hot humid day and he’d been riding over four hours.

  He entered the first saloon he spied.

  After several beers, he overheard two men talking.

  “Look, Doc, I ain’t got no money right now to pay ya’. Besides, you sewed my daughter up so bad she can’t hardly walk. She winces in pain all ‘da time and can’t do any work at all” complained the drinking buddy.

  The Doctor slammed his empty shot glass down on the table. “I’ve been practicing medicine since before you was born. I did a good surgery on her. Probably saved her life”.

  “Well, tell you what” the man replied. “I can give you my prized hog. He’ll feed you and yourns’ for a long time. I’ll even do the butcherin’ myself. Baby backs, ham and bacon. You’ll eat like a king”.

  “Butcherin” the Doctor mumbled to himself. “I’m a goddamned surgeon” he hollered. “I’ve forgotten more about butcherin’ than you’ll ever know”.

  After a moment, he calmed down. “Alright then. Bring it by my house this Saturday. And you can throw in some of that god-awful corn mash whiskey you brew”.

  “Deal” the man said as he finished his beer. As he left, the Doctor sat slumped in his chair, his face contorted from too much booze.

  “Excuse me” greeted Tolivar. “I couldn’t help overhearin’ ya’all. My names Tolivar, and I’m the overseer of Colonel Trent Winters’ plantation”.

  “Yea?” the Doctor replied. “Never heard of him”.

  “Yes sir” Tolivar answered. “Colonel Winters is a very well respected man in these parts. Has twelve hundred acres of cane fields right along the Mississippi, and a hundred slaves, give or take a few. I know cuz’, like I said, I’m the overseer”.

  “What can I do for you, Mister … What’d you say your name was?” The Doctor was trying hard to control his slurred speech.

  “Mr. Tolivar. Tolivar’s fine” he answered. “Well, one of the niggers cut his leg real bad with a machete and needs some stichin’ up. The Colonel asked me to come here and fetch a doctor to help”.

  “Come here?” the Doctor asked sarcastically. “To a saloon?”

  “Well, no” Tolivar replied sheepishly. “I only came here to wet my parched throat. ‘Twas a long ride from the plantation. So, ya see, I’m wonderin’ if you’d come back with me and try to help this darkie.

  “The Colonel, he pays real good. He’s got a mansion bigger and better than any you’ve ever seen. And, if you hit it off, ya’ might get him to pay you on a regular basis to, you know, visit once or twice a month and check on the slaves’ health and what-not”.

  “Well, I’ve never treated no darkies before, never had one as a patient” he said.

  “Hmm …” he thought to himself. “I sure as hell don’t want to travel all the way out to a plantation, but I also sure as hell need the money”.

  “My time’s valuable” he lied. “But I can probably have my nurse reschedule tomorrow’s patients. I’m not travelin’ in the dark though. I’ll meet you here at sunup tomorrow mornin’.

  “My nurse” he mused to himself. “Reschedulin’ should be easy enough, since I ain’t got no nurse and I ain’t got no patients”.

  “Fine” Tolivar replied. “I’ll meet ‘ya here. And remember, the Colonel pays real good”.

  “Yea, well he can start by havin’ you pay for my tab”.

  Tolivar returned a shit-eatin’ grin, and nodded.

  8

  T OLIVAR WAS WAITING OUTSIDE the saloon when the Doctor drove up in his horse-drawn buckboard.

  “Good mornin’” he greeted the Doctor.

  “Yea” the Doctor replied. “How longs’ this trip gonna be?”

  “About four hours, five tops” Tolivar replied. The Doctor took a sip of whiskey from his flask, not caring whether Tolivar noticed. The sun had just crested the horizon, and the air was already hot and humid. Tolivar mounted his horse and led the Doctor down the main street and onto the long dirt road that wound to the plantation.

  Along the way, small groups of slaves were working various fields, always carefully watched by an overseer.

  Sometimes the overseer, himself, was a slave. One who’d earned special privilege with the owner, and was trusted to ride a horse and, although rarely, might even be allowed to carry a gun. This slave had no intention of ever trying to escape, or allowing any one of his workers to slack off or misbehave. He treated the slaves like any white overseer would, harshly and unbending.

  “Whoa” the Doctor said, and stopped his horse. “I need to take a leak”. He stepped backwards off the buckboard, and then stooped forward to stretch his back.

  “Ah” he moaned, and then reached to finish off the last sip from his flask.

  “Say Doc, I sure don’t wanna’ tell you what to do, but we’re almost there and I’d hate for the Colonel to see you half smashed”.

  “Then don’t, goddamnit” the Doctor snorted back. “Besides, that’s the last of it”.

  Sweat poured off both their faces as they finally came into view of the mansion. The Doctor sucked in a mosquito and half choked as he tried to spit it out.

  “Good god” he moaned disgustedly, as he wiped the saliva with his sleeve. “This Colonel had better pay good”.

  Trent was in the kitchen and saw them approach. He went to the front porch to greet the two.

  “Welcome Doctor” he greeted, as he briskly walked down the porch steps. “Welcome to my humble abode”.

  The Doctor stepped down from his buckboard and tried to nonchalantly tuck his tattered shirt into his pants, hampered by his bulging belly. Tolivar was right. This place was magnificent, and the Colonel was obviously a wealthy and learned man. “I gotta’ make a good impression” he thought to himself.

  “I’m Doctor Wesley. Jeremiah Wesley” he said, as if the Colonel should be impressed. “Good to meet you”. He held out his sweaty hand.

  Trent firmly shook it and gave the Doctor a wide welcoming smile, always the polished Southern gentleman. Inwardly, he wanted to refuse to shake this disheveled man’s hand, and made a mental note to wash as soon as possible.

  “I hear ‘ya have a stupid nigger that cut himself bad” the Doctor said.

  “Why, yes. Yes indeed” Trent replied, feeling more repulsed at this Doctor’s blunt language.

  “I’ll show you to him. His name’s Gabe, and he’s been with me for many years. It’s an ugly cut. Some of the women have tried to help, putting some kind of salve on the wound and keeping it wrapped up. I don’t think it’s getting much better, though. He’s in a lot of pain”.

  “Well, let’s take a look” the Doctor said, wishing the Colonel would’ve first offered him a tour of the mansion. He wiped his sweaty face with his dirty sleeve. Trent pushed his growing disgust aside, and regained his manners. He called inside to Sadie.

  “Sadie, fetch a pitcher of ice water for the Doctor and Mr. Tolivar. Bring it to the quarters where Gabe’s at”.

  “Ice?” the Doctor wondered to himself. “Where the hell does he get ice in the middle of August?”

  9

  T HE THREE MEN WALKED down the dirt path leading to the slaves’ quarters. The path was lined with huge tall oak trees, full of leaves, providing much wanted shade and cooler temperature.

  The Doctor was duly impressed with the perfectly manicured grounds. He watched as men and women shuffled back and forth, carrying water buckets to fill horse troughs, trimming bushes, and cleaning up manure.

  As they approached, he saw at least ten separate wooden structures, and the frames of two more. He smelled the scent of freshly cut wood as they stopped in front of Gabe’s quarters. Tolivar knew what the Doctor was wondering.

  “Yea, there’s a lot more cabins than these. Another ten more over thar” as Tolivar motioned a couple of hundred yards west. “And another fifteen over yonder thar’” as he pointed his finger towa
rd the east side of the mansion. “Like I said, we’s got about a hundred slaves” he proudly stated.

  The Doctor’s attitude immediately brightened. “Well, this Colonel certainly does have plenty of money to pay” he thought to himself.

  He and Trent stepped over the front door threshold and into the cabin. The Doctor quickly scanned the interior. Wooden floor, a small table and four chairs, couple of wooden shelves, two wooden cots, some tin plates and cups, a few candles, and dirty clothes folded neatly in the corner. That was about it.

  Then he looked at Gabe, lying on his back on one of the cots, his head resting on a bunched up shirt. Both pants legs had been cut, so he now wore shorts, his right calf wrapped in a blood soaked cloth.

  Gabe’s fever was worsening. His forehead sweated profusely. The sounds of the Colonel and the Doctor entering the room aroused him from semi-consciousness. His face contorted into panic as he watched the Doctor approach. There were no introductions, but he knew this man was the doctor whom the other workers had told him was coming.

  “Relax” the Doctor ordered. “Let’s just have a look see”.

  He sat his fat ass down on the corner of the cot. Gabe gazed at the backs of the Doctor’s dust-caked hands as he slowly reached toward the blood soaked bandage. He saw the hands tremble a bit as his dirt laden fingernails peeled off the cloth. Gabe had seen the wound several times, but each time became more agonizing, as there didn’t appear to be any improvement. What had once been red, was now turning to brown and black.

  “Whoa” the Doctor stammered as he threw back his head to lessen the foul smell coming from the blisters and pus surrounding the wound. “This don’t look good”.

  Gabe was instantly terrified when he saw the Doctor’s reaction. He knew what happened to patients with gangrene.

  “Don’t cut it off Doctor! Pleeze don’t cuts my leg off!” he implored, tears streaming from his eyes. “I needs my leg. I can’t do no work wit’ out it!” he cried.