The sky was of light red, turning darker each minute that passed. Clouds stretched at the far horizon creating silly patterns in the sky. The lights of the mansion gradually appeared in the blackness of the night. Men, a bundle of men, walked back home heading for their huts. Only shadows could be discerned amidst the darkness: the silhouettes of shovels, ax and other tools. Everyone looked impressive, through their elegant and powerful walk, their imposing stature.
Inside the mansion the atmosphere was quite different. Men wore white shirts and sleeves with golden cufflinks, their ties straightened up to the neck. Ladies were dressed in silk dresses, high heels and tons of perfume. Shrilly voices that pierced in the living room, the sound of their heels striking on the wooden flooring, the shining cutlery and vases of crystal, their diamonds visible in every possible way. In-house servants had a rather neutral yet elegant style.
The contrast was there indeed. Two worlds co-existed side by side, and yet, each could not live without the other.
“Lay down here, Thom, my ol’ boy, ‘tis but another hard day behind,” said the woman in the corner. Her voice was so loud none of the comrades could have misheard. Rita was a big woman, middle-aged and whose elbows witnessed many a harsh experience. She knew the owners of the plantation for ages. This was part of the reason why she spoke her mind, always willing to show her feelings and express her ideas regardless of the consequences this could have. Thom sighed and sat down at the table, sitting in front and staring at Rita with her deep black eyes.
After a moment: “You shouldn’t always speak so loudly and say your thoughts, one of these days the wheel will turn…” At the sheer sound of the words Rita stood up and hollered back: “Hell, what is it this that problem you have after all? Lord George and Lady Willemsby knows I ain’t going to shut up just to please ‘em or ‘cause I’m poor. Do you really think we oughta bend in front of such folks?”
Thom was much more of a diplomatic kind. He had to work hard – he knew that was his job and so he would do it – and accepted his condition. And still, he knew that every actor had to play his role and would show respect to his masters as a simple sign of respect.
Listening to the old mate he realized that she however would never show respect and will definitely always act as a rebel.
The farm stood amidst the prairies filled with cotton. The plantation was eight hectares wide and Sir George owned twenty slaves. These men all lived with their mates next to the mansion, their master’s home. Female slaves worked in the garden and some of them, the most privileged ones, helped inside the house. The surroundings were hilly and the forest surrounded the plantation. An alley made of oak trees led to the master’s refuge: white columns on both sides could be seen from a distance. The impressive pathway under the trees was a safe way, sheltered from the frequent rain.
Built apart from the owner’s house were little cabins: log houses with a single window next to the only door, mud and dirt as flooring. This is the place where slaves would gather at night: numerous, sitting on straw, eating on straw, sleeping on straw. Conditions were unbearable and healthiness was scarce albeit inexistent, diseases were plenty.
Before the first ray of light, horse hooves could be heard coming from far away, then the sound of horses. A man stepped down, the clinging of his boots, the metallic sound of weapons. He loaded his revolver and shoot in the air:
“Morning hour, get your asses out of your homes and get going to the fields of cotton!” Arthur’s voice sounded almost military and his yelling and spitting convinced many dark feelings. Either he was frustrated to do such a job or he deliberately disliked the folks under his command… perhaps both.
Wooden doors opened one after another and half-awaken, stern- and sad-faced men would fetch their tools and walk on past their master’s home.
Several guards stood along the road with rifles on their elbows and greedy faces, stupid pride. The slaves disappeared in the darkness of the morning stepping through the wooden tunnel. After an hour walk they climbed the hill and reached their destination.
Sir George’s plantation was one of the oldest plantations in Western Virginia. It was also one of the biggest, not necessarily in size but in numbers of slaves. A true slave-owner, Sir George established a confidence with his servants – even though they were slaves he’d rather called them “servants”. The master’s directions to the guards and overseers was to respect the men who worked in the fields, and to respect their families. The master’s voice was intense but he never fired any of his slaves, he punished them alright but never killed any.
Thom was the third generation of slaves. His grandfather was African and had been brought over across the Ocean, tearing his Senegalese roots off. That was the time when the Virginia plantation counted 200 slaves. In those days workers exceeded the number of owners of the plantation, yet control was reversed. Thom’s father was brought up under Sir George’s father’s authority, he was among the numerous slaves to cut the trees and spread seeds for the plantation.
An odd feeling of domination reigned in the cotton fields, along the path and in the plantation in general. It was a controversial situation proving a coexistence was indeed possible but with a strange sense of consciousness.
Slaves had no time to rest or sit back and think about their condition. They worked from sunrise until sunset and were so tired they would only go to bed at night. And still, conditions were so disastrous many died along the years.
Sir George would summon everyone from his family to the slaves. He considered all of them as being part of the same family. They would gather and mourn together, attending the funerals. They would pray, then go back to their work.
“Mummy, when we’s gonna be free one day?” Thom asked his mother when still a teen.
“”Mummy, when am I going to see daddy in the daytime?”
His mother always found a nice way to answer her child’s questions. She knew best how to brighten his thoughts, and often also how to hide the truth.
Thom’s father, Ngoba, was a tough guy. A true slave, devoted to serve his master. Ngoba spent his lifetime in the plantation and the plantation was for most parts bound to Ngoba’s harsh efforts. Thom’s father began as a technical help in the building of the mansion, the paving of the entrance, the set up of the pathway, planting the oaks along the way… So much energy he spent in making the plantation what it became and was.
When all the work had been completed, Thom’s father was sent back to the cotton fields. Sir George – though humble and inclined to his people – killed his slaves not only physically (without the acceptance of doing so) but also morally.
This had been too much for Thom’s father and Ngabo was hit by a severe disease. While his body grew ill the American-African lost his strength and moral. One morning he fell aground the pathway he had built a few weeks before. A stroke took the thirty-five years old man away.
“With him everything had gone,” Rita told Thom, a young adolescent, a few years later.
“Your mother, oh boy – that woman who used to be so strong and beautiful, with that cheerful face and her dearly kind look – your mother was so devastated she could live no more once your daddy’d gone. Us girls told her to keep the faith and said the river has springs and torrents: knowing the road is long. The poor thing wouldn’t listen to us, deaf to our words depression took her away”.
Thom’s eyes filled with liquid, warm tears rolled down his cheeks.
“So does that mean she abandoned me?” the boy’s voice muttered.
“She told me to keep an eye on you, my dear… And now, let me tell you in my own words: life is what you make of it. See, your daddy’s done what he could; your grand daddy did what he could; now it’s your turn so go ahead and do what you could!”
These words sounded strange to Thom back then. But these words – even if they didn’t override his deception and misunderstanding of the situation – actually predestined his life. Much like Ngabo, his long-gone daddy, Thom acted the same way: always pushing the limits farther ahead and always giving the best of himself.
In work Thom had found a refuge, much in the way his father and grandfather had before. It felt as a mask to him, a wall to block him from reality.
Everyday felt the same and every night he resented the pain. It was a matter of repetition, daily chores and so much strength wasted. The fatigue of the slaves became so big, their submission so intense they would not even dare revolt or complain.
In the early spring the men left their barracks as every day. Following the coarse instructions of the overseers the crippled workers disappeared at the end of the alley heading for the valley where the cotton fields lay.
Dew was still present when the first sunrays appeared across the branches bordering them.
All at once the sun brightened Thom’s face and the poor one was blinded for a moment. Thom fell to the ground and closed his eyes. Breathing out his sigh sounded in the prairie.
Big sounds of hooves approached and cavaliers reached out from the forest. Majestic uniforms and officers’ swords shone in the clear morning light.
The guards circling the slaves were taken by surprise and had no time to react or open fire. The soldiers were far more numerous and trained professionals.
“This is our day, ‘tis a blessing, you came my lord,” a desperate voice could be heard from the fields. The men were so tired from their work they were hardly able to stand up straight.
When Thom stood up a smiling rider looked down at him, his horse standing near:
“Today is the day that marks the end of your nightmare, Sir.”
Thom was amazed to be called “Sir”. It was the first time somebody showed him such respect, and moreover these words were pronounced by a White man.
The squad of riders eventually found the mansion: fire shots announced their arrival. Sir George and his family hardly ever showed any resistance, it seemed as though they found an agreement. Nonetheless all of the Confederates were arrested and a carriage led them away. All of the slaves were released from their life-long burden and evacuated from their modest homes. Cavaliers raced out of nowhere and cast flashlights through the broken windows of the mansion and on its roof. The whole plantation was soon on fire and the Army left the place.
Thom and his family left the Virginia region and moved west to establish. With the help of his son and the support of his wife Thom built what was to become their home.
The house stood on a faraway cliff overlooking the cotton-filled valley. The forest and unexplored wilderness lay beside it: four rooms and a porch. Thom enjoyed sitting in his rocking chair and looking at the sunset on the horizon.
One evening, when their children lay asleep, Thom’s wife came next to him.
“Can you remember, not so long back, when we used to starve in Sir George’s plantation?” the woman began.
“Sure, we were overseen back then, we had our landmarks.”
“This here life feels so much better though, won’t you agree? We set our own rules now and you find your own work rhythm…”
“Back then we knew where we had to go, and what we had to do,” Thom’s words showed his incomprehension and loss of the situation. He conveyed an amertume hardly understandable.
His wife stepped ahead and faced the sunset.
“Given the conditions we encountered and their mistreating us – scars from the rape I’ve suffered still visible on my back and legs; your much too frequent punishments and their marks – I just cannot forgive George and his guards. I truly enjoy the life we lead now!”
Thom stood up and moved next to her:
“But what is Freedom worth when you lost all abilities and all sense for living?”
Inside the mansion the atmosphere was quite different. Men wore white shirts and sleeves with golden cufflinks, their ties straightened up to the neck. Ladies were dressed in silk dresses, high heels and tons of perfume. Shrilly voices that pierced in the living room, the sound of their heels striking on the wooden flooring, the shining cutlery and vases of crystal, their diamonds visible in every possible way. In-house servants had a rather neutral yet elegant style.
The contrast was there indeed. Two worlds co-existed side by side, and yet, each could not live without the other.
“Lay down here, Thom, my ol’ boy, ‘tis but another hard day behind,” said the woman in the corner. Her voice was so loud none of the comrades could have misheard. Rita was a big woman, middle-aged and whose elbows witnessed many a harsh experience. She knew the owners of the plantation for ages. This was part of the reason why she spoke her mind, always willing to show her feelings and express her ideas regardless of the consequences this could have. Thom sighed and sat down at the table, sitting in front and staring at Rita with her deep black eyes.
After a moment: “You shouldn’t always speak so loudly and say your thoughts, one of these days the wheel will turn…” At the sheer sound of the words Rita stood up and hollered back: “Hell, what is it this that problem you have after all? Lord George and Lady Willemsby knows I ain’t going to shut up just to please ‘em or ‘cause I’m poor. Do you really think we oughta bend in front of such folks?”
Thom was much more of a diplomatic kind. He had to work hard – he knew that was his job and so he would do it – and accepted his condition. And still, he knew that every actor had to play his role and would show respect to his masters as a simple sign of respect.
Listening to the old mate he realized that she however would never show respect and will definitely always act as a rebel.
The farm stood amidst the prairies filled with cotton. The plantation was eight hectares wide and Sir George owned twenty slaves. These men all lived with their mates next to the mansion, their master’s home. Female slaves worked in the garden and some of them, the most privileged ones, helped inside the house. The surroundings were hilly and the forest surrounded the plantation. An alley made of oak trees led to the master’s refuge: white columns on both sides could be seen from a distance. The impressive pathway under the trees was a safe way, sheltered from the frequent rain.
Built apart from the owner’s house were little cabins: log houses with a single window next to the only door, mud and dirt as flooring. This is the place where slaves would gather at night: numerous, sitting on straw, eating on straw, sleeping on straw. Conditions were unbearable and healthiness was scarce albeit inexistent, diseases were plenty.
Before the first ray of light, horse hooves could be heard coming from far away, then the sound of horses. A man stepped down, the clinging of his boots, the metallic sound of weapons. He loaded his revolver and shoot in the air:
“Morning hour, get your asses out of your homes and get going to the fields of cotton!” Arthur’s voice sounded almost military and his yelling and spitting convinced many dark feelings. Either he was frustrated to do such a job or he deliberately disliked the folks under his command… perhaps both.
Wooden doors opened one after another and half-awaken, stern- and sad-faced men would fetch their tools and walk on past their master’s home.
Several guards stood along the road with rifles on their elbows and greedy faces, stupid pride. The slaves disappeared in the darkness of the morning stepping through the wooden tunnel. After an hour walk they climbed the hill and reached their destination.
Sir George’s plantation was one of the oldest plantations in Western Virginia. It was also one of the biggest, not necessarily in size but in numbers of slaves. A true slave-owner, Sir George established a confidence with his servants – even though they were slaves he’d rather called them “servants”. The master’s directions to the guards and overseers was to respect the men who worked in the fields, and to respect their families. The master’s voice was intense but he never fired any of his slaves, he punished them alright but never killed any.
Thom was the third generation of slaves. His grandfather was African and had been brought over across the Ocean, tearing his Senegalese roots off. That was the time when the Virginia plantation counted 200 slaves. In those days workers exceeded the number of owners of the plantation, yet control was reversed. Thom’s father was brought up under Sir George’s father’s authority, he was among the numerous slaves to cut the trees and spread seeds for the plantation.
An odd feeling of domination reigned in the cotton fields, along the path and in the plantation in general. It was a controversial situation proving a coexistence was indeed possible but with a strange sense of consciousness.
Slaves had no time to rest or sit back and think about their condition. They worked from sunrise until sunset and were so tired they would only go to bed at night. And still, conditions were so disastrous many died along the years.
Sir George would summon everyone from his family to the slaves. He considered all of them as being part of the same family. They would gather and mourn together, attending the funerals. They would pray, then go back to their work.
“Mummy, when we’s gonna be free one day?” Thom asked his mother when still a teen.
“”Mummy, when am I going to see daddy in the daytime?”
His mother always found a nice way to answer her child’s questions. She knew best how to brighten his thoughts, and often also how to hide the truth.
Thom’s father, Ngoba, was a tough guy. A true slave, devoted to serve his master. Ngoba spent his lifetime in the plantation and the plantation was for most parts bound to Ngoba’s harsh efforts. Thom’s father began as a technical help in the building of the mansion, the paving of the entrance, the set up of the pathway, planting the oaks along the way… So much energy he spent in making the plantation what it became and was.
When all the work had been completed, Thom’s father was sent back to the cotton fields. Sir George – though humble and inclined to his people – killed his slaves not only physically (without the acceptance of doing so) but also morally.
This had been too much for Thom’s father and Ngabo was hit by a severe disease. While his body grew ill the American-African lost his strength and moral. One morning he fell aground the pathway he had built a few weeks before. A stroke took the thirty-five years old man away.
“With him everything had gone,” Rita told Thom, a young adolescent, a few years later.
“Your mother, oh boy – that woman who used to be so strong and beautiful, with that cheerful face and her dearly kind look – your mother was so devastated she could live no more once your daddy’d gone. Us girls told her to keep the faith and said the river has springs and torrents: knowing the road is long. The poor thing wouldn’t listen to us, deaf to our words depression took her away”.
Thom’s eyes filled with liquid, warm tears rolled down his cheeks.
“So does that mean she abandoned me?” the boy’s voice muttered.
“She told me to keep an eye on you, my dear… And now, let me tell you in my own words: life is what you make of it. See, your daddy’s done what he could; your grand daddy did what he could; now it’s your turn so go ahead and do what you could!”
These words sounded strange to Thom back then. But these words – even if they didn’t override his deception and misunderstanding of the situation – actually predestined his life. Much like Ngabo, his long-gone daddy, Thom acted the same way: always pushing the limits farther ahead and always giving the best of himself.
In work Thom had found a refuge, much in the way his father and grandfather had before. It felt as a mask to him, a wall to block him from reality.
Everyday felt the same and every night he resented the pain. It was a matter of repetition, daily chores and so much strength wasted. The fatigue of the slaves became so big, their submission so intense they would not even dare revolt or complain.
In the early spring the men left their barracks as every day. Following the coarse instructions of the overseers the crippled workers disappeared at the end of the alley heading for the valley where the cotton fields lay.
Dew was still present when the first sunrays appeared across the branches bordering them.
All at once the sun brightened Thom’s face and the poor one was blinded for a moment. Thom fell to the ground and closed his eyes. Breathing out his sigh sounded in the prairie.
Big sounds of hooves approached and cavaliers reached out from the forest. Majestic uniforms and officers’ swords shone in the clear morning light.
The guards circling the slaves were taken by surprise and had no time to react or open fire. The soldiers were far more numerous and trained professionals.
“This is our day, ‘tis a blessing, you came my lord,” a desperate voice could be heard from the fields. The men were so tired from their work they were hardly able to stand up straight.
When Thom stood up a smiling rider looked down at him, his horse standing near:
“Today is the day that marks the end of your nightmare, Sir.”
Thom was amazed to be called “Sir”. It was the first time somebody showed him such respect, and moreover these words were pronounced by a White man.
The squad of riders eventually found the mansion: fire shots announced their arrival. Sir George and his family hardly ever showed any resistance, it seemed as though they found an agreement. Nonetheless all of the Confederates were arrested and a carriage led them away. All of the slaves were released from their life-long burden and evacuated from their modest homes. Cavaliers raced out of nowhere and cast flashlights through the broken windows of the mansion and on its roof. The whole plantation was soon on fire and the Army left the place.
Thom and his family left the Virginia region and moved west to establish. With the help of his son and the support of his wife Thom built what was to become their home.
The house stood on a faraway cliff overlooking the cotton-filled valley. The forest and unexplored wilderness lay beside it: four rooms and a porch. Thom enjoyed sitting in his rocking chair and looking at the sunset on the horizon.
One evening, when their children lay asleep, Thom’s wife came next to him.
“Can you remember, not so long back, when we used to starve in Sir George’s plantation?” the woman began.
“Sure, we were overseen back then, we had our landmarks.”
“This here life feels so much better though, won’t you agree? We set our own rules now and you find your own work rhythm…”
“Back then we knew where we had to go, and what we had to do,” Thom’s words showed his incomprehension and loss of the situation. He conveyed an amertume hardly understandable.
His wife stepped ahead and faced the sunset.
“Given the conditions we encountered and their mistreating us – scars from the rape I’ve suffered still visible on my back and legs; your much too frequent punishments and their marks – I just cannot forgive George and his guards. I truly enjoy the life we lead now!”
Thom stood up and moved next to her:
“But what is Freedom worth when you lost all abilities and all sense for living?”
December 21 2012
© 2015 Matt Oehler
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