Young Writers Society

DURANTE VITA

THE DAILY AFTERNOON downpour had just subsided, giving way to the opulent sunrise that everyone hardly noticed. From the thick spanish moss draped over the huge oaks in the front lawn, to the cherry tree in the back, even the blades of grass dripped off their load of rainwater.

Charlotte walked outside to the porch swing. This was arguably her favorite time of day, and she always spent it there. It was though the rain washed out the stress and worry from the day, calming the frenzied world till it could rest for the night. And then, always with a new flare, the sunset would come, filling the western sky with the richest table of colors even imagined. The birds would practice their last symphony for the day, and then night would fall, bringing with it it’s blessed silence. Every day, it was the same, and yet always different. Somehow, she always noticed it, always thought about it, almost always thanked God for it. She figured that someone had to do it, and most of the rest of the people on the farm hardly even noticed it. Father and Mother did nearly nothing superfluous, it seemed they rarely talked or even thought about anything except the farm and what prices cotton was getting in Spain. Her older brother had just gone to college, which wasn’t that much of a change for her regardless, as she had little to do with him. The rest of the four hundred people on their giant plantation where slaves, and she knew only one or two of them.

“Watching the sunset again?” came a voice from behind her. She smiled. It was Nana. She didn’t know if she had a last name, or even another first name - she was always Nana. She did remember hearing that Nana was the first slave that Father had bought, which was fairly noteworthy. Regardless of that, she was one of the few slaves allowed into the house, and therefore was really the only one the children knew.

“It’s still pretty, so yes.” she answered.

“Do you need me to do anything else, my Charlotte?”

“No Nana, I’m going to bed - just might take a little walk.”

“You be careful, now. Good night.”

She walked her usual walk - down to the barn, up to the top of the hill that lay behind it, but then instead of turning around and heading back like she usually did, she decided to walk on. It was all unfamiliar, but it was her farm. Although their farm was huge, she rarely left the mansion. Father kept clear lines between them and the slaves, and therefore most of the farm was off- limits to her. That being said, she was also nearly 16, and felt the sudden responsibility to break the rules like most people that age do.

She walked in the setting sun out into the fields. They rolled and twisted like a giant pillow. Earlier in the day, they would have been filled with men, harvesting the cotton that grew so plentifully across the acres. Now it was barren, not a sound or a movement, not even a breeze. Just peace.

Suddenly there was a rustle in the leaves behind her. She wheeled. There was a man sitting in the bushes! He looked up at the same time, both of them equally startled.

“I… I am so sorry, Ma’am. I did not realize you were here. Please forgive me.” He said, as he stood up, and began to leave. As he stood, she saw he was only a boy about her age, a negro yet, but quite charming nonetheless.

“No, it’s okay. You were watching the sunset?”

“Yes, ma’am. I will leave now though.”

“No, please, you can stay. I didn’t mean to make you have to leave.”

“Ma’am, your father has given us very strict orders that we should not talk to you, and keep our distance. Have a good night.”

“Seriously. You can stay. What’s your name? I won’t say a thing, and there’s no one else here. I didn’t think anyone else watched the sunset.”

He looked back at her with the most quizzical expression that his face could display.

“My…My… My.. name.. i..is..Buck. I watch the sunset every night.”

“Listen, Buck” she said, as she walked over to him. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything. I’m just glad to meet you. My name is Charlotte.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know me?”

“Well, yes, I mean no, but I know who you are. I see you every night sitting on the porch.”

She laughed. “So I take that you come here every night too.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, tommorrow night, will you be here?”

“Yes, ma’am”

“Do you mind if I join you? My brother is gone to college, so there is no one to talk to at my house.”

At this his face suddenly grew very dark, and he began to shake his head, and look down. “Ma’am, I am sorry for talking to you. I will be on my way.” He turned and began to leave.

“No, please!” she grabbed his arm. “Don’t worry about my dad. He won’t know anything about it.”

He looked at her gravely, “ Ma’am, I could get killed just for being out of the house right now, and if anyone saw me talking to you, I would be killed on the spot.”

“Alright. You come up here, and sit in the bushes, and I’ll sit outside, and no one will see you, and no one will look for you, because I’m there. And then we can talk.”

He smiled a shy smile, “As you wish, ma’am.”

The next day, he was there as he promised. She sat a respectful distance, and they talked - about the weather, the cotton, their lives, almost anything they could. It was fully dark by the time she finally went home.

The next day, she decided to go a little earlier. It was still fully light, the sky pouring it’s creamy reds and pinks down to the horizon. But as she came up to the little bush, she heard faint notes. She crept a little closer, hoping not to disturb whoever it was. The she realised. It was him. He had some ukulele-like instrument, and was playing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”, but as she neared, she realised he was playing at at nearly twice the normal speed, and never missed a single note.

“I didn’t know you played” she said, when she was sure it was him. At that he leaped from his hiding spot, through the instrument under a blanket he had kept there, and sat back, looking as placid as he could muster.

“Good evening, Miss Charlotte, have you come to watch the sunset?”

“Buck, it’s fine, you play very well. I won’t tell anyone, and besides, I can’t really, now, right?”

Suddenly he turned to her, with a expression filled with worry and pleading. “Please, don’t say anything about it. If anyone finds out, even my own dad, I will get killed. Please, Miss Charlotte, please.”

“Of course I won’t tell. Do you know any other songs?”

“Yes, ma’am, I know a lot of songs.”

“Can you play another one?”

He looked very worried, but proceeded to get it out and sit down. “Which one would you like me to play, Miss Charlotte?”

“I don’t care. Whatever one you like.”

He began a very complicated and daring intro, scuttling his fingers up and down the fretboard faster than should be possible. Suddenly, a melody developed, the tempo slowed, and slowed, and slowed. Then, just as unexpectedly, he began to sing.

Swing low, sweet chariot

Comin’ for to carry me home

She jolted upright. Who was this? His voice was so full and deep, more beautiful that she could ever imagine.

If you get to heaven before I do

Comin' for to carry me home

Tell all my friends I'm comin' there too

Comin' for to carry me home

Had she died and gone to heaven? Hardly even thinking, she began to harmonize the chorus, and it was Buck’s turn to stop.

“You sing!” he said, unable to believe his ears. “You sing like an angel, Miss Charlotte.” A smile wiped across his pitch black face, showing his bright teeth.

“Don’t mention it. I didn’t think boys could sound that good! You sound better than an angel! And you’re pretty good at that. Maybe someday you can go into the city and play for a living.”

“I don’t think so, Miss. I am a slave here, and I don’t see any way of me getting freed. I’ve heard that it happens to some men in other places, but for us’ss, miss, I don’t think one’s gotten him freed from this farm- in all histry!”

“Maybe I can help though…” she said with a smile.

“Why, Miss Charlotte? I’m just a negroe, and you’re all sivlised, why you treatin’ me like this? I ain’t deserve it.”

“Actually you do… You’re a slave because you were born that way, I am free because I was born that way. I don’t play any instrument, and you play better than anyone I know. Just from a purely business look, you deserve your freedom more than I do.”

“Nonsense, Miss Charlotte. But thank you.” he said, as a smile drug across his face.

And with that, they parted ways for the night.

The next evening, she left as soon as she could without arousing suspicion. Once she thought everyone was inside, she ran as fast as she could to the bush.

“Buck? Buck?” she almost yelled, but quieted as soon as she saw his eyes peering from in the bush.

“Miss Charlotte, can you please quiet down?”

“You’re not playing tonight?” she asked when she sat down.

“No, I have to much to think about”

“Everything’s okay, right?”

It has to be said that there was a semblance of an approval, but it was easily seen that there was some issue. Charlotte then launched into a ten- minute lecture about her plan to free him. She was saving her money, trying to secretly sell things that she could, to come up with the money he needed. She finished her plan, looking expectantly to see that big smile drag over his face, but it never came.

“What’s the matter, Buck?” she asked, seeing his head in his hands.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not, don’t I already know too much? I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“But this is different.”

“Please, Buck, just tell me - not a soul will know.”

He lowered his voice, looking right at her. “I’m not sure if it’s true, but the men are talking of running away. There’s a route that they call the ‘Underground Railroad”, and they say there’s people who help us, all the way up to New York, where we become free men.”

“Why are you sad then, that is great! You’ll be free - you can do whatever you want, go play music in the city up there, or whatever you want.”

“It’s really dangerous. Pap said only me and him could go. I don’t know what they do to mom, and sister - that’s all I have. I’d leave everything, everything I know, all my friends, and you, too.”

She smiled, but made sure he didn’t see.

“You have your guitar.”

They talked the rest of the night about how he could get away, what to do when he got there. They both agreed they would write eachother, once he was safe.

The next morning started like any other. The farm woke up with the sun, the army of slaves descending upon the fields like a colony of ants. Breakfast was served in the mansion, arrayed as usual in all it’s finery, prepared by slaves at the kitchen in their village. The household began their various tasks. Charlotte began to prepare for Nana’s classes that she held in the main dining hall. It was almost midmorning when Charlotte noticed quite a large commotion at the barn. It wasn’t immediately obvious what it was, only that there was a great number of men gathered in a circle, watching whatever was happening in the middle. She estimated that it had to be nearly all of the slaves. But as she went out onto the porch, she began to hear the determined and brutal lashes of a whip. Somebody was in trouble.

A firm grip seized her shoulder and pushed her back into the house.

“Nothing for you to see out there, darling.” She could hear the sorrow in Nana’s voice, and realised that she was very disturbed by what was happening down there.

“What’s happening.”

“I don’t know, and I don’t really want to know. I just heard that they found someone who had information about the underground railroad. Sometimes I don’t understand why they do what they do. They know they’re just going to get beaten to death.”

“To death?”

“Yes, but my dear, let’s go on to school, there is no need us to talk about that.”

THen suddenly she realized. Buck. It was only he and a few others, he said that were planning it, and he would be the most likely to make a mistake. In a split second she was out the door, running as fast as she could down to the barn. She shoved and squirmed her way through the crowd, which was forced to watch the spectacle by ten armed men. Then she saw him. There he lay, in the center of the circle, his body dripping in blood, as the whip slashed and bruised it more and more. He spit out blood now and again.

“NOOOOOO!!!!!!!” she screamed, as she flung herself over him. Down the whip came. She felt the sharp sting lacing her back, cutting her dress. Again and again it came. She felt the salty taste of blood seeping into her mouth. Then, suddenly it all stopped.

“Go, Charlotte” she heard him whisper. “Help…. My…. sister.”

“You’re whipping my daughter, John.” she heard a voice say. It was her father. She clung on to Buck as tight as she could. “Charlotte, you need to get up, now. I know this doesn’t make sense, but you need to trust me.” he said, in his usual calm, emotionless voice.

“Trust you! To murder people for no reason!” she screamed as she lifted her head to look up at him. “He is a man just like you - maybe even a better one. You haven’t even found out if he was guilty of anything or not! Now he’s to die - never to be seen again. I am supposed to trust you! Absolutely no way!”

“Darling, he’s not a man, he is a slave. I own him, and I can do what I want with him. But for your sake, we’ll put him in our jail for right now, and we’ll look into it, and see if he was guilty or not.”

“You are going to bandage him up, and make sure he can recover, and you’re going to swear to it, or I’m staying right here, and you can kill us both.”

“I swear”

She got up and watched as they drug his half-dead body to the jail, locking it securely.

“Darling, I know this is hard to understand, but you must try. I have tried to keep you from this, but you are older, and you must learn how to live as an adult. I know it seems like we are being inhumane, but you must remember that these are slaves, they are not men. We bought them with our money, and they are our property. When one of carridges breaks, we burn it right? It’s the same with them. If they are going to incite rebellion, they are ruining our investment, and we have to keep that from happening. That’s just the way that God made it. You have to remember that they are slaves, not men, and it will all make sense.”

Slowly, her eyes glimmering with hatred, she turned to face him. With the same grit as the Greeks before the Persians, she stared him in the face, “He is not a carriage, or a slave, he’s my husband.”