The Letter Writer Read online

  So I started eating in the parlor. Sometimes before a glowing fire in the hearth, now that October had come.

  October. I should be at my lessons. But that would remind me too much of Pleasant, so I didn't go near my schoolbooks. I read for my own pleasure.

  Owen kept the fires going for me, and hovered near, keeping a conversation going.

  It was Owen then, who told me about the last of the flowers in the small garden to the right of the house, a sort of horseshoe-type garden.

  "Sad to see the last of the flowers," he said.

  "I'll visit them right after lunch," I told him.

  And I did. And that's how I found out how Margaret died.

  ***

  Punch and Judy were tagging after me. The weeds were high in the garden. I must assign someone to pull them. I had never been much on flowers. It was one of Mother Whitehead's complaints about me, and when she wished to punish me for something, she'd send me out here to pull weeds, or lug water in a watering can from the well to water them. Red, blue, or yellow, I didn't know their names.

  "You disgrace yourself," she'd told me. "All proper Southern girls know and love flowers."

  I was thinking of having Violet pick a bouquet of those purple and pink ones in the far corner when Judy came over to me with a fat stick in her mouth. She was whimpering, as she did when she was especially proud of herself and wanted praise.

  "What is it?" I asked her.

  She dropped the stick at my feet.

  It was actually more than a stick. It was as round and fat as a man's upper arm, and what was that all over it?

  It was blood, that's what it was. All over it.

  I bent down and picked it up. It was rather heavy. I held it in both hands and brought it into the house, into the parlor where I sat and read of an afternoon, where the fire crackled and I took tea, where I was mistress, and where I could seal out all bad memories.

  I called for Violet and Owen.

  Owen saw what lay on the Persian carpet between us and looked down at it, shamefaced. "I should have gotten rid of it," he said.

  "I thought you did," said Violet.

  They spoke of the piece of wood as if it was a murder weapon, which indeed, it was.

  "Is this what killed Margaret?" My voice was low, but somehow I couldn't make it any louder.

  "No," Owen said.

  "Yes," said Violet.

  I looked from one face to the other. "Well, which is it? Tell me."

  Owen did the telling:

  "We were behind the door of the servants' stairway and we could hear and see what was going on down here. They had just killed Mother Whitehead and Emilie. Then they killed Pleasant, who'd come down upon hearing the commotion, and then they went upstairs to baby William. When Nat came down after Hark killed baby William, he asked for Margaret. Where was she?

  "She'd run outside to hide in the garden. Violet and I were in the attic again by then, and we looked out the window down on the garden. Margaret was hiding behind the rose trellis and he'd come out looking for her. He was holding a long sword he got from your father's gun room.

  "He saw her and started chasing her. She ran and ran in that garden, from the rose trellis to the pussy willow tree to the zinnia patch and then she slipped and fell and he, he ... he slashed her with his sword.

  "But she didn't die immediately. She wouldn't cooperate. And I saw him leaning over and patting her head and then, of a sudden, he picks up this piece of wood and raises it high and slams it down on her head, how many times I don't know, but enough to kill her. Then he leaves her there and takes off with his men around back. To get some horses, I suppose. Because everyone else he wanted to kill was dead.

  "I wanted ... I wanted to go down and stop him, but Violet said he'd kill me, too. I had no weapons, and all his men were downstairs, looting and drinking.

  "And then I heard, after it was all over, that fifty-seven were killed in the uprising, but that Margaret was the only one Nat Turner killed himself. He killed no other."

  I nodded my head. "Thank you, Owen. Now if you could burn this log."

  He picked it up and started toward the hearth.

  "No," I said. "No. Not in here. Take it outside and burn it. Please."

  He did as I said. I was left with Violet.

  "I couldn't let him go down and try to rescue her, Harriet," she told me. "Nat's men would have killed him in a minute."

  "Fifty-seven dead," I said dully, "and Margaret the only one he killed himself."

  "Yes," she said.

  "I wonder, did he love her that much?"

  "The servants all say he—" and she stopped there.

  "Yes, Violet, tell me."

  "They say he lusted after her."

  I sighed. I was not surprised. Margaret had sashayed around in front of him every time he was here. So he personally punished her the only way he could. He killed her.

  "I have a headache, Violet," I said. "Would you get me a powder and some water?"

  She fetched it. She gave me the powder and water and I lay back on the divan and she covered me with an afghan that Mother Whitehead had crocheted. "You must promise," I said, gripping her wrist, "to tell me the minute Nat Turner is captured."

  She said she would, and I fell asleep and dreamed of running through the garden and hiding behind the rose trellis with Nat Turner in pursuit.

  Twenty-Three

  As the fall deepened, as the leaves turned on the trees and the flowers died and the crops were brought in, as the cotton was baled and shipped out to Jenkins, Middleton, and Pierce, as the farm potatoes were harvested and the peas stored in the barn to dry, more and more places were found in the house where there were bloodstains.

  Carpets, backs of chairs, upholstery, and corners of bedspreads all had to be repaired or thrown out. And then, of course, there was a great deal of ordering to do. I wrote twice to the cotton factors to send to England for carpets and bedspreads, not to mention items we could not grow or manufacture here or in Jerusalem like molasses, sugar, paints, certain fabrics, and the chairs I wanted. After all, this was my place now. A little newness, a few different touches might distract me from what had happened.

  Then once I started, and with Violet's help, I went over the books, I saw that the profits the fall crops had yielded were above what we had expected, mayhap because so many of the plantations around us had been destroyed and there was nobody to bring in those crops.

  For a while I felt guilty, as if I were making a profit on the misfortune of others. But then I decided that we'd had enough misfortune for God to forgive me for any profit I made. And that our crops were needed to feed the hungry around us this winter.

  To get back to my purchases: I decided that the downstairs hallway carpet, which had been mud splattered that terrible day, and since cleaned, should be replaced.

  I ordered a Persian carpet from London, along with some blue-and-white-flowered drapes for the front parlor. I would spend most of my time there in the winter. It would be a grave sin not to brighten it up.

  I was sitting in that parlor with the account books on my lap, wondering what Mother Whitehead and Richard would say about my extravagances, when both Violet and Owen came in to see me. I looked up.

  "They caught Nat Turner," Violet said.

  I near dropped the account book from my lap. "Where?"

  "Near the Travis place, where he started out. He built a cave there and lived in it after his slave army broke up. He came out at night," Owen reported. "Other slaves brought him food they stole from the Travis plantation."

  I drew in my breath. "Is he in jail now?"

  "Yes," they said in unison.

  "Did they find any papers on him?"

  "You're thinking of the map, aren't you?" Violet asked.

  I nodded.

  "He had no papers on him from what I've heard," Owen said.

  "He must have left them in the cave, if he didn't lose them," Violet allowed.

  We just looked at one anot
her, the three of us. Nobody spoke. It wasn't necessary. And then it came to me for the first time in the weeks since the killings that something else wasn't necessary, either. It wasn't necessary for me to ask anybody's permission for what I wanted to do. There was nobody to account to anymore. And I felt free and a little scared, all at the same time.

  ***

  We took horses, because the day was half spent already and, while not a great distance away, it was no hop, skip, and jump, either, to the Travis place. It was the beginning of November now and the leaves were gone from the trees and naked tree branches danced against a hard blue sky and piles of leaves blew in the wind.

  My soul was attuned to what we were going to do. We were on a subversive mission, and the weather was in tune with it.

  Did anybody know where the cave was, besides the authorities? We rode hard and the horses seemed glad of it. The wind tousled my hair and I seemed one with it, as if I were working off all my grief and despair. And soon we got to the Travis place.

  Should we knock on the door? The place was deserted, with the exception of a few chickens clucking in the barnyard.

  What did we expect? We'd heard the story. This was the place Nat had come from, the people from whom Mother Whitehead had gotten him on loan. And it was the first plantation he'd struck at in his uprising.

  He and his men had stopped here for some cider. It had been given to them by the slave Austin. The Travis family had gone to late church services and not gotten home until midnight. They had gone to sleep immediately and were indeed sleeping as Hark secured a ladder and set it against a second-floor window.

  Nat went into the room of his sleeping master and hit Travis in the head with his hatchet, but the blow didn't kill him. One of his men finished Travis off. Then the man turned his ax on Sally, Travis's wife, and killed her.

  Then the children, including the little baby sleeping in the cradle. They then went downstairs, taking four guns, a few old rifles, and gunpowder, and went on to the next plantation, that of Salathul Francis, six hundred yards away.

  So no, we wouldn't knock on the Travis door. We might wake the ghosts.

  We wandered over to the empty barn, and there we met a wandering, dazed slave. Was this Austin? We said hello. He nodded.

  "Do you know where Nat Turner's cave is?" we asked him.

  "I never give him no vittles when he wuz dere," he told us.

  "We're not saying you did," Owen said. "But do you just know where it is? We'd like to see it, is all, before all the other people come by to stare at it."

  He took us to it. He asked no other questions. He told us he was living on the Travis place because he had nowhere else to go. He was eating the corn from the field. He had already eaten the ham and the chicken in the house. "Soon," he said, "soon there be no more food and Austin die."

  "You come over to us, Austin," I said. "You can work for me. I can use you. I'll give you food and shelter."

  He just stared at me, a little girl by all standards, offering him a job. Did he even know who I was?

  "I'm Harriet Whitehead," I told him. "My whole family was killed by Nat Turner, but our plantation still is working and I could use your help."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said in a singsongy way. "I be there. I come."

  ***

  We tethered our horses on a fence and walked to the cave, which was just on the edge of the woods that circled the plantation on two sides. It was hidden by some poplar trees and covered with the branches of evergreens so that, coming upon it, you could never tell it was there.

  "There 'tis," Austin said proudly, as if the whole thing was his idea to begin with, his creation. "You all want Austin to wait?"

  "No, Austin," I said. "What I would like you to do is give our horses some water. Are you good with horses?"

  "Austin wuz the master's groom," he said.

  "Good. I have a groom. But I need another man in the stable. Why don't you do that, then gather your things and start over to our place. Ask for Walley, the overseer. Tell him what I said about you and that we'll be home before supper."

  He left us, and we started removing the evergreen boughs from the opening of the cave. It was not a small affair. A person could fit into the opening without bending over. All it lacked was light. But a few minutes after we went inside, my eyes adjusted to the dimness enough for me to see that there were, amongst other things, two lanterns.

  "I wish I had a lucifer match," I said.

  "Here, I have one," Owen offered.

  "Owen," I said in mock surprise, "do you smoke?"

  He did not answer, just picked up the lanterns and lighted them, gave one to me and kept one himself. They cast eerie light in the cave.

  If I had time, I would be squeamish. If I had time, I would be scared. But I did not have time for such childish emotions anymore. Not after what I'd seen and been told about.

  With the lantern light we could make things out. "There's extra clothing," I said. "Someone must have brought it for him. And pillows and blankets."

  "What's this?" Violet picked up a book. "Why, it's a Bible!"

  "Look for a folder or something that he would keep papers in," I urged.

  We searched the far, dank corners of the cave, and finally I found it. A portfolio-type leather folder, such as the kind Richard used to carry. Inside it were papers. I gave my lantern to Violet and she held it high over the papers. There were notes about the plantations they'd "done," the people they'd "finished," and, then, then, finally, there was the map.

  The map I'd traced for him. On paper Pleasant had given me. The map of Southampton County. Without which he could not have found his way around to all the farms. Without which he could not have killed all those people. And children.

  But because of me, and my childish fancies, he had it. Because he preached about a God who loved us and forgave us. And Richard preached about an angry God, a punishing God. What kind of God, I wondered, was awaiting Nat Turner now?

  The map had notes all over it, in Nat Turner's small, neat writing. And down in the right-hand corner it had my initials. H.W.

  "Oh God," I prayed. "Oh God, thank you."

  Twenty-Four

  We came home at dusk, the sweetest part of the day on the plantation. Candles were lighted in all the windows, and I felt that the old home was trying to be itself and just might yet be restored to what it had been after all.

  We took the horses to the barn and Chancy, the groom, took charge of them.

  "Look at what we look like," Violet said. "We'll catch the devil for sure."

  "Isn't anybody to hand it out to us," I said, brushing off my skirt front. To be sure, we were full of dust and grime. Richard would have had apoplexy and likely sent me to my room to reflect on my sins.

  "Is my face dirty?" I asked Violet.

  "It's all smudged. I suppose mine is, too."

  I nodded. At that precise moment a bell tolled in the distance. Seven tolls. Well, we weren't too late for supper. And then, as we were standing on the back porch in the semidarkness, the door opened, spilling light onto us.

  Ormond stood there. "Miss Harriet, you have company. You'd best come in now."

  Company? I cast a quick look down at myself. My shoes were muddy, my hair all straggly, and in one hand I still clutched the rolled-up map of Nat Turner's with my initials on it.

  "Who, Ormond? Who is it? Do I have time to change?" Someone wanting to interview me about Nat Turner perhaps. I'd had two such someones in the last month. One from the Richmond Enquirer newspaper and another from the Alexandria Gazette.

  "Why it's your uncle, Miss Harriet. Your uncle Andrew. You've been expecting him, haven't you? He arrived an hour ago. He's in your brother's library. Waiting."

  Uncle Andrew! I'd forgotten all about him. Did he still exist? He was from a time of life that I'd labeled "before," wasn't he? Before the rebellion.

  Without realizing it, I'd made file drawers in my head and put certain people in them. Some who'd been killed in the rebel
lion were in locked drawers, others were in drawers that were half open, meaning they could still be talked about.

  Uncle Andrew was in a drawer I'd left open by mistake. I'd invited him, I recollected, asking him to come, right after the uprising, telling him that everyone here was dead. And he'd settled his business in London, gotten passage, likely on one of my father's steamers, and come.

  And I'd forgotten he was making the long journey. I hadn't even planned a room for his comfort.

  "Violet," I said, "do something."

  "What would you have me do, Harriet? Just tell me."

  "Richard and Pleasant's old bedroom. I know it's clean. See to it that there are fresh sheets on the bed and a fire in the hearth and candles in the windows. Sprinkle some lavender around."

  "It's already been done, Miss Harriet," Ormond intoned. "I've seen to it. I've settled him into the room. I was sure you'd want that room for him since it's the most commodious one in the house."

  "Ormond, you're a treasure. Do you think I've time to change?"

  He shook his head slowly. "I think it best if you present yourself now. I've been entertaining him for the last hour, and your brother's best rum is near gone. I told him I didn't know where you all were ... because," he said, obviously put out about the whole thing, "I didn't, Miss Harriet. Nobody told me. Or any of us. Winefred held supper. Now you'd best get on in there and you'd best use all your charm. He is growing impatient. And worried. What kind of place is this, he's about to ask, that nobody knows where the little mistress is? Go now. Quick."

  "Thank you, Ormond." I gave him a quick hug as I went into the house.

  ***

  He was seated behind the oak desk that Richard had loved so. He was going over the ledgers that told of the profits and the losses of the plantation. He was sipping some rum.

  I stood in the doorway. "Uncle Andrew?"

  He looked up. I hadn't thought of him as tall or as having a full head of hair or as wearing spectacles. He had a long nose and piercing eyes, and yet somehow everything fused together to make him not handsome, but striking. A man of consequence.