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Authors: Marlen Suyapa Bodden
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escape.
What nonsense to suggest that the slaves should be freed. They would not be able to care for themselves. The publishers of the pamphlet claimed that one of James Ezekiels’ brothers could read and write, but I had never known of a Negro who could do so, although I knew that Northerners published books that they claimed were written by Negroes. Papa, however, taught me when I was younger that there was scientific evidence that the race of the slaves had limited mental faculties and that their brains were smaller than our own. Even President Thomas Jefferson said in his Notes on the State of Virginia that Negroes had inferior minds. The narrative that Mrs. Oldwick gave me related tales of the vicious treatment of field hands by an overseer, who supposedly had bloodhounds tear a boy into pieces and had whipped pregnant women, one of whom had died after the beating and another thereafter delivered a dead infant.
I did not seriously think of attending the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, but I was curious about it, and Mrs. Oldwick seemed like a polite, educated lady. I thought that it would be fascinating to speak with her, to engage in frank conversation about the reality of slaves’ lives on a plantation. I could tell her that her understanding of slavery was incorrect and could give her examples of how well our servants and field hands were treated.
“You all right, Mrs. Allen?”
“Yes, Bessie. Thank you. I just have a few things on my mind.”
When I was dressed, my husband came to my room to take me to supper. He dismissed Bessie.
“Where is the newspaper that that lady gave you?”
“How do you know about that?”
“That is not your concern. Where is it?”
“I burned it in the fireplace.”
“Did you read it?”
“In part. It was rubbish.”
“Good. That woman will not be permitted in the hotel again. She is an incendiary. What did she say to you?”
“She told me to read the newspaper.”
“Should you see her anywhere again, you are not to speak to her. Some of these Northerners are confused and refuse to acknowledge that our cotton is the foundation of the economy. They will try to win some of us to their side, but we will not let that happen, will we? And…what is that? Why are you reading the Evening Post?”
“Why should I not?”
“Because its editor is that liberal abolitionist William Cullen Bryant.”
“He is a poet, and a well-respected one.”
“It is not his poetry that concerns me. Do you not know that he calls for the destruction of the Southern states?”
“Perhaps that is an exaggeration.”
“What did you just say to me?” Cornelius grabbed my arm and twisted it until I cried out. “Don’t ever speak to me that way again. Do you hear me?”
“You are hurting me. Stop.”
“I will do worse if you ever show me disrespect again. And listen to me when I try to teach you something. You will not read that nonsense again. I had better not even hear that you have bought a copy of this paper.” He threw it in the fireplace.
That Friday evening, we went to the country home of Mr. and Mrs. Heath, which was located in the northeastern part of the island, by boat. On Saturday afternoon, I was reading in the parlor after walking in the woods with Mrs. Heath when my husband, Mr. Heath, Mr. DeWolf, and two other gentlemen arrived from riding. Before they went into the library across the hallway, they presented to me a man who was a merchant captain from Maine. They did not close the door.
“We will have to fund the remaining twenty-five percent ourselves, as the bank is not willing to risk more than their present twenty-five percent.”
“But I was told in Charleston that we could count on the bank here for fifty percent,” my husband said.
“Mr. Allen, perhaps a solution would be to get an investor. I can make an introduction to a gentleman who may be interested in joining this venture,” the captain said.
“No, it would be too dangerous to involve
What nonsense to suggest that the slaves should be freed. They would not be able to care for themselves. The publishers of the pamphlet claimed that one of James Ezekiels’ brothers could read and write, but I had never known of a Negro who could do so, although I knew that Northerners published books that they claimed were written by Negroes. Papa, however, taught me when I was younger that there was scientific evidence that the race of the slaves had limited mental faculties and that their brains were smaller than our own. Even President Thomas Jefferson said in his Notes on the State of Virginia that Negroes had inferior minds. The narrative that Mrs. Oldwick gave me related tales of the vicious treatment of field hands by an overseer, who supposedly had bloodhounds tear a boy into pieces and had whipped pregnant women, one of whom had died after the beating and another thereafter delivered a dead infant.
I did not seriously think of attending the meeting of the Anti-Slavery Society, but I was curious about it, and Mrs. Oldwick seemed like a polite, educated lady. I thought that it would be fascinating to speak with her, to engage in frank conversation about the reality of slaves’ lives on a plantation. I could tell her that her understanding of slavery was incorrect and could give her examples of how well our servants and field hands were treated.
“You all right, Mrs. Allen?”
“Yes, Bessie. Thank you. I just have a few things on my mind.”
When I was dressed, my husband came to my room to take me to supper. He dismissed Bessie.
“Where is the newspaper that that lady gave you?”
“How do you know about that?”
“That is not your concern. Where is it?”
“I burned it in the fireplace.”
“Did you read it?”
“In part. It was rubbish.”
“Good. That woman will not be permitted in the hotel again. She is an incendiary. What did she say to you?”
“She told me to read the newspaper.”
“Should you see her anywhere again, you are not to speak to her. Some of these Northerners are confused and refuse to acknowledge that our cotton is the foundation of the economy. They will try to win some of us to their side, but we will not let that happen, will we? And…what is that? Why are you reading the Evening Post?”
“Why should I not?”
“Because its editor is that liberal abolitionist William Cullen Bryant.”
“He is a poet, and a well-respected one.”
“It is not his poetry that concerns me. Do you not know that he calls for the destruction of the Southern states?”
“Perhaps that is an exaggeration.”
“What did you just say to me?” Cornelius grabbed my arm and twisted it until I cried out. “Don’t ever speak to me that way again. Do you hear me?”
“You are hurting me. Stop.”
“I will do worse if you ever show me disrespect again. And listen to me when I try to teach you something. You will not read that nonsense again. I had better not even hear that you have bought a copy of this paper.” He threw it in the fireplace.
That Friday evening, we went to the country home of Mr. and Mrs. Heath, which was located in the northeastern part of the island, by boat. On Saturday afternoon, I was reading in the parlor after walking in the woods with Mrs. Heath when my husband, Mr. Heath, Mr. DeWolf, and two other gentlemen arrived from riding. Before they went into the library across the hallway, they presented to me a man who was a merchant captain from Maine. They did not close the door.
“We will have to fund the remaining twenty-five percent ourselves, as the bank is not willing to risk more than their present twenty-five percent.”
“But I was told in Charleston that we could count on the bank here for fifty percent,” my husband said.
“Mr. Allen, perhaps a solution would be to get an investor. I can make an introduction to a gentleman who may be interested in joining this venture,” the captain said.
“No, it would be too dangerous to involve
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