Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [22]
As I walked up the path through the woods to the family burial plot, holding my daddy’s hand, a hot wind rustled through the branches all around me, carrying the fragrance of pine. A white picket fence separated the graves from the woods, the tombstones shaded by a massive oak tree, with branches that spread above us like gentle arms. Dozens of weathered tombstones marked the graves of my ancestors—people I didn’t know. I did not feel any grief for a grandfather I’d never known. My daddy bowed his head, but his eyes, like his brother’s, remained dry. Jonathan tried in vain to emulate the men, but he wept silent tears like the women.
When we returned from the gravesite, the slaves had a huge meal spread out on trestle tables in the yard. The lunch, too, was a somber affair. I stayed close to my father’s side, listening as he discussed politics with the other men, until I grew tired of hearing about slave states and free states and a turbulent place called Kansas. Daddy didn’t talk about my grandfather at all. Later, as quietly as they had come, the neighbors began to leave. My grandfather’s funeral was the first I’d ever attended.
The next day was the Sabbath, and Aunt Abigail’s husband conducted a church service for us on the plantation. The servants carried chairs outdoors for our family, setting them up in rows beneath the trees. They even hauled the parlor piano outside so Aunt Abigail could play hymns. Tessie, Eli, and all the other slaves sat on the ground or on handmade wooden benches behind us. The Negroes made up a much larger proportion of the congregation than us white folks. We sang “Rock of Ages” and “How Firm a Foundation.” Then, after a prayer, Jonathan’s father came forward to say a few words.
“I know many of you are concerned about my father’s will,” he said, addressing the slaves in the rear. “You may rest assured that it has been read and that his accounts are all in order. No one will have to be sold.”
I looked over my shoulder to see if his words had relieved some of the tension I’d witnessed down in Slave Row a few nights earlier, but everyone seemed to be waiting for something more, as if collectively holding their breath. I nudged Jonathan, who was seated beside me.
“What’s wrong with all the servants?” I whispered.
“Some of them are wondering if Grandfather set them free in his will.”
“Did he?”
“Of course not. You’ve seen how big this place is. How could we run the plantation if we let the slaves go free?”
“I have inherited Hilltop and all its possessions,” my uncle continued. “Things will go on just as they have in the past.” I thought I heard someone behind me moan as Uncle William signaled for the service to continue.
The scripture text Aunt Abigail’s husband read, from the book of Colossians, was a very familiar one: “ ‘Servants, obey in all things your masters according to the flesh; not with eyeservice, as menpleasers; but in singleness of heart, fearing God . . . for ye serve the Lord Christ.’ ” I’d heard similar sermons preached in Richmond. But he surprised me by adding another verse from Colossians that I hadn’t heard before: “ ‘Masters, give unto your servants that which is just and equal; knowing that ye also have a Master in heaven.’ ”
I wondered what the Lord would say about Slave Row, if He would think it was “just and equal.”
Cattle lowed in the distance as my uncle preached, leaves rustled in the treetops, my grandmother snored softly. My uncle told us that it pleased God when we obeyed His Word, that it offended Him when we disobeyed, and he reminded us that God’s Word commanded us to obey our masters. “Look upon your daily tasks as the will of God,” he said.