Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [38]
The introductions passed in a blur. I learned that my cousins’ names were Rosalie and Julia, but the Hoffmans employed more immigrant serving girls and chambermaids than I could ever hope to keep track of.
“I imagine you’re tired from the long trip,” Aunt Martha said when we’d finished a light supper. “Heaven knows I’m exhausted, too.”
As I climbed the wide stairs to the large bedroom my cousins and I would share, Julia danced around me like a happy puppy, eager to please. A chambermaid had lit a blazing fire, and the bedroom was warm, the bed inviting. The maid, who barely spoke English, helped me shed my traveling clothes. The truth still hadn’t sunk in that this room wasn’t simply a place to rest for a night or two, but my home for the next few months, perhaps years.
“Don’t overwhelm her, girls,” I heard my aunt telling my cousins outside the door. “Remember, Caroline has recently lost her mother. Give her time to grieve.”
As I crawled between the linen sheets, however, the sorrow I felt wasn’t only grief for a mother I barely knew, a mother who had chosen to leave me, but a deep yearning for the beloved servants who had raised me and nurtured me, and who’d had no choice at all in our parting.
For the first month, the memory of Esther’s fragrant kitchen, filled with all the people I loved, remained fresh and clear, a tiny pocket of solace and warmth amid the ice and cold of Philadelphia. I dwelt on those memories, fanning them like embers to keep them alive, anxious for them not to die—the sound of Eli’s deep, rumbling voice as he talked to Massa Jesus; the touch of Tessie’s dark hands as they gently soothed, caressed, loved. I kept thoughts of Virginia burning like tiny flames as I counted the weeks and the months until I could return.
The morning in March when everything changed began innocently enough—with Uncle Philip reading the Philadelphia Inquirer as he did every morning at breakfast. His choice to read rather than to give his full attention to my aunt was a constant source of friction between the two of them. Because of it, he’d developed the habit of reading a sentence or two aloud every now and then so his wife couldn’t accuse him of ignoring her.
“I see Pierce Butler’s mansion here in town is going up for sale,” he said, adjusting his rimless spectacles. Aunt Martha’s interest was instantly piqued.
“Oh? That’s a lovely home. I know several people who might be interested in buying it.”
“Well, it should sell for a bargain. It seems Butler ran up enormous gambling debts. But listen to this . . . this is truly tragic. ‘A racetrack in Savannah, Georgia, was converted into a slave auction to dispose of 436 of Butler’s Negro slaves. The unfortunate men, women, and children—who dubbed the event “The Weeping Time”—were sold to the highest bidder without regard for family ties, earning a total of $303,850 toward Butler’s debts.’ My! That should add fuel to the abolitionists’ fires!”
“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Aunt Martha said. “That seems like an awfully large number of slaves. I certainly don’t recall any plantations around Richmond having that many, do you, Caroline? How many darkies does your uncle work with at Hilltop?”
“Um . . . about fifty.” I could barely answer. I recalled the terrible anxiety that had gripped Hilltop’s slaves after my grandfather had died, their tension and their fear as they’d waited, wondering who would be sold. I could well imagine the grief Pierce Butler’s slaves must have suffered.
“I don’t understand how people can own other people,” my cousin Julia said, “much less buy and sell them like a new hat. That seems very wrong.”
“That’s because you girls were raised with servants, not slaves,” my aunt replied. Her Virginia drawl, undetectable in most social situations, always became more pronounced whenever she grew annoyed. “Not every slave owner treats his people as callously as Pierce Butler did. Why, some of the slaves back home are just like family, aren’t they, Caroline? And they certainly receive