Chapter 1
To the Master of the House… Mrs. Verna B. Attingsworth” March 23, 1853
“Anyone who purchases Amelia will receive a capable, yet strong willed slave. Her cooking skills are unmatched; however, her communication skills are in much need of improvement. She is barely capable of reading, and there’s no need to teach her. Her lifelong duty will be in the kitchen where she belongs, there’s no need to encourage more. She has been dutiful to our household. She nursed my husband Clark, until his untimely death a month ago. It pains me to sell her, but I know she’ll be of great use.
She’s not made for the fields either, I assure you. Don’t be fooled by her arguably sufficient face either, whip her if necessary. Despite her loyalty, she becomes rather insolent at times, I suppose this is due to her age, she is a spinster after all. Which is why it pained me when she refused the hand of one of our most prominent slaves, Bentley. It was an ungrateful gesture in my opinion, for I thought they would make proper offspring. I however, want the best master for Amelia, I am hoping she is sold in the Mississippi area….
The rest of the words were smeared off, torn, and tattered. Amelia scowled at the letter. She could only make out certain words, one that particularly stood out was the name Bentley.
The man who she could only wish to forget with the passage of time. However, there he was again, overpowering the letter with a force that she wasn't prepared for. She shuddered as a beat of sweat dropped onto the back of her hand.
The heat consumed the air, steaming everyone along the way. It baked the ground, leaving behind chasms of clumped dirt along the roads. There were a multitude of slaves in chains surrounding her. She was thankful that the chains had been removed from wrists. No one was foolish enough to try to escape in this environment anyway.
She was purchased at what one white male shouted, “a bargain.”
“Insolent.” She thought. It was a word she’d recognized instantly. It was Mrs. Attingsworth favorite word to use in the slave quarters. “This cake is horrible you insolent fool!” Or “I’m going to melt! Fan faster you insolent fool!” Or even worse. “I deem you to be as useless and insolent…I will return you at once.”
“I was only insolent from the constant burn on my hands…when my feet were so pained that they bled…” She thought. “I have to know what else she's said…I must find someone who can read.”
Amelia smoothed down her berry-stained mahogany dress that was as plain as it was demeaning. It hit her ankle and was completely rattled by the three-day journey she’d endured. It was the only one she owned, and it smelled heavily of sweat and dirt. The only instruction Mrs. Attingsworth had left her was to immediately give the letter to her new master. However, she was tempted to forgo the command.
She reached into her front pocket, taking a soft breath as she felt the single dollar coin. It was all she had in the world. Charles Attingsworth had given her the coin as a gift right before his death.
There was a group of black men in chains, passing her quickly as they were loaded into a wagon, presumably off to a slave sale. Natchez, Mississippi had long been the hub of slave traders. It wasn’t the death sentence of New Orleans, but it did a prominent number of slave auctions. “Fork in the Road…” Verna would mutter weeks before her arrival.
Amelia has survived yet another humiliating auction. She had been a slave since birth, so none of this was new to her. She had survived, far…far worse.
This was her third time at a slave auction, yet she still the flames of hatred would stir within her during the inspection. After a restless night in the overcrowded slave pens, her nerves had reached a fever pitch.
The thought of freedom was constant.
“Freedom was unnecessary.” Mr. Attingsworth’s voice trailed in her mind. “For God’s sake what would the Negros do with it?
“Freedom is necessary." Amelia would often correct his words in her mind. Freedom would indeed be an exciting new world full of endless possibilities. Yet, it was like trying to reach a star amid nightfall. It was impossible, yet its glimmer couldn’t be ignored. Freedom was meant for all.
In response to that belief, she formed a layer of weakness that washed away like waves when she was pushed to impossible lengths.
Mrs. Attingsworth knew how to do that, and frequently.
“Come along…” The man’s voice cut through the air. He was as pale as a ghost, his lips curled into a thin line. His time as a slave trader had no doubt hardened any trace of empathy.
“There was too much beauty in Natchez…for such horrible things.” She thought. The Mississippi River was too majestic and too breathtaking to be near this horror.
Amelia took a breath as she pushed herself onto the wagon, which was already crowded with other captives. She couldn’t dare look at them, nor was she ready to see the imminent panic in their eyes. If she looked, she might see her own very own fears reflected. It would be enough to make her come undone.
“Solomon…” She thought. “Just be thankful he didn’t go to New Orleans….be thankful…”
“Be thankful.” She spoke just above a whisper. Solomon had been like a brother to her at the Attingsworth’s. When Verna decided to sell off all the slaves, Solomon went North, along with another one of her cherished companions Rosie. She couldn’t dare think of Rosie anymore, it pained her twice as much.
“You can sit here…” A woman’s voice startled her out of her thoughts.
She didn’t speak as she sat down beside the woman. She was as dark as midnight, her skin a startling contrast to the gleaming morning sun.
“I’m Mrs. Simms.” Her African accent was thick, but she could still easily make out her words.
“Amelia.” She replied, wiping away a bead of sweat from her upper lip.
Mrs. Simms was pretty, and most likely a decade younger.
“I don’t fear this place…it has to be better than where I came from.” Mrs. Simms said suddenly, her face contorting into a frown.
“I’m sure it will be.” Amelia spoke. Her caramel brown skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. One of the slave traders even added palm oil to her arms and legs, causing her to feel like a turkey awaiting a roast.
There was complete silence as the wagon strode forward, giving them all a jolt.
“For heaven’s sake…” A man’s voice pierced through the silence. “We’re not going to the gallows, are we?” He then pulled out a harmonica from his shirt pocket.
“Crazy, fool!” An elderly woman beside him grabbed the harmonica. “My master used ta whip me for this…”
“Well, your master ain’t here is he?” He grabbed the harmonica back before turning towards Amelia.
“Say Amelia, is it? Would you like a tune?” He asked.
She shook her head, failing to smile at the man. He wore a pair of dirty brown pants with smidges of what appeared to be ink on them. His white shirt was even worse, but his smile, however, was full of assurance. He was mostly likely in his late 30’s, but he looked older due to his weathered sunbaked skin, which was still a few shades lighter than Mrs. Simms.
“Even so, mighty nice to meet you, Amelia!”
Amelia smiled at him, wincing slightly from the pain in her jaw. One of the slaves had accidentally slammed his elbow into her jaw in the slave pen the night before. It didn’t hurt on impact, and he was thoroughly apologetic. Yet now, it was beginning to sting again.
“They call me Jeremiah…I call myself King…”
Mrs. Simms snorted.
“Well, I is!” Jeremiah retorted. “I come from a line of kings…” He smiled showcasing his stained crooked teeth.
“Or a line of idiots…” The elderly woman muttered.
For the first time in a while, Amelia wanted to burst out in laughter. She looked down at her dress, avoiding his eyes.
The wagon then hit a pothole causing them all to topple against one another.
“This is no place for a king…” Jeremiah grumbled, dusting his dirty pants leg off. “Or a queen…” He beamed at Amelia.
Amelia looked around the wagon, there were about 10 slaves in total. There was a little boy no older than ten crammed into the corner, pointing into the sky at puffy shaped clouds.
“I hope the master isn't cruel...for the boy's sake.” She thought suppressing the emotion that welled up within her.
“Seems like we ain’t going far.” The elderly woman spoke. “I overheard one of them slave traders…only a 5-mile journey.”
“What else did you overhear?” Jeremiah asked.
“If I heard anythang else, I wouldn’t tell you.” She crossed her arms.
Amelia averted her eyes, reveling in the gentle breeze. “A new master…” she thought. “A terrifying new life.”
The wagon made a sharp turn onto pothole riddled dirt road, and suddenly they were surrounded by rows of thick tall trees that seemed to block out the sunlight.
“Looks like we’ve entered hell…” Mrs. Simms spoke.
“Kings don’t go to hell.” Jeremiah retorted. “I have secured my spot in heaven.”
The wagon strained against a deep pothole its wheels squeaking heavily.
“I don’t have a thought on heaven or hell, but I knows one thing…you ain’t secured nothin.” The elderly woman seemed pleased with her comment.
“What’s your name anyhow?” Jeremiah crossed his arms.
“You can call me Queen.” She beamed. “Everyone else can call me Nettie.”
Amelia nodded at her. Nettie seemed to hold her own quite well, even though she was old enough to be her grandmother.
Soon the road smoothed out, but the trees only continued to thicken. The five miles that Nettie had proclaimed, felt painfully slow. They all fell into their respective silences, each lost in their own fears and uncertainties.
“Is this man in hiding?” Jeremiah spoke suddenly.
“I don’t think so.” Amelia spoke, gasping as they reached a clearing.
Suddenly they were engulfed in sunlight. Up ahead there were acres of beautiful, lush green grass, that swayed in the wind carelessly. If that wasn’t enough of a sight, the house…or should she call it mansion, would leave anyone in awe.
Its wooden boards were painted in pristine white, seemingly untouched by any spec of dirt. There were two cream-colored pillars at the entrance, as if welcoming royalty. The two-story mansion showcased a few windows on each side, outlined by a shimmering gold paint that Amelia had never seen before.
It felt as if the mansion were alive, standing there in all of its beauty. It sparkled in the sunlight like a diamond. She was certain that Mrs. Attingsworth would have two words for it. “Wealthy, indeed.”
She could spot a few people running about in a frantic motion. As if seeing the wagon caused a sort of chaos to erupt. There was rustic wooden house on the side of the mansion that was reminiscent to a long log cabin. It was spacious, but the space looked so out of place in this picturesque view that it slightly marred it.
“Holy…” Jeremiah spoke. “Look at this place.”
Amelia couldn’t quite place the words on her lips. Her eyes focused on the garden pavilion on the left side of the mansion. It was similar to the one at the Attingsworth’s, yet two times larger. She had spent so much time in that pavilion, serving trays of iced tea and biscuits and praying for some kind of retribution.
This was perhaps heaven for those who dwelled inside, but it would be quite different for her. To her…this would become her own personal hell.
Suddenly she remembered the letter in her pocket, her eyes focusing on Jeremiah. She cleared her throat. “Jeremiah? Can you read?”
