Story: The Secret Slave. Part 12.

by Camille Langtry and SW

The next day broke sunny and bright again and, after assisting her mistress to dress and serving at breakfast, Sophie was assigned to the large amount of laundry that had accumulated since the day before the party.

Along with Ruby, she spent almost the entire morning washing and hanging the clothes and bedding. Shortly after lunch - the day being so hot and the washing already dry - the housekeeper had sent her out to clear the drying lines and set aside the clothes for her to press in the kitchen's ante-room. This was a skilled task that Sophie hated as she was so inexperienced and slow, but having been firmly scolded by 'Miss Jane' for objecting to ironing during her first week at Cypress Hill she had nodded weakly and had been at her work table for just a few minutes when she felt one hand press hard upon her bottom and another squeeze her left breast: the rear door had been left open to allow a little cooling air in and Philip had crept quietly inside behind her when he had spied her busy at her work.

She started, let go of the iron and spun around:

“Oh! Massa Philip. Yo' give me an awfu' fright suh!” she exclaimed and he laughed and replied:

“I've been looking for you girl. I reckon it's time you were earning yourself another half-dollar in my chamber.” He looked at the large heap of unpressed clothing and linen. “How long before you will have finished this? I figure another hour and then you can come upstairs and please me.”

Then his eyes widened and he stared at the iron as the unmistakable smell of burning caught Sophie's nose. She turned around quickly but it was too late – Mistress Caroline's party dress was ruined and she snatched the iron away to reveal a brown singe mark in the middle of the fine silken bodice.

Philip exclaimed, “Oh my, my. You clumsy nigra! Mistress Caroline will have you answer for this.”

Sophie looked down in horror at the disastrous mess that had been a very fine and expensive silk gown and began to sob.

“I reckon it will be a whipping for you...... Don't worry girl, I shall volunteer to do it for her and I'll lay on light if you promise to forget your mistress's orders about staying pure.”

Sophie was too shocked to answer and she stood in frozen horror as Philip grabbed the ruined gown from her and strode away to the drawing room to deliver the bad news to his sister. It was but a moment later when Sophie heard Mistress Caroline scream her name from the hall and when she rushed through, tears in her eyes, and entered the drawing room she ran immediately to where Caroline stood - the beautiful face pink with rage - and fell to her knees as Philip and Elizabeth looked on with somber expressions.

Caroline, holding the burned azure gown in her hand, stared down at the girl at her feet and said simply and quietly, “The fields for you.”

Sophie clasped her hands and bent forward, her head almost touching the floor, and pleaded:

“Mistiss Caroline Ma'am! Ah didn' mean dat, Mistiss! Massa Philip, he come in an'...”

Caroline shouted, “Enough damn you! You always try to blame your master or mistress for your own negligence! It will not do! I shall send for the overseer and you will go to the fields – you are no good for a house slave anyway. You can go earn some small amount of the worth of that dress back. Do you have any idea of what it cost me?!”

Elizabeth interjected, raising her voice to be heard over her slave's pitiful sobbing:

“Caroline dear, I shall, of course, recompense you and I will take this clumsy gal upstairs this very minute and give her a whipping that she shall never forget. That will make her pay for her lack of care. We might put her on half-rations for the remainder of her stay here too and...”

But then Philip interrupted as the tearful girl wrung her hands at Caroline's feet, “Neither of you ladies can administer the firm whipping she deserves. Allow me to do it – I have a strong arm that will give her the discipline she needs. What say you Caroline?”

But the answer was unequivocal:

“No! It is the fields for her. It is exactly the instruction and punishment she requires. Rosa! Go and fetch Mister Jones. And tell him to bring a field gown, work shoes and a collar and chain for this wretched nigra!”

Rosa, who had been waiting by the fireplace with a terrified look upon her pretty face, hurriedly curtseyed and ran from the room.

Sophie began to wail and Elizabeth pleaded, “Caroline. I don't want my girl's hands ruined, I need them soft for my toilette. Please! Allow me to whip her, or you might even do it yourself?”

But Caroline shook her head and said firmly, “Your pet's delicate hands won't be ruined Elizabeth. She'll be picking cotton, not hoeing. If Negro children can do, so can she. She will come back in exactly the same condition that she is being sent out in except that she will have learned another lesson and be a much improved slave for it. She must understand that being a house slave is a privilege that must be earned. You will thank me when you see the difference this will make to this uppity creature's behavior.”

Clearly, nothing could be brought to influence Caroline or change her decision and Elizabeth felt more or less powerless to intercede on Sophie's behalf – it was, after all, Caroline who had suffered the loss of a gown. And so, about ten minutes later, the overseer was shown into the room. Ten awful minutes in which Sophie had remained cowering and quietly weeping in the middle of the drawing room while her mistress's and master looked on in sullen, or in Caroline's case, angry silence.

Mr Jones was a short and thick-set man clad in an old and loud check trousers and a faded and sweat-stained shirt - much marked with dust and dirt.  His complexion was wrinkled and brown from years of working outdoors and he wore a hard expression that spoke of an uncouth and boorish character.  In one hand he carried a small bundle of rough clothing and in the other a heavy iron collar and chain. He nodded to his employers, glanced at the girl on the floor and said.

“Afternoon all. Got some nigra trouble have we Miss Caroline?”

“Yes Mister Jones we have. This baggage can help out in the fields for a while. If she does well then I may consider bringing her back in after a few days but I want her worked hard – she has some money to make up.”

The overseer looked at Sophie's huddled form and smiled and nodded again.

“Oh, I'm sure I can get her to pull her weight,” adding, as he tapped the coiled whip on his belt, “she'll feel this if she doesn't.”

Elizabeth looked away in disgust and Sophie let out a tormented groan.

Caroline said, and very indecently in her anger, “I don't want her marked but you and the drivers may use a strap on her black ass. She'll keep up with the others!” Then, shouting at Sophie she ordered:

“Quiet you, no more wailing or I’ll have you whipped right here and now. On your feet and take off all of your clothes. Shoes, everything! Rosa, take away her uniform, she won’t need it for a while.”

Sophie wailed but obeyed and very quickly, despite trembling and fumbling fingers, she stood naked before them – her head hung low and her hands before her 'spot'.  The squat little overseer looked her over with an unconcealed lewd stare and licked his lips like a dog shown a bone. Caroline moved to a desk and after taking something from it she advanced to Sophie and unlocked and removed the smooth and gleaming brass collar from her neck. She stood back and said, “Throw her the clothes Mister Jones would you? I'm anxious that she gets started right away.  Oh, and keep her away from the bucks.  No-one," here she fixed the rough little man a steely gaze and continued, "and I mean no-one, may use her."

The overseer's countenance darkened for a moment but then he nodded and, looking a little disappointed as he threw the bundle of coarse garments at Sophie, he said.  "As you say Miss Caroline.  You kin rely on me."

Caroline fixed him a beautiful but plainly insincere smile and rejoined. "I hope so, Mr. Jones. She's a virgin and if she comes back here broken in then you will be looking for a position elsewhere.  Do I make myself clear?"

The overseer lowered his eyes and nodded and moved to the house servant now clad in the chafing field dress that was a little small for her and as she stepped into the cumbersome and uneven shoes that were too big for her.

Jones grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her closer to him and as Sophie shook and recoiled in fright he fixed his heavy, iron slave collar around her delicate neck. Like its shiny brass distant cousin it had the plantation inscription upon it but it was very coarse and there was no mistaking it for a simple piece of jewelry. Sophie cast a pleading glance at her mistress as the collar locked with a loud click and forced her to lower her neck just a bit but Elizabeth, in anguish, felt compelled to look away.

“After the work’s done for the day you want me to bring her back to the house, Miss?” the overseer inquired.

“No, she’ll be working the fields until I say otherwise. I don’t want her anywhere near the house. Now, at the night I want her put in that little cabin we use for punished field hands, what do you call it?”

“The calaboose, Ma’am?”

“Yes, put her there. We have no one locked there now, do we?”

“No Ma’am, nobody. She’ll be there all by herself. I’ll make sure she’s properly chained there for the night - don’t want her to get any ideas, if you know what I mean,” and as he spoke he affixed the chain to Sophie’s collar's dependent ring.

“Come along nigra. Time you learned what real work is!” and he chuckled as he tugged the chain and led the weeping slave girl out from the luxurious withdrawing room, through the back door and away from the house toward the fields to join the gang of sweating black bodies bent to their mind-numbing task in the sweltering and oppressive summer heat and dust.

Almost as soon as the overseer and his chained and miserable charge had departed Elizabeth frowned and said:

"Caroline, I must protest.  The girl is unsuited for field work and will be no good out there.  It would make more sense if I were to whip her and we put her to an increase in house work.  She really isn't..."

Caroline almost shouted, "Hush Elizabeth!" and she gave her cousin a dark and forbidding stare, adding pointedly, "This will be instructive to all concerned.  You'll find that she will return a much more humble and careful slave - this is exactly what she needs!  In any case, it’s only a few hours left for her today until it’s dark. Tomorrow she will start at dawn like all the others and I think I will allow her back in the house after her day’s work is done but it is well that she thinks she will be out there for several days.  As I said before, you will thank me for this and when you get home you will find her a much better slave than when she arrived here."

Elizabeth saw at once that it would be useless to persist, and any further entreaties might even result in further anger and punishment laid upon poor Sophie.  She nodded meekly and excused herself to her room where she sat and fretted.  She well knew that for all that Sophie had had one week of conditioning as a slave she was, nevertheless, a spirited girl and Elizabeth hoped that she would take her punishment as best she could and not be tempted to do anything incautious or silly.  She also suspected that it was Philip's inability to keep his hands off her girl that had caused the whole ugly affair but it would do no good to accuse him.  She slumped in her chair, defeated, and her eyes began to moisten.

The field was a miserable fifteen minute walk away for Sophie who still could not believe this was done to her. And as for Elizabeth’s almost complete passivity in defending her! She did not put up much of a fight and just accepted Caroline’s decision. Couldn’t she just have said that they had to leave soon? Sophie also blamed her own clumsiness - if she had only been just a little bit more experienced with ironing none of this would have happened and she would now be packing her Mistress’s things for their departure. And now she did not even know how long Caroline would want her here. A day? A week? A month? For the entire harvesting season?

“Here, almost forgot, you won’t make it without it under the sun,’’ Jones suddenly stopped when they’ve already lost sight of the house behind them and took a shapeless  piece of colorless cloth from his pocket. “Put it on your head, girl. Don’t want you dropping after an hour there.”

Sophie took the dirty cloth and wrapped it on her head the way she saw other slaves do. With that one last piece of clothing she now completely looked the part of a field slave.

Jones remained silent throughout the remainder of their short trip. He was sweating profusely and stopped a couple of times in the shadow of the trees to take hungry sips form a small bottle he kept in his boot-top as his chained charge remained under the sun waiting for him.

As they approached the cotton field, Sophie couldn’t help but marvel at how beautiful it looked with its pure-white rows of fluffy flowers in full bloom that could have been mistaken for fresh snow if it wasn’t for the suffocating late summer heat. Just yesterday she was enjoying this pure natural beauty from atop Cypress Hill, almost oblivious to the plights of dozens of men and women that were forced to pick cotton from dawn until dusk, and now she was just another field hand no different from them!

Sophie looked around her - as far as she could see there were slaves busily moving along narrow cotton rows, working diligently with both hands. Many were women, including girls that did not look much older than 12 or 13. On their necks were long sacks reaching to the ground that they were filling with cotton flowers they picked from branches. There were three horseback overseers strategically placed around the field that were slowly moving across the perimeter making sure everyone was doing their best and no one was idle even for a moment.

Jones unlocked the chain attached to Sophie’s collar, handed her a long sack and placed a large woven basket at the beginning of an empty row.

“Right, girl. It’s really simple, “ Jones declared. “You feel that sack with bolls as fast as you can, when its filled you put it into the basket right here and tread it down. At the end of the day we’ll weigh it. I’ll be reasonable this time with you being half a day late. So you are to pick 100 pounds before it’s dark. Is that clear?”

“Yes, suh,’’ Sophie responded quietly and put the sack over her head.

“I will tell my boys to watch you. Now don’t stand there, keep moving,” Jones said and turned on his heels, looking around the field, where dozens of pairs of black hands, large and small, were busy picking snow white bolls.

Sophie began her work, trying her best to follow the movements of a large negro in a wide straw hat, who was quickly picking cotton bolls with both hands just across the row from her. He quickly glanced in Sophie’s direction and, after greeting her with a nod, continued his work. She quickly discovered that picking cotton was harder than it looked - the branches were shooting out in all directions and refused to yield to her inexperienced soft fingers. After about 15 minutes of trying to keep the pace her hands were covered by long scratches, while her bag remained almost empty. The man who used to be in front of her across the row was now more than 20 feet away, his muscular hands picking cotton bolls from branches almost non-stop.

She sighed deeply and pushed away a long branch out of her face - it cracked loudly and broke off. A young girl two rows away, probably not older than 15,  heard the sound and looked on in utter horror and, before Sophie understood what scared her, she felt the sting of a lash across her shoulders and then two more sharp hits across her back and upper arms. She cowered in pain and looked up. A mounted overseer, a red-faced moustached man, lowered his whip-holding hand and pointed a finger at her face:

“What do yer think ye doin’, stupid? Ye break them branches again and I’ll have yer whipped until yer nigger skin goes off, you hear?”

Sophie let out a groan as she felt her eyes filled with tears, but gathered all her remaining strength to answer: “Sorry, suh, I won’t do that, suh.”

“You better. And stop that crying, I haven’t even began hitting you. This is nothing. Back to work or you’d know what real whippin’ is!“

She rubbed her right shoulder that got hit the most and was relieved that there was no blood as the rough material of her well-worn dress protected her soft skin. The scared young girl two rows away who witnessed the scene looked away, concentrating on her own picking.

Sophie felt completely powerless. The  heavy iron collar that Jones left on her was rubbing her skin, she was sweating from all the heat and humidity and now her back and her shoulders ached from the lashes she’d received. And she wasn’t even there for a full hour! How could anyone survive here for a full day, let along do this for days and weeks on end? No wonder most women working the field seemed so rough-looking with almost man-like, work-hardened arms and strong shoulders. Unlike them, she was just a reluctant visitor here, that wasn't her life, but what if it was? And she thought a housemaid’s many responsibilities were daunting. It was now obvious to her how truly lucky the likes of Rosa were - even with all the backbreaking work, abuse and rudeness, life in the big house seemed like true Paradise in comparison to this sun-drenched hell!

She continued filling  her bag with fluffy cotton bolls, this time careful not to break any branches off the stalks and periodically looking around for an approaching overseer so that she could quicken her pace like a good field slave. Still, it was plainly obvious how inadequate for the job she was. After another hour the only thing she could think of was getting some rest in the shadow and it was only fear of being hit again that forced her to carry on with the picking with her simple head wrap her only protection from the unbearable Southern sun.

She noticed that some of the slaves were lowering to their knees to get a moment’s respite from their work when the overseers were too far to see them and started doing the same. Apparently the sun was getting to the horsemen too and they seemed to spend as much time as they could under the trees at the side of the field, smoking and chatting. That allowed Sophie to gather some strength back when no one was looking, even as that meant that she was falling behind her fellow field hands more and more. She was amazed by how sturdy the other slaves seemed, even the 13-year old girls among them - they’ve all been here since sunrise and had been working for many hours when Sophie was dragged to join them and yet they still appeared to have enough energy left in them.

When the overseers ordered to halt work it was already dark and all Sophie could think of was dropping somewhere - calaboose or not - so that she could get some rest. However, by the look of things, her duties were far from over. The slaves were now supposed to carry their harvest of the day to the ginhouse to have it weighted. She tried lifting her basket and, even though it was filled with cotton by less than half, it seemed impossibly heavy to her. Sophie looked in awe at the women that were toting their overflowing baskets on their heads - she was so fatigued there was no chance she could even lift it off the ground, never mind placing it on her head! Thankfully the ginhouse was not very far from the field and she managed to drag and push her basket there as the overseers looked on with giggles, none of them offering to help.

The slaves were forced to form an orderly line in front of the large scale with Jones himself weighting their baskets and taking down their harvest numbers of the day. It did seem that most were able to meet their quotas, but the unlucky few did not and were ordered to stand in a small group a few paces behind as Jones was still busy measuring the day’s work.

Finally, it was Sophie’s turn and she, just like the slaves before her, tied her basket to the bottom of the cotton scale and waited with fear and trembling what the verdict will be. Surely, they shouldn’t be too harsh on her, this being her first day, she tried to assure herself. She honestly did try to do her best.

Jones fiddled with the scale for half a minute before declaring: “It’s only forty nine pounds. Where’s the rest?”

Sophie did not know what to answer other than “sorry, suh, dis all I got.”

“Worst result of the day. Bonney here is only 12 and she’s already at 180 pounds for the day,” he said and pointed at a round-faced girl in a checkered dress standing in the group of the unlucky ones behind him. “I was kind enough to assign you a hundred pounds and you could not even do that! You are less than worthless. Go stand there with them and wait until I’m finished.”

Jones continued with the weighting for another ten minutes and Sophie looked on, her anxiety building more and more. She had half-expected that Elizabeth would come pick her up during the day and tell her that her punishment was over and now felt betrayed by her pretend mistress. Still, there was nothing she wanted more than to be by her side now. She did not belong here. Not only did she utterly fail as a field slave, but now she was about to be punished for that. The other slaves that had failed to meet their quotas remained silent but their eyes and subservient postures betrayed how truly scared they were. Their fear was passing to her like a contagious disease and soon a feeling of sheer terror overtook her senses.

One of the overseers brought a cowhide and put it on the ground. Jones made one of the women lay face down and pulled her clothes over her head. He then forced Bonney, who was about to break into tears, to hold the woman as he administered the lashing. Painful groans, muffled by the clothing over her head, filled the air and Sophie could see the poor victim’s skin go off with every lick that struck her. The lashing lasted for a while and groans have given way to quiet sobs. When Jones was done with his first victim, he made Bonney lay down on the same cowhide and made the woman he had just whipped hold her checkered dress over her head even though she could now hardly move her limbs.

Sophie thought she would faint. Would she also be exposed to the same kind of whipping? There was little doubt that she would. This man had little reservation about whipping a 12-year old girl, why would he spare her? Not only was it thoroughly embarrassing being exposed like this in front of the slaves and the overseers, but the punishment would no doubt leave her crippled, her back would be ruined and would hurt for days if not weeks. How could she return to her parents like that?

Bonney was now screaming at the top of her lungs and that only seemed to force Jones to hit her even harder. Sophie contemplated running to the young girl’s defence, but realized she was powerless to protect her and would only make things worse for the two of them. So she did the only thing she thought made sense if she wanted to escape this horror: she made a small step back, then another and, with everyone’s eyes glued to the screaming young slave’s torment, turned around and run as fast she could toward the edge of the wood. 

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