All That Lives (2 page)

The pain in my stomach distracted me and I thought as long as I was standing I would take the opportunity to use my chamber
pot. I felt something warm and sticky on my legs and smelled blood where I had never smelled it previously and I grew frightened.
Tap-tap
came again at the window and with my legs shaking and trying not to cry from fear, I hurried down the stairs through the
dark parlor and off the back into Mother and Father’s room.

“Mother, help me, for I am ill.” I bent over her sleeping form and whispered urgently into her ear.

“Shhh, Betsy. Pray, what is the matter?” Mother woke easily and I gave her room to rise.

“There is a tapping at my window and blood between my legs!” She took me in her arms, and I could not prevent myself from
crying. She smelled of sleep and held me close, tucking a stray lock of hair loosened from my braid back behind my ear.

“There, there, Betsy, hush. You are not ill, no, you are a young woman now.” I had no idea what she meant, but I allowed her
to lead me from her bedroom through the parlor, the hall and the dining room, back to the kitchen, so our conversation would
not disturb Father’s sleep. Her composure calmed me and I waited patiently in the chair by the wood-stove while she stoked
the embers and fed the kitchen fire to get it going. When the flames began, she disappeared into her pantry, returning with
a jar of bark and a brick, which she placed inside the stove.

“Chew this willow for the pains.” Mother handed me a chip of bitter bark and proceeded to explain to me the way it is for
women. By the end of her speech I was not frightened, but proud to know I was no longer a little girl. I was a developing
young woman who could someday carry a child in her own womb. I forgot about the tapping at the window completely until Mother
left to fetch the thick red flannel petticoat and cotton cloths she had already stitched in anticipation of this certain occasion,
and abruptly it came again,
tap-tap,
this time against the door. I went immediately and opened it, confident there would be someone there, though who at this
hour would dare knock at our back door I did not try to guess. I need not have bothered, for there was no one.

“What are you about, Betsy? Close the door and come see how to fold these cloths.” Mother carried the red flannel petticoat
over her arm and a tower of white cotton squares were stacked in the crook of her elbow.

“There is something outside tapping! I heard it in my room and just now, at the door.”

“Well never mind, it will be wind or rodent and no cause for alarm. Let me help you with your undergarments.” There was blood
on my nightdress and Mother helped me change it.

“You must launder your own cloths and soak them in cold water, to get the blood out.”

“Could you explain the rest tomorrow, please?” I knew she had more to tell me, but I had begun to feel quite queasy. I clutched
my hands across my stomach while she loosely tied the red petticoat around my waist.

“Of course, dear child.” She gently held me to her and kissed my hair at the top of my head. “Miss Betsy, how fast you have
grown.” With her iron tongs she withdrew the brick from the woodstove and wrapped it up in another flannel, then led me back
upstairs, fussing with my covers and the warm brick across my stomach until I was properly settled in my bed.

“Will you stay with me? The tapping at my window …” I was already drifting in my mind as it was very late, but I grasped at
Mother’s hand.

“Quiet, Betsy.” Mother did stay. I shut my eyes on her loving face, glowing in the light of the single candle. I do not know
if the tapping came again, for I fell solidly asleep.

In the morning my pains had gone and though I felt encumbered by the new cloth I wore between my legs, I decided to keep to
the plan I had made the day before to accompany Father and my brothers John Jr. and Drewry on horseback down to the fields
to inspect the progress of the newly planted tobacco seedlings. Drewry and I had to forsake a day of school to do it, which
would have been no matter, except Father had recently paid Professor Powell for our lessons and Mother felt it was important
for us to get our learning in. We understood her desires, but begged and pleaded desperately to be allowed to go. Father gave
us his consent, overruling her concerns.

“Lucy, tobacco lessons are as valuable as book learning to our children.” He winked at Drewry and me as he gave his final
comments on the matter. “But before we depart, I will have a quick game of judge and jury with the little ones.” Richard and
Joel were disappointed they were not to be included on our outing and this was Father’s attempt to cheer them up.

“I want to be judge!” Joel was fast with his request.

“Judge or juror, you must strive to be a rational man, a consciously disinterested weigher of evidence.” Father smiled, outlining
the rules.

“I will be!” Joel’s enthusiasm for the game caused Father to laugh outright, aware his youngest son knew not the meaning of
rational.

“Your brother Richard will be judge today and you shall join Drewry and myself as jurors in the case.” Father led them into
the parlor, giving Richard his special chair. In a matter of minutes he had them decide the fate of a man accused of stealing
land from his neighbor. “Remember, we need bold, brave judges who can see the truth,” he advised when Richard wavered in his
adjudication.

“The thief must build the fence anew, in its proper location, and perhaps pay the neighbor some monies for his trouble.”

“Well done, Richard. Now, boys, as men of prominence, in the future you will undoubtedly be called on to act in public. You
will cut fine figures with sound knowledge of justice and with skills for settling differences amongst your neighbors and
friends.” Father ran his hand through Joel’s blond curls, well pleased.

“Can we play again?” Joel begged. “

Tell me, what law is the law above all others?” Father put his hand to his ear, encouraging their loud response.

“God’s law!” Both the boys repeated in unison, practiced at the finale of the game.

“We will play again, but not now, for it is time for us to depart.” Father stopped in the hallway where his guns, shot bags,
powder horn and hat were hung on pegs by the door. He opened it wide and we followed him across the porch and down the steps.
I took my time ambling down our hill, unused to the clumpy feeling of the cloth between my legs. Fatherinsisted our home occupied
an ideal location at the top of the knoll, for drainage was never a problem and the location afforded the most lovely views,
but it did make for a strenuous approach and difficult descent. Drewry stopped for a drink at the well beyond our two immense
pear trees, and then we carried on, past the horse tie, turning right, toward the stables. Zeke, our stableman, held the horses
ready for us outside the door to the barn. I liked him tremendously, for he let me brush the horses’ manes when Father was
out on the lands.

“Morning, suhs, Miss ’Lizabeth.” A smile wrinkled his dark skin.

“Betsy, you and Drewry may share the double saddle.” Father patted the shining leather of it, inspecting the clever design
that allowed two bottoms to ride comfortably on one horse’s back. He was proud to have paid only ten dollars for it after
trading tobacco with the saddler in Springfield.

“And a bright sorrel mare to take yous there,” Zeke hummed under his breath, checking the shoes of the steady girl who wore
the saddle. We called her Dipsy, for the long swoop of her back. I was disappointed not to have my own horse, but I did not
argue with Father, as it was not a lengthy trip.

Drewry mounted first and busied himself arranging his gun across his back. Father helped me up and I wondered if Mother had
informed him I was a young woman. I grew uncomfortable at the thought, circling Drewry’s waist with my arms. I supposed I
would not tell my brothers about it, but I did look forward to discussing it with my best girlfriend, Thenny, when next I
saw her. It must not have happened yet to her, or surely she would have told me of it, for it was in her nature to talk of
everything.

We set out, taking the southern path behind the stables so we might walk along the stream and approach the planting fields
from behind. I heard the rushing spring water before I caught a glimpse of it, for its bubbling energy filled the woods. Rabbits
and birds scattered into the stands of green budding elm, oak and maple, alerted by the farm hounds that raced ahead barking,
their noses full of scent. We clopped single file slowly down the path and a family of deer leaped suddenly beside us, hopping
over the grassy banks.

“Look, those deer are an easy mark!” Drewry shifted his rifle to his front and I saw the group stop to drink by a small stand
of spring cress and silver bells at the river’s edge. I was surprised they stood so close, usually the deer ran swiftly away,
aware of the danger men on horseback posed.

“Drewry, we have other plans today,” Father cautioned him against shooting, and though Drewry made a clucking sound of disappointment
with his tongue, he said no more. I twisted as we passed the band, watching the deer step gently into the water. I wished
we could ride after them and allow Dipsy to splash her knees in the shallows, but Drewry held the reins and guided us sure
behind Father and John Jr., trotting up the bank toward the fields. I squeezed my arms tighter around my brother, pleased
he had moved his gun. I liked breathing in the comforting smell of his wool jacket as we drew alongside Father’s closest field,
between the hog pen and the slave cabins. Red and muddy, it spread before us in the early stage of planting.

The Negro men had hoes and worked the dirt of half the field while the women squatted in the rows, working the other half
with their hands, some with infants wrapped across their backs. The women had the job of removing each tiny green seedling
from the germination crates, and planting it two hands apart in rows of red dirt made up by the men. Father’s boss man, Dean,
sat supervising on the split log fence bordering the field.

“Make certain the earth is tamped down well about the roots,” Father called from his horse, abruptly cracking his whip in
the air to signify his presence. The slaves did not look over, but Dipsy gave a start at the sound so Drewry had to speak
to her.

“There, there …” he stroked her neck. “

Yes, masta!” Dean jumped down and cracked his own whip, but only lightly and to the side. He was not young but had the appearance
of a straight sapling, tall and strong and determined to grow. Father said Dean was worth two men, especially in a clearing,
so skilled was he with the ax, the maul and wedge. Dean possessed know-how as well as strength, for Father liked to craft
our furniture, rockers, tables, bed frames and chairs and he enjoyed no one as his apprentice better than Dean. He had even
bought a brass hatchet for Dean to chop splits for the woodstove, and it served as a great measure of his trust.

“We be done wit’ this field by evening, suh.” Dean bent to stroke the back of a hound that curled against his legs, but kept
his head tilted to Father, respectful.

“ ’Tis good, for we have an early spring this year.” Father bent way forward in the saddle, inclining his head to Dean. “We
also have whiskey fresh from the doubler,” he smiled. “Come down to the still at sunset and we shall sharpen our ideas a touch
and you might take a jug back to the cabins.”

“Yes suh, masta Bell.” Dean looked well pleased at the thought of this reward at the end of the day.

“Make certain each plant is well watered,” Father said as he straightened, giving him an obligatory caution before turning
his horse and snapping his whip again, leading us trotting down the muddy path past the slave cabins toward the further fields.

Two ancient women, whose names I did not know, sat on their stoops at the cabins. Everyone else was out at work. The elderly
two were engaged watching three toddling children, too big to be carried on their mothers’ backs and too small or too ignorant
to work, at play in the mud of the road. The old ones stood as we clopped past and bowed their heads to Father, while the
little children stopped their game and watched us without moving. I stared back at the small brown faces wondering what imaginary
lives they were creating in the muck, but then Father’s horse let loose its bowels and my attention, along with the children’s,
shifted to the pile of steaming horse waste left oozing on the road. Drewry laughed and Dipsy delicately stepped over it as
we rode on.

When we reached the planted fields I saw the young green tobacco there was already arranged in tight rows and all the slave
children, dressed in white, squatted behind the plants, making a pattern greatly resembling Mother’s woven checked tablecloth.
Their hands worked quickly and, above the sound of water rushing at the southern boundary of the field, I heard the sound
of stones, irregularly clapped together.

“We are here to look for worms,” Father informed us of our purpose as he dismounted and tied up his horse under the budding
elm on the edge of the field. “You know how.” He dismissed John Jr., who had already tied his steed and turned his back. I
watched him walking away, toward the far side.