The vile words echoed in his mind as he clenched his fists. He wanted to flog the man, then strap him to the back of the carriage and make him ride all the way back to the Duvall’s farm in the freezing night air.
Alden dug a grave for Benjamin’s body long past midnight, in the small Negro plot by the trees. As they buried him in the icy chill of moonlight, he and Mammy grieved together the loss of her son.
After Mammy returned to the house, Alden paced the rows of tobacco plants alone. In an hour or so, Mammy would be expected to help dress his mother and sister for Christmas morning, her tears dried, but Alden wouldn’t join them in the festivities. He had a week left before he was supposed to return to school—perhaps he would lock himself in his room until it was time to leave. Then he would never return.
The decision was quite clear to him now. This plantation and all of its property was the pride of his father. Alden would never return to oversee the man’s kingdom.
He plucked a dried leaf off the tobacco plant—Virginia’s own version of gold—and crushed it between his fingers, the pieces falling on the clumps of dirt below. If only he had whipped Benjamin like his father commanded. He would have saved his friend’s life.
Or if he had left the house earlier last night, right after dinner while everyone was drinking and singing in the drawing room, he could have retrieved the keys and helped Benjamin escape. He knew his father intended to harm Benjamin, but he never thought his father would kill him.
At this moment, he didn’t know his father at all.
Bitter tears fell from his eyes. When had his father’s heart grown so hard? How could he not understand Mammy’s grief at losing her son?
He sat on the cold ground beside the smokehouse, his mind in turmoil. He’d promised Benjamin that he would help him escape, both when they were younger and yesterday in the barn. He’d told young Isaac that an honorable man keeps his promises, but his own honor had shattered that very night. Promises—years of good intentions—couldn’t save someone’s life.
He wasn’t any better than the other students who only talked about abolition. He had failed to save even one slave. Failed at being an honorable man.
His friend was with his eternal master now, and Alden hoped he was finally running north, south, east, and west—whatever direction he liked. The image of Benjamin running free, his arms spread wide, made him smile.
Benjamin no longer had to run away from the pain. And Alden could no longer stay here and either inflict pain or watch other slaves suffer at his father’s hand.
The glitter of gold didn’t drive Alden like it did many who went to California, but the promise of freedom was as enticing as any type of gold, especially now. He would finish his degree at Harvard, and then somehow he would make his way to the land where he could carve out his own future instead of stepping into the one that would shackle him here as a slaveholder for the rest of his life.
Chapter 7
West End
December 1853
Victor Duvall rang the silver handbell by his bed for the second time. It was 7:15, but Isaac still didn’t come.
Insolent boy.
Every morning Isaac brought his morning coffee and a copy of theAlexandria Gazette, precisely at seven, but he wasn’t here today—nor had he come yesterday. Victor had to walk all the way down to the kitchen in his dressing gown to collect his coffee and paper.
No thirty-year-old self-respecting farmer and gentleman should be collecting anything. Or getting dressed on Christmas morning by himself to attend services in town.
Yesterday, he’d searched the entire house for the boy. When he finally asked Eliza about Isaac’s whereabouts, she’d said he went with another slave into Alexandria to buy gifts for Christmas. He had scolded his wife for letting Isaac go. Victor was the master of this house, and no one had asked him if the boy was allowed to leave their farmhouse. When it came to matters about Isaac, they all knew permission came directly from him.
Either way, no one would have sent a slave into town on Christmas Day.
He lifted the bell over his shoulder, and its trill shook the glass panes on his window. Still Isaac didn’t walk through the door.
The boy needed more discipline. And more duties so he would appreciate the little that was required of him here. If Isaac wasn’t careful, Victor just might send him out into the cornfield to labor with the eight other slaves his father had passed along to him a decade ago.
He flung back the covers and stepped into the hallway, clutching the leather strap of the bell in his hand. “Isaac!” he shouted from the banister, ringing his bell again.
At the other end of the corridor, the door to the servants’ staircase crept open, and he turned to reprimand Isaac for being late. He wouldn’t whip him this time for his delay, as long as he apologized properly.
But instead of Isaac emerging into the corridor, it was Hannah, the old Negro woman he’d bought at the market last year to work in the kitchen. She hobbled forward, her gaze on the floor.
“Where is Isaac?” he demanded.
Her face turned to the door behind her, the room where Eliza slept. Most mornings his wife stayed in bed until late, sometimes not emerging until the lunch hour. He always locked himself into his study before she rose, and unless he needed to go into town, he remained there until the dinner hour required that he join her for a meal.
This morning was different, though. Eliza would be up soon to dress for church.
