Chapter 2: Arrival at the Plantation

After a six hour ride from Savannah, John’s buggy finally approached the entrance of his newly inherited plantation. As far as his eyes could see, rows upon rows of rice beds stretched across the landscape. The buggy creaked and groaned, fighting through the dirt roads, miles upon miles from the city, rolling ever closer to John’s new residence.

John tried to take in the rustic beauty around him, the vast expanse of fertile land covered by row after row of rice plants, punctuated by ancient magnolias adorning the grand estate house. It was a Southern empire, one that was now his to manage and navigate.

As they pulled up to the mansion, a white man who seemed to be in his fifties stood up from a chair near the porch.

“Mr John Berrien?” the man called out, his tone respectful yet firm.

John’s attention was drawn to the stranger, momentarily forgetting the breathtaking scenery around him. “Yes, that’s me,” he replied, stepping down from the buggy.

The older man walked over, extending a calloused hand. “Welcome to Berrien Plantation,” he said. “I’m Richard, your overseer. I’ve been working here for years, and your late uncle, he was a good man. I hope to serve you just as well.”

John shook his hand firmly, taking in his firm grip and weather-beaten features. Richard seemed like an experienced man, someone who knew the ins and outs of managing a plantation.

“I appreciate that, Richard,” John replied, grateful for his warm welcome. “I’m looking forward to learning more about the plantation and how things work around here.”

Richard nodded. “Of course, Mr. Berrien. I’ll show you around and introduce you to our hands. First, let’s get you settled in.”

Richard turned to Jebediah and Sarah, who were standing nearby watching the scene unfold, and barked, “You heard what the master said; go ahead and unload his baggage and bring them inside the mansion.”

The two slaves sprang into action, moving quickly and efficiently to retrieve the luggage from the buggy. Sarah was meticulous, inspecting each piece carefully to ensure it wasn’t damaged during the journey. Jebediah, on the other hand, was all brute force, strong enough to carry even the heaviest trunk without breaking a sweat.

Together, they worked in unison, making their way to the entrance of the mansion.

The master’s estate was a magnificent sight to behold - an expansive two-story structure nestled amidst lush greenery, its grandeur evident in the towering Greek columns that adorned the front.

Richard led John inside, and he found his surroundings a clear reflection of the wealth and power that his family name commanded in this area.

The entrance foyer was a magnificent display of architectural beauty, featuring a grand, winding stairwell. The floors were gleaming hardwood, and ornate chandeliers hung from tall ceilings, casting a warm, inviting glow that echoed the Southern hospitality ingrained in its inhabitants.

John followed Richard from one opulent room to the next, the expansive mansion swallowing them whole as he took in the subtle details that brought the space to life - a collection of fine china, beveled mirrors reflecting the daylight, leather-bound books lining grand bookshelves collecting dust from decades of neglect. A sense of awe settled over John as he explored his new home, circling the periphery of each room as Richard listed their functions.

Growing up in the bustling city of Philadelphia, John never imagined owning such a property, let alone inheriting it from an uncle he had never known. He had often heard tales of the Berrien legacy, but the distance between him and his southern relations had left him unprepared for all this.

As the grand tour continued, John’s eyes were taking in every detail of the opulent mansion. Richard then guided him into the heart of the estate – the kitchen. There, he introduced John to Phillis, a stout, middle-aged woman with hands calloused and worn from years of labor.

Phillis looked up from the fireplace she was tending, studying John with a wary eye before returning to her work.

“Phillis here cooks meals for the master’s family and any visitors,” Richard explained. “She’s been with us for years and knows how to keep the kitchen running smoothly.” John nodded a greeting to Phillis, who offered a brief, curt nod in return.

From the kitchen, Richard led John through the back door, to an expansive veranda that overlooked the sprawling estate. John placed a hand across his brow to block the brilliant sunlight. His eyes took in the vast fields of ripening rice stretching beyond the house, bordered by an endless expanse of deep green foliage. The mansion, the grandeur of its stature rivaled only by the plantation it commanded. John’s gaze shifted from the landscape, focusing his attention on the figures in the distance, moving purposefully between the rows of crops.

Richard noticed his curiosity. “Those are our hands, Mr. Berrien. They work the land from sunrise to sunset. I have arranged for them to stop their work a little earlier today, so you can meet them at their quarters before dinner,” Richard suggested, the authority in his tone impossible to mistake.

“Very well.” John agreed.

He couldn’t wait to learn more about the people who would be working for him. He was determined to be a fair and just master. Richard nodded, satisfied, and led John back inside the mansion.

“Take your time freshening up, Mr. Berrien. When you’re ready, I’ll gather the slaves and we can begin the introductions.” Richard disappeared down a corridor, leaving John to do as instructed.

John made his way to his assigned bedroom, admiring the opulence of the mansion as he went. Golden sconces lined the hallway walls, their flickering flames casting eerie shadows that danced alongside him. Ornate rugs, woven with intricate patterns, lay scattered throughout the mansion, muffling his footsteps as he moved.

Reaching the large, oak-paneled door leading to his bedroom, John entered and took in the sumptuous surroundings. A four-poster bed, draped with heavy velvet curtains, stood proudly in the center of the room. The furnishings were luxurious and rich; a velvet-upholstered chaise longue, an elaborately carved wooden armoire, and intricately patterned rugs that lay upon the polished wooden floorboards.

As he checked out the room, a light tap on the door brought his attention back towards the entrance.

“Come in,” John called out, expecting Richard. Instead, Sarah pushed the door open slowly and entered, carrying a porcelain pitcher filled with cool, fresh water.

“I brung this for you to freshen up, masta,” she announced quietly, her expression neutral but her eyes gleaming with a hint of apprehension. John studied her for a moment, taking in her slender form, her delicate features, and the graceful way she moved as she crossed the room to place the pitcher upon the washstand.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he said sincerely, noting the way her shoulders relaxed a fraction at his words.

As John approached the washstand, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above and paused to study his reflection. His jet-black hair, usually neatly combed, was disheveled from his journey, and the faint lines around his steel-grey eyes were more pronounced than usual.

The dust of the Georgia countryside had caked upon his shirt and trousers, transforming the expensive fabric into a drab, worn-out mess. The previously gleaming black riding boots were now dulled and speckled with mud.

With a small, wry smile, he splashed some of the cool water onto his face, reveling in the refreshing sensation that washed over him. He dried himself with a nearby towel before turning to face Sarah once more.

She had been quietly observing him—something he hadn’t noticed until now.

“Is there something on my face?” John asked good-naturedly, unconsciously running a hand over his jawline.

Sarah hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering to his, before she answered, “No masta, there ain’t nothin’ on your face. I just wanted to make sure you was comfortable after your long journey.”

John raised an eyebrow, amused by her answer. “Well, I do appreciate your concern, Sarah. I’m sure I’ll be fine after a quick wash and a change of clothes,” he replied, flashing her a warm smile.

Sarah returned his smile with a small, tentative one of her own before backing out of the room, leaving John to his solitude. As John washed up, the image of Sarah lingered in the back of his mind. Her poise and elegance in the midst of adversity had left a lasting impression on him. John brushed aside these thoughts as he hastily changed into a clean set of clothes.

After tucking his shirt into his trousers and donning a pair of polished boots, he headed back downstairs. When he arrived at the foyer, Richard stood by the entrance, an expression of practiced patience etched across his face.

“Ah, Mr. Berrien, I see you’ve made yourself presentable. I trust you’re ready for me to bring you to the slave quarters.” Richard’s tone was approving yet firm, leaving little room for argument. When John nodded, Richard motioned for him to follow.

The two men stepped out into the oppressive Southern heat. A simple path, wide enough for several horsemen to walk abreast, wound through the immaculate rows of crops.

The path stretched on into the heart of the plantation, leading them towards what John assumed was the slave quarters.

They soon approached a long, low building constructed from weathered boards, which housed the people essential to operating his new estate.

Upon arrival, fourteen slaves stood in line. Each man and woman clad in roughspun clothing, accessories added to make their ensemble slightly unique in this sea of sameness. Some cast scratchy, sullen looks their way, while others regarded the guests with listless curiosity.

Then, as Richard led John closer, a hush fell over the small gathering. The men, taking off their hats, bowed their heads; the women, lacking head coverings, lowered their gazes demurely. They remained that way as John walked down the line, acknowledging them with a nod and trying to read their unguarded expressions.

They upheld an eerie silence, broken only by the whispers of the wind rustling through the leaves of the surrounding trees.

John paused in front of the first slave in line, a man in the prime of his life. He turned to Richard, who was standing stoically next to him. “What’s his name?” he whispered, hoping to connect with this stranger on a more personal level.

But Richard merely raised an eyebrow and answered brusquely, “Name’s Isaac, master.” His tone made it clear that questions of familiarity were out of place. John sighed inwardly. Navigating the etiquette of this world would surely be a challenge.

John didn’t know what to do or say; he merely nodded politely and greeted each slave by their assigned name, as Richard introduced them quickly one after the other. Some of the slaves looked away shyly, while others met John’s gaze, their eyes seemingly sizing him up out of duty or perhaps a silent act of rebellion.

Richard’s firm and commanding presence beside John only served to emphasize the white man’s role as their master in this antebellum Georgia landscape.

With a deep breath, Richard finally broke the silence. “Let me present to you all your master, John Berrien, the new owner of Berrien Plantation. Treat him with the same respect and diligence you’ve shown his late uncle,” Richard bellowed, bringing the line of slaves to order. The group mumbled their greetings, bowing their heads timidly.

Their introduction to John was as impersonal as it could get, and he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness knowing the harsh reality behind this social construct.

Richard’s voice boomed in the stillness. “Now, Mr. Berrien, why don’t we make our way back to the mansion for supper? Phillis has cooked up a delicious meal for us to enjoy.”

Richard gestured toward the path, and John followed him away from the slave quarters, the crunch of their boots on the gravel road the only sound in the heavy air.

John and Richard walked side by side through the plantation; John stole a glance at Richard, noticing the lines around his eyes and the slight stoop in his posture. Richard was a man of great responsibility, burdened with the lives and labor of the slaves on John’s plantation.

Over the next few days, he introduced John to the rhythm of life on the plantation: the early mornings, the backbreaking labor, and the business of running an efficient operation. Richard explained the tasks at hand, the watchful overseer ensuring the work was completed to his satisfaction.

John observed Richard as he interacted with the slaves, noting the man’s efficiency and command—though he couldn’t deny Richard’s stern approach.

“Firmness keeps the field hands in line,” Richard would remark. “One must uphold order and ensure productivity.”

Richard’s voice was firm, and the message resounded in John’s mind as the days went by. He didn’t dwell much on Richard’s words—there were more pressing matters that demanded his attention.

Familiarizing himself with the management and finances of the plantation took up almost all of John’s time. With his mind buried deep in balance sheets and supply orders, there seemed hardly a moment to breathe.

Under the soft glow of the low-hanging sun, the plantation came to life with all its overwhelming grandeur and elegance. A delicate breeze swept through the fields, carrying the scent of freshly bloomed magnolias and hinting at the advent of summer. The mansion, standing tall in all its majesty, seemed to exude a certain aura—an ethereal presence that softly whispered tales of opulence and wealth. It was a picture-perfect moment, defined by the tranquil serenity that wrapped itself around the Berrien Plantation like an invisible veil.

John couldn’t help but soak in the enchanting scene before him as he stood on the porch of the grand mansion, lost in his thoughts. He had lived on the plantation for almost a week now, and he was becoming more familiar with the daily routines and operations. Everything seemed to be progressing quite smoothly, and the overseer, Richard, was doing a commendable job managing the field hands and ensuring that productivity remained high.

Lost in thought, he watched the sun rise over his plantation, when Sarah appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. She was dressed in a simple, yet elegant, linen gown, her long curly hair pulled back in a loose braid. The warm sunlight highlighted her flawless, light-brown skin and the serene expression on her face. John felt the familiar flutter in his chest, as he watched her walk towards him with a measured grace that demanded his undivided attention.

“Good morning, Masta John,” she greeted him, her voice smooth and melodic, like a sweet melody that instantly put him at ease.

“Oh, good morning, Sarah,” John replied with a warm smile, trying to keep his gaze fixated on her face rather than letting his eyes wander down her graceful silhouette.

Sarah approached the porch steps and with gentle, fluid motions began to sweep the dust from the stone steps, sending clouds of red soil swirling into the warm morning air.

John watched her with narrowed gaze, taking in the practiced ease of her actions, the way her skin glistened with sweat, and the soft curves of her body.

He could feel himself warming up, the rush of blood coursing through his veins, quickening his pulse. But he kept himself composed, hiding his brewing curiosity behind a deliberate smile.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath, Masta John?” Sarah offered, her tone casual, and her eyes betraying no signs of hesitance.

John hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should accept her offer. As he recalled his arrival in Savannah only last week and the bath he had there, the memory of Sarah’s gentle touch on his skin came rushing back to him. He felt his cheeks flush at the thought of her standing so close to him, once again.

His mind raced back to the memory of Sarah’s touch, her gentle fingers tracing the lines of his muscular back as she washed him clean. It was a moment of pure bliss, and one that he couldn’t forget. And yet, he felt conflicted about the intimate moment they shared at the time.

And yet, the relaxation and respite of a hot bath was an alluring thought—especially as the sultry Georgia sun climbed higher in the sky.

“Yes, Sarah, that would be wonderful,” John finally responded, hiding the sudden surge of emotions behind a cool exterior. As Sarah disappeared into the mansion, John leaned against the porch railing, lost in thought. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that had taken hold of him since that fateful day in Savannah.

The thought of Sarah, naked and vulnerable, as she washed his back, left him with a strange mixture of guilt and desire. It was true—he couldn’t deny the attraction he felt towards her. But their worlds were so different, the color of their skin and their backgrounds erecting unscalable barriers between them. John shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts from his mind.

After some time Sarah appeared in the doorway again. “Masta John, yer bath is ready in yer study,” she called out, her voice echoing through the warm, morning air.

He made his way inside, Sarah falling into step beside him as they walked towards the study. The mansion was quiet, save for the soft whispering of the wind as it slipped through the open windows.

Entering the room, John was struck by the atmosphere. The smell of sandalwood and lavender filled the air, and the bathwater, nestled within an ornate copper tub, was steaming gently.

John, acutely aware of Sarah’s nearness, felt a shiver of excitement snake up his spine as he slipped out of his shirt, revealing a toned and tanned torso that gleamed under the warm, flickering candlelight. With a fleeting glance in her direction, he found her eyes momentarily lingering on him before quickly darting away. She busied herself with placing soaps and cloths within arm’s reach; however, her trembling hands belied her attempt at casual indifference.