Chapter 13: A Very Long Summer

By the first week of August Elizabeth felt bloated and constantly impatient. She was very tired of being pregnant. The growing baby seemed to weigh down everything she did, and its kicking and turning often kept her awake. Fear of the possible consequences of abortion had turned her from that alternative, but now anticipation of assured pain and of the unknowable aftermath often clouded her mind. Her morning sickness had stopped, but she suffered from a sore back, tender breasts, swollen ankles and from leg cramps that sometimes woke her in startled, gasping agony.

She continued to work in the gardens, hoeing out the weeds with some difficulty and preparing the long rows for second seedings of beans and fall greens. She had raised several herbs that were being used to produce tea substitutes including anise, bergamot and catnip and had grown some medicinal simples new to her such as clary sage and woundwort. The succulent the farmhands called hens and chicks prospered in clumps near the kitchen door for use on burns and the blue flowers of the lambsears had attracted so many bees in the spring that a queen was acquired and a hive was started near the smokehouse. In the early days of July, Mr. Nevers had given her two young slave children to help harvest vegetables.

Thomas and Marcie, both of them skinny-legged and bright-eyed, were not always willing workers and seemed to get "lost" fairly often when she sent them to fetch things on the hottest days, but they did help with the work, especially in hauling water and pulling weeds, and for that she was grateful. They liked pulling up things best of all which was a problem now and then, when they decided to check on how the carrots or onions were doing, which they seemed to do just about once a week. They also enjoyed rubbing her swollen belly and feeling the child within poke at their prying hands.

Several times, as her belly rose and navel all but disappeared, she had been tempted to talk with Mr. Nevers about her baby and the price she might pay for bearing it but had never found the nerve or the right opportunity. Jenny and Miranda both avoided the subject when she raised it, saying they had never heard of such a thing. White slaves simply did not have babies, they told her, shaking their heads in wonder.

For reasons she did not understand, at meals or when she brought baskets of vegetables into the summer kitchen, Miranda had begun asking her to name the father of her unborn child. The questions seemed to come "out of the blue." Elizabeth smiled at her and replied, "Ye know very well," feeling embarrassed at first and truculent later. To that answer Miranda pushed out her lips and looked away, shaking her grizzled head, but she often returned to the annoying question.

From the early days of that hot, dry summer, Andrew was seldom at home, much to Mr. Nevers' relief. He had returned the bartered stallion to his soon-to-be-married friend Walter Cochran, but now he roamed the countryside with a small band of like-minded horsemen who harassed the increasing number of militia groups. At his favorite tavern, Mr. Nevers had heard that perhaps eighteen or twenty Whig companies were training in southern Maryland, including one led by their neighbor Thomas Contee, a signer of the Declaration of Freemen and another by one of the many feisty Magruders in the neighborhood. "A filthy Scot if there ever was one," his drinking companion had stated.

Mr. Nevers never stated his own views on the festering controversy, and no one knew whether or not he had signed the loyalty oath. He never used the words "patriot" or "Tory," when he spoke of the growing dissension or the problems it was producing for him, and he never wore a cockade of any color.

The news of the fighting in Massachusetts made little difference to the activities at M'Kenna's Disappointment. By August the tobacco plants were more than waist high and showed signs of producing a prime crop despite the drier-than-usual growing season. No one knew if there would be any sales this year since the embargo on shipments to England was to go into effect on September first. The factors hedged and began calling in their debts, but Mr. Nevers did not seem worried.

Slave children spent all day prowling the rows of broad-leafed plants picking off the hookworms and other pests while the men hoed out the persistent weeds and the women pinched back the Orinoco plants' stubborn flower buds and suckers. Elizabeth spread rotted horse manure on the roses around the house and cultivated her kitchen and herb gardens as best she could in the summer heat, learning to hoe at her side instead of in front of her.

The overseer often watched her from his office and wondered how long she could continue working with her hugely swollen womb and thick ankles. Slave women often labored until the hour they gave birth and were back in the fields a day or two later, but white women were not thought to have that kind of fortitude. Many ladies in his circle had taken to their beds weeks before their actual confinement.

On August 10, while she stooped to hold aside the wide leaves and pick some yellow squash, Elizabeth's water broke and she fell to her knees, sucked in her breath and went into labor with her long hair tangled in the twisted vines. Miranda brought her into the summer kitchen and kicked a milking stool over near the door. "Set here," she said. "You mought feel the breeze some." She went looking for her mid-wife equipment and called her daughter to come assist. It was time the young girl had this experience, Miranda told the trembling Elizabeth who sat wide-eyed, biting her lower lip, embarrassed by her stained dress and apron. The older slave wanted her daughter to see a white woman bear her first child. When she thought about, Miranda decided she did not really despise whites, but she surely enjoyed seeing them suffer.

Louise tore up an old, muslin sheet for her mother and found her scissors and string while Elizabeth sat on the low stool, pressed her slim back to the adz-hewn wall and waited for the waves of pain and pressure. She had already gone through several false alarms and knew something of what to expect, but these rolling torments surprised her in their depth and duration. Miranda put her big hand on Elizabeth's narrow shoulder. "Now, girl, ah knows you ain't gonna like this," she said, ignoring the sweat dripping from her chin, "but I got t'ast, part a'my job. Who d'daddy a'this here chile?"

"Y'know, Miranda, as well as I do. This's Master Andrew's doing, his child. I swear it."

"No. Nope. Cain't be," Miranda stated, shaking her head, trying to look grim and only appearing peeved. "He done tole me it ain't. Overseer, he say it ain't. Dey say it ain't, chile, it ain't. Now, who's baby is this?"

A crest of dizziness and curl of pain swept over Elizabeth like a huge green wave, burying her, driving her down. Sweat rolled from her face and rivulets ran down her back and belly. She stifled a scream and scratched at the worn logs behind her, tearing her long-cracked fingernails bloody. Her bare feet clutched at the splintered floor. "Damn it," she gasped, teeth clenched, "ye know what 'e did to me. It's Andrew's bastard. Nobody else. Nobody! Tis his, 'is fault" she gulped it out, kicking her heels on the floor, "his fault and mine." She let her mouth hang open, gaping, panting, the top of her head pushed back to the wall.

"You lying, chile," Miranda said patiently, wiping Elizabeth's face and feeling her belly. "You comin' on fine now, wide open, baby's lying jus' right. Now, you tell ol' Randa who the daddy? Who put this baby in you?"

"Oh God, Miranda. Louise, you tell her. Andrew M'Kenna lay with me, 'e did it over and over, right upstairs, night after night. No one else, ever. Not since my 'usband died. Oh Clemence! Damn!" She gasped and almost rose from the stool, thinking of her late-night visit from Walter Cochran and wondering if the slaves knew about that too. Miranda held her down and pursed her lips. From the doorway she saw the overseer near his office window, head bent at his work. Heat shimmered between them.

For the next hour Elizabeth alternately paced the room and sat on the milking stool, impatiently straining to bring about her child's birth. Sweat dripped from her body, but Miranda refused to allow her more than small sips of water flavored with marjoram. Louise fetched Jenny from the quarters at her mother's insistence, and now all three of the black women watched Elizabeth's efforts and sometimes held her hands. Miranda continued her questioning.

"How about dis here Clemence? You done named him t'day. This his chile?"

"No, no, I told you. Poor man's long dead. Master Andrew, damn him, damn 'is eyes!" Elizabeth screeched and almost fell off the stool as rising waves of pain coursed through her. Jenny came and took her hands and then her wrists. Miranda kicked the stool away.

"Maybe you kin do better wifout that," she said. "Hole on to Jenny and squat. We should'a rigged a rope f'you. Dat young Mr. Cochran over dere 'cross the river, mebbe he the daddy? You done went over dere, spent time wif him, week or so."

"No, I pushed 'im off, wouldn't let 'im near me. It's Andrew's sprat. Oh God, Jenny! Jenny!"

"How 'bout dis Mattfew. I hear tell you sweet on him," Miranda said with a conspiratorial smile as she felt for the baby's warm and greasy head.

"No! Wait, 'ow did you - oh God, it's coming - 'ow did ye know about - ahh, I can feel it, feel it move - how did you know 'bout Matt?"

"I knows. It's his, ain't it? Matthew's baby," Miranda said proudly, trying to sound like she believed her lie as the infant's head slowly but steadily emerged, round and slick.

Elizabeth screamed and felt herself being emptied, ripped apart. Something moved between her thighs, something tore, something slid. Jenny clamped her slippery wrists as she dropped almost to her knees with Miranda crouched before her on the stool.

"Here he come," Miranda said. "Jus' fine. Now tell me the daddy's name, please, girl. He gonna beat me if I don' fin' out. He tole me. Push girl, keep pushin'. There she be!"

With her head thrust back, Elizabeth pushed, her hands locked to Jenny's, and produced a bloody, well-formed daughter covered with a cheesy matrix but not a caul. The baby cried out almost at once, a healthy yelp followed by gagging breaths. Miranda clipped and tied the cord with practiced ease, her eyes concentrating on the work. Louise took the tiny child from her mother's hands and washed her as best she could. She placed her in a shallow basin of warm water and cleaned out her eyes, ears, mouth and privates while the infant coughed and wailed and waved her tiny arms, hands clenched.

Miranda encouraged Elizabeth to make one more contraction, one more shuddering, painful push. She took care of the placenta, set that bloody package aside, cleaned up the new mother and began kneading her flaccid belly back toward its normal shape. Elizabeth crouched again on the stool leaning back against the kitchen wall until she was told to pull her dress down and move to Miranda's rocker on the porch. She felt utterly lighheaded, almost numb, barely able to walk, feet and legs full of pins and needles, wrists aching. Louise brought Elizabeth her baby, and she held it tightly, breathing deeply, wanting rest, feeling both spent and happy.

Miranda knelt beside her. "I'se sorry 'bout that business back there, girl, but dat Andrew made me. Mr. Nevers, he said I had to do it. We know the truf, but we slaves. You done good. Thas' a fine chile." Miranda left to bury the placenta as the sun set. Jenny went back to her own youngster, now tottering about on sturdy legs, and Louise brought Elizabeth a basin of water and a cloth so she could finish the job of cleaning up her pink and placid newborn.

Elizabeth's mind churned. She was a mother. She had never thought of herself as a mother. Mothers were strong and patient, mature and diligent, often harried and worry marked. I'm a fool, she thought. I should not be a mother, anybody's mother. I'm a fool. The infant squirmed and waved her tiny hands. Elizabeth bent and kissed her round, veined head. I am a mother, and I don't know how to be one. She wept and slowly rocked. Help, she silently prayed, help me, help me.

About a week later, while she was nursing her daughter and enjoying the still-strange wonder of that oddly stimulating experience, Elizabeth suddenly thought of Matthew. She wondered why and after searching her memory, recalled Miranda's annoying and endless questions. How had Miranda known about him? Elizabeth believed she had never talked about Matt, not even to Jenny. At times she had all but forgotten his existence, especially while she made love to Andrew and fought off Walter's randy attentions. It had been two years since those burials at sea. Who could have told Miranda? Who knew of him at all?

She wrapped her unnamed daughter in the sling Jenny had showed her how to fashion and walked up to the plantation office, barefoot, her brow ridged in worry. Her knock on the open door produced the usual "Come," and she entered the shady room where the overseer worked at his ledgers. She took a deep breath.

"Ah, Elizabeth, good day; how's your baby?"

"Fine, sir, but I 'ave a question maybe y'could 'elp me with. I'd like t'send a letter to Mr. Conroy's daughters. Could I do that?"

"Can't think why not. Fact is, I didn't know you could write. Since you stopped coming to see me for spelling words, I thought you had given it up."

"Oh no, I want t'learn. Andrew g'me a book. 'E's probably forgot. I been usin' that and," she hesitated, not wanting to admit that there were slaves who could read and write. "And I been practicing. Could ye gi'me a sheet a'paper and a lead pencil, please."

Never pulled out a sheet of foolscap and found a fairly sharp pencil stub. "This big enough?" he asked.

Elizabeth nodded. "Thank you. Other thing is, maybe ye don' want t'say, but Miranda, she was asking me a steady stream a'questions 'bout who the father of this nice, little baby might be, back when I was in labor. I been thinking 'bout that some."

"Yes," Nevers said, looking up again, "well, she was doing what she was told. We want to know who fathered your child. He should have to pay for the time your master has lost."

"You mean Andrew, Master Andrew?"

"No, no, Mr. Conroy signed your indenture. Look at your part sometime. You are legally his servant. Um, young Mr. Cochran never recorded ... well, you understand. Mr. Conroy is the one who has the right to ask for additional time and for recompense, if he wishes. He will likely do so when court is in session next month."

"Ye well know this 'ere is Andrew's child," Elizabeth said, trying to hold Nevers' eyes without success, her tone as cold as she could make it, the "sir" she normally gave him swallowed back. She felt her rate of breathing rise, her heartbeat quicken. She remembered her mother accusing her of having a stubborn streak as wide as the river.

Nevers shook his head. "No, I really do not. Master Andrew insists that he did not father your baby. He said that on his word as a gentleman. I have no choice but to believe him, no choice." He looked at the young woman over his spectacles and licked his lips, very uncomfortable.

"But y'know it's a lie, don' you? We lived together over there, in 'is bed, in that 'ouse." Elizabeth demanded, waving the hand holding the pencil. "He mounted me regular like, for weeks, months, like a mare. You know 'e did, everybody knew."

Nevers did not respond. He returned to his work, but Elizabeth did not move. "Do the name 'Matthew' mean ought to you?" she asked.

"Eh? I don't think so unless you mean the evangelist. Why?" He looked puzzled by the question.

"Twas one a'the men Miranda asked about, over there in the kitchen."

"I see. Well, I didn't give her that suggestion."

Back in her cabin, Elizabeth nursed her baby again and then put her down in the small, pine cradle Jenny had used when her Becky was an infant. She took down her slate and wrote out her planned note to the Conroy girls. When Rufe stumped by under his big straw hat, she stopped him. "Do me a favor?" Elizabeth said.

Rufe looked at her sideways. "Depends, " he replied, smiling.

"Look at this." She held up her slate, and Rufe took it. Elizabeth stood so that he could perch on the stool in her doorway. She watched him nervously, ready to be ashamed of her errors.

"Looks right to me 'cept I dunno how them names up top there is. Well 'Ann' I knows, tha's right, but what's this here other one?"

"Priscilla," Elisabeth pronounced slowly.

"Might be P-R-A cilla, P-R-E cilla or S 'stead a' that C."

"But the rest is right?"

"Think so. Don' you fergit, you neber seen me read. Lord, I'd be whipped skinless." Rufe pointed his old pipe at her.

"Why, Rufe?"

"Dangerous, mought learn things. Think too much. Slaves ain't 'sposed to. Hmpf, neither is you." He waved his hat at the pesky flies.

"Thank you. I won't tell." Elizabeth concealed her pride.

"How's y' baby. Sleepin' is it?"

Elizabeth nodded, reading over her short note.

"Wha'chu gonna call her?" Rufe asked, making sure his pipe was still drawing, crushing down the burning shards with his scarred thumb.

"Dunno. Jes' call her baby, I guess."

"My momma, bless her, she called 'Clara.' Now thas' a fine name." Rufe smiled up at the thin, young woman in the shapeless dress.

"Yes," Elizabeth said, "it is. Clara. Hm, my 'usband's name were Clemence. It's like that."

"Didn' know you had no husband," Rufe said. "Where he at?"

"Dead. Died coming over here on the ship. They dropped his body in the sea."