The South Star



Here's a little glimpse into my novel. After the first chapter, you'll find pictures of people who are close to what I saw in my head when I was writing it. Brigadier isn't in the first few chapters of the book, but he comes in soon and is a major part of the story.

 

Chapter 1

 

“I have selected your husband,” Father said. 

I placed my clinched fists in my lap and took in a deep, steadying breath before I spoke. Every word must be measured. “Law mandates I don’t have to marry until I’m eighteen. I—”

            Father held up his hand, cutting me off. “You’re seventeen today. You are close enough.”

“Surely you can make an exception. I’m your daughter, after all.”

Father glared at me, his blue eyes sharp. “You will do what I say or you will suffer extreme consequences.”

A shiver ran down my spine. He wasn’t bluffing. He had executed my older sister Caroline not long ago.  It had been stunning and swift, and afterwards, I had stayed mute for days, terrified to disobey Father’s orders and scared to betray my sadness over my sister’s death with a shaking voice.

Years ago, I had been unafraid of anything, even him. If I was displeased, I pitched a fit until I got what I wanted. If I didn’t agree with someone, I spoke my mind, holding nothing back. But after Caroline’s murder, I measured my words, afraid anything I said could be used as a reason to kill me, too. I was so silent and scared that sometimes I went days without talking to anyone at all.  

            I didn’t say anything now, even though I wanted to scream that I refused to marry. Arguing would do no good, and I was pretty sure I knew who father had chosen for me anyways. Before he could elaborate on my upcoming engagement and confirm my suspicions, General Michael E. Lee marched into the dining room.

He was our neighbor and lived with his sons, Brigadier and Gunner. Gunner and Brig were the closest thing I had to friends, because they were the only people my age allowed at state dinners and parties. When Caroline was alive, she and Brig would sneak off whenever the four of us were together, always leaving Gunner and me alone. Gunner liked to talk about himself most of the time, but he was still better company than most of the other boys my age.

Last year, during the annual ball, Gunner and I stole a bottle of wine and sneaked away from the party. I drank until I was lightheaded and giddy. When he told me that our fathers were planning our future engagement, I pretend to be happy but my heart was heavy as he kissed me goodnight. I’d hoped the embrace would confirm my love for him, instead it felt wrong. With the awkward way he released me, I knew he felt nothing romantic between us either. He thankfully returned to military school the next morning. I hadn’t seen or talked to him since, so I’d been able to ignore my impeding future.

I shook off the memories of Gunner’s and my failed attempts as romance and I focused my attention back on the conversation between General Lee and Father, who were discussing a threat that seemed to be more prevalent lately.

            “I regret to report that there has been another attempted slave riot on a plantation in Mississippi,” General Lee said. “I knew you would want to be informed.”

“They’re getting restless,” Father responded. He ran his hand over his short, dark blond beard as he spoke. “I will not have another revolt. Go down there and execute the entire plantation of slaves. They need to realize there are consequences. They have become too bold. Stop this before it gets out of control.”

General Lee nodded. He might have been attractive once, his sons certainly were, but it was hard to see through his weathered features and thinning white hair. He was almost seventy, even though Gunner and Brig were just a little older than me—Gunner by a year, Brig by two.

“Yes, President Davis,” General Lee said. He saluted my father again and sent me a sideways glance before he left.

The sudden appearance of General Lee seemed like a cosmic confirmation of what I’d been thinking only moments earlier. I’d had a year to mentally prepare myself to marry Gunner, so I wasn’t opposed to the idea. Marriages in the Confederacy were arranged. I wasn’t in love with him, but it I was lucky that I liked him. I could get out Brierfield, I could have the freedom to do what I pleased, and I’d be out of Father’s ever watchful scrutiny. I could be happy with Gunner. We could have a family and maybe, in time, we could learn to love each other.

 “Daughter,” Father said. “I’m speaking to you.”

I turned my gaze to him. In actuality, Father was an ancient man, but he appeared to be in his mid-thirties. His dirty blond hair and grayish-blue eyes were the same as mine and I hated it.

When he took over the country, he created his own religion, telling people he was so righteous that it made him a god. Out of fear or ignorance, people followed him. After that, Father said divine intervention made him immortal. And he was. His appearance had not altered for about one hundred and thirty years. I had a feeling something awful and unnatural had kept him this way, and I’d been wondering about his immortality ever since my sister died.

Before Father could repeat himself, my personal slave Nellie came in with a plate of fresh biscuits and pork sausages. Nellie was seventeen, petite, and slender. Her skin and eyes were the same light brown hue. Since she worked in the house, she wore a white dress and matching head wrap. And she always had on her white gloves. Slaves were never allowed to touch us with their bare hands.

She tried to put some sausages on my plate, but I refused them. Nellie frowned at me, but I shook my head, warning her against saying anything further on the matter. When I turned fifteen, my dresses started to get tight around my hips and bust line. Nellie said I wasn’t getting fat, just maturing, and that curves came with womanhood, but Father didn’t accept the explanation when I had given it to him. He demanded perfection in everything, especially in his children (while they lived). He locked the pantries, and I had been hungry for over a year.

Nellie brought over tea and took away my plate. “Thank you, Nellie,” I said.

 “I have selected your husband,” Father said, repeating what he had said before, drawing me away from my thoughts. “I will make the announcement in a little over a week at the annual ball.”

By Confederate law, every female was required to be married by the age of eighteen. The boys could to wait until they were twenty, though most wed before they came of age. Father said that the earlier we started to have children, the more whites would be born, thus keeping the slave numbers balanced. Father believed the slaves were nothing, but he knew the dangers of them out-populating us by too much. Seventeen years ago, he had a Cleansing and killed every slave baby born in that year, trying to take care of the problem. It didn’t do much good because the slaves still outnumbered us three to one.  

“You will be married by Christmas,” Father said.

“Will you at least tell me who my future husband is?” I asked, even though I already knew it must be Gunner Lee.

 “Don’t you worry your pretty little self over it.” He patted me on the head like a dog.

“Don’t coddle me!” I yelled, not able to contain my resentment any longer.

Father rose fast. I squared my jaw for a slap, but it didn’t come. Father had never hit me before, but now I waited for his hand to smack against my cheek. He took my chin in his hands, gripping so hard that it hurt.

Then he turned my chair to face him and leaned down into me. “You have spirit,” he said approvingly. “Caroline did, too, but she was passionate about the wrong things. She didn’t remember her place. And where is she now?” He moved so his face was only centimeters from mine. His breath smelled like tea he always drank, like rotting earth and decay. He waited a beat for me to respond, but I refused. “Dead,” he whispered the word, his mouth turning up in a grin.

Almost year ago he had our former nanny, Harriet, gag Caroline and tie boulders to her feet. I begged Father to spare her, but then he threatened to throw me into the lake, too. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I didn’t protest after that. 

Father told me to go to her and say goodbye. She was lying on the grassy shore of the lake, about to be killed, but she was smiling. “Don’t cry, Banner,” she said. “I’m not dying. I’m going to a better place.” I leaned down to hug her, and she whispered so soft that I strained to hear her. “Look in the Northern Acres, and find something to fight for.”

Father yanked me away then, and then threw her into the deepest part of the lake before she could say anything else.

It took me months, but I eventually discovered what Caroline had hidden for me in the empty Northern Acres. Buried in a hollowed out tree stump were rolled up copies of an abolitionist newspaper called The South Star. With the papers, I finally knew there were people who wanted change. And my sister had been killed because she was one of them. I agreed with the paper’s views on the unfairness of slavery, but there was nothing that could be done. Slavery was what kept the South rich, and Father would never allow it to be abolished.

Caroline and I were only a year apart, but we weren’t close. And I had to wonder why she’d never shared this with me before. Was she concerned for my safety or had I done such a good job of acting like I supported Father that she didn’t believe she could confide in me?

Thinking back to Caroline and her courage, I decided to speak up now. “Father, give me until my eighteenth birthday. Please.”

Father sighed in agreement. “All right, daughter. You may have until you come of age, and then you will marry.”

An extra year was more than I had hoped for. I was surprised he had agreed.

“I will still make the announcement of your engagement at the annual ball,” he said. The oak grandfather clock in the hall chimed. “I must go. I am needed in the West Wing.”

Father was always surrounded by his guards, especially when he was in the West Wing. State representatives and other officials were in and out all day, any one of whom might attempt to harm my father. He might be feared, but he also had an endless number of enemies. He killed the ones he knew about, but surely there were others.

The time he spent inside Brierfield was the only time he was without protection. Father believed that since he was God, no one would dare come into his house and do him harm. Only his most trusted friends and allies were allowed inside, but I hoped his pride would someday be his undoing.

I glanced down at the table to my uneaten meal. I was supposed to be the most powerful woman in the Confederacy, but everything I did and said was monitored. I couldn’t eat a biscuit for breakfast if I wanted to. I certainly had no say in who I married. I had to wonder why Father was being so secretive about it. Maybe he had someone else in mind for me. And if he did, there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I stared at Father’s tea cup, where a rim of brown stained the inside of the white china. I grabbed the cup and hurled it against the wall. Brierfield was monstrous, but in that moment, it felt claustrophobic to me. I glanced around the room, trying to breathe, and when I saw a portrait of father, peering down at me, my bridled emotions bubbled over. I ripped the painting off the wall and threw it across the room as hot tears came to my eyes. Father would be mad if he knew I defaced his portrait, but I knew it would be cleaned up and replace by the house slaves before he knew anything was wrong.   

Next to the painting of father was one of me when I was thirteen. I removed my portrait, and I threw it across the room, too. It landed near the other. I wasn’t that vivacious spitfire anymore. The real Banner had gotten lost in the charade of the girl I’d created to please Father. Sometimes the silence and obedience made me fear I would slip into madness, like Mama had.

My hands shook as I wiped the tears away, and I laughed to myself as I thought of another birthday I’d spent crying over something I couldn’t change. When I turned five, Robert ripped the head off my new doll, the last present from my mother before she was lost to insanity. Caroline found me bawling over it, and she shook me hard and told me to shut up. Then she said, “Blubbering will only make your eyes puffy and your skin look like hell. Be strong, Banner. Never let them know they made you suffer.”

Caroline was right. Crying wouldn’t change my helplessness. I had to go on pretending. I would marry Gunner. I wouldn’t complain. I would stay alive.

I went onto the veranda, yanked off my boots and stockings, leaving them where they landed and I focused on the hazy, humid afternoon.  I needed to get away from Brierfield to clear my head, and the best place to do that was the creek. It was almost a mile from the house and so remote and far away from everything else that I could strip naked and sink into the calm, clear water.

I decided to take a shortcut through the slave quarter. The slaves were in the fields or the house by this time of day, so no one would be there now. I moved down the yard and towards the creek, until I heard a noise that made me stop.

A sound cracked through the air—like a strike of lightening. The noise came again and again, and after a moment’s confusion, I knew what it was. A slave was being whipped. I had heard it many times, but had always ignored it before. I turned to take a different route to the lake.

I sped up my pace as I skirted one of the slave’s shacks, but something compelled me to look to the whipping grounds. A male slave, who looked to be around nineteen, was tied to a large post. His arms were drawn above him, his tense muscles straining against the chains. The skin of his back was obscured by dark blood that glistened in the morning sun. I stopped short, shocked at what I was seeing. I knew slaves were whipped, or worse, for disobedience, but this was the first time I’d actually seen the punishment.

I flinched when the whip struck him again. Most people would cower and cry while being whipped, but he glared at the man doling out his punishment, never letting his line of sight waver from him. He was defiant and brave, whereas I’d become a coward, ignoring the suffering all around me. I wanted to be like him, to fight against my father and everything else I hated.

“Do you understand me now, boy?” Clancy, Brierfield’s plantation foreman, demanded. He yanked the slave’s head up by the short roots of his hair.

The slave didn’t answer. Instead he spat right into Clancy’s face, and then he smiled. Everything went silent as Clancy reached for the pistol on his belt. I knew what would happen next.  My heart beat in my throat as I struggled to find my voice.

“Stop!” I yelled after an extended moment. I gathered up the skirt of my pink calico dress and ran. I pushed Clancy away from the slave and the foreman fell to the ground. I knelt down next to the slave and placed my hand on his shoulder.

He turned to me. His were an astonishing mix of green and brown. Staring into them, I almost pulled away, because of the burning malice in his gaze that wasn’t directed at Clancy, but at me.

 

 

 

 Banner

 Abram

 Brigadier

 President Davis

 Brierfield