MOSANA (THE UNION) - PART IX
EPISODE 9
In my six months with the Flounders, he only shot one person – James Carson. The very next day, he bought another one, a 17-year-old boy called Tarnell.
James had been ill for several days, coughing all over the place. He kept coming to the fields though, trying his best to keep up along with the rest of us. Eventually, he got too slow and couldn’t pick as much as he used to. He was one of the best ones too; he could pick up to 400 pounds a day. But as his illness worsened, he could barely pick up the required quota. We helped cover for him and between me, Andrea and the rest of the best pickers, we made sure that Mr. Flounder never noticed anything.
One day, James didn’t come to the fields.
“You seen James today?” Andrea came up to me to ask.
I shook my head. “Maybe he’s resting,” I said. “He has been sick lately. He deserves a break.”
“Rest? Rest? No one rests here!” Andrea looked terrified.
I didn’t understand why she was so concerned. I was thinking, we could allow him rest, and pick more cotton to cover for him. No one would know.
“I need to find him,” Andrea said, now frantic. She took off in the direction of the sleeping room and I shook my head. Living with Mr. Flounder had made her a bit of a taskmaster herself. She always made sure we did our jobs, and that no one slacked. I was still smiling to myself when I heard the shot.
Dropping the cotton in my hands, I threw my sack over my head to the ground and ran to the sleeping room. I stopped at the door. What I saw dried all the saliva in my mouth.
Later in bed that night, Andrea recounted to me what had happened.
She had found James on his bed, clutching his stomach. When she saw the state he was in, she begged him to at least follow her out to the fields and sit under a tree or something. He responded painfully that he couldn’t even get up; he had tried. She was still there trying to explain how Mr. Flounder mustn’t find him there while there was work to be done, when the devil walked into the room. Andrew Flounder had immediately taken over the conversation and demanded why James was still in bed at that hour.
James explained himself…
…and Mr. Flounder didn’t care.
“And who’s gonna pick your share of cotton, huh?”
He ordered the sick man to get up, but James refused. After a while, he lost his temper with the master, and yelled, “I can’t stand even if I wanted to, damn it!”
That was when Andrew Flounder shot him. Right there on the bed.
“If he can’t work, he’s useless to me. I will have no liabilities,” he said and walked out.
Of all the atrocities Andrea had ever told me about Andrew Flounder, this one hurt her the most. She cried as she told me how she had watched James get shot in front of her. They had been bought at the same time, and he was like a brother to her. Now he was dead, because of something he had no control over.
I held her hand and said nothing as she talked. Then I hugged her while she cried. As we finally slept, I kept thinking, I need to get out of here.
Soon, Andrea had a big belly. She still came to the fields to work though. At 7 months of pregnancy, she still woke us all up by 4am in the morning and trekked out to the fields with us. Mr. Flounder tried to make her stop but she refused. I wondered whether she was insane to refuse rest, but I soon understood why she preferred being out in the fields, waddling through cotton rows, than resting her feet up in the house.
Mrs. Flounder.
Before she became Mrs. Flounder, Grace Higgins had been the former mistress of Theophilus Flounder, Andrew Flounder’s father. When the old man died, the 23-year-old son found out that his father had willed Grace to him. Just like any piece of property.
At the time, I found it weird that the Missus didn’t have children of her own.
“Why doesn’t he try impregnating his own wife?” I asked one day, as I studied Andrea’s belly.
Andrea scoffed. “She ain’t got no womb. The former master, Sir Theophilus, had ‘em removed. He just wanted his thing going in between her legs, he didn’t want nothin’ comin’ out of it.”
That stunned me. Seemed like Andrew Flounder was a different man than his father. I wondered why a son was so important to him. It reminded me of the men of Aimatu… a lifetime ago.
“He seems to like her,” I voiced out. I found it strange that Mr. Flounder hadn’t just married another woman. A white woman. He didn’t have to accept his father’s will. He could have just had her continue her work as a slave and carried on with his life. Instead, he married her.
“He sure do,” Andrea replied. “But like a son loves a mother. She raised him.”
You don’t sleep with your mother, I thought.
“She don’t like him though.” Andrea said.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
Andrea stopped stripping the corn from the cob and faced me. “Because when a man like Andrew Flounder marries you, he owns you outright. She a slave for life. If we was granted freedom today, she got nowhere to run. She a Flounder whore.”
I went silent, pondering Andrea’s words with some knowledge of my own. Was there a political strategy to this simple act? Knowing Andrew Flounder, there probably was.
January came quickly.
Christmas had passed by unceremoniously. Mr. Flounder had only given us the 25th as a holiday, most likely at the behest of his wife; and we sat around a sad fire trying to cheer each other up. It made me miss the girls, Meg and Mel. I wondered how they were faring wherever they were. I even thought of Flint, wondering where he was, and if he was… alive.
Much of the cotton was gone, but from time to time we still went out to pick the late bloomers. The snow was still hard on the ground with no sign of letting up soon. We didn’t mind though. With the snow, we didn’t go out into the fields often. Instead, we worked in the house, and shoveled snow from the walkway. Even then, the work wasn’t too much. I was glad for winter.
“Would you like one of your own one day?”
We were in our quarters, and Andrea had caught me gazing at her big belly. I instinctively shook my head. Back in Aimatu, I had never wanted to bring a child into the suffering I had endured, especially if it was a girl. When I was with Flint, we had talked about it. But now, I just didn’t know. I didn’t see the need, and if I was going to keep running errands for the Society, it would have to be out of the equation.
“You ever had a man?” It was her way of asking if I’d ever been in love. But I never got a chance to answer that. As soon as I opened my mouth to talk about Flint, I saw an expression on her face that stopped me.
“Andrea?”
She kept looking down at herself. Then after a few moments, she looked up at me.
With a look of deadly calm, she whispered, “My water broke, Sarah.”
In my six months with the Flounders, he only shot one person – James Carson. The very next day, he bought another one, a 17-year-old boy called Tarnell.
James had been ill for several days, coughing all over the place. He kept coming to the fields though, trying his best to keep up along with the rest of us. Eventually, he got too slow and couldn’t pick as much as he used to. He was one of the best ones too; he could pick up to 400 pounds a day. But as his illness worsened, he could barely pick up the required quota. We helped cover for him and between me, Andrea and the rest of the best pickers, we made sure that Mr. Flounder never noticed anything.
One day, James didn’t come to the fields.
“You seen James today?” Andrea came up to me to ask.
I shook my head. “Maybe he’s resting,” I said. “He has been sick lately. He deserves a break.”
“Rest? Rest? No one rests here!” Andrea looked terrified.
I didn’t understand why she was so concerned. I was thinking, we could allow him rest, and pick more cotton to cover for him. No one would know.
“I need to find him,” Andrea said, now frantic. She took off in the direction of the sleeping room and I shook my head. Living with Mr. Flounder had made her a bit of a taskmaster herself. She always made sure we did our jobs, and that no one slacked. I was still smiling to myself when I heard the shot.
Dropping the cotton in my hands, I threw my sack over my head to the ground and ran to the sleeping room. I stopped at the door. What I saw dried all the saliva in my mouth.
Later in bed that night, Andrea recounted to me what had happened.
She had found James on his bed, clutching his stomach. When she saw the state he was in, she begged him to at least follow her out to the fields and sit under a tree or something. He responded painfully that he couldn’t even get up; he had tried. She was still there trying to explain how Mr. Flounder mustn’t find him there while there was work to be done, when the devil walked into the room. Andrew Flounder had immediately taken over the conversation and demanded why James was still in bed at that hour.
James explained himself…
…and Mr. Flounder didn’t care.
“And who’s gonna pick your share of cotton, huh?”
He ordered the sick man to get up, but James refused. After a while, he lost his temper with the master, and yelled, “I can’t stand even if I wanted to, damn it!”
That was when Andrew Flounder shot him. Right there on the bed.
“If he can’t work, he’s useless to me. I will have no liabilities,” he said and walked out.
Of all the atrocities Andrea had ever told me about Andrew Flounder, this one hurt her the most. She cried as she told me how she had watched James get shot in front of her. They had been bought at the same time, and he was like a brother to her. Now he was dead, because of something he had no control over.
I held her hand and said nothing as she talked. Then I hugged her while she cried. As we finally slept, I kept thinking, I need to get out of here.
Soon, Andrea had a big belly. She still came to the fields to work though. At 7 months of pregnancy, she still woke us all up by 4am in the morning and trekked out to the fields with us. Mr. Flounder tried to make her stop but she refused. I wondered whether she was insane to refuse rest, but I soon understood why she preferred being out in the fields, waddling through cotton rows, than resting her feet up in the house.
Mrs. Flounder.
Before she became Mrs. Flounder, Grace Higgins had been the former mistress of Theophilus Flounder, Andrew Flounder’s father. When the old man died, the 23-year-old son found out that his father had willed Grace to him. Just like any piece of property.
At the time, I found it weird that the Missus didn’t have children of her own.
“Why doesn’t he try impregnating his own wife?” I asked one day, as I studied Andrea’s belly.
Andrea scoffed. “She ain’t got no womb. The former master, Sir Theophilus, had ‘em removed. He just wanted his thing going in between her legs, he didn’t want nothin’ comin’ out of it.”
That stunned me. Seemed like Andrew Flounder was a different man than his father. I wondered why a son was so important to him. It reminded me of the men of Aimatu… a lifetime ago.
“He seems to like her,” I voiced out. I found it strange that Mr. Flounder hadn’t just married another woman. A white woman. He didn’t have to accept his father’s will. He could have just had her continue her work as a slave and carried on with his life. Instead, he married her.
“He sure do,” Andrea replied. “But like a son loves a mother. She raised him.”
You don’t sleep with your mother, I thought.
“She don’t like him though.” Andrea said.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
Andrea stopped stripping the corn from the cob and faced me. “Because when a man like Andrew Flounder marries you, he owns you outright. She a slave for life. If we was granted freedom today, she got nowhere to run. She a Flounder whore.”
I went silent, pondering Andrea’s words with some knowledge of my own. Was there a political strategy to this simple act? Knowing Andrew Flounder, there probably was.
January came quickly.
Christmas had passed by unceremoniously. Mr. Flounder had only given us the 25th as a holiday, most likely at the behest of his wife; and we sat around a sad fire trying to cheer each other up. It made me miss the girls, Meg and Mel. I wondered how they were faring wherever they were. I even thought of Flint, wondering where he was, and if he was… alive.
Much of the cotton was gone, but from time to time we still went out to pick the late bloomers. The snow was still hard on the ground with no sign of letting up soon. We didn’t mind though. With the snow, we didn’t go out into the fields often. Instead, we worked in the house, and shoveled snow from the walkway. Even then, the work wasn’t too much. I was glad for winter.
“Would you like one of your own one day?”
We were in our quarters, and Andrea had caught me gazing at her big belly. I instinctively shook my head. Back in Aimatu, I had never wanted to bring a child into the suffering I had endured, especially if it was a girl. When I was with Flint, we had talked about it. But now, I just didn’t know. I didn’t see the need, and if I was going to keep running errands for the Society, it would have to be out of the equation.
“You ever had a man?” It was her way of asking if I’d ever been in love. But I never got a chance to answer that. As soon as I opened my mouth to talk about Flint, I saw an expression on her face that stopped me.
“Andrea?”
She kept looking down at herself. Then after a few moments, she looked up at me.
With a look of deadly calm, she whispered, “My water broke, Sarah.”
---------------------------------------
Aaaarrrggggh!
I won't talk too much. See you at the next episode.
Remember, tell someone to tell someone ;-D
xoxo,
Ava.
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