foolish to hide the truth from thee.â
âIt doesnât matter. Just tell me whatâs going on. Who was
that woman?â
âPhoebe, the girl I taught to read.â
âAnd that baby is her child?â
âYes.â
âAnd the white man whoâs been watching your house is
the one who dragged her away?â
âThe slave catcher. Yes.â
Although her head ached, Charlotteâs brain was beginning to put the puzzle together.
âWhat about the black boy who was watching the house?â
âHis name is Jammy. The Morley family owns him as well
as Phoebe. Jammyâs the stable groom.â
âIs he the babyâs father?â
âNo. Heâs not the father.â Mrs. Doughty paused. âLet me
take the baby upstairs and then come back for thee. A dark
cellar is no place to talk.â
Now that the baby was quiet, Patience, Charity and Joseph began a crying chorus of their own, the noise carrying
from their upstairs bedroom down to the cellar. What a
night for everyone!
Mrs. Doughty carried the baby up the steep steps. She
would not return for quite a while, Charlotte thought, not
until she had managed to settle all the little ones.
Charlotte moved her limbs one by one. Nothing felt
seriously wrong. Putting her hand to the back of her head,
she felt a bump, but no bleeding. No need to wait for Mrs.
Doughtyâs help. Bringing the candle with her, she crept up
the steep steps.
At the top, she sat for a moment on the floor near the
open trap door. She had better close it, she thought, before
anybody else fell through.
The door moved freely on its hinges. When she had it
closed, she went into the kitchen to rekindle the fire. Thebaby, wrapped in a blanket, was asleep on top of the quilt
that covered Charlotteâs cot, where Mrs. Doughty had laid
him down.
From above came the voice of Mrs. Doughty comforting
her children.
When the fire was blazing, Charlotte filled the kettle and
hung it on the hook over the flames. They could use a cup
of tea while they talked, and they certainly did need to talk.
Charlotte suspected that some terrible trouble lay behind
the events of the night.
After a time, Mrs. Doughty came downstairs and collapsed onto a chair at the table. Charlotte poured the tea and
passed a cup to her.
âWho is the babyâs father? Or doesnât it matter?â
âIt matters.â
Charlotte waited, expecting she knew not what.
Mrs. Morley set down her teacup. Her eyes met Charlotteâs.
âThe father is Phoebeâs master, Lewis Morley. He forced
himself upon her. She was fourteen.â
âOh!â For a moment, silence hung between them. âThatâs
terrible.â
She didnât know what else to say. She had been prepared
for something bad, but not as bad as this. It was sad. It was
sordid. It appeared to be dangerous. Mrs. Doughty had
answered her question, yet the answer just raised more
questions. Although Charlotte dreaded what she would hear
next, she wanted to know the truth.
âItâs common,â Mrs. Doughty said, âfor a master to abuse
his female slaves. They have no power against him.â
âCommon? If the slave owner is married, doesnât his wife
object?â
âThe wives canât stop it. Most pretend not to notice. Some
accept it as a normal part of married life.â
âMerciful heavens! What can they be thinking?â
âThey must accept what they cannot change. Mrs. Morley,
like many wives in her situation, canât stand the sight of her
husbandâs half-black children. The more they resemble him,
the more bitter she feels.â
âI donât blame her.â
âMrs. Morley will not allow such children to remain in
the household. Phoebe knew that her baby would soon be
taken from her. Rather then lose him, she decided to run
away with him, and she turned to Jammy for help.â
âHe agreed to help her?â
âYes. Jammy
Learning to Kill: Stories