All Men Are Created Equal

By Eralides E Cabrera

The inequalities of man are certainly a big theme of this story. But its biggest dilemma is that of choice. Having established two opposing concepts, the thrill of freedom and the evil of slavery, the story heads toward a plotthe inevitable confrontation between the two concepts. The two most controversial characters of the story face each other in the end. One has all the power necessary to control the other one's fate, but the other one, a slave, has now gained an advantage. She has reached a land where she is free. She can finally break the bonds that enslave her. But will she? Will she walk away from the love of a child that sees her as her mother? More important, the battle seems to change protagonists. It is now freedom against love, love for a man that a slave woman cannot have, and thirst for a freedom that will dissipate by accepting the other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546204695

Book preview

1

The Virginia morning sky was red in the mind of six-year-old Thelma Hemmings. Children seem to see visions that adults do not see. It was a pretty sky, truly pretty, with some streaks of crimson running across it like the long monkey tails Thelma must have seen in some caricature that her mother would have secretly taken from her master. Only they were red, crimson red.

She was gazing at the sky at the moment her older brother, Arthur, opened the rustic wooden door of the cabin that Thelma and her immediate family shared with other slaves.

Let’s go, it’s time to go help Mama.

I can go alone, she said.

Let’s go now! he repeated, waving his hand in a sweeping motion as a sign for her to follow.

I was going, she protested. I know how to go.

One more word out of you, Thelma, and I will slap you. You hear?

No!

Her brother could not have been older than thirteen. He wore raggedy trousers and sandals and a wide brimmed straw hat that he took off with a swift sweep of the hand to strike Thelma on her head.

You be quick now, he said. I’ll be hitting you harder next time.

Thelma pouched, holding her tears back. She quickly grabbed the papers she had been holding and stuffed them inside her black purse. She tightened the string around the top and wrapped the other end of the purse on her wrist.

Can’t bring that, Arthur said. You know you can’t bring that to the house.

Mama said I can.

No, you cannot. Hide the purse under the mattress and let’s go.

He pointed to a worn out mattress positioned about the middle of the room. Thelma and her mother slept on it.

Someone may take it, Thelma protested.

Nobody is gonna take it. Let’s go, I said.

She held on to her small purse. It was her most precious possession because it was her only one. She trembled in fear thinking that her brother would take it from her.

No, she said. I’m carrying it.

Thelma, you can’t. Don’t you hear? Gimme that.

He reached out to grab it but she quickly moved away and ran to the other half of the cabin, assigned to another family that shared their quarters.

Don’t go in there! Arthur yelled.

But it was too late. She had already gone past the sheet that served as a curtain, dividing the two sections. The only occupant at this time was an old black woman who spoke broken English with a heavy accent. She was too old to work the fields or to help in the master’s household. Their master had agreed that she could remain in the slave quarters so long as she did some cleaning chores and attended to the cooking while the other slaves were out working. That was considered an act of kindness at the time. Every slave was supposed to carry his weight. No one really knew how old the woman was but some said she was past one hundred.

What yu want? she asked, as she saw Thelma come in her section.

Thelma stared at her wide-eyed as the woman sat on a torn chair that served as the only piece of furniture in the room. Thelma was afraid of her. She had dreams about the old woman chasing her with a whip. She instantly pulled back to return to the other side.

Back! the old woman said. Back!

As soon as Thelma was past the curtain, Arthur grabbed her. He held her and he snatched the purse from her.

You now hear. You can’t be making trouble for us, taking things to the big house. Leave that here.

No! Thelma cried. No!

She couldn’t persuade her brother. Arthur took the purse and its contents and placed them under the old mattress. Thelma knew she could not fight him. She would have to bear the pain of leaving her papers behind but at least she was not going to lose them. Arthur would not throw them away as she had feared.

She stood there, motionless, her tears running down her soft brownish cheeks and her beautiful long eyelashes dripping wet. Tonight, she kept thinking, tonight she could take her papers out and paint again.

Let’s go Thelma. Come.

Arthur motioned for her to follow him and she did, still pouting and fighting the tears.

2

Arthur came through the back door of the main house to drop Thelma off. He entered the kitchen area to find his mother busy working on a large table. She was peeling potatoes by a large basin. She turned immediately upon hearing them enter and she quickly dropped her knife and opened her arms wide to receive Thelma.

My Thelma, she said. You look so beautiful this morning.

She was a black woman probably in her early thirties. She wore a long grey dress that reached the floor and a bonnet that hid her threaded curly hair that her master’s wife had prohibited her from showing inside the house. She had a voluptuous body with curves that were noticeable even under her clothes. She lifted Thelma in her arms and kissed her on the cheek.

What are we doing today, Mama?

We’re cleaning up, child, wiping the dust off all the furniture.

She put Thelma down and grabbed a feather duster from the top of a china closet. She laughed as she jiggled it in the air. She spoke with a slight accent. Although no one mentioned it, they all knew. Ana had not been born a slave. She had been uprooted from her land and brought to America as a child.

You best be going, Arthur, she said to her young son. Someone sees you here doing nothing it might be trouble. Go do your duties.

Why can’t I be in the house? Master Hemmings said I could.

Miss Hemmings don’t want men here. You best be going, like I said. Go to the shop and do your time there then go to the field later. That’s the way they want it. Mr. Hemmings wants you to learn to work with iron so you make sure you do. It’s a good opportunity for you. If you learn it well you’ll be the next blacksmith in the farm. That’s better than working the fields and if you earn your freedom some day you’ll have a trade. Go on, now.

Arthur was tall for his age reaching almost 6 feet already. He had big hands that served him well when pounding the hot irons as he was beginning to do under the watchful eyes of the old blacksmith in the shop who resented his presence. Arthur was not happy with the situation but it was now going on two years since his master had ordered that the blacksmith teach him the trade and that was the last word said about it. But the young Arthur would have preferred to work the fields and avoid the friction. He did not see the advantage his mother saw in his rather privileged position. What did he care about casting iron and making horse shoes? If the blacksmith and the others did not want him there he would just as well have left. But it was not his choice. He had been ordered to do it and so he was bound by it. He knew he was getting some special treatment and although he had an idea why, he still had not thought about it well enough to form an opinion.

He turned around before walking out and glanced at his mother then at Thelma. His young sister was such a contrast to his mother, he thought. Her skin was the shade of a light café-au-lait and her hair as silky as that of any white person. She would be a beautiful woman some day.

I’m going, Mama. I will keep trying.

That’s a good boy. Try.

He went out through the back door and headed towards the log house at the far end of the yard where the sound of the hammer against the anvil could already be heard this morning. Ana Hemmings, his mother, took a moment to watch him through one of the glass windows in the dining room. She kept an eye on both of her children and used every possible opportunity to better their lot but deep inside she was a realist, her children were slaves like her, and although they had somewhat of an edge over others in their community, they had bounds beyond which they could not pass.

It had all begun a long time ago, when Ana was barely a teen. She and her mother had been brought to America from Western Africa. Somehow, she had been separated from her mother after arrival in the new land. It had happened among the confusion created by the unloading of the human cargo of slaves in port. She would never forget that fateful day. She had clung to her mother who could not hold her because of the heavy irons she dragged around her swollen feet and the chains that held her pinned to the other women in front and back of her. The entire lot was forced to move along, fast, under the threat of the whip and the harrowing voices of the crewmen assigned to bring them ashore. By some miracle of compassion, she had been allowed to remain restrained to her mother by a thick thread of rope tied to her waist as they got off the ship. All of the iron clasps used to bind the slaves’ hands proved too large for her. In all truth, she was not supposed to be in the ship. Children normally weren’t because they proved to be a burden to the crew but when her mother was captured, Ana had been with her and she had not let go off her hand from that moment on. Not even the toughest of the hunters, as she learned to call the white men who came to take them, could separate the two during the trip. At one point when they had nearly succeeded, her mother tried to jump into the ocean from the ship to end her life but men among the crew had grabbed her and kept her in chains. They reasoned that she was a fine specimen of a woman who the other slaves needed to mate and release their sexual tensions. In fact, slave traders would always make a point of bringing a group of women along the lot and this trip was no exception. There were several women in the ship who suffered and lived through the arduous trip to the new world.

Suddenly, Ana found herself alone in the harbor, ignored by the busy traders who went back and forth carrying their human prizes. All of the strength she had managed to summon earlier to stay by her mother’s side seemed now vanished, as if reaching land had somehow weakened her resolve, perhaps subconsciously feeling a sense of security that made her think she was back home. But it was not home. This was a strange land, scary and wild, inhabited by cruel people who only wanted to inflict pain on you. So she ran. She ran not knowing where to go but towards some place away from the crowds. She ran until she was so out of breath that she could not go anymore and that’s when she felt two burley hands grab her by her armpits and lift her up in the air as if she was some wild animal they had caught in the woods

What Ana could not comprehend until years later was that she had almost reached the wilderness before those men grabbed her. They were hired hands of a prominent Virginia family and they had taken her more out of curiosity than anything else. To see a black child running towards the woods was somewhat peculiar to them, not having seen many black people before, and most certainly never a child. They did not have to chase her. They merely stood in her path and one of them took her by the arms, curious to get a close look at her.

This is how Ana ended up in the Hemmings’s farm, how she was given the name Ana and how she was separated from her mother forever. She became a dutiful slave to the master’s wife, the then young Joan Hemmings, with whom, unbeknown to her, she would compete for the sexual desires of her husband and bear him two children, one of them the beautiful Thelma Hemmings.

3

Thelma was up near the fireplace, dusting away as ordered by her mother. The hearth, built with stones, was deep enough that she could enter it to clean up the utensils. She had memorized the job well and although her mother kept repeating it, Thelma, wipe the grill, go through the walls, slow, she knew just what to do. But Ana was right to worry. Sometimes their arrogant master’s wife, Joan Hemmings, would flare up in a rage if she found a dusty spot or if the remains of some ashes were found on the floor. And then there would be hell to pay.

Thelma was scared to death of the consequences of not performing as told. She had little understanding of slavery at that point but knew enough to know that her chores had to be done as told or else the consequences would be traumatic. She had seen how Mrs. Hemmings, as all the slaves called her, would react at times with little or no provocation. Their master hardly ever punished a slave but Mrs. Hemmings was another matter. Thelma had learned her place during those times of temper tantrums. She would hide, even at times causing another slave to be beaten for her absence. She felt awkward doing that, just not right, but she was too afraid. She was terribly afraid of Mrs. Hemmings. There was something in her eyes. It was a strange look, different from anyone else’s. Thelma could not have known at her tender age that Mrs. Hemmings now knew that the young child had been conceived out of a sexual relationship between her husband and her mother Ana. That was a dangerous belief that turned into scorn towards the innocent Thelma and it seemed to be growing into something worse. Ana saw it, she felt it, and she was more afraid for her daughter each day. When Mrs. Hemmings’s teenage daughter, Margaret, came into the living room looking for Thelma, Thelma would cringe. She knew it was prohibited to even talk to the other child, somewhat older than her and with whom she shared a strange resemblance, all the more reason for Mrs. Hemmings’s rage to flare up.

It was pleasantly cool inside the house in this spring morning and as Thelma gathered her cleaning rags around the hearth, she heard Margaret’s light footsteps. She turned instinctively to look but without eyeing her directly, keeping her head low as her mother had taught her. Never look them in the eye, she had repeated time and time again. You look down when facing her and never speak unless she speaks to you first.

You wanna play, Thelma? she suddenly heard Margaret say.

She froze. She knew her mother had heard it too and she had been instructed on how to respond. Avoid it at all times, Ana had said. Just go on about your chores like she wasn’t there.

But it’s hard to block natural instinct, in fact, impossible, and in some cases, inhuman. The natural tendency of a child, black or white, was to play and their elders’ preferences or mandates, whatever they might be, fell on deaf ears.

Thelma remained still for what seemed like an eternity. She watched out of the corner of her eye how Margaret, dressed in a blue baby-blue dress, bent forward and retrieved two dolls form a box. They were big wooden dolls made by Arthur’s mentor at the shop, a slave himself, and their faces, arms and legs showed no trace of carving. They had probably been sanded and varnished so masterfully that they could pass for human flesh. They were both fully dressed and even wore shoes. Thelma had now given in to temptation and she was staring directly at them, her eyes betraying her.

I want you to play with these, Margaret turned and said.

Ana knew it would only be seconds before her Mrs. Hemmings showed herself at the top of the stairs and yell out some obscenity or accuse Thelma of being lazy and falling back on her work. That was her favorite charge, even if it had nothing to do with the facts. But she felt her daughter was in a bind. Every word out of the master’s mouth or his wife’s, or even his daughter, was a command. Not to obey meant belligerence which was dealt with severely by corporal punishment. She did not know what to do at the moment and when her sweet Thelma looked inquisitively at her, her eyes watered. Then came Mrs. Hemmings’s thunderous voice from the top of the stairs like a torrent.

Ana, get going with your chores. What are you doing standing around? Don’t you have enough to do? And get Thelma to clean up that hearth. I see ashes all over the place in there. She now turned to her daughter, still from upstairs. Margaret, there’s no playing. Thelma’s got work to do.

Mama, I am not playing, Margaret protested. I’m too old to play with dolls now.

Clinton’s daughters are coming. They’re your age. Play with them.

Thelma worked her way back to the fireplace and picked up one of the rags. She was bracing for Mrs. Hemmings to scold her but nothing came. She began to whip the rag gently on the brick wall of the fireplace.

Stop that! Mrs. Hemmings said. Stop!

Mrs. Hemmings began to descend the steps, first in a rush, then slowing down as she kept yelling at Thelma but once she reached the bottom of the stairway, she turned to Ana, the real object of her discord.

Don’t you teach that child anything? She still doesn’t know how to clean the fireplace. My God! When is she going to learn?

Thelma fidgeted nervously with the rag, wiping the wall in long strokes that failed to catch any sign of ashes. Ana met Mrs. Hemmings’s fierce stare and bowed her head. She went towards Thelma and grabbed the rag from her hand.

This is how you clean it, Thelma, she said. Don’t beat the wall but like this, wiping it section by section and from top to bottom. Look, watch me.

I want to see you upstairs later, Ana, Mrs. Hemmings said. And that’s today, not tomorrow, you hear me?

Margaret kept holding one of the dolls in her arms.

There shall be no playing Margaret. I told you, wait until Helen gets here from the Clinton house.

But I want company now, Mama. I’m bored.

Mrs. Hemmings turned and went back upstairs. As soon as she reached the bedroom, she went to look herself up in the mirror. The hustle downstairs had interrupted her. She spent a good hour each morning making herself up, or as the other well-to-do women of the area would say, looking proper. Looking proper could be a full-time job for an eighteenth-century lady, especially from the farming communities of the southern United States. Ironically, it took only a matter of minutes for a common woman, just as lady-like as any other, to make herself look proper each morning. Mrs. Hemmings was in self denial as to the reason for her scorn towards Ana and now that she looked at herself in the mirror, she made a fake attempt to inquire. Was it her looks? It could not be, she thought. Ana was a slave, a black woman. How could she surpass Mrs. Hemmings’s beauty?

Joan Hemmings was now in her late thirties. The daughter of a Virginia plantation owner, she had been raised with all the commodities and comforts of a wealthy family of that time. She had been taught the notion that she did not need to lift a finger to get what she wanted. Everything was right there at her fingertips. All she needed to do was to ask for it.

She rubbed her right cheek with her open right hand, feeling for any signs of jagged spots. Sometimes they could come overnight. Then she reached into the powder box with the powderer. She was still a beautiful woman. She had striking blue eyes and brownish hair that she kept combed back high in a pouf style, held together by one white hair piece. She had an angular face with a flat chin. Unfortunately, the heavy powdering that she underwent, as most women of that era did, intruded on her natural beauty and made her look older and less real. But that was part of the make-up process and no one seemed to question it. She dipped the chamois into the powder box and brushed her face with it.

As she made herself up, she kept thinking about Ana. Was it really anger what she felt towards her or jealousy? She stopped again. No, it was not Ana, she thought. It was that child of hers that got under her skin, eating her entrails. She hated to think that she was her husband’s daughter. She should have put her foot down the minute she became aware of the affair. She should have forced him to sell the pair off to some other Virginian family, far away. She visualized Thelma’s face for a second and she had to close her eyes, as if by doing so she could erase her beauty. But in her mind she kept seeing that brownish looking countenance that seemed as if it had been tanned by the sun, unavoidably beautiful. She thought about her own daughter that she had borne Mr. Hemmings and she could not find her nearly as beautiful. She asked herself why. Why did she have to endure such humiliation? She knew of other families where similar scenarios had happened. Master men were notorious for taking slave women as concubines. It was almost a common practice whispered among the women of high society of that time, although never really acknowledged.

She stopped powdering her face and walked towards the wardrobe to dress. Someday, somehow, she would have her revenge. She did not know in what form it would come but she would have it.

4

John Hemmings was well in his late twenties by the time he married Joan Perkings, a young and beautiful girl of seventeen. Oddly enough, he had not married mainly because of the tight control his wealthy father had on him. His two other brothers had taken brides only after their father’s delayed approval. The old Hemmings worried about his fortune and how it would fair after his sons’ marriages. He sought to increase it through their unions and he succeeded with his older children but his youngest was not so clear. It seemed that his son had a bad eye for women and every young maid he laid eyes on was low in the ladder of financial affluence. Fortunately, his son, John Hemmings, was not a man of character and gave in easily to his father’s wishes.

John Hemmings had first seen Joan Perkings during a trip he made to southern Virginia, where he supervised a cargo of wheat and potatoes shipped to merchants in the Cheasepeake area. He was taken aback by the young girl’s beauty when he first saw her if only at a distance. To make his interests known, he made inquiries from the plantation’s foreman about her and he learned her name but he could not exchange a word with the young girl. He introduced himself by letter to her father, John Perkings, who then arranged a meeting between the couple. Both families involved recognized that it was in their best *interests to encourage the romance. The courtship did not go on for long and Joan Perkings became Mrs. Hemmings a few days before becoming eighteen.

Today Mrs. Hemmings was the mother of one young girl, having lost two other children in childbirth. Margaret was the last of her pregnancies and she had turned into a beautiful teen. Secretly, Joan Hemmings had a concern about her daughter caused by the deep resemblance she bore to Thelma. Joan Hemmings hated to admit it but the two girls could easily pass as sisters except that Thelma’s exceptional beauty seemed to surpass that of Margaret and that of any of the local children in the area. It was as if she had taken it all, Mrs. Hemmings thought. She had robbed her sister of what was really hers. When she reached that thought Joan Hemmings stopped making her face and went to dress up. She could not admit that part of Thelma’s beauty came from an African woman.

5

John Hemmings was doing his rounds through his vast plantation on this fresh but sunny Virginia morning. He was riding his white horse in the field, wearing his off white poet shirt and his Napoleon hat. He was an early riser and usually began his day by 7:00, galloping his horse through the fields and speaking to his foremen. He was an off hands master who believed in the delegation of duties. Besides, the management of slave labor was something he found repulsive and a drudgery that he bore only out of necessity. He avoided contact with the men and women working in the fields as much as possible, exchanged a few words with the foreman assigned to each section, got a report of the daily activities from him, made decisions which he communicated to his subordinates and moved on to the next site. In that sense he was more involved with the daily operations of the plantation than most other southern masters but he believed in deferring responsibility to the one person he trusted the most in the field and that was his foreman.

A foreman was an important piece in the machinery of cotton production. It was impossible for the system to function without one. Inconsistent to his apparent good nature and easy ways, Mr. Hemmings demanded strict compliance with production goals set to each and allowed for no slips of any nature.