Tanglewood

By Shirley Petro-Timura

In 1858, Kentucky's slave trade was in its darkest days. Cassius is a young virile black man who feels privileged to live at Tanglewood. His best friend is John LIvingston, an enlightened progressive man. He chose to set up his land as a haven and refuge for the enslaved to live until the emancipation would free them.

Their connection is a driving force, a black and white brotherhood that challenges prejudicial norms of the South. Livingston's actions stir up the hatred and animosity of fellow landowners. Cassius is his best friend and helper, and an expert horse trainer. He plans for a win in the county horse race. His victory reignites the vicious rivalry of the other landowners.

Then one terrible night, the hidden secrets of John's greedy wife led into an unspeakable tragedy. As his life shatters, Cassius plans vengeful murder. Now he must flee with his pregnant wife, son and father onto the Underground Railroad. He runs now to escape the hangman's rope and cruel bounty hunters. His wife gives birth in a cave on a cold wintry day, making their travels even more difficult.

A safe house on the trail hides another traveler. It is his ex-lover and mother of his son. Cassius is forced to see for whom he is willing to fight. Now his freedom is at stake, sharpened by his recognition that they are very much alike. He remembers her kiss but forgets she can betray.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667858029

Book preview

Praise for Tanglewood

"Set just before the Civil War, Tanglewood introduces the reader to an ensemble of characters all working out the promise of freedom. Shirley Petro-Timura’s sensual language enlarges this story of love and betrayal. From the description of Harriet, who ‘emerged from the forest perimeter… [and] stood outlined by tender hues of budding spring foliage,’ to the movement of a dandelion seed, how it parachutes forward and back like a pendulum inside a grey-black clock, this writer always finds the right image to describe nature, character, and desire."

KATHLEEN FAGLEY

Pushcart Press-nominated poet, author of How You Came to Me. Former adjunct professor in creative writing at Keene State College

"Meet a rich cast with all manner of evil, inconstant, and duplicitous members of both races. Readers are brought along as the fugitives steal their way along the Underground Railroad pursued by greedy bounty hunters. Deeply researched, Tanglewood sheds light on the intimate details of slave life and punctuates this opulent narrative with tender quotes from the period poetry of Walt Whitman."

SCOTT SKIPPER

Author of the best-selling series Alien Affairs

To Keith

PART

ONE

+ + +

Chapter 1

Gunshot cracked against a brilliant-blue noon sky. Cassius spun around. Where is he? Where did that shot go? Massa, you there? You alright?

He listened for the voice he’d known since childhood, the voice that saved him.

His eyes widened into sudden focus. He tore through the wet marsh, his bare feet sunk in and slowed his pace. Like a hound, he smelled his friend’s sweat. His belly felt raw inside. Cassius knew how to track animals. He honored this as a gift from his Jamaican ancestors. John was near—he sensed it like a hungry predator.

Livingston lay in a curve at his toes. His blue eyes now glazed into a stare that matched the quiet sky overhead.

In shock, Cassius knew. He studied the injury. The bullet had torn Massa’s arm open, exposing the muscles bleeding out into crimson patterns surrounding his bare feet.

Tourniquet, he mumbled. He shed his shirt, tearing a large piece of muslin. In a blur of tears, he wound the arm firmly. Can’t pull too tight, don’t want to lose his arm.

Cassius lifted his friend up in one swoop. I got dis, his voice quivered. No time now to assess where the shot came from. An unfriendly neighbor, he surmised.

He found the horse watering at the shore. Easy, boy. He laid his friend’s limp body on the animal. Cassius grabbed the reins and sprinted across the field. He summoned between heaving breaths the energy of his great-grandfather Cudjoe’s muscle speed. They reached Tanglewood as a light rain sprinkled them. Cassius gently placed John on the porch couch as if he were a wounded bird.

Delilah, hurry out. Help me. It be the Massa!

The black matriarch was a heavyset woman standing only under five feet. She ran out wiping the pork grease from her hands. Her quick eyes scanned the wound. She got to work cleansing it, then wrapped the arm with fresh linens. 

Cassius rang the alarm bell and yelled for his son. Caleb responded immediately and saw Livingston lying motionless.

Grab the racer! Go fetch Dr. Ellis. Hurry, he can save the arm. Now, go! Cassius yelled.

Caleb dashed to the stables. Now the race was on to save the messiah of Tanglewood. Phantom sensed the urgency—horse and rider were one again. Caleb set his speed as his body landed on the worn, leather saddle. He kicked the sides of the steed and flew away.

Cassius glanced back at his friend. His eyes fluttered open. Livingston struggled to mumble a word, but instead fell into a centered silence.

Cassius laid his ear to John’s heart. Its steady beat awakened his memory of shared boyhood years. Together they’d watch a young horse run into his magic hour, determining which racer might take the county’s championship each year.

Come on, Massa. Remember, we have another race to win. His face moistened with tears spotting John’s shirt. Both men were shaking.

Stay with us, Massa. Stay right here. He ladled cool water into John’s gaping, dry mouth.

That stirred him. He tried to form a word.

Cassius panicked, Where is my son?

The road blurred with the dust of the storming horse that approached. It was the doctor. John would be saved.

Chapter 2

Sally rose early that morning, awakened by sunshine beaming through her window. Below in the courtyard she spotted Caleb walking the yearling, a sure future racer. Shirtless, tall, with arm muscles flexing from his firm grasp of the reins, Caleb was the same age as she. Sally felt warmth spreading throughout her young body. Her mind tumbled.

Oh, now did he just gaze up to the window? How could he know I was there? Some say animal trainers have keener senses, heightened awareness. That thought excited her.

She heard a knock. It was her mother. Ellen, still in her muslin nightgown, paused by the open door. She smiled, but her eyes were not smiling. Sally noticed this; it unnerved her.

Will I someday be cursed with those very eyes? Did she observe Caleb too? Sally wondered.

They nodded to each other. The door closed quietly.

The satin-polished oak stairs creaked as Sally stepped downstairs to the dining room. Her father sat in front of an elegantly paned rose and yellow stained-glass window. His bandaged arm showed a spot of blood seeping through. The morning light framed his head like a golden crown. With his right hand he drew large pieces of bread dripping with honey swiftly to his mouth, leaving strands of sweetness throughout his flecked beard. John’s head bowed over an open book, his royal blue eyes reading each word hungrily. Those eyes matched the cloudless sky, often appearing to change hue with the upper ethers.

He stood when he saw her and extended a hug. She drew in the rich, musky scent that enveloped him. Not unpleasant, just familiar. She knew he was healing.

Pointing to the table, she asked, What are you reading, Papa?

He smiled and replied, "Clotel. It’s the first novel published by a freed African."

What is it about? Sally inquired.

The relationship of Thomas Jefferson with Sally Hemings and their daughter, Clotel.

Ah, yes, your hero, Jefferson. Papa, may I read it too?

He handed the book to her. Must go, my Ladybird. Cassius and Caleb are readying the stallions for the morning race, he added as he hurried out the door.

The slave children were eating at the breakfast tables, scooping up oatmeal and cornbread with their little spoons. They licked each finger promptly and gulped warm buttermilk.

One lad ran to him and proudly handed a roughly carved oak stick to John Livingston. He grasped it as if it were a work of art, rolling it along his long fingers. Nodding to the boy, he whispered, Thank you, Josiah.

Livingston hastened to the stables clicking the stick against his shoulder. He could hear the bold whinnying of the horses and their eager stomping hooves as he neared the barn.

Chapter 3

Cassius and Caleb, in the midst of grooming the horses, did not notice their master’s presence. John Livingston stood quietly behind them and watched like a perched eagle. There surely seemed to be an equine-human connection here. No words were exchanged as they gently yet firmly brushed the shiny coats of the stallions. One whinnied on sighting Livingston. The men turned and grinned at him. In that moment, they beamed, their expressions accented by the warm rays.

They are a beautiful sight, he thought. How are we doing? Ready for a race?

Are you sure? How is the arm today?

John brushed away the comment.

Yeah, sure, Cassius answered. Let’s go!

He leapt onto the eager stallion. They galloped to the track. John was not far behind, riding a brown-spotted challenger. The warm, clear morning was picture-perfect for this race. They pulled the reins to face west against the early sun rising high in the East. The track, damp from the morning dew, was two miles straight to the finish line. The men lined up in position.

Caleb whistled the signal. Both racers flew neck and neck for the first mile. Cassius’ heels dug into the side of his horse. That shifted his speed immediately and he dashed past Livingston for the finish.

As they trotted back together, his master remarked, This horse is championship bred. I reckon he’ll be winning the race against Flint in a few months.

No doubt about it, Cassius agreed, smiling.

Then the smile left his face as he remembered a past race. Flint had entered a high-speed stallion that day, which flew around the track like a firebird. Livingston’s rival never broke into the dust trail behind his storming hooves. That was the year of the drought. The tobacco crop suffered, crashing his total plantation revenues. Livingston could not meet the bet that was laid. Flint insisted on claiming a Tanglewood slave as his winning trophy. He wanted an older man, a skilled horse handler who would manage the stables and breed racers. Ben Miller, Cassius’ father, was selected.

Cassius knew both owners anticipated the inter-plantation annual horse race with intense rivalry. Significant bets were made and crowds from surrounding towns gathered. He and his son devoted most of their time and labor to assure victory in that race. But this year, Cassius feared Livingston’s team might need Ben.

John motioned Cassius to sit down in the stables after watering the horses.

What is it, Boss?

Pulling out a flask of rum, John poured a swig into his mouth. He swung it over to Cassius. The drink dripped from his chin onto the straw-covered floor.

Some men here are curious about our close friendship. They don’t know we were boys together, John began.

Yeah, I hear ’bout that too. Don’t trust what you’re doing here.

My life is endangered every day by the other planters. No domestic tranquility like Jefferson wanted. I need your support, friend. There may come a time when I can’t control the jealous hatred coming at me. I need to know: will you be there to protect? That the others will not turn on me? His eyes watered, before the crescendo he knew he must control.

Don’t be saying that too loud. It will get you killed. The other owners wanna hold you down and rip you apart. You have not felt death like we have. We smell it and wear it. So, I can tell if something is coming. He paused, searching to find an encouraging word. You will show the other owners that they can do this too!

Cassius sat back and stared at the wet straw under his boots. More words were not coming. His throat tightened. He felt for the first time the loneliness of this man who had taken on the dangerous task of offering his place for blacks. He knew John would not ever back down to the cruel slave system.

Cassius stood up. The strength of his Maroon ancestors filled his voice now. He touched John’s bowed head. I will never leave you. I love you, brother. Know that I will die first before I see you harmed.

John drained the rum and rose, weaving. Cassius touched his arm to steady him. John pulled away, turned, and walked out of the barn quietly shutting the large door behind him. Cassius heard the old familiar creak of that door. He found his horse in the stable and laid his face on its neck and wept. The wail emerged from a place deep inside him.

Chapter 4

Cassius’ rough, calloused hands grasped the reins to the mule wagon as he began his daily assignment. From the end of each row, he would gather the pickings, fill the wagon, and cover it with a tarp. Loads were brought to the bale barn and weighed. He worked until sunset at this task.

Cassius took special care overseeing the slaves. At times, he would help deliver a baby in the field and drive the mother and newborn back to their cabin. The humid midday heat would cause some older workers to faint. He made sure water and food was always nearby.

Livingston allowed no whippings whatsoever at his plantation. But Silas Yetman, the new overseer, had a daily quota to meet, and Cassius wasn’t sure this white man could yet be trusted to never injure a slave. He watched him closely as he collected the piles of tobacco.

The neighboring plantation was Ashwood—ten miles away due east. It belonged to Jeb Flint. The overseers there administered beatings. Their cowhide whips were embedded with sharp metal pieces. Blood would pool at the victim’s feet, and still they were required to continue working.

A cabin was assigned as a whipping house. The slave would carry a slip of paper with the number of lashes he or she was to get. Even children were sent there. An older white man was hired to deliver the beatings. That was his job for two years, until one winter morning when a teen girl knocked on the door with her paper. Robert Painter did not open the door. She knocked and knocked, then ran to tell the overseer, who opened the door. Painter was hanging from a ceiling beam. They found a note that read I just cannot do this anymore.

That day Flint hired another man to do the job.

Cassius finished hauling the last load of tobacco and some harvested vegetables to the barn. Coleman, the slave in charge of weigh-ins, greeted him with a nod. He was a burly man, carrying his large weight on massive, sturdy legs. He had four sons who often worked beside him in the barn.

Cassius, c’mere. Dat Harriet? Hm-umm, she is jus’ fine, huh? I do reckon she gots your baby in her now!

How have you been doing, Coleman? Casius asked, changing the subject.

I be fine. De word ova dere in Ashwood is not so fine. Makes me want to count me lucky stars dat I be here in dis safe place wit’ Massa Livingston. He done saved my life, ya know. When dat devil Flint would not sell me, de Massa wrote somethin’ down on a slip of paper. Dose words scared the hell outta Flint, and he sold me dat day.

Cassius smiled and then paused, looking toward the open doorway. The field workers were trudging to their cabins to end their toilsome day with supper.

He hurried to the door, drawn by a sliver of setting sun. Harriet’s lithe body passed through the speckled rays. Their eyes met. The ground under his feet felt light, cloudlike. Harriet grasped his broad shoulder, connecting to his warm flesh to support her weary walk. His arm wrapped around her waist.

Why are there no words? she thought. Yet she could hear him speaking and he was following her on the same wave.

Their feet floated on the road. Now they were running. Cassius’ cabin door was open, and they dashed in. He laid her on his bed. Her nose nestled into his scent. She inhaled and wanted still more of this man as she eased into his arms.

As he melted into her, Cassius thought, I never felt this way before. This is where I belong. He stared at her wordlessly.

Cassius, I love you. She lay on his moist chest and listened to his strong heart pulsing in her ear. His breathing was steady, flowing as waves in the ceaseless ocean. She peered up to study his face as he slept. His nose emerged strongly from shining black skin. She traced the lines of his full, open lips. Her womb quickened. The growing child within sensed what she knew: Here is the father of my child. Harriet’s eyes closed on his chest, over his heart.

Chapter 5

That you are here—life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (excerpt)

Cassius cherished the day he first saw her. A fragile, ethereal wisp of female form stepping upon the Tanglewood haven’s precious soil. She emerged from the forest perimeter just a second past the sun’s magical rising. Harriet stood outlined by tender hues of budding spring foliage, a deliberately delicate frame.

Was she real? Cassius’ mind formed the question from a place outside his thinking. He stumbled toward her. His mouth opened to speak.

Her body was clad in shreds of a muslin gown worn so thin that the rapid beats of her heart could be discerned within her heaving breasts. Her swollen eyes stared at his face. Stars lined up in a blurry constellation somewhere.

Harriet collapsed onto the wet soil. He gently lifted her. Her body flew into his arms, so light, so ready.

She slumbered into a deep dream of exhaustion, wearing off the days of running from the clutches of a dark place to the haven she sought. After ten hours of this respite, Harriet woke in the evening in Cassius’ arms. He touched her face, caught her scent—the smell of an unknown spice wafting in from a foreign land.

Who are you?

Harriet appeared unready to speak. She eyed the door, then looked back at Cassius.

I ’scaped from Sanders Plantation."

Cassius gasped. That’s twenty miles! Alone?

I had help. Lifetime after lifetime.

She spoke over the next questions. I had to run, it was time. My guarding mammy died. Found her in a pool of blood two weeks ago. She warned me to run de day she died. And to find de safe haven Tanglewood. I did dat. I packed all I had and headed south. I know de land. My feet and de earth, we be friends.

Cassius moved closer to her on the cotton-filled blanket. Her body was warm, yet felt wounded to him. He knew he would see scars on her skin, marks of servitude.

My real mammy died. She was a runner. Her name was Stormy. Nellie took over.

A runner?

"They called her