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Harvest of Hope

By Connie Stevens

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Covington Plantation
Near Juniper Springs, Georgia
April 1860

Auralie Covington’s heart pounded within her ribcage as she clutched the letter and dashed up the grand staircase with unladylike haste. The pattern of the ornate carpet swam before her, but not from tears of joy. She closed her bedchamber door and stared at her name penned across the front of the letter. The masculine script sent an involuntary chill through her. Perry had never written to her before. In the past, his communications were always sent to Father who told her what he thought she should know. Judging by the rumpled condition of the paper and the water-stained corner, the missive had experienced an arduous journey before reaching the Covington Plantation in the foothills of the north Georgia mountains. Oh, how she prayed the letter didn’t say what she dreaded. She took a deep breath and broke the wax seal.
Dear Miss Covington,
“Miss Covington?” Auralie snorted. “We’re engaged to be wed and he calls me Miss Covington. What am I to call him? Mr. Bolden?” The irony of her own statement pricked her. Was it not a paradox to feel such trepidation upon receiving a letter from the man she was to marry? Perhaps if the man had been one of her choosing, her emotions wouldn’t be in upheaval.
The moisture that had stained the outside of the carefully folded and sealed document blurred the ink in various places within the message, including the date her intended had written it. She glanced over the penned lines that remained unaffected by the water stain.
. . .leaving London sometime in. . . If destiny smiles on the ship, the voyage ought not to take more than. . . I trust your father has impressed upon you the importance of our union. Therefore. . .
Auralie held the letter closer to the light streaming in the window and squinted, trying to decipher the smeared handwriting. Since she’d been informed four years ago that an agreement joining her in marriage to the son of one of the most powerful landowners in Georgia had been reached, her father had kept her apprised of Perry Bolden’s European travels. As long as Bolden remained an entire ocean away, Auralie’s apprehension of the arranged unholy wedlock stayed tucked away like a postponed sentence of death. Upon receipt of his letter, however, trepidation exploded through her. The letter echoed the words of her father, leaving no room for doubt that her marriage to Perry Bolden was her duty.
She scanned down the page at the legible parts of the letter. Perry’s expectations of her were spelled out like a list of instructions. Between blotches of smeared ink, he described in detail his demands for their engagement soiree, including the names of certain influential people he considered essential to the guest list. Of course, she was to make herself available upon his return to Georgia, and he went so far as to insist she wear a gown of pink silk upon his arrival.
“Pink! I hate pink.”
She tossed the letter on her dressing table and parted the lace curtains at the window. The ancient oaks and sweeping willows outside her window wafting in the spring breeze didn’t lend their usual calming effect as she bit her bottom lip and twisted the sapphire ring on her right hand. She could no longer pretend the marriage wasn’t going to happen. Her destiny was sealed. She now knew how a trapped animal felt.
Her gaze fastened onto a mockingbird perched in the massive oak tree. After it sang through its repertoire, it took flight, making Auralie long to do the same.
“Oh, that I had wings like a dove! For then I would fly away and be at rest.”
“Mm hmm.”
Mammy’s soft response caused Auralie to jump as she turned and clapped her hand over her heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
The creases in the face of the ageless black woman deepened. “Them be mighty comfortin’ words from our Lawd’s Book. Psalm fifty-five, verse six.”
Auralie instinctively glanced toward the door that stood ajar. Teaching Mammy to read had been a precious secret between them since she was a child.
Mammy glanced over her shoulder as well. “Ain’t nobody creepin’ up behind.” She gestured to the letter on the dressing table. “That be from Mistuh Bolden, ain’t it?”
Auralie picked it up and sighed. “I haven’t laid eyes on him since we were children. I can’t even remember what he looks like. Mammy, what am I going to do?”
The woman who was more of a loving parent to Auralie than a slave drew her into a tight embrace. “Ah don’ know, chile. We’s gonna pray on it. My God ain’t so weak He be caught by surprise.” She set Auralie away from her and cupped her chin. “But right now, yo’ fathah want to see you in his study.”
Auralie eyes widened and she clasped her hands together, her fingers working the sapphire ring to and fro. “What does he want? Does he know this letter arrived?”
“Don’ know that either, chile, but iffen you keep twistin’ on that there ring, you gonna wrench yo’ finger off.” Mammy patted Auralie’s shoulder. “You best be goin’, now. Massah Covington don’ like to be kep’ waitin’.”
A tremor quivered through Auralie. If Father demanded to see the letter, she’d have no choice but to hand it over.

The morning rays filtered through the trees and sparkled off the dew that still clung to the grass. Auralie gathered her billowing yellow skirt and stepped into the carriage, Mammy close at her heels. After Father had blustered about the illegible, water-stained parts of Perry’s letter yesterday, he’d admonished Auralie to ready herself for the man’s return to the States. If she had to endure one more lecture about Perry’s extensive European education, his family’s money, or the honor he’d bestowed on her by consenting to the marriage arrangement, she’d surely be ill. But a smile tweaked her lips when she recalled how she’d nodded in feigned agreement to everything her father had said, and then asked permission to visit the dressmaker in Juniper Springs to commission three new gowns. Father had mumbled something about looking her best and waved her away in dismissal.
The carriage pulled away, and Mammy leaned slightly forward, her black eyes twinkling. “Yo’ gonna have the dressmaker sew you up a pink silk gown?”
Auralie pressed her lips together and sent Mammy an exasperated look. “You read Perry’s letter!”
“ ’Course I did. You lef’ it on yo’ bed table las’ night. An’ since when you and me kep’ secrets from each other?” Deep dimples of amusement sank into Mammy’s cheeks.
Auralie could never be annoyed with Mammy. The woman protected her heart like a precious thing hidden away in her pocket. “Never.” She shrugged. “And I’m not ordering a pink gown. I don’t care what that letter says.”
They rode in silence for a time. After a few miles, the playful expression returned to Mammy’s eyes. “Ah hear’d yo’ mama talkin’ with yo’ brother’s intended.”
Auralie’s older brother, Dale, and his fiancée Gwendolyn had announced their wedding date months ago. Gwendolyn and her mother had visited Covington Plantation on a few occasions to discuss wedding plans with Auralie’s mother. It was apparent that her soon-to-be sister-in-law was much more anxious to become a Covington than Auralie was to become a Bolden.
Mammy broke into her reverie. “I hear her say she havin’ six bridesmaids. Mmm, gonna be some fancy doin’s. She showed yo’ mama swatches o’ cloth for the dresses, and ever’one of ’em was pink.”
“No!” Auralie stabbed the floor of the carriage with her yellow parasol.
Mammy slapped her knees and threw her head back with a deep-throated chortle. “Yo’ gonna wear pink one way or the other.”

The knot in Colton Danfield’s stomach tightened the way it always did when he prepared to go to town and leave Barnabas working alone. He swept his gaze across the field all the way to the tree line. Even though Barnabas was no longer a slave, Colton wasn’t so naive as to believe a slave catcher who thought Barnabas might be worth a bounty wouldn’t try to take him, despite the paper he carried in his shirt pocket.
The law stated Colton was expected to see to it that Barnabas left the state upon being freed, but Barnabas rejected the idea. Colton could still hear the man’s impassioned plea.
“Please don’ make me leave you, Mistah Colton. Dem bounty hunters search fo’ ever’ colored man who travel no’th, free or not. I’s gettin’ too old to run from dem dogs. Let me make my mark on a paper sayin’ I workin’ fo’ you. Dat’s what I want to do. Please, Mistah Colton . . .”
The memory made Colton smile. He’d written up an indenture agreement, read it to Barnabas, and let him make his mark, just to keep everything legal. But in Colton’s heart, the man was an employee and friend. He slept in the lean-to behind the cabin, and Colton paid him a wage. Even after four years, Barnabas’s eyes glistened every month when Colton placed eight gold coins in his work-scarred hand.
Colton slipped his arms into the black wool coat Pastor Winslow had given him. Though slightly too large for Colton, he didn’t care. The coat, given to the pastor by a parishioner, was the only garment of fine quality the old preacher ever owned. The elderly saint had precious little to his name when he died other than the forty acres and small herd of sheep, all of which he’d bequeathed to Colton. Over the past four years, Colton had made a few improvements as he was able, and was pleased with the way his corn crop was growing and with the number of spring lambs that frolicked in the pasture. But Colton would give it all back in a moment if it meant sitting with Pastor Winslow one more time and gleaning nuggets of wisdom from the dear old man.
He ran his fingers over the well-tailored sleeve and smiled with remembrance. How he missed his friend and mentor.
Colton glanced at the position of the sun. If he didn’t get moving, he’d miss the meeting at Maybelle’s Café in town this morning. No doubt much of the debate would center around the upcoming election. While Colton wasn’t overly vocal about his opinions, this morning was different. Jack McCaffey, the owner and publisher of the Juniper Springs Sentinel, had asked Colton to speak on behalf of the area farmers. Joseph E. Brown, the current governor, had yet to take a stand one way or the other regarding secession, but Colton had serious doubts about the scruples and ethics of Shelby Covington, the man running against Governor Brown.
He saddled his horse, Jasper, and led the animal out to the edge of the cornfield where Barnabas worked. The former slave straightened and sent Colton a grin.
“You must be fixin’ to go to town. You’s wearin’ the preacher’s coat.”
Colton smiled and nodded. He normally saved the fine garment for going to church, but he hoped wearing Pastor Winslow’s black worsted might rub a bit of the preacher’s sage insight onto him before he spoke at the meeting.
He pointed to the far side of the cornfield. “What do you think? Should we wait another week before planting the other half?”
Barnabas raised his hand and shaded his eyes. “Yes suh, that be about right. This here first plantin’ oughta be over a foot tall by then.”
Colton turned and glanced across the footpath from the cornfield where a black-and-white dog sat in the shade of the pin oaks and kept vigil over the three dozen sheep and another dozen lambs. Colton turned to look over his shoulder at Barnabas. “I have to admit you were right about getting a dog to help watch the sheep. He’s been worth every penny.”
The presence of the dog also eased Colton’s mind somewhat when he had to leave Barnabas alone on the place, knowing the animal would bark if he picked up the scent of any strangers nosing around. It always made Colton smile when he remembered the day he brought the pup home and let Barnabas name him. “Freedom,” he’d said. And from that day on, they called the dog Freedom, or Free for short.
Colton hoped to one day acquire more land, expand the flock, and plant more acreage, but not until he could afford to pay another man to help work it. It pleased him to pay Barnabas a wage, even if it did mean they ate beans and salt pork most days. The corn crop looked good, and his herd of sheep had doubled in size. The future held promise, but only with God’s blessings.
Barnabas dragged his faded sleeve across his forehead. “Mistah Colton, you gots any plans fo’ gittin’ yo’self hitched?”
“What?” Colton shook his head, certain he’d misunderstood.
Barnabas grinned and his eyes danced. “Iffen you was to marry and have yo’self a passel o’ sons, you and me could set on the porch in a couple o’ rockin’ chairs while the young’uns worked the field.”
Colton snorted. “Marriage is a long ways off for me. If God wants me to marry, He’s going to have to put the woman right in front of me so I trip over her.”
Colton put his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle, but tugged the reins to hold Jasper in place. “Barnabas, do you have—”
Barnabas patted his shirt pocket where the paper declaring him a free man lay folded and tucked. “Right here, Mistah Colton, jus’ like always.”
An uneasy smile stretched Colton’s face as he returned Barnabas’s wave. He bumped his heels against Jasper’s flanks and pulled his thoughts back to the meeting being held at Maybelle’s Café. In addition to the speculation over the governor’s race, the topic of secession had several folks engaged in hot debate. None of the landowners attending today’s meeting used slaves, and most of them, like Colton, had farms under a hundred acres. The wealthy and powerful plantation owners whose holdings were vastly larger than Colton’s claimed they couldn’t turn a profit without slaves. That philosophy always soured Colton’s stomach.
The town of Juniper Springs came into view. He reined in the chestnut gelding and dismounted, taking note of the men headed in the direction of Maybelle’s Cafe. Colton knew most of them and didn’t see anyone who stood out as suspicious. The last thing they needed was someone carrying information back to the plantation owners.
He stepped aside to let a young woman in a sweeping yellow dress with a matching parasol pass. The older Negro woman with her scowled at Colton, as if she considered him a threat to the lovely young woman in front of her. He tipped his hat and mumbled a good morning, moving on to the door of the café.
A lively discussion was already underway when Colton stepped inside. Maybelle Gooch, proprietor of the café, put a cup of coffee in his hand the moment he entered. He gave the plump, middle-aged woman a smile and a nod of thanks, and made his way to a table already occupied by two other men. As Colton listened to the speakers, most agreed on the immorality of slavery and thought secession was a bad idea. Colton took the floor and presented the position of the farmers with small acreage, the most pressing issue being how to protect their properties in the event the politicians in Atlanta voted to secede and war came to their part of the country.
Several of the attendees called out their agreement as he made his way back to his seat.
“I’m with you, Colton.”
Another added, “Colton knows what he’s talking about.”
Slight movement of yellow near the entrance caught Colton’s attention. The same woman he’d passed on the boardwalk stood just inside the door, listening intently. Judging by her attire, she was from a wealthy family, and if the Negro woman with her was an indication, her family owned slaves.
Colton fixed his eyes on the woman in yellow. What was she doing here? Did she plan to take a list of names of the attendees back to her fancy home? At that moment, the woman’s eyes met his and his breath caught. Something flickered across her face, as though she recognized him. But Colton had never seen her before in his life. If he had, he’d remember a woman as beautiful as this one.
The door opened and two more men shuffled in, blocking Colton’s view. When the men moved, the woman was gone. But what information might she divulge? He rose, hoping to see which way she went.

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