Myrtle's Closet (eBook)

CHAPTER 2

Sarah fluffed up several pillows on the bed, making herself comfortable. The book lay in her trembling hands as she slowly opened the cover. The first page simply read:

My Rights of Passage by Myrtle Polk

Sarah was immediately intrigued as she turned to the next page. To her surprise, it was a dedication to her.

To my darling Sarah, I cast my life story in this book for you, hoping one day you will read this and learn the truth. I have written this book for you as accurately as possible and hope you don’t judge me too harshly. I have paid dearly for the evil I lived but have made my peace with God.

Sarah became almost wary. Her mother never spoke of her family. Sarah propped the book up on her knees. What was so bad that her family secret had to be kept hidden for so many years?

Anxiously, Sarah gripped the book a little tighter and continued to read.

My Rights of Passage by Myrtle Polk

I was born a slave in August 1844, in South Carolina. Not knowing the exact date, I celebrate my birthday on the fifteenth of the month. I am a descendant of Earl Polk and Sarah Foster and have one sister named Emma, one nephew Paul, and one daughter Sarah Polk.

The name given to me was from my first master, Robert Foster. Foster was a tall man with a slender build, who displayed compassion for his servants. He showed his slaves how to prep and plow the fields with patience and care. Foster always had a soft spot for my mamma; she was his favorite.

Under his rule, Foster never beat his slaves but would use unorthodox methods for punishment. His rules were simple: do not lie, do not steal. They were not to be broken under any circumstance, or his wrath of unusual punishments would come. The accused would be put in solitary confinement. The space was a wooden coffin, with several oxygen holes drilled on the top. Five days was the time to be spent in isolation.

Under the ownership of Foster, my family and I did not feel so much as slaves. He always treated our family fair, and we never caused problems. Things started to change, however, after the death of his wife. Master Foster picked up a habit that would destroy both him and our family. The gambling sucked him in and did not let him go. The plantation started showing signs of neglect. His pride in the property had diminished, and he no longer cared for anything but his cards.

Master Foster’s habits got so bad that he started to sell off his slaves. Every five days, a family would disappear; every family left fretted on who would be next to go. My family was the last left on the plantation but knew it would only be a matter of time before we too would be sold.

At night, I would hear my pa try to console my mother, assuring her everything would turn out fine. Only being age seven at the time, I found comfort in my father’s words as I lay there pretending to be asleep. Father was always right.

Late August 1851

Foster walked into the slave quarters early one morning with his head down. We already knew and feared what was about to happen next.

“With my greatest sympathy, I regret to inform you that I must sell you. There is no other choice. It has been a privilege having your family working here for me. We must leave at once; it’ll be a long journey. I will ready the wagon and the horses while you gather your belongings. Meet me out front.”

My father, mother, sister, and I rose from our beds and got together what little possessions we had. The cold air outside burned our skin as we piled into the back of the wagon. My father braced my mother’s arm as she sat down on one of the benches. My sister, five years older than me, gave my hand a squeeze trying to provide some consolation. The wagon started its way down the long drive and my mother started to sing a song, one sung many times before.

“My God in heaven let your angels sing.

My God in heaven who knows all things.

My God in heaven you light up my life.

My God in heaven with everlasting life.

Let us magnify the Lord our God.

Let’s magnify the Lord our God”!

My mother held Emma and me tightly and said, “It will be alright my darlings. God always has a plan for things. You’ll see, he will show us the way.”

Three days later we reached our destination of where we would be sold. The trip was long, and it rained on us most of the way. Foster stopped the wagon, climbed down, and disappeared without saying a word. Our family sat nervously in anticipation, wondering what would become of us and our future.

Foster returned a short time later with tears in his eyes. “This is Louisiana. Many people are starting to settle here. I think you’ll fair just fine. I gave instruction that you be sold as a family.” He helped us down from the wagon, grabbed my mother and gave her a quick hug, and left without another word. The four of us stood in silence trying to take in our surroundings.

“You niggers, stand still while I shackle you up,” a tall White man with a thin mustache called out. Confusion washed over me, “niggers”? Foster had never used that term before. I stood scared, shaking all over as the man placed shackles on us. The chains, heavy and uncomfortable, created a sense of panic in me. I looked to my parents for assurance but saw fear in their eyes as the man finished the chain bindings linking us together.

Emma reached out to our mother with terror in her eyes, and mamma squeezed her hand. Pa touched my cheek as tears started rolling down my face. He said,“It’ll be all rights, Myrtle, Foster gave his word we would stay together.”

Roughly we were pushed into a long line with other slaves waiting to be auctioned. Many White people gathered around a small stage; they were bidding on slaves as they would on cattle. Alarm ran through me, not understanding what was going on.

The auctioneer kept calling out prices faster than I could comprehend. To my astonishment, the bidders seemed to understand because they all kept shouting out “here” in response to the fast ramblings. I noticed there were horses and wagons scattered all around the crowd. Some wagons were being loaded up with newly bought slaves, while others were being unloaded with slaves to be sold.

The smell of food mixed with the aroma of manure was overpowering as it assaulted my nostrils; it was nauseating. The loud noises from all the people made my head throb.

We stood in line when a disturbing White man approached us wearing an awful brown suit. He removed his hat to reveal his greasy dark hair, and his beard was thick and messy. The man was sickly pale and unusually thin. The stranger had a strong foul stench on him that I would later find out was alcohol. I stood petrified by the uneasy feeling that I got from the man. With a creepy grin on his face, he walked in circles around us.

The eerie man kept looking at my mother strangely, with excitement in his eyes. To my horror, he started making snake-like sounds with his mouth, then started making licking gestures by my mother’s face. Even at the age of seven, I could tell this man had bad intentions.

The stranger opened his mouth to speak, showing his badly yellow-stained nicotine teeth. “What a beautiful family.”

His voice sent chills down my spine and made my stomach knot in disgust.

My mother pulled Emma and me close and turned her head away from the repugnant stranger. My father was getting terribly upset; he stood straight up with his chest puffed out, reaching his full height of six feet, three inches. The muscles in his arms twitching as he stared angrily at the stranger with hate in his eyes.

“What are you looking at, you dumb nigger?”

My father did not say a word but stared at the man repulsively.

“I said what are you looking at, nigger? You got a problem with the things I am going to do to your wife after I buy her?”

The ugly stranger let out a chuckle that sounded like an animal in excruciating pain. I hugged my mother fiercely as our shackles clinked together. My fear of what would happen next was profound.

A second man came from nowhere and intervened. The stranger’s voice said with much authority, “Move along and leave them be!”

The vulgar stranger put up little fight due to the size of the second gentleman but yelled back as he left. “You haven’t seen the last of me, you’ll be sorry!”

I didn’t know if he was talking to the nice stranger or our family. I was just grateful he left.

The second gentleman gave us a once look over, then walked away without saying anything. I breathed a sigh of relief that we were OK but then instantly tensed up when I turned around. About ten slaves back in line, a mother was holding a screaming infant as its father got whipped vigorously. Blood gushed out of the open wounds on the man’s back as the baby’s screams grew louder. My mother covered my eyes and turned my head away from the horrific sight.

“You’re next,” a man called out as he pushed us on the platform.

We lined up in a row when I realized the baby went dead silent. The auctioneer started giving a description of my family as we stood there humiliated. The auctioneer started his fast-talking as the bidding began. My hands drenched in sweat as the uncertainty of my family’s future...