“Get out. Get out of my sight.”
I left the library, my heart pounding, my whole body shaking. I went to my room, closed the door, and sat on my bed, trying to process what had just happened. My father wanted to use an enslaved woman as breeding stock to produce heirs that would legally be manipulated into inheriting his plantation, and he saw nothing wrong with this plan. In fact, he thought it was a clever solution to an intractable problem.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about Delilah, about the life my father was planning for her without her knowledge or consent.
I’d seen her around the plantation, of course—she was hard to miss. Delilah was 24 years old, nearly 6 ft tall, with a powerful build from years of fieldwork. She had skin the color of polished mahogany, high cheekbones, and eyes that held an intelligence she’d learned to hide in the presence of white people. She was what the overseers called a prime field hand, strong enough to pick 300 lb of cotton a day, healthy enough to work through the brutal Mississippi summers without collapsing.
I’d heard the overseers talking about her. “That Delilah’s worth three regular hands, never gets sick, never complains, works like a machine.” But I’d also heard darker comments. “Shame to waste breeding potential like that on fieldwork. A woman built like that should be having babies every year.”
Now my father wanted to ensure that breeding potential was exploited. I couldn’t let that happen.
But what could I do? I had no authority over the plantation. I was 19 years old, physically weak, financially dependent on my father. I couldn’t free Delilah—I didn’t own her. And even if I did, the legal process was complex and expensive. I couldn’t help her escape—I barely knew her, had no connections to the Underground Railroad and wouldn’t know the first thing about arranging escape for a fugitive slave.
But I couldn’t do nothing.
The next morning, still shaking from confrontation and lack of sleep, I made a decision. I needed to warn Delilah, at minimum. She deserved to know what my father was planning.
The quarters were located a quarter mile behind the main house down a dirt path lined with ancient oak trees. I’d rarely visited them before. It wasn’t proper for the master’s son to mingle with the enslaved. The few times I’d been there were during Christmas distributions when my father would hand out extra rations and cheap gifts to the people who made his wealth possible.
The quarters consisted of 20 small cabins arranged in two rows. Each cabin housed between six and 10 people in conditions that contrasted sharply with the mansion’s luxury. Rough pine plank walls, dirt floors, a single fireplace for heating and cooking, one or two small windows with wooden shutters but no glass.
It was midmorning on a Tuesday, which meant most of the field hands were out working. Only a few people were around: an elderly woman tending a cook fire, some children too young to work, a man with a bandaged leg sitting on a cabin step.
They all stared at me as I walked past. It wasn’t common for white people to visit the quarters, except the overseer on his rounds or my father on inspection tours. A frail young white man in fine clothes walking alone through the quarters… I must have looked completely out of place.
I asked the elderly woman which cabin belonged to Delilah. She looked at me suspiciously. “Why are you asking after Delilah?”
“Young master, I need to speak with her. It’s important.”
“She out in the fields. Won’t be back till sundown.”
“I’ll wait.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she pointed to the third cabin in the second row. “That’s hers. But I don’t know what business you got with her.”
I spent the day in uncomfortable limbo. I couldn’t return to the main house—my father and I weren’t speaking. I couldn’t wait in Delilah’s cabin—that would be completely inappropriate. So, I walked the grounds of the plantation, avoiding the areas where my father might be, trying to formulate what I’d say to Delilah when she returned.
The sun was setting when I saw the field hands returning. They walked in loose groups, exhausted from 10 hours of labor under the March sun. Delilah was easy to spot. She was a head taller than most of the others, walking with a straightbacked posture despite obvious fatigue.
She saw me standing near her cabin and stopped. “Master Thomas.”
The other field hands stared, whispering to each other. This was highly unusual—the master’s son waiting at a slave cabin.
“Delilah, I need to speak with you. It’s important. May I?” I gestured toward her cabin.
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