Nelly

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The Characters

in order of their appearance

Amos

The Woman

The Women

The Demons

GOD

The Baby

Nelly

Mrs. Henry

Nelly’s Mother

Franklin Adams

The Buck

Nelly

He pressed a damp towel to her forehead. There was no way to keep it cool as the women attended to her writhing, sweat-covered body. But it was all he could do.

Every moan penetrated like a knife, cutting, churning, and carving a hole at the very core of his being. He couldn’t cry out as she did. Because he was a man. So with everything he had, Amos held on to what he knew he had to believe. Otherwise, the demons that inhabited his mind would escape and overtake his space. At that moment, there was nothing to do but wait. And pray to the God they had taught him. The candle flickered as he bound himself into one piece, clinging to the hope that it wouldn’t be so. Finally, a glimpse of the baby. White and bright. It was Massa’s child.

Bloody and pale, it clung to his woman’s chest, which drooped from twenty-three years of bearing the slavemasters’ children. By God’s grace, six of the twelve were dark—the greatest blessing a black man could ever hope to have. The burden of loving this baby weighed him down like the chains that had shackled his forebears. And hers. Each bore the pain of their ancestral condition. Her first child had been born when she was twelve. The boys, black or beige, worked the fields, while the girls were segregated according to the pleasure of their owners. Some to hard labor, others to the duties of the house in which they were detained as concubines to their own fathers.

Amos pleaded with Heaven to hurry up. He had long been taught that to take his own life was a sin. Those who chose to do so would never inherit the Kingdom of God.

The half-breeds were despised by Mistresses who could implore their husbands to put them to death for non-existent infractions. That was the benevolence the Masters bestowed upon disrespected alabaster wives. There was nothing for Amos to do but love these children. For a slave, hating was futile, a vacuous gesture of the least expedient kind.

Some of the men took it out on their women, passing brutality down to sons who fulfilled their wretched inheritance. This went on for generations. No, the men were not blameless. But sometimes it takes an abundance of grace to rightly discern the truth.

***

Over time, chattel slavery segued into more cunning methods of servitude. Nelly was born into a less conspicuous but insidious system called peonage. Among her people, she was most hated. With sea-green eyes and long plaited hair, Nelly was the apple of her Mistress’ eye. The lady of the manor embraced her as a doll, a souvenir brought back from a trip to the Champs-Ėlysées. Though a woman in her forties, Mrs. Henry presented as an introverted child who cringed at her husband’s advances. She taught her protégé to play the piano and curtsy for the guests at the plantation. Every day, she ripped apart the tresses and re-braided Nelly’s hair—never allowing the women slaves to touch her precious possession. Nelly smiled in adoration, loving her Mistress more than she did her own mother, who peeked from the edges of the field to steal a glance at her eighth-born child.

On a stifling summer day, they boarded the first of two trains for a holiday in San Francisco. Upon arrival, Mistress hired a carriage to transport them to their rooms. The next morning, the ladies visited an antiquarian boutique full of curiosities that had never made their way to the South. The Mistress examined a kelly-green felt ribbon and held it beside Nelly’s hair. A commanding voice proclaimed approval from the other side of the room.

“Charming. Simply charming. You should buy the whole skein.” 

Mrs. Henry turned to face the intruder, then blushed for the handsome stranger. He looked like a treasure himself, decked out in a fancy waistcoat, top hat, and brown leather boots. A pocket watch dangled from his trousers. He appeared to be the finest of gentlemen. Like Nelly, he was mulatto. Unlike Nelly, he was free.

Franklin Adams called on the ladies for the entire length of their stay. They sipped midday tea, enjoyed chamber music, and frequented local museums. Following cocktails and dinner, the trio waltzed around the dance floor, one lady at a time. At the close of every day, he returned them to their suites, pixilated and happy. Such freedoms were verboten on the plantation.

During this glorious adventure, Mrs. H. (as he called her) fancied herself the object of his admiration. She donned her most elegant attire and sparkled in his presence like an overly decorated Christmas tree. Franklin responded with the anticipated courtesy and charm. But all the while, his affections were fixed on Nelly.

***

After an exhausting day at the Fair, Mistress Henry retired to her room. Several hours later, she desired a cup of chamomile. The staff sleeping quarters were on the first floor and she needed to wake someone up to brew her a pot. As she descended the stairs, there was a murmur from the veranda. Voices, to be sure, but indistinct. There was a fresh chill coming off the Bay. Why would the servants be out and about at this hour, especially in the cold? She pulled the cord to the solid-wood shutters just in time to see Franklin unravel Nelly’s hair. The kelly-green ribbon fell to the floor as the sepia locks cascaded down her back. Mistress Henry closed the shutters and crept back upstairs.

At five a.m. she ordered a coach to take them to the station. Baffled and distressed, Nelly obeyed her Mistress and packed. Mrs. Henry maintained her decorum during the trip as Nelly mourned her newfound loved-and-lost. Several days later, they were back at the plantation. 

The first morning at the mansion, Mrs. Henry summoned Nelly to her room and prepared for their normal routine. Slowly, the Mistress brushed her slave girl’s hair, one tender stroke at a time. Nelly was seated on a stool with her back to Mrs. Henry, who reached into her bureau drawer and withdrew a large pair of shears. Then, without warning or a single blink of an eye, she attacked Nelly’s hair, one vicious chop after another—until the strands lay on the floor like a pile of dead hay. As Nelly screamed, gagged, and pleaded, a large black buck took hold of her arm, dragging her out of the house and into the field. 

Back at the mansion, another adorable wench is being groomed to take her place. Impatient, Mrs. Henry rings the bell for the staff to serve dinner.

"They are not free, but freed."

Tracy K. Smith, Pulitzer Prize-winning author

and former Poet Laureate of the United States 

About the Author

Candace Arthuria-Williams is an independent writer and editor. She is the recipient of a 2024 New Jersey State Council on the Arts Finalist Award. If you don’t see Arthuria, you are reading the wrong Candace. Feedback may be directed to williams07666@gmail.com.

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