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.
She glanced at the other workers, then nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”
We entered the cabin. It was a single room, about 12 by 14 ft, with a dirt floor and rough plank walls. A fireplace occupied one wall, cold now in the mild evening. Three rough wooden pallets served as beds. Delilah shared the cabin with two other women who worked in the laundry. There was a crude table, two stools, a few cooking pots, and some clothing hanging from pegs on the wall.
This was where three human beings lived. The contrast between this and my bedroom in the mansion—with its four poster bed, imported furniture, soft carpets, and walls lined with bookshelves—was staggering.
Delilah stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. “Is something wrong, Master Thomas?”
Where to begin? How do you tell someone that your father is planning to use her as breeding stock?
“Delilah, I… I need to tell you something my father is planning. Something that involves you.”
Her expression became carefully neutral, the look enslaved people adopted when dealing with white people who might mean danger. “Yes, sir.”
I told her everything. About my sterility, about my father’s desperation for heirs, about his plan to breed her with a male slave from another plantation, about the legal minations that would turn her children into my adopted heirs.
As I spoke, I watched her face cycle through shock, horror, and then a kind of weary resignation. When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment.
Finally, she said, “So, the judge plans to use me like a broodmare?”
“Yes. And I wanted you to know. I wanted to warn you so you could… I don’t know. Prepare yourself. Resist if possible. Though I know that’s almost impossible given your situation.”
“Why?” She looked at me directly now, fear temporarily overcome by curiosity. “Why are you telling me this, Master Thomas? Why do you care what happens to me?”
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