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Chapter One
0n The Morning Of August 24,1850, Tom Rigby woke early, then lay considering the day ahead. There was going to be a party on this, the ninth birthday of the Rigby twins.
That's us, Tom thought comfortably. Jack and me. We're nine years old.
It was to a big, big party. Their mother had been planning it for ages.
Friends and relations, neighbors from nearby plantations, would be arriving with their children, and with lots and lots of gifts. There would be, in Tom's opinion, too many gifts and too many grown-ups waiting to be thanked too much.
Still, he thought, a party is a party and maybe it'll be fun.
He yawned, smiled, looked over at Jack, sound asleep, gently snoring.
"Jack!" he yelled. "Wake up, wake up! We're nine years old today!"
"Call me when we're twenty," mumbled Jack, pulling a pillow over his head.
Tom laughed, got washed and dressed, and bounded downstairs to the kitchen, where Roger, the butler, was polishing silver and Tulitha, the cook, was kneading spongy bread dough.
"Morning, Uncle Roger," said Tom. "Morning, Tulitha! That smells wonderful!"
The cook continued her work in silence, but the butler smiled. "Morning to you, young Tom. Up betimes, as usual, I see."
"Jack's asleep. He won't be nine years old for the first time in his life ever again. But he says we're to call him when we're twenty."
"Can't wait to be all grown up and his own man, our Jack."
Tom shrugged."Far's I'm concerned, I'm my own man now. Where's Aaron?"
"Down to the quarter."
"When'll he be back?"
"Won't be back."
Tom scowled. "Uncle Roger, quit funning. I don't like that."
"Not funnin', Tom. Aaron's been sent to the quarter. For good and all."
"What are you talking about? This's the birthday party day. Why's Aaron down there stead of up here?"
"Tom, don't devil me. The plain fact, no way 'round it, is that Aaron's stayin' in the quarter from now on."
Tom stamped his foot. "That's crazy!"
"Call it anyway you wants, its a settled matter."
"No, it ain't! Isn't! I'm going right down there and fetch him back home."
"No, Tom! That's jes' what you won't do. You gonna leave well enough alone."
Why? It isn't well enough at all. It's awful. So why should I leave it alone)"
"Because. That's why," said Roger, polishing a heavy ladle harder, as if trying to erase its intricate design.
Tulitha plumped the mound of dough in a large bowl, covered it with a damp linen cloth, snorted a half laugh, and walked out to the back porch, letting the door slam behind her.
Tom jerked the butler's arm. "Because? What kind of answer is because?"
Roger drew a deep breath, put the ladle aside. At length he met Tom's eyes. "The because is because your daddy say it"s time that Aaron go back where he belong."
"He belongs here. He belongs with Jack and me. You know that. He's" Tom hesitated, then said, "He"s ours."
Aaron, five years older than the twins, had been given to them as a christening present by Colonel Galpin, their mother's brother. Raised along with them by Aunty Bess, Aaron' lived with her off the kitchen but spent most of his days with Jack and Tom, protecting and guiding them like an older brother, sharing their lives in all ways.
In almost all ways.
"A right bright darky, Mr. Rigby frequently said. "Watches out for the boys better'n any dog would."
"What's Aaron gone and done, Uncle Roger?" Tom asked. "Why's he belong down there all of a sudden like that?
"Your daddy say he's got uppity."
"Uppity?" Tom said. Uppity was a bad thing to be said of any slave. "How's he got uppity? He's just the same as always."
"Your daddy say he's too free with you boys, actin' like there's no difference between you and him --"
"What's wrong with that? We haven't ever made a difference between him and us. Why should we?"
"Sometimes, Tom," Roger said impatiently, "you act like you still four years old. You know your daddy don't hold with white boys bein' friends with coloreds."
"That's for -- for other people. Not Aaron."
"When your daddy say you 'n'Jack is too old now fer that kinda minglin', that's the end on it. Aaron's outgrowed his place with you."
"That's a dumb stupid crazy idea. He's practically our brother. I'm going to pull Jack out of bed right now, an' we'll go fetch him back."
"I tell you no!"
"And Isay yes." Tom started off.
"You want Aaron should be sold off?"
Tom turned back. "Sold off! Daddy would never do that. Never!"
Roger began counting spoons.
"He wouldn't . . . would he?" Tom asked miserably.
"You go 'gainst him in this, he might conclude to put Aaron in his pocket."
That slaves were sold -- putting money in their owners' pockets -- and that they were bought and traded, was something Tom knew. Uncle Roger himself had come to the household long ago, in payment of gambling debts owed to their father.
But never till now had Tom thought that plantation business applied to Aaron. Aaron wasn't just anybody. Aaron was ... he was theirs, his and Jack's.
"Uncle Roger!" he said triumphantly. "Aaron belongs to me and Jack. Daddy can't send him down to the quarter without even asking us. Can he?"
Can't he?"
"Well, I'm going to see Aunty Bess, that's what I'm going to do."
"Do that."
Roger picked up a tureen and examined it closely, as if Tom had already left.
A Ballad of the Civil War. Copyright © by Mary Stolz. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
