The worst fate imaginable

Dear Diary, (May 20th, afternoon)

If the script in this entry is difficult to read, it is I assure you for a good reason. My hands are shaking badly as I try to get the momentous events of today into this journal. It is almost impossible to even comprehend, but my cousin, Mr. Miles Manton, is now the new owner of not only Havenhall, but he is also my own owner and master.

Upon discovering and reading this private journal in my possessions, Mr. Manton decided it would be amusing to have me continue documenting my life - now at his command. I believe it is his intention to humiliate me as much as possible by this, and I can only imagine what else my new master intends for me.

He ordered me to record how I ended up locked in this small windowless room in the back of Havenhall with an iron chain around my ankle to ensure that I could not flee, my hair now down and my expensive velvet dress swapped for a ****'s cheap muslin.

__

Before I begin, I want to be clear that my dire circumstances are the fault of neither Mr. Naylor nor Mr. Thornton. Both of these gentlemen were as shocked by the events as I. Even before the reading of the will, Mr. Naylor explained that even he did not know the contents of Mr. Heyward's Last Will and Testament but had been left detailed instructions by the deceased. Mr. Naylor's voice was clear and even as he read from the enclosed document.

“I, Timothy Emanuel Heyward, being of sound mind and body, on this January 23rd in the year of our Lord 1832, hereby proclaim that this is my Last Will and Testament and should supersede any previous document.” The first three paragraphs were pretty mundane; in recognition of his years of service, Mr. Naylor himself was bequeathed the silver pocket watch in the velvet bag. A grant of $1,000 dollars was allotted to the College of Charleston, and Mr. Thornton was recognized with the signed copy of the book of Jefferson's letters. Mr. Heyward added a kind note that encouraged the young lawyer to engage in politics, as the state of South Carolina needed representatives like him in Washington. With the preliminaries taken care of, Mr. Naylor continued with the reading. I copied over my father's exact words below:

“Sean Kyleson, is to be commended for his invaluable expertise in the running of Havenhall, and the south cottage and the one-acre plot upon which it sits, is to be henceforth his property. Furthermore, the negro ****, Angelica, is also to be his property from this day on, to do with as he pleases.” From the back of the room, a stifled exclamation reminded me that the **** in question was in attendance to hear her fate. This struck me as a little cold-hearted of my father, but it was only a hint of the horror to come. With a slight cough, Mr. Naylor continued reading. “Although not a condition of this will, I would encourage the next owner of this plantation to retain this Irishman. No one knows more about this operation than said, Mr. Kyleson; he is a most valuable asset.”

By that point the Manton siblings were leaning forward in their chairs, as impatient as young children at the end of a school day. I can report with some certainty that Priscilla Manton was more than a little disappointed in the division of the estate. She was given a grey palfrey from the stables that she always favored, and a $1,000 trust to be awarded if and when she ever married.

“The remainder of my estate, consisting of 320 acres of farmland, grazing meadows and woodlot, all the buildings and structures upon this land, the cattle, equines and breeding sows in the barn and the forty-two negro slaves in their huts as detailed in the plantation ledger, I bequeath to My nephew Miles Manton of Charleston.”

The will had one final note that had a most significant impact upon my life. I have attempted to put down in this account the exact phasing, and because of the importance of what was conveyed and the horrific implications it had for me, I think I have come very close to remembering it word-for-word.

“Let it be known that nearly twenty years ago, one of my slaves, a light-skinned female of nineteen years, answering to the name Molly, fled from my control along with nearly $1,000 from my person.” I listened in growing alarm as the will continued to be read. “It has recently come to my attention, that this same **** is living in Philadelphia misrepresenting herself as a countessa of Italian birth with a whelp that she is now raising as a free woman. I swear by God, upon my deathbed, that this woman is my property, and her daughter, Bianca, conceived under my care here in South Carolina is also legally my property.”

I am afraid, that upon hearing these words I collapsed from my chair. In no time at all though I was dragged to my feet and slapped awake by Mr. Kyleson so I could hear the completion of the will.

“I have taken measures to bring this escaped **** and her daughter back under my control. If my plan is successful, these two slaves are also part of the inheritance; if not, I leave it upon my nephew to see to their proper return.” The look of shock and confusion on Mr. Thornton's face at least assured me that he had not deliberately lured me into a life of slavery. For that one thing, I am grateful, but it was a tiny drop of good in this bucket of horror.

Mr. Manton took renewed interest in me now that he understood why I was present at this reading. He lifted my chin so he could examine my features, and the licentious smile on his face left no doubt in my mind that he found me pleasing.