Sweetchile: Book One

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Sarah McBride.  I am a 200-year-old Vampire. I was born in 1816. I have seen the beginning of the end of the South. I was made a Vampire during the summer of 1834 at the age of 17 years old.  I had been betrothed to my second Cousin, Jacob McBride, who was just 23 years old.  I found out about my betrothal just three months before we were to wed.  It was also three months before my eighteenth birthday.  Around that time, the new ‘Tax Collector’ or what we all had called the ‘Carpetbagger’, as they came with carpet bags in hand to store their collected taxes, had a son, Savo, who was also eyeing me.  He had kidnapped me and made me Immortal.  I found him dirty and vile, although every time he saw me, he smiled at me.  His long black hair was dirty and hung in his face, covering his green eyes.  His hands and clothes were always caked with mud. The dirt around his mouth almost like black tar.  Yet Savo’s teeth, when he smiled at me, were perfectly white and straight. 

Savo and his sister, Bruria, had been born in Italy.  She was never around much. The few glimpses I caught, as I rode my horse through town, was she could not possibly be Savo’s sister.  She had long black hair, that she twisted to a bun on top of her head, held in place by jeweled pins.  Always dressed in a black cloak with a hood, there was usually a flash of a beautifully colored gown underneath.  No matter how hot the summer days, the ladies whispered in the town, Bruria wore her thick stockings with knives in the garters. The scent of Vanilla bean would always be in the air when she was close. They had decided she was a lonely and dangerous girl.  The knives, no doubt, were meant to thwart any of the drunken male travelers who tried to follow her, and get too familiar.  Bruria didn’t seem romantically interested in any of the men in town.  She was usually seen alone when she came around town. The talk around Cottonport, was that their father had brought them, after their mother died and he became a widow.  Tommaso, or Thomas, as he was called, had come to find his riches by terrorizing the most successful farmers, taking the deeds to their land, and fabricating tax rolls to reflect unpaid taxes.  It was an underhanded act that had been done since my father was a boy, in France.

My parents owned the first and biggest cotton plantation in Cottonport, Louisiana. Henry McBride, my father, had been the son of the biggest slave ship owner that ran out of the ports in France.  While my father was 19 years old, his father, Dejean, died while captaining one of their vessels.  It had been carrying slaves from Haiti.  Dejean McBride had left his entire slave ship fleet, and all his estate, to his only son.  My father, Henry, and his Uncle Isaac, who had been just a few years older than my father, had witnessed the tragic effects of human trafficking from working on the ships.  They decided that the dirty business would end with Dejean McBride’s death.  After a couple of years trying to explain their business no longer shipped people, but goods and animals, my father sold his ships.  He decided to leave France.  He settled into farming in Louisiana, only buying slaves so he could free them.

My mother was just 15 when my father saw her, and my grandmother, Molly.  My grandmother did not know her age.  She had been stolen during her eighteenth summer, by another tribe, in Africa.  At the time, she had a husband and a baby girl.  Her husband had tried to prevent their kidnapping, by an enemy tribe who had done it for profit, and he had been killed. Molly, and others from her tribe, had been forced into the underbelly of a slave ship, and transported for the auctions in Haiti.  Her baby girl had died, along with others, and she had been forced to leave her baby’s body, wrapped in her shawl, behind on the ship.  She said at least her baby had not been alone.  Without food or water, many of the other captives had died as well.  The bodies left to decay, during the voyage, in the dark quarters below deck.  After being bought at an auction in Haiti, Molly was forced onto another ship, and auctioned off once again in Virginia.  She found her home was to a cruel British man, who wanted a housekeeper after the death of his wife.  Molly new nothing of polishing silver, or using lye to wash bedsheets.  She didn’t know English, and there were no other women, black or white, slave or free, to help her understand her duties.  One of the first times she ran away, she was found by my grandfather.  Many runaway slaves had found refuge by his Cherokee tribe.  Other Indians and Cherokee had always helped runaway slaves, as they themselves had been the first to be used as labor.  Whether it was the Spanish, French, or British that came, the words spoken meant nothing when treaty after treaty was broken.  When slave owners found cheaper, and less troublesome labor than the Indian tribes, many natives decided to band together, to help those slaves seeking freedom.

My grandfather himself had been part Cherokee.  Molly said his eyes were blue, like my mother’s, his hair light in color and that my skin was much like his.  My grandfather, along with some other natives in his tribe, had been killed by warrant servers.  They had come searching for runaway slaves, in return for a small fee.  Molly was then returned to her cruel master.  As her belly grew large, her master became crueler.  He was going to have another slave.  That was something he did not want.

After my mother was born, many had given her the nickname ‘Ayes’ for her blue eyes, like her father’s.  She had my grandmother’s thick curly hair, that had grown long, and which she wore in a long braid, to keep the wild locks in place.  In the summer sun, my mother’s hair lightened to a nice caramel color.  Her skin had a light cocoa color, unlike Molly’s blackness, and many men, saying they were good ‘breeders’ tried to buy them both from their master.  He refused to sell them to anyone, no matter the price.  Fearing for her beautiful infant daughter, Molly took my mother and ran away numerous times.  Over time, both her and my mother, had been labeled as troublemakers.  As my mother grew older, she learned how to speak French and English.  She also learned to read, and write, both.  She tried to teach Molly, but Molly preferred speaking her own tribe’s language, as it wasn’t known.  She felt it enabled her to freely communicate in public with my mother.

The last time they had ran away, they had been captured by a man looking to re-sell runaway slaves.  The judge, in the Virginian town they were found in, wanted proof of ownership.  The man could not provide it.  They were ordered taken into custody.  Housing runaway slaves was against the law.  Not having ownership papers made them stolen. While the judge awaited the proper paperwork, my grandmother and my mother were confiscated.  Until legally claimed, they were considered stolen property.  Both were placed in the local jail.  

My father was in town at the time.  He had heard of the slave auction while traveling from Boston to Louisiana.  After one of his freed-men told him what had happened, he went to the jail to see what he could do.  A few words, some extra coin from Henry McBride, the well-known slave ship owner, from France, and the two women were declared ‘abandoned’ property.  He bought them outright.  Before their prior owner caught wind of what had transpired, and could provide his own legal deed for Molly, my father took them out of town that night. My father had promised them their legal freedom, along with the others, once they reached New Orleans, Louisiana.

After reaching New Orleans, in front of a judge, my father declared them all ‘freed people’, just as he had promised.  Napoleon’s ban on the French trading of slaves had finally been declared.  It came just in time for my father to have made some rights of his father’s past wrongs.  My mother chose the name ‘Sally’ and my father offered up his last name, for the legal paperwork, which he had also done with many of the other slaves he had freed.  Many slaves like my grandmother, didn’t know what last names to use.  They had never any use for them.  Many had been given multiple first names, different for the many slave owners they had.  From France to New Orleans, using the money he had from his inheritance, and the sale of the slave ships, my father had bought, and freed, almost three-hundred men, women, and children.  My grandmother had decided to keep the name Molly.  It was the only English name she had known.  After becoming free, a few decided to stick by his side.  They wanted to help him with his dream of cotton farming.  My father worked, starting at dawn, right alongside his well-paid workers, picking cotton.  They were loyal people that I had grown up with at picnics and in the town.  We were all like one family.

During their brief time between Virginia and New Orleans, my father had grown close with my mother.  He said he was impressed with her strength, and the love she had for her mother.  Molly warmed up to him after she was freed, of course.  She spoke often of the charismatic way he spoke with men to secure slaves, sometimes illegally.  They had watched him buy others on the way to New Orleans.  New Orleans courts weren’t as strict as the other courts.  Most people went there to find legal freedom, even if they had no master to stand in front of the judge.  It was easier with paperwork, no matter how old it was, but it was easier with a slave owner to declare his people as free.  Many people got tricked into becoming slaves for a new master, not understanding the legalities.  My father was one of the few honest men.  He didn’t believe in owning another human being, and he didn’t think it should even have been a question for a court to decide on.  New Orleans became the busiest port for years by slaves seeking the term ‘Free-Person of Color’.

My mother and my grandmother were two of the few that had decided to follow him to Cottonport.  Mainly due to the past success of growing cotton, the locals in the area had named the town ‘Cottonport’. It was the perfect place to move since my father wanted to trade that crop.  All the way up until my seventeenth year, my parents had never officially married.  She had been referred to often as his ‘mistress’.  This didn’t bother either of them.  He was always asking her to marry him.  She would always say no.  Within a year of moving there, I was born.  My great-uncle Isaac, with his wife and their son, Jacob, soon joined us in what had become a new settlement.  The cotton business for my father became a great success.  Isaac and Elizabeth built a successful boarding house which they named ‘McBridey’s Inn’.  Nothing could have gone badly.

The night I disappeared forever, and never saw my parents, or my beloved Jacob again, I had been at home.  I was up in my bedroom, sitting at my vanity brushing my long black hair, which was something I did every morning, and every night.  My balcony windows were open, which I liked every summer, all season long.  The lightning bugs flew around near the curtains, which blew gently in the summer breeze.  As I brushed my long black hair, I remembered how Jacob had told me that their butts lit up.  I smiled to myself at the memory.  He always loved to be the first to tell me something, or to show me something, that I had never known before.  Earlier that day, we had been racing through town on our horses.  It was one of the few times we had any fun together, since the announcement of our engagement.  After our marriage, both of us would be moving into the Inn.  Elizabeth wanted to retire to the hustle, and bustle, of the livelier city of New Orleans.  Together, the two of us would then become the owners of ‘McBridey’s Inn’.  I didn’t know if I was ready to be so adult yet.

I set my brush down and studied my reflection in the mirror.  My long, slender nose was tan, with a scattering of light colored freckles across it.  My darkly tan cheeks had peeled from the summer weather and were flushed with pink.  Thick black lashes framed my large blue eyes.  Since my father was fair-haired and had a nice olive-tone to his skin, I never burned. The sun just made me darker.  My full, red lips, so much like my mother’s, had never needed rouge.  I had never kissed anyone, anyway, but enjoyed planting a quick peck on Jacob’s cheek.  After which, I would then run away quickly, the sound of his laughter following me.

I stood up, to stare at my body that reflected in the full-sized mirror.  I was wearing a loose, long-sleeved, plain white nightdress, that fell to my ankles.  I turned to my side, my long black hair hung past my waist.  Cocking my head to the side, I twisted my clothing with one hand, to pull the nightdress skintight on my body.  I had a slender form, small firm breasts that no one had ever touched. I wondered to myself, would Jacob always find me as attractive as my father found my mother?  Would I always find him attractive, as we grew old together?  I relaxed my body and sat on the edge of my bed.  I laid back and held one tan leg up, staring at my bare toes.  Mentally, I slowly counted to ten, and I held my leg steady.  My body had muscle from running, riding horses, and working at the Inn.  The work at the Inn was not easy, but since Jacob’s mother had been a housekeeper in Ireland before meeting Isaac, I had been properly taught.  I put my leg down and put my other leg up.  I flattened the sole of my foot as though I were standing, and again, I began a count to ten.  Elizabeth had been a widow for some time.  Uncle Isaac, dying from a heart attack, had left her with a young child, and a mountain of debt.  For a time, Jacob had lived with us, so that Elizabeth could attend to the Inn.  As I put my leg down, I thought to myself.  If anything like that happened to me, or to Jacob, and we had a small