Cut to the Heart Clara Barton and the Darkness of Love and War

Chapter 1 Hilton Head Island "Here," I said, just loudly enough to be heard over the cries of seagulls and their bass counterpoint, a continuous throbbing hum that comes from all the unseen life hidden in these marshes. I raised my hand until I felt the boat slow, then pointed a finger to indicate that I wished us to move deeper into the cover of the sea grass, which even now at high tide loomed above my head. I gave my directions serenely, without turning to look my man Jack in the eye; he was at the moment out of favor with me. I had no need to look--I could feel his sullen acquiescence behind me just as easily as I felt the small boat creep into the grasses at the merest pointing of my finger. I know Jackson obeys me only because he fears me. I've given this man a home and work to do for which I've paid him wages, even back before Emancipation, when he was nothing but contraband. He didn't understand the value of money, so I taught him how to spend it wisely. Yet if he were not afraid of me he'd run away in a minute. I can't allow the man to run. I need him because he's strong, healthier than most, and he knows these Low Country marshes so well that he can navigate the creeks even on a dark night--a skill they say must be learned from an early age or it cannot be acquired. Then too, I need to keep him close because he's seen too much. If I let him leave he'll carry tales--and his tales would be of only one side, the more gruesome side, of my work. Of course that gruesome aspect is why he fears me, and so I must let it be; but sometimes it pains me to be so misunderstood, even by a poor black man. Jackson can't be expected to comprehend the grand purpose, the noble aim of my life's work. How could he, with his lack of education, understand when my own professional colleagues did not? No one else has my clarity of vision, not to mention the sheer level of my skill. They could not keep up with me, therefore they excluded me. I am accustomed to feeling alone. Yet after all I've done for Jackson, one would think the man could give me devotion, if not love. Not so. Instead, he has so little sense that he mourns after his former owners, who abandoned him. I deserve better. I have always deserved better than I get; such is all too frequently the curse of having a brilliant mind. Jackson called me a monster not two hours earlier this day. He was talking to a woman outside the Freemen's Clinic in Beaufort, and I overheard him say that word, "monster," an appellation I truly abhor. Of course I had to put a stop to that kind of talk right away, and I did. As a result, his fear of me has been reinforced, and that is a good thing. Even as I raised the spyglass to my eye and trained it on the military settlement at the northwest end of Hilton Head, I wondered fleetingly if my man Jack had loved that woman. She was pretty, if one measured her looks only in comparison with her own kind. A pity I could not have saved her head, as it was the most attractive part of her, but I had no use for it. The parts I can use are in my black bag, here in the bottom of the boat not far from Jackson's bare feet. He knows all too well what is in the bag. I do not think he will call me a monster ever again. I have taught him a lesson. "Jackson," I said politely, as I generally do him the honor of calling him by the longer version of his name, "can you move us any closer without our being seen? I'd like to know what's going on over there." Some kind of ruckus had arisen over at the military base. I couldn't quite make out what. Though I doubted if it could have any relation to the matter that had brought me here spying this day, any disruption of normal routine on the post was interesting and bore watching. "Yassuh," Jackson said and pushed off, using his long oar like a pole. The boats these GullahsDay, Ava Dianne is the author of 'Cut to the Heart Clara Barton and the Darkness of Love and War' with ISBN 9780553585599 and ISBN 0553585592.