Black Book Burdens

Lacey plopped down on a park bench next to Cameron. The 20-year-old best friends from Alabama State University decided to spend their Saturday picnicking at Riverfront Park in Montgomery, just a seven-minute drive from the school.

Squinting, Lacey slid on her trendy shades. “I love the sun but hate the pain.”

“Eye pain is real,” Cameron concurred.

Lacey laughed. “First world problems?”

“All world problems.”

The two sat in silence enjoying the music blaring from the amphitheater. Lacey then crossed her legs under the bench. Something scratched her calf. “What the heck?” She immediately got up to investigate.

“What are you doing?” Cam frowned.

Without acknowledging the question, Lacey ripped off a strip of heavy-duty tape holding something to the underside of the bench. She then pulled out a classy-looking little black book.

With a mischievous grin, she opened it up.

“What’s the tea?” Cam asked, straining to read what was on the hand-written page.

Lacey started reading aloud: “You probably think you found this book by accident. But my dear, you didn’t. I don’t know who you are, but I know that if you follow my words and puzzles, it will change your life. Just consider me a wealthy benefactor. Your first clue is: water and tracks.” She turned the page only to see that the remaining pages had been ripped out. Flipping back, she noticed the bottom of the page had the coordinates 32° 22.871′ N, 86° 18.79′ W.

“Some clue,” Cam said. “We’re at the riverfront and there are train tracks nearby. Who knows latitude and longitude anyway?”

Lacey wasn’t easily deterred. “Google. Duh.” She whipped out her phone and immediately found what she was looking for. “Come on, it’s only a seven-minute walk from here. Let’s go!”

“Oh no, you’re not finagling me into this. I’m just out to chill. Go if you want.”

Lacey huffed. “Fine, but you’re going to miss out.”

“On what? Treasure? Replace your clunker-car when you find it.”

Lacey’s eyes gleamed with excitement. Without so much as a goodbye, she grabbed what was left of her lunch and started following her GPS.

“Don’t get kidnapped, Lace,” Cameron hollered after her.

Minutes later, she was standing at one of the many historical markers in her town. She gulped, feeling slightly ashamed that she never took the time to read them before.

This one was about the domestic slave trade. It explained how the high demand for cotton caused the demand for slave labor to increase exponentially. “Between 1808 and 1860, the enslaved population of Alabama grew from less than 40,000 to more than 435,000. Alabama had one of the largest slave populations in America at the start of the civil war,” Lacey read to herself. Not the vibe I was hoping for today, she thought, immediately feeling guilty for thinking it.

Lacey looked around the landmark, straining to see anything that may be a clue as to why she was there. In the grass at the base of the marker, she saw paper peeping through what looked like freshly upturned dirt. She dove and grabbed it. Anxious much? She chuckled to herself.

In the same handwriting as in the black book, it read: “1861. A brave 10-year-old girl named Abigail was transported to Alabama via steamboat with her mother. She was one of thousands. As she clutched her mother’s arm tightly, her beautiful brown eyes scanned this new land as she wondered if life would be better here than it had been on the long journey to get here. Little did she know, but life on the cotton plantation would be worse than anything she could have imagined.” Lacey inhaled, bracing herself for more. But the story didn’t continue. Instead, it was another clue: “Jefferson Davis was inaugurated as President of the Confederacy here in the year Abigail became a slave—a place named after Andrew Dexter on what was known as ‘goat hill.’”

Lacey wracked her brain. These names seemed familiar, as if she’d learned about them years ago in school. But not being able to place why, she again googled the information. “Ha!” she exclaimed. Goat Hill was where they erected the Capital building. It was at the foot of present-day Dexter Avenue.

With a spike of adventure-seeking-adrenaline, she sprinted back to the Riverfront Parkade. She jumped into her “clunker” as Cam called it and tried not to speed on the quick drive to the Montgomery Courthouse.

After parking, Lacey raced to the courthouse steps. She quickly realized the clue, although clever, wasn’t terribly specific. Where was she supposed to look? After 10 minutes of walking around, she was already losing her patience. Frustrated, she sat under a Sycamore tree at one corner of the courthouse. She pulled out the little black book; although, staring at it didn’t produce any answers.

She started to look around again, which is when she noticed another folded paper, barely sticking out of the ground under the tree. Excitement raced through her.

She pulled it out and read: “The County Courthouse is a historical landmark. But for Abigail, it marked the place where Jefferson Davis became president of the Confederacy and soon waged war with the Union. For whites, it was a war of principle. In the South, it was a fight to keep their slaves. But to those slaves, it was a war on their very lives. The outcome could literally mean life or death for Abigail and countless slaves like her. When the North won the war, 14-year-old Abigail rejoiced, assuming her freedom was won, her life would be saved, and she would never have to live in fear again. But her hopes were a childlike faith, separated from the gravity of reality. Alabama didn’t care who won the war. And she continued to live as a slave for several more years . . . Continue her story on Baker Street, but not the Baker Street B&B.”

Lacey exhaled heavily. She had to know more. She wouldn’t rest until she knew what became of Abigail. Back in her car, she googled Baker Street. It immediately wanted to take her to Baker Street Bed and Breakfast over an hour away. She frowned and tried again. This time she found Baker Street in Montgomery. It was another seven-minute drive.

As she pulled from Mobile Road onto Baker Street, she was suddenly uncertain this was the right location. The concrete road was old and broken apart. She passed an auto repair shop on the right, and then what looked like an abandoned warehouse on the left. The bumpy, broken road became gravel. She slowed to a stop next to the grass. Where was she supposed to go? There were trees in the distance. She got out and walked along the grass-line.

Lacey then stopped at a power pole where she found another mostly-hidden sheet of paper.

“You’re getting good at this. Unfortunately, this is not a happy stop. When Abigail was 17, she fell in love with a kind boy. The only problem—he was white. They snuck precious moments together when they could. She was always in fear of being found out. But Thomas assured Abigail that as soon as he had enough money, he would take her to Indiana so he could marry her. But Abigail knew the trek through three stubborn southern states would be fraught with difficulty and uncertainty.

“As the months passed, their love grew. But one day, her Master discovered the romance. She had never been so frightened. He flogged her more vehemently than ever before. Later, as she was tending her wounds, her Master returned only to grab her best friend, George, and leave. She stumbled after them. Fear engulfed her entire body. She shook from pain and panic.

Abigail mustered all her strength to follow. Her Master took George to the forest you now see in the distance. And that is where he beat her best friend to death. Every anguished cry left her body wreathing in more pain. The punishment was crueler than any she’d had before. And at that moment, she wished she could join her friend to escape the hell she was in . . .

Okay, you’ve made it this far. Your next clue is more of a hint. Look behind Cubahatchie Baptist Church.”

Lacey shook her head, forcing herself to come back into the present. Yet, as she walked back to her car, she couldn’t shake the heaviness of what she just read. She wiped a tear from her eye.

Suddenly picnics and parties, college-life and boys just didn’t seem that important. So many thoughts swirled through Lacey’s brain. But the one she couldn’t shake was that she wanted her life to be more meaningful than it was.

She drove to the church without the radio blaring or a podcast playing. But her thoughts were just as loud as any entertainment would have been. A half an hour later, she pulled up.

There was a well-manicured cemetery at the front of the church. Lacey got out and walked around the church to get to the back. She walked a little until she stumbled upon unkept gravestones. It startled her. Her gaze wandered through the old cemetery until it stopped on the only gravestone that had fresh flowers. She carefully and cautiously made her way to it. Her breath caught when she saw what it said: “Abigail B. Brown 1851-1868.”

“No!” Lacey cried. “She was only 17—just a few years younger than me!”

Lacey sat at the gravestone and touched it almost reverently. She didn’t want to leave. This wasn’t how Abigail’s story was supposed to end. It wasn’t fair.

As she slid her hand down the cold stone, it stopped at the base where the lovely Camellias were. But as she looked more at the flowers, she noticed something. A piece of paper was barely sticking up from the ground.

As she pulled it out of the earth, she saw that this time it was a thick envelope. As she unsealed it, her eyes widened. She pulled out a wad of money. She counted $20,000. Something felt odd. Was this a treasure hunt or a history lesson? Regardless, she hardly cared about the money. She’d give it back if it would have lengthened Abigail’s life.

Lacey then pulled out one last letter from the envelope. As she examined the torn edges, she realized all her letters were pieces pulled from the black book.

She braced herself mentally as she began to read. “Losing her best friend was a loss as deep as when her mother passed. She never saw Thomas, her love, again. Weeks after being flogged, her wounds became infected and she succumbed to them.

“You may be wondering how I know Abigail’s story. I wish I could say she was an ancestor of mine—I wish I could say I have some of her DNA, her strength and bravery. But alas, her Master was my great-great grandfather. But her love, Thomas, was my great-grandfather. Yes, her love was the son of her Master.

I can imagine you’re having mixed feelings right now. I despise some of my family’s history. But Thomas was a good man. He made sure that his children and grandchildren knew Abigail’s story. He wanted to make sure we always choose love over bigotry and kindness over hatred.

So, to keep her legacy alive, I create these scavenger hunts to share Abigail’s story and bless someone with her memory.”

Lacey couldn’t stop her tears from flowing. She didn’t know what she would do with the money. But she knew she certainly wasn’t replacing her clunker car with it.