Bloody Bucket Bridge
|
Florida, 1800s. Mary, a freed midwife, has purchased her independence at a steep cost. Hoping to begin anew in Wauchula, she soon discovers that freedom does not guarantee dignity in a world still bound by prejudice and cruelty.
Caught between the demands of the wealthy families she serves and the authority of the men who control her livelihood, Mary must endure slights, betrayals, and the constant reminder that her place in society is never secure. Each birth she oversees becomes both a test of her skill and a measure of her resilience. Drawn from a little-known Florida legend, Bloody Bucket Bridge is a powerful tale of endurance, injustice, and one woman’s fight to claim her place in a world determined to silence her. |
Sample Chapter
CHAPTER 1
THE BRIDGE
FLORIDA
Mary looked down at the swollen, fast-moving water of the Peace River, perched atop the Bloody Bucket Bridge made from hand-hewn wooden planks. Normally the water moved lazily because of the low gradient and flat terrain of central Florida, but a hefty storm continued to blow through with no signs of stopping anytime soon, bringing with it high winds and torrential rains.
There was a steel bucket at her feet, and it had been raining so hard that it was almost filled to the top. Inside the bucket was a mix of liquids: rainwater, blood, amniotic fluid and even a placenta. She picked up the bucket by the bail handle, looked into the water below and dumped the slop into the bloated river where she watched it disappear in the rushing water, and never to be seen again.
“Mary?” a distant, faint voice shouted, cutting through the sound of the rainfall and rushing water. She hated everything about it and could feel her jaw tighten. So she ignored it.
“Mary!” the voice came again, prompting her to look over her shoulder towards the main house, knowing the voice belonged to Master Thomas Wilson. He was the owner of the Wauchula Plantation and a renowned local doctor, had a pleasant-face and aged around thirty years. But Mary was never fooled by his good looks and charm like the others were. Comparable to most people in his profession, he was well-respected and influential in the small surrounding community. Changing the birthing experience for the upperclass whites, people came from many days of traveling via horse and buggy to seek his services. Opulent living conditions, promised comfort and a well-trained and obedient slave-staff that was ready to ensure anyone that could afford it a pleasant birthing experience had them coming in droves.
But if people saw the real Thomas—demanding, curt and vulgar—they would see his disposition and attitude defied any impression his looks and misleading smile might have given someone. It was easy to trust him, but almost impossible to please him. He worked as hard on concealing the truth of that as he did catering to his wealthy friends.
She turned her attention to the rapids below her, continuing to ignore the calls. If she was to be honest with herself, she hated Thomas as much as the things that have happened to her in this godforsaken world. And, as she reflected, the things she experienced in her thirty-five years of life were cruel.
Closing her eyes and lifting her chin to the sky, she let the rain beat her skin in hopes of it washing away some of the misdeeds of her past, while she simultaneously worked hard to try and calm her mind. She noticed her thoughts were busy these days—much busier than usual—seeming to focus mainly on the negative. But, she reasoned, certain things were hard to get over—sometimes they were impossible.
Having purchased her freedom for one thousand five hundred dollars in Georgia from her slave master Samuel Rupert (just thinking about him enraged her), she moved to Wauchula, Florida in hopes of gaining employment as a skilled midwife. The Wauchula Plantation had placed an advertisement in the newspaper, and in her hopes of starting over, she risked the last of her money to take the daunting journey south. She figured she had just as good of a chance in getting hired as any and was worth the risk.
She was good at her job on the Willow Creek plantation in Georgia—excelled even—and knew she could apply her skills elsewhere. Once they saw what she was capable of, she could rebuild her life and leave the past behind.
“But I fear there ain’t no freedom for my kind,” she said to the sky, and turned her eyes back to the river. She held her hands out and looked at the color of her skin. “Can’t help the way I was born. Worked my ass off for more than ten years to come away with something I should’a already had.” She shook her head and sucked her teeth. “Buyin’ freedom, survivin’ brutal attacks, losing Elija. So much horror . . . Then I drag myself halfway ‘cross the country to end up here, in a similar situation. For what?”
Looking at the wooden planks beneath her feet, and although she wore shoes, she flexed her toes. “Imagine my surprise when I got here seeing this bridge and river.” She looked at her arms and the goosed flesh. “I saw it a lot in visions. I suppose that’s validation that this is where I’m supposed to be. But what for?”
Contemplating her own question, she had a thought. Maybe if she were to jump into the water, whatever hell she might have to go through as the raging waters pulled her under and took her life might be worth it. All her worries would be gone and her unquenched anger with it.
“But why should I have to forfeit my life because of predators?” she said. “They done broke me. It’s their fault, not mine.”
The roar of the river was exactly how she felt inside. There was denying the fact that she wanted to jump in it and become something bigger than herself. Because here, on the Wauchula Plantation, she would never be anything more than a servant midwife.
“That’s crazy talk,” she said to herself, and turned away from the Peace River, knowing if she continued to think things like that, it wasn’t going to make things any better. Only if she could fill that bucket with her problems and dump them out like she did the placenta and blood, she would be fine.
Suppressing the swell of negative emotions that often tried to push themselves to the surface and continue to make her do rash things, she looked at the main house and the path she had to travel. Surprised Thomas didn’t send someone out to get her, she made her way back with the bucket in hand. As she approached, she could see Thomas's face looking at her from the window with obvious irritation. Once he saw her, he moved away by flicking the drape shut.
Stepping inside the house and closing the door, the sound of the violent river water was instantly muted, only to be replaced by the sound of Thomas’ shoes clapping the floor as he entered the room.
“I was calling for you,” he said, and moved to a closet where he toiled inside with folded linens. “You were gone a long time. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“The river is full and running fast, making a roar,” Mary said, and pulled off her shoes. “I could barely hear myself think.”
“Well, what do you expect? It’s been raining for two days straight with no end in sight,” Thomas said. He emerged from the closet and tossed a towel at Mary, his throw grossly off. “Stay there until you dry off. I don’t want you soaking the floor and causing me more work.”
“Of course, Master Wilson,” Mary said, and managed to reach the towel. She began drying herself off. “How is Mrs. O’Grady and the baby?”
“Resting,” Thomas said.
“It was a tough childbirth,” Mary said. “I’m not surprised she’s exhausted. I’m glad she found sleep.”
Thomas stopped working and put his hands on his hips. “Yes, that is the aftereffect.”
“She did good and will make a great mother.”
“No one asked you your opinion, Mary. Make sure you remember that while in the presence of our guests.”
“Yes, Master Wilson.”
“There’s no need for small talk. I’ve decided your work is done here for tonight,” Thomas said, shooing her with a few flicks of his hand. “You’re relieved of your duties and should go to your quarters and rest up. We have another patient coming in tomorrow and both rooms are booked solid for the rest of the week. We will be busy.”
Mary looked down at her feet, her socks sopping wet, her muddy shoes laying on their side. Why did he have her dry herself? She looked at Thomas. “I need to finish cleaning the room. I did most of it, but I still have things that need my attention.”
“It’s already done,” Thomas said, the annoyance in his voice was as obvious as the rain being wet. “Goodnight.”
“But Master Wilson, I need to scrub the linens so they don’t stain.”
He sighed. “I already had Lucey take care of it. Besides, we have plenty of others that are clean. You can do whatever else needs done tomorrow. It has been a long day and my patience is thin.”
“Master Wilson, if this is this about—”
“I said goodnight,” he said and moved through the house with purpose. He continued to tidy things along the way, and from what she could see from her limited vantage point, everything that needed to be done looked completed.
“As you wish,” Mary said, but that's not what she wanted to say. Knowing it better to keep any negative comments to herself—especially when he was in a mood like this—was for the better. She pulled her shoes on and exited the main house.
Meandering towards the small shack in the back of the house where the slave quarters were located, she couldn’t ignore the feeling of not wanting to go there just yet. It was nice enough, she supposed, but oftentimes it felt like a prison. So she looked at the windows to see if Thomas was watching her depart. He wasn’t, so she decided to go to the bridge for a while where she could sit and think. She would watch the flowing water, listen to its sounds and feel the pitter-patter of the rain on her skin. Not knowing why, but she felt at peace there, and could try and work on the many things that troubled her without distraction.
THE BRIDGE
FLORIDA
Mary looked down at the swollen, fast-moving water of the Peace River, perched atop the Bloody Bucket Bridge made from hand-hewn wooden planks. Normally the water moved lazily because of the low gradient and flat terrain of central Florida, but a hefty storm continued to blow through with no signs of stopping anytime soon, bringing with it high winds and torrential rains.
There was a steel bucket at her feet, and it had been raining so hard that it was almost filled to the top. Inside the bucket was a mix of liquids: rainwater, blood, amniotic fluid and even a placenta. She picked up the bucket by the bail handle, looked into the water below and dumped the slop into the bloated river where she watched it disappear in the rushing water, and never to be seen again.
“Mary?” a distant, faint voice shouted, cutting through the sound of the rainfall and rushing water. She hated everything about it and could feel her jaw tighten. So she ignored it.
“Mary!” the voice came again, prompting her to look over her shoulder towards the main house, knowing the voice belonged to Master Thomas Wilson. He was the owner of the Wauchula Plantation and a renowned local doctor, had a pleasant-face and aged around thirty years. But Mary was never fooled by his good looks and charm like the others were. Comparable to most people in his profession, he was well-respected and influential in the small surrounding community. Changing the birthing experience for the upperclass whites, people came from many days of traveling via horse and buggy to seek his services. Opulent living conditions, promised comfort and a well-trained and obedient slave-staff that was ready to ensure anyone that could afford it a pleasant birthing experience had them coming in droves.
But if people saw the real Thomas—demanding, curt and vulgar—they would see his disposition and attitude defied any impression his looks and misleading smile might have given someone. It was easy to trust him, but almost impossible to please him. He worked as hard on concealing the truth of that as he did catering to his wealthy friends.
She turned her attention to the rapids below her, continuing to ignore the calls. If she was to be honest with herself, she hated Thomas as much as the things that have happened to her in this godforsaken world. And, as she reflected, the things she experienced in her thirty-five years of life were cruel.
Closing her eyes and lifting her chin to the sky, she let the rain beat her skin in hopes of it washing away some of the misdeeds of her past, while she simultaneously worked hard to try and calm her mind. She noticed her thoughts were busy these days—much busier than usual—seeming to focus mainly on the negative. But, she reasoned, certain things were hard to get over—sometimes they were impossible.
Having purchased her freedom for one thousand five hundred dollars in Georgia from her slave master Samuel Rupert (just thinking about him enraged her), she moved to Wauchula, Florida in hopes of gaining employment as a skilled midwife. The Wauchula Plantation had placed an advertisement in the newspaper, and in her hopes of starting over, she risked the last of her money to take the daunting journey south. She figured she had just as good of a chance in getting hired as any and was worth the risk.
She was good at her job on the Willow Creek plantation in Georgia—excelled even—and knew she could apply her skills elsewhere. Once they saw what she was capable of, she could rebuild her life and leave the past behind.
“But I fear there ain’t no freedom for my kind,” she said to the sky, and turned her eyes back to the river. She held her hands out and looked at the color of her skin. “Can’t help the way I was born. Worked my ass off for more than ten years to come away with something I should’a already had.” She shook her head and sucked her teeth. “Buyin’ freedom, survivin’ brutal attacks, losing Elija. So much horror . . . Then I drag myself halfway ‘cross the country to end up here, in a similar situation. For what?”
Looking at the wooden planks beneath her feet, and although she wore shoes, she flexed her toes. “Imagine my surprise when I got here seeing this bridge and river.” She looked at her arms and the goosed flesh. “I saw it a lot in visions. I suppose that’s validation that this is where I’m supposed to be. But what for?”
Contemplating her own question, she had a thought. Maybe if she were to jump into the water, whatever hell she might have to go through as the raging waters pulled her under and took her life might be worth it. All her worries would be gone and her unquenched anger with it.
“But why should I have to forfeit my life because of predators?” she said. “They done broke me. It’s their fault, not mine.”
The roar of the river was exactly how she felt inside. There was denying the fact that she wanted to jump in it and become something bigger than herself. Because here, on the Wauchula Plantation, she would never be anything more than a servant midwife.
“That’s crazy talk,” she said to herself, and turned away from the Peace River, knowing if she continued to think things like that, it wasn’t going to make things any better. Only if she could fill that bucket with her problems and dump them out like she did the placenta and blood, she would be fine.
Suppressing the swell of negative emotions that often tried to push themselves to the surface and continue to make her do rash things, she looked at the main house and the path she had to travel. Surprised Thomas didn’t send someone out to get her, she made her way back with the bucket in hand. As she approached, she could see Thomas's face looking at her from the window with obvious irritation. Once he saw her, he moved away by flicking the drape shut.
Stepping inside the house and closing the door, the sound of the violent river water was instantly muted, only to be replaced by the sound of Thomas’ shoes clapping the floor as he entered the room.
“I was calling for you,” he said, and moved to a closet where he toiled inside with folded linens. “You were gone a long time. Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“The river is full and running fast, making a roar,” Mary said, and pulled off her shoes. “I could barely hear myself think.”
“Well, what do you expect? It’s been raining for two days straight with no end in sight,” Thomas said. He emerged from the closet and tossed a towel at Mary, his throw grossly off. “Stay there until you dry off. I don’t want you soaking the floor and causing me more work.”
“Of course, Master Wilson,” Mary said, and managed to reach the towel. She began drying herself off. “How is Mrs. O’Grady and the baby?”
“Resting,” Thomas said.
“It was a tough childbirth,” Mary said. “I’m not surprised she’s exhausted. I’m glad she found sleep.”
Thomas stopped working and put his hands on his hips. “Yes, that is the aftereffect.”
“She did good and will make a great mother.”
“No one asked you your opinion, Mary. Make sure you remember that while in the presence of our guests.”
“Yes, Master Wilson.”
“There’s no need for small talk. I’ve decided your work is done here for tonight,” Thomas said, shooing her with a few flicks of his hand. “You’re relieved of your duties and should go to your quarters and rest up. We have another patient coming in tomorrow and both rooms are booked solid for the rest of the week. We will be busy.”
Mary looked down at her feet, her socks sopping wet, her muddy shoes laying on their side. Why did he have her dry herself? She looked at Thomas. “I need to finish cleaning the room. I did most of it, but I still have things that need my attention.”
“It’s already done,” Thomas said, the annoyance in his voice was as obvious as the rain being wet. “Goodnight.”
“But Master Wilson, I need to scrub the linens so they don’t stain.”
He sighed. “I already had Lucey take care of it. Besides, we have plenty of others that are clean. You can do whatever else needs done tomorrow. It has been a long day and my patience is thin.”
“Master Wilson, if this is this about—”
“I said goodnight,” he said and moved through the house with purpose. He continued to tidy things along the way, and from what she could see from her limited vantage point, everything that needed to be done looked completed.
“As you wish,” Mary said, but that's not what she wanted to say. Knowing it better to keep any negative comments to herself—especially when he was in a mood like this—was for the better. She pulled her shoes on and exited the main house.
Meandering towards the small shack in the back of the house where the slave quarters were located, she couldn’t ignore the feeling of not wanting to go there just yet. It was nice enough, she supposed, but oftentimes it felt like a prison. So she looked at the windows to see if Thomas was watching her depart. He wasn’t, so she decided to go to the bridge for a while where she could sit and think. She would watch the flowing water, listen to its sounds and feel the pitter-patter of the rain on her skin. Not knowing why, but she felt at peace there, and could try and work on the many things that troubled her without distraction.
