A Bond Of Blood And Stone
Their Families Once Linked by Slavery,
Two Women Managed to Overcome the Barriers of the Past.
by
“To describe the significance of freedom . . . is to severely test our historical imagination. Perhaps only those who have endured enslavement and racial oppression are capable of fully appreciating the various emotions, tensions, and conflicts that such a dramatic change could provoke.”Leon F. Litwack — Been In The Storm So Long
I stood in the shade of the trees and closed my eyes. I wanted to imagine myself back in time, between 1793 and 1795, when the first family to inhabit this land arrived. Since the beginning of my journey, tears had unexpectedly rolled down my cheeks several times. Now, when I waited for them to come, they did not. Although the heat of the day was suffocating, I needed to be there, at the graveside of slave and master. Had a slave at one time stood in the exact spot where I was standing? Were there tears on that face? Who was buried there? I knew for sure that whoever it was, however he or she had died or been mourned over, it was someone of my blood.
The house and the cemetery behind it had been built by James Ryle Sr. — slave owner. Those he bought and sold were members of my mother’s paternal family, and now, all that remained of their bodies was buried under stones marked with orange flags.
I wanted to scream. I wanted desperately to communicate with those buried. Finally, the roller coaster in my heart slowed down enough for me to realize that pride had taken over my feelings. The decision to come to this place in Boone County was mine. I alone had made the decision to come and find my family history. No man had brought me here. I was free. Not only was this the land of my ancestors, the same held true for my hostess and guide, Wanetta Clause. James Ryle Sr., her great-great-grandfather, was also interred here. I opened my eyes and looked at her. Wanetta’s gentle and warm smile was comforting as we bent together to trim away the thicket that covered the small gravestones. Perhaps she understood some of what I was feeling, for she softly told of how the small cemetery had been neatly attended when she first found it.
The Ryle clan was a curious group and I was not sure how to describe them as slave owners. In my possession were documents proving that they had bought and sold slaves, used them for bargaining and given them to their children in wills as though they were cattle or land. On the other hand, I had deeds dating from 1806 that documented slave sales to be only between family members. One slave in particular was bargained: the deed stipulated he was to be allowed to buy his freedom within the next five years. The will that James Sr. wrote September 1, 1838, mentioned my family by name: Great-great-great-grandmother Magdalena and her children, my great-great-grandfather Jackson, his brother Jacob and his sister Hannah, were all bequeathed to one son, Hogan Ryle. It was stipulated that "Laney (Magdalena) was to be set free at age fifty." Additionally, it was his will "that old Rachel and Jenny shall be free."
Pension files from the National Archives provided further information on this family. Wade Ryle, son of Hogan Ryle, wrote an affidavit on behalf of Jacob in 1892, affirming that he had performed a marriage ceremony for Jacob and his wife, Maria, in October 1861. Was this the normal action of a slave owner during the Civil War? And what about the military records that state one brother joined the Union Army in September of 1864, while the other was drafted? Congress had passed a law giving immediate freedom to any enlisting slave and his family. Would this not entice a slave to enlist? Or were they already free?
From the Boone County Clerk’s office I had gotten the name of a local historian, William Conrad, who told me of a book on the Ryle family and explained some of their history. Then he gave me something else — the name and telephone number of a direct descendant of James Ryle Sr., Wanetta Clause.
After our telephone conversation, I realized my hands were shaking. The span of more than 125 years since slavery existed suddenly shrank. Everything seemed so recent and personal: the slave ships, the chains of bondage, the rivers used for transportation and the slave auctions. Even America looked different; it was different. I was a child of slaves. Had I made myself think that I was not? How had I rationalized that? By believing that slavery was so long ago it did not affect me? At that moment it did.
For weeks I looked at Wanetta Clause’s name and telephone number, as if I expected them to change somehow. What I really hoped for was an escape from the anger I felt each time I saw them. Finally, the turmoil within me subsided. I knew I must call if I wanted to open more doors to the past. But what was I going to say: “Guess who I am?”
The call was placed. “Hello,” she said. It seemed like eternity before I could speak. She listened as I quickly introduced myself, explained my call and how I had received her name. Silence. Before all nerve was lost, I went on to render my lineage: my mother is Betty Piatt Terry; her father, Stanley Jacob Piatt; his mother, Roxanne Piatt; whose father, Jackson Piatt, also known as Jackson Ryle, and his mother, Magdalena Piatt (Laney Ryle), had been owned as slaves by James Ryle Sr. She stated that her Ryle line was descended from Thaddeus Ryle and that she was not familiar with the Ryle family line I pursued. She did not think she could help me, so we ended our conversation politely.
But a journey to Kentucky was inevitable. My next research completed Wanetta’s line: Thaddeus had been the son of David Ryle, the sixth son of James. I called Wanetta again, for permission to camp on the Ryle family property. A few days later I received a card: Wanetta and her mother, Ada Ryle, had set up an “apartment” for me. They hoped it would be more comfortable than my tent.
The apartment turned out to be the north end of their home; two bedrooms, kitchen, living room and the most beautiful view of their hills with a pond at the base. Again, this Ryle clan had astonished me. These two women, who lived alone, had invited a stranger into their home. All they knew about me was the information I had chosen to share with them. Their welcome was rare in this time of crime and apathy.
Wanetta and Ada introduced me as the “cousin from Texas.” They cooked my meals, guided me through the county, assisted me in my research and worried about me when I returned late from the library. During the week I was there, I came to call Ada Ryle, “Mother,” and thought of them as extended family.
On June 14, 1991, more than 125 years after the Emancipation Proclamation, I stood beside the family cemetery with a descendant of the slave owner, still connected by a bond. As we continued to clean the grave site I felt relaxed and at home. It was right for me to be there.
In the two and a half years since then, I have gathered many more pieces of information about my roots and the strange Ryle clan. I may never know for sure what type of slave owner is buried in that cemetery, but, I know his descendants. I may never know all of the intimate details between slave and slave owner, but as a human being and a child of slaves, I can declare the institution of slavery evil, regardless of the treatment bestowed upon those enslaved.
When it was time to leave and continue my quest, “Mother” gave me a gift, a pillow she had made to keep me from forgetting her. How could I ever forget? The bond we shared was deep, our pasts entwined with our present and future. I drove away thinking of my ancestors, told them I loved them and thanked them for passing their blood and strength on to me. I would forever be them and my sons would continue the line. I decided then to believe that Wanetta had inherited her goodness from her ancestors. I prayed that my family had known the love and generosity I had been given.
This article is used here with the permission of Elizabeth Testerman.
Kentucky Living December 1993