Journey to a Promised Land

by Allison Lassieur

  But Papa’s heart is so good. There ain’t a mean bone in his body, or Mama’s neither. Then there are folks like Rees. His heart is filled with hate. Others too. I see how they look at us when we walk down the street sometimes. Like it’s an insult to them that we exist. But folks like Mr. Banks and the other shopkeepers are kind. Being nice and caring for folks doesn’t always come easy though. Maybe it’s easier to hate?

  Hattie

  Chapter Six

  “Get a move on, Hattie,” Mama called from the front room. “We don’t want to be late! Abraham, hold still!”

  From the howls coming out of Abraham’s mouth, Mama must be scrubbing his face, Hattie thought with a weak smile. Her stomach churned as she sat on the bed and buttoned up her shoes, freshly polished with lamp black. The poem raced through her head, over and over.

  Thank God for little children

  Bright flowers by earth’s wayside . . .

  “Oh, Hattie dear, you look a picture!” Mama exclaimed as Abraham squirmed off her lap. She had on her Sunday best too, a deep-red calico dress with delicate silver buttons. Her hair was held in place with her most prized possession: a carved tortoiseshell comb studded with tiny, black jet beads. Hattie knew it was a special occasion when Mama wore that comb.

  The door flew open as Papa came in. He stopped dead, staring. Then he grinned.

  “My, my, I’m the luckiest man to have such beautiful women! I might faint dead away with pride!”

  “Oh, Papa, you look splendid!” His suit wasn’t new, but Mama had carefully washed and brushed it the night before.

  “Why thank you,” he replied. He hefted the well-packed lunch basket that was sitting on the kitchen table. “Shall we?”

  They set off to the church, a sweet honeysuckle breeze filling the air. Hattie loved walking through the city on Sunday. The crowds were gone and the streets were quiet. When the small clapboard church came into view, Hattie’s stomach did a heave. Knots of people in their Sunday best stood, chatting, near carefully tended flowerbeds of daffodils and tulips. A familiar face broke away from the crowd.

  “Jacobs! So good to see you again!”

  “Singleton,” Papa said, warmly shaking his hand. “I’m surprised to see you here today.”

  “I’ve been speakin’ about Kansas at churches around Nashville,” he replied.

  “Hattie!” Josephine waved madly from the church steps. “Over here!”

  Gratefully, Hattie raced to the church and gave Josephine a hug.

  “I could hardly keep my oatmeal down this morning,” Josephine said in a rush, her bright-green hair ribbons shining in the sun. “All these people!”

  “Don’t even say it,” Hattie nodded and pressed her hands to her stomach. Just then, the church bell rang to call everyone inside. Hattie and Josephine grabbed hands and made their way to the front pew, where the students sat.

  The recital would happen after the church service, and then there was a picnic. Hattie’s mind whirled through the hymns, then the prayers, and then Reverend Jackson’s sermon. Almost before she knew it, the reverend said the final prayer, and then closed his worn Bible.

  “Now I know ya’ll didn’t come here just to hear me preach,” he began, to soft laugher. “This is a special day. Not only will we hear from some of the brightest students in our school, but we also have a guest, Mr. Benjamin Singleton.”

  Singleton told them about Kansas and the opportunities to be found there. “I’ve helped to establish three towns in Kansas, and all are doing well,” he said. “Kansas has land—plenty of land! I urge you all to consider leaving Tennessee. There is nothing here for black folks but pain and unfairness.”

  Finally he sat down, and Hattie’s teacher, Miss Banneker, rose. She was tall and elegant, with delicate hands. She was the first black Yankee Hattie had ever met, and the only grown-up she knew who had never been a slave.

  “I am very proud of these children,” she said in her soft voice. “They’ve worked hard for you today.”

  One by one, the students got up in front of the congregation. The little ones sang songs or showed pictures they had drawn. A group of boys put on a wild play about pirates and treasure. Then it was Hattie’s turn.

  “Miss Hattie Jacobs is one of the best students in school,” Miss Banneker said as Hattie stood beside her, trembling. “She has prepared a poem.”

  Miss Banneker gave Hattie’s hand a squeeze and sat down. Hattie looked out over the crowd of faces, and her mind went blank. Then she caught sight of Papa, standing in the back. He smiled and nodded, his eyes shining with love. Hattie took a deep breath.

  “This poem was written by Miss Frances Ellen Watkins Harper,” she began. “She was born free in the North. Before the war, Miss Harper was a teacher. She helped slaves escape on the Underground Railroad. This poem is called ‘Thank God for Little Children.’

  She glanced at Miss Banneker, whose lovely smile felt like sunshine on Hattie’s heart. Hattie smiled back, and suddenly the words were there.

  Thank God for little children,

  Bright flowers by earth’s wayside,

  The dancing, joyous lifeboats

  Upon life’s stormy tide.

  Thank God for little children;

  When our skies are cold and gray,

  They come as sunshine to our hearts,

  And charm our cares away.

  I almost think the angels,

  Who tend life’s garden fair,

  Drop down the sweet wild blossoms

  That bloom around us here.

  Thunderous applause shook the little church. Hattie sat down, cool relief washing over her. Josephine was next, and everyone clapped for her too. Then the program was over and the reverend threw open the doors to the beautiful afternoon. The men quickly set up makeshift tables out of boards as the women laid out platters of ham, chicken, fried catfish, biscuits and gravy, greens, and more cakes and pies than Hattie had ever seen. She and Josephine filled their plates and found a shady spot in the tiny graveyard beside the church.

  “I’m glad that’s over!” Josephine said, her mouth full of sweet potato.

  Hattie nodded. Miss Banneker caught Hattie’s eye and smiled, then came over to them.

  “Hattie, may I talk to you?”

  Hattie, brushing the biscuit crumbs from her dress, stood up and followed her.

  “Have you ever thought of becoming a teacher?” Miss Banneker asked. “You would make a fine teacher.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have,” Hattie said slowly. Being a teacher had been a dream for so long, it felt strange to hear her voice say it out loud. “But teacher’s college is mighty expensive,” Hattie continued, trying to keep the sadness out of her voice.

  Miss Banneker smiled kindly. “Yes, it is expensive,” she agreed. “Have you ever heard of something called a ‘scholarship’?”

  When Hattie shook her head, Miss Banneker continued. “A scholarship is an award that colleges give to exceptionally good students. It pays for their college education.”

  Colleges give money away? The idea had never entered Hattie’s mind. “Do you think I’m good enough?” she asked.

  “You’re more than good enough. If you worked hard, you could qualify for a scholarship.”

  Hattie’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh, Miss Banneker!”

  Suddenly there was a commotion as a rider tore down the street toward the church. “Nat Jacobs! Is Nat Jacobs the blacksmith here?” he yelled, his hat flying off his head.

  “I’m Nat Jacobs!” Papa called to the rider.

  “Come quick! Your shop is on fire!”

  Chapter Seven

  It was as if a cannon had exploded into the crowd. Several women cried out as Papa and a dozen men took off toward the shop. The reverend quickly hitched a wagon, and his wife took Abraham from Mama’s arms, urging her to go. Soon, Hattie and Mama were rac
ing through Nashville, Mama praying and crying the whole way. Hattie smelled the smoke as they got close. The sight that greeted them when they rounded the corner made her heart stop.

  People were running and shouting everywhere as black smoke billowed down the street. Firemen aimed a water hose at the flames, but only a tiny stream of water spit into the shop. A bucket brigade line snaked around the block, people passing buckets of water down the line to the fire wagon. Next to the tower of fire, their efforts looked small and useless.

  “Papa!” Hattie screamed, jumping from the wagon. “Papa!” The terror she’d felt when he went to the meeting gripped her heart again. This time, would she lose him for good?

  Not if I can help it, she thought fiercely as she ran down the street.

  “Hattie!” Mama’s voice cried from behind her, but she ignored it. Hattie knew Papa would try to save his tools. They were his most prized possessions.

  Hattie ran down the street and around the corner. He probably went through the alley into the back, she thought wildly, where the flames weren’t so bad.

  Strong hands grabbed her from behind, holding tight. Hattie screamed and jerked free, stumbling onto the rough dirt street.

  “You can’t go in there!”

  It was Mr. Banks. Grime and soot covered his face and clothes.

  “Where’s Papa?!” Hattie cried, scrambling to her feet, her eyes stinging and watering from the smoke.

  “I couldn’t stop him,” Mr. Banks said, his voice choking.

  Hattie took a step toward the shop, and a loud whoosh filled the air. A wave of heat blew past her as flames engulfed the wall. The building seemed to tremble. Then a loud crash shook the alley as the shop collapsed, sending smoke and sparks into the sky.

  “PAPA!”

  A figure emerged from the smoke, dragging a charred wooden crate. He stumbled, and then fell to his knees, coughing violently.

  Hattie and Mr. Banks were beside him in an instant. His nice suit was burnt and torn. Angry red burns covered his arms.

  “Nat, you crazy fool, why did you go and do that?” Mr. Banks grabbed Papa under his arms and heaved him to his feet. “You coulda been killed in there!”

  Papa, still coughing, leaned on the shorter man. “Had . . . cough . . . to get . . . cough . . . tools.”

  By now, Singleton and several others had appeared in the alley. He ducked under Papa’s other arm, and he and Mr. Banks together half-carried, half-dragged Papa away, Hattie right behind them.

  “Oh, dear Lord!” Mama cried as she saw them emerge from the alley.

  “I’m fine, Mary,” Papa coughed again.

  Hattie ran into Mama’s arms and burst into tears. Mama hugged her tightly and then pushed her at arm’s length. “Don’t you ever do such a fool thing again, do you hear me, Hypatia Florence Jacobs?” she cried, her tears making streaks on her cheeks. “I near died of fright when I seen you run around that corner.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Hattie repeated over and over, her head buried in Mama’s shoulder. She was still shaking with fear, and her legs felt like jelly.

  “It’s all right, baby,” Mama said, stroking her hair. “You’re all right, your daddy’s all right, that’s all that matters.”

  “Where’s Abraham?” Papa asked, looking around anxiously.

  “He’s with the reverend’s wife,” Mama replied, standing up. “He’s safe, thank the Lord.”

  By now, there was nothing to do but watch, helplessly. It seemed like they stood there for hours watching the flames gradually die, leaving a ruin of burnt timbers.

  Hattie stared at the wreckage and wondered for the first time how it had started.

  “Was it the forge, Papa?” Hattie had always feared Papa’s forge, which glowed red and hot as he worked.

  “Jacobs,” Mr. Banks appeared, carrying something. “I found this in the back.”

  It was a noose, singed and burned.

  “Rees!” Papa gasped.

  Mr. Banks shook his head, sorrow in his eyes. “You’ll never be able to prove it. And even if you did, what would anyone do about it?”

  The unfairness of it all hit Hattie like a punch in the stomach. Papa looked at the burnt rope for a long time. Then he stretched his arm back and threw the horrible thing into the dying flames.

  “I think it’s time to talk to Singleton about Kansas.”

  April 25, 1879

  Dear Diary,

  Papa’s shop is gone. Burnt to the ground. There’s nothing left for us here in Nashville. Papa says he doesn’t have the money to rebuild the shop. He doesn’t want to work for someone else either. He says he had his fill of that when he was enslaved. Mama wants to go to Kansas now more than ever.

  I’m so numb I can barely hold the pen or write these words. I’ll put out the candle and try to sleep but I feel like crying instead.

  Hattie

  Chapter Eight

  May 2, 1879

  Dear Diary,

  I haven’t written in a while on account of being so busy. The last two weeks have flown by, packing and planning the trip to Kansas. We’ve already sold most of our things. Papa used the money to buy a wagon and a mule named Old Jeb. Old Jeb is smelly and ornery and I don’t like him much. But he’ll pull our wagon to Memphis where we’ll get on a steamboat to Kansas. I’m trying to get excited about riding a steamboat but I can’t. I feel cold and numb. I want to cry all the time. But mostly I’m angry.

  I’m angry that the shop burned down. I’m angry at Mama. Why does she have to be so happy about going to Kansas? But I’m angry at Papa most of all. If only he’d not antagonized that horrible Rees, maybe the shop would still be standing. Every time I look at Papa, the anger bubbles up into my throat like acid. I want to scream, or stomp my feet, or run away to live with Josephine’s family. I want to be in school but instead I’m packing. If I don’t study hard I’ll never be good enough for a scholarship. I’m not even sure if there is a school where we are going. My dreams are gone, and it’s all Papa’s fault.

  Mournfully,

  Hattie

  On Hattie’s last day of school, Miss Banneker had a going-away party. She even made a cake, but it tasted like dust to Hattie. Afterward, her classmates somberly presented her with an autograph book they’d all signed.

  “Oh, Hattie!” Josephine cried, bursting into tears. “I may never see you again!”

  Hattie hugged her as hard as she could, her breath catching in her chest.

  “Maybe you will,” she managed to say finally. “Didn’t your daddy say he liked what Mr. Singleton was saying? Maybe you’ll all come to Kansas too.”

  Josephine sniffed and wiped her nose with the hem of her dress. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Ma refuses to talk about it. Here.”

  She thrust a small box into Hattie’s hand. “It’s paper and envelopes. You write me every day, you hear? I want to know everything that happens. Promise?”

  “I promise,” Hattie replied, her own tears threatening to spill over.

  Papa was waiting by the door when the last bell rang. He smiled, but Hattie couldn’t move. Today, when she walked out that door, she was never coming back.

  “I cain’t!” she cried. She ran to Miss Banneker and buried her face in her dress. “I’ll never go to school again. I won’t ever be a teacher now!”

  “Oh, my dear Hattie,” her teacher said, folding her into a hug. “Of course you will. There are schools in Kansas, good schools I’m sure.”

  “I have something for you too,” she continued, handing her a hard, square package. Hattie ripped the paper to reveal a slim, leather-bound book.

  “Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects by Frances Ellen Harper Watkins,” she read slowly. “This is the book my poem came from, isn’t it?” She looked at her teacher in wonder. “I’ve never owned my very own book before,” she said, running her finger
s over the shiny, gold letters. “Thank you, Miss Banneker. I’ll keep it forever!”

  “Remember, my dear, you can do anything if you want it badly enough,” she said, her smile so sweet and sad, Hattie thought her heart would break. “I will miss you.”

  “Let’s go,” Papa’s voice broke through Hattie’s misery. Hattie gave her teacher a final hug and ran out the door.

  They walked slowly through the busy Nashville streets. When they reached Miss Bradford’s stately home, Papa stopped.

  “Go on in and say goodbye,” Papa said. “I came by on my way to fetch you. She wants to see you. She’s waiting for you in the front parlor.”

  Hattie swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Miss Bradford?” Hattie called, pushing open the heavy oak front door. “It’s me, Hattie.”

  “In here, dear,” came that scratchy voice. She was sitting by the window, her skirts billowing around her like a lake of silk.

  “You’re leaving, then,” Miss Bradford said, not taking her eyes off the window. Hattie had never noticed how thin and pale her lips were. They stretched across her face, surrounded by a thousand tiny wrinkles.

  Hattie nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  Something about the forlorn look in Miss Bradford’s eyes broke through Hattie’s own misery. She put her hand on Miss Bradford’s shoulder. She was so frail. The old woman stiffened, then sighed. She pressed some paper into Hattie’s hand.

  “I’ll miss . . . your fine stitching,” she said, her eyes bright with wetness. “Go in peace, child.”

  May 9, 1879

  I went to say goodbye to Miss Bradford today. She slipped something into my hand when I left, but I didn’t look at it until I got home. She gave me five dollars! It makes me a little ashamed of all the times I complained about the extra work.

  I’m not sure why, but I didn’t tell Mama or Papa about the money. Instead, I sewed it into the hem of my dress. Now it’s hidden and no one but me knows it’s there. I’m going to save it for college.