Miss Katie's Rosewood

by Michael Phillips

  Teague sighed and smiled a thin smile. “It is a lot to think about,” he said.

  “You will remember what God wants you to remember. He will bring what we have talked about back to your mind.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “By such beginnings, you will be ready to meet Him tomorrow. You will be able to say to Him, I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner, Father. I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am not worthy to be called your son. But if you will help me, I want to become your son. And then He will say, Oh, my dear boy . . . you have indeed been a prodigal. But all that is behind us now. Welcome home!”

  Again Teague began to weep.

  “In short,” Robert concluded, “in the time you have left, talk to God and do what He shows you to do. Ask for His help. Talk to Him as a Father. Let Him whisper into your heart. Prepare to meet Him as a wayward son returning home to His Father’s house. That will be the best possible use of a day you have ever had in your life.”

  “I will try, Paxton . . . with God’s help, I will try.”

  Robert smiled. He sat awhile longer, but knew he had said enough. When Teague’s questions were finally done, he rose.

  “I’ll leave my New Testament with you in case you feel like reading,” he said. “—Here, I’ll put this marker in the place where it tells about the thief . . . and also about the prodigal who went home to his father’s waiting arms.”

  He extended his hand.

  “I think you are now ready to be alone with your Father,” he said.

  “Thank you, Paxton,” said Teague as they shook hands vigorously. “I will try to do as you say. This is all new.”

  “God will help you.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. You have every right to hate me. . . .”

  He looked away and his eyes again filled with tears.

  Robert waited. Teague took two or three deep breaths, then turned back to face him.

  “Thank you . . . that’s all I can say.”

  “Guard!” Robert called. “I am ready.”

  “Spend your last hours talking to your Father,” he added.

  “And listening to what He tells you. Then make what restitution in your heart He shows you to make. Do that and you will be ready to meet Him.”

  The guard’s footsteps sounded behind them.

  Robert stepped forward and embraced Teague, then turned and left the cell.

  SCAFFOLD

  12

  ROBERT HAD NOT EXPECTED TO GET MUCH SLEEP THE night before the hanging. But he awoke feeling surprisingly rested. He wondered if Damon Teague had fared as well.

  He was the only member of his family who planned to witness the execution. He left the house early in a sober and prayerful frame of mind.

  He arrived and took his place outside the jail where the scaffold had been built. A sizeable crowd had already gathered. He glanced up where the rope hung from the topmost beam in ominous readiness.

  Fifteen minutes later the door opened and a small procession emerged from the building. Teague’s hands were bound behind him and he was led by several officers. They led him up the steps of the scaffold. Teague glanced up toward the rope. Then his eyes drifted over the crowd, apparently looking for a face among the several hundred spectators.

  The official spokesman for the State of Maryland stepped forward.

  “Damon Teague,” he said in a loud voice, “inasmuch as you have received a fair trial and have been found guilty by a jury of your peers of murder in the first degree, and have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead, by law I now give you the opportunity to make a last statement before the sentence is carried out.”

  Dozens of reporters were on hand anticipating an inflammatory speech of defiance and denunciation of the Union, blacks, Christianity, Reverend Paxton, and Abraham Lincoln. They were in for a surprise.

  The crowd quieted in expectation.

  “Thank you,” said Teague calmly. “Yes, I would like to make a statement.

  “I want to publicly express my sorrow for what I have done,” he went on. “I am guilty of all the crimes for which I was charged and I am deeply and truly sorry.

  “I know there is nothing I can say, much less do, to deserve or expect the forgiveness of the Paxton family and the other families and individuals that my terrible actions have hurt. I hope they may someday find it in their hearts to forgive me anyway. I want to publicly thank Robert Paxton for having the courage to confront me with my sin and having the compassion to forgive me. We had a long conversation just yesterday about three other men who were executed a long time ago. He helped me gain strength from their example for what I am about to face today.”

  As Robert listened, tears filled his eyes.

  “I have prayed to ask God to forgive me,” Teague went on, “and to deal with me justly as I deserve. I ask the same from all those I have hurt. I know that I deserve to die and I want the judge and jury and all the witnesses against me to know that I bear them no ill. They did what was right and I accept their sentence as just.

  “I commend my soul to God. May He be merciful to me, a sinner. I am at peace.”

  He glanced toward Robert with a sad smile. Robert saw the words “I’m sorry” form on his lips.

  Then Damon Teague bowed his head.

  The hangman stepped forward and placed a black cloth hood over Teague’s head and shoulders. He fitted the noose over the bag and drew it tight at the neck. The man now took several steps away from him, then reached for the lever attached to the hinge of the door beneath Teague’s feet. . . .

  TRAIN

  13

  When and how Katie and I finally actually decided to go north to Philadelphia to visit Aunt Nelda, I can’t say exactly. It just grew on us gradually that it would be a good thing to do. We talked quite a lot about it with my papa and Uncle Ward through the winter after Henry and Josepha were married and Jeremiah had gone north to find work.

  Of course, there were more letters back and forth with Aunt Nelda too, and lots of questions. Jeremiah’s being in Delaware probably added to my own enthusiasm. Both Katie and I began to get excited about the trip north. It would be another adventure together, but unlike anything we had ever done before.

  So gradually our plans formed and we made arrangements to go to Philadelphia for our visit in May of 1870.

  Letters of anticipation began to pass more frequently between me and Jeremiah. Katie had been writing back and forth to the North a lot too in the months leading up to our trip. I wasn’t the only one looking forward to visiting someone! She kept most of her thoughts to herself. But I knew she had a big long letter that had come only a week before.

  As the time grew closer we looked forward to the trip more and more. Pretty soon it seemed like we were talking about nothing else. We knew we’d feel better about going if the planting was done before we left. So we worked hard to get the crops in as soon as the weather turned and the spring rain and sun’s warmth made the earth just right. The harvest the year before hadn’t been very good and prices were down. We hadn’t been able to pay all our taxes and were hoping for a better harvest this year so we could get caught up again. I didn’t know what it cost for the school we were going to visit, but it had to be a lot and I didn’t see how we could possibly pay for it if we couldn’t even harvest enough cotton to buy food for us all and pay for the other things Rosewood needed and pay the taxes. But everyone insisted that there would be money for school if we decided we wanted to go.

  What I didn’t know at the time was that our taxes had nearly doubled in the last few years and were just about more than Rosewood could afford unless Papa and Uncle Ward hired a lot of men and doubled the acreage we grew crops on. We had done pretty well for amateurs, I suppose. But there wasn’t a true farmer among the men, Papa or Uncle Ward or Henry, who really knew how to get the most out of a large plantation like Katie’s father had, or her uncle Burchard or probably William McSimmons. We were just a family of people who happene
d to be here and happened to own Rosewood because Katie’s father and mother had been killed.

  Under the circumstances, we had been pretty proud of ourselves for what we’d done.

  But was it enough?

  Would it be enough for the difficult times that lay ahead for Rosewood? And was this a time when Katie and I wanted to be away?

  They were questions I didn’t know the answers to right then.

  Whatever the future held, we were going on a trip to see Aunt Nelda. That much at least was certain. Then we would come back and we’d get the cotton harvest in and pay off the taxes with hopefully plenty to spare.

  Then we’d worry about the future.

  At last it came time to actually start packing. That’s when the excitement really began to set in! My carpetbag was packed two weeks beforehand. Then unpacked and repacked another ten times after that!

  Finally the big day came when we were to leave for Charlotte to board the train for Richmond, and then north on to Philadelphia. The train was to depart in the afternoon, so we left Rosewood at dawn. Josepha and Henry were up to see us off. Josepha handed us a basket so full of food we all laughed. Then Papa and Uncle Ward took us in the buggy to Charlotte.

  Papa and Uncle Ward tried to be excited for us. But once when we were standing on the platform I saw Papa look away and brush at his eyes. It stung my heart to see a grown man having to fight back tears because of love for me. That is a pretty incredible thing.

  Then the time came.

  “You two be good,” said Uncle Ward, giving us each a hug.

  “That goes for me too,” said Papa. He took me in his arms and hugged me tight. As I stepped back he kissed me on the cheek. By then I had tears in my eyes!

  Then he did the same with Katie.

  “All aboard!” called out a uniformed man up toward the front of the train.

  We all hugged again, then Katie and I went to the open door closest to us, stepped up, turned and waved one last time, and stepped inside. We hurried into the coach to get a seat by the window on the side where they were standing so we could see them.

  A minute or two later the train began to move. We waved frantically as long as we could, but in another minute they were out of sight and we sat back down.

  Our adventure had begun!

  We looked at each other and smiled as if to say, “Well, this is it!” then turned to look out the window as the city faded and we entered the countryside. I suppose we were both so full of thoughts and emotions that we couldn’t talk. That’s the great thing about best friends, you don’t have to talk all the time. The friendship deepens just as much through silence as with words.

  That’s how I felt then. Just to know Katie was beside me, enjoying the same sights, maybe feeling and thinking some of the same things, was enough.

  “It’s almost like it’s a new chapter of our lives, isn’t it, Mayme?” said Katie at last. “We’ve read the book up till now and here we are. But we haven’t read the next chapter yet.”

  “What kind of chapter do you think it will be?” I said. “An adventure, a romance, a mystery?”

  “I guess we have to keep reading—just keep being who we are to find out. Maybe all three!”

  “I wonder what the school is like.”

  “Me too. Aunt Nelda is so looking forward to our visit. She’s been alone for so long. I wish I hadn’t waited so long, but for some reason I was almost afraid of her. I can’t imagine it now. It must have been hard for her to have been widowed for so long. I wonder why she never married again.”

  I thought about Katie’s words for a minute, and couldn’t help thinking about Papa.

  “Maybe it’s that the Daniels family only gives their love once,” I said. “After he lost my mama, Papa never had eyes for anyone else either.”

  “Do you really want to spend three years at school away from Rosewood, Mayme?” Katie asked.

  “I don’t know. It does seem like a long time.”

  We were quiet awhile longer, enjoying the clickety-clack of the tracks beneath us.

  “I hope everything goes all right at Rosewood,” said Katie after a bit. “I can’t help feeling a little guilty for leaving them alone. There’s a lot that we do every day—the chickens, the cows, making the cheese and buttermilk, the washing. Josepha can’t do it all.”

  “They’ll all pitch in and probably enjoy it!” I laughed.

  “I’m just glad we got the planting done and that we’ll be back in time for the harvest.”

  “I have the feeling they’re going to miss us. I could tell.”

  “Me too. They were trying to act happy for our sakes. But they were sad.”

  “Things are sure changing at Rosewood, with Emma and William gone, and Jeremiah gone, and now with us gone . . . it’s going to be pretty quiet around there.”

  “Just like it used to be when we were alone together, remember?”

  “You think I will ever forget!”

  “I suppose not. I never will.”

  “Remember when Papa first came? It was all women and him. Now it’s all men but Josepha.”

  We laughed at the thought.

  “If I know her,” smiled Katie, “she’ll keep them in line. Wouldn’t you love to see that—Josepha bossing the three men around!”

  We laughed again and then it grew quiet. I took out the most recent letter I had received from Jeremiah. I had written to him about our visit to Aunt Nelda’s and I read in his letter again that wild horses wouldn’t be able to keep him away from Philadelphia when we got there. When I next looked over at Katie, she was absorbed in the long letter she’d gotten last week.

  SEPARATION

  14

  We had been on the train probably about half an hour, talking and looking out the windows and going back to our letters. We were sitting with our letters in our laps when we heard the door open behind us and the conductor came along asking for people’s tickets. Katie folded the pages in her hand and we both pulled out our tickets to get them ready.

  The conductor reached us, looking at both of us with a stern expression.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, looking down at me.

  “I have . . . here’s my ticket,” I said nervously. The look on his face was enough to make anyone nervous!

  He took it and clicked it with a little metal thing in his hand, glanced at Katie, took her ticket and did the same, then looked back at me.

  “Get your things, girl,” he said, “and come with me.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, misunderstanding him at first. “I am fine here.”

  “I should say you are!” he said. “But you aren’t staying here. Now I said come with me!”

  “Why, where are you going?” I asked.

  “You can’t sit here. This carriage is for whites only. You’ll have to sit in the colored car at the back of the train.”

  Katie and I glanced at each other. Neither of us knew what to do.

  Finally Katie stood up and picked up her carpetbag and satchel.

  “Let’s go, Mayme,” she said. “I’ll come with you. That will be the simplest thing to do.”

  She stepped out into the aisle where the conductor was waiting.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” he said to Katie. “I cannot allow you to do that. No coloreds in the white car, no whites in the colored car.”

  “But we have the same tickets,” said Katie.

  “That doesn’t matter, miss.—Now, girl,” he said, looking at me again, “come with me now before I have to forcibly remove you.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, looking at Katie. “I’ll be fine.”

  I got my things and stepped out to go with the man.

  “Well, it’s not all right with me,” insisted Katie. “You can’t do this,” she said, continuing to argue with the man. “We have the same tickets. There’s no slavery anymore, or haven’t you heard? You can’t treat her this way!”

  By now other passengers were looking at us and it was becom
ing a scene.

  “Sit down, lady!” yelled a man several seats away. “The nigger girl doesn’t belong here.”

  “That’s right, miss,” said the conductor. “Now if you don’t sit down and behave yourself, I’ll put both of you off at the next stop.”

  I could tell that Katie was irate, but finally saw that there was nothing she could do. I looked at her and smiled and tried to reassure her that I didn’t mind.

  She sat down, still fuming, and I followed the conductor along the narrow aisle. I glanced back as the conductor opened the door at the back of the car. I smiled again. Katie tried to smile too, then I saw her pull out her letter and start to read again.

  FOREVER CHANGED

  15

  AS KATIE READ, TEARS STREAMED DOWN HER FACE.

  I looked away at the last instant, but the terrible bang of the trapdoor opening, and the gasps of the onlookers as the poor man’s body fell through the scaffolding and the rope yanked taut on his neck . . . they are sights and sounds too horrible to speak of, yet ones that will remain with me forever.

  Oh, Rob . . . Rob! Katie whispered as she broke into sobs.

  That he may have deserved it according to the law is not sufficient to quiet the unrest of watching a man die and knowing that I was personally responsible. Not solely responsible, of course. I recognize the intellectual arguments that can be marshaled against my feelings of guilt when they surface as they often do. But such arguments do not meet the agonies of such a memory. Certainly I am comforted by his change of heart at the end. As he was at peace in death, I too am at peace, though the memory of his death remains a burden that I carry with me daily . . . and one I carry alone.

  Later that day, Detective Heyes came to our house and asked for me. He handed me back my New Testament, a watch, and a worn and folded letter that Teague had saved for years. He said that Teague had asked him to get them to me. The letter was from his mother, from years before, and it broke my heart every time I read it. But when I was up to it, I went to visit her, told her my story, and tried to offer her what comfort I could.