“No, I’m sorry, Josepha,” he replied. “I didn’t think to check.”
“Still no word yet!” she said, half to herself. “It been too long. Dey shoulda wrote by now.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” said Templeton. “Probably just busy, that’s all. They’re probably having such a good time trying on store-bought hats and dresses that they just forgot to telegraph us.”
“I still think it’s been too long. I don’t like it.”
“From that look on your face, Herb,” said Ward, “I’d say you got something serious on your mind.”
Herb Watson tried to laugh with him, but without much humor in his tone.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said.
“Anything you got to say, you can say to us all.”
Watson nodded. He might as well just get down to the business of his call.
“I’d hoped, as much as I didn’t want to do it, that letting your boy go,” he said, glancing in Henry’s direction, “would take care of things. But I’m still getting pressure. And unfortunately, with the law on their side . . .”
He did not finish. Except for Josepha at the stove, the kitchen fell silent.
“Come on, Herb, out with it,” said Templeton at length. Just give it to us straight.”
Watson sighed.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that maybe it would be better for everybody if you’d get your lumber and supplies elsewhere—just for a while, until things settle down.”
“You don’t want to sell to us?”
“Come on, you know it’s not like that. But I’m being pressured, and . . . well, why should we intentionally alienate them? There are other places.”
“What about our cotton, Herb?” asked Ward.
“I don’t know—that’s still several months off. It’s only May—let’s worry about that when the time comes. But there’s talk you shouldn’t get the same price as the other farmers.”
“How can they do that?” asked Ward. “You set the prices.”
“Only partly, depending on what I’m going to be paid by the consolidator in Charlotte. Then I judge according to quality. They figure theirs is better cotton—at least that’s the excuse they use.”
“But it’s a lie, Herb. You know that our cotton is as good as anyone’s.”
“Well, that’s true. But their kind can do anything they want. I can’t very well let them put me out of business. That’ll just hurt everybody.”
“What happened?” asked Templeton in a more serious tone than was generally his custom.
“One of Sam’s cronies saw Henry coming in a week or two ago, for that order of lumber of yours. More threats started immediately.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing serious, but they made it plain enough what they think of my doing business with coloreds and those that harbor them. It was made clear enough that it wouldn’t go well for me if I didn’t put a stop to it.”
“Is that all, Herb?”
Watson sighed. He was a tolerant man. This went against everything he believed in. When he finally spoke, it was with a sad voice of resignation.
“Well, you’d better be prepared for a low yield on your crop, that’s all,” he said slowly. “The likelihood is that you’re not going to get but half what you’re expecting, maybe even less. They’re going to be watching.”
The brothers looked at each other with expressions of concern and surprise.
“If we don’t sell this fall’s crop of ours, and for a top price, we’ll never meet our taxes,” said Templeton. “We were short last year and they gave us a year’s extension. But they won’t look kindly on us being short again.”
“Yeah, I know that. But I don’t know what else to do. They could ruin me if I don’t go along. They could burn me out and ruin all the other growers too.”
“We’re going to have a good year, Herb. We got ten acres more planted than last year.”
Ward shook his head and drew in a deep breath. “They’re trying to squeeze us out,” he said. “It’s beginning to look, after all we’ve put into this place, like they might finally do it.”
“I’m sorry, boys,” said Watson. “I’ll think on it and see if there isn’t something I can come up with.”
He rose to leave.
“Don’t you want a cup er hot coffee?” asked Josepha.
“Thanks, but I’ve got to be getting back. Sorry to put you to the trouble, but this wasn’t a very pleasant errand. I feel like a scoundrel having to say what I did.”
“It’s not your fault, Herb,” said Ward.
“By the way,” Watson said, “how is your boy doing, Henry?”
“Doing good,” answered Henry. “Though he ain’t much ob a letter writer.”
“He’s found himself work in Delaware,” added Templeton. “He’s making pretty good money, trying to save enough to marry that daughter of mine.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Give him my regards when you write to him.”
“We’ll do that.”
“Sometimes I think we all ought to pack up and join him,” sighed Ward. “Probably save everybody a lot of trouble.”
“We can’t give in, Ward,” said Templeton. We’ve got to fight this. We’ve weathered plenty of crisis times before now.”
“We always had the cotton to bail us out. And I’m not sure it’s worth it if it gets someone killed.”
“Well, thanks for letting us know, Herb,” said Templeton. “I’m sorry our troubles keep landing on you.”
“Nothing’s landed on me yet. I just hope we can figure out a way to keep this mess from landing on everybody.”
As Herb Watson headed back to town, and Henry and Josepha made their way back to their own house, the two brothers sat back down in the kitchen that had once been so full of life and activity. The whole house seemed far too big, far too silent, and far too empty for just the two of them. It seemed deserted.
More had changed around here than just the attitude throughout the South toward Negroes. Rosewood had changed too. They weren’t so sure they liked it.
I TAKE MATTERS INTO MY OWN HANDS
27
By the second night since we had been taken from the railroad car, the men especially were getting restless. I had the feeling they’d try something before long. But they were worried about the women and children and the guns. I lay awake thinking about the weather vane. About halfway through the night I remembered why it was so familiar to me. I remembered it from Josepha’s stories about the Underground Railroad. Josepha hadn’t got this far north, of course, but she said the places where they’d stop and get help used horse weather vanes like that for a sign. They marked the homes of white religious people who talked old-fashioned and who’d sometimes help runaway slaves.
We weren’t runaway slaves, but we were sure in trouble. I wondered if blacks could still get help at those kinds of places.
It was the middle of the night. In the distance I heard two of the men with guns whispering to each other. If I could just get close enough to hear!
Their backs were turned. They couldn’t see me. I tried to roll toward them, moving slowly so that if they looked in my direction it would look like I was asleep inside my blanket. I had to scrunch my way around some of the others who were sleeping. But eventually I worked my way close enough, an inch or two at a time, where I could lay pretending to be asleep and make out about half of what they were saying.
“. . . three more days . . .”
“. . . ship waiting?”
“. . . think any of the men’ll cause trouble?”
“. . . might have to kill one or two . . . shut the rest of them up . . .”
“. . . old woman . . . won’t bring much anyway.”
“. . . much you think we’ll get . . .”
“. . . close to three, maybe four thousand.”
The other whistled under his breath.
“. . . desperate for workers. . . . last load . . . came away with a thous
and . . . just my share.”
“. . . get to the river . . . safe then . . . barge down to coast . . .”
I couldn’t be positive, but that sure sounded like they were taking us someplace . . . and planning to sell us. I could barely breathe—slavery was supposed to be over! I couldn’t believe that I’d heard what I had just heard!
We had to do something! But what could I do? I was just one girl.
Now I really couldn’t sleep!
I thought about trying to wake up one of the men. But whatever I thought of to do reminded me what they’d said about killing a few of us. If they heard me talking in the middle of the night to anyone, they would be suspicious and might do anything. So what should I do?
The two men finally got up and wandered around a bit, keeping guard and checking the horses, and the night grew silent. I suppose I dozed a little, and by morning I had come up with a daring scheme.
I had to try to escape and get help!
The way I figured it, if I didn’t, nobody would because nobody else likely knew what I had overheard. And I couldn’t talk to any of the other people about it without possibly getting us all in trouble. If I acted on my own, at least if anything went wrong, it would only go wrong for me.
Whether all Negroes looked alike to whites I didn’t know, but the big mean-looking black man who was with the kidnappers . . . I knew we didn’t all look alike to him. He’d looked at me a time or two in a way I didn’t like. So he knew my face, that’s for sure. How could I get away without him noticing that I was gone?
Morning came, everyone stirred and began getting up, going to the woods, eating more of the stale bread, wandering back and forth from the stream. The three men watched as we went, but not so close that they saw every move we made, especially as people went into the woods to do their necessaries. Nobody talked much, because the men were listening too. Knowing that the men might shoot if anyone started something, I couldn’t imagine any way for all of us to escape together, or to get the guns from all three of them at once without something going wrong.
But one person might be able to escape. So that’s what I had in mind to try to do—escape myself and then worry about how to get help or rescue the others after I was out of danger.
I went slowly to the stream with a group of others, pretending to be sleepy and not paying attention to anything. But out of the corner of my eye I was watching the big black man. I knelt down, washed my face, took a long drink, then got up. The man wasn’t looking right then, so I followed a group of three or four women toward the trees. But I continued to keep the three guards or kidnappers or whoever they were in sight without it being too obvious. Gradually I went a little further from the others into the woods. Then I hid behind a tree that was just about as wide as me. I stayed there till I heard the other women go back. I waited a little more, then snuck a look around the edge of the trunk. The black man was talking to somebody.
Hurriedly I darted a few steps further back among the trees until I found another trunk to get behind. I kept doing that until I was far enough away that I couldn’t even see anyone or the wagons. By then I knew that they couldn’t see me and that I was safe unless I made a noise or unless the mean-looking black man realized I was missing and came looking for me. If that happened, I’d be in big trouble!
So I crept back through the woods as fast as I dared, without stepping on twigs or making any sound. I got so far away that I could barely hear their voices in the distance. Then I stopped and waited. I was safe for now, unless any of them came looking for me.
Several minutes went by . . . then five . . . then ten.
I heard a faint yell that sounded like a driver calling to horses. Then I thought I heard the sound of wagon wheels grinding and wagons clattering into motion.
Gradually everything became silent. Had they really left without me? The old woman would know I was missing because we had talked quite a bit during the two days. I just hoped she didn’t say anything about my not being there.
I waited another ten minutes or so, listening for any hint of noise. Then I crept out of the woods and into a field.
There wasn’t a person or wagon or anything to be seen. They were gone and I was alone and I didn’t know where.
THE WIND IN THE HORSE’S HEAD
28
After hiding in the woods and waiting for the wagons to leave and realizing I’d escaped, suddenly my stomach reminded me that I should have grabbed a chunk of bread before heading off to the stream and the woods.
I was hungry!
I had successfully pulled off the first part of my plan and had gotten away from the three men and the wagons of blacks.
Now what?
I hoped to find a farmhouse, one of those with a horse weather vane. We had passed one a few miles back before stopping last evening. If I could just find it!
I started slowly running, following as best I could the wagon tracks I could faintly see in the grass and dirt. I still had no idea where I was. The terrain was much hillier than it had been after leaving Richmond, even hillier than the place where we’d gone up the hill and they had unhooked the car from the rest of the train. There was farmland and grazing land, but a lot of woods and forested land too. I hoped I didn’t run into any bad people! I hadn’t been out like this alone since the day my family had been killed and I’d wandered my way to Rosewood. I was older now and I knew that some people did bad things to young women.
I ran and walked for half the morning, stopping for drinks of water along the way. In three days, all I’d had to eat was the stale bread they’d given us. So I was famished and exhausted within a couple of hours.
Finally in the distance I saw smoke rising from a couple of farmhouses, so I struggled to keep going.
At last I reached the house I remembered seeing the afternoon before. I glanced toward the roof of the barn. There was the weather vane glistening in the sun—the metal outline of a horse’s head painted black. I hoped Josepha was right about these people being friendly!
What if the friendly religious people didn’t still live here? That was a chance I would have to take.
I drew in a breath and tried to gather what courage I had left. Most of my courage I’d used up escaping. By now I was too tired to feel very brave! I walked up to the front door, took another deep breath . . . and knocked. A minute later a white lady dressed in a long grey dress came to the door.
“Yes, may I help thee?” she asked.
“Hello,” I said. “I . . . I, uh, saw your weather vane up there,” I said, pointing to the barn. “Do you, uh . . . still help colored folks who are in trouble?”
A look of astonishment spread over the woman’s face.
“Wilber!” she called into the house. “Wilber, ’tis a Negro girl who inquires about the wind in the horse’s head.”
A man’s foot sounded from inside, then the woman’s husband appeared and came to the door.
“I see,” he said, looking me over, and then glancing past me out into the yard. “Art thou alone?” he asked.
I had never heard anyone speak like that before, but I understood what they meant. “Yes, sir,” I said. “But I am in trouble, sir. I was kidnapped with a whole train car full of other blacks two days ago. They were taking us somewhere in wagons. I saw your house when we passed yesterday and I knew about the horse weather vanes from a friend and lady who used to be a slave and who went on the slave railroad—”
“The Underground Railroad!” exclaimed the woman. “But that was years ago!”
“Yes, ma’am. I used to be a slave too. But the men who took us from the train two days ago treated us like we were still slaves. They had guns and frightened us so much that everyone did what they said. But I escaped this morning, and I remembered your house and the weather vane, and that’s why I came here.”
The woman and I both looked at the woman’s husband. He thought for a moment.
“It seems, wife,” he said, “that the railroad may yet be needed again. We hav
e heard of these abductions. What thinkest thou? Dost thou think perhaps it is time for me to pay a visit to our neighbor?”
“Perhaps the tidings of which we have heard are indeed true. Yes . . . why dost thou not visit the good man, while I see what I can find for this nice young woman to eat?—Art thou hungry, my dear?” she asked, turning again to me.
I smiled timidly. “They didn’t give us much to eat,” I answered. “Yes . . . I am very hungry.”
“Good,” the lady said with a smile. “Then come with me while Wilber goes to our friend and they think what is to be done. Thou art safe now. But we must pray for the others.”
NEW FRIENDS
29
The lady scarcely had me sitting at her kitchen table and starting to set before me fresh bread and milk and strawberries and cheese, when I heard her husband galloping away outside.
She introduced herself as Mrs. Brannon and said that she and her husband were Quakers, which I figured was why they spoke like they did. I remembered what Katie had once said about thinking her family used to be Quakers or something. She was as nice as she could be and made me feel completely at home. I almost forgot how worried I was about Katie.
Mr. Brannon returned about two hours later. Another man was with him. They dismounted and came straight into the kitchen.
“Wilber,” said Mrs. Brannon, “our young friend’s name is Mary Ann . . . Mary Ann Daniels.”
“Hello, Mary Ann,” he said. “I am sorry I had to leave thee with such haste. But it was important that our neighbor hear what thou hast to tell us.”
He turned to the man who had come with him, a tall, almost imposing but peaceful-looking man, whose smile immediately put me at ease.
“Hello, Miss Daniels,” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Richmond Davidson. I live just over the ridge to the east. Mr. and Mrs. Brannon and my family were involved in what was called the Underground Railroad, helping fugitive slaves get to freedom in the North. Since the war there has been no more activity of that kind . . . until recently. There have been rumors—unsubstantiated until now—of the kidnapping of unsuspecting Negroes and selling them in an illegal slave trade to the sugar plantations of the Indies. So why don’t you tell us exactly what happened.”
Miss Katie's Rosewood Page 12
