A Perilous Proposal

by Michael Phillips

  Thus the anger in Jake’s heart festered and deepened its hold on his dawning character.

  As the decade of the 1850s came to an end, talk of freedom was everywhere. Some folks were even talking about war. Jake had never heard the name Abraham Lincoln and knew nothing about elections or politics. But he could tell that things were changing.

  Jake was changing too. By 1860 he was twelve and growing into a strong, strapping Negro teenager. He had a man’s voice and was putting in long days with the other black men. But like most boys his age he wasn’t particularly eager to work any harder than he had to. It was something he would live to regret.

  The fall of 1860 progressed, and the election that would change the country and its history drew closer. Master Winegaard was working everyone on the plantation hard in preparation for winter, but also in preparation for what might happen if the Republican upstart from Illinois was elected. He had a cousin from the North who had written him about a rumor saying that the fellow called Lincoln might free the South’s slaves if he was elected. Whites throughout the South were scared to death of what might happen to their way of life. There was even talk about the Southern states forming a new country where slavery would be allowed whether Mr. Lincoln liked it or not. Some folks said the division between North and South could lead to war.

  All Jake and his mama knew was that Master Winegaard was working them harder than he ever had before. They were tired. The master didn’t usually take on extra hands because he had enough slaves to do the work of the plantation. But he was even hiring temporary whites now too. There were several new faces around the place, including a couple of drifters Jake’s mama didn’t like the look of.

  One hot day early in October, the master walked toward Jake where he was working with a dozen or so of the slaves.

  It was about eleven o’clock in the morning. They had been up at dawn and had been ploughing the hard ground of one of the fields ever since. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Flies were buzzing about. The men were all bare chested and sweating freely. Jake was so tired he could have fallen asleep right there on his feet, though the day wasn’t half done yet.

  “Jake,” said Master Winegaard, “here’s a satchel of fence staples. Take it out to where Tavish is working on that fence—you know, the twenty-acre parcel across the creek.”

  “I don’t know effen I know who Tavish is, suh,” said Jake.

  “I just hired him last week. Big white fellow—twenty-eight or thirty, black hair . . . he’s alone out there anyway. Just take the path beyond the slave village to the bridge across the creek. You’ll hear him working. Now get going—I want him to finish that stretch of fence today.”

  Winegaard handed him the leather pouch and Jake walked off in the direction of the slave cabins. On the way, he realized how tired he was. A cold glass of water would taste mighty good. Something to eat along with it would be even better!

  He walked into his little house ten minutes later, threw the satchel on the floor, picked up a tin cup, and went back outside to the water pump. His mother returned from the vegetable garden as he was splashing cold water over his head after taking several long, satisfying drinks. He fell in step with her back toward the house.

  “Wha’chu doin’ here at dis time er day, Jake?” she asked.

  “Massa Winegaard sent me on a errand ter sumbody workin’ ’cross da creek.”

  “You don’t look like you’s on yer way ter nobody.”

  “I jes’ stopped by ter git a cup er water an’ take a little rest an’ git sumfin ter eat,” said Jake. He followed her inside and plopped down on his blanket on the far side of the room.

  “Wha’chu layin’ down for?” said his mother. “Git up, Jake.”

  “I’s plumb tuckered out, Mama. I been out diggin’ in dat hard dirt all day.”

  “An’ I been workin’ in da garden mos’ er da day. What’s so unushul ’bout dat? Now what you supposed ter be doin’?”

  “Sum white man on da other side er da bridge needs dat dere satchel. But I figger he can wait a spell fo it.”

  “Effen Massa gib you sumfin ter do, den you best git it dun or you’s feel his whip on yo back.”

  “A few minutes won’t make no dif’rence,” said Jake. “’Sides dat, Massa’s busy over t’ da other side er da big house. He’ll neber know.”

  “He’ll neber know! What kind er talk dat be?”

  “Nuthin’, Mama—I jes’ meant he won’t fin’ out dat I stopped by here. He can’t whip me fo what he don’t know.”

  “Jake Patterson, you oughter be ’shamed er yo’self. Da good Lawd’ll know, eben effen Massa don’t. Tryin’ ter hide what you’s doin’ be jes’ like lyin’. Ain’t no good can come er dat, nohow.”

  “It ain’t lyin’, Mama,” retorted Jake a little testily. “I jes’ want ter rest a bit. Dere ain’t nuthin’ so bad ’bout dat. Why you takin’ da massa’s side?”

  “I ain’t takin’ nobody’s side. I’s jes’ tellin’ you what’s right, dat’s all. Yer papa wudn’t neber do such a thing. He wuz a man er his word, an’ effen he said he gwine do sumfin, he’d do it wiffout no sneakin’ roun’ pretendin’ ter be one place, den goin’ off sumwheres else.”

  “Well, Papa’s gone!” Jake shot back. “He left us an’ dat’s dat. I’s sick er hearin’ ’bout him.”

  “Wha’chu sayin’! He got sol’. He didn’t leab us.”

  “Dat ain’t da way I heard it.”

  “He wudn’t neber do dat. Now you git up and git goin’, Jake.”

  “An’ I tell you I ain’t ready jes’ yet. Why you always throwin’ Papa up at me like he wuz sum blame saint er sumfin!”

  “Jake, you watch yer mouf! How dare you talk like dat ’bout yer papa!”

  “It’s true—you make him soun’ like he was sumfin special.”

  “Dat he wuz as shure as you’s standin’ dere! Yer papa was a good man. He always did what Massa tol’ him. Effen he said he wud do sumfin he did it. Wudn’t hurt you none ter be a little mo like him neither.”

  “Like him! He’s da las’ man I’d want ter be like! What he eber do fo me?”

  “Wha’chu sayin’! What’s got inter yer head? He gib you life, dat what, an’ he loved you like no papa I eber seen.”

  “Loved me!” Jake said sarcastically. “I don’t ’member no love from him. He’d whip my back soon as da massa effen I did sumfin he didn’t like.”

  “He neber whipped yer back! Where you git a noshun like dat!”

  “He spanked me sumthin’ fierce!”

  “Only w’en you didn’t do what you wuz tol’. Dat ain’t no whippin’!”

  “When I got in er fight wif Johnny Clarkson, he sided wiff Johnny, not me, an’ den made me do what Johnny said. He wuz always lookin’ ter see what I done wrong an’ gittin’ after me fo it.”

  “Jes’ cuz he wanted you ter be da bes’ boy you cud,” said his mama. “Dat’s da job God gib papas ter do, an’ good papas try ter do it. It’s jes’ lazy papas dat let dere young’uns do whatever dey wants.”

  “Well, maybe I didn’t want ter be what he wanted me ter be.”

  “An’ maybe dat weren’t fer you ter say. Dat’s a papa’s job, an’ a mama’s too. An’ I tried ter do it, jes’ like yer daddy did. But you jes’ sulk round an’ gib me ornery looks like I’s sum kind er dog instead er yer mama. Sumtimes I wonder what you’s thinkin’, Jake, da way you act roun’ me. Mos’ kids got respec’ fer dere mamas, but you jes’ ax me ter do dis an’ do dat an’ den gib me nasty looks like you can’t stan’ da sight er me.”

  But by now Jake was too worked up about his father for his mother’s words to sink in.

  “You’s always sayin’ how good Papa wuz,” he went on irritably. “You say he cared ’bout us, but he didn’t. He didn’t care enuff ter stay. You say he wuz sold, but I’m thinkin’ you’s sayin’ it jes’ ter keep me from knowin’ da truf, an’ dat’s dat he turned his back an’ lef’ us. I know dat happened cuz one er da massa’s men tol’ me. Papa
lef’ us. An’ I hate him. I hate da thought ob him!”

  Jake began to storm out of the house. Stunned at what she had heard, and having no idea how strong was the silent anger that had built inside him, Jake’s mother stared after him with her mouth hanging open. His words had angered her too. But she was filled with the righteous indignation of a loving wife, not the selfish anger of a teenager. She found her voice a few seconds later.

  “Jake, don’t you turn yer back on me!” she yelled after him. “You come back here!”

  Jake stopped and glanced back.

  “You take back dose awful words,” she said. “You take ’em back, you hear me. Den you pick up dat dere satchel an’ take it where Massa tol’ you like yer papa wud er dun.”

  “I won’t take back what I said!” Jake retorted. “I meant it. Dere ain’t no love in my heart fo da man, whateber you say.”

  “Why, Jeremi—” she began.

  “Don’t you call me dat name!” Jake shot back angrily. “Dat’s what he always called me when he wuz getting’ after me fo sumthin’, an’ I don’t want ter eber hear it agin!”

  His mother’s heart sank. Her son’s words were so painful that she felt like a knife had plunged into her heart. Tears rose in her eyes.

  “Jake, Jake,” she said in a sad, almost pleading, voice, “w’en you gwine stop blamin’ yer daddy fo everythin’ you don’ like in life? Dere comes a time w’en folks gotter grow up an’ take a look inside theirselves ’stead er heapin’ dere own problems on sumbody else. Looks ter me like dat time’s ’bout come fer you. You got a heart full er resentment dat’s nobody’s fault but yer own. Yer daddy wuz a fine man dat honored da Lawd Jesus in everythin’ he said an’ dun. He tried ter honor da Lawd tards you too, an’ you’s got da wrong grip on it. You’s lookin’ at what he wuz an’ what he dun tards you all backwards. Looks ter me like da devil’s got hold ob yer heart ’stead er da Lawd himsel’.”

  “My heart’s my own biz’ness!” spat Jake rudely. “I don’t need you preachin’ at me neither, not ’bout Papa or Jesus or nobody else. I reckon I can take care of mysel’ wiffout either ob dem!”

  He turned again and stomped angrily away.

  His mother watched his back till he was out of sight, then began to cry in earnest. It broke her heart to hear him talk so. But it would break her heart even more for him to be whipped for disobeying, or, worse, to be sold as a troublemaker. Right now she couldn’t afford the luxury of sinking into the grief she felt. Whatever cruel words he had spoken, she had to protect them both from the consequences of his irresponsibility.

  She wiped back her tears, then picked up the satchel that still lay on the floor. If she delivered it herself, maybe the master wouldn’t find out that Jake hadn’t done what he’d told him. That wouldn’t be lying like what she’d said to Jake, but just making sure the job got done. At least that’s the way it seemed at the moment.

  The argument with her son was her fault anyway. She shouldn’t have pushed Jake so hard. If he did find out, that’s what she would tell the master. Hopefully whatever punishment fell would come to her instead of him.

  JAKE’S MAMA

  6

  IT WAS A CURSE FOR A BLACK WOMAN TO BE PRETTY IN those days, and Jake’s mama was. Every day she lived in fear that the master would make her marry someone she didn’t want to, or bed her down with one of his men. She was even afraid that one of the whites around the place would appear at her doorstep one day and order her onto the pad that was her bed. But Master Winegaard wasn’t cruel like Master Clarkson. Though he worked his slaves hard, he didn’t allow things like that to happen if he could help it.

  But he couldn’t be everywhere at once. A couple of the new men had been looking at her in ways that made her uncomfortable. With poor whites like them, you could never tell what might happen.

  Jake’s mama didn’t know where Jake had stormed off to, but as she crossed the bridge over the stream she knew well enough from the pounding echo of a hammer where he’d been supposed to take the satchel. She walked toward the sound.

  As she emerged into the clearing from where the sound was coming, she stopped abruptly. There stood a man she recognized as one of the new hands who had been around the plantation about a week. Beside him on the ground, along with his jacket, she saw what looked to be a bottle of whiskey. He saw the movement of her approach and turned.

  “Massa sent you down a supply er staples,” she said. “I’s set ’em right here.”

  She put the leather satchel she had been carrying on the ground, then quickly turned and began to walk away.

  “Hey, wait just a minute, missy,” the man called after her. “Where you off to in such an all-fired hurry?”

  Not wanting to anger him, she stopped, but stood facing the opposite direction.

  “I’m talking to you, missy,” said the man. “You turn around when a white man’s talking to you.”

  Slowly she turned. His eyes roamed up and down her body.

  “Anyone come down here with you?” he asked.

  “No, suh.”

  “You alone?”

  “Yes, suh,” she replied, her heart beginning to pound.

  Slowly an evil grin spread across his face.

  “Ain’t no one nearby,” he said, tossing down his hammer and walking toward her. “Why don’t you and I go over there and lay down in that nice soft grass and have us some fun. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, missy?”

  “No, suh . . . I don’t think so, suh,” she said. She took a few steps backward.

  “You refusing me, missy?”

  “No, suh. It’s jes’ dat I gots ter git back so dey—”

  “You’re lyin’, missy,” he interrupted as he began to unbutton his shirt. His voice contained more than a hint of anger. “There ain’t no one expecting you for nothing, is there? Ten minutes for a little fun . . . ain’t nobody gonna know but you and me. Now you come here, missy, and get that dress off,” he said, throwing his shirt on the ground.

  In panic she turned and ran. But it was the wrong thing to do. More than half drunk and running clumsily, he was still able to overtake her. She felt the strong grip of his hand on her shoulder as he grabbed her and yanked her back, pulling her dress down. She stumbled with a little cry and fell to the ground.

  “Now you didn’t need to go running off like that, missy,” he said. “You didn’t need to make Tavish mad.” He stooped to one knee and began to lie down on top of her.

  With a sudden strength that took him completely by surprise, she shoved him away. He fell on his back as she jumped to her feet. She pulled her dress up to her waist and bolted toward the bridge. Incensed with rage, he struggled up, yelling terrible curses after her, and tried to run. He stumbled, found his feet, and hurried after her. She made it farther this time, but again she was no match for his younger legs. When he caught her this time, his fury unleashed itself and he beat violently at her face and shoulders.

  Terrified for her life, she screamed as loud as she could and called desperately for help. Her cries enraged him all the more. He whacked with a clenched fist at her mouth to silence her, then continued beating at her head as if he had been fighting a man. A terrible blow to the side of her jaw stunned her with a sharp bolt of pain to the back of her skull. Wobbling dizzily, she staggered and fell limp to the ground. Her head thudded dully to the hard-packed dirt of the path.

  Even as he had left the shack, his mother staring at his back and his own heated words ringing in his ears, Jake knew how wrong he had been. Whatever he might feel about his father, he had never before raised his voice to his mother. His heart stung him for what he had said. The argument had also brought to the surface the overseer’s cruel and painful words from years before. True or not, they were the kind of words a boy never forgets. They had hurt him so deeply that he could never escape them. How much of his present anger was an attempt to fight back against the pain of such rejection, who could say.

  “He couldn’t stand the sight of you no
more . . . Dat boy ob mine’s jes’ too ugly . . . I can’t stan’ sight er him no mo.”

  Over and over the overseer’s words repeated themselves. Jes’ too ugly . . . can’t stan’ sight er him . . . too ugly . . . too ugly.

  All Jake wanted to do was erase the terrible words from his mind. But that was the one thing he could never do.

  He had to settle down. His temper had got the better of him a time or two with Master Winegaard’s overseer. He had tasted the man’s whip as a result. But now that his temper had erupted against his own mother, Jake suddenly saw that the demon inside him had grown larger than he had realized. But he kept walking away.

  He was too proud to admit it immediately. But it didn’t take long before he knew what he had to do.

  Jake walked sheepishly back into the house about five minutes later, cooled off and embarrassed. Already he was rehearsing in his mind the apology to his mother he knew he had to make. The house was still and quiet. He glanced around. His eyes fell on the floor where he had dumped the leather satchel.

  It was gone.

  Immediately he suspected the truth. The same instant a wave of panic surged through him. He had seen the same leering looks on Tavish’s face that his mother had. He knew well enough the cause of them.

  The next moment he was sprinting out of the house and running toward the creek.

  Jake heard the screams he knew were his mother’s well before he reached the bridge. When they went silent he increased his pace. He pounded across the footbridge, then slowed. He listened intently for any sound, then made for the field where he thought Tavish had been working.

  Halfway between the bridge and the clearing, he saw Tavish ahead. He had just unbuttoned his trousers, knelt down, and begun to rip at Jake’s mother’s dress. Jake flew the remaining distance and leaped at the man, hitting him in full flight and knocking him flat on his back. Even half drunk, Tavish had been able to overpower Jake’s mother. But he was no match for the son. His alcohol-soaked brain had no more begun trying to make sense of what had happened, and his eyes attempted to focus on the sky and treetops above him, than the fists and booted feet of what seemed like a dozen men began pummeling him with a frenzy that soon lost all sense of reason.