A Perilous Proposal

by Michael Phillips

  Two or three minutes later, Jake was dragging the limp form off the path into the nearby underbrush. Behind him he heard his mother moaning in pain.

  Jake hurried back, glanced about, then ran ahead to the clearing, picked up the man’s shirt and jacket, ran back, and threw them into the brush out of sight. Now first he saw the color on his hands. But the horror of what he had done had not yet fully dawned on him. He ran to the creek to wash. As he did, it was the creek that gave him the idea of how to get rid of Tavish for good.

  A few minutes later he hurried back to his mother, who was struggling to come to herself.

  “Mama, Mama,” he said, stooping down beside her. “Oh, Mama, I’s sorry . . . I’s sorry for all da things I said.”

  “Jake . . . Jake,” she moaned feebly, “dat be you?”

  “Yes, Mama. It’s me. I’s here now.”

  “Where dat terrible man?”

  “He’s gone, Mama. I run him off. He’s gone now.”

  “He hit me, Jake . . . he hit me bad.”

  “He’s gone, Mama . . . he won’t hurt you no mo.”

  “My head . . . it’s painin’ me sumfin dreadful.”

  “I’ll git you home, Mama,” said Jake, gently slipping his hands beneath her shoulders and knees and lifting her as he stood.

  Ten minutes later his mother was resting on her own bed pad while Jake wiped her face and forehead and arms with a damp cloth. Already welts and bruises were beginning to show color around her eyes and across her cheeks. But the blows to her jaw and back of her head were more serious than the rest. Young Jake was not physician enough to recognize that she was feverish, nor to know the danger of allowing her to drift off to sleep so soon after hurting her head.

  Once she was asleep, the reality of his own plight began to press itself upon him.

  What should he do?

  He had to get help for his mother. That was the first thing. But if it was discovered that he had attacked a white man, even fair-minded Master Winegaard would mete out the white man’s justice swiftly and harshly. Whatever form that justice took, it would not be favorable for young Jake Patterson. And he knew it.

  First he would find the rest of the women where they were working in the garden. He would get old Mammy Jenks to sit with his mother. Then he would go back to the master with whatever story he could devise to account for the length of his absence.

  FAREWELL

  7

  THERE WAS NO MISTAKING THAT MASTER WINEGAARD was growing perturbed by Jake’s delay. But before a tongue-lashing could erupt, Jake ran up saying his mother had had a bad fall, had hit her head, and that he had helped see her to bed and had sat with her for a while. The obvious panic on Jake’s face confirmed that he was not making the story up.

  Winegaard nodded with concern and asked if she was being looked after. Jake said Mammy Jenks was with her. Had the accident happened before or after he had seen Tavish? Jake answered that he had delivered the satchel and then helped his mother to her bed.

  The vague reply did not seem to bother the master. He took in the information, then returned to his own affairs while Jake rejoined the rest of the slaves in the field.

  When Tavish did not return to the big house for supper that evening, Winegaard sent one of his men after him. They returned saying they could find no trace of him. The only evidence he had been there at all was a hammer, a whiskey bottle, and the satchel of staples on the ground that Jake had delivered. When Tavish still made no appearance the following day, Winegaard chalked it up to drink, the irresponsibility of a slacker, or the itchy feet of a drifter. He said to himself that he had received the best of the bargain anyway, since he had not yet paid anything for the halfweek’s work.

  The missing man was not quite so easily dismissed from Jake’s mind.

  He hardly slept for a week, haunted by nightmares of what he had done and what might be the consequences. More than once, dozing in the quiet, lonely hours of blackness, he awoke suddenly in a cold sweat, fingers clutching at the imaginary rope he had felt tightening about his neck.

  But there was no escape for him. His mother needed him. Still she lay, day after day and night after night, coming in and out of consciousness. She took water occasionally but ate nothing. By appearances she was getting no better. All Mammy Jenks could do was shake her head and mumble unintelligibly. Her countenance did not look hopeful. Everyone knew Mammy Jenks possessed a sixth sense about these things.

  After several days, Master Winegaard sent for the white doctor in town. By now the swelling of the face, as well as the bruises and welts around both eyes, was well pronounced. The doctor questioned everyone as to their cause. No one knew a thing. Jake professed truthfully that he had not seen the accident but had found his mother lying on the ground moaning in pain and complaining about her head. His story, short on detail as it might be, was the only account to be had; there was nothing to conclude but that the injuries to Jake’s mother involved mysteries they might never get to the bottom of.

  Then came a day when she became still more feverish. Mammy Jenks appealed to Master Winegaard. Again he sent for the doctor. He said there was nothing to do but keep the fever under control with cold compresses. He added that she had probably suffered a concussion and that eventually the fever would pass if they could keep her cool.

  Mammy Jenks watched him go, shaking her head. “What dat fool white man knows ’bout doctorin’,” she mumbled under her breath, “is jes’ ’bout what ah knows ’bout dat ol’ Greek language dey say da Good Book come from.”

  When Jake returned from the fields that evening, Mammy Jenks gave him instructions about keeping his mama’s skin moist and cool. She showed him the soup she had made for his supper, and told him to spoon some of it into his mother’s mouth if he could. Then she returned to her shack to see to her own people.

  Jake spent the night at his mama’s bedside. He tried to be stoic, for he was poised at that moment between childhood and manhood, where he thought that to show his emotions indicated weakness. He had seen on Mammy Jenks’ face that his mother had taken a turn for the worse. The budding man inside his young body wanted to be strong. But the boy that was still more part of him than he let on was dying with anguish for what his own foolishness had allowed to happen.

  In the middle of the night, as he dozed in the chair at her side, his mama came suddenly awake. She found his hand, then clutched it with unusual strength. Jake came to himself. He felt his mother’s hand holding tight to his, clammy and wet. An involuntary shudder went through him.

  The fever seemed to have completely left her. Now she felt cold. Too cold. She pulled him toward her face.

  “You fin’ him, Jake,” she said. Her voice was stronger than it had been in days. Strong and determined.

  “Who, Mama . . . find who?” he said sleepily.

  “Yer papa, Jake. You fin’ yer father. I want him ter know dat I loved him, dat he wuz da bes’ man da Lawd cud er gib me. You tell him, Jake. You tell him I neber stopped lovin’ him, dat I wuz neber wiff anudder man in all my life but him. You tell him, Jake.”

  “I’ll try, Mama.”

  “Sumday you’ll be free,” she continued. “I knows it, sumday we all be free. An’ w’en dat day comes, you fin’ him, you hear—you fin’ yer daddy an’ you tell him he wuz da bes’ man I eber knowed. I don’t care what you say ’bout him, you’s wrong, Jake, an’ don’t you say nuthin’ like dat ter me . . . not now.”

  “I won’t, Mama. I’s real sorry fo what I said dat day. I love you, Mama. I’s real sorry.”

  “Dat’s good er you ter say, Jake,” she said softly, a feeble smile coming to her face. “I’s be better now, jes’ hearin’ dat. I cudn’t bear ter say good-bye wiffout it right atween us again.”

  “Good-bye . . . what you mean, Mama?” said Jake, fear clutching his heart.

  “Jake, my boy,” replied his mother weakly, barely whispering now, “it’s time you gots ter be a man. I’s goin’ where you can’t go wiff me. Ain�
�t no one can go wiff me but da Lawd, an’ I’s almost see Him comin’ fer me . . . it’s all white dere in da distance. I know it’s Him. I can jes’ kinder make out da white er His robe . . . an’ He’s walkin’ tards me wiff His hand out ter take mine. Dere’s a smile on His face . . . He smilin’ jes’ ter see me! An’ He’s by hissel’ too, so I knows yer daddy’s still here on dis side er dat ol’ ribber called Jordan. He’s still here cuz da good Lawd, He wants you an’ yer papa ter fin’ one anudder’s arms agin. I knows it . . . so you fin’ him, Jake.”

  “How will I fin’ him, Mama?” said Jake, his deep manvoice trembling like a boy’s.

  “Dere wuz talk from one er Massa Clarkson’s house slaves dat he wuz sol’ up norf where Massa Clarkson had a brudder, sumwheres in Carolina. So you fin’ Carolina, Jake.”

  “What’s Carolina, Mama?”

  “Don’ know, Jake. Sumwheres up norf . . . you fin’ it.”

  She fumbled weakly in her bedclothes. A moment later her hand emerged clutching a tiny object. She took Jake’s hand, then opened her own. In it she held a small carved wooden horse.

  “Take dis, Jake,” she said in a voice that had grown so weak he had to lean down with his ear next to her mouth to make out her words. “Yer papa gib it ter me. Take it ter him . . . it be my way er tellin’ him I neber fergot how good he wuz ter me.”

  Jake nodded as he took the tiny horse his father had carved many years before.

  “You fin’ Carolina, Jake,” his mother added, “whateber it be, whereber it be. I know dat sumday you’ll see dat freedom me an’ yer papa prayed ter see. So w’en you’s free, you fin’ him. You hear me . . . you fin’ him.”

  The talk had taxed her. She fell back on the blanket and closed her eyes. Jake sat, holding the carving in one hand and her limp hand in his other. Her breathing was labored and weak. He sniffed and dabbed at his eyes, then replaced her hand under the blanket.

  Jake longed to cry. His heart was breaking for fear of what was surely at hand. But even in the middle of the night with no human eyes upon him, the floodgates of emotion within him were accompanied by too many memories of his father yet to open themselves.

  By morning his mother was gone.

  Jake knew it the moment he woke again two hours after drifting off to sleep where he sat. His eyes fell upon her face. Her eyes were closed but her mouth was open a crack. A pallor of grey had begun to invade the brown of her skin.

  “Mama . . .” he whispered, though he knew she could not reply. A trickle of moisture filled his eyes. He brushed at it, then leaned down and kissed her mouth. Her lips were cold.

  Jake pulled quickly away, then rose and went for Mammy Jenks.

  They buried her the day after in the small plot on a distant corner of the Winegaard plantation where slaves were laid to rest. Most of their fellow slaves, as well as Master and Mistress Winegaard and the white preacher from town, stood beside the grave. Jake stood stoic with the others, saying nothing. Still his tears remained inside. Their season had not yet come. The pain he felt in his young heart was too mingled with other things to do anything but fill him with conflict and confusion.

  The secret of what he had done haunted him. Every day he grew more fearful that Master Winegaard or one of his men would discover the truth, or that the missing man would turn up to betray him. Nothing now held him to this place. Two nights later, in the quiet hours between midnight and the first sound of the cock, Jake stole quietly from the small cabin he alone now occupied.

  With only the few clothes he could carry, he crept through the woods to the creek, which alone knew of his terrible deed. He then began to run across fields barely lit with a quarter moon.

  He ran and ran until his lungs were ready to burst. He rested, then ran again.

  All night he ran, until the day’s first light began to grow in the east. He searched for a secluded place to lie down and sleep. How many miles from the Winegaard plantation he had gone, and in what direction, he had no idea.

  He only knew two things for certain. For the first time in his life he was on his own. And he was a runaway.

  If he was found, it would not go well for him. He had never forgotten Master Clarkson’s overseer’s words about his father. He had never forgotten the master’s words about nigger dogs. And he knew that nigger dogs thirsting for the taste of nigger blood were everywhere.

  As soon as he woke he searched about for water to drink. From what he knew about the sun in the sky, Jake Patterson then began to make his way in the only direction that promised safety for a black man on the run.

  North.

  TERRIFYING ENCOUNTER

  8

  NOT ONLY WERE THERE NIGGER DOGS EVERYWHERE, there were runaway slaves everywhere too. Slavery was tearing the country apart at the seams. One of the results was a flood of escapees from plantations large and small. More and more blacks were setting out for freedom in the North.

  No bond among men and women is quite so instantly felt as the camaraderie of shared affliction. In the South of those dis-United States of America, the lines of antagonism between slave owners and blacks were more and more strident. Therefore, any fellow of dark skin was an immediate comrade, no matter what might be his circumstances.

  It did not take Jake long to find that he had friends everywhere among the innumerable brothers and sisters of his race. All he had to say was, “A white man killed my mama and I’m a runaway,” and he was instantly taken in, fed, clothed, and provided a place to sleep for as long as he chose to remain.

  After his first few weeks on the run, Jake never went hungry. He moved from plantation to plantation, field to field, from slave hut to slave hut. He passed from family to relative to acquaintance. He was given directions, instructions, names, and passwords. Anyone and everyone with black skin was only too eager to help him. Blacks, whether slave or free, may not have had much. But what they had they would happily share with any pilgrim in need.

  Gradually came word that the man called Lincoln had been elected president, and that the states of the South were joining together to form a new country.

  None of that meant much to the slaves until April of 1861, when even more shocking news began to spread—war had broken out between the old country and the new, the North and the South.

  All this time Jake had had no definite plan. He only knew that the Carolinas were somewhere vaguely north and east of him. His northward sojourn had taken him to northern Alabama and near the border about the time the war broke out. Having to hide out more now because of the war, and traveling with other blacks making their way north, his steps now followed a northerly route into Tennessee. There he first saw signs of the war for himself.

  He was just looking for a place to sleep one night, traveling alone, when the small company of grey-clad soldiers came into sight in the distance. His first thought was panic. He didn’t know much about the war, only that it was being fought over slaves and slavery. But soldiers meant government, and the government didn’t look kindly on runaway slaves. There was no telling what might happen if they saw him.

  But Jake had no time to decide what to do. While he still stood watching, suddenly a small band of riders galloped through the woods behind him.

  He glanced back. Their uniforms were grey just like the troops in the distance. Every face among them was white.

  He sprinted for the cover of some nearby undergrowth. But it was too late to hide. They had seen him.

  “Hey, boys!” cried the lead rider. “Look what we found—a nigger kid! Hey, boy . . . come back here!”

  The soldier lashed his mount and bolted after him. Terrified, Jake kept running. But he was no match for a man on horseback, much less six of them. Within seconds they had him surrounded.

  “Where you think you’re going, nigger boy?” said another of the soldiers. He inched his horse close to Jake and gave him a shove with his boot.

  Jake stumbled back and fell against the flank of another of the horses.

  “From the look o
f it,” said another, “he’s a runaway. Where you goin’, boy?”

  “Nowhere, suh,” replied Jake.

  “Then what you doing out here alone? You’re lyin’, boy!”

  “Maybe he’s a spy for the Union,” suggested one of the soldiers.

  “Nah, he’s too young and ugly for that. He’s a runaway if you ask me.”

  “Then we gotta do something about that, don’t we, boys?”

  “Yeah,” laughed another. “Looks like we got to teach this nigger boy a lesson!”

  “I ain’t no runaway or no spy—” Jake began. Another kick in the ribs silenced him.

  “Hey, boy! You ain’t got no call to talk unless your betters ask you a question. So you just shut your mouth!”

  At last Jake’s anger got the better of his fear.

  “President Lincoln’s gonna free us all one er dese days, an’ den I’ll say whateber I feels like sayin’!”

  It was a foolish outburst. Jake still hadn’t learned to control his anger.

  “You hear that, boys! He says ol’ Abe’s gonna free him.” Cruel laughter followed, along with a few more shoves and jabs and kicks against his head and shoulders.

  “Ain’t you never heard of the Confederate States of America, nigger boy?” said one of the riders. “That’s where you are now. Abe Lincoln don’t got no power here. Ain’t that right, boys? You ain’t in Abe Lincoln’s country no more—you’re in the South, where Jeff Davis is president. Niggers ain’t free here and you’re still a slave. That’s why we got to teach you your place. You been speaking with disrespect to your betters. We got to learn you some manners.”