Somebody ran across the thicket where I was hiding and nearly stepped on my head. There was struggling. More feet running.
“We got one, Mike! Here’s one!”
I heard a terrified cry. “Noo! I ain’t done nothin!”
Dear Lord, they got Bo.
“What we gonna do with im?”
“Hang the bastard!” a woman screamed.
“You after some white wimmin tonight, boy? Izzat what you after?”
“No! No!”
I heard the smack of a fist and something tumble to the ground. Then I heard blow after blow being laid on Bo.
“I’m innocent. You can’t hang me til you prove I’m guilty!”
“Oh can’t we, boy? You tellin us what we can do? Izzat right? Tell us about how you come over here to git some of that nice white lovin!”
“No! I didn’t even know where we were goin—”
“We, boy? Who’s we?”
“Yoll better speak, boy, or we’ll tear yor arms off!”
“Who’re yor friends, boy?”
“Speak!”
“He ain’t talkin. OK, Jim, git his arms.”
“Break his legs!”
“String the nigger up!”
“A woman ain’t safe in her own home nohow!”
“Talk, nigger! Who’re yor friends?”
“He ain’t gonna talk!”
“That’s yor las chance, nigger. Break his arms, Jim!” I heard scrambling and struggling.
“I got a crowbar in my trunk!”
“Well, git it, dammit!”
“Damn! We wastin our time here. Them others is getting away.”
Footsteps came running. “Here’s the crowbar!”
Crack! Bo screamed. Crack! He screamed again, and then I heard him squealing and tumbling through the leaves.
“Hey! They’re getting away! Leave him and git over there to Lily’s place! Surround the place!”
There was more commotion, more gunfire, more screaming.
“Don’t lettum git away! They gittin away! Damn! They got away!”
“Well, they’s gonna be a burnin tonight! We’ll show them to stay away from our wimmin!”
“Oh, God, what’s this world coming to?”
They were so close to me I could smell their breath. I had to get to Bo and get him out of there.
“Mike, Lily ain’t home! The house is locked up and nobody home!”
“Locked from the outside?”
“Yeah!”
Bo was rolling in the grass with car lights fixed on him. I crawled toward him afraid to make a sound. If I could reach him, we could make a run for it.
“What yoll say we hang the one we caught?”
“Hang ’im! Hang the nigger!”
I made a lunge for Bo, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him out of the car’s headlights. “Come on, man. We gotta run!”
“I’m innocent!” he spit out.
“Never mind no innocent, run!”
“I cain’t . . . my leg’s broke.”
At that instant I saw Big Mac and the poking iron come down on him and me standing by looking dumb and doing nothing. I hurled Bo on my back and took off. “I’m innocent . . .” he kept murmuring.
“Shut up, fool, they’ll hear you!”
I ran as hard as I could through the brush and tangled weeds. I was pushing the plow, carrying water, hauling wood, clearing fields of rock. I was hearing the lash and Mitt and Waxy getting the bottoms of their feet tore up. I was racing Thrasher’s horse like we was racing from hell itself.
“Where’d he go?”
Pheee-ak!
“Don’t be shootin at nothin! After him!”
“Mary! Did you see that? Thet nigger done vanished!”
Their voices grew farther and farther away as I pushed into the woods with Bo on my back. I had no idea where I was going or how to get back to the campus. If I had paid attention in the quarter when Miz Ceily read the stars I might know which way to go. She always knew north from south and east from west. Me, I just knew how to run.
I would have made it if I hadn’t tripped and went crashing to the ground. I held Bo, who was either passed out or dead. There was a big gash in his head and his eyes were rolled up in their sockets. I saw what it was I tripped on. Rufus McGovern’s empty whiskey jug. Okay, maybe I could get my bearings and figure out how to get back, but when I tried to stand up, my left foot caved in on me.
Then I heard them coming. I hid Bo under a thicket and covered him with leaves. “Don’t move, Bo,” I whispered, and made a dive for the trees on one foot. I slipped and slid down a ditch on my back. I saw the lights of their American Eveready flashlights. I heard one of them trip over something soft. And then they carried Bo off.
28
I lay motionless in the ditch until the sounds were gone. I knew it would be senseless to try to make a break for it. There were bound to be people out all night searching for the rest of us. The whole town was probably alerted. Those fool white people must have thought it was a Negro uprising, an insurrection, maybe the return of John Brown. Didn’t they know all we wanted was to be human beings? Poor Bo, poor Bo. He hadn’t even wanted to go out tonight.
I didn’t crawl out of the ditch until the sky was beginning to turn pale yellow in the early morning. The birds were chirping in the distance, just as if nothing was wrong. I could hardly move, my body had been cramped for so long. There was no feeling in my right foot and my left foot pained. I crawled on my knees up the sandy ledge and over into a grassy patch near a tree. I limped all the way back through the trees to where they caught Bo. Slowly, with an icy shudder, I lifted my eyes up.
There he was, right where they had left him. Not even swaying, just hanging there—still. Still. He was soaked red with blood, and beneath where he hung was a big puddle of dark red. I was stunned and sickened. I thought I’d throw up or pass out.
Lord, I’ve got to get him down. How to do that, Lord? I staggered to the tree, my legs and feet tingling with feeling coming back. I tried to climb the tree but I couldn’t do it; the tree was too wide, and I couldn’t catch hold. Frantically I looked for something to stand on. There was nothing. Just trees. Oh Lord, I can’t leave him hanging here like this! I hopped back and forth crying and looking for some way to cut him down. When I heard the purr of a car engine, I stopped in my tracks. A car was cruising slowly along the edge of the woods. They were still patrolling for us, a bunch of stupid boys.
I didn’t know which way to run, but I knew I had to get away from the road. I had to leave Bo hanging there. I hobbled into the trees praying I’d find my way back to the school. I pushed ahead until I could go no more. The morning sun pierced through the trees, and the darkness lifted. I cut in a diagonal in order to avoid the edges of the woods where I might come out in a white neighborhood and tried to aim in the direction I thought we had come. I stopped to wipe my face and catch my breath. Yes, this is the spot. Here’s where I stood, and there is where Rufus was—Bo was right here next to me . . . Oh Lord, Bo.
Now I was pretty sure I knew the way back. When I saw the school on top of the hill, I clamored to the road and climbed the hill.
Inside the dorm, I was met by one of the students rushing to his first-hour class. “Man!” he whistled. “You musta had some time las night. You better hurry, loverboy, cause you is gonna be late for class!”
I found the dorm counselor, and, weeping, I told him what had happened and how they had hung Bo. He was shocked and ran out of the office in a rage.
Within an hour three members of the faculty drove to where Bo was, with police consent, and they cut him down. They brought his body back to the school until his mama came to claim it. She came the next day, a thin little lady wearing round glasses and a flowered hat. I wanted to say something to her, tell her how her son had died a hero.
The funeral was held in the church Bo had attended as a boy. His mama looked at me with tragic eyes, her thin, stiff face struggling to remain cal
m. “Son,” she said quietly, “did you see my boy die?”
“Well, Ma’am, I was there, but I couldn’t see—”
“Did he pray before—before—”
“Ma’am,” I answered quickly, “the Lord was there, Ma’am, with his arms around Bo. I know. Because God is a just God.”
She wept softly.
“Ma’am . . .” I stammered, “I want yoll to know . . . he didn’t get on his knees for them. And he wouldn’t give the names of his friends . . .”
She blinked back the tears. “Well, ain’t that somethin? I always knowed he was a lot on the brave side. . . .”
Life at the school after Bo’s death became very difficult for everybody. The students were not allowed off campus even for five minutes, and we knew we were in danger. Nothing was done about Bo’s murder, in spite of the protests and influence of the faculty. There was talk of Rufus getting an award for shepherding the rest of the boys back safely after they had deliberately disobeyed rules.
His lady friend, Lily Spotter, had decided not to have a party after all, but went to a movie instead. Rufus seemed more upset about her not being home than he was over Bo’s death. “You live and die,” he said. “Bo was a good man, but it’s the livin we got to think about. It’s the livin who count in this world, not the dead.”
When Christmas vacation came, I stayed at the school and worked doing maintenance for some extra money, which I sent home to Margie. My ankle healed up without any doctor’s help. I withdrew into myself after Bo’s hanging and became dedicated to my classwork and job. I think somewhere inside me I wanted to take Bo’s place and finish what he had dreamed of doing.
When spring break came, I got a job off campus painting houses, and I rented a room two blocks away from school where it was safe in the home of a widow lady named Mrs. Black. She was about eighty years old, wore her teeth only on Sunday, and believed shoes were a sin to your toes. She cooked my meals for me, and every night when I came home after work, she’d be waiting by the window for me.
September of 1931 was as busy as the fall quarter the year before. Small was my roommate again, and we would talk on into the night about sports and girls. I was still recovering from Bo’s death.
It was right before Christmas vacation when another incident happened that alarmed the school. There had been some more murmurings around town that some black man had raped a white woman. Whenever a rumor like that was started, every black family had to be extremely cautious. One of the first-year students got careless, however. On a sunny Monday afternoon, whistling and singing as he walked back to the campus after running an errand, a car stopped beside him on the road. There were three white men inside. “Hey, boy! Can we give you a lift?” The unsuspecting student thanked them and got into the car.
The men drove him to a garage some distance away and castrated him. Then they drove him outside of town and dumped him at the side of the road. A black farmer found him later that day and took him to the hospital in Walhalla. He was in critical condition for several weeks and never came back to school again. We learned later that he committed suicide.
I went back to Anderson for Christmas vacation that year. Margie and her son, Alan, treated me with so much loving care that for two weeks I forgot my troubles. In the evening I read the Bible out loud as we sat around the wood-burning stove in the center of the room.
“You know, Robert,” Margie told me, smiling, “Jesus make it all worthwhile.”
“Yes, He do,” I said in a quiet voice.
“God is a good God, Robert.”
I took her hand and stroked it. “Margie, you know, being at school is—well, it’s givin me more than book learnin. And one thing I know is that the Lord can carry a man through anything. He gives the mind to take the bad as well as the good—you understand what I’m talkin about?”
“I understand, chile, I surely do.”
“And sometimes the bad is—really bad. . . .”
“That’s the God hepp me truth.”
———
Back at school I was making some new discoveries. For instance, I discovered that a black man named George Washington Carver made hundreds of things out of peanuts and became very famous, and even the president came to visit him. He wasn’t interested in profit from most of his products. He freely shared his discoveries, sayin, “God gave the inventions to me. How can I sell them to someone else?” I learned that he changed the South from being a one-crop land of cotton to being full of multi-crop farmlands, with farmers having hundreds of uses for their new crops. He made dyes of 500 different shades and just a few years earlier, in 1927, he invented a process for making paints and stains from soybeans. How come they say the Negro ain’t smart?
I also learned more about the man named Frederick Douglass, who was born as a slave and became one of the greatest orators in the country, holding political offices and speaking internationally against slavery. I especially loved to read about abolitionists like Sojourner Truth and Frederick Douglass. They had been slaves, too, and devoted their lives to putting an end to slavery and injustice. Mr. Douglass taught that whites and blacks should have equal rights and work together side by side. I learned about another black man named Matthew Henson who went to the North Pole with Commander Peary, and Robert Smalls, who had been a slave in South Carolina and became a representative from the state to the U.S. Congress.
Then there was Booker T. Washington, who had been born a slave and had hungered to go to school, the same as me. He worked hard to get his learning, and he founded the world-famous Tuskegee Institute in Alabama. He taught that black people should stick together, work hard, and improve themselves by education and effort before trying to integrate with white people. He organized the National Business League.
All this new information made my head swim. I had been taught that Negroes had no souls, that we were born only to serve the white man. Now I was learning about these early black history makers and world leaders.
I was beginning to break loose from the prejudice and hatred against us that had formed my thinking and attitudes as a child. For the first time in my life I was seeing my people with hope—not only in our own camp, but in the world. I was learning that maybe I could be and do anything—even be a lawyer like Bo Brocke wanted to be.
It had been seven years since I’d escaped from slavery.
I did not talk about my years on the plantation or tell people that I had been a slave. I was ashamed of it. To tell my schoolmates that I had been a slave would have been unthinkable.
29
In November of 1932 Franklin Delano Roosevelt was elected president. I knew a little more now about presidents, but not much more about elections.
I dedicated myself to studying that year. I spent every spare minute reading and practicing my writing.
In the spring I went to visit Mrs. Black. I found her in a field near her house picking dandelion greens. She smiled her broad, toothless grin when she saw me. “Robert! Ah declare!” We went back to her house, and she put the greens on to boil with a hunk of salt pork, and then she dipped the yellow tops in batter and deep-fried them. With warm corn bread from the oven and cold buttermilk, I smacked my lips with every bite. “Robert,” she asked me after we had eaten, “how much room do the Lord have in yor life?” I nearly fell from my chair when she asked me that.
“Hunh?”
“Give Him room, son, give Him room.”
“Well, I—”
“You gots thet worried look about ye, and they ain’t no good to worryin. That’s what we got a Lord fer so He can do the worryin.”
When it began to grow dark, I kissed her good-bye and headed back to the school.
“Yoll come back, and we’ll pick us some poke salad!”
I did go back, at least once a week, until the month before summer break in 1933. Mrs. Black was like tonic on a wound. I could hardly wait to get an outside job and rent a room at her house again.
It was a hot afternoon when I walked up the r
oad to her little wood-frame house on the hill a month later. I felt good, and I was glad the hot weather was here again and glad for the chance to work and make some money to send home to Margie. I looked forward to the quiet evenings with Mrs. Black, her good cooking, and her warm, loving friendship.
I mounted the wooden steps and noticed the door was bolted and the curtains drawn across the windows. I knocked and waited for the sound of her bare feet padding along the linoleum floor. There was no answer. I knocked again. When there was no answer I went around to the back. The back door was shut tight with a padlock nailed on the outside. I never knew her to lock anything. I picked up my grip and went back around to the front to wait. Maybe she was visiting.
I had waited for over an hour when a heavyset colored woman carrying some packages in her arms came puffing up the hill. She looked up at me and called, “You waitin on Miz Black?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Honey, she done died.” I sucked in my breath and my throat tightened. “They found her las week in that house. She had been dead for almost a month and nobody knew it. You a kin o’ hers?”
“—Uh—a kin? No . . .”
“Well, they didn’t have no funeral on account o’ she didn’t have no kin and nobody to give her one, so they took her out and buried her. I see they ain’t boarded the place up yit. Well, they oughta. People gonna break in there and—”
The woman stood by the steps and talked for what seemed like forever. I hardly heard a word she said.
Finally I interrupted. “How did they find her?”
“Insurance man come by. Insurance man knocked on the door and smelled somethin terrible. He peek in and there she was—on the kitchen floor. Half-rotten, they say. Insurance man never did get his money.”
I rose to my feet and picked up my grip. “Ain’t that a shame?” the woman continued. “No kin to cash in that insurance money or to get this house—”
I walked for hours, around in circles I think, unaware of the beautiful summer day. Sometime in the late afternoon I came to the familiar clearing where the neighborhood variety store was. It had a gas pump outside, and inside was a little bit of everything, including groceries, dry goods, and a counter where food was served. I opened the screen door and went inside. Met by the lazy drone of a fan and a “Hiyoll” from the Negro lady behind the counter, I sat down on a stool, took a deep breath, and ordered pie.
The Emancipation of Robert Sadler Page 19
