Will Thatcher answered the question that First Freeman hadn't asked: "She come on her womanhood two moons ago."
"Good God," Freeman said again, imagining the girl—young and pretty and wild— roaming the forest alone or singing and dancing at night in the rain, though he was deprived of the opportunity for further expression by Ruthie's arrival.
"Uncle Will! Mr. First!" She grabbed each man by the hand and pulled. "Y'all got to come on. We ready to eat."
"Y'all gon' eat up all the food 'fore we get there?" Freeman asked.
"No, sir," the girl responded, appalled at the thought. "Pa says we can't eat 'til y'all come so y'all got to come 'cause everybody's hungry."
"Then I guess we better come on, Freeman," Will said and led the way across the yard to the shady area where the tables were set up.
Ruthie had never seen so much food. Nobody present had ever seen so much food. Everybody had brought something to share and the two long tables that were set up under the tree near the cook pits were covered, every inch of them, with plates and bowls of food. Ruthie had believed that they'd be eating only what was cooked on the spits or in the pits, but the contents of all those bowls and plates contradicted that. To accompany the roasted meats and vegetables and fried fish were deviled eggs and cabbage slaw and bowls and bowls of greens and many platters of fried chicken. Then there were the cakes and pies and cobblers.
"Lord have mercy." Little Si's eyes were so big and his mouth was hanging wide open, Ruthie thought he looked like a hooked fish.
"You rather stand there watching the food, Si, or you want to eat it?" Ruthie said as she began choosing what she most wanted to eat: Roasted ears of corn, roasted yams and turnips, whole roasted fish—in fact, anything that was wrapped and buried in the hot coals to cook from the inside out was Ruthie's favorite food. She'd eat roasted cake and pie if such a thing existed.
Galvanized, her brother heaped food onto his wooden plate until there was no room left for more and Ruthie briefly misinterpreted the look of sadness on his face. Then, when finally she understood, she started to laugh, and she laughed so hard that she began to choke and the woman in the line behind her had to slap her back—hard—to bring the breath back. This is what Ruthie's Ma saw and which had her hurrying over.
"Ruthie?" her Ma said, bending down to look in her face.
"Oh, Ma," Ruthie said, the tears streaming down her face further confusing her mother. She had to speak, to explain. "Si thinks there ain't gonna be no food left if all these people eat."
Nellie gave her daughter an odd look, then switched her gaze to her son's over-filled plate and she didn't know which of the emotions and feelings that swept through her to give in to. In the end, she didn't have a choice for, like her daughter, she started to laugh. She turned to the woman behind her, whose concern was beginning to turn to annoyance, and said, "My boy fears not having enough food."
The old woman's dry cackle got the attention of everyone within in earshot. She reached out a gnarly hand and touched Little Si's face. "Boy," she said in a voice that sounded rusty, as if she hadn't used it a long time, "even if we was all still slaves and hadn't et in a week, wouldn't nobody go hungry today. There's food aplenty here, don't you worry 'bout that. Go 'long, now, you and Li'l Sis, 'fore I get some more hungry."
Nellie got the message and hurried her children out of the way so that the hungry line could move forward. With a hand on each of their heads, she guided them toward the lean-to where her family was gathered. It was an easily and hastily built structure—most families had built one—that kept the direct sun off them while providing a sense of togetherness for the familial units. There was no privacy as the structures were open on three sides, and anyway, privacy wasn't the issue—family was. Another of the arbitrary dictates of slavery, along with the prohibition against wearing bright colors, barred maintenance of the family unit. So, in the absence of blood relatives, slaves formed themselves into units based on proximity and need, and those units functioned like family, and it was that sense of family that always drew First Freeman back to Carrie's Crossing: To the former slaves who were his family.
Little Si stopped chewing and swallowing long enough to stare at his sister's plate. He frowned. "That's all you're gonna eat, is fish?" Her plate was piled as high as his own, but where he had piles of roasted meats, she had piles of fish—fried fish, roasted fish, grilled fish.
"I got corn and turnips and cucumbers and tomatoes too," Ruthie said."
"But what about chicken or rabbit or deer or..."
"Leave her alone, Si," Tobias said. He said it quietly, softly, almost, but Little Si gasped as if his big brother had yelled at him. Or worse, had hit him. Ruthie, too, was looking at him with something like fear in her eyes. He wished he could take back the words but he couldn't, any more than he could forget that his little sister no longer was a baby and that from now on—at least until she married and it was some other man's job—Pa had given him the task of watching over her, of keeping her safe. He wasn't sure how he would or could do that, especially since Ruthie had always been free to move about as she pleased, but Ma had just started keeping her out of the fields and kept her close to the house now, helping with the washing, ironing and cooking and planting seeds or pulling weeds in the garden the family kept for its own food, but she was just as likely to be down at the creek, catching, cleaning and gutting fish, or climbing up a tree to talk to a hooty owl, or sitting under it reading a book. And it was his job to know where she was at all times.
"Toby?" Ruthie called his name but both younger siblings were looking at him, their eyes large, round question marks: What had they done to upset him?
"I'm surprised you can still talk, Baby Sister, with those gills growing out the side of your face, all that fish you're eating. And you," he said, turning toward Little Si, "I expect you'll be walking on all fours by the time the sun sets.Or hopping like a bunny rabbit."
It took them several heavy seconds to realize that not only wasn't Tobias angry with them, but he was playing with them, just like always. They started to giggle, then to laugh out loud as they imagined themselves with gills and fins and hopping like rabbits. They rolled themselves closer to their big brother and leaned against him, assuring themselves of his continued love, and that it was safe to return to the Celebration.
All of them—the more than one hundred Colored people gathered that hot Georgia day in 1918—felt and behaved like family as they celebrated Juneteenth on the land owned by Will Thatcher, proud of the fact that he, a former slave, now owned property. A good many of them lived and worked on Will's land, proud of that fact too; proud to call themselves farmers and not sharecroppers, as were called those who worked the land owned by white men. This sense of pride made their celebration all the sweeter—that and the fact that they could, each and every one of them, eat as much food as they could hold. For no matter their age or circumstance—former slave or child of former slave—having enough to eat and drink remained a situation of catch-as-catch-can. The prayers of thanks were deeply felt—for the freedom and for the food.
After the feasting came the fun—the music and dancing and games—activities enjoyed almost exclusively by the younger people; the elders either napped or wandered from family group to family group, exchanging greetings and gossip. Everybody, young and old, sighed with relief as the sun began its descent in the western sky. The day had been hot and while the night would not necessarily be cool, the absence of the blazing sun would add to the evening's enjoyment. Children and dogs chased each other and coming-of-age young people got better acquainted with each other, while mothers kept a casually vigilant watch over them all, and the men, not so casual in their vigilance, patrolled the borders of the celebration area.
It was Little Si who first became aware of the danger coming their way, but before he could find and alert Pa and Uncle Will, a woman who saw what he saw when he saw it, alerted the entire gathering when she emitted a high, keening wail. In an instant, silenc
e invaded the grounds—even the night creatures were shocked into a momentary ceasing of their chirping and croaking—as they all sought the source and reason for the alarm; and when they found it, their silence took on another meaning: Fear, as the white man stumbled toward them muttering curses.
"Goddamniggers," those closest to him heard, and heard him say it over and over, low and beneath his breath, as if some perverse form of prayer. "Goddamniggers." He was bent over and breathing hard, as if he'd just tried to outrun some wild, hungry animal. Then he stood up straight, and the effort clearly cost him because he coughed and he grabbed his chest, but he'd found his voice for he yelled, "Get offn my land, goddamniggers! Get offn my land!"
Nobody spoke because nobody was breathing. The children were paralyzed because the adults were paralyzed, and they all were watching the stumbling, mumbling, drunken white man who now had discovered the food-laden tables.
"Where y'all steal all this food?" He staggered toward the table, reached out and grabbed several pieces of fried fish. And that's when motion returned to those whose freedom celebration had been disturbed. It began with the dogs, three of them, medium-sized mongrels of no particular type or description: They silently bore down on the unaware white man, startling him so that he dropped the pieces of fish. Then the dogs stopped running but kept up their snarling and snapping, low on their haunches, ready to spring if ordered.
First Freeman held one hand low by his side—the hand that controlled his dogs—and the other raised toward the white man. "This ain't your land no more, Carney Thatcher. You knows that good as I do."
"Carney Thatcher?" The fearful, whispered query wove through the crowd on the thick night air. "I thought he was long daid."
"His pa's daid. This the son," another whisper replied.
"Goddamn niggers," Carney Thatcher yelled. "Get offn my land." The yelled words caught in his throat and he began to choke and cough.
"Back up, y'all." They all, including the dogs, obeyed Freeman's hissed order, several people ready to run if necessary.
"Stay on that road yonder and it'll take you on to your brother's place. To your land."
Carney Thatcher, swaying back and forth like a tree leaf in a breeze, squinted at First Freeman. "I know you, Boy. I know who you is."
"I 'spect you do," the old man said.
"You ain't one of them nigger Thatchers, though."
"No. I ain't."
Carney looked closer, squinting, as full darkness had descended and the only light in the velvet night was provided by the nearly full moon and the firmament of stars. "You one of Tom Fordham's niggers. I 'member you. You was good a fixin' things. Your name is Si…"
"My name First Freeman. Now get on 'way from here," First Freeman said in a low, cold voice, as his dogs resumed their low, cold snarling. "Go on home to your people. You stay on that road yonder, you'll see Zeb's place. It ain't moved since you was last 'round here."
Carney Thatcher first turned his head to look toward the road, then he turned his body and took a hesitant step, before turning back. "You say your name is what?"
Freeman turned his back on the strange visitor and waved his arm. "All the food on that table," he said, "bury it. Don't even let the dogs eat it. That man is bad, bad sick."
For a moment nobody moved, frozen in place by the emotional trauma brought by the unexpected visitor and struck dumb at the thought of throwing away food. Bury it? Surely not. But when Freeman upturned the table and Nellie Thatcher ran toward it with a shovel, it became clear that the food on that table would, indeed, be buried. As Nellie began digging, she sent one of her boys for a bucket of lime. He sprinted off and the crowd released its collective paralysis and several pairs of hands pitched in to assist as First Freeman exhorted them over and over, "Don't touch it! Don't y'all touch it!" Many of them would wonder later how the old man could know that such good food could be dangerous, but nobody questioned him at the time, and it was only a shriek from normally peaceful and quiet Nellie that shifted his focus from the task at hand.
Nellie looked up from her digging and burying and she wasn't certain, at first, that her eyes weren't playing tricks on her in the dark. She straightened up to get a better look and the horror on her face stilled and frightened those around her—especially her children. "Uncle Will! Where you goin'? You can't go out there. Come back here!"
Old Will Thatcher, already several steps out onto the road, stopped walking, but he didn't turn around. Many voices were calling to him now, urging—demanding—his return and he was grateful for the darkness that covered his fear, but he needed to go, to see, to be certain.
"Will'am! What is you doin'?" First Freeman grabbed his friend's arm and momentarily was startled by the resistance he found, though he shouldn't have been: Despite their ages, both were strong, powerful men; what else could they be after a lifetime of physical labor?
"I got to go see, Freeman. I got to know."
"See what? Ain't nothin' to see out here in the dark, 'specially if you get yourself kilt."
"Got to see did Carney tell Zeb 'bout Juneteenth, 'bout our celebration, that's what."
"Ain't nobody gon' pay Carney no mind, not even Zeb."
"Why, just 'cause he's drunk?"
"He ain't drunk, Will, he's sick, bad sick, and if he ain't already dead, he soon will be. Now, bring yourself off that road!"
Will allowed himself to be returned to his yard and his family and friends though he kept looking over his shoulder, peering into the darkness. "I'll go in the mornin', then."
All of First Freeman's pent up fear and anger exploded out of him then, but it was a quiet fury and so much more frightening than if he'd yelled and screamed. "Stop bein' so damn' bull headed, Will! Did you hear me tell you Carney Thatcher is sick to dyin'? You don't want to be no where near him 'cause what he got, anybody 'round him can catch. Why you think I had y'all bury that food what he touched?"
"'Cause you hate him."
His anger spent, First Freeman laughed a good laugh and clapped his old friend on the back. "I don't hate nobody bad enough to throw good food on the ground." He looked around at all the people crowded around him, still silent in their fear. "Y'all listen to me: Carney Thatcher ain't drunk, he's sick. They got some kinda sickness over yonder in Belle City—and everywhere else for that matter—that's takin' people 'way from here left and right. They call it 'fluenza and it's a catching sickness, so y'all got to stay 'way from him and anybody you see actin' like he was." He looked around at the faces looking back at him in the darkness, then he put his arm around Will Thatcher's shoulders. "Ain't nobody gon' believe nothin' come outta Carney Thatcher's mouth, Will, 'specially Zeb." Then he chuckled again. "You think Zeb Thatcher gon' believe that all you niggers is on his land, singin' and dancin' and eatin' just like you was rich white folks?"
All was still and silent for a moment, then a hoot of laughter cracked the dark silence, and everybody was laughing and somebody said, "Rich white folks: That's us, all right."
"I'm hungry," somebody else said. "Bein' scared is hard work."
And though there was no more music or dancing or running and chasing, the celebration resumed—after all the parents accounted for all their children and strict warnings were issued and reiterated about not venturing out onto the road at night and what to do if drunk-acting and crazy-talking people, white or Colored, were encountered. Uncle Will's family and his closest friends surrounded him and kept him close for the remainder of the evening, though only the most astute of the adults realized that in just a few moments, something very large had shifted and changed within the old man that night.
From the Diary of Jonas Farley Thatcher
June 1918. My Uncle Carney came home to die. Pa didn't know that. He just knowed that his big brother come to visit who he had not seen in many, manny years. He was awful bad sick that nite when he got to our house. I dint know who he was and he dint know who I was. He thot I was my brother. He called me Zeb. I tol him I was Jonas but he didt se
em like he heard me. He didt see me nether. Not like you see peeple when you look at them. Uncle Carneys eyes was big and wide open but he didn seem like he culd see anything. Ma said he was burning up hot with a feever. He was sweting when he come to the door like it was the hotest part of the day. But it was the nite time and he was burning hot and wet. He told Pa he come home to get his land back. Pa said he was talking crazy out of his hed. Ma said he was deelerus. Pa sent me to fetch Doc Gray. I had to walk we don't have a hors no more. It was a long long walk I was hot and sweting like Uncle Carney when I got to docter Grays hous. but I was not deelerus. Docter gray say that meens the same as talking crazy and he sayd if Uncle Carney was like that he was to far gon. and he sayd we shuld al get out from the hous specialy Ma that Uncle carney had the flunza. Lot of foks in Belle City had it an they dyed. Docter gray sayd Uncle was dyed to. and he was dyed when I got walked back home. ma got scrad and she got mad we culd die from the fluenz she saed cause it is a catching sickness. She maid Pa dig a deep hol and put Uncle Crney it and cover him up with lim. then she washd evrthing in the hous with lie sop. Some thing I nevr tol my pa was Uncle carney was not talking crzy a tall. He kapt on saying about nigers singing and dancin and havein to much food and how he want his land back. Pa thot he was talk about Belle City but he was not. He was talk about ruthie Thatcher's farm and the party they was hav the nite Uncle Carney come home to die. I allso did not tell my pa I was glad uncle dyed becaus things got better when he dyed becaus of the mony. Evry thing for us was better except one.
From the Recorded Memories of Ruth Thatcher McGinnis
I know this will sound strange to you, Sissy, but when I was a young child, I didn't really know very much about white people and racism...really. It's true! There I was, living in a house built by ex-slaves who were my family, surrounded by former slaves and other people who had experienced unspeakable horrors, and I knew practically nothing of it. Oh, of course I knew that something called slavery had existed, but I didn't really understand, not then, what that meant. I was thirteen years old before I saw a grown-up white man up close....what? Oh, yes, my brother Silas and I had a white playmate, a boy our age, but Jonas wasn't evil, and he was as terrified of his father as we'd been taught to be, though, no doubt, for different reasons. How could this be? Our parents shielded and protected us from as much of the ugliness that surrounded us as they could, just as I shielded and protected my children from it and just as your parents did. And you must keep in mind how we lived back then, especially out in the country. Not only were we separate, we were isolated. There was no radio, no newspaper. We shared land with a man who hated the sight of us—so he didn't see us and we didn't see him. But all that changed one night in June of 1918. We were celebrating Juneteenth—you know what Juneteenth is, don't you? Well, I have to ask, Sissy; so many of you young people don't know anything of your history. Anyway, nothing was ever again the same for us after that night, though it wasn't until many years later that I could pinpoint that night as the beginning of the changes that would impact our lives forever. Change for good or ill? Almost of it was ill—with one major exception: Your Grandpa.
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