“Were you a cowboy, Grandpa?”
“I’m still a cowboy.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. I work with cattle, so I’m a cowboy.”
“You know what I mean. The kind who rides bulls, broncobusters. That kind of cowboy.”
“No, I’m not that kind. But I know some.”
“Are they famous?”
“No, but I did meet a real famous Black cowboy once. When I was eight years old, my grandpa took me to meet his friend Bill Pickett. Bill Pickett was an old man then. He had a ranch in Oklahoma.”
“Were there lots of Black cowboys?”
“Yes. Lots of them. They were hard workers, too. They busted broncos, branded calves, and drove cattle. My grandpa tamed wild mustangs.”
“Bet they were famous.”
“Oh, no. Some were. Bill Pickett created the sport of bulldogging. You’ll see that at the rodeo. One cowboy named Williams taught Rough Rider Teddy Roosevelt how to break horses; and another one named Clay taught Will Rogers, the comedian, the art of roping.” Grandpa offered Justin the last biscuit.
When they had finished their lunch they led the horses away from the shed to graze. As they watched the horses, Grandpa went on, “Now, there were some more very famous Black cowboys. Jesse Stahl. They say he was the best rider of wild horses in the West.”
“How could he be? Nobody ever heard about him. I didn’t.”
“Oh, there’s lots of famous Blacks you never hear or read about. You ever hear about Deadwood Dick?”
Justin laughed. “No.”
“There’s another one. His real name was Nat Love. He could outride, outshoot anyone. In Deadwood City in the Dakota Territory, he roped, tied, saddled, mounted, and rode a wild horse faster than anyone. Then in the shooting match, he hit the bull’s-eye every time. The people named him Deadwood Dick right on the spot. Enough about cowboys, now. While the horses graze, let’s clean up here and get back to our men’s work.”
Justin felt that Grandpa was still teasing him, the way he had in Justin’s room when he had placed his hand on Justin’s shoulder. There was still the sense of shame whenever the outburst about women’s work and the tears were remembered.
As they cleaned the utensils and dishes, Justin asked, “Grandpa, you think housework is women’s work?”
“Do you?” Grandpa asked quickly.
“I asked you first, Grandpa.”
“I guess asking you that before I answer is unfair. No, I don’t. Do you?”
“Well, it seems easier for them,” Justin said as he splashed water all over, glad he was outside.
“Easier than for me?”
“Well, not for you, I guess, but for me, yeah.”
“Could it be because you don’t know how?”
“You mean like making the bed and folding the clothes.”
“Yes.” Grandpa stopped and looked at Justin. “Making the bed is easy now, isn’t it? All work is that way. It doesn’t matter who does the work, man or woman, when it needs to be done. What matters is that we try to learn how to do it the best we can in the most enjoyable way.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever like housework,” Justin said, drying a big iron pot.
“It’s like any other kind of work. The better you do it, the easier it becomes, and we seem not to mind doing things that are easy.”
With the cooking rods and all the utensils put away, they locked the shed and went for their horses.
“Now, I’m going to let you do the cinches again. You’ll like that.”
There’s that teasing again, Justin thought. “Yeah. That’s a man’s work,” he said, and mounted Black.
“There are some good horsewomen. You’ll see them at the rodeo.” Grandpa mounted Pal. They went on their way, riding along silently, scanning the fence.
Finally Justin said, “I was just kidding, Grandpa.” Then without planning to, he said, “I bet you don’t like boys who cry like babies.”
“Do I know any boys who cry like babies?”
“Aw, Grandpa, you saw me crying.”
“Oh, I didn’t think you were crying like a baby. In your room, you mean? We all cry sometime.”
“You? Cry, Grandpa?”
“Sure.”
They rode on, with Grandpa marking his map. Justin remained quiet, wondering what could make a man like Grandpa cry.
As if knowing Justin’s thoughts, Grandpa said, “I remember crying when you were born.”
“Why? Didn’t you want me?”
“Oh, yes. You were the most beautiful baby. But, you see, your grandma, Beth, had just died. When I held you I was flooded with joy. Then I thought, Grandma will never see this beautiful boy. I cried.”
The horses wading through the grass made the only sound in the silence. Then Grandpa said, “There’s an old saying, son. ‘The brave hide their fears, but share their tears.’ Tears bathe the soul.”
Justin looked at his grandpa. Their eyes caught. A warmth spread over Justin and he lowered his eyes. He wished he could tell his grandpa all he felt, how much he loved him.
8
THE EXODUSTERS
THE HUMID HEAT did not let up and Justin was wet with sweat and worn out when they got back home. Not having been on a horse all summer, his legs were stiff. His backside was sore from the saddle. He could hardly walk. He welcomed Grandpa’s suggestion that he take a shower and rest.
In the shower he let cool water pelt him hard. He thought about the lunch outside and the talk about cowboys. He could hardly wait for the festival and the rodeo.
When he went into his room to rest, he heard his grandpa downstairs getting ready to take his shower. He decided to go into Grandpa’s room to look out at the wooded rolling hills. There were pictures of the whole family in Grandpa’s room, too. Justin liked looking at them.
He liked best the old ones of Great-Grandpa Phillip Ward, Sr., with all of his sons. Justin noted that Evelyn was very much like him. Great-Grandpa Phillip Ward was not as tall as some of his sons. Justin’s grandpa, Phillip Ward, Jr., was the tallest of them all. He and Hadiya looked like him.
There was another picture, of a man with a long rifle standing with his foot on a saddle. He had on cowboy boots with spurs, a cowboy hat, and cowboy clothes, including a kerchief around his neck. He was very tall with a serious look. That was Great-Great-Grandpa Wiley Ward who brought the family from Tennessee into Missouri after the slaves had been freed almost fifteen years.
Justin liked this room very much. Grandpa’s bed was big and high. Beside it stood an old treadle sewing machine used now as a small table. On top a brass lamp’s highly polished metal shone brightly. Underneath were some very old books. Justin read the titles. One, Reflections on My Young Life, by Phillip Ward, Sr., captured his attention. Justin thumbed through pages. “How We Came to Missouri” caught his eye. He went into his room, lay on his bed, and began to read.
It was cold that winter, 1879. I was ten years old, but was allowed much responsibility. Talk about Negroes leaving the South and traveling West filled the air. We were not slaves, but neither were we free. Mama and Papa could not vote. They were denied land and for fear of being killed they dared not act for a better life.
It was that summer that I noticed Mama canning more berries, fruits, and vegetables. She and my sisters, Jennie and Erma, knitted heavier sweaters and socks for us all. They sewed flannel sheets and mended quilts.
Papa and my brothers, Julius, James and John (twins), and Silas, worked on shoeing our horses, repairing wagon wheels and making new ones. They built strong boxes in which to pack things. They all whispered talk that I didn’t understand. But I had heard that the white people who owned the land were mad. Too many Negroes were leaving and workers were scarce. When people talked openly about leaving, night riders came covered in sheets, burning houses, beating Negroes, stealing their cattle and horses.
Then late one night a neighbor’s son came crying for Papa. Night riders had come to thei
r farm. Mama begged Papa not to go. Papa armed all the sons, except me. He told them to protect our house to the death. Then he took his shotgun and rode off with the neighbor.
I shivered with fear. Night riders meant fire and death. We waited. Papa didn’t come. We waited and waited. Finally when the light of dawn showed in the east, Papa came home.
He called the family together. I had never seen so much anger and sadness in Papa’s face. He said that night riders had learned that our neighbor had returned from Kansas to move his family onto land he had purchased there. Then Papa’s voice cracked with emotion when he said night riders had cut off our neighbor’s hands and put them in his wife’s lap. “Now go to Kansas and work your land with these,” they told her. Then Papa cried silent tears.
My brother, Silas, asked Papa if we still had plans to go. Papa said, “We can’t stay. Slavery ain’t dead here. We must find a place where we can live free.”
On hearing this I fell ill with fear and for days burned with fever. I am told that I screamed day and night causing the whole family grave concern. The only thing that made me better was word that the wagon train we were to join had been called off. The families planning to leave were too frightened. They did not tell me, though, that Papa, having made up his mind, was determined to go.
“But we can’t go alone,” Mama pleaded.
“There are nine of us,” Papa answered. “I know the trails like I know the palm of my hand. We will lay in supplies and go.”
“Oh, no!” Justin cried aloud. “You had better not try to leave.”
“What’s going on up there?” Grandpa called to Justin. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I’m reading Great-Grandpa’s book about coming to Missouri.”
“Maybe you had better get down here for some supper.”
Justin didn’t want to stop reading. He wanted to know if the night riders had come to his great-great-grandpa’s farm, too. Did they have trouble leaving Tennessee the way their neighbors had? He also was hungry, ready for supper.
After they had eaten, Grandpa said, “Let’s wash the dishes. Would you like to wash or dry?”
Justin was tempted to say “Neither” again. He wanted to get back to the book, but he remembered the guilt he had felt that morning when he had not helped with the dishes. “I’ll do them by myself, Grandpa,” he said. Then Evelyn’s words flashed into his mind: He’ll do nothing but make a mess…. We’ll be tasting soap for days. He did not look at Grandpa when he said, “If you’ll get me started, I’ll do them.”
Grandpa showed him how to put in the right amount of water. Justin was surprised to learn that on the bottle of the dishwashing liquid it said one capful for dishes. He had been using much, much more than that. Grandpa left him alone.
How nice: no soap spilling over, no splashes on the sink and floor. Soon he had sparkling dishes rinsed and ready for putting away. “I’m done, Grandpa,” he said with pride, and raced upstairs to get back to the story of “How We Came to Missouri.”
…Early the next Saturday morning, I rode with Papa to the market. The ground, hard as stone, was white with frost. The wind blew cold that February morning. I rode on the wagon beside Papa shivering not from the cold, but with fear. Suppose they cut off Papa’s hands, I kept thinking. Papa rode quiet with a frown on his brow. I knew he was worried, but not scared.
When we got into town, a lot of Negro men stood together outside the main store. They rushed to crowd around Papa’s wagon. They all showed respect and love for Papa. He was prosperous and able to read and write.
We soon learned that the storeowner refused to sell supplies to any Negroes, saying that without supplies there would be no more exodusters—people leaving going West. White farmers needed Negroes to work in menial and some skilled jobs for little pay. They intended to stop the exodus West.
Papa didn’t believe such talk. He walked into the store, cash in hand. Quickly he turned. I didn’t believe the look on Papa’s face. He did not look as tall, or as strong.
There was no need for talk. That look told everything. I heard the silence on the cold morning air. It was as if every man was holding his breath. Papa climbed into the wagon and flicked the reins. The horses started for home. I heard a neighbor say, “If they refuse to sell to Wiley Ward, we have no hope.”
My heart thumped in my chest and a weakness spread over my body down into my legs. I knew now a fear I had never known before….
Justin breathed uneasily, a heaviness in his chest. Suddenly he felt alone, lonely. He longed for home, for Mama, Evelyn, and Hadiya. He closed the book and went in search of his grandpa.
9
ARRIVAL IN MISSOURI
GRANDPA WAS ALREADY in bed, but he was not asleep.
“Can I get in your bed, Grandpa?” Justin asked.
“Sure.”
Justin lay close to his grandpa. They did not talk. Finally, Grandpa said, “Do you now know all about ‘How We Came to Missouri’?”
“No.” There was silence between them again. Then Justin sighed. “It’s too sad. I don’t want to read anymore.”
“But that’s about our life, Justin. Why don’t you get the book? We’ll read it together.”
Justin returned with the book and settled comfortably to listen as his grandpa’s deep voice read on.
When we got home from the market, Papa told the others what had happened. “We’re leaving right away,” he said.
“But how can we go by trail without supplies?” my brother Julius asked.
“We will go by boat. Let’s take whatever belongings we can. What we can’t take, we’ll replace at the end of the journey.”
Quickly we filled the wagon with the strong packing boxes. We rode all night and part of the next day before coming to the boat landing on the Mississippi River. Hundreds of other Negroes from Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia lined the shore waiting for passage. Many of them talked of having seen night riders when they tried to vote, own land, or travel freely. They were going West to Canaan Land.
Looking around and listening, I learned that some of those people had nothing at all and some of them didn’t know where they were going. They only knew they had to try to get to freedom. Soon after we arrived a shout went up, “Boat’s coming!”
I was both excited and upset. We could not get on that boat. Papa first had to sell the horses and wagon. There was no way to take them to Missouri. Suppose that was the last boat for days? People scrambled around us, gathering their belongings. I worried that we’d be alone on the riverfront waiting for the next boat.
“Where’re you going?” the captain shouted when the boat finally arrived.
“Kansas,” the crowd cried with one voice, ready to scramble aboard.
“We don’t haul to Kansas,” the captain shouted, and the boat moved on.
Women fell to the ground and cried, “Lord, Lord, what’s to come of us?” Some had been there for days. Storekeepers nearby refused to sell them food. Many were without anything to eat and it was bitterly cold.
I got lost from the family. When I found them again Papa, James, and John had gone upriver to try to sell our horses and wagon. The sun glowed red in the west and still they had not returned. Had they been jailed? Would somebody cut off their hands? These thoughts stayed with me even when I went with other boys and men to collect firewood to burn to keep us warm.
Darkness came and I knew I would never see Papa again….
“Did he?” Justin cried. “Tell me, Grandpa. Did he ever see his papa again?”
“We’ll have to read on to see,” Grandpa said.
…We waited. My mother kept quiet and still, but I saw worry in her eyes. We waited and waited. Julius paced up and down, hitting the palm of his hand with the crop of a whip. Still we waited.
Late that night they returned. I ran to them. “Papa, Papa,” I cried.
“Leave him be,” James said. “Can’t you see he’s upset?”
John held my hand and said, “We had to give the
horses away.”
Finally Papa told us that white men refused to buy them. Negroes with money wanted to, but were too scared. Some said they might be accused of helping exodusters and be tarred and feathered. Others said they would lose their jobs, go to jail. But worst of all, they would lose the horses and wagon, so why buy them? They must not help anyone leave the South to go West.
Mama broke down and cried.
The next day the wind rose and blew very cold on the river. We huddled close to the fire and drank hot sweet water, and ate cold bread and sorghum.
“What’s sorghum, Grandpa?” Justin asked.
“It’s a cheap brand of pancake syrup.”
“Oh,” Justin said, and settled down. “Go on.”
…The sun seemed far away as we all joined in songs and prayers for our deliverance from this land of trial and tribulation.
As the sun climbed up, almost to the center of the sky, a shout went up, “Boat’s coming!”
Papa and three other men pushed forward. They hailed the boat.
“Where y’all wanting to go,” a sailor called.
“St. Louis,” Papa said in his strong clear voice.
“We can’t take niggers into St. Louis and Kansas.”
“We veterans of the Civil War,” one of the men with Papa shouted. “You can’t deny us passage. That’s against the law.”
“You boys want trouble?” the sailor asked.
“We only want passage,” Papa said.
The captain came to the rail. I heard him say to the sailors, “These boys know the law. They could make trouble. We’d better take them on.”
We rode up the Mississippi and came to St. Louis. Papa’s new-found friends tried to talk him into going on to Kansas. But Papa knew that part of the West well. He knew that Missouri, unlike Kansas, had been a slave state and that we might have trouble there. But Missouri had many trees from which to build houses. Grass grew tall and green for cattle. Sometimes the wind blew colder than in Tennessee, but not as cold as Kansas.
Justin and the Best Biscuits in the World Page 4
