“Oh. Well, Mr. Zeke is, and he doesn’t talk much either. Above that, he didn’t strike me as being too friendly.”
Big and not too friendly, that is not a favorable combination, Joe thought. Maybe he and Peter could get a little food and shove right on down the road. He had hoped they could rest there a few days, but if things weren’t too good, they could light a shuck.
Joe thought of something else. “Peter, I don’t remember Uncle Zeke’s wife’s name?”
“Mrs. Lillie, and she is a very nice lady.”
Maybe Aunt Lillie would fix them some food for the long road to Virginia. He never thought he would think it, but a good scrubbing with soap would be capital, too.
***
They had walked down the lane about ten minutes when they came to a large cotton field. Farther down the lane was the house. It was bigger than anything they had seen in a while, nothing like the Donner house, but still big. It almost seemed out of place in this country.
They moved closer, and Joe spotted the slave quarters. It was obvious Uncle Zeke was well off compared to the other farmers here about.
It struck Joe strange: Uncle Zeke was from Pennsylvania, and here he had slaves, and from the looks of the slave quarters, he had a passel. The more he thought about slavery and the war, the more ridiculous it became. The three Taylor brothers were from the North; one evidently now owns many slaves; one is fighting for a new country, which is bound and determined to protect slavery; and the last one, against slavery, died in an occupied town in the South. Joe had even heard that General Pemberton, the defender of Vicksburg, was from Pennsylvania.
And all of this fighting because of Negroes. Joe was beginning to think that was the problem. If there were no darkies, then there would be no war.
They walked toward the house, and a piccaninny ran to the house. A white woman came to the porch, couldn’t be his aunt, too young. They walked by the smokehouse, and the smell floated out, inviting. Joe believed he could eat a whole ham. He hoped they would be happy to see him and give him something from that smokehouse.
Suddenly a Negro came around the smokehouse and stuck a shotgun in Peter’s side. Before Joe could react, big arms were around him—he was lifted off his feet and something sharp was at his neck. Not again.
“All right, Yankee boy, what are you doing here prowling alone?” said a deep voice from the man holding him.
Joe couldn’t see the man, but he could see Peter, and his eyes were big as plums. Then Joe saw a toothy grin grow on the old Negro as he lowered the gun.
“I declare, Marse,” the old Negro said. “This here boy is Katie Bea’s Peter. Look at how he has growed since us last seen him.”
“Thank the Lord above, Seth,” Peter said. “I was beginning to think I would be dead before you recognized me.”
“I know I is a old man, but I ain’t about forgetful like Marse. He didn’t know you, and we’s been watching y’all a coming for a spell.”
Peter turned to the big man still holding Joe. “Mr. Taylor, this boy is Joseph, your nephew, Mr. Josh’s son.”
Joe felt the knife leave his neck, and he was lowered to his feet. When he turned around, he saw that Peter wasn’t lying. Zeke Taylor was indeed a big man, at least six-five and weighed...a bunch. Joe reckoned the man was around fifty, but he looked like a bull.
Zeke put the knife in his belt and looked Joe over. He smiled bigger and bigger as he studied Joe. “Well, I’ll be blamed. You sure do look like your mother, got that blonde hair and those blue eyes, and not too tall like the Taylor side.”
“No sir, not too tall, but it don’t hinder me none.”
Zeke laughed, then said. “Why you got that Yankee cap on? It almost got you killed.”
“I had some friends back at Helena that were Yankees, and one of them gave it to me.”
Zeke looked at Peter, then back at Joe and slowly the smile faded. “What were you doing in Helena? Where are your folks?”
An older lady joined the younger one on the porch. Seth yelled over to her. “Missus, we got Marse Josh’s boy here. We got Katie Bea’s Peter, too. We sho is.”
Joe couldn’t believe how quickly the lady ran from the porch. One second he was talking to Uncle Zeke, the next his head was buried in her bosom. Joe was relieved when she finally released him. He was beginning to believe he was going to smother. She held Joe’s face in her hands, smiling and admiring him. She said, “Boy, I’m your Aunt Lillie.”
He liked the looks of this woman, a sweet round face, a few gray streaks in her brown hair, but she didn’t appear to be too old. Joe loved the attention. After all the hardships lately, this attention was pretty fine.
“Hello, Aunt Lillie; it is a pleasure to meet you.”
She kissed him on the forehead. “Such a sweet boy.” She turned to Zeke. “Come on, Ezekiel, dinner is on the table.”
“That meat sure smells good in that smokehouse,” Joe said.
“Oh, Honey, it tastes even better on the table.”
Joe couldn’t wait. He was starving.
“Seth, see that Floy feeds Peter,” Zeke said.
Lillie said, “Oh, no! Peter is going to eat from my kitchen this day. He brought this boy to me, and he too shall have ham.”
So they really were going to have ham, Joe grinned and nodded at Peter.
Zeke told Joe they would talk about Helena after dinner. Joe put Helena from his thoughts. Ham was the only thing on his mind now. Helena could wait. Nation, Virginia could wait on ham.
The younger woman’s name was Fanny, Joe’s cousin. She was pretty, and he saw the resemblance to Aunt Lillie.
The women fluttered around the table, setting dishes here and there. A black woman about Fanny’s age was there, too, but she didn’t help with the food. Instead, she tended to two babies in a crib in the corner. It was strange to Joe. Uncle Zeke had servants, but the white women were setting the table.
“Peter,” Lillie said, “if my memory does not fail me, I remember you to be a good Christian.”
“A pious Negro,” Zeke grumbled.
“Zeke!” Lillie snapped.
“Lil, you know it is not fitting for Negroes to be at the table with white folks.”
“This is my table, Mr. Taylor, so it is my say, not yours.”
Joe looked at Peter. He had his eyes cast down at his plate. Poor Peter. Joe had not given it much thought about Negroes eating at the table with white folks. Peter and Aunt Katie Bea had always eaten at the table with him and Uncle Wilbur.
“Now, Peter,” Lillie said. “Look up, Peter. That is a good boy. Please bless this food for us.”
Peter looked at Zeke. Zeke didn’t appear angry, just a man of authority and wanted it known. He nodded, and Peter blessed the food.
After the meal, Zeke wasted no time asking about Helena. Joe found they didn’t know about Uncle Wilbur’s death. They had heard about the battle at Helena, but that was all. They also didn’t know of Joe’s mother and sister’s death. The family huddled in the parlor as Joe told the stories. Lillie hugged and kissed him, while Zeke puffed on his pipe as Uncle Wilbur had. Zeke huffed, blew his nose a lot, and made frequent trips to look out the window as Joe gave details of the tragedies. Fanny sobbed loudly and said repeatedly, “You poor boy.”
***
Joe only intended to stay on the farm a couple of days, but it turned into a couple of weeks. He would leave soon; he wanted to be in the Valley before it turned cold, but now he was enjoying getting to know his family.
The Taylor’s had been fortunate. The farm was miles from the main road, and the Yankees had not been there. The war had been close—the Yankees had burned and vandalized New Albany just a few miles away, but so far, the Taylors had not experienced the horrors of war on the plantation. There had been hardships, though: shortage of supplies, such as coffee, salt, and the like, but not now. Now they traded cotton to the Yankees in Memphis and the suffering wasn’t so great. In fact, the Rebels had hurt them more by taking some of th
e horses and mules.
Joe learned some of the neighbors were resentful of the Taylors. It seems they had been raided by the Yankees, whereas the Taylors had not. They believed it was because Zeke had been born a Yankee. Seth had told Joe it was all said behind Zeke’s back—no man was brave enough to say it to his face.
Joe fell in love with Fanny. She was eighteen and a peach. She was Zeke and Lillie’s only child. Fanny’s husband, Robert, was away riding with General Chalmers. She was devoted to her eight-month-old son, Jack. Fanny was neither gruff like her father nor firm like her mother. She was soft spoken, charming, and smart—she reminded Joe of his mother.
The oddest character in the house was Fanny’s seventeen-year-old Negro servant, Susan. They called her Zuey. Though she was a servant, she acted like family. She did no more around the house than the white folks. The only thing that set her apart was she took her meals in the kitchen and not at the big table with the rest of the family. She, too, had a son, James. He was about the same age as little Jack. When they were in the crib together, they could have passed for brothers. Joe didn’t ask any question because Peter told him not to.
The plantation had fifty-five slaves on it, mostly field hands, working cotton and corn. There were more slaves on the place than any other farm for miles. The Taylors had no house servants other than Zuey, and Joe believed she wasn’t a house servant anyhow. The cook on the place was Floy, Seth’s wife, and she only cooked for the slaves.
Zeke was his own overseer, and he worked in the fields with the slaves. The Negroes had no doubt who was in charge when the big white man was around. Joe learned Seth was his second in command.
***
Peter found life at this Taylor home different from the last Taylor home. He was not treated cruelly by Zeke; in fact, he was treated well, but the warmth was not there, not like Dr. Taylor. Joe was given his own room, but Peter found his quarters to be little better than the slaves quarters—that was fine, but different to what he had always known. He had a room at the back of the house, which a hired hand once used. He did not eat with the family. He ate in the kitchen with Zuey. That turned out to be a good thing.
Peter found out what some thought of him when a teenaged slave named Stepto confronted him behind the corncrib.
“Well, now, ain’t you a particular nigger,” Stepto said, stepping in front of Peter.
Peter knew who Stepto was. He had learned many of the names. Stepto was smaller than Peter—most teenagers were smaller than Peter, but it was evident size didn’t matter to Stepto. Peter saw trouble coming. “What do you mean, Stepto?”
Stepto looked Peter over. “Study them fancy clothes. You even got shoes. I spects you think you is good as white folk.”
“I don’t feel that way at all. You are just—”
“Don’t you talk at me in that fashion. You ain’t white, so don’t be trying to come it over on me.” He spit on Peter’s shoes.
Peter took a slow, deep breath. “I don’t want trouble.” He tried to walk past, but Stepto grabbed his arm, more strength than Peter expected.
“We don’t like niggers like you is. You and your massuh shirking around like lazy dogs.”
Peter jerked his arm free. He could take the attack on himself, but Joe was another matter. He moved closer to Stepto. “You touch Joe, you even say an unkind thing, you will answer.”
“That’s right; answer to Marse, not you.”
“Don’t concern yourself with us too much. We will be leaving soon,” Peter said as he turned to leave.
“You ain’t leaving til Marse say so. Marse tell Seth you two is staying til this war is over, lessin’ the other Marse Taylor come get the boy.”
Of course, Peter thought, Mr. Taylor would not let Joe leave while the war was still raging. After all, Joe’s father was probably dead—Peter would never say it to Joe.
Staying tight on the farm was, indeed, the smart thing to do. When the war was over—it probably wouldn’t last too much longer—Peter could strike out for Pennsylvania, just as he had told Mam he would do.
Peter softened. “I’m sure Mr. Taylor knows best, and we shall do as he wishes.”
“Well, now, I reckon you is a purty smart boy cause Marse ain’t no man to cross. Why, he work harder than most niggers on the place, excepting me.”
Peter smiled. “Stepto, I’ve never worked on a plantation, and since we are going to be here for a spell, you reckon you could take me under your wing, show me what to do.”
Stepto looked suspicious.
“I’ve been watching you work,” Peter said, “and I can tell you are the best field hand on the place. Joe and I both saw it right from the start.”
He saw the minute the change came over Stepto: the strained muscles in his neck softened, and his swelled chest slowly dropped. Peter knew the last thing he needed was conflict with the blacks on the place.
“If you sho nuff wants to work, I reckon I can show you how,” Stepto said, dragging his leathery toes in the dirt. “It won’t be none easy for a soft nigger like you is.”
“I do appreciate any help. Stepto, I knew you were first rate right from the start. I sure want to carry my weight around here.”
Stepto looked down, then slowly looked back up. “Now, Peter, I was sho wrong on you. You is first chop. That’s a fact.”
Before another word, they heard a loud commotion. Joe was running and yelling and screaming and laughing with a large billy goat on his heels. He shot past Peter and Stepto. The goat skidded to a stop and looked at Peter, then Stepto, trying to make up his mind which one to charge. When Joe saw the goat had stopped, he picked up a stick and threw it at him. The goat charged after him. Joe laughed and took off. He tripped, and as soon as he was back on his feet, the goat butted him in the butt. Joe screamed, laughed, and cut out with the goat on his tail.
Stepto turned to Peter. “Young Massuh Joe is a might devilish.”
Peter laughed. “Young Massuh Joe is a heap devilish.”
Stepto watched Joe and the goat for a couple of minutes, turned to Peter. “Maybe you got more of a job than I studied on. Picking cotton gonna be easy. That’s a fact.”
Peter knew it was a fact.
***
Joe had roamed the farm freely. Zeke had really set no limits. In fact, he was busy working the fields during the day and paid Joe little mind and only spent time with him at the end of the long day, if then. Joe visited with the servants and even helped around the quarters, but he slipped away when it was time to go to the fields. He wanted no part of picking cotton.
The quarters had a pull on him, excitement there, especially in the evenings when the Negroes returned from the fields. Even though they worked late now that it was cotton-picking time, they still had enough energy for singing and visiting.
The slaves were all good to him except Floy. Floy was not nice to anyone, not even Zeke. It was odd; she was married to Seth, and Joe found him to be one of the kindest Negroes he had ever met. Floy had a big hickory stick, and she used it to run all the young ones from the cook cabin when they came snooping and smelling around.
The cook cabin was the biggest cabin in the quarters. It wasn’t as big as the kitchen back at the Donner Plantation, nor was it made of bricks, but it was almost twice as big as the other little one-room cabins the slaves called home.
Joe was now bored. He had finally tired the goat out again, wouldn’t even chase him anymore, just stood there and stared. Joe looked at Floy’s cook cabin. What was inside there? This would be more of a challenge than any old goat. It was getting late in the afternoon. The slaves would be coming in from the fields soon, and smoke drifted from the chimney as it always did this time of day. The smell coming from the cabin made you want to take a bite out of one of the logs—not that Aunt Lillie’s food wasn’t first rate, but everybody knew that only colored women knew how to cook colored food. Joe loved colored food.
As he approached the door, five little Negro boys surrounded him. If a person didn’
t know about slaves as Joe did, the boys could easily have been mistaken for short-haired girls because of their long shirts, which resembled crude dresses. The boys wore the long shirts instead of pants—only older boys wore pants. Ten-year-old Washington led the pack. He went up to Joe. “You ain’t fixing to go in Aunt Floy’s cabin is ya, Massuh Joe?”
Joe didn’t like Washington. He was a pest, and Joe had already socked him in the head a couple of times. “Go on, Wash, take your little niggers with you. Y’all ain’t got no business bothering white folk.”
“You fixing to get bothered by Aunt Floy if you go up to that cabin,” Washington said. “She gonna pop you up side yo white head.”
They all laughed and danced around like a pack of Indians.
“Wash, you little piccaninny, I wish you were old enough to go to the field. You ain’t nothing but a little bother. If I were your master, things would be different, I tell you.”
Washington laughed and danced. “You ain’t none of my massuh. You juss young Massuh Joe.”
The rest of the children started chanting, “Young Massuh Joe—Young Massuh Joe—”
Joe searched around and found a short stick. Before Washington could react, Joe hit him on the head with it; it made a hollow thud. Joe laughed, reminded him of someone thumping a watermelon.
Washington grabbed his head, checked for blood, found none. He looked around and found the stick, then threw it back at Joe. Joe moved just in time.
Joe knew this little piccaninny would be no match in a chucking fight, but the others began hurling things at him: rocks, sticks, chicken shit, and anything else they could find. Joe ducked and weaved, but he was out-gunned. He ran for the cabin door, and just as he grabbed the latch, a hunk of mule shit hit the door. He snatched the door open, shot inside and slammed the door behind. Slowly he opened the door again and peeked out. He saw Wash rubbing his head. Joe laughed.
“You ain’t got no bidness in my cook cabin!”
Uh oh, Aunt Floy. Joe eased the door shut and slowly turned to face her. Joe had not been this close to her before. She was big—not just fat, but big and very tall. She had the usual rag around her head, which they all wore, and flour on her arms and hands. But what concerned him the most was the big hickory stick in her left hand.
Chase The Wild Pigeons Page 14
