We walked about a little further and I picked a few bolls and showed him the growing cotton and what to look for.
‘‘When it’s ready, how do you harvest it?’’ he asked.
‘‘Like this,’’ I said, showing him how to pluck it with your fingers. ‘‘It’s slow, hot work,’’ I said. ‘‘That’s why plantation owners had so many slaves. But we all work together. You should see Katie. You’d be real proud of her. She’s real good at it. Henry’s the best. He can pick so fast you can hardly see his fingers. Are you going to help, Mr. Ward?’’
‘‘I suppose I’ll have to do what my foreman tells me,’’ he answered with a smile.
He seemed more interested than usual and stood a long time looking at the field and just walking around among the rows. As we started back to the house, there was my papa walking out to join us.
‘‘What are you two up to?’’ he asked, with his familiar grin.
‘‘I was showing Mr. Ward the cotton,’’ I said.
‘‘And are you now an expert, Brother Ward?’’ he said.
‘‘Not quite yet!’’ laughed Mr. Ward. ‘‘That will take a little longer, I’m afraid.’’
He continued on toward the house, and my papa and I walked off together in the other direction toward the river.
‘‘What’s going to happen?’’ I said after a while. ‘‘What will happen to me and the others?’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ he asked.
‘‘Mr. Ward . . . I mean, will he want us to leave?’’
‘‘Don’t you mean your uncle Ward?’’
‘‘I reckon, though I still have a hard time thinking of him that way. But do you think, after he learns how to do everything, he’ll want to run Rosewood by himself without the rest of us—like Burchard Clairborne was going to do?’’
‘‘No, of course not. What would make you think that?’’
‘‘I don’t know. It’s hard to know what he’s thinking.’’
‘‘I suppose that’s true. He can be quiet at times. Sometimes men are like that, and you can’t go reading more into it than is there. He’s got a lot on his mind. But he especially wouldn’t make you leave whatever happened. You’re his kin, just like Kathleen is. He knows that you’re my girl. No . . . Ward may be a little quiet, but he would never do anything like that.’’
We reached the edge of the river and stood watching it for a while in silence.
‘‘Two years ago, when it flooded,’’ I said, ‘‘the river came all the way over the bank and spread out almost all the way to the house.’’
‘‘That must have been something to see!’’
‘‘It was scary.’’
We turned and began walking back toward the house.
‘‘Uncle Ward doesn’t seem to take to the work like you do,’’ I said as we went.
‘‘Give him time, Mary Ann,’’ said my papa.
‘‘What about Emma and Josepha?’’ I asked.
‘‘He won’t do a thing without talking to me—I’m his foreman, remember! We’re a family, Mary Ann, and Emma and Josepha are part of it too. I won’t let anything happen to anyone.’’
‘‘Thank you, Papa,’’ I said.
A NEW BLACK GENERATION
43
BEING A MAMA WAS HARD WORK. ALL YOU HAD TO do was watch Emma for a day to know that. She’d been a slave but had never really known hard work as I had. But she was sure ahead of me in learning to be a mama. Every day she was learning new things about it. Having a baby who was getting on to two years old to look after—running around and getting into things all day long—wasn’t easy.
I walked into the parlor one Sunday morning. Katie and I liked to gather everyone in the parlor on Sundays and read out of the Bible and sing a few hymns. Emma sure could sing! But I could tell she was tired.
After our singing on that day, Katie read for a while, and the sound of her voice gradually put Emma and William, and even Josepha, to sleep. The rest of us left after a bit as quietly as we could to go do our own kind of resting. Katie went out for a walk. Papa and Uncle Ward went out to the barn to saddle the horses, and I heard them ride off a little while later. I went upstairs to our room to practice my reading.
After a while I heard sounds on the stairs. I got up and went to the landing. There was William slowly crawling up the steps talking to himself the way little children do, though most of it was just babble. Well, I guess I don’t really know how children talk to themselves other than from listening to my brothers and sisters when they were little. William could walk and even run, but the steps were too high for his little legs, and he couldn’t quite walk up and down them yet. I sat down on the top step and waited for him to reach me. When he got to the top and saw me, a big grin came to his face and he hurried toward me and crawled into my lap. I gave him a hug.
‘‘You’re going to be a history-making baby, did you know that?’’ I said. ‘‘You are living between the history of the slaves and the free coloreds. There’s no telling what life will be like for you when you grow up. I guess now maybe we’re all living in that history. But you’ll get to be part of more of it than I will. You haven’t ever been a slave. You won’t ever know what it was like. And that’s something not too many colored folks can say. So you’re a lucky little fellow.’’
William stared up at me with his big dark eyes surrounded by white. He probably couldn’t understand a thing I was saying, yet somehow it almost seemed like he could. But I think he thought I was telling him a story.
‘‘If you’d have been born even just five years ago,’’ I went on, ‘‘you might have had a completely different life by now. Your mama might have been sold away. You might never have even known who your daddy was—well, maybe that’s not going to be different for you. But you sure wouldn’t have had your mama with you every day all day long like you do.’’
By now William was losing interest and was starting to squiggle out of my lap. I guess my story had gotten a little too long!
But saying what I had to him got me thinking, and I found myself thinking about it for the rest of the day. Later that afternoon I was shelling peas in the kitchen. Josepha was at the breadboard kneading a new loaf of bread. I had a huge basket of peas and wasn’t even near half done. I’d been thinking about my mama and brothers and sisters and how my mama had lived up north with the Daniels family but had by a long way around ended up at the McSimmons plantation. My mind was wandering with the pea shelling, and I found myself wondering how Josepha had wound up there.
‘‘Josepha,’’ I said.
‘‘Yes, chil’.’’
‘‘Where were you born?’’
She turned around to face me, her hands covered with flour. Then she began to chuckle.
‘‘Now what in tarnashun does where I wuz bo’n hab ter do wiff dem peas or dese here biscuits an’ bread?’’
‘‘Nothing, I suppose,’’ I said. ‘‘I just wondered. It seems like a lot of us don’t know much about where we came from.’’
‘‘Dat’s right,’’ said Josepha. ‘‘Speshully ef you got sol’ a few times an’ separated from yo elders.’’
‘‘Do you know anything about your parents?’’
‘‘Nuffin’ at all. I always reckoned dat I just sorter happened,’’ Josepha said with another chuckle. ‘‘By da time I was old enuff ter ’member, I wuz jus’ one er a parcel ob colored slave girls gittin’ sol’ ter Master McSimmons in sum big city. I don’ eben know which one. We wuz all young an’ too scared ter pay much attention t’ nuthin ’cept stayin’ alive. I wound up in da kitchen an’ sum er dem wound up in da fields. Dat’s all I know.’’
She turned around and looked at me again. But she wasn’t chuckling now. ‘‘You’s be a right lucky girl, Mayme, chil’,’’ she said. ‘‘I know you’s been through a lot an’ has seen yo share er killin’. But you foun’ out who you is an’ who yo daddy is. You got er family, an’ dat’s mighty nice.’’
I could tell she was happy fo
r me.
‘‘You’ve got a family now too, Josepha.’’
‘‘I know dat, chil’, an’ I’s got you to thank fo’ it too.’’
Papa and Uncle Ward had come back from their ride. While Papa was getting in a little Sunday afternoon snooze, right about the same time Josepha and I were talking in the kitchen, Uncle Ward came upon Emma and William out by the laundry tub, where Emma’d been washing him up and giving him a bath. She was so involved she didn’t hear him approach and went on chattering and babbling with William like she did. He stood and just listened for a minute or two, hardly able to understand a word. Gradually she became aware that William was looking at someone behind her. She turned and the instant she saw him went silent. She kept on with bathing William but now not saying a word.
‘‘How come you always clam up when I’m around, Emma?’’ said Uncle Ward, walking over to her.
She didn’t answer.
‘‘You act like you’re afraid of me or something. You’re not afraid of me, are you, Emma?’’
‘‘I learned my lesson, dat’s all,’’ she said.
‘‘What lesson?’’
‘‘I learned dat it’s bes’ fer a colored ter keep her mouf shut aroun’ white men. Hit’s jes’ bes’ ter avoid dem.’’
‘‘Why’s that?’’
‘‘ ’Cuz you neber know what a white man’s gwine do.’’
‘‘You mean you don’t trust white men?’’
‘‘Dat’s sumfin’ like it.’’
‘‘What about Templeton? You seem to get along all right with him.’’
‘‘Mr. Templeton’s different. He’s got a colored girl who’s his daughter. Dat makes him different, an’ I’s used ter him.’’ She thought a moment about what she had said. ‘‘But now I’s thinkin’ ’bout it,’’ she added, ‘‘maybe he weren’t no different after all back den.’’
‘‘But I’m not different, is that it?’’
Emma didn’t reply.
‘‘Why, Emma,’’ Uncle Ward went on after a minute, ‘‘I’m surprised at you—you’re not too proud to talk to me just because my skin is white, are you?’’
‘‘I din’t say nuthin’ like dat, Mr. Ward.’’
‘‘You said you avoided white men.’’
‘‘On account ob what dey might do ter me.’’
‘‘When have I ever given you cause to make you think I’d hurt you?’’
‘‘Neber, Mr. Ward. I reckon you an’ Mr. Templeton’s ’bout as kind as white men could be.’’
‘‘But you still don’t want to talk when I’m around? That don’t seem right. If we’re all a family around here, seems like you gotta do your part in accepting me just like I accept you. Ain’t that right?’’
‘‘I reckon so.’’
‘‘We gotta be family to each other whatever the color of our skin. I don’t have any family but this. Do you, Emma?’’
‘‘No, I ain’t.’’
‘‘So we all gotta be family to each other.—So why don’t you put William down a minute and come here, Emma.’’
Emma looked at him a little skeptically, then slowly set William down and stood up.
‘‘Come on, let’s shake hands, Emma, and be friends,’’ said Uncle Ward.
Slowly Emma approached with a wary look on her face as Uncle Ward held out his hand to her. It was obvious that she was nervous, but she had always been taught to do what any white man said.
She allowed Ward to shake her hand, then pulled hers away quickly.
‘‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’’ he asked.
‘‘I reckon not.’’
‘‘I’ll never let anyone hurt you, Emma. You can trust me and your uncle Templeton to take care of you just like we do the others. From now on I want you to call me and Templeton Uncle Ward and Uncle Templeton, just like Kathleen and Mary Ann do.’’
Emma looked down at the ground. ‘‘I’s try . . .’’ she said.
ANOTHER HARVEST
44
THE SUMMER WAS A HOT ONE. BY THE MIDDLE OF August most of the plantations in Shenandoah County were starting to pick.
A morning came when I woke up real early. It was almost like I could feel the fields calling to me, and I knew I had to get up and go out. There’s something about the approach of a harvest that gets into you like that. You know how much work it’s going to be, but the anticipation can’t help but fill you with excitement. Even though it comes every year, there’s a feeling of challenge, almost adventure.
I got up and tried to dress quietly and sneak outside without waking Katie up. But I couldn’t.
‘‘Where are you going?’’ she whispered behind me.
‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,’’ I said. ‘‘I was just going to check on the cotton.’’
‘‘I was already awake,’’ said Katie, sitting up in her bed. ‘‘I’ll go with you.’’
A few minutes later we tiptoed downstairs and outside. The sun was just coming up. It must have been around five-thirty, and it was cool and still. There wasn’t a breath of wind, and the delicious smell of a multitude of growing things hovered in the air. It was so nice, just like a perfect summer morning. But you could tell that by noon it was going to be sweltering and that the sweat would be dripping from you.
We walked out into the fields together. It was a good feeling, so much different than when we’d done this the first time. Then Katie had been so inexperienced and hardly knew what a cotton boll was. Now she and I were seventeen, and I’d be eighteen in another week. We weren’t exactly grown-up yet, but we were a little grown-up. And we knew what we needed to do. This would be our third harvest.
Maybe what we felt as we walked out to the fields that morning was confidence or something like that. We walked beside each other like two young women, not like two little girls. Growth is one of those things you can’t see up close. You have to stand back to see how something or someone has changed as time has passed. And on that morning, I saw how different Katie and I were from the day we’d met, devastated and alone. We had run a plantation, and now we were going out to check to see if it was time to start another harvest. Our own harvest. A black girl and a white girl making a big decision like that . . . all by ourselves. What an amazing thing it was. God had been so good to us!
We didn’t stop until we were standing in the middle of one of the fields of green, with tiny explosive little bursts of white all around us. We each picked at several plants, plucking the tiny round fluffy balls, holding them in our hands, examining them, like each one held a little unseen mystery inside, as I reckon they did. I suppose all growing things have a mystery inside them—the mystery of life.
We looked at each other, holding some cotton in our hands. We didn’t say anything but just nodded.
We both knew the day had come. I could see in her eyes that Katie was excited too.
As we turned back toward the house, we saw a figure coming toward us. We paused as he approached.
‘‘Good morning, ladies!’’ he said. ‘‘Up early, I see.’’
He opened his arms and took us in them. The three of us stood a few seconds in each other’s arms, then stepped back.
‘‘What are you doing up so early, Papa?’’ I said.
‘‘I woke up with the sun,’’ he answered. ‘‘It’s the farmer’s blood in me, I guess. What about you two?’’
‘‘We were checking on the cotton, Uncle Templeton,’’ said Katie.
He glanced behind us toward the field we had just come from, like he was looking to see something he couldn’t quite make out with his earthly vision, almost like he was peering into what that expanse of growing cotton might mean.
Leaving us where we were, he slowly began walking toward it. We turned and followed him with our eyes as he walked into the long rows. He stooped down and tried to pluck at a few of the bolls.
After a few minutes he came back toward us, holding several clumps of white in his hand.
‘‘And what
did you conclude?’’ he said.
Katie and I looked at each other, then back at him.
‘‘I think it’s ready, Uncle Templeton,’’ said Katie, then glanced at me with just a hint of question in her eyes.
I nodded. ‘‘It’s time,’’ I said.
By the middle of that morning we had the two wagons out of the barn and the baling boxes and satchels ready and loaded into the first wagon. Then Josepha began carting out jugs of water and milk and baskets of bread and dried meat and cheese.
Sometime about eleven we all climbed into the wagon. Henry clicked the reins, and we were off. Everyone was excited and talking and we bounced along, Henry flicking the reins occasionally to keep the horse slowly plodding along. We tried to explain to Uncle Ward what to do as we walked and rode out to get started. Even little William was babbling away like he couldn’t wait to get to picking along with us. I couldn’t even imagine what it was going to be like for him to grow up never having been a slave!
Josepha had packed up water and more food than twice this many people would need, especially since the house wasn’t that far away and we could just walk back for lunch. I think one of Josepha’s goals in life was to try to make everyone else as fat as she was, so she tried to feed anyone who’d eat as much as she could get down them.
Henry reined in beside the closest field. ‘‘Here we be!’’ he said.
We all piled out. While Henry unhitched the horse, Katie and Emma and I took satchels and slung them over our shoulders. My papa and Uncle Ward watched. Even after all we’d been talking about, Uncle Ward seemed a little bewildered about the proceedings.
Papa got two more satchels out of the wagon and handed one to his brother. Unconsciously everyone glanced at Uncle Ward.
‘‘Hey, don’t look at me!’’ he laughed. ‘‘I may be the owner of this place, at least that’s what some people keep telling me, but I know less about this than William!’’
Together is All We Need Page 19
