When the horse, wild-eyed and as heedless of its danger as the girl of hers, was nearly upon her and seemed sure to trample her under his pounding hooves, from across the meadow flew a black blur diagonally between them. He did not even slow as he slammed into the girl and knocked her to the ground and off to one side of the path. A second later the horse thundered by, crushing the basket and vegetables under his mighty hooves.
The men came charging up and ran past, shouting out a few derisive words as they passed at the girl who had nearly gotten herself killed. But they were soon gone, for they cared more for the horse than they did her.
The boy stood, then pulled her back to her feet.
“Why didn’t you git outta da way, Seffie?” he asked. “Dat blamed horse coulda killed you.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I jes’ saw it an’ got plumb scared. When I gits scared, sometimes I can’t move.”
“It’s a good thing I saw you when I did.”
“Thank you, Mose. You saved me, like you always does. I don’t know what I’d do ef you didn’t always take care ob me.”
“You take care ob yo’self jes’ fine, Seffie!” laughed Mose. “You take care ob yo’self in da kitchen.”
“Dat’s different. In dere I knows what I’s doing. Dat reminds me—I brought you something, in case I saw you.”
She dug her hand into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a handful of pecan nuts.
“De’re shelled an’ everythin’, Mose.”
“Thanks, Seffie!” said the boy. “Dey really all fo me?”
“I brought dem fo you.”
“Wuz you s’posed to?”
“I don’t know. I just did. Dere wuz a whole bowlful ob dem. Dere can’t be no harm in you havin’ a few.”
“Thanks, Seffie,” said Mose again, biting into a large pecan with eyes full of satisfaction.
“Oh, but look at my basket and the vegetables! They’ll scold me somethin’ awful.”
“I’ll tell ’em what happened an’ ’bout da horse an’ everythin’. Meantime, let’s pick up dose things an’ git a few fresh carrots and beans for dose da horse trampled an’ den I’ll go back to da house wiff you. Ain’t dat much harm dun dat I kin see.”
But Seffie didn’t want Mose to go in and tell what happened for fear of what might happen to him. So she went in alone. Seffie got no whipping, just a scolding for being late with the vegetables and for breaking the basket. They all knew the sadness she felt after Grace died and had been patiently waiting for her to get her spirit back. She said nothing about Mose’s part in the incident, and it was soon forgotten by all but the two friends.
ONE-EYED JACK
5
A YEAR LATER, ONE OF THOSE HOT SUMMER DAYS came when it didn’t seem that anyone had energy to lift a finger, much less a cotton hoe. It happened also to be a Sunday, so the slaves were free to do as they pleased and most of them, especially all the children, wound up down at the river trying to cool off. By midafternoon the shouts and laughter from the swimming hole were gradually fading to sounds of exhaustion from hours of continuous play.
Mose, meanwhile, after a swim with the others, was on the back of an old plough horse that had nearly outlived his working life. The overseer let Mose ride him when neither was wanted for anything else. Mose had shown himself useful with horses and had turned into one of the main young stable hands. On this day Mose was trying to get old one-eyed Jack, so called because he was blind in one eye, to swim across the river with him on his back, something neither had ever done before. But Jack would not take a step beyond the water’s edge despite Mose’s yells and kicks and threats and promises, not a word of which the horse understood anyway.
“Whatchu doin’, Mose?” asked eleven-year-old Seffie, walking along the river’s edge, her bare feet up to her ankles in the water. She had lapsed almost completely back into the slave talk of her childhood. The looks she’d had from the other slaves in the kitchen told her clearly enough that they didn’t take to an uppity slave any more than whites did. It was different when she was with Grace. But that was over now, and it was time she acted like a slave along with the rest of them.
“Tryin’ to git dis blamed horse ter take me across ober ter da other side,” said Mose in frustration.
“Why won’t he go?”
“I don’t know—he’s jes’ an ornery cuss, I reckon.—Why ain’t you swimmin’ wiff da others?”
“I don’t know—I’s too fat ter swim.”
“Whatchu sayin’? Anybody kin swim, an’ you ain’t fat anyway.”
“Well, why ain’t you swimmin’, den?”
“I wuz. See . . . I’s all wet. But den I thought ob ridin’ Jack across da ribber, but I can’t.—Hey, I got me an idea,” said Mose excitedly. He threw one leg over Jack’s back and jumped to the ground.
“You git up on him, Seffie,” he said. “Den I’ll pull him across wiff da reins. Den when he’s deep enuff, you jump off an’ I’ll jump on.”
“I can’t ride no horse, Mose. I never been on a horse’s back. An’ I can’t swim neither.”
“Ain’t nuthin’ ter either ob ’em. You jes’ git up an’ sit on his back. You jes’ sit dere.”
“What’ll I hang on to effen you’s got da reins?”
“His mane. Jes’ hang on to his hair.”
“I don’t know, Mose . . . I’s kinda skeered ter git up dat high. What ef he runs or somethin’?”
“He won’t, cuz I got da reins.”
“But what about da swimmin’? You ain’t really gwine make me git off him where da water’s deep, is you?”
“How ’bout ef you get off where you kin stan’ up on da bottom.”
“But not too deep? I’d be skeered ter git too deep.”
“Not too deep, den.—Come on, den . . . git up on Jack’s back.”
“But, Mose, I don’t know how.”
“Here, jes’ take hold up here—grab a fistful ob his mane an’ da reins . . . dat’s it. I’s keep hold ob his bit.”
“But how I git all da way up dere? I can’t jump up dat high!”
“Here, I’ll kneel down . . . now put yo foot on my knee, dat’s it . . . now give a jump up an’ git across his back wiff yo belly.”
Timidly Seffie tried to do as he said. But she only succeeded in reaching halfway up Jack’s flank before sliding back down to the ground. The horse gave a little snort and shuffled his feet about in the dirt.
“I can’t do it, Mose! He’s too high!”
“You kin do it, Seffie. Come on—you jes’ gotta jump harder off my knee an’ pull yo’self up. Try it agin . . . dis time I’ll give you a shove.”
“Oh, Mose . . . do I have to?”
“Come on, Seffie—you kin do it. Anybody kin ride a horse.”
With a groan, Seffie approached again, reached up to clutch the reins and mane in a single mass, then stepped on Mose’s knee and lunged upward. At the same moment, Mose stood and shoved at her rump, pushing her up over the top of Jack’s back.
“Ow!” she cried. “What do I do now!”
“Swing one leg over and sit up.”
Awkwardly she did so. A few seconds later she was seated atop Jack’s back, beaming in triumph, though still holding on to hair and leather for dear life.
“Dat’s it, Seffie! I knew you cud do it!” said Mose. “Now let me hab da reins, while you keep hold er Jack’s mane.”
Gently he reached up and eased the reins from her.
“You want ter take jes’ a little ride first,” Mose said, “afore we go into the ribber—jes’ ter see what it’s like?”
“Do you think I kin do it?”
“Shore, ain’t nuthin’ ter it. Jes’ sit there . . . lean forward a bit an’ keep yo knees in tight against Jack’s back . . . an’ keep hangin’ on. I’ll lead him myself.”
Slowly Mose walked to the front where Jack could see him, then with reins in hand gently pulled him away from the water and along the edge of the river.
A little cry went up from behind. Mose turned to his rider with a grin.
“You’s doin’ it, Seffie! You’s ridin’ a horse. I told you dere wuzn’t nuthin’ to it!”
“It’s a mite fearsome, Mose! What ef he kicks or runs or somethin’?”
“Den I reckon you’d fall off. But he ain’t gwine do dat. He’s jes’ an old tired horse who don’t want ter do nuthin’ but walk real slow.”
On they walked, as Mose said, very slow. Gradually Seffie became more comfortable with the movement beneath her.
“Now, Seffie,” said Mose, “I’s gwine han’ you da reins.”
“No—I can’t do dat!” yelled Seffie in terror.
“You kin . . . here!”
Her eyes wide in fear, Seffie took the two leather straps from him as he held them up to her.
“You stay close, Mose—don’t you go no place!”
“I’s right here where Jack can keep an eye on me—wiff his good eye, dat is. I jes’ keep walkin’ an’ he’ll keep follerin’.”
They continued on another few steps.
“Dere, you see, Seffie—you’s ridin’ all alone. Keep da reins loose, don’t pull ’em back or Jack’ll get skittish. Jes’ hold ’em loose an’ let him walk.”
Slowly Mose stood aside and let Jack continue on with Seffie on his back.
“Mose!” she called.
“I’s right here. You’s doin’ jes’ fine.”
“How I git him ter turn!”
“Jes’ real gently swing dem reins ter one side. Don’t pull on ’em—keep ’em loose like I said, but jes’ ease ’em against his neck to one side.”
Seffie tried to do as he said and slowly Jack began to turn in a wide circle back to where Mose stood.
“He’s doin’ it, Mose!” Seffie cried. “He’s doin’ jes’ like you said!”
“You’s ridin’ him an’ now you’s turnin’ him. I tol’ you you cud do it!—Now let’s take him into da ribber.”
He took hold of the reins in front again. “Come on, Jack,” he said, leading him back toward the water’s edge.
“I don’t think I kin do dat!” said Seffie.
“Shore you kin. Look how you’s ridin’. We’ll jes’ get him down in da water an’ den you kin slide right off.”
“Oh, Mose, but—”
Already Jack’s slowly clomping hooves had begun to splash into the edge of the river. With Mose in front slowly pulling him forward, he didn’t hesitate but came straight in. Soon he was up to his knees, then the underside of his belly. Seffie’s feet and the bottom of her dress were wet by then, but still Mose continued to lead Jack toward the middle of the river, himself submerged up to his waist.
“Mose, it’s gettin’ too deep!” cried Seffie.
“Jes’ a little more . . . so’s I kin git on—okay, now, Seffie, you kin slide off.”
“It looks too deep!”
“No, look—I’m standin’ right here an’ it ain’t even past my chest.”
“But you’s taller den me!”
“Jump, Seffie!”
Grimacing in fear, Seffie swung one leg over Jack’s back, then closed her eyes and slid down into the slowmoving current with a cry.
“Mose, help me, I’m—”
But already Mose had her by the hand. He steadied her until her feet found the sandy bottom.
“Can you make it back to the shore, Seffie?” he said.
“I think so. I kin walk now,” she said, steadying herself as she slowly inched her way into shallower water.
“Good, den I’s gwine git back on Jack!—Come on, Jack!” cried Mose. “You an’ me’s gwine cross dis ol’ ribber, an’ wiff me on yo back!”
Seffie reached the shore and walked dripping out on the dry riverbank. She sighed deeply and sat down to watch as Mose half swam, half scampered onto Jack’s back in the middle of the river, then rode him out into the deeper waters where the horse had to swim. She smiled as she watched Mose yelling with glee, as much for the satisfaction she felt for what she had managed to do herself as for the fun her friend was obviously having.
Another year passed. Mose began to take on the appearance of a strong teenage boy. Seffie grew a little stouter without adding enough height to compensate for it, and slowly her face became that of a girl poised at the edge of coming womanhood. Few took notice of the change for few took notice of her at all. After Grace died, she had become just one of the kitchen girls. She knew what to do with food, and for her white masters, that was all that mattered. She was not the kind of girl the master took notice of to try to get married off young. As long as she did what she was told and caused no trouble, life went on and no one noticed as she began to fill out in the places a woman does.
Still, at fifteen and twelve, Mose and Seffie remained best friends. By then Seffie was comfortable on a horse’s back, and twice they had taken a long ride together on one-eyed Jack when they were both excused from work at the same time.
A CUP OF SUGAR AND TWO SWEET BISCUITS
6
THE END OF THE SUMMER GRADUALLY CAME ON and the trees began to turn color and the crops ripened. An occasional fragrant nip could be felt in the air, hinting that autumn was coming and that winter was waiting behind it.
Harvest was near. And with harvest would come feasting and celebration and dancing and music. Even the slaves, if they were lucky, might come in for their share of the fun. They would never, of course, be invited to the big house, or to its expansive gardens or even close enough to look at the white folks’ merrymaking. And the hired orchestra would certainly not play any Negro music. But slaves needed no orchestra to make music. Their mouths and the feelings in their hearts, along with an occasional fiddle, were all the instruments they needed.
But though their music could be made anytime and anywhere, the news that the master and mistress were planning a gay evening of music and dancing and eating also infected the community of slaves with anticipation of an evening of fun of their own. They would be given half a day off besides to prepare their own harvest feast.
For the week leading up to the harvest celebration, the wind steadily picked up. By week’s end it was blowing a gale. But it was a warm wind, fragrant off the Gulf, and no rain seemed in sight. So no one minded too much. As the night of celebration drew near, the chief concern was that the outside lanterns be tied down securely.
The animals were fidgety from the wind, but they would be all safely inside their pens, corrals, stables, and barns by the time the guests began to arrive.
All the slave ladies not engaged at the big house were busy all afternoon talking gaily as they plucked chickens and shucked ear after ear of corn and cut up potatoes and okra and carrots and mixed up biscuits for dumplings. The men sat around on the porches with pipes and harmonicas and stories. For on a day like this even a slave, if he was of the right temperament, might think even in the midst of suffering, that life could be a good and precious thing. The slaves had each other, they had family, they had their dignity and self-respect, and no white master could take those away.
For most, that is. Family had already been taken away from a few.
Fifteen-year-old Mose usually slept in a cabin of single men. Seffie spent her nights on a pad in a corner of Mammy’s small room off the kitchen of the big house.
“Hey, Mose, boy,” called out a woman as she walked out onto the porch of one of the slave cabins, wiping her hands on her dirty apron.
“Yes’m,” said Mose, running toward her from where he was playing with a group of younger slave boys.
“Run up ter da big house an’ fetch me some sugar in dis,” said the woman, handing him a cup. “Go to da back kitchen, you knows where I mean?”
“Yes’m—da small brown door.”
“Dat’s it. Don’ let mistress or none er her folk see you. You jes’ ax fo Mammy. We ain’t ter be axin’ fo nuthin’, but Mammy’ll gib it ter you—you tell her Mabel sent you ter fetch it.”
Mose was off in a flash. As he approached th
e kitchen he stuffed the cup into his shirt in case one of the white ladies opened the door.
He knocked, and a minute later a plump black girl answered.
“Hi, Seffie,” he said.
“Mose, whatchu doin’ here?”
“I was sent ter ax Mammy fo somethin’.”
“Fo what?”
“Some sugar,” said Mose, pulling out the cup. “But none er da mistress’s folk is ter know.”
“Who dat at da door, Seffie, chil’?” came a voice from inside the kitchen. Seconds later a large black form filled the entryway.
“It’s Mose, Mammy.”
“I kin see dat well enuff.”
“He wants some sugar.”
“Keep yo voice down, chil’!” scolded Mammy, glancing behind her.
“Mabel sent me ter see you,” said Mose.
Mammy glanced about again, then took the cup from his hand.
“Don’t you say nuthin’, Seffie,” she said. “Now git back ter yo dough—you wait dere, Mose.”
Seffie returned to the kitchen as Mammy closed the door.
Two or three minutes later it opened again.
“Dere’s Mabel’s sugar,” said Mammy. “Now you skedaddle on back down dere afore anyone sees you.”
“Yes’m,” said Mose, taking the cup from her hand.
He turned and ran off as the door closed behind him.
“Mose . . . wait!” he heard a voice behind him.
He stopped and turned back. There was Seffie running toward him. She reached him and glanced back nervously. In her hand she clutched a cloth napkin.
“Here, Mose,” she said. “I brung you dese. Dey’s sweet biscuits.”
Mose’s eyes widened at the sight. He took the two biscuits in his free hand.
“Dey’s still warm!”
“I jes’ took ’em out ob da oven.”
“Did you make ’em?”
“Dat I did.”
Mose didn’t even wait but bit off a third of the first one as they stood talking.
“Dat’s good, Seffie! Whateber you makes is always da bes’!”
Never Too Late Page 3
