She took in a breath and tried to smile.
“The girls are young,” she went on, “and these are changing times. They will have opportunities we never had . . . any of us. Just think about it, that’s all I ask . . . for the girls’ sake.”
She looked around at the rest of us. Papa glanced our way too, then nodded.
“We’ll do that,” he said.
Katie and I looked at each other and nodded too.
The next day we took Aunt Nelda back to Charlotte and to the train. The subject of Katie’s and my going north did not come up again . . . at least not then.
FATEFUL DAY
36
After Mrs. Hammond’s visit our trips into town were different. We were now eager to stop in and see her. The difference was remarkable. She was so friendly to us now. I’m sure we were changed too. When relationships with people get better it usually is a two-way street. I realized that I needed to try harder too, just like I’d said to Josepha. All of us were changed by what had happened.
Josepha was a little nervous the first time she went in. But she was determined to see Mrs. Hammond face-to-face and make amends.
We went in together, Katie and Josepha and me. I saw Mrs. Hammond hesitate slightly as she glanced toward Josepha. But Josepha didn’t beat around the bush. She walked straight up to the counter and looked Mrs. Hammond in the eye.
“I want ter thank you for dem chocolates, Mrs. Hammond,” she said. “Dey wuz wiffout a doubt da bes’ chocolates I eber had in my life.”
“Well, thank you . . . uh, Josepha,” replied Mrs. Hammond, a little taken aback at Josepha’s unexpected friendliness. “I, uh . . . am certainly glad you enjoyed them as much, I hope, as I did the soup you made for me.”
“An’ dere’s one more thing I gots ter say,” said Josepha, “an’ dat’s ter gib you my apologies fo bein’ a mite surly when you wuz out ter our place. I reckon whites an’ blacks has gotter bof learn dat dere ain’t no difference in da color ob dere insides—blacks jes’ as much as whites. I’m tryin’ ter learn dat myself too. So my apologies. Dat wuz right neighborly ob you ter call like you done.”
“Well . . . uh, thank you,” said Mrs. Hammond, struggling to smile. For someone like her, I suppose receiving an apology was just as hard as giving one. “Think no more about it,” she said. “We’ll just consider ourselves friends from now on.”
Katie asked Mrs. Hammond about our mail, and I think both she and Josepha were glad for the interruption. Josepha and I turned and wandered about the store.
But though things with Mrs. Hammond were better, things were getting worse throughout the rest of town. Henry heard more than one muttered threat at the livery stable, and Jeremiah said that except for Mr. Watson most of the men at the mill refused to talk to him.
Henry got up as usual at daybreak that fateful morning the following week. When he came in, the rest of us in the Rosewood family were already talking around the breakfast table about going into town too. It had been nearly a week since we had seen Mrs. Hammond. But as Henry and Jeremiah both had to be at their jobs early, they were the first to ride away from the house about half past seven.
The rest of us all arrived in town sometime after eleven o’clock and went about our own business. Papa and Uncle Ward went to the bank. Josepha was in Mrs. Hammond’s general store picking up Rosewood’s mail and a few supplies. Katie and I had gone to the shoe and boot shop.
The thundering approach of the white-sheeted riders, coming from the end of town where the livery stable was located, didn’t at first alarm us or attract the attention of the townspeople of Greens Crossing.
But inside the livery, the moment Henry heard the angry shouts he sensed trouble. He started to walk outside. Several gunshots at his feet stopped him.
“Get back inside, Patterson,” called one of the hooded riders, “or you’ll be a dead man!”
The livery was quickly surrounded by the horsemen. The first torch landed on the roof and was quickly followed by many more. Within seconds, the small building was completely on fire.
Henry ran to the stalls where three or four horses already smelled the smoke and were whinnying and rearing in terror.
With effort, Henry got them loose, then unlatched the rear door and kicked it wide. A blast of heat from five-foot flames sent him staggering backward. He shouted and kicked and whipped at the terrified horses, until they bolted through the smoke and flame to safety.
“Don’t let him through!” shouted another rider. “Shoot him if he tries to make a break for it!”
The instant the horses stampeded past them, the riders closed ranks, guarding every inch of the perimeter.
The explosions of gunfire, followed so quickly by a plume of smoke rising from the tinderbox of straw and dried wood, brought everyone running out of stores and homes. Mr. Watson was one of the first men into the street. Glancing toward the livery, he shouted for the fire brigade. Several men ran to where the hose and pump were kept, while a dozen more hurried toward the livery.
In the bank, someone shouted, “The livery’s on fire!” Papa and Uncle Ward looked at each other, then bolted outside.
At Watson’s mill, Jeremiah heard the shouts and was only seconds after his boss into the street. Papa and Uncle Ward ran to join him from the direction of the bank. Jeremiah sprinted ahead of them toward the livery.
Inside the burning building, the dense, suffocating smoke was so thick that Henry could see nothing. All was blackness about him. He grabbed a bucket of water from near the anvil and doused it over his head and shirt, then dropped to the floor, avoiding the smoke and trying to breathe the little air coming through what openings it could find beneath the flames. He knew any possible route of escape was gone.
Flames rose crackling into the sky. The building was too far gone for the makeshift fire brigade, rolling the pump on its wheels along the street, to hope to accomplish much. The men of the brigade slowed as they drew closer, no doubt intimidated by the circle of hooded men surrounding the blaze. All they could attempt to do now was keep the fire from spreading.
As more and more people reached the scene, no one held out much hope that life would be found inside once the flames began to subside.
Josepha was in the general store visiting with Mrs. Hammond when the commotion began. Shots and gunfire brought them both to the front porch of the shop. They saw the first of the smoke rising into the air. With a terrible feeling of dread, Josepha ran back inside the store, looking around hurriedly, with Mrs. Hammond on her heels.
“Where you keep yo guns?” she cried.
“What are you going to do?” asked Mrs. Hammond in alarm.
“Never you mind, I’ll pay you fo everythin’ later—where’s da ammunition!”
A minute later Mrs. Hammond’s heart was pounding as she ran from her store trying to keep up as Josepha hurried along the boardwalk as fast as she was capable of moving, stuffing shells into the chamber of one of Mrs. Hammond’s most expensive items of inventory.
They arrived in time to see Mr. Watson pulling Jeremiah feet-first away from the edge of the burning building. He had made a mad dash to try to rescue his father, but the smoke had quickly overtaken him and his clothing had caught on fire. Two other men ran over to help Mr. Watson drag Jeremiah to safety, then helped beat the fire off him. The young man lay on the ground, unconscious, his arms and face singed, his shirt and trousers still smoldering.
Whatever the white-hooded clansmen surrounding the burning livery had expected, it was not the lone black woman now hurrying toward the scene to oppose them single-handedly. Had they seen her coming, armed as she was, any one of them would have shot her dead in an instant without the slightest qualm. But they were so preoccupied with the fire and jesting about young Patterson’s fate, that they did not see her approach behind them. They were taken off guard when two quick shots rang out from the rifle she was carrying. By the time they turned around in their saddles, the barrel of Mrs. Hammond’s gun was pointed strai
ght at the chest of one of the men, and from a distance of only about ten feet. The gleam in her eyes left no doubt that she would shoot if she had to. From such a short range, the man under the sheet did not like his chances.
“All right, git outta here!” she yelled. “All ob you—git goin’ or I’s start shootin’. You kin kill me, but I’s take you wiff me, mister,” she said to the man as she stared at him down the barrel. “Den I’ll shoot whatever ob da rest ob you I kin afore I’s dead.”
As Ward and Templeton and several others from the mill reached the scene, they saw the standoff. Without pausing to consider the consequences, Templeton ran straight into the middle of it. He grabbed the man’s rifle where it hung clutched in his hand at his side, yanked it out of the man’s grasp, then turned it toward the others.
“You heard the lady,” he said. “Get out of here!”
A shot rang out from Josepha’s gun, narrowly missing the man’s head. Whether it had been accidental or intentional, he wasn’t sure he wanted to wait to find out.
He swore loudly, vowing to kill them all. Everyone within earshot recognized the sound of Sheriff Sam Jenkins’ voice. But Sam was not prepared to die quite yet.
He lashed his horse, and the rest of his gang followed and were soon disappearing out of town.
That’s when Katie and I ran up. I was frantic with terror to see Jeremiah lying on the ground. But things were happening so fast I hardly had time to think.
Josepha had thrown the rifle to the ground and was running straight toward the blaze.
“Josepha . . . stop!” Papa called after her.
“I stood watchin’ an’ did nuthin’ da las’ time when I wuz jes’ a girl,” she yelled back at him. “I ain’t gwine lose dis man da same way!”
“She’s running straight for the fire!” someone cried out.
“Get that pump over here!” yelled Uncle Ward, sprinting toward the men who had been pushing the small water tank up the street. “Give me that hose! The rest of you start pumping!”
A few trickles began to squirt out the nozzle. The men rolled the pump to within thirty or forty feet of the blaze, then started pumping in earnest. Suddenly a large stream of water poured out. Grasping the nozzle like he held a snake’s head in his hands, Uncle Ward aimed the spray over Josepha as she ran, dousing her head and shoulders and back as it poured against one of the burning walls of the stable. Holding it steady, he managed to extinguish a small portion of the burning wood.
While Uncle Ward did his best to keep that portion of the wall wet, I grabbed a bucket of water from near the horse trough and ran to where Jeremiah lay, gently pouring some of the water onto his face and arms. He groaned, but did not open his eyes. Every few seconds, I glanced over at the scene behind me.
What Josepha had been planning to do, no one knew. But now, dripping from head to food as the water continued to spray over her head, she picked up a pitchfork from the ground and set about attacking the side of the wall with a vengeance. The smoking boards broke and splintered and when she had whacked through enough of an opening, she dropped to hands and knees and crawled through, flames surrounding her on all sides.
“She’ll kill herself!” cried someone from the crowd.
“Josepha!” called out Katie, trying to stop her.
At last seeing what she was trying to do, Papa darted after her. Before he could reach the hole, the surrounding wall flared up in flame again. He leapt back from the sudden blast of heat.
“Douse it, Ward!” he cried. “Pour as much water as you can . . . get it through that opening! We’ve got to keep her from catching fire!”
“Pump, men!” Uncle Ward shouted.
Again the spray blasted against the wall and within seconds the charred smoking wood around the hole was dripping and the flames beaten back, though the entire rest of the livery was an inferno.
Uncle Ward then managed to force some of the stream through the hole and inside where Josepha had disappeared. None of us knew whether it would do any good.
The crowd quieted. All we could do was wait. The only sounds were the roaring rush of flames into the air, the crackling of burning wood, and the spray of the hose water against it. All our eyes were glued to the three-foot hole that Josepha had bashed through the wall that Uncle Ward was now trying desperately to keep wet.
“Wait . . . hold it a second, Ward!” cried Papa. “I think I see something!”
He ran forward and knelt down and peered inside.
“It’s Josepha! Keep the water coming, Ward . . . all around that hole!”
A black head appeared. Josepha was crawling and wriggling on her stomach back toward the outside, pausing every so often to reach back and drag Henry’s unconscious body after her.
The instant he was able, Papa squeezed in, reached past her, and grabbed hold of Henry’s shirt at his shoulders. Josepha let go and crawled out, her dress smoldering and muddy, smoke pouring from her whole body. Her hair was singed and her dress had burned in spots, but she was soaking wet. Uncle Ward’s efforts to keep her doused had no doubt saved her life.
A great cheer went up from the crowd as she crawled out. Uncle Ward now sent a spray pouring onto her, just to make sure. It knocked her to her knees just as she was trying to crawl back to her feet.
Papa now wriggled out and dragged Henry free from the blaze. Henry was as smoky and wet and muddy as Josepha, but unconscious. A quick douse from Uncle Ward’s hose over both men saw to it that none of their clothing caught fire.
As soon as Papa had pulled him safely away from the building, Josepha knelt down beside Henry and kissed his face and forehead and cheeks. By then Jeremiah was coming back to himself. While I was relieved he hadn’t been seriously hurt, I worried his father hadn’t been so fortunate.
“Don’t you die on me, Henry Patterson,” said Josepha, half crying, half praying. “After all I done ter git you outta dere, don’t you dare go leavin’ me now! Ef I’s got ter be da bes’ Josepha I kin be, den you’s got ter be da bes’ Henry you kin be, an’ we ain’t neither ob us had da chance ter be dat together yet.”
A few more kisses, then a groan sounded. Finally came a sputter and a cough. It was followed by a fit of coughing, for his lungs were still full of smoke.
“He’s alive!” someone shouted to the onlookers.
Slowly Henry began to breathe easier, then rolled over and looked up to see a dozen faces, white and black together, staring down at him.
“Hit’s a mighty warm day,” he said, still coughing and sputtering. “Yes’sir, I’d say hit’s a mite too warm fo comfort.”
Everyone laughed. But the fire remained dangerous.
“Let’s get the pump to Watson’s mill!” cried one of the men. “We’ve got to get water up on the roof!”
As the crowd hurried down the street to make sure the fire didn’t spread, Henry still lay struggling to fill his lungs. He looked up to see Josepha’s face about a foot away, beaming with happiness and with tears streaming down her face.
“How’d I ever git out er dat place?” said Henry. “An’, Josepha, what’s you doin’ lookin’ such er mess?”
“She saved you, Henry!” exclaimed Katie, as she, Papa, and Uncle Ward slowly gathered round. “She ran straight into the fire!”
“Dat right, Josepha? You do dat fo me?”
“I reckon I did. I didn’t stop ter think ’bout it.”
“Well, den, I’m mightly obliged ter you. I’s gwine hab ter fin’ some way ter repay you.”
Where I was kneeling beside Jeremiah, I turned and saw Mrs. Hammond approaching, the only one of the townspeople remaining with the little Rosewood family. The others made room for her beside Henry as he sat up on the wet ground.
“I, uh . . . I am so glad you are all right, Mr. Patterson,” she said.
“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Hammond,” replied Henry, slowly kneeling, then getting up to his feet. I helped Jeremiah get up as well and we walked over to join the others.
“I’s sorry ’b
out stealing dat gun from yer store,” said Josepha. “I’ll pay you fo it when I can.”
“Nonsense, Josepha!” said Mrs. Hammond. “Stealing! Good heavens, that wasn’t stealing. You were just running off those ruffians. That was about the bravest thing I have ever seen a woman do in my life.”
“Dat’s right kind er you ter say. But I didn’t think ’bout being brave, I jes’ had ter git dis man outta dat fire.”
We all laughed, then turned back toward the destroyed building, sobered to realize how close we had come to losing our friend.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Henry’s arm slowly reach around Josepha’s waist as they stood side by side, wet and smokey and muddy and with some of their clothing singed. He pulled her toward him.
“Why don’t you all come back to my place and clean up,” said Mrs. Hammond. “Kathleen . . . Mayme, you take them all upstairs while I see if anyone is in the shop. You know where everything is . . . make yourselves at home.”
AFTERMATH
37
ALL OF GREENS CROSSING AND THE SURROUNDING towns were stunned by the livery fire. The area’s blacks were frightened. The clansmen and their sympathizers were emboldened in the knowledge that they could probably get away with anything, and in broad daylight. Everyone knew that the local sheriff and several of the largest landowners in Shenandoah County were part of it. Who was going to stop them?
Times were changing. No one could turn the clock back now. What Abraham Lincoln had set in motion was rolling full steam ahead into the future, and it didn’t look like happy times were ahead for the nation’s former slaves.
Two days after the fire, Mr. Watson came out to Rosewood to talk to the two Daniels brothers. They knew from the expression on his face that whatever might be on his mind, it was serious.
“You boys know that I admire what you’ve been doing here,” he said. “I’ve been pulling for you all along, and I’ll keep pulling for you. But I’ve been getting threats too, on account of Henry’s son working for me. The boy’s a hard worker, one of my best. But I just can’t take any chances. I’ve got to let him go. I hope you can understand.”
Never Too Late Page 18
