by Jim Cox
Unfortunately, the night’s travel was more uncomfortable than the afternoon’s. It had cooled considerably, and a fairly strong breeze had come up. Buck had not come across a dry location to build a fire all night, forcing the man and his horses to continue their westward course even though their heads hung down and their bodies were depleted.
Buck was oblivious to his surroundings, and his mind was on matters of the past, when Black suddenly made a sideways step, shying away from something. Buck looked up just in time to see an opossum scampering off into the dark. Then he looked around. “It’s stopped raining,” he mumbled in surprise. “I ain’t been paying attention to where I’m going.” He saw a sky full of stars and the moon coming from behind a cloud. From its position, Buck figured it to be an hour before sunrise—maybe two.
He shucked his ground cloth and stuffed it into the burlap food bag. At first, his body chilled from the wind on his wet clothing, but after a bit, his clothes dried some, and he became more comfortable. He rode on, looking for a satisfactory place to stop and sleep, knowing the horses were as tired as he was.
They were still trudging along as the mid-morning sun was warming things up when Buck saw a small column of smoke not far ahead. He stopped, contemplating what he should do. After a long minute, he figured he could continue on without being heard since the horses’ footfalls were soundless against the rain-soaked leaves. Very cautiously he rode on to find out who was sitting around the fire. Large pillow-like clouds floated overhead, and the treetops swayed a little.
It wasn’t long before the trees started thinning, giving Buck a clear view of the rising smoke within a quarter of a mile away. He dismounted, tied the horses, and sat down against a tree to think on the matter. Buck certainly didn’t want to get caught, but he’d like to hear what the men had to say. Most likely they’d be talking about the war, and Buck hadn’t heard any news since he got locked in that hell hole at Andersonville.
Buck put the handgun behind his rope belt and headed off. He’d not walked very far when a small field of knee-high weeds came in sight. He continued cautiously. Soon he heard men’s voices, so he hunkered down and crept forward. By the time the men’s talk was audible, Buck could see a campfire in the field with three men dressed in gray sitting around it. The first words Buck could make out were, “Do you really think it’s over?”
“That’s what two Confederate men told me yesterday,” a second man said. “They said they’d been told Lee surrendered to Grant on April ninth…that was five days ago.”
“Does it mean the war’s over and we can go home?” asked the third man.
“I ain’t sure what it means. Just because those two high-up generals called it quits, don’t mean everybody does. I suspect they’ll be some fighting going on for a spell longer.” The man thought on the question he’d been asked and then continued. “As far as us being able to go home, it don’t make no-never-mind to me. I ain’t got no home to go back to. My folks were killed, and our house and barn were burnt down.” One of the men put more wood on the fire, causing sparks to fly.
While the three men sat in silence around the fire, Buck thought about what he’d just heard. The war is over! Lee has surrendered to Grant! It might take a few months for folks around the country to accept the outcome, but it’ll come. Then he thought of his own situation. I’m just like the fellow sitting by the fire…I ain’t got no place to go home to. I’m hoping our house and barn ain’t been burned down like his was, but maybe it has been…no telling.
Buck’s thoughts were interrupted when a man spoke up. “It’s a shame Lincoln was ever elected president. He’s the cause of all this destruction and killing we’ve had to go through. Niggers ain’t equal to us. Everybody in their right mind knows that.”
“Yaw,” another man said, “they ain’t got sense enough to get along on their own. They need a white person who got some sense to tell ’em what to do.” Buck had heard remarks like this from his family and friends his entire life, and each time it infuriated him. He felt like going to their fire and shooting them all. He couldn’t understand why some folks thought this way.
“It’s over,” Buck mumbled to himself. The words he’d heard just a few minutes ago were starting to soak in, but then a sobering thought came. What am I gonna do? I can go home, but I ain’t got no family there. I have five or six days of food left, but I ain’t got no money to buy any more when it’s gone unless I can sell Molly. Buck heard the men stirring. When he looked, he saw them packing their belongings and walking behind a knoll. Within minutes they rode out on their horses, heading north.
Chapter Five
Two days later, Buck crawled from his bedroll inside an abandoned, dilapidated barn and went to the door. He had to shade his eyes from the bright, early morning sun as it glistened off the dew-covered weeds surrounding the barn. To the north were the charred remains of a house that had been burnt a couple years back. At least that’s how it looked.
The sun had warmed things up considerably when Buck led the horses out of the barn to a patch of grass and hobbled them. Afterward, he found a few fence posts in one of the barn stalls that he used to build a small fire just outside the double doors. Buck knew there’d be very little smoke because of the wood’s dryness.
He’d eaten all the bacon-hardtack sandwiches he’d cooked up a few days back, so he sliced enough from a fresh slab to last for several days and hung the pieces over the fire on a pitchfork he’d found in the barn. He used canteen water to make coffee.
Buck’s travel went well after leaving the abandoned barn. He encountered nothing out of the ordinary. It was mid-afternoon when he topped a hill and stopped, taking in the surroundings. This was familiar territory. “I’ll be home sometime today,” he mumbled, grinning. But then a mood of concern came over him as the unknown surfaced. Has my house been burnt down? How about the barn? Could there be Army personnel in or around the home site?
Even though Buck was in a hurry to get home, he decided to stop and do some planning before barging into a possibly hostile situation. Besides, it was time for his mid-afternoon coffee. Buck felt fairly safe in stopping since his last encounter with any Army activity had been fifty miles back when, on two occasions, he had to ride around military camps. He thought they were Union camps, but he wasn’t sure.
Buck stopped inside a cluster of oak trees and built a small fire for coffee. Sitting against a tree with a cup in hand, he planned his approach. His family farm was an eighty-acre spread of fertile black fields, as flat as a tabletop, surrounded by tree covered, gently rolling hills. In the northeast corner was a narrow valley with brush-covered ridges on both sides, running from the farm’s property line to the homestead, a distance of nearly two hundred yards. Buck had come up with several different plans by the time he’d finished his coffee, but the one offering the most concealment from possible intruders was to approach the house down the valley.
When he reached the valley, a wide grin crossed his face. Through the tall brush, Buck could see his house and barn. They had not been burned. The property looks shabby and overgrown with weeds, he thought, but it doesn’t matter, I can cut the weeds and have the place looking as good as ever in a couple days.
As he stood observing his surroundings, memories came flooding in. He remembered working with his brothers and sisters in the cotton fields not far from the house. He remembered being picked-on by his brothers because he was the youngest in the family. He remembered his pa’s long prayers before one of his ma’s good meals, and after his pa died, the prayers of his oldest brother. He recalled gathering eggs, milking cows, and butchering hogs. He especially remembered turning the butter churn every Monday morning for his ma while she washed the clothes. But then the memory of his sister’s letter came into focus, reminding him his mother had died and both brothers had been killed. Buck shook his head, recalling the family he once had. “There ain’t nothing down there that matters a hoot to me,” he mumbled. “That old weather-beaten log house don’t m
ake a home—it takes a family to make a home, and I ain’t got none.” Buck wiped his eyes with his knuckles.
After collecting himself, he dismounted and led the horses down the valley, tying them to a bush several yards from the house, well out of sight. He slipped forward and stopped in concealment to scout out the situation. Minutes passed, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Glancing up, he noticed the mid-April sun dropping slowly in the red-and-pink crested sky. Darkness was only a couple of hours away.
Buck started to move forward but suddenly stopped, thinking he saw a shadow in one of the windows. Maybe it was just a reflection of the sun. He wasn’t sure, one way or the other, so he remained motionless and looked around for other signs. The white end of a broken branch caught his attention. Peering more intently in the area around the branch, he saw a few weeds bent over in an almost undetectable path that most likely had been made within the last hour or two. Buck’s eyes went back to the window. Minutes later another shadow passed behind the window. “That’s no reflection,” he mumbled, “someone’s in the house.” He watched for more window images, trying to determine how many people might be in the house and if they were friendly or his enemy, but he saw none. Buck couldn’t take a chance, so he remained in hiding.
The sun was making long shadows when Buck thought of his gun. I better go back and get it. I may need it. Just as he was returning to his hiding bush with the pistol, he saw the outhouse door close. Twilight had set in, so he reasoned it was safe to slip down to the outhouse without being seen and confront whoever was in it.
Minutes later as Buck stood on the backside of the outhouse he heard its door squeak open. He pulled his gun as he moved forward, saying in a firm voice, “Put up your hands and turn around.” A man instantly raised his hands and quickly turned toward the voice. Buck was speechless and stepped back. The man was black but more important and frightening to Buck was his size. He was gigantic. He looked enormous standing beside Buck’s weak, puny body. He was a man who could crush Buck with a single swing. The only thing Buck had going for him was his pistol.
“Don’t shoot, miss’er,” the man said nervously, his frightened eyes bugging out. “I think no one was alive here. I ain’t did no harm. If’n you be obliged, my family and me will be toten off soon as I can fetch ’em.” He paused and then continued, “I ain’t owned by nobody. My master give me papers before he was shot a spell yonder.”
Buck listened as he looked the man over carefully. His size is almost unbelievable. He must have been at least six-five and weigh close to two hundred-seventy pounds. He had broad shoulders with a small waist. His unbuttoned shirt showed his muscular chest, and his powerful looking arms and biceps stretched his shirt sleeves. Huge powerful hands protruded from shirt cuffs several inches above his wrists. His pant legs likewise were well above his ankles.
“Put your hands down. I ain’t gonna hurt you and hope you ain’t gonna hurt me,” Buck said as he slid the gun under his rope belt. The big man lowered his hands, but his eyes stayed fixed on the man in gray. His large white eyes, rimmed in black, sent a message to Buck that he feared any man wearing gray. Buck quickly picked up on the signal and said, “I ain’t no Confederate soldier. I know it looks that way ’cause I’m wearing this gray uniform and I talk like a Southerner, but the fact is, I’ve been fighting for the north—I’m a Union soldier. I came upon these clothes a week ago during my escape from a Confederate prison camp. When I escaped, I didn’t have a stitch of clothes to my name, but I was able to steal five Confederate horses carrying food and these clothes in their saddlebags—that’s why I’m wearing gray.” The black man looked doubtful but nodded his head, offering reluctant acceptance to the white man’s suspicious story.
“My name is Buck, at least that’s what folks call me. What’s your name?”
“Ma names me Onesimus from the Good Book, but folks call me Na’man.”
“Where’re you from, Na’man?”
“Master Howard owned me and my family before he was killed. We worked in cotton fields on his plantation. It ain’t far from Enterprise. The last while we ain’t had nothing to do or nobody to feed us, so we took out and settled here.”
“When did you get here, Na’man? How many of your folks are inside?”
“We got here yesterday, Master Buck. My woman and two younguns are inside.”
“It’d take you at least two days to walk here from Enterprise. What have you been eatin’?”
“We ain’t ate nothing for three days,” Na’man said looking toward the ground.
Buck looked into the big man’s eyes for a bit and then said as he was turning, “Na’man, those horses I stole has food in their saddlebags. You go get the fire burning while I go get the horses and some vitals.”
Chapter Six
When Buck entered the farmhouse after stabling his horses, the fireplace was ablaze with a kettle of water hanging from a swinging rod over the fire, and there were two lit candles on the center of the table with cups, plates, and other eating utensils neatly stacked at one end. Even though the room was dimly lit, Buck could make out its cleanliness. They must have done a lot of cleaning since arriving, he thought. Most likely it was a dirty mess when they got here…ain’t nobody been here for a year or two. I wonder if the rest of the house is as clean as the kitchen.
Buck sat the burlap food sack and both saddlebags on the floor and faced Na’man and his family. They stood together beside the fireplace with their eyes fixed on him—the children behind their parents, nearly out of sight.
“My name’s Buck, and I own this place,” Buck said expecting a response, but Na’man and his family stood silent and motionless with sober faces. “What might your names be? What should I call you?” Buck asked, trying to break the silence.
Another long minute went by without a response. Buck was about to turn when Na’man spoke up with a shaky voice, “Master Buck, this is my wife. Her name is Viola.” Buck nodded thinking Na’man would introduce his children next, but he said nothing more.
“What’re your children’s names, Na’man?” Buck asked. The kids quickly peeked out from behind their parents. Na’man had a slight smile. “We call the boy, Earl, and the girl we call Helen. They ain’t gonna come out, Master Buck…they’re afeard of you.”
Buck stood looking at them for a spell and then said, “I ain’t gonna hurt you…I promise.” And then with a smile, he said, “Why don’t you help me unpack the food from these bags so we can make some supper?”
The kids hung back, but Viola, Na’man, and Buck unpacked all the food items and placed them on kitchen shelving along the walls. Na’man carried a chair to the edge of the fireplace and motioned for Buck to sit in it. “We do’es the cooking, Master Buck. You can sit rights here and watch.
For the next several minutes Na’man and Viola scurried about the kitchen fixing the meal before setting it on the table. A bowl of hominy, fried bacon, and fried cornbread. And then, Na’man pulled out a chair in front of a single plate setting for Buck. Buck sat down and thanked Viola as she fetched the coffee pot and poured his coffee. She smiled, rounded the table, and stood beside the fireplace with her husband and children. Buck looked surprised and asked, “Ain’t you gonna eat?”
Na’man’s family looked at one another with questioning eyes. Then Na’man spoke up, “You goes on and eat, Master Buck. We eat when you done.”
“Why don’t you eat with me? I’d enjoy your company, and I know you’re as hungry as I am.”
The gaze of his family settled upon Na’man, waiting for his answer to Buck’s question. Several seconds passed. “We ain’t never eaten with no white folks, Master Buck…it ain’t fitting.” Buck sat in deep thought for nearly a minute and then rose and went to stand beside them. “Ain’t you gonna eat, Master Buck?”
“I reckon not. If you ain’t fit to eat at the table, I ain’t either. I ain’t any better than you.”
Again, all eyes went to Na’man, including Buck’s. “We thank you, Master Bu
ck, but you go ahead and eat.”
“I ain’t gonna eat without you and your family, Na’man,” Buck said emphatically.
There was a long silence as eyes darted from one to another. Finally, Na’man said, “If that’s what it’ll take, we’ll eat with you, Master Buck.” The children were still hesitant and hung back, but when Na’man motioned for them, they hurried to the table. It was the first time Buck noticed the girl was pregnant and it looked to him like she’d be having the baby any day.
When they were all seated, Buck saw Viola’s hand start to reach for his, but she quickly pulled it back. Na’man saw the reach and said, “We hold hands during our talks with the Lord, Master Buck, but we needn’t to since you with us.”
Buck shook his head and said, “I’d be disappointed if we didn’t hold hands while you prayed, Na’man. We are all brothers and sisters in God’s sight.” Then he took Viola’s hand while Na’man lifted up a beautiful prayer.
When supper was over, Viola and Helen started to rise to clear the table, but Buck motioned for them to stay seated. Then he asked everyone, “While I was escaping from the prison camp, I heard three Confederate soldiers talking, and they said the war was over, and the Union had won. If that’s true, do you know what it means?”
Silence gripped the table as eyes danced from one to another. Finally, after a long pause, Na’man said, “I guess it means all black folks get papers saying no master owns ’em.”
“It’s more than that,” Buck said. “It means any person within our land must treat black folks the same as they treat white folks. It means you have the same rights as me or any other white person. That’s what the war was all about. The Union is saying blacks must be set free and receive the same rights as the white man, and the Confederate states saying blacks must be kept under slavery.” Buck paused before continuing, “There were thousands of men who fought to set black folks free. Many gave their lives, Na’man. Do you understand what I’m sayin’?”
