by Jim Cox
Black was fidgety when the harness was put on him. He pranced and jerked some when he was first hooked up to the harrow, but he calmed down when Buck took hold of his bridle and led him out to the field where the mules were. It wasn’t long before the harrow was breaking up the large dirt clumps left behind from the plowing, leaving a smooth field ready to be planted.
Two candles were lighting the table that evening when everyone sat down to Viola’s supper. A blessing was said and the food passed. The afternoon had been long and the work hard, so people were hungry with their minds on eating, which caused the table talk to be a mite sluggish. Finally, Buck said, “Mr. Lambert said he’d give us seed enough to plant forty to forty-five acres, and that we should be done planting no later than the first of June. I figure we’d have a week to spare if we planted a little over two acres a day. Do you think we can plant that much, Na’man?”
Na’man thought for a minute and then answered, “I think we be able to if we all pitches in, Master Buck. I’ll learn Earl to plow, and you can do the harrowing with Black. After I learn Earl to plow, I make trenches with a garden hoe, and Viola can drop and cover the seed. It is close, but I think we can do it.”
»»•««
It had been a difficult task, but forty-five acres were planted with five days to spare before the June 1st deadline. In an effort to rest up a bit, the group spent the days following the planting doing light work. They pulled garden weeds while gathering early season produce. Radishes, green onions, lettuce, and green beans. They did laundry, churned butter, and performed other household jobs. One day they shelled a half bushel of last year’s corn and made hominy by placing the kernels in an outside iron vat of boiling water and adding lye. After boiling for quite some time, the outer corn skin separated and rose to the top where it was skimmed off. When the hominy had been washed three times, it was ready to be canned in glass jars. At supper that evening, Buck noticed Na’man and Viola were quiet and wore long faces. He brought up different subjects and asked several leading questions, but they just responded with one or two words. One time, Viola left the room and returned with red eyes.
As soon as the two men entered the barn to do chores that evening, Buck turned to Na’man and asked, “What’s going on, Na’man? How come you and Viola are so quiet with gloomy faces?”
“It’s time Master Buck. We have a full moon.”
“What does a full moon have to do with anything?” Buck asked.
“It makes babies come, Master Buck.”
“That’s just an old-wives-tale, Na’man. There ain’t nothing to it.” Na’man’s forehead wrinkled and his eyes took-on a disbelieving look.
Buck wanted to change the subject, so he asked, “How’s Helen doin’? Are there any signs the baby is on its way?”
“Her has pains from time to time, but it don’t stay. Her mammie thinks her ought to be in bed ’till the baby comes.”
After the men had finished with the chores, Na’man started for the house but turned and said, “Master Buck, would you…” he cut himself short.
“What is it, Na’man? What were you about to ask?” The big man simply turned and faded into the blackness.
»»•««
Something woke Buck. He lay wide-eyed listening for a repeat of whatever had awakened him—nothing. He kicked the covers back and went to the barn door to have a look. The first thing he saw was the full moon in its midnight position. I’ve been asleep for at least four hours. Then he noticed a flickering candlelight through the kitchen window. “Something’s going on in the house,” he mumbled. “I wonder if Helen is in labor.” Buck dressed in a hurry and headed for the house.
When Na’man heard the back door open and close, he left his wife and daughter and went to the kitchen. The two men looked at each other. “Her water broke, Master Buck, and she is hurting awful bad.”
“You mean she’s having birth pains?” Buck asked. The big man nodded.
“How far apart are they, Na’man?”
“I ain’t sure, Master Buck. Her mammie most likely knows.” The men turned and started for the bedroom. When they entered, Viola rose and went to her husband in tears. “Her pains are getting closer, and she’s hurting is worse, but I ain’t seen nothing of no baby coming along,” Viola said.
Buck looked at the girl. Her tear-streaked cheeks were moist even though her eyes were closed, and beads of sweat covered her forehead. A light cotton blanket covered the girl’s small body with only her arms and feet sticking out. As she lay there, it looked as though her belly was by far the largest part of her body.
Buck turned to ask Viola a question, but she and her husband were holding hands with their heads lowered and eyes closed. As his gaze went back to the girl, he saw her forehead starting to furrow and eyes squinting. There’s another birth pain coming on, he thought. Seconds later, Helen screamed and then shouted in a loud voice, “It’s a-hurting awful bad. Help me, Mammie! Help me, Papa!”
Na’man went to his daughter and held her hand while Viola wiped her face with a wet cloth. Buck felt helpless. Morning finally came. Buck had been to Helen’s room several times during the night, but nothing had changed. Her pain was still coming every minute or so, occasionally causing her to scream. The girl looked totally worn-out as she laid taking in fast short breaths between labor pains. The bed covering was darkened under and around her body from the girl’s sweat. Her parents stayed by her side doing everything possible to make her comfortable.
The fresh coffee Buck brought to the bedroom was welcomed by Na’man and his wife, but they declined the food. Later, after Buck and Earl had prepared and eaten their breakfast of bacon and eggs, they went to the barn to do chores—Buck milked both cows while the boy did the feeding and gathered eggs.
The day was long. Minutes seemed like hours. Evening finally came.
Evening chores were completed, and a light supper was prepared. As before, Na’man and Viola accepted the coffee but shook off the food plates. They did not speak. As Buck turned to leave, his stomach tightened when his gaze fell on Helen. She looked lifeless. Her little arm was lying over her eyes as if hiding from another one of those dreaded pains. The bedcovers were glued to her sweaty body and her hair hung in matted strings of wet curls.
But what concerned Buck the most was the dull yellowish cast her skin had taken on, which matched what he’d seen on Joe’s face a few hours before he died. Buck left the room feeling the girl, and her baby didn’t have long to live. That they’d be dead before the night ended. Buck felt helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do for the girl. The night seemed like an eternity.
Buck was in the kitchen the next morning getting ready to go do chores when Na’man walked in with watery eyes. “She’s gone, Master Buck. She’s gone to be with the Lord. She ain’t breathed or moved for a long spell.” Then he sat down at the table with his head resting in his hands and cried like a baby. Buck sat down beside him and put his arm around the big man’s back. A minute or so later, Na’man raised his head and through sobs said, “Prays with me, Master Buck. Pray my little girl’s soul goes to be with the Lord.”
Buck obliged, but in reality, he thought prayers were useless. They’re never answered. At least I’ve never had one answered I know of. When Buck saw Na’man lift his head nearly thirty minutes later, he went for coffee, filled two cups, and was returning the pot to the fireplace when Viola burst through the kitchen door.
“She ain’t dead!” Viola shouted. “She’s alive! She moved!” The men stared at each other and hurried to the girl.
It was mid-afternoon when Helen delivered a baby girl. The baby was tiny but seemed healthy with good lungs, as was evident from her crying. Her skin was very light, no doubt taking after her white father, and her curly hair was black. After washing the baby with warm water and wrapping her in a blanket, Viola handed the newborn to Helen, who smiled as she cuddled her baby. Minutes later, Viola took the baby and handed her to Na’man. Na’man and his wife welcomed their new
granddaughter into the world and prayed over her, and then Viola got busy cleaning the bed and washing her daughter with warm water. The bathing soothed the girl’s already extremely tired body, and soon she was sleeping.
After eating their evening meal, Viola handed the baby to Na’man and went to check on her daughter. “Her still sleeping,” Viola said, as she returned to the kitchen and sat down.
“You hold the baby, Master Buck, while I get us more coffee,” Na’man said, handing the baby to him. Buck was a little nervous at first, but by the time Na’man had returned from pouring coffee, he had the baby cradled in his left arm and was smiling as he looked at her tiny face.
“What are you gonna name her?” Buck asked rather suddenly. Na’man looked at his wife.
“Helen named her June,” Viola answered.
“How did you come up with that name?” Buck asked.
Na’man answered with a wide grin, “She was born the first day in June, Master Buck.”
Chapter Ten
Helen had a difficult recovery after the delivery and was confined to bed for two weeks, but by the first of July, she was up and about doing fine. Baby June had started off rather thin and underweight, but with Grandma’s care and her mother’s rich milk, she had gained a good deal of weight and was now kind of chubby. Her skin coloring remained white, her eyes were black, and her hair had grown considerably, still in tight black curls.
Summer had passed into fall rather quickly. It was now the first of October, and though many jobs around the farm had been completed, many others still needed to be finished before the winter months set-in. The firewood had been cut and stacked, the spring and summer garden produce had been canned or hung to dry, the fruit was canned, and the potatoes were being dug up and placed into a potato hill at one end of the garden. The largest of the male hogs had been slaughtered and salted-down with its back-fat rendered into lard. It was a mite small to be slaughtered, just short of two hundred pounds, but the job needed to be done before they got busy in the cotton fields. Earl was put in charge of the two new-born calves—one a female and one a male.
The summer weather couldn’t have been better for growing cotton. The sun had beamed down its warmth day after day, and the afternoon rains came as if they’d been scheduled. “I believe we’re gonna have a mighty good crop,” Buck said during a noon meal. “I walked through several rows this morning, and the stalks are loaded with bolls.”
“When do you say we start picking, Master Buck?” Na’man asked.
“Pa always started picking when three-quarters of the bolls were opened. I’d say that’ll be in two weeks. We need to dig out the cotton sacks, Na’man, see how many we have and if they need repairing.”
“I already did that, Master Buck. We have six bags, and two of ’em had holes, but me and Viola has already did the sewing.”
Viola turned from the conversation to baby June who was sitting in a highchair and fed her another spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy. No sooner had the spoon left her mouth than she wanted more. Not only was baby June eating much of what the grownups ate from the table, she was rolling over and doing all sorts of things a four-months-old does, but her favorite pastime was to be rocked and sung to by her grandpa.
The homestead was back in tiptop condition by the time the cotton was ready to pick. The fields were in good condition and free of weeds thanks to Na’man and his family’s constant hoeing, and by now the waist-high plants were covered with opened bolls of white fluffy cotton. Buck felt his relationship with Na’man and his family was getting much better. They were not as guarded toward him anymore. One evening at the supper table, Buck had been caught off guard when Earl referred to him as a white, black man. Na’man and Viola looked startled, thinking Buck might be offended by the comment. Na’man had turned to reprimand his son, but Buck interrupted wearing a wide grin, saying the boy’s comment was a compliment. He followed up by saying, “We are all children of God.”
Mr. Lambert, who had provided their seed, had visited them a few days before the picking began to discuss the upcoming cotton sales and to reestablish their terms. There was a bit of small talk about the condition of the country’s finances, the freeing of the slaves, and the new president who had taken Lincoln’s place—Andrew Johnson, but it seemed to Buck Mr. Lambert was eager to consummate a deal. The price of cotton had skyrocketed after the war, which would afford him a very nice profit from the sale of Buck’s cotton. Buck was surprised, even smiled a little, each time Na’man joined in the conversation, offering information concerning the crop’s quality, time-table, and quantity. Lambert was equally taken back. Earl listened to the conversation with all ears. Once when the talk had lulled, he spoke up, which surprised the men, especially his pa. “Master Buck says I be doing the hauling to your place, Master Lambert.” Lambert looked at the boy and nodded with a smile.
There was one exception to the farm’s well-being during the summer. It had happened in late August. Na’man, Earl, and Buck had just finished chores and were headed toward the house for breakfast, carrying two buckets of milk and a basket with several eggs, when eleven men in gray rode up. Buck made a fast evaluation. They were a scruffy-looking lot in dirty uniforms, shapeless hats, and muddy boots with run-down heels. Their horses needed to be curried and their hooves trimmed.
A red-haired, bearded man in his mid-thirties, obviously the boss, immediately started shouting out demands even before all their horses had come to a stop. “What’s your name?” he hollered looking at Buck.
“My Christian name is Josiah Johnson, but folks call me Buck. This is…,” Buck was about to introduce Na’man and Earl, but the man in gray cut him short.
“I ain’t interested in their names. They don’t amount to nothing except to do work.” Buck looked at Na’man who had his head lowered.
“Get in the house and bring out your wife and kids and whoever else you got in there, I wanna see who lives here and who I’m dealing with,” the boss said in an ugly tone. Buck started to explain he didn’t have a wife or children, but then he had a thought. He headed for the house, appearing to be going after someone. Several minutes later, he returned carrying a cocked, loaded rifle pointing directly at the red-haired man’s belly. “I’m only gonna tell you one time to get off my farm, and I ain’t telling you again. But if you ain’t gone by the time I count to ten, I start shooting.”
“You’re a dead man,” the boss said in a loud voice, his face snarled. “You can’t kill us all.”
“You’re right,” Buck answered, “but it won’t make no never-mind to you ’cause you’ll be gut shot.” The man stiffened and stared at Buck.
“One,” Buck said. They didn’t move. “Two,” he said as he raised the cocked gun barrel a mite higher. “Three,” rang out through the silence. The boss man continued his glare at Buck and then turned his horse, riding off in a gallop, his cohorts following.
“Wonder why he’s left on the count of three, Master Buck.”
Buck smiled. “I’m glad he did, Na’man. I ain’t able to count much higher.” Na’man smiled and started off. Buck had made the counting comment as a joke, but then a feeling came. It ain’t no joke I ain’t able to read and write, and know numbers. He paused. I wonder if Na’man has had any learning. “Na’man,” Buck called out. “Do you have any ability to read and write, and do numbers?”
The big man turned, facing Buck. “I ain’t able to, Master Buck. It is unlawful for a slave owner to learn his property to read and write.”
The men’s prediction was right. The fields were yielding nearly a bale and a half of cotton per acre, which was seldom heard of in that part of the country. Of course, they’d only been in the field for a week and had picked five acres, but it was a good indication of what was to come.
Every morning the whole household headed for the field as soon as the sun had baked-off the night’s dew, and stayed bent over cotton rows until twilight, stopping only for their noon meal. Buck tried to get Helen to stay behind
and take care of her baby, but she wouldn’t hear of it, she wanted to do her part. Helen was actually quite good at the job, and by day’s end, usually had picked as much as her brother. She’d fall behind whenever she stopped for June to nurse or to change her diaper, but her papa, who always picked in the row beside her, usually helped her out by picking in both his and her rows until she caught up.
Helen’s picking was a sight to see. She straddled the row with the strap over her shoulder, dragging the eighteen-foot-long cotton bag, three feet wide, with a large basket on its end containing baby June. Occasionally, the basket would fall over, spilling the baby, who’d end up crying with a mouth full of dirt, but within minutes she’d be back in her basket happy as ever.
By the end of the first week, an unsolicited contest began among the pickers. Who could pick the most cotton? Years back, when Buck worked alongside his brothers and sisters, he thought he was good, generally picking upward of two-hundred-fifty pounds a day, which was more than any family member. However, he soon found out he was no match for Na’man, who could pick over three hundred. Even Viola could out-pick Buck most of the time, and she had to take breaks to prepare their meals.
By the time the cotton field had been picked over the first time, Buck was feeling depressed. Not because of the yield or the money he was making, but because he was restless. The way of life passed down to him didn’t seem right for him. During the weeks he’d been bent over cotton rows, Buck had pledged to himself he’d make a decision about what he wanted to do with his life by the end of the first picking, and then, follow through with it. That time was coming, and his decision was already made. He was heading west, out of the South where dreadful memories were constantly rising in his mind. Memories of the war and the Andersonville prison, memories of death, of desolation, and of his bygone family. His intention was to go to the far West, perhaps Arizona or New Mexico, where one’s life wasn’t bombarded with traditions and tragedies but was built around a new way of life. A life with unlimited opportunities.
