A Perilous Proposal (4 page)

“Please, suh . . . where's my daddy?” asked Jake.

“How should I know?” laughed the white man.

“But he's gone?”

“That he is, boy—and he ain't never coming back.”

“But why's he gone, suh?”

The man seemed to think a few seconds, then stooped down and stared into Jake's face. Slowly the hint of a grin came to his lips. “Didn't they tell you, boy?” he asked.

“No, suh.”

“He left 'cause he couldn't stand the sight of you no more,” said Master Clarkson's foreman. “Yes, sir—he said to the master, ‘Marsa,' he said, ‘dat boy ob mine's jes' too ugly an' I can' stan' sight er him no mo. So I'z leavin', I am. Effen you don' sell me, den I'll run away, I will. Dat's how despert I be ter git away from dat boy.' That's what he said, and it must be the truth because Mister Clarkson sold him the very next day, and I know he wouldn't have sold him if he hadn't had a mighty good reason.”

Jake swallowed, blinking hard to keep from crying in front of the white man. The more he tried to swallow, the bigger got the lump in his throat.

Feeling his eyes starting to sting, he turned and walked away. Behind him he heard the sound of laughter. It followed him all the way until he was out of sight of the workers. He crept behind the trunk of a big oak, then sat down on the ground and cried and cried. Finally he cried himself to sleep.

When he woke up the overseer's laughter still rang in Jake's ears. Though the thought that his father would want to leave because of him was too painful to bear, he now remembered his mother's tears from two days before. He thought of his mama's pain. Again anger toward his father filled his heart. How could he do a thing like this to his mother!

A week later Jake walked into the house and saw his mother packing up what few things they had to call their own.

“What you doin', Mama?” he asked.

“We's leavin' here, Jake,” she said.

“Is it 'cause er Papa?”

“No, it ain't got nuffin' ter do wiff him. Now git yer clothes. We's bein' sold. Massa's takin' us ter da slave auction dis afternoon.”

The words filled Jake with dread. But when the time came, it wasn't as bad as he had expected. A few white men looked him over with mean expressions and stuck their fingers in his mouth and poked him in the stomach. They did the same to his mama, and a few men said things about her looks. In the end they were both sold to the same man, and Jake knew enough to know that all slave families weren't so lucky.

By late that same day they were on their way to their new home. His mama didn't say much. She just held him in the wagon. He knew she was relieved they were still together.

W
ORDS OF
A
NGER

5

J
AKE WAS EIGHT, AND AT THE NEW PLANTATION HE
was expected to work like a man.

His mother never seemed the same after that. She didn't talk as much, or sing around the house. As Jake grew, he gradually forgot his father, even forgot his face and what his voice sounded like. He came to realize that in a slave's life, family was a luxury not everyone got to enjoy.

In time Jake forgot the lips that had laughed and kissed and told him old slave stories and had soothed his hurts and fears. He forgot the expression and color of the eyes that had once looked upon him with tenderness and affection. But though he forgot the good, he allowed the resentment in his heart toward the man he'd once called
Papa
to smolder and grow. The faceless memory of his father became for him the cause and blame of everything that made life unpleasant. He blamed his father for every grievance he suffered at the hands of others. It made no sense. The resentments of children toward parents are often illogical. But irrational resentments eat away at the soul just as destructively as rational ones.

Thus the anger in Jake's heart festered and deepened its hold on his dawning character.

As the decade of the 1850s came to an end, talk of freedom was everywhere. Some folks were even talking about war. Jake had never heard the name Abraham Lincoln and knew nothing about elections or politics. But he could tell that things were changing.

Jake was changing too. By 1860 he was twelve and growing into a strong, strapping Negro teenager. He had a man's voice and was putting in long days with the other black men. But like most boys his age he wasn't particularly eager to work any harder than he had to. It was something he would live to regret.

The fall of 1860 progressed, and the election that would change the country and its history drew closer. Master Winegaard was working everyone on the plantation hard in preparation for winter, but also in preparation for what might happen if the Republican upstart from Illinois was elected. He had a cousin from the North who had written him about a rumor saying that the fellow called Lincoln might free the South's slaves if he was elected. Whites throughout the South were scared to death of what might happen to their way of life. There was even talk about the Southern states forming a new country where slavery would be allowed whether Mr. Lincoln liked it or not. Some folks said the division between North and South could lead to war.

All Jake and his mama knew was that Master Winegaard was working them harder than he ever had before. They were tired. The master didn't usually take on extra hands because he had enough slaves to do the work of the plantation. But he was even hiring temporary whites now too. There were several new faces around the place, including a couple of drifters Jake's mama didn't like the look of.

One hot day early in October, the master walked toward Jake where he was working with a dozen or so of the slaves.

It was about eleven o'clock in the morning. They had been up at dawn and had been ploughing the hard ground
of one of the fields ever since. There wasn't a breath of wind. Flies were buzzing about. The men were all bare chested and sweating freely. Jake was so tired he could have fallen asleep right there on his feet, though the day wasn't half done yet.

“Jake,” said Master Winegaard, “here's a satchel of fence staples. Take it out to where Tavish is working on that fence—you know, the twenty-acre parcel across the creek.”

“I don't know effen I know who Tavish is, suh,” said Jake.

“I just hired him last week. Big white fellow—twenty-eight or thirty, black hair . . . he's alone out there anyway. Just take the path beyond the slave village to the bridge across the creek. You'll hear him working. Now get going—I want him to finish that stretch of fence today.”

Winegaard handed him the leather pouch and Jake walked off in the direction of the slave cabins. On the way, he realized how tired he was. A cold glass of water would taste mighty good. Something to eat along with it would be even better!

He walked into his little house ten minutes later, threw the satchel on the floor, picked up a tin cup, and went back outside to the water pump. His mother returned from the vegetable garden as he was splashing cold water over his head after taking several long, satisfying drinks. He fell in step with her back toward the house.

“Wha'chu doin' here at dis time er day, Jake?” she asked.

“Massa Winegaard sent me on a errand ter sumbody workin' 'cross da creek.”

“You don't look like you's on yer way ter nobody.”

“I jes' stopped by ter git a cup er water an' take a little rest an' git sumfin ter eat,” said Jake. He followed her
inside and plopped down on his blanket on the far side of the room.

“Wha'chu layin' down for?” said his mother. “Git up, Jake.”

“I's plumb tuckered out, Mama. I been out diggin' in dat hard dirt all day.”

“An' I been workin' in da garden mos' er da day. What's so unushul 'bout dat? Now what you supposed ter be doin'?”

“Sum white man on da other side er da bridge needs dat dere satchel. But I figger he can wait a spell fo it.”

“Effen Massa gib you sumfin ter do, den you best git it dun or you's feel his whip on yo back.”

“A few minutes won't make no dif'rence,” said Jake. “'Sides dat, Massa's busy over t' da other side er da big house. He'll neber know.”

“He'll neber know! What kind er talk dat be?”

“Nuthin', Mama—I jes' meant he won't fin' out dat I stopped by here. He can't whip me fo what he don't know.”

“Jake Patterson, you oughter be 'shamed er yo'self. Da good Lawd'll know, eben effen Massa don't. Tryin' ter hide what you's doin' be jes' like lyin'. Ain't no good can come er dat, nohow.”

“It ain't lyin', Mama,” retorted Jake a little testily. “I jes' want ter rest a bit. Dere ain't nuthin' so bad 'bout dat. Why you takin' da massa's side?”

“I ain't takin' nobody's side. I's jes' tellin' you what's right, dat's all. Yer papa wudn't neber do such a thing. He wuz a man er his word, an' effen he said he gwine do sumfin, he'd do it wiffout no sneakin' roun' pretendin' ter be one place, den goin' off sumwheres else.”

“Well, Papa's gone!” Jake shot back. “He left us an' dat's dat. I's sick er hearin' 'bout him.”

“Wha'chu sayin'! He got sol'. He didn't leab us.”

“Dat ain't da way I heard it.”

“He wudn't neber do dat. Now you git up and git goin', Jake.”

“An' I tell you I ain't ready jes' yet. Why you always throwin' Papa up at me like he wuz sum blame saint er sumfin!”

“Jake, you watch yer mouf! How dare you talk like dat 'bout yer papa!”

“It's true—you make him soun' like he was sumfin special.”

“Dat he wuz as shure as you's standin' dere! Yer papa was a good man. He always did what Massa tol' him. Effen he said he wud do sumfin he did it. Wudn't hurt you none ter be a little mo like him neither.”

“Like him! He's da las' man I'd want ter be like! What he eber do fo me?”

“Wha'chu sayin'! What's got inter yer head? He gib you life, dat what, an' he loved you like no papa I eber seen.”

“Loved me!” Jake said sarcastically. “I don't 'member no love from him. He'd whip my back soon as da massa effen I did sumfin he didn't like.”

“He neber whipped yer back! Where you git a noshun like dat!”

“He spanked me sumthin' fierce!”

“Only w'en you didn't do what you wuz tol'. Dat ain't no whippin'!”

“When I got in er fight wif Johnny Clarkson, he sided wiff Johnny, not me, an' den made me do what Johnny said. He wuz always lookin' ter see what I done wrong an' gittin' after me fo it.”

“Jes' cuz he wanted you ter be da bes' boy you cud,” said his mama. “Dat's da job God gib papas ter do, an' good papas try ter do it. It's jes' lazy papas dat let dere young'uns do whatever dey wants.”

“Well, maybe I didn't want ter be what he wanted me ter be.”

“An' maybe dat weren't fer you ter say. Dat's a papa's job, an' a mama's too. An' I tried ter do it, jes' like yer daddy did. But you jes' sulk round an' gib me ornery looks like I's sum kind er dog instead er yer mama. Sumtimes I wonder what you's thinkin', Jake, da way you act roun' me. Mos' kids got respec' fer dere mamas, but you jes' ax me ter do dis an' do dat an' den gib me nasty looks like you can't stan' da sight er me.”

But by now Jake was too worked up about his father for his mother's words to sink in.

“You's always sayin' how good Papa wuz,” he went on irritably. “You say he cared 'bout us, but he didn't. He didn't care enuff ter stay. You say he wuz sold, but I'm thinkin' you's sayin' it jes' ter keep me from knowin' da truf, an' dat's dat he turned his back an' lef' us. I know dat happened cuz one er da massa's men tol' me. Papa lef' us. An' I hate him. I hate da thought ob him!”

Jake began to storm out of the house. Stunned at what she had heard, and having no idea how strong was the silent anger that had built inside him, Jake's mother stared after him with her mouth hanging open. His words had angered her too. But she was filled with the righteous indignation of a loving wife, not the selfish anger of a teenager. She found her voice a few seconds later.

“Jake, don't you turn yer back on me!” she yelled after him. “You come back here!”

Jake stopped and glanced back.

“You take back dose awful words,” she said. “You take 'em back, you hear me. Den you pick up dat dere satchel an' take it where Massa tol' you like yer papa wud er dun.”

“I won't take back what I said!” Jake retorted. “I meant it. Dere ain't no love in my heart fo da man, whateber you say.”

“Why, Jeremi—” she began.

“Don't you call me dat name!” Jake shot back angrily. “Dat's what he always called me when he wuz getting' after me fo sumthin', an' I don't want ter eber hear it agin!”