Courage to Run

by Wendy Lawton

  “I’d rather work in the field.”

  “Araminta Ross, you don’t know what you be sayin’.” Old Rit shook her head. “Fieldwork is hot and hard. If you got on at the Big House, the days are filled with work, but not the back-breakin’ kind.”

  Minty knew fieldwork was hard. She heard talk about slaves, broken from the endless work, who had to be sold down South. Cotton and tobacco growers were so hungry for labor in the Deep South that they were willing to make do with the last few years of a slave’s working life.

  “I hate being cooped up inside, Mama.” Minty wasn’t telling her mother anything she didn’t already know.

  “Oh, child, I wish you’d throw off those notions. There’s nothin’ a body can do ’bout being a slave, but I want your life to be as good as we can make it. If I can’t work you into the house—well, I don’t want to speculate ’bout it.” The fidgety finger rubbing started back up.

  Minty said nothing.

  “You mightn’t be any bigger’n a sack of cornmeal, Araminta Ross, but you carry more stubbornness in that stiff back of yours than any slave on Brodas Plantation.”

  Minty knew her back was usually stiff out of fear, not stubbornness.

  “You tell Annie I want you carryin’ water to the field hands, startin’ tomorrow. If you look busy-like, maybe that man leave you alone.”

  Her mama’s worried voice sent a shiver over Minty.

  That night after supper, Ben and William Henry, one of Minty’s brothers, brought in the big washtub filled with water. Minty knew it meant the slaves would be gathering for a singing, even though it wasn’t Sunday.

  Annie told Minty that slaves used to have their church right out in the open with singing and shouting and praising the Lord. Slave owners were getting more and more suspicious of their slaves lately and didn’t like seeing them get together, even for church.

  “They be afraid slaves jes’ gonna raise up and slay they own masters,” Annie said as she rocked back and forth. “It ain’t the church folk they need be worryin’ about.”

  There was a hollow by the creek bottom past the stables that they called the praying ground. Here, on a Sunday, they could gather to sing, preach, and pray without fear of disturbing Master or his family. On other days, the Brodas’s slaves often met in one of the cabins for a midweek meeting.

  Master Brodas hadn’t forbade church meetings as many other plantation owners had, but word traveled like wildfire from plantation to plantation and the Brodas’s slaves thought it wise to keep their worshiping to themselves—just in case.

  That’s why the washtub was here. Folks gathered around the tub and the water caught their voices to keep the sound from carrying through the night air. Ben laughed one night after service as he and William Henry emptied the tub. “After this water’s done absorbed all the words and songs offered tonight, must surely be living water like in the Good Book.”

  They didn’t have a Bible in their services. Even if they had one, none of them could read it. Slaves were forbidden to learn to read and write. The Bible stories, the Psalms, and the gospel were passed on by telling and re-telling. Much of what Minty knew about God she learned from her father. And even more from the singing.

  Old Rit once told her, “Listen to the songs that Master Brodas’s people sing when they get together. They all be about winnin’ wars and cryin’ and moanin’ about lost love.” She snapped her fingers as if to dismiss those subjects. “Our songs kep’ us climbin’ up the mountain and crossin’ the deep river. Singin’ done carried us on this sorrowin’ journey. It be the words of our music, Araminta, that turned us slave folk from those Africa gods carved out of wood and stone to a livin’, breathin’ Jesus.”

  It was time for the meeting to begin. Minty loved to see her father stand and start the song. His voice was low and rumbly. At night, when he sang to the children, Minty loved to lean against him and feel the vibration of his song. Tonight he stood. He never told the people what song he was going to sing; he just started out:

  Go down, Moses.

  Everyone joined in, singing in harmony:

  Way down in Egypt-land.

  Tell ol’ Pharaoh

  To let My people go.

  There was a swell of feeling when they came to the line:

  Oppressed so hard they could not stand…

  The song went on for a long time, sometimes with a deep humming underneath the words, other times in full voice. When the song finally wound down, Ben began to preach. “Moses was sent by the Lord to free the Hebrew slaves.”

  Several voices were raised in agreement. “Yes, sir,” said one man.

  “Um-huh,” said one of the women.

  “We spend our days lookin’ for our deliverer,” Ben said, “but we can’t be forgettin’ that Moses had to come under the eye of ol’ Pharaoh before he could help his people. Like my Araminta.” He looked over at Minty. “Today, she come under the eye of the overseer.”

  Minty heard some mumbling and a “Lawd, have mercy.”

  Ben continued, “Me and Old Rit know how Moses’ mother must have worried when Pharaoh’s daughter pulled that basket out of the bulrushes, but we be trustin’ in the Lord.”

  Minty could see William Henry making faces at her. He was laughing because Ben compared her to Moses. She knew it must have seemed a funny comparison, but she loved hearing her father entrust her to God. If only she could have the courage of Moses.

  Her father preached on for a long time. Sometimes Minty was pulled in by his words, but most of the time she just listened to the musical rise and fall of his voice. The rhythm of her father’s teaching and the softly mumbled responses of the believers soothed her like singing, making her feel as if they were all working together to worship God.

  The meeting ended on a happy note when everyone stood up, pushed the quilts over to one side of the room, and began a ring shout. Ben was the singer and another man was the sticker. The sticker grabbed his broom and upturned his wooden box so he could beat out the rhythm with the broom handle on the box. Two other men were the basers. The basers answered Ben’s song and set the intricate hand-clapping rhythm. Once the beat and the song led off, the women and girls started to move in a circle, singing and shuffling their feet to the beat.

  Minty knew they could have gone on with the ring shout for hours, but work came early, so they only did “Lay Down Body,” and after several variations, they closed the meeting with prayer—praying especially for Nicey’s mother, Ruby. Everyone hurried off to their own cabins after the amen.

  Minty wondered if her arms might just pull right out of her body. They ached from the heavy pails of water she hauled from the springhouse out to the field hands. She wouldn’t complain, though. She was working out of doors, not stuck inside a windowless cabin or shut up in the Big House. She wondered how many times she made the trip today after she lost count. She was glad that she was able to give dippers full of cool water to the hardworking slaves.

  She couldn’t help thinking about her father’s preaching last night. Did Moses ever give water to the Hebrew slaves who worked for the Pharaoh? She knew Moses must have hated slavery as much as she did. She couldn’t help wondering if she could ever be as bold as Moses. It made her happy to think about being brave, but she was only a girl and a scrawny one at that.

  “Hey, you.” It was the overseer.

  “Yes, suh?”

  “You Araminta Ross? Ben and Old Rit’s child?”

  “Yes, suh.” She kept her head down, but managed to catch a glimpse of him out of the side of her eyes.

  “Master wants to see you.” The overseer was grinning in that dangerous way that made it hard for Minty to breathe.

  She looked around to see if she could see her mother or father, but she knew Old Rit was off working in the Big House and Ben was out cutting trees.

  “Just leave the bucket, gal,” he said. “Someone else will have to carry water to the hands.” He laughed. “Won’t hurt them to go without for a few hours neit
her.”

  Minty headed toward the Big House, hoping she’d run into her mother before she had to face Master Brodas. Old Rit was nowhere to be seen, but the Master was in the yard talking to a man seated in his wagon.

  “Here she is, Mr. Cook,” he said.

  “She looks a mite young, don’t she, Brodas?” The man was looking her over with a skeptical look on his face.

  “Look, Mr. Cook, you said you could only afford to hire a child. Minty’s all I can afford to let go for that price. Take her or leave her.”

  Hire? Master was hiring her out?

  “All right, I’ll take her, but we better be able to get our work outta her.” The man called Mr. Cook talked in a coarse way—different from Master Brodas. “Get in the wagon, girl.”

  “No!” Minty was frantic as she spoke to Master Brodas. “I’ll work hard here, Master. Please let me stay with Old Rit and Ben.”

  The Master turned his back and started to walk away. The man called Mr. Cook reached down and yanked her up by one arm. She scraped her leg on the splintery boards of the wagon as he dragged her across, dumping her on the seat beside him.

  “Please…” She stood up, trying to reach toward him for mercy.

  The man yanked her arm to pull her back into the wagon. “Shut up, girl. Stop fussin’ or I’ll whup you till you can’t do nothin’.”

  “Master Brodas,” she yelled toward his back, “can I make my farewells to Mama?”

  No answer.

  “Please, Master, please…”

  Mr. Cook made clucking sounds to the horses and flicked the reins. The wagon pulled out onto the dirt road leading away from the plantation. The muffled clip-clop of the horses’ hooves sent puffs of dust into the air. Minty looked back, hoping for a glimpse of her family, but all she saw was the Big House—getting smaller and smaller as she moved away from everything she knew and everyone she loved.

  A Long Way

  from Home

  I hired you a helper from Brodas.” Mr. Cook pushed Minty into the house as he spoke to his wife. Minty had no idea how far they had driven or how long she’d been on the road. She felt numb, like in her dreams when she sensed a great danger coming and couldn’t move a muscle.

  “You paid good coin for that scrawny thing?” The woman’s voice was shrill. She stood with her feet apart and her hands on her hips. “She better be able to learn or you’ll take her right back to that old cheat, Brodas.”

  If I don’t learn, they’ll send me back? Minty recognized the first tiny flicker of hope.

  Though the house was much bigger than the Ross cabin, the whole structure could have easily fit inside the parlor of the Big House. Minty suspected that the Cooks were not what the Brodas’s people called “quality.” At the Brodas Plantation, the Missus and all her friends smelled like jasmine or rosewater. They wore their hair in little corkscrew curls that bounced as they moved. Mrs. Cook’s hair was sort of frizzled and matted, like hanks of shorn lambs’ wool she had noticed piled on the front stoop of the house.

  From the moment she stepped into the house, Minty could hardly breathe. Mrs. Cook had been carding wool and the room was thick with flying fibers. As if dismissing Minty from her mind, Mrs. Cook resumed her work. As the woman combed the fibers across the spiked cards, the air danced with lint. Minty sneezed. Every surface wore a coating of fine wool fuzz. Minty looked toward the kitchen and saw the same fluff on the stove and the soup kettle. She sneezed again.

  “Don’t think you can get out of work by playing sick, girl.” The woman wore a sneer on her face. “You’ll get used to the wool, but iffen you never do, it don’t matter none. You’ll do the work or you’ll get used to the back of my hand.”

  “Ah-choo.”

  “You’ll sleep in there.” The woman pointed toward the kitchen. “There’s a plank near the fireplace. You can lay yourself down on that. Since spring is nearly here we won’t go building any fires for you, though you might get a little heat from the embers.”

  “Ah-choo.”

  “Don’t she talk, Mr. Cook?” The woman looked at her husband.

  “I heard her beggin’ Brodas to say her good-byes to her mama, but after that all I heard was snivelin’ and cryin’.”

  “Look smart, girl. You best put your stuff over by your plank,” Mrs. Cook said.

  “She ain’t got no stuff,” Mr. Cook said.

  “What did we git ourselves into?” Mrs. Cook didn’t seem to be asking anyone in particular. “Get a bowl of stew since it’s well past supper. I’m quitting since the sun is too low to see anything.” This was to her husband. She turned toward Minty. “You didn’t do no work today, so you don’t get no food. Soon’s Mr. Cook is finished, you can go to your plank for the night.”

  “Ah-choo.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll take up the trade of weaving.”

  Minty felt rumbles of hunger in her stomach. She had worked hard carrying water the whole day long, but it wouldn’t be the first time she went to bed hungry. Somehow, stew coated in wool fuzz didn’t seem very appetizing anyway.

  Long into the night Minty lay there. Her bed was a bare plank of wood wedged in between the fireplace and the wall. Without even a straw-stuffed ticking or mat, Minty couldn’t settle in. Mrs. Cook left a threadbare wool blanket by the plank, but it was itchy and smelled of mildew. Minty wrapped it around her anyway, trying to ward off the cold. She scrunched down as far as she could until her feet could rest against the still-warm stones of the fireplace.

  She’d never slept alone before. In the big Ross family there was always someone willing to pull quilts together into a comfy huddle. When your feet got too cold you just tucked them under a soundly sleeping sister.

  Minty felt like she was not only breathing wool lint, but that it had settled on every part of her body. She could even feel the fuzz between her toes from trying to get warm on the fireplace. She wondered if her hair looked like old Annie’s tight black curls flecked with white.

  I hate this place. I hate Mr. Cook. Minty didn’t even like the smell of the man. His body had an oily, sharp kind of odor. When he talked, sour breath filled the room. In fact, every time he opened his mouth you could see gaps where some teeth had fallen out.

  I hate Mrs. Cook too. She is the perfect wife for Mr. Cook, Minty thought. With her mean, squinty face, she looked like what the people on the Brodas plantation called River Trash. Minty understood why Master Brodas undertook the business of hiring her to the Cooks outside by the wagon. Mr. Cook was not quality—not the kind of guest to be invited indoors. Meetings between planters—people of quality—were always held in the library. Mother often served the delicate refreshments.

  Mother. How I miss you. She thought about what Old Rit would say if she could hear Minty’s thoughts about the Cooks.

  “You don’t be talkin’ ’bout those folks that way, girl.” Minty could almost hear the clucking sound in her mama’s voice. Then she imagined that Old Rit would add, “Don’t you be forgettin’, Minty, they be Jesus’ children same as you.”

  Oh, Mama. I’m sorry. I won’t be forgettin’. She couldn’t let this place make her mean.

  She lay still, listening to the night. The sounds were so different from the sounds Minty was used to back home. The Quarter got real quiet at night. Sometimes she could hear the soulful who-who-who of a mourning dove or a medley of mockingbird warbles. In the spring and summer the chorus of chirping crickets sang melody to the harmony of croaking bullfrogs. And always, for as long as she could remember, Minty would fall asleep to the rhythm of the slap-slap of water against the banks, punctuated by the plop of a frog jumping into the river. How could she sleep here where all she heard was the rustling sounds of sheep milling around the pasture? Each time she drifted toward sleep, a bleating lamb awakened her. It sounded like a lonely child looking for its mama—kind of like Minty felt.

  She used the corner of the blanket to sop up her tears and wipe her nose. She wasn’t about to soak her board and let the Cooks see that she c
ried. I have to get home to Old Rit and Ben. Somehow, I just have to.

  She heard a deep snoring sound coming from the Cooks’ sleeping room. The rumble sounded like that deep throaty note that started the most mournful of all Old Rit’s songs. It began deep in her chest and seemed to roll around, resonating in her throat before breaking into a lament:

  Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

  Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

  Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

  A long way from home, a long way from home.

  Minty could almost hear her mother singing. The next verse would build:

  Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,

  Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,

  Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone,

  A long way from home, a long way from home.

  And when she had almost sung out, she would sing:

  Sometimes I feel like I ain’t got no home,

  Sometimes I feel like I ain’t got no home,

  Sometimes I feel like I ain’t got no home,

  A long way from home, a long way from home.

  But she would always end with the motherless child, all sad and deep and lonely. Old Rit had also been taken far away from her mother and her home. She must have felt as lonely as I do right now. Minty touched the worn calico patch on her shift. Her mother had sewn it to cover a tear in the fabric. Her fingers followed the neat stitches running along the edge. As she fingered this reminder of her mother, she finally felt herself falling toward sleep.

  “Git up, girl.” Minty woke to the cranky voice of Mrs. Cook kicking the sleeping plank. “We working folk ain’t lying abed all day.”

  Minty scrambled off her bed and folded the blanket. She was tired—bone tired. Her muscles ached from the heavy buckets of water she had carried all day long yesterday. Was that just yesterday?

  “There’s a chunk of bread for you on the table after you wash up. The pump is over there.” The woman pointed toward the sheep pen.