“I never heard da likes er dat before,” said Josepha.
Rob smiled. “I suppose that is a pretty bold thing to say you want to make of your life.”
“Who can possibly do dat?” Josepha asked.
“I believe we all can, if we make that our daily prayer,” replied Rob. “At least that’s my opinion. I believe that is what God is trying to do in all of us. I believe that is the one prayer He wants us all to pray, and to keep praying all our lives. I don’t mean we can totally be like Jesus himself, but we can ask God to work toward it in us.”
It was silent as we all thought about what a huge idea Rob was talking about.
“It’s a growing process that everyone has to learn for themselves,” Rob went on. “There’s no right or wrong way to learn to do what Jesus said and live out what God wants us to do. I happened to have an experience early in my life that forced me to confront who I was at a young age. From what you’ve told me about your friend Micah, he had an experience with the man Hawk he talked about in his letter when he was young—again, an experience that forced him to confront who he was and what he was becoming as a person. The two of you,” he said, looking at Katie and me, “had an experience together that forced you to confront different aspects of your lives and your character in different ways and ask questions about what God wanted of you. It’s a growing process that comes to us all, but in different ways. We all face different circumstances, but I think they are all intended to point us in that general direction—to teach us to ask, ‘God, what do you want me to do, what kind of person do you want me to be?’ I think that is why Jesus said the kingdom of God is like seeds that grow in people differently.”
The conversation continued for another hour. I think we were all really changed by it, but, like Rob said, each of us in our own individual ways.
Later that afternoon I went out by myself. I walked through the field we had finished the day before. There were a lot of stalks lying on the ground, a few weeds along with them, and bits of cotton we had missed. A few birds were about, pecking in the dirt to find the seeds we had left behind. And over in the distance sat the wagon piled high with the white fruit of our labor.
So much of the conversation was still going through my mind, and all I could do was say, “God, I want to be the person you want me to be. Show me what you want me to do.”
As the conversation on the front porch broke up and everyone went back to what they had been doing and Mayme walked out into the fields alone, the two brothers rose and wandered away from the house together.
“What do you think, brother Ward, shall we go check on that field we’re going to start tomorrow?”
“Sure,” said Ward, following his brother down the steps of the porch.
As Ward and Templeton continued toward the fields, neither spoke for several minutes. Both were absorbed in new and unexpected reflections.
“That Paxton’s quite a kid,” said Ward at length.
“He’ll be a good husband for Kathleen.”
Ward nodded, still thinking.
“A mite religious,” he said.
“He’s a preacher’s kid,” Templeton said, nodding.
“Yeah, but I’ve got the feeling there’s more to it than that. I agree with what Mayme said—I never heard a preacher say those kinds of things.”
“How many preachers have you heard in your life, brother Ward?” chided Templeton with a good-natured grin.
“Maybe not as many as I should have! But I’ve heard my share.”
Templeton chuckled but quickly grew serious.
“I think I know what you mean—I’ve never heard the kinds of things young Paxton said either. Pretty remarkable when you stop to think about it.”
“Even Mama, as religious as she was, never said those kinds of things. I mean, she was a good woman and all. She taught us to treat folks with respect. But I never heard her talk about asking God what He wanted you to do.”
He paused.
“Tell me, Templeton,” said Ward, “you ever ask God what He wanted you to do?”
“Can’t say that I have, at least not in so many words.”
“Me neither. I always did what I wanted to do. I think I usually tried to do what I thought was right. But I never thought about what God might have to say about it. That’s a different way of looking at things.”
“A lot different than I been used to looking at things too.”
Ward began to chuckle.
“What are you thinking?” asked Templeton.
“I was just thinking about Mama,” replied Ward. “She’d be shocked to hear us talking like this.”
Templeton smiled. “She’d be pleased, though,” he said. “She was a good lady, like you say. I wish I’d paid more attention sooner.”
They continued on in the direction of the river. Both were thoughtful for the rest of the day.
And all over Rosewood, spiritual seeds were sprouting and sending down roots in different directions, which would, in their own time, produce their manifold and varied fruit.
The harvest continued, though without Rob for the next several days. He accompanied us to the fields but couldn’t lift his hurt shoulder enough to grasp the cotton with both hands. He remained sore for some time, but was back picking with the rest of us by week’s end.
Tedious though picking cotton was, there was something special about all of us working hard together. There was laughter and talk and it felt good to be working hard for something so important. Occasionally, Josepha and Henry would lead out in singing a spiritual and the rest of us would join in, reminding us of the long history of what we were doing.
Strange as it is to say it, I think Rob enjoyed it most of all, being such a part of what had held Rosewood together for so long, and part of what had been such a part of the life of those of us who were black. Though Maryland had been a slave state, people that far north really didn’t have much of an idea what Southern plantation life was like.
When he and Katie walked off hand in hand at day’s end, sweating and hot and tired, I know they felt closer because of the bond of shared work. In the same way that Rob’s words about being actively involved with God had gotten into the rest of us and were, I suppose you’d say, growing in our hearts and minds, Rosewood and its hard work were getting into Rob and growing new things inside him too.
A couple weeks later, Henry secretly told Katie and me that Josepha’s birthday was coming up and that he had something special for her.
“She’ll be suspicious,” he said, “ef we tell her somebody else is fixin’ supper, so we’s jes’ let her go on as usual. But it’d be right fine ef you two could bake a cake or sumfin’. I’s try ter keep her out ob da kitchen fo da mornin’.”
“We’ll be happy to, Henry,” said Katie. “That will be fun!”
Josepha did get suspicious when Henry wouldn’t let her come up to the big house for lunch. When she did come about three o’clock, she sniffed around and I know she smelled something, even though the cake had been out of the oven and hiding as it cooled in Jeremiah’s cabin for three hours.
But I think she was still surprised when out came the cake with candles on it, followed by gifts from all of us. We’d never known her birthday before and she was surprised that Henry told us.
Henry saved his two gifts for last. They were two packages about the same size, wrapped in colorful fancy paper and tied with ribbon. When Josepha picked up the first of the two, she almost dropped it because it was so heavy.
“What dis be!” she exclaimed, holding it tightly as she carefully tried to peel off the paper without tearing it. Then she pulled out the most beautiful book I had ever seen, bound in leather and engraved on the side.
“Why it’s da Pilgrim’s Progress!” said Josepha. “Dat’s da handsomest book I eber seen. I been wantin’ dis book my whole life.”
“I had Miz Hammond order da nicest one she cud,” said Henry. “Dat’s what I wuz speakin’ wiff her about dat day she wuz here an’
you got a little riled at me.”
“I wuz jes’ curious, dat’s all!”
Henry chuckled.
“Open the other one, Josepha,” I said.
Josepha set the book down on the table as tenderly as if it were a baby, then picked up the second package.
“It be jes’ as heavy—it be anuder book?”
“Jes’ open it an’ fin’ out,” said Henry.
Again Josepha carefully peeled the paper back. She gasped in surprise. “It’s a Bible! Oh, Henry . . . da mos’ beautiful Bible I eber seen!”
She leaned over and gave him a kiss.
“I ain’t neber had anythin’ so nice as dese!”
Josepha asked if we could read The Pilgrim’s Progress together in the evenings after supper, out of her very own book. Of course we all agreed. We started that same night.
SAM JENKINS
48
Sheriff Sam Jenkins was the last person anyone at Rosewood expected to see riding toward them. The only thing they could be certain of was that it wasn’t a social call.
He rode straight into the field, knocking over cotton stalks and trampling good cotton to the ground. He rode straight to where Papa and Uncle Ward were working with Aunt Nelda.
“Well, this is a touching sight,” he said, looking around. “Futile but touching. Why don’t you boys just give up on all this? You’ll never win in the end.”
“Don’t bet against us, Sam,” said Papa.
“Suit yourself. But you’re wasting your time.”
“What can we help you with, Sam? You didn’t come out to inspect our harvest.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. I’m looking for someone. I got a feeling he’s here with you.”
He glanced around the field again where the rest of us were spread out over about a hundred yards.
“Tall, white kid . . . friend of Henry’s nigger boy . . . caused some trouble in town. Ah—I think I see him over there.”
“Rob!” called Papa. “You want to come over here a minute?”
As Rob walked across the field toward them everyone else followed till we were all standing around the sheriff, who was still sitting on his horse.
“Rob, this is Sheriff Jenkins. He’s here about that trouble you and Jeremiah had in town yesterday.—Sam, this is Rob Paxton.”
The sheriff looked him over, and slowly a smile spread over his lips.
“Judging from that shiner on your forehead and that bruise under your ear, not to mention the way your left arm is hanging like it might hurt a little, I take it you were involved.”
“I was there,” said Rob.
“I’ve had a complaint filed against you, son,” said the sheriff, “for assault.”
I heard a gasp of shock and glanced over at Katie. Her eyes were on fire!
“The report was filed by Deke Steeves,” said Mr. Jenkins. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Yes, I was involved in a little fracas with him.”
“So you admit that the charge is true?”
“I did not say that, sir,” said Rob calmly. “Actually, the charge is a lie.”
“Are you accusing Deke Steeves of filing a false report? That is against the law.”
“I am well aware of that, Mr. Jenkins. To answer your question—I accuse no one of anything. Without knowing how you came by your information, I am simply telling you that it is untrue.”
“Says you.” Jenkins smiled.
“Yes, sir,” said Rob, if anything, even more calmly than before.
“And who is to say you aren’t lying?”
“I make it my practice never to lie, sir. If I had assaulted Mr. Steeves, I would be the first to admit it.”
“You seem to be very sure of yourself, Mr.—what is it . . . Paxton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what do you suggest I do, Paxton? I’ve got a warrant in my pocket for your arrest, and yet you say that Deke Steeves is a liar?”
“You’ve heard everything I said, and at no time did I call anyone a liar. I have only asserted that the report, as you have it, is not true.”
“Have it your way,” said Jenkins.
“But to answer your question about what I would suggest, I would say that you should be very sure of your facts before making an arrest, sir,” answered Rob. “It is the essential first rule for an officer of the law. You might also consider secondary witnesses.”
“I suppose you mean this nigger here,” said the sheriff, nodding in Jeremiah’s direction.
I knew my eyes were flashing then!
Rob winced at the deprecation.
“His race is hardly a factor, Mr. Jenkins,” he said. “He did hear and see everything that passed between Mr. Steeves and myself. I would think some kind of corroboration would be useful in helping you avoid the charge of false arrest that could be put forward in such a case if you were to act prematurely and hastily.”
Uncle Ward nodded in Rob’s direction. “Paxton here knows something of the law, Jenkins. He is a sheriff’s deputy up north.”
“It is only a suggestion, sir,” Rob continued. “I have no authority here, I realize. But if you do indeed have a warrant for my arrest and are determined to enforce it here and now, I will go peaceably.”
Jenkins glanced about, slowly beginning to realize that he was being made to look like a fool in front of all these idiots he hated . . . and by someone he didn’t even know!
“You haven’t heard the last of this, Paxton!” he said, spitting out Rob’s name like venom.
Then he turned his horse around and galloped off across an unpicked portion of the field.
“Rob!” exclaimed Katie. “What would you have done if he’d arrested you!”
Rob laughed. “I would have told you to wire John Heyes in Hanover, Pennsylvania. Once John heard I was locked up, I have the feeling your Sheriff Jenkins would quickly realize he had started far more trouble for himself than he had bargained for. John would be here within forty-eight hours, and it would not go well for the good Mr. Jenkins when they met.”
Of all of us, Rob was the least shaken by the event as we returned to work. But he didn’t know these people like we did.
HERB WATSON
49
THREE DAYS LATER MR. WATSON APPEARED AT Rosewood to talk to Ward and Templeton Daniels. He looked serious. They went into the house together and sat down.
It was silent for several minutes.
“What is it, Herb?” asked Ward at length. “How bad can it be?”
“It’s bad, boys. I can hardly bring myself to say it.”
“Come on, out with it.”
“The pressure I’ve been telling you about. . . .” Watson finally began, “it’s grown worse. When I came to see you before, I hoped things would settle down. But they haven’t. It’s more than just my selling supplies to you now. Spoiling their attempt to kill Henry last year, along with the livery fire, made them plenty mad. But now they plan to get rid of you for good. The threats are getting dangerous.”
“What kind of threats?”
“I just had a visit from Sam. He sounds like he’s on a vendetta. If I don’t go along, they will burn my warehouse down.”
“What!”
“That’s what he said.”
“But that wouldn’t just get even with you, it would hurt the whole community.”
“And put half the plantation owners of the county out of business,” added Watson. “I know that. They’ve got to have someplace to sell their crops too, but when people get filled with hate, they don’t think straight.”
“You said if you don’t go along,” said Templeton. “What exactly did they mean?”
“Sam laid it down in black and white—I can’t buy your cotton crop at all, not at any price.”
“What! Herb, that will ruin us. We have to sell that cotton!”
“I know . . . I know. I’ve wracked my brain trying to think of something. But as things stand now, I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll sell it somewhere else!” said Ward angrily.
“That’s fine,” said Watson. “I hope you can do that. That’s obviously the best solution all the way around. But . . .”
“But what, Herb?” asked Templeton.
“All I’m saying is that you might not get your cotton to Charlotte . . . or anywhere. There are forces at work here that are determined to see you fail . . . no matter what it takes.”
“Are you saying that they would be watching us that close, that if we tried to transport it, they would prevent us?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Your crop could be stolen, your fields set on fire—who knows. They are absolutely determined that you are not going to sell this crop.”
We all knew something terrible had happened as a result of Mr. Watson’s visit. Papa and Uncle Ward were sober the rest of the day. But we kept picking.
“What do you think it is?” I said to Katie when we passed each other on one of the rows.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe the price is going to be even lower than they expected.”
“Then we have to get every bit of cotton off these stalks,” I said.
We went on picking.
MR. WATSON’S OFFER
50
TWO DAYS LATER MR. WATSON CALLED AGAIN. HE and Ward and Templeton went inside the house and sat down together in private.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation the other day,” he said, “and about your situation. I’ve come up with an idea that might solve it.”
“We’re open to any suggestions, Herb. You know someplace else we might be able to sell our cotton and where we could safely transport it?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” replied Watson. “It’s a completely different kind of solution.”
“We’re listening,” said Ward.
Mr. Watson stared down at the table a few seconds. It grew quiet as they waited.
“Tell me—” He paused again, then eyed the two brothers seriously. “—have you ever thought of selling your place?”
“Selling . . . selling Rosewood!”
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