A Perilous Proposal

by Michael Phillips

  Slowly he began to vaguely recognize some of the terrain from his earlier travels. He had also come into a region of great troop activity and movement. Every day required more and more care to keep from being seen. He did not know about General Sherman’s destruction of Atlanta and march to the sea. Neither did he know that he was in the very path where Southern General Hood was now invading southern Tennessee with a huge army, hoping to cut Sherman’s northwest supply lines.

  The first inkling he had of his danger was waking one morning to a distant rumble. Jake sat up and listened. He could not be sure, but it sounded like horses—hundreds of horses . . . maybe thousands.

  Hurriedly he jumped to his feet and grabbed up his things. It was close! The sounds came from everywhere around him.

  Without thinking, he glanced about and had scarcely had time to scramble up into a nearby oak when one of the flanks of Hood’s army emerged through the woods. Within minutes, Jake was staring down upon a passing sea of grey uniforms. Had they been looking for a place to camp, or had they paused for any reason, he would surely have been seen. But they were on the march. It was obvious they were tired and worn. No one was looking up into the trees for frightened Negro runaways hiding among the birds.

  In terror Jake watched for an hour. At last the tramp of dust and marching feet and horses’ hooves retreated into the distance toward the north.

  Still he waited. After twenty minutes of silence about him, at last he let himself down to the ground, glanced up at the sky, then continued east toward the rising sun.

  UNSOUGHT TRAGEDY

  22

  MIDWAY THROUGH THE DAY, JAKE SUDDENLY perked up his ears to listen.

  The sharp report of gunfire halted his feet. Three or four more shots followed, then silence.

  He glanced to his right and left, then all around in the distance.

  He knew this place! He knew this very field. It was the same field where he and Sergeant Billings had kept their horses when they had had to hide out. It was the same field where Billings had beaten him to within an inch of his life.

  He had stumbled right back into the middle of the Dawson farm!

  What could the shots have been about? Wherever he was bound, this was one place he did not want to be! This was a place where they tried to shoot Negroes with shotguns and split their heads open with axes!

  But he also knew the layout of the place. He knew where the icehouse and smoking shed were, and where they hung the cheese and where the milk cans were stored after the day’s milking. And the gnawing in his stomach right now reminded him that he had hardly eaten more than several apples for two days.

  If he was careful, perhaps he could snoop around and make himself a meal without them knowing he was here.

  Carefully Jake began to make his way the half mile toward the farmhouse.

  Once the outbuildings of the Dawson farm came into view, Jake slowed and considered his moves with care. Everything looked the same. He saw no one around. He didn’t remember there being any dogs, though there might be now.

  Almost on tiptoe, he crept toward the back of the barn.

  He reached the rear entrance safely. The fat sow was still in her muddy pen, snorting and snooting around and doing whatever pigs do to pass the time of day. Slowly he inched inside, squinting in the blackness as his eyes tried to adjust to the light. He heard nothing but the shuffling and breathing and occasional snort from a single horse in its stable. Inside the safety of the familiar barn, which had once served as his temporary hospital, he paused to get his bearings and think what to do next. Should he go for milk or cheese, or perhaps a slab of dried meat hanging in the smokehouse?

  But he had no time to wonder about it further.

  Suddenly the shriek of a woman’s voice sounded from the direction of the house. Jake’s blood turned to ice.

  His first thought was to make a run for it. If something bad was going on around this place, the last thing he wanted was to get involved in it. The farther he was from this place the better! Whatever it was, it didn’t concern him!

  But a second cry, obviously of terror, and then a third, was followed by the angry sounds of men’s voices, then what sounded like two women pleading for their lives. Whatever might be the danger to himself, Jake could not run away from such cries. He recognized the men’s voices clearly enough as black like his. He was pretty sure he recognized the women’s voices as well.

  He hurried across the barn to the door opposite the house and peered out. The yells and shouts and screams were coming from the kitchen. Jake glanced about the yard, then dashed across to the house and knelt down below an open window.

  “Please don’t hurt us,” a desperate woman was whimpering. “Take whatever you want. But please . . . just go away and leave us.”

  “Jes’ kill ’em, Rafe,” said one of the men. “We gots food like we come for.”

  “I’ll kill ’em w’en I’m ready ter kill em,” barked his companion. “You jes’ shut up till me an’ dis little white girl has sum fun.”

  “Leab her alone, Rafe. We don’t need dat kind er trouble.”

  A shriek from Samantha Dawson was all Jake needed to give him a good idea what was going on inside. He turned and dashed back for the barn.

  Hurriedly he glanced around in the dim light for a weapon. His eyes fell on the woodpile. There were two axes, one stuck in a chopping block, the other broken and lying among the chunks of wood.

  He started to grab the good ax, then stopped. No—too unwieldy. He didn’t want to kill anyone that way.

  Frantically he continued to look about. A pitchfork . . . no, they would shoot him while he was trying to jab it at them.

  Thirty seconds later, armed with the handle of the broken ax with no head in one hand, and a horsewhip in the other, again he approached the house from out of sight of the windows. In his work around the company’s stable, he had learned to use a whip with cunning precision. Slowly he inched along beneath the sills toward the kitchen door.

  One more glance inside . . . one of the men and the girl had disappeared into a room off the kitchen. He could hear Samantha yelling and struggling.

  He crept up onto the porch and took a standing position behind the door.

  “Hey you in dere, come out here!” he called.

  “Who dat?” came a deep voice from inside.

  “A black brudder, dat’s who,” said Jake. “Wha’chu up to in dere? You gots anythin’ a hungry black man might hab ter eat?”

  He heard feet walking across the floor. The door opened a few inches. The head of a tall husky Negro man poked through it and looked out. Behind the door, Jake held his breath.

  Slowly the door opened wider. The man stepped out and began to look about.

  The next instant a butt of solid white ash came crashing down on his head. He collapsed in a heap onto the porch. Jake set down the ax handle, grabbed up the man’s pistol where it had fallen, then stepped over the unconscious form into the room.

  A horrifying sight met his eyes.

  Mrs. Dawson sat tied to a straight-backed chair across the room, a look of sickening horror and grief on her face. Her dress was splattered with the blood of her husband, who lay dead on the floor a few feet away. On the other side of the room lay a Negro youth, by appearances not much older than Jake, dead from a blast through his chest from Dawson’s shotgun.

  The scene looked like a battlefield. The sight of blood and death turned Jake’s stomach. He would never get used to it. Beside Dawson lay the gun that had nearly taken his own life several years before, and it did not take him long to see what had probably happened.

  At the sight of Jake, Mrs. Dawson’s eyes widened in terror, thinking him to be yet a fourth of the band of desperate former slaves who had attacked them.

  Then she faintly recognized him. A sudden gasp escaped her lips. Jake’s hand shot to his mouth and he placed a finger on his lips.

  He glanced about with question, then back at the terrified woman. A dart to the lef
t of her eyes and nod of her head told him what he wanted to know.

  Only four or five seconds had passed since Jake had entered the house. The man who had disappeared into the bedroom with the frantically struggling Samantha Dawson had heard the exchange of words followed by the commotion on the porch. He now walked out of the room, bare chested, gun in hand, to see what the ruckus was about before he finished his business with Samantha.

  He had but an instant to realize that a young black man he had never seen before was standing ten feet from him. What it might mean he had no time to wonder.

  The next instant a vicious snap from the whip in Jake’s grip ripped the gun from his hand. He screamed in pain from a sting that had torn half an inch of flesh from the inside of his wrist.

  As the gun clattered to the floor, a second swoosh of leather sounded. The thin thong coiled twice around his ankles, and in almost the same motion Jake yanked with all his might. The stunned man fell flat on his back before he could cry out again. The next thing he knew Jake’s boot was crushing into his chest and he was staring up into the barrel of his partner’s pistol six inches from his nose. The enraged face of another runaway just like himself was staring down at him.

  “You miserable nigger,” Jake cried, trembling with fury. “What you want ter hurt dese ladies fo!”

  Before the stunned man could answer, Samantha Dawson half staggered out of the bedroom. All she saw was a black man standing in front of her. She ran forward yelling hysterically and beating Jake with her fists like a child throwing a tantrum.

  “Wha’chu doin’ . . . hey, you stupid girl . . . you stop dat!”

  “Samantha . . . Samantha, stop it!” yelled her mother frantically. “That man won’t hurt you!”

  “I’s yo frien’, girl!” said Jake. “An’ it looks ter me like you needs one—now go untie yo mother . . . git, you fool girl!”

  Too confused and distraught to argue, Samantha backed away and did as Jake had told her. She still had no idea who he was. To her all Negroes looked alike.

  “Hey, brudder, what you want ter be causin’ all dis trouble fo?” began the man on the ground, writhing under Jake’s foot. “You an’ me’s—”

  “You shut dat face ob yors!” yelled Jake. “You an’ me ain’t no brudders. Any man dat’d hurt a woman an’ kill anudder man, even effen he’s white—”

  Suddenly he stopped. A chill gripped his heart. An involuntary shudder swept through him and silenced whatever he had been about to say.

  He turned to Mrs. Dawson.

  “Come ober here, lady,” said Jake. “Tie dis dog’s han’s.”

  She did so, though her fingers shook so badly she could hardly control them. On the other side of the room, Samantha stood paralyzed.

  As soon as the man was secure, Jake tied his feet, then went to the porch and bound the unconscious man lying there with the whip. At last he turned to Mrs. Dawson. Finally the poor woman’s emotions gave way. With no one else to turn to, she collapsed on Jake’s chest. Slowly he put his arms around her and tried to comfort her as she broke into convulsive sobs.

  How long they stood there it was hard to say, the sixteen-year-old black youth comforting the forty-year-old widow, whose husband had just been killed by one of Jake’s own kind. It was long enough for Samantha to come to herself and realize what she was witnessing. The shock of her mother’s behavior was almost greater than that of seeing her own dress stained with her father’s blood.

  Slowly Jake led Mrs. Dawson outside, over the lump of humanity tied unconscious on the porch, and away from the house. Dumbly, Samantha watched them go, then stumbled after them in a stupor.

  “I’s Jake Patterson, ma’am,” said Jake. “I ain’t wiff dose dere men—I hope you knows dat. I neber seen dem in my life. I jes’ happened by an’ heard da shots an’ da screamin’.”

  “I . . . I know . . . yes . . . I remember you, uh . . . Jake,” she said, struggling for words in a hoarse voice.

  “You wuz kind enuff ter share sum bread wiff me one time. What happened, ma’am?”

  “They . . . they came looking for food . . . my husband . . . he tried to . . . he was . . .”

  She broke down and began to cry again.

  She felt the gentle touch of Jake’s hand on her shoulder. Unconsciously her own hand went up and clutched it for comfort and support.

  “Mother!” shrieked Samantha, at last coming out of her trance and running forward. “What are you doing? Get away from that horrid colored man!”

  Not moving from where she stood, Mrs. Dawson looked toward her daughter with sad red eyes.

  “Samantha,” she said, “your father is dead. Isn’t it time for the hatred to stop?”

  “But . . . he’s . . . he’s a Negro! Why are you letting him touch you? Mother, it’s disgusting! He had his arms around you. He’s nothing but a dirty—”

  A great slap across her cheek from her mother’s hand silenced her.

  “Samantha!” cried Mrs. Dawson. “This man just saved our lives! If that isn’t enough, he’s the same young man who saved you from that white soldier before. If anyone has shown himself to be your friend, it’s him.”

  At last a hint of recognition began to dawn in Samantha Dawson’s eyes. But with it came no light of warmth or gratitude. The only thing visible on her face was a recollection of former hatred just as strong as what she felt toward these men who had brought tragedy to their family today.

  All blacks were the same in her eyes—low, mean, disgusting, and evil. The very color of Jake’s skin prevented her from being able to discern any difference between him and the two men tied up back at the house with her own father’s blood on their hands.

  Without another word, she turned and walked away.

  UNLIKELY ALLIANCE

  23

  BY DEGREES JAKE MANAGED TO GET OUT OF BESS Dawson the gist of what had happened. The three Negro men, traveling north and trying to avoid the war, had come to the house looking for food. Her husband’s response had angered them. Heated words had followed, as had a visit to his gun cabinet, with the result as Jake had seen it some twenty minutes later.

  But what to do with the men now? Was he to take them bound into the sheriff of the nearest town? He would probably be arrested with them. He certainly could not just kill them in cold blood. But until they were gone, the two Dawson women would not be safe. And what about him? With their own companion lying dead on the floor along with the farmer, and having already shown themselves capable of killing, there was little doubt that if given the opportunity they would kill him and probably Mrs. Dawson, have their way with Samantha, and then probably kill her too.

  Something had to be done with them.

  For now he would secure them away from the house until he could think. The man on the porch was just coming to himself. Jake hauled him some distance away. With additional rope from the barn, he tied him to a tree. He went back for his companion. He carried him out of the house slung over his shoulders, followed by Mrs. Dawson holding the ax handle with instructions from Jake to conk him on the head as hard as she could if he uttered a peep.

  He dumped him down like a sack of potatoes near his friend. Mrs. Dawson walked slowly back toward the house. Violent threats and curses followed from both men as he tied the second to another tree. Their words deepened Jake’s conviction that, if they managed to get free, his actions would mean death to all three of them.

  Then Jake returned to the house. He found Mrs. Dawson sitting on the steps of her porch quietly weeping.

  “We gots ter think ’bout buryin’ yo husband, ma’am,” he said softly.

  She nodded.

  “I’ll see ter it, ma’am, effen you’ll jes’ show me where . . . dat is, effen you’d take no disrespeck from a colored person like me carryin’ him an’ such-like.”

  She shook her head. Still crying, she rose. Jake followed as she led him away from the house to a small plot about fifty yards from the house, where a hedge and small garden surrounded a small
grassy area. In the middle of it three or four grave markers rose out of the ground.

  She pointed down. Jake nodded.

  He returned to the barn, found a shovel and pickax, and returned to the site. An hour later he walked into the kitchen. Neither of the women were in sight. From somewhere he heard the sound of weeping. He stooped down and first picked up the stiffening body of the black boy and carried it outside and deposited it out of sight from the house in the vicinity of where the men were tied. He returned for Mr. Dawson, hoisting up what remained of the same man who had once tried to kill him and carried it to the grave he had dug. Being as careful as he could under the circumstances, he lowered the body off his back and half dumped, half laid it beside the hole.

  Jake straightened himself, exhaled a sigh, then thought it best to speak to the man’s widow before proceeding. He had never buried anyone. He didn’t know exactly what to do next.

  Gingerly he walked back into the house. With tentative steps he followed the whimpering sounds to one of the bedrooms. He peeped cautiously inside.

  “Mrs. Dawson, ma’am,” he said, “I’s right sorry ter disturb you in yo grief . . . I’s sorrier den I kin be, but duz you want me ter build him a box ter go in . . . or duz you want me ter jes’ put him inter da groun’ da way he is?”

  The honest simplicity of Jake’s question, and the practicality of response required, did not exactly bring the stricken woman out of her misery. But at least it forced her to confront the next moment with a decision. And once a decision has been made, any decision, the next moment is always easier to face.

  She sat up on her bed, sniffed, and wiped at her nose and eyes with the handkerchief in her hand. She looked at Jake with something resembling a forlorn smile.

  “It is very kind of you to help us, Jake,” she said. “I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t come when you did. We would probably all be dead.”

  She drew in a breath and tried to steady herself.