“Chile!” Corrie exclaimed. “Is they after you?”
We opened the peaches right then and passed them around, eating them with our fingers. Pearl’s hands were scarred from her bitter experience with Master Beal.
There was a fourth person in the shanty that night, one I had never met. His name was George Murphy, and he was new on the plantation. Master Beal had hired him to do some special carpentry.
He was a handsome young man as black as the night. “Ain’t no white blood in me,” he boasted. I liked him right off because of his easygoing manner, his self-assurance, and his lack of fear of the white man. Pearl was completely taken by him. I had never seen her so radiant.
I sat with Pearl’s arms around me on the floor near the fire listening to George tell us stories about his dangerous, exciting escapades. He had done all sorts of jobs, from working on the railroad to building barns. He peppered his stories with traveling news. He is the first person I can ever remember telling us that slavery was against the law. “It ain’t legal for a man to own another man,” he insisted. “They’s a law!”
George could read a little and tell numbers. That way, he said proudly, nobody could cheat George Murphy of what was rightfully his.
The moments passed swiftly, and then I gave Pearl a kiss and said good-bye. I promised I would be back soon. George Murphy put his hand out and shook mine. I felt very important and manly, especially since I was wearing such fine clothes.
The clothes didn’t go unnoticed, by the way. But the reaction wasn’t quite what I had expected. Pearl looked at me oddly, and Buck and Corrie stared with no expression at all. “You look fine, boy,” Buck said finally in a dry voice. That’s all that was said about it.
I got back to the Big House safely again that night and tiptoed to my bed. I slept in my new clothes and shoes, not knowing enough to take them off.
The stolen items went unnoticed, and I was thankful and encouraged by it. Next time maybe I could bring more. Pearl was still coughing bad. I would remember to ask Big Mac about coughing and what would cure it.
A few evenings later while the white folks were having their supper in the dining room and Big Mac and I were eating grits and gravy in the kitchen, we heard a tremendous ruckus in the yard. Big Mac went to the window to see what it was.
“Wal, Thrasher got hisself another one,” he said. Mac opened the back door. Thrasher had a black man hooked under his arm. He had been slapped around plenty.
“Fetch the boss man!” he commanded.
Minutes later, Master strode out of the dining room, angry at being interrupted during his meal.
“This here nigger lef his job before quittin time, Boss,” I heard Thrasher shout. “He’s a uppity one, that’s for certain. Thinks he can do jes as he pleases.”
“I was done with my work!” I heard a voice insist. I recognized the voice. Quickly, I went to the window and cupped my hand to see outside. A wave of horror filled me. It was George Murphy.
Master Beal shouted back, “We’ll see how uppity he can be! We’ll jes bring him down to meet some of my friends and have a little talkin over. Hold him till I get ready.”
I saw Thrasher drag George Murphy to the horse barn. Master Beal stormed out of the back door. He had been drinking. They threw the tied-up figure on a horse and galloped out of the driveway.
“What’ll they do to him, Mac?” I asked, terrified.
“They’s gonna tear him apart,” Mac answered. “And if they don’t kill him, he’ll wish they had.”
“Oh no!”
“That’s the way they do, son; them Ku Klux, that’s the way they do.”
I couldn’t sleep that night thinking about George Murphy and what they were doing to him. When at last I heard horses and voices in the yard, I ran to the window. It was hard to see, but I made out the drunk swagger of Master Beal crossing the yard. He used the side entrance and went right upstairs. When it became quiet, I crept down to the kitchen, across the cold porch, down the steps, around the yard, and instead of using the path, I ran through the brush to the quarter. When I arrived, I heard voices coming from Buck and Corrie’s shanty. Someone was crying. Several of the slaves were up and around the door. I pushed through them. What I saw on the floor was worse than anything I had expected.
He had been beaten so badly there was hardly any skin on him. His handsome face was torn up and his body was twisted up funny.
Pearl was crying and putting some grease on his head and back. He was barely conscious.
Corrie was on her knees at his feet with a pail with water in it. Some other people were praying.
“I’ll be on the job tomorrow,” I heard George swear through cut and swollen lips.
“Never you mind,” Pearl whispered.
I don’t think anybody saw me come or leave the shanty that night, but I will never forget what I saw.
George Murphy became the talk of the quarter in the days that followed. News came to us through the house slaves who lived in the quarter, like Mary Webb, Daisy, and Harriet. The next day after his beating, he actually did get up on his feet and put in a day’s work. He became a symbol to us all of the strength of the black man.
After several weeks, he became well enough to run away. He made it, too, in spite of the hounds and searches, and nobody ever heard from him again. He remained our hero. Wherever he was, we knew he wasn’t owned by any man.
The white children taught me games, and we played almost as any normal children played—normal, that is, except I was not allowed to win or be first in anything, and if they wanted to fight, I was not allowed to hit back. If I had something in my hand, they could grab it if they wanted to, and I was not to protest.
Yet the children were kind to me. At mealtimes they often sneaked food from the table to give to me. They would sneak sandwiches and cake and sometimes a slice of ham or other meat. I gobbled the food hungrily, and they would laugh with delight to see me go at it.
One cold afternoon we were playing in the music room when Mistress Beal came in. “Mama,” Juanita asked suddenly, “how come Robert’s skin is dark and ours is white?”
Mistress answered coolly, “Because Robert and his people were created to be the white man’s slave. They are dark because they sinned against God and God punished them and made them servants to the white man.”
I listened in alarm.
“They sinned, and that’s why they’re meant to serve the white man. It’s in the Bible.”
The Bible! The book Mama told me about.
“Are there any niggers in heaven, Mama?”
“If there are, dear, they’re serving the white folk.”
I lowered my head in shame. Juanita seemed embarrassed too. She was learning that Negroes were not considered real persons.
“Robert don’t have a soul, honey,” Mistress said without blinking an eye. “Negroes don’t have souls. They are just like animals that way.”
“Don’t Harriet have no soul neither?” asked Juanita.
“No, dear. Harriet’s a Negro, and Negroes don’t have souls.”
Juanita looked as though she would cry. Mistress laughed softly. “Now, honey,” she cooed, “instead of putting on a sad face, you ought to thank the good Lord for giving you some niggers to take care of you.”
“. . . Yes, Mama.”
We left the music room, and Juanita went upstairs to her room without a word. I went outside to the woodpile. Pearl must have told me wrong. Mama and Ella weren’t free and dancing with Jesus in heaven, after all. They were black slaves serving the white angels. Whatever our sin was to deserve such an awful fate, it must have been real bad.
9
The winter days were long and I was worried about Pearl. On a grey, windy afternoon when there was a lot of activity around the Big House, I planned another escape to the quarter. Visitors were expected at the Big House that evening, and I was put to work cleaning the halls and the bathrooms. All day long tension filled the air. Mistress Beal was shouting orders,
the house slaves were running around trying to obey them, the children were underfoot and misbehaving, and Mary Webb was throwing things in the kitchen. In my effort to avoid everybody, I got in everybody’s way. Not only did I receive the heel of Mistress Beal’s foot, but of Mary Webb’s and Harriet’s as well.
“Robert, get outa here!”
“Roberrrt! You brought in wet logs for the fire! Git out there an bring in dry logs!”
“Robert, git over here!”
“Robert, fetch some water!”
“Roberrrt, scrub these pots!”
“Robert, you ain’t nothin’ but somethin’ dumb!”
I was made to scrub the wooden planks of the front porch and steps and the wooden walkway leading to the circular drive. My hands in the icy water were numb, but I hardly noticed it because I was so excited about seeing Pearl again. I planned to make my getaway to the quarter when everyone was asleep that night.
Every once in a while I thought about Margie, and I wondered if they were treating her bad where they had taken her off to. I wondered if she was a house servant like me or in the field like Pearl. I didn’t let myself think about never seeing her again.
When the chores were done, the house servants were allowed to eat supper in the kitchen—fatback fried crisp, corn bread, and molasses. I asked Big Mac some questions that he seemed to understand the meaning of.
“Big Mac, where Hartwell, Georgie?”
“A long ways off, boy.”
“How long?”
“Too long for you to think about. If it was jes yonder down the road, it would be too far for you to think about.”
I looked at him, trying not to cry. “They done took my sister, Margie, off to Hartwell, Georgie.”
Big Mac finished his food and said somberly, “Let me tell you about a woman who used to live on this here plantation, boy.”
I listened closely.
“She quite a woman. Her name Lois. A good worker. She work the fields like a man. And she bring three little babies into this world, too. When she done bore her third baby, the boss, he call her and he say, ‘You leavin’ this place tonight. You done been sold to a new boss.’ It done tore out her heart and she scream and cry and beg the boss. ‘Don’t send me from my chillren! Please don’t send me from my chillren!’ But the boss, he don’t pay her no mind nohow and he pack her up in the wagon. When she scream and grab his leg beggin him to let her stay with her chillren, he give her a kick, and she fall in the ground crying and prayin to almighty God to help her and help her chillren.
“They puts her in the back of the wagon and off they goes down the road. They tuk her more’n a hundred miles away, way across the state to a great big farm where they put her to workin the field cuttin cotton stalk. She done ran away one night she was so grievin for those chillren. She jess had to get to her chillren. She done run night and day through the woods, the marshes, across the rivers, in wilderness and towns; that woman done run to git back here to her chillren and her man. She knew that no man slave can take care of the chillren.
“They didn’t catch her nohow. She got as far as the road up here jes a mile away. She was half-dead from running and being hongry. She got up here jes about a mile—” His voice broke.
Mac’s strong, wide shoulders crumpled and shook, and staring at the floor, he took a big gulp before continuing.
“Oh Lord,” he cried, “she got all the way to the plantation! Jessa few minutes from her babies who was cryin for they mammy—”
I sat still, my heart beating loud.
“They done catched her and throwed her in the jail until the new owner come and fetched her. She never saw her chillren or her man agin.”
Tears burned the edges of my eyes. The agony of being torn from those you love was common to us. Big Mac pulled his shoulders back and said quietly, “Boy, that woman was my wife.”
The visitors arrived and I helped carry their traveling cases to the guest rooms. Three young children eyed me with indifference as they moved around the rooms. There was food prepared for them, and the two families sat down to eat in the dining room. From the kitchen we could hear their laughter and loud talking. Master was not yet home, but we expected him soon.
At last the white folks went upstairs to their rooms. When the children were in bed, I set to work cleaning up after them and helping in the kitchen.
Mary Webb, Harriet, and Daisy were cleaning and preparing for the next day’s meals, and when nobody was looking, I sneaked out the door of the sun porch and ran through the yard, careful to dodge any light spots. As I made my flight, I had forgotten that Master Beal had not returned home yet.
I got as far as the woodpile when I heard heavy footsteps in the dark. I froze in my tracks and listened. Soon the hulking form of Master Beal approached. It was too late to duck. He had already seen me.
“Whozzat?” he demanded.
“W—W—Wobber, Massuh Beal, suh,” I answered in a voice barely audible. He was drunk and could hardly balance himself. “Whatchou doin outchere, boy?”
I quickly answered, “Fetchin wood, Massuh Beal, suh, I be fetchin wood.”
He growled and staggered toward the house. “Git movin then,” he said over his shoulder.
With trembling hands, I filled my arms with pieces of wood and hurried back to the Big House. That was my last attempt to get to the quarter that winter. It was many weeks before I got another opportunity.
The next days brought merrymaking and fun for the Beal family and their visitors. They had activities planned for each day, and the house was filled with the sounds of their voices and the smells of liquor and tobacco.
It was at this time I got my introduction to a torturous form of entertainment which gave them much pleasure.
After breakfast one cold morning, I was bringing in water from the well on the porch to be put on the cookstove to heat. “Robert,” Daisy said from the door, “Massuh callin you.” I hurried as fast I could and practically ran to the parlor, where he was sitting with his friends. He had already been drinking. I could tell by the way he sat and the crooked look on his face.
The fire was going in the fireplace, and the room was cozy and warm. “Put some coal on the fire, boy,” ordered Master Beal. “Yessuh, Massuh Beal, suh,” I responded properly.
I bent to pick up the coals as I was told when suddenly I felt a searing pain in my back. I whirled around, shocked and yelping. Master Beal stood behind me with a red-hot poking iron from the fire. He was laughing and so were his friends. “Let’s see how high you can jump, boy,” he cawed, jabbing the poking iron at my belly. The burning pain caused me to fall backwards onto the floor. He continued, jabbing and taunting and laughing hilariously.
“Jump, boy!—Oh, that ain’t high enough! Let’s see you do a little jig!” He thrust the glowing end of the poking iron into my leg, and I rolled over and scrambled to my feet, crying and squealing in terror.
“I said a jig, boy. A jig!” Again the poking iron came at me and I hopped out of its way. Again and again he pushed the fiery end of the poking iron at me. I leaped and hopped and turned and twisted each time to escape its sizzling my flesh. Sometimes I made it, but sometimes I didn’t. When the iron bit into me, I screamed and yelled, much to the master’s delight. Their laughter and excitement over this sport built to a frenzy as I wept and begged, “No Massuh, no, please Massuh—” jumping around the room to miss the deadly sear of the iron.
“Careful there, boy, don’t let the poker getcha!” he teased. I jumped. I hopped. I did the dance they wanted.
At last, when they tired of their fun, Master Beal shouted, “Stand still, boy.” I did, shaking and crying miserably. Then with one final teasing jab, he said in a calm voice, “You forgot to put any coal on the fire.”
Those burns took many weeks to heal, and I’d bear the scars on my legs my whole life. Master Beal loved to show off on his slave boy and for eight winters when guests came I was often called to “put the coals on.”
There was n
o such thing as doctor care for the slaves on the plantation. The animals had better medical treatment. Slaves died during the winters from exposure. Disease was common among the shacks in the quarter. Death was a victory.
One miserable day after another passed by, and I didn’t know any better but to believe I was what they said I was—a dumb niggerboy with no soul. I was the little puppy dog who did the dirty work for the white folks in their house, and dirty work was all my people were meant for. And the white folks expected us to be grateful for the honor of serving them. They felt it was hard work to take care of us, feed us, and give us shelter. They had some kind of idea that we should be happy for what they did for us, as people without souls paying for some terrible sins of the past. We were supposed to be singing and dancing and being just plain dumb and happy-like. I didn’t feel that way, but I acted that way. I had to.
10
The spring of 1918 came, and the plantation buzzed once more with activity. The overseers returned to their jobs, the slaves were put to the fields, and the cultivating was begun. Everybody was nervous and tense, and tempers flared continually.
Then came the rains. It rained night and day. It was cold, too, and the mud was deep in the yard. I made my runs to the woodpile to catch a glimpse of Pearl when the field hands filed by on their way to the field each morning.
I’d see her bent, downcast, moving toward the field. I’d jump with joy. She’d lift up her head and smile at me for a flashing moment. My heart would sing at the sweet sight of her. Then I’d watch her disappear over the hill and down to the muds of the field.
Each day I’d run to the woodpile at the same time, and each day I’d see Pearl moving behind Buck and Corrie toward the field. Some days the rain would be falling so hard that I could barely see her face, but I knew it was Pearl and that’s all that mattered.
One morning when the rains had passed, I stood at the woodpile waiting to catch sight of Pearl, but when the workers filed by, I didn’t see her. I didn’t see Corrie either.
The Emancipation of Robert Sadler Page 6