by Joyce Hansen
“Ain’t got no britches.” Jason’s eyes were teary. His long shirt was made of sacking and stopped at his skinny knees. Obi stifled a laugh.
“Finish shellin’ an’ go help Easter. I ask Wilson or Master if you can come with me if I go tomorrow mornin’.”
Jason’s little face lit up. “You think they be more soldiers there?”
“I don’t know. Get on to your task now.”
“Thank you, Obi,” Jason sang out as he ran, swinging the bucket and tripping over his own feet.
Last month, when Obi and Jason were at the plantation, they saw Tyler, the eldest Phillips son, ride off to join the Confederate Army. Obi remembered how handsome Tyler had looked sitting on his horse with a finely crafted saber gleaming at his side. “Be back for supper—this won’t take long,” he had said cheerfully as he waved to the house servants. They had gathered in the yard to see their young master off.
Jeremiah, one of the Phillips’s slaves, had ridden off with him. The saber and Jeremiah were gifts to Tyler from his father. That night Obi had gone to Buka’s shack. “You think this war be good or bad for us?” he had asked him.
“I don’t know,” Buka had said. “We have to watch a wait. North an’ South fight, but these white men still be brothers.”
Obi worked faster now, even though the sun felt as if it were burning a hole in his back. If he could get a good portion of his field done, he’d be able to help Easter so she’d have a sizeable crop picked before sundown.
An hour later, he looked over at the girl. She didn’t seem to be making much progress. His heart sank when he turned and saw Wilson walking toward the fields, pulling his wide, black slouch hat over his eyes. He was of medium height but thick and muscular.
Peace gone now, Obi said to himself and sighed.
“This all you git done?” Wilson said loudly as he approached Obi. “We ain’t goin’ to be doin’ this come next month.”
“It be done ‘fore then,” Obi said quietly as he continued working.
“I know it’ll be done. I’m makin’ sure of that.” His face was red and coarse from his days on the sea, and now the Carolina sun.
“And what’s wrong with that gal?” He stared in Easter’s direction. “She sick or somethin’?” The veins in Wilson’s temple throbbed.
Obi knew that an answer wasn’t expected of him. Working best she can. Just a girl. Ain’t no mule, he thought.
Wilson strode as if he were balancing himself on a ship’s deck, heading toward the field where Easter worked. Obi took his mule back to the barn so he could empty the sacks now filled with tobacco leaves. He piled the leaves on top of the others that had to be bundled. A little later he trudged back to the fields. Instead of going to his field, however, he walked hesitantly over to Wilson and Easter. Easter looked helpless as Wilson pointed to the leaves.
“Gal, I’ll wrap my belt ‘round your legs and have you runnin’ through these leaves like a jack rabbit if you don’t stop playin’,” he yelled at her.
Her full bottom lip trembled as she stared at the ground. Obi wanted to fling Wilson to the other end of the field.
“What do you want?” Wilson shouted when he saw Obi watching them.
“I help her, suh,” Obi said.
“You got your own work!” The veins in his temple looked as if they might burst.
“I do mine an’ help her. The crop be in ‘fore month end, sure.”
Wilson stuck his stubby finger in Obi’s face. “This is July twenty-fifth. You’ve got six days. I don’t care what my brother says. That crop ain’t in, your hide goin’ to be tanned good. Hers too.” He stared from one to the other. “Remember this. War or no war, they’re still buyin’ and sellin’ black tails in the Charleston market. Git rid of y’all and buy me some real hands.”
He walked away from them. Easter’s small shoulders slumped. She was short and slender, and her thick braids were covered with a piece of blue cloth to protect her head from the sun. “He mean as a snake,” she said, near tears. Her hands were black and gummy like Obi’s from the tobacco leaves. A smudge streaked across one of her brown cheeks. Her lively eyes often curled easily into a smile when she laughed, but now they looked tired and frightened.
“He ain’t sellin’ or beatin’ nobody. I never let him beat you. Master John wouldn’t let him either. Just evil ‘cause he have to work like us,” Obi said.
“Obi, you touch him, he try an’ kill you.”
“No he won’t. Give me a lash or two,” he said, smiling. “Then Master John stop him.”
“I don’t like talk of sellin’,” she said, frowning. “We always been together. You, me, an’ Jason.” She yanked a leaf off the stalk. “An’ why he so set about the crop bein’ in ’fore August?”
“I been wonderin’ the same thing,” Obi answered. He brushed the back of his hand lightly over the two lines that appeared on her forehead whenever she was worried. “Stop botherin’ you self. Wilson just like a barkin’ dog. Ain’t gonna bite,” he said bravely.
Easter flexed her tired fingers. “Master John never drive us to finish croppin’ ’fore August.”
Jason, struggling across the field with another bucket of water, headed for John and Martha. When he finished with them, he brought Easter and Obi their water.
“You finish that shellin’?” Obi asked him.
He nodded. “I help you an’ Easter now.”
Easter smiled at Jason. “Sing us a song. Make time go fast.”
Jason sang a song he’d learned from the children on the Phillips plantation as he pulled the leaves from a stalk. His voice was high-pitched and clear. Easter picked up the tune and soon had the words. Obi never sang, but a peacefulness came over him as he listened to their young voices.
They worked continuously for the next two hours until Obi stopped. “Go get us some water,” he called to Jason, motioning to Easter to come and sit beside him. They watched Jason run to the well in the yard close to the house. Wilson came out of the barn and called Jason to him.
“Get no water now,” Obi muttered in disgust. Jason was walking over to Wilson when Jessie, the overseer from the Phillips plantation, rode into the yard.
“Wonder what happen?” Easter asked.
Obi and Easter watched in silence as Jessie climbed off his horse and tied it to a tree. He and Wilson spoke for a minute, then they both walked quickly to the field where John and Martha were still working.
Jason raced toward Obi and Easter. “Tyler dead!” he yelled from the hedges where the field began. “Overseer say Yankees kilt him!”
Three
If there is no struggle there is no progress.
Frederick Douglass, abolitionist, ex-slave
From a speech given at Canandaigua, New York
August 4, 1857
When Jason reached them, Easter bent down and peered closely into his eyes. “What else you hear them say?”
“Nothin’. Just what I tell you. What’s a Yankee?” His brown eyes were wide with wonder.
Easter straightened up, adjusting her head wrap. “Ain’t quite sure, but I think a person from the North. I find out tonight from Mistress.” Since Easter and Jason slept in the house, she knew everything that happened or was about to happen. Obi slept in the hayloft in the barn.
Obi turned to Jason. “Get that water ’fore Wilson find somethin’ else for you to do.” He and Easter sat on the ground waiting for Jason to come back.
“I wonder if Buka know about Tyler?” Obi said.
“People been sneakin’ in an’ out the shack all day bringin’ the news. You know he know.”
When the red sun slid behind the oak grove, Martha Jennings called Easter to help her prepare supper. “I take the mules back,” Obi told her. “You go on to Mistress.”
Obi led the mules to the barn while Jason went to bring in the cows from the pasture that spread out behind the house. As Obi neared the barn, John Jennings came in behind him. He left his mule so that Obi could empty his and
Martha’s sacks and finish bundling the leaves.
Obi welcomed the smell of hay and animals in the cool darkness of the barn. Over the years this had become his own private place. He put the mules in their stalls. Jason brought in the cows and then clambered up the ladder and threw down hay for the mules. “When you think we goin’ to Master Phillips?” he called down to Obi.
“Don’t know.” Obi hoped Jason wouldn’t bother him with a lot of questions.
“Guess Master Phillips get them Yankees for killin’ Tyler …”
“Guess so,” Obi said as he placed a bundle of leaves under the work table. “When you done feedin’ the mules, make sure all the pigs in the pen an’ the chickens inside their coop.”
“Obi, what you think the—”
“Quit all that talkin’ an’ tend to your work,” Obi said.
Jason finished feeding the animals in silence and ran out of the barn. Obi hadn’t meant to be nasty to Jason, but he wanted to think about Tyler’s death and the war. He understood none of it except that Yankees were killing the people who held him in bondage. Maybe this was a good time to try to get to the island.
A half hour later, Jason walked slowly back into the barn. “All the pigs an’ chickens in,” he said.
“Put up the harnesses an’ straighten them tools. Then we wash.”
Jason quietly did as he was told, standing on the milking stool Obi had made for him so that he could hang the harnesses on their hooks. He stepped off the stool and rested the pitchforks against the wall near the spare ax handles.
“If we carry the leaves to plantation tomorrow mornin’, I ask Master can you come,” Obi said.
Jason grinned and almost tripped over the milking stool.
“Don’t run your mouth. Easter tell us what she find out ’bout Tyler when we eat.”
After they finished their chores, they went to the shed behind the barn and washed themselves in the tin tub. When they were done, they carried the tub to the creek near the oak grove to fill again so they’d have water for the following day.
When the tub was full, Obi hesitated. He couldn’t see it in the darkness, but Buka’s shack was only a few feet away.
He said to Jason, “I goin’ to see Buka. Keep watch for me. You see Wilson or Master, then sing that song you was singin’ today an’ I come back.”
Obi didn’t expect that anyone would come looking for him—the family should be eating by now—but as Obi and Jason lifted the tub out of the creek, they were both startled by the sound of someone stepping on twigs and dried leaves. Master John walked over to them. “I was lookin’ for you. Carry that water back and then clean me and Master Wilson’s boots.”
“Yes, suh,” Obi said.
Jennings started to walk away and then turned around. “Don’t none of you leave this farm ’less I write you a pass. And you stay away from that old man, Obi.”
Obi almost asked him, “Which old man?” hardly believing that he was talking about Buka. He could understand why Jennings wouldn’t want him to be with Buka if there was work to do, but otherwise he had never stopped Obi from going. Sometimes on Sundays he would even let Obi fish with Buka all day. Master John turned and stomped off quickly. The twigs and branches crunched noisily under his feet.
“Why he angry?” Jason whispered loudly as they lifted the tub again.
“Hush.” Obi wondered the same thing. Master John wasn’t a jovial man, but Obi had never known him to be angry for no reason. They carried the tub back to the shed, sloshing water as they went along.
When they returned to the barn, two pairs of boots had been placed near the barn door.
“Why Master don’t want you to see Buka?” Jason asked.
“Don’t know.” Obi pulled the milking stool from under the hayloft and picked up one of the worn black boots. “Bring my cleanin’ rags an’ stop askin’ me questions I can’t answer!”
Obi was glad when Easter finally called them to eat. Maybe she found out something that would explain Master John’s new rules.
Jason and Obi carried the cleaned and polished boots to the house and left them outside each man’s bedroom door. Martha and the two men were in the sitting room. The smell of savory stew came from the large kitchen where Easter tended to the cooking. Lately, Easter did more cooking than Martha. During the winter months, she and Obi were hired out to the Phillips plantation, where Easter worked with the cooks. As she grew more experienced, Martha depended on her to do a lot of the cooking and baking on the farm. Obi worked with the Phillips’s carpenter. The money they earned helped the Jennings family live through the winter.
The adults had finished eating their dinner, and now the children ate what was left over. Easter spooned stew onto each wooden plate. Obi took three battered tin cups from the fireplace and filled them with milk. Jason sat quietly at the oak table. They could hear Wilson’s and John’s voices in the sitting room but couldn’t tell what they were saying.
Obi scooped a spoonful of the thick stew as Easter sat across from him and Jason. Easter bowed her head and reached for their hands, but Obi pulled his away and started eating. Easter’s voice was soft as a feather as she said the grace. Jason lowered his head, but his eyes were wide open, staring hungrily at the food.
When Easter finished she said, “Obi, Mistress say we have to thank God for this food.”
“What I have to be thankful for?” He took another spoonful of stew.
“Least we eat the same food Master an’ Mistress do. Master Phillips give his people a peck of corn an’ some salt pork for the whole week.”
“I should get more than this, hard as I work today.” He took a long drink of milk. “Now tell me what you hear about Tyler.”
She leaned closer to Obi. “Mistress tell me the whole story,”’ she whispered. “Was a big battle in a place called Virginny. They bring he back in a box this mornin’. Mistress say nobody know whether it really Tyler in there. Say they put a body in a box an’ send it home to Master Phillips because Tyler was a officer.”
Jason listened so intently that he stopped eating. “Why they kilt Master Tyler? He bad?”
“Hush,” Easter and Obi said to Jason at the same time. Obi recalled how proud and handsome Tyler had looked sitting on his horse.
Easter took a bite of stew and continued her story. “Mistress say most of them what die they bury right where they fall.”
“What happen to Jeremiah?” Obi asked.
“Mistress ain’t say. Guess one of them cannonball get him too. Mistress seem spooked—like somethin’ scarin’ her.”
“Maybe Master John scare of somethin’ too,” Obi said and told her that they were ordered not to leave the farm without a pass.
Easter rested her spoon on the plate. “Somethin’s terrible wrong. Master evil as a buzzard when he come inside. Say somethin’ to Mistress about the war startin’ for real. An’ Yankees—just a hollerin’ about Yankees. Act like Wilson. He quiet when I walk in. Won’t say nothin’ in front of me.”
Jason picked up his cup and drank down the milk. “Maybe they scare Yankee get them too,” he said quietly.
“Hush, boy,” Easter said. “What you know about such things?”
They finished their meal in silence, listening to the muffled voices of the men. After they cleaned the kitchen, Obi went back to the barn. He decided not to try to see Buk that night but to wait until the next day.
Obi was sorry Tyler had to die, but he was glad for his funeral. He, Easter, and Jason would be alone while the Jennings went to the plantation. He’d been in the field since sunrise and was relieved when, at ten o’clock, he saw John Jennings mount his horse. Martha and Wilson climbed into the wagon. Both men wore black frock coats. Martha wore her black bonnet and dress. Wilson had on the slouch hat he always wore.
After the adults left, Easter and Jason walked out to the field where Obi worked. Jason carried some water.
“Wilson make a fuss this mornin’,” Easter said. “Say we poor farmers. No need f
or him to go to the funeral. Too much work to do.”
Obi dipped his cup in the bucket. “He want to stay here to bother us.”
Easter squinted her eyes in the sun’s glare. “Wilson say Mistress should go an’ he an’ Master stay an’ work. Master say if they don’t go an’ show they sorry Tyler dead, Master Phillips never buy a pea or a ear of corn from them again.”
“I wish they stay the whole day,” Obi said. He called to Jason, who had taken the mule and started working the rows of tobacco. Easter’s eyes curled up at the corners as she smiled. “Jason actin’ like a little man today,” she said.
“I goin’ to see Buka. You stay by the creek. Anyone come, start singin’,” Obi said as Jason ran to him.
Easter frowned. “You shouldn’t, Obi. You know what Master say last night. Suppose you not here when they come back?”
Obi pulled his straw hat over his eyes. “They not comin’ back for a while. I not stayin’ long.”
Buka’s shack looked like a box with a smokestack on top. Inside, the only furniture he had was a small, rough table. The pallet he slept on was near the wall.
The old man sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace, a cup of meal coffee in his hand. Buka used to hunt and fish and grow a few vegetables. During the cropping season, the Phillips plantation, and even some of the smaller planters, had used him as a field hand. He would do the work in exchange for food and clothing.
For the past year, however, Obi noticed that a change had come over Buka. He seemed to shrivel up like a prune, his shoulders becoming round and his eyes red and weak looking. He didn’t fish or hunt anymore and rarely walked farther than the creek.
Buka knew almost everyone in the county. When Charles Graves, his most recent master, had died, Buka was the eldest slave in the estate. He’d told Obi that story also.
“When they put me on the auction block, I make myself look sick an’ older than I already was. Slump my shoulder like so.”
He’d hunch his shoulders and Obi would laugh. “Then I had my head like so, like my eyelid can’t raise.” He’d turn his head to one side and barely open his eyes.