The Soldier's Lady

by Michael Phillips

  We didn’t know it but Josepha had gone to the window of the big house when the torrent broke and saw us running for cover. A few minutes later the cabin door opened and Josepha trudged in, bundled up from head to foot and struggling to carry William, who was wrapped in a blanket and asleep in her arms.

  We all looked at her, wondering why she’d gone outside in the middle of the torrent.

  “What you doin’ here, Josepha!” I laughed.

  “Lan’ sakes, I ain’t neber heard it rain like dis!” she said. “I didn’t want to be alone up dere wiff all dis goin’ on.”

  “William’s still sleepin’?” asked Emma.

  “Dis boy kin sleep through anything. Probably nap right through da second coming.”

  Emma took the limp bundle from the older woman’s arms and laid William on Jeremiah’s bed.

  The rest of us continued to stand around the warm stove. It seemed like the rain was all anyone could talk about.

  “It flooded here—what was that, Emma, four years ago,” I said. “You remember that?”

  “I remember,” nodded Emma. “Dat wuz mighty fearsome!”

  “It didn’t pour down like this,” I went on to Micah, “but it just kept raining and raining and never stopped. The stream and the river finally met and destroyed the crops and surrounded the house. We were scared it was going to keep right on coming until the house itself floated away! You remember that, Henry, when you came rowing over the water to us.”

  Henry chuckled to himself.

  “Dat I do,” he said. “Dat wuz some flood, all right! Dat wuz afore I knew altogether what wuz goin’ on wiff you ladies . . . you an’ dat dere scheme er yers.”

  Emma and I laughed to hear him say it like that.

  “What scheme is this?” asked Micah, glancing back and forth between Emma and me with a smile of question.

  “We called it Katie’s scheme,” I answered. “We were trying to keep anyone from finding out there were three girls all alone at Rosewood.”

  “Why?”

  “We din’t want ter git caught,” said Emma, “ain’t dat right, Mayme? We wuz feared er gittin’ caught by Katie’s kin er maybe bad folks dat’d do bad things ter three girls all alone like we wuz, ain’t dat right, Mayme?”

  The look of puzzlement on Micah’s face didn’t go away. I went on to explain the circumstances of how we had come to be there and why we tried to make the plantation seem like there were grown-ups still taking care of everything.

  “But then Henry found us out,” I said. “And then my papa—though I didn’t know he was yet—and then pretty soon Uncle Ward came, and after that everyone knew!”

  “But dat scheme er Miz Katie’s—it wuz fun while it lasted, weren’t it, Mayme?” said Emma with a big smile of pride.

  “It had its fun times and its scary times, Emma, I’ll say that!” I laughed.

  We were still pretty wet, but it wasn’t an especially cold day. The fire was burning good and warming us up, and we all gradually sat down on a couple of chairs and the couch that had been Micah’s bed after he came. As I’d told Micah the story about Katie’s scheme, Emma and Josepha kept adding their two cents’ worth, and before long we were all laughing and talking at once. We almost didn’t seem to notice at first that it was only the blacks of the Rosewood family who were together right then, with Katie and Papa and Uncle Ward off in town.

  Then came a moment when we looked around at one another and all seemed to realize it at the same time. It was a strange feeling. It didn’t seem right that Katie wasn’t with us. Part of our family-ness was knowing we were white and black . . . together. Yet there was a peculiar bond that I think we all suddenly felt toward each other that we never had before. We didn’t just all live at Rosewood together . . . we were all black together.

  And we were having such a good time sharing and talking that maybe for one day it was kind of special to be together under Henry’s roof, all of us except Micah, who remembered what it was like to be slaves. That was a part of our bond together that Katie and the others couldn’t share. Not only were we black—we’d been slaves.

  “You remember that rainstorm we had in Tennessee, Jake?” Micah now said. “That was the hardest rain I’ve ever seen, maybe with the exception of today.”

  “Man, dat wuz bad, all right!” said Jeremiah. “We had no place ter git out ob it, an’ it wuz cold dat day too.”

  “January, if I recall,” added Micah.

  “All we cud do wuz keep ridin’, even though we wuz soaked all da way ter our toes. I thought my boots had turned ter chunks er ice, an’ it jes’ kep’ blastin’ down in our faces an’ on our shoulders. Dat wuz some miserable day!”

  “Josepha,” said Micah, turning toward Josepha, “where are you from—I don’t think I ever heard.”

  “You know all you need to know about me,” Josepha replied.

  “But you said you were educated,” I said, hoping maybe she would tell us something about her past.

  “Maybe I wuz an’ maybe I wuzn’t,” she answered cryptically. When Josepha didn’t want to say something, nothing you did could get it out of her.

  “Den why you talk like a colored?” asked Emma. “All my life, dat is after I wuz sold ter Master Mc-Simmons, I neber heard you talk but jes’ like da rest ob us niggers. You din’t soun’ like no uppity colored.”

  “Dat’s cuz I learned soon enuff ter keep my mouf shut an’ not ter call no attention ter myself. I’s learned jes’ ter be a fat ol’ woman who had memories ter keep ter herself an’ dat didn’t need ter—”

  She stopped, like she’d already said more than she wanted.

  “—I learned ter be jes’ an’ ol’ slave woman who wuz nuthin’ more den who she wuz,” she added. “An’ dat’s dat.”

  “But tell us about it, Josepha,” I said.

  “I don’t want ter talk no more ’bout it.”

  She got strangely quiet and remained that way for most of the rest of the time. But by then we were all curious about each other’s lives and places we’d all been and how we’d ended up there together like we were.

  So even Josepha clamming up like she did couldn’t stop the flow of stories. There’s something about being inside during a rainstorm that makes you feel cozy and happy. And somehow it felt good to be there together, knowing that we were all colored and that most likely, besides sharing black skin, we shared hardship and pain too. In those days, you didn’t have colored skin without pain to go along with it.

  “What ’bout you, Emma?” asked Jeremiah. “You all knows how I got here an’ met Duff after my mama died an’ den foun’ my daddy an’ met the rest ob y’all. But where’d you come from?”

  “Yonder at Oakwood, wiff Mayme an’ Josepha,” replied Emma. “You knows dat.”

  “I mean afore dat. Where wuz you born an’ how’d you git here?”

  “I don’t know none er dat,” said Emma. “I wuz sol’ so many times afore I cud even remember anythin’ dat I growed up always movin’ from one place ter da nex’. I neber knowed who my mama wuz, or my daddy neither. I wuz jes’ a little kid dat kep’ gittin’ sold wiff a few other niggers dey wanted ter git rid ob.”

  “Why did dey want ter do dat, Emma?” asked Jeremiah.

  “I reckon dey wuz always tryin’ ter git rid ob da worthless ones,” said Emma. “I recollect once I wuz sol’ wiff a little boy wiff a lame leg dat got whupped too hard an’ cud neber walk right after dat. An’ I heard da mistress talkin’ in da nex’ room, an’ she says, ‘Y’all git rid ob dat little lame fool ob a boy—I don’ want ter see his whinin’ face no more, limpin’ an’ whimperin’ roun’ like a little puppy dog dat ain’t fit but ter put in a sack wiff rocks an’ toss in da ribber. I don’ care what you git for him . . . gib him away effen you’s got to—I jes’ can’t stand da sight er him. An’ while you’s at it, git rid ob dat fool scrawny Tolan girl too. She’s an idiot—doesn’t hab a brain in her head. She ain’t neber gwine be good fo nuthin’. Jes’ git rid ob her. She’s
as worthless a piece ob nigger flesh as I eber seen. I know dey’s all dumb, but she’s da dumbest creature I eber did see.’

  “I din’t even know she wuz talkin’ ’bout me,” Emma continued, “cuz I’d neber heard dat name afore dat. But den when da next day I foun’ myself standin’ der wiff da lame boy wiff people lookin’ at us ter buy us, dat’s when I knew maybe my mama’s name wuz Tolan er somethin’. Dat’s when I knew I wuz dumber eben den mos’ other niggers, cuz after dat day, dey’d always call me dat, dey called me Dumb Nigger Girl, an’ I kep’ gettin’ sol’ on account er being a dummy an’ not understandin’ things too well, an’ den da master or da mistress’d yell at me an’ den pretty soon dey’d sell me agin, an’ I knew I’d neber be any good at nuthin’, an’ wuz jes’ a worthless nigger. I knew I wuzn’t worf nuthin’ cuz other nigger girls wud sell fo good money, but no one eber wanted ter pay nuthin’ fo me, not till I got older an’ den dey figgered I might turn out prettier den some ob da others. An’ den one day I walked inter a new place an’ dey wuz talkin’ bout what ter do wiff me, an’ a big colored lady walked in an’ dat was Josepha, an’ she said she’d put me ter work an’ take care er me. An’ she did.”

  Emma glanced over at Josepha with a smile that was obviously full of gratitude, and it succeeded in bringing a smile to Josepha’s lips too.

  “I reckon Josepha’s jes’ ’bout da first person dat wuz eber nice ter me,” said Emma. “An’ den a little while later I come here an’ foun’ out what love really wuz, din’t I, Mayme? You an’ Miz Katie taught me what love atween friends wuz, din’t you?”

  “I think it was something we all discovered together, Emma,” I said with a smile.

  Katie and Templeton and Ward Daniels went into the bank in Greens Crossing.

  “Mr. Taylor,” Templeton said to the manager, “we recently had a new deed drawn up for Rosewood, and we want to be certain our financial arrangements and bank accounts are consistent with the change.”

  “What change, Mr. Daniels?” asked Mr. Taylor.

  “That there are now four equal owners of Rosewood. We want to make sure all four names are on our bank account in case something should happen to either Ward or me.”

  Mr. Taylor glanced up from his desk at the two men, then at Katie.

  “There are only three of you,” he said.

  “Miss Daniels, my daughter, is also included,” said Templeton. “She could not make it into town with us.”

  Mr. Taylor nodded but kept his thoughts to himself.

  “Do you have the new deed?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir—it’s right here.”

  Templeton pulled out the paper they had received from the lawyer in Charlotte and handed it to Mr. Taylor. The bank manager looked it over, then pulled out some forms for them to sign. Fifteen minutes later they were on their way to the general store.

  Mrs. Hammond heard the bell from the door tinkle and looked up to see the three walk in. She greeted them with uncharacteristic friendliness and was pleasant during their entire visit. Katie was mystified at first. It wasn’t until later that she realized it was probably because all three of them were white, and that, for once, none of Rosewood’s blacks were with them.

  “Hello, Mr. Daniels, and you too, Mr. Daniels,” she said. “And, Kathleen, goodness—you look more like your mother every day. My, but you are nearly a lady!”

  “I just turned nineteen,” said Katie.

  “And a beautiful nineteen at that,” returned the shopkeeper. “I’m sure your mother would be very proud.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.”

  “And that reminds me—there is a letter for you.”

  “For me?” asked Katie.

  “Yes, from Philadelphia, I believe.”

  Katie looked at her two uncles with question. They glanced at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

  Mrs. Hammond bent down behind her counter a moment.

  “Here it is,” she said as she stood, handing Katie the envelope. “And here is the rest of your mail,” she added, handing a small stack of envelopes to Templeton.

  “It’s from Aunt Nelda,” said Katie, scanning the envelope. “Why would she be writing me?”

  “We wrote a while back and told her everything,” said Ward. “Maybe she’s decided her two wayward brothers aren’t so bad after all.”

  “She didn’t write to us, Brother Ward,” grinned Templeton, “only to Katie. It may be she thinks we’re not suitable guardians for Rosalind’s poor daughter, eh, Katie?”

  “If she thinks that, then I shall set her straight!” laughed Katie. “You two are the best uncles a girl could have!”

  “What do you think, Mrs. Hammond?” said Templeton, throwing Katie a brief wink. “Are we suitable guardians for the refined daughter of Rosalind Clairborne?”

  “I, uh . . . really couldn’t say,” stammered Mrs. Hammond, so caught off guard that for once she didn’t have a reply ready. “It wouldn’t be my place to interfere in . . . uh, family matters.”

  Templeton laughed good-naturedly. “Well then, Mrs. Hammond,” he said, “here’s a list of some things we need. I’m sure you will be able to handle that. And a newspaper too, if you please.”

  “Of course, Mr. Daniels.”

  As we continued to laugh and tell about our lives, even laughing about things that had happened when we were slaves, the rain kept coming down in sheets and we didn’t even think about going back outside. Gradually an hour slipped by, then another.

  “It could rain on dat ol’ Mississippi, I kin tell you dat,” said Henry. “Dere were times when I wuz a boy dat I looked out an’ cudn’t tell where dat brown ol’ ribber ended an’ da sky began.”

  “Tell us about it,” I said.

  “Dere wuz one time,” chuckled Henry with a faroff smile on his face, “when three or four ob us colored boys wuz playin’ at da ribber. Dere wuz a storm brewin’, but we didn’t mind cuz we wuz full er mischief.

  “We foun’ a white man’s boat tied wiff rope ter da side ob da ribber an’ dere wuz nobody around. It wuzn’t big but wuz enuff ter hold four boys lookin’ fo adventure. We untied dat rope an’ hauled dat boat upribber fo an’ hour er two. We wuz plumb tuckered out, but we had ter git it far enuff up ribber so’s we cud float down. So we got up what we figgered wuz two er three miles. We wuz so excited ter git in dat little thing an’ float down we cudn’t wait fo nuthin’. We wuz jes’ young scamps an’ we didn’t know one end ob a boat from da other.

  “So we got ter a spot we figgered wuz far enuff, an’ two er da tykes jumped in an’ somebody yelled, ‘Shove us out!’ an’ da third jumped in, an’ I gave da boat a big push away from da shore an’ jumped over the edge an’ plopped down inside. An’ we wuz off down da mighty Mississippi.

  “We floated along an’ it wuz jes’ as quiet an’ nice as it cud be, an’ we wuz feelin’ right proud ob ourselves watchin’ da shore git gradually further an’ further away as we drifted out into da current. It wuzn’t fast or dangerous, but it wuz carryin’ us along.

  “Den afore long da rain started ter fall. An’ den a great blast er lightnin’ lit up dat dark sky an’ da thunder sounded like it wuz right on top er us. An’ dat’s when we began ter git a little skeered cuz suddenly dat ol’ Mississippi seemed like a fearsome place ter be all alone. An’ dat rain it started ter come down an’ dat thunder an’ lightnin’ it kept explodin’ above us an’ we looked ober an’ dat shore wuz further away den before.

  “An’ somebody said, ‘Let’s git back—dis be far enuff.’ An’ dat’s when we realized we wuz nuthin’ but a pack er cracked coons—we hadn’t brung us no oar er pole or nuthin’. Dere wuzn’t nuthin’ in dat boat but four skeered little nigger boys dat couldn’t steer dat tub no how. Dat ribber wuz jes’ gonna take us where it wanted an’ dere wuzn’t nuthin’ any ob us cud do ’bout it.”

  By then we were all laughing to hear Henry chuckle as he told about it.

  “But it weren’t funny den,” he went on. “It wuz mighty fe
arsome, I kin tell you. We wuz gwine drown on dat ribber jes’ like all our mamas had warned us ’bout all our lives. An’ we wuz shakin’ an’ yellin’ out fo help. But dat rain wuz poundin’ down an’ dere wuzn’t nobody gwine hear us an’ da rain wuz startin’ ter pile up in da bottom er da boat an’ our feet wuz sittin’ in water, an’ ef dat rain kept comin’ we’d sink too. An’ den I looked ober, an’ it wuz rainin’ so hard you cud hardly see in front ob you, an’ da shore had disappeared from sight. By den I wuz mighty skeered. For all we cud see we might er been out in da middle er da ocean! We wuz jes’ floatin’, an’ we wuz goin’ faster by now cuz we wuz in da current, though still I reckon we wuzn’t nowhere close ter da middle on account er dat Mississippi’s a mile wide here an’ dere.”

  “What did you do?” asked Emma, her face looking terrified.

  “We jes’ floated an’ floated,” chuckled Henry. “Pretty soon we got so skeered we all jes’ quieted down an’ sat dere still in dat boat, wet ter da bone an’ shakin’ from fear an’ cold, an’ jes’ waitin’ ter sink an’ drown cuz we knew dere wuzn’t nuthin’ we cud do ter save ourselves. An’ I wuz thinkin’ ’bout dem ribber pirates an’ white men an’ what dey’d do ter us ef we got caught by da likes er dem.”

  “How did you get rescued?” I asked.

  “We din’t exactly git rescued,” chuckled Henry. “But dat ol’ Mississippi—it kin be yo frien’ or yo enemy. It can take a life—an’ it’s taken plenty er lives!—or it kin give life back too, an’ on dat day I reckon it gave back da lives ob dose four fool nigger boys instead ob drownin’ dem fo stealing dat boat.”

  “What happened?” asked Josepha.

  “Well, when we’d gone maybe four miles, dat ol’ ribber takes one ob dose giant bends like it does. Sometimes it goes all da way aroun’ like a big horseshoe. An’ though we cudn’t see too far an’ cudn’t see da shore, we wuzn’t really so far out in da ribber—only maybe a hundert or hundert fifty yards. So when dat ribber swung roun’ in dat big arc, dat boat it jes’ kep’ goin’ straight an’ din’t git turned quite as fast as da current, an’ by’n by we looked up an’ dere wuz da shore comin’ close agin.