The Soldier's Lady

by Michael Phillips

  “Get out of my way, Patterson!” he shouted. “You mind your own affairs.”

  Henry stumbled a step or two back but recovered his balance. Angered himself by now, Jeremiah took a step forward and Deke Steeves appeared eager to meet him with his fists clenched.

  “We’s jes’ be on our way,” said Henry. “Come on, boys. An’ we be wishin’ you a good day, Mister Steeves. Come on, son,” he said to Jeremiah.

  But Dwight Steeves stepped forward and roughly grabbed Henry by the shoulder and restrained him.

  “You hold on, Patterson!” he said. “I ain’t through with you. You’ll go when I tell you to go.”

  He lifted his other arm to strike Henry with the back of his hand. But Micah leapt forward, grabbed his wrist in midair and held it fast. With almost the same motion he took hold of Steeves’ other hand and pulled it from Henry’s shoulder. Henry stepped back. Slowly Micah released his grip of Steeves’ wrist, and Steeves found himself standing eye to eye with a young black man who was stronger than he had thought and who refused to be bullied.

  “You will not lay another hand on that man,” said Micah, his eyes boring straight into those of Dwight Steeves. His voice was soft, calm, and full of a confidence Steeves had never before heard from a black man. It was the voice of command.

  For several seconds they stood a foot apart, eye to eye. What Micah silently said with his eyes was even more powerful than the words he had spoken with his lips. For once in his life, though his whole body was quivering in white wrath, the wind had been taken out of Dwight Steeves’ bluster. His mouth hung open, yet he found himself speechless. The venom in his own heart had been countered by neither hatred nor fear, but by some strange power he had never encountered before. It rendered him, for the moment, powerless.

  Micah turned, nodded to Henry and Jeremiah, then led them along the boardwalk and into Mrs. Hammond’s store. When they came out a minute or two later, the two Steeves were nowhere to be seen.

  WEED JENKINS

  25

  ABOUT A WEEK AFTER THE INCIDENT IN TOWN, Weed Jenkins approached Rosewood. As he had intended, Jeremiah and Henry were both in town. He had no intention of being seen, but if someone should accidentally spot him, he hoped he would not be recognized. It was not easy for a six-foot, two-inch young man of lanky and somewhat ungainly build to creep without being seen into the precincts of a plantation like Rosewood with so many people about. But young Jenkins managed to accomplish it. His first responsibility was simply to figure out how many people were there and who they were. All he knew for sure was that his father was looking for a baby or some kid. He didn’t know which. He didn’t know what for, either.

  He heard a mixture of voices as he crept, crouching as low as his height would permit, within the rows of corn between the barn and the woods. The stalks were only about three or three-and-a-half feet high, and it was no easy task to keep from being seen. But slowly he inched closer. By the time he reached the end of the field, the back of the barn was only fifty or seventy-five yards away. He heard the voices clearly now, but they were on the opposite side, between the barn and the house. The coast looked clear.

  Weed stood up amid the corn stalks that only came up to his waist, looked around one final time, then made a dash for it. Twenty seconds later he was standing against the back wall of the barn, catching his breath. Other than the grunting of a few pigs nearby, no alarm sounded. It didn’t appear that he’d been seen. He crept along the wall to the open end of the horse stables, turned the corner into the cool overhang of the barn’s roof, climbed a couple of stall fences, and within another minute was safely inside the barn. He waited until his eyes were accustomed to the dim light, then tried to get his bearings.

  It was wash day at Rosewood, and on this day everyone was helping. Josepha and Katie were at the great washtub, pounding and stirring the contents with two great wooden paddles, and Emma and I were taking the shirts and dresses and trousers and blankets out of the pot one at a time, rinsing them in a tub of clean water, then ringing them out and hanging them on the line. Uncle Ward and my papa were sitting on the porch talking, without even pretending to help. Even if they had tried, Josepha would have run them off, saying that washing clothes was woman’s work. But the mood between us all was lighthearted. The day was warm, and it seemed like wash day always brought out mischief of some kind. But the mischief this day brought was not what we could have imagined.

  William was scampering around playfully between all of us, running up onto the porch with something to tell one of the men, then back toward the rest of us, time and again. There was never any lack of energy around Rosewood with William at the age he was! I paused at the clothesline, stretched my body a few seconds, and glanced around. I hadn’t seen Micah for several minutes.

  “Emma, have you seen Micah?” I asked. But before she could reply, William came running toward us.

  “What dat, Mama?” cried William, running up to Emma at the end of the line.

  “Dat’s yer uncle Templeton’s trousers.”

  “Why’s you hangin’ dem up like dat, Mama?”

  “Cuz dey’s all wet, and dey’s gotter dry in da sun.”

  But already William had turned on his heels and was running off toward the house.

  “William,” Emma called after him. “Don’t be pesterin’ Uncle Templeton an’ Uncle Ward.”

  But her words fell on his back as he ran toward the porch to tell Papa that his trousers were all wet!

  From the darkness of the barn, Weed Jenkins’ eyes had opened wide at the word “William” from Emma’s lips. He stood against the near wall, one eye peering through a halfinch crack of light between the boards, looking out at the commotion and trying to make sense of wash day at Rosewood. He recognized everyone but Josepha, Emma, and Uncle Ward. The white Clairborne girl and the black girl had been involved in the ruckus in town last year with Deke Steeves and Jesse Earl and the fool Patterson nigger kid.

  One of the men on the porch was the one who had broken the thing up. He had heard his father talking about the Daniels brothers, and that must be them. He hadn’t been able to see too much through the hood on his head that night he was out here with the men. But he had seen the same three that night too, before he had hauled Patterson out of this same barn where he stood now. But the fat colored lady and the scrawny, good-looking nigger girl—he’d never seen them before.

  And a colored kid! Just what his father had sent him to find!

  A colored kid called William whose mother’s name was Emma.

  Suddenly Weed Jenkins’ eyes shot open even wider.

  William!

  When he’d asked why he needed to know who was at Rosewood, all his pa had said was that somebody important needed the information for personal reasons.

  There was only one important man around here who everybody had been talking about for a month—William McSimmons . . . William McSimmons!

  He now remembered that he had seen William Mc-Simmons walking into his father’s office several days ago!

  Weed Jenkins was nobody’s dummy. The pieces suddenly began to fit together as to why his father had sent him here. But almost the same instant as his brain began to try to piece together what this information might mean, he felt a hand clamp down suddenly on the blade of his shoulder and a voice sounded at his ear.

  “I’d like to know what you’re up to, son,” it said.

  When Micah walked out of the barn toward us, half dragging, half leading a lanky young white man two or three inches taller than himself, all of us stopped what we were doing in an instant and stared at them. But it was only for a second or two. We hadn’t had any danger around Rosewood for so long we’d become maybe a little too careless. Suddenly the sight of a stranger in our midst, being pulled out of the barn by Micah with a serious look on his face, reminded us very quickly that we still had to do our best to keep Emma and William from being found out. But it looked like it might be too late for that!

  “William!”
cried Emma. “Git yo’self into da house!”

  “Why, Mama?”

  “Git, William!” said Emma sternly, dropping the shirt in her hands and running for the house herself, chasing William in front of her like she was trying to herd a chicken back into its pen.

  Papa and Uncle Ward slowly stood as the kitchen door banged shut behind Emma.

  “Any of you know why this young man would be standing inside the barn staring at you all?” asked Micah, coming toward us with his prisoner in tow.

  Papa and Uncle Ward glanced at each other with a look of question, then slowly came down the stairs off the porch. Josepha and Katie set down their wash paddles, and I draped a dress over the line. We all three made our way toward the house too. Whatever was going on, it would probably be best for us not to be around.

  Katie paused as she passed my papa. “That’s Weed Jenkins, Uncle Templeton,” she said softly. “He’s Sheriff Jenkins’ son . . . you know, from Oakwood.”

  Papa nodded as he took in the information with a serious expression. He’d vaguely recognized the boy immediately but didn’t know who he was. Then Katie and I continued on inside.

  Micah came forward and stopped before Papa and Uncle Ward.

  “What are you doing in our barn, young man?” asked my papa.

  “None of your business, nigger-lover,” said Weed rudely.

  A sharp pinch of Micah’s grip on his shoulder muscle made him wince in pain.

  “I want to know what you were doing.”

  “I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’! What are them niggers doin’ inside a white man’s house? You’re all just a bunch of nigger-lovers.”

  Another pinch, harder than the first caused Weed to cry out in pain.

  “Hey you,” said Micah, “show a little more respect for your elders, son!”

  “I ain’t got no respect for the likes of them!” spat Weed.

  Micah glanced at the two men, silently asking what they wanted him to do.

  “We could take him in to the sheriff,” suggested Uncle Ward, who hadn’t heard Katie’s words to my papa.

  “Somehow I don’t think that would do any good,” said Papa. He paused and rubbed his chin a minute, thinking.

  “You might as well let him go, Micah,” he said. “He’s not going to tell us anything.—You get out of here, son,” he said to Weed. “And if you have occasion to come back, you come to the door and knock. Don’t go sneaking around like this. You hear me?”

  He nodded to Micah, who released him. Weed swore at all three of them, gave Micah a look of hatred, then walked off down the road toward town and, after three or four minutes, disappeared from sight.

  EMMA HEARS A VOICE

  26

  We were all more guarded and cautious after that, reminded again of the ill will there was in the community against Rosewood. It seemed that in the last year people had reacted in two different ways. Some people were more friendly to us and seemed to respect us all for what we had done. But on the other side, there was growing resentment too.

  But even after this incident, Emma wasn’t thinking too much of the danger. She had been thinking the whole time about her conversation with Micah Duff.

  Several days passed. How deeply all of Micah Duff’s spiritual arguments had penetrated Emma’s intellect was not nearly so important as the fact that the spirit of his convictions had penetrated her heart. And it was doing that more than she realized.

  Something was slowly changing within her, though she did not know what. Still less did she know how to respond to it. She could not quite believe herself worthy of God’s attention. The ancient wind that blows where it will was sending fresh new breezes of life through recently opened windows in Emma’s heart and soul. They were windows that had been opened by the affirming kindness of these people around her. And now especially by the compassionate, gentle, ministering presence of Micah Duff.

  But the new outlook was so stupendous, and so intermingled in her mind with the remarkable character of Micah Duff—like no black man she had ever imagined!—that Emma was distracted, confused, and hardly seemed to know what to do with herself. She said scarcely a word for two days.

  On the third day she went out alone after breakfast. No one saw her for several hours. She walked through fields and into the woods and along the river. She had so rarely cried in her life, yet now the tears were flowing as if they had themselves become a river inside her.

  All her life her own worthlessness had been the single consistency she had clung to, the one unchanging fact in a life without any other foundation or anchor. To have someone now tell her that the only thing she had known as true was really an untruth, and that she was not the person she had always thought . . . it had undone her at the very root of her being.

  Yet we will often believe what another says of us more than we will believe it when left to ourselves. And Emma was now heroically, almost desperately, struggling to find some way to believe what Micah Duff had told her, and to cast away the garment of inadequacy that clung so close to her. But it was a hard struggle. To believe good about ourselves is sometimes the hardest mental struggle in all of life.

  She could not quite believe it yet. But that she was wrestling with her own worth as a person showed that the birth-struggle of the true child of God had begun in her.

  Her voice was murmuring softly as she went. She was not praying exactly, but carrying on the ongoing debate and questioning, both with herself and with God, that had been going on for days.

  I don’t see how dere kin be dat good in me dat Mister Duff is talkin’ bout. I’s a sinner an’ I sinned terrible wiff dat William McSimmons, an’ I wuz too lame-brained jes’ ter kick him away an’ scream my head off. His papa wuz a good man an’ he’d hab helped me. I sinned, all right, but I cudn’t tell Mister Duff ’bout dat. What wud he think ob me ter know dat I slep’ wiff such a no-good man! But God knows . . . a body can’t hide nuthin’ from Him, dat’s fo sho’! He knows what I done, an’ He knows what a fool an’ dummy I’s always been. Dere ain’t nuthin’ in me dat’s any good, an’ God must know dat better’n anybody. Miz Katie an’ Mayme, dey’s different . . . dey treat me good, anyway. An’ dat Mister Duff an’ Jeremiah, dey’s as nice ter me as any man cud be. Dey’s all real good ter me, but nobody kin fool God ’bout what’s down inside, an’ He—

  Suddenly Emma heard a voice. She stopped and listened intently. Had someone followed her? Was someone spying on her?

  Everything was still and quiet around her. She began to think she had imagined it.

  Now the words of Micah Duff came back to her. She remembered what he had said—God speaks to everyone, but not everyone hears His voice.

  Would God ever speak to her, Emma wondered. Micah Duff was different. He was a fine man. He had seen a vision!

  But God would never—

  Suddenly the voice spoke again. A chill went through her as Emma’s eyes opened wide at the astonishing words she had heard.

  I love you, Emma.

  “Dat be you speakin’ ter me, Lawd?” she said aloud. “I don’t know ef I heard you right, or ef I heard dat at all, or jes’ made it up. Where is you, Lawd? Is you tryin’ ter say somethin’ ter me?”

  Yet a third time came the voice—whether audible or inaudible, Emma never knew.

  I love you, Emma, the words gently whispered in her spirit. You are precious in my sight. You are my child.

  She could no longer keep back the flood of tears. They burst like a dam and Emma fell on her knees where she was, weeping at the very idea of what she now knew she had heard.

  “How can you, Lawd?” she said through her tears. “Does you really . . . can you really love me, Jesus?”

  A mighty Yes! flooded into Emma’s heart.

  She broke down and sobbed.

  Several minutes went by. Gradually Emma began to calm and the flow stilled.

  “I don’t know why, or how you wud eber care ’bout one like me, God,” Emma said quietly. “But ef you does, den I
want ter be like Mister Duff says an’ be yer daughter. Help me, Jesus, cuz I don’t hardly even know what dat means. Ef everythin’s different den I thought wiff you an’ wiff me, den I reckon I oughter know it.”

  When Emma walked into the house some time later, her eyes were aglow. We all knew immediately that something had happened.

  She went straight to Micah Duff.

  “Mister Duff,” she said, “I wants you ter tell me everythin’ dat man Hawk tol’ you ’bout God.”

  Micah smiled and nodded. They went outside together a little while later and were gone most of the afternoon.

  That night Emma came to see Katie and me in our room.

  She had the most different look on her face. I recognized it from how Katie had changed too during our first year together. It was the change of deciding what was to be done rather than just taking things as they happened to come. Emma had always just gone along with what we said about everything. Now there was a look of determination on her face.

  “I wants ter be baptized,” she said.

  “Do you want me to talk to Reverend Hall?” asked Katie.

  “I don’t know, Miz Katie,” she said. “I doesn’t know him too well.”

  “What about Micah Duff?” I suggested. “I’m sure he would baptize you, Emma.”

  “Dat be right nice,” she said. “He be da one I want. He cud say some nice words an’ a prayer. Dat’s what I want.”

  “Do you want me to ask him, Emma?” I said.

  “Yes’m, I wud.”

  ANOTHER BAPTISM

  27

  When we all walked from the house down to the river on the following Sunday, the mood was so different than before. It was quiet and peaceful. The conversation between us was serious and subdued, though happy. There was none of the festive atmosphere the revival had had. It was quiet happy, not boisterous happy.