Nobody, not even Silas, had ever seen Nellie so angry, but they all reacted the same way: Ruth wrapped her arms around her mother's legs and Tobias and Little Si each grabbed an arm and Big Si pulled the group of them into his embrace, and Uncle Will kept patting Big Si on the back, like he was trying to burp a baby. Nobody spoke until Freeman cleared his throat. "We got to get that mule and trap into the barn," he said.
The Thatchers broke their huddle, and confused murmurs of "mule?" and "what mule?" replaced the earlier frightful anger. Then Ruthie said, "What's a trap?"
Freeman gave her a long, hard look, then a wide grin. "It's a kind of wagon, Little Missy, and we need to get it out of sight, it and that mule. God knows we don't need no white folks knowin' you Colored folks got a mule and a trap." Then everybody was talking at once, and in motion, putting on caps and coats and brogans and filling lanterns with kerosene, standing in front of the cook stove to gather warmth before going out into the dark, cold night.
"You look hungry, Mr. Freeman," Nellie said as she threw several big chunks of wood into the stove. The flames rose and the room felt warmer immediately. "We got leftover rabbit stew and some roasted potatoes and some cornbread. I'll make some coffee and bake some apples and have everything ready by the time y'all finish with the mule and the wagon."
"Thank you, m'am, I 'preciate it 'cause I passed bein' hungry 'bout two hours ago back yonder on the road." He tightened his scarf at his neck and pulled his hat down over his ears. "Where them dogs? I'm surprised they let me get all the way up in the yard."
"We put 'em in the barn 'cause of the cold," Uncle Will said.
"Well, you gon' have to take 'em out," Freeman said, "'cause you know good and well dogs and mules ain't no friend to each other."
Uncle Will and Big Si got a good laugh from that one; Little Si, Tobias and Ruthie followed the men outside, demanding to know why dogs and mules weren't friends. Nellie followed them to the door and watched the children's awe-struck reaction to seeing the mule, watched her husband keep them well away from the notoriously cantankerous animal's deadly hooves, watched them all clamber into the flat-bedded wagon and drive toward the barn, watched and listened until she could see and hear nothing but the silent darkness. Surely having the mule would mean that Si and Uncle Will wouldn't have to work so hard—not having the two oldest boys, Beaudry and Eubanks, these last six months had indeed been a hardship—but Nellie would gladly give the farm away—and the mule and the wagon—to have her boys back. She'd never say those words to Uncle Will or Si, but they probably knew what she felt. But the mule also was a mixed blessing, for if any white person discovered its presence—well, best not to think about that. Never trouble trouble 'til trouble troubles you, her Ma always used to say. And right she was, Nellie thought.
She lit the wall lamps in the parlor and the logs in the fireplace so the room would be warm when everybody came back in. Then she got busy in the kitchen. First she hurried down to the root cellar and brought up half a bushel of dried apples. She washed them, laid them in a pan, sprinkled them with some cinnamon sugar, and put them in the oven. Then she set the kettle on to boil and put coffee in the pot. She got the kettle of leftover rabbit stew from the cold porch, filled a bowl, and put it in the warming oven along with the roasted potatoes and cornbread. Then she sat down at the kitchen table, grateful for the few minutes of quiet she'd have before they all returned from the barn.
Nellie never showed strong emotions to her family other than love. Feelings of anger or the rare hatreds she harbored she kept to herself. That she hated the white people who had taken her sons was something she had intended to keep to herself, but she couldn't conceal the anger and hatred that arose when she realized the reason for the theft of her children. It was almost as horrible as having children sold away during slavery time, to have them stolen away to serve in the army of a country that despised them, so that same government might more easily steal the meager legacy of their centuries of unpaid servitude.
She also needed the brief quiet period to assess her feelings about First Freeman. That was his name—the name he'd given himself after the Emancipation. This much she knew from Uncle Will who'd known him "back before," which is what the older people who had been slaves called that period of their lives. Most of them wouldn't discuss having been slaves at all, and when they did—when forced by family or circumstance—they never did so in terms of the stark reality that had been their lives. It was always euphemistical: Uncle Will's "back before," or "the old days" or "the old times" some of the other older Colored called it. Uncle Will always was vague about Freeman; had even been hostile to him when he first began visiting several years ago. Gradually he had softened to the point that he now would invite the man to share a meal and talk to him about his family and his life in Belle City, but he'd never speak of his former life in Carrie's Crossing, and Nellie thought that the fact of their shared slavery was only part of the reason. There was some other thing about First Freeman—not a bad thing, Nellie hurried to assure herself—for the man was kind and polite and generous. But even if Colored were doing good for themselves over in Belle City, nobody, white nor Colored, could afford to give away a mule and a wagon.
"And he can't be doing it looking for something back from us 'cause we ain't got nothing," Nellie said to herself now that she was back to herself; back to being calm and rational and thoughtful. So, what was there about First Freeman that Uncle Will wasn't telling them, and did it matter? Nellie wondered. Maybe it was enough that what the two old men knew about each other was all any of the rest of them needed to know; slavery was a word almost unspoken now, but oh, the meaning the word held.
The front door opened and Nellie stood up, hurried to the wood box and grabbed a few more chunks of wood to feed into the stove. She could feel the cold that rushed forward as fast as her children did.
"Ma! Ma!" The three of them calling her at once, talking at once, about the mule named Clem, about the wagon which could haul "everything we got." She hugged them to her, their cheeks and ears and noses frosty. She rubbed her face against theirs to warm them, rubbed their hands between hers, but she knew they were too excited to realize the cold. She listened to their excitement as she turned them toward the stove's heat, their voices as bright as their eyes. She would kill anything or anybody who ever threatened these children. They had taken two from her, the two oldest, but she wouldn't let it happen again, war or no war, government or no.
"Y'all go hang up them coats and hats and take off them dirty shoes."
"Yes'm," they chorused, trooping out onto the cold porch
"And Tobias! Make sure them shutters is pulled tight. That wind sounds mighty strong."
"It is strong, Ma," he said, looking and sounding older and stronger than the boy he was. She knew he was trying to step up and be the big brother to Little Si and Ruthie and the oldest son to Big Si, but he was still a boy; he was still her child. She watched his retreating back. He would be tall and straight like his pa, like her pa, like Uncle Will, like all the men. Like all the women, too, if she thought about it, because she herself was taller than most women, and Ruthie was growing like a weed—tall and straight. And strong.
"Looks like we got ourselves a mule and a wagon," Big Si said throwing off his coat and heading for the stove's warmth. Nellie took his coat, and he sat down to begin removing his heavy brogans. "I want to ask Freeman why he's doing that—giving us things that cost more'n we could ever pay—but I don't want to seem...what's the word, Nellie?"
"Ungrateful."
"Ungrateful. 'Cause I'm mighty grateful. But why you think, Nellie? We ain't no kin to him. Why you think—" He was interrupted by the children tumbling back into the kitchen with the news that Uncle Will had put the dogs on the back porch out of the cold. Nellie held out Big Si's coat and shoes and the boys took them out to the porch to hang while Ruthie climbed into her father's lap. "Before we go to bed tonight, we better bring all them coats and boots in here—dogs, too—and stoke
the stove real good, otherwise they'll freeze solid, clothes and dogs. It's gon' be mean cold tonight."
"It's already mean cold," Uncle Will said. He came into the kitchen followed by First Freeman. The two older men carried their outerwear, and Big Si and Ruthie took the coats and shoes from them to put out on the porch. First Freeman held on to a big bundle tied at both ends with rope that he put on the floor near the stove. When everybody came back in, the kitchen was too crowded.
"You children go sit in the parlor while I get Mr. Freeman some food on the table. Then later we can all have some apples and coffee."
The children clapped their hands and danced out of the room. The three men took seats at the table, all facing the stove and rubbing their hands together, their feet extended toward the heat. Nellie put more wood in, then got the food from the warming oven for their guest.
"I thank you, Miz Thatcher," First said. He bowed his head for several seconds, then raised it and reached for his spoon at the same time. He ate quickly and unselfconsciously. Uncle Will ate the same way, Nellie realized. She left to go check on the children and wasn't surprised to find them on the floor in front of the fireplace, arms wrapped around each other, almost asleep. She put more logs on the fire and a blanket over the children, which roused them.
"Is it time to eat the apples?" Ruthie asked sleepily.
"I'll go see," Nellie said. She returned to the kitchen to find Uncle Will taking the pan of baked apples from the oven, the scent of cinnamon pervasive. The children came running. Wide awake now, they crowded around the stove, inhaling the aroma and hopping from foot to foot in expectation. "Maybe we can put a little butter and cream on?" Nellie asked, looking at Si and Uncle Will. There wasn't much of either left, but hoarding it wouldn't make it last any longer while eating it would make seven people very happy.
"Go 'head then," Uncle Will said and, as big and strong as he was, he had to sit down quickly when the three children all jumped at him. He caught them, but just barely, and it's a good thing the chair was there for him to fall down on. Big Si got the butter and cream from the porch while Nellie put apples in bowls, thinking that Uncle Will had become an old man and grateful again to First Freeman for the mule. "And since we actin' like it's already Christmas, might as well eat in the parlor."
The adults on the room's four chairs, the children on the floor, the fire roaring inside, the wind howling outside, the baked apples swimming in butter and cream—it was, indeed, very much like a holiday, like Christmas, considering the gift of the mule and wagon. "We thank you again, Mr. Freeman," Nellie said.
First Freeman looked uncomfortable. He wasn't accustomed to expressing his own feelings, or having others express their feelings to him. "It ain't nothin', Miz Thatcher."
"It's a whole lot, Mr. Freeman," she said. "More'n anybody we know can afford to give away."
Freeman sighed deeply. "Things is a bit better for Colored in Belle City than in some other places. One thing, won't nobody stop you from tryin' to work if that's what you want to do. Most white people ain't gon' say you can't own a mule or a hoss or a wagon. Ain't nobody gon' say you can't paint your house or plant pretty flowers in your yard." This was a lot of words to be spoken at one time for Freeman, and he sighed again, stood up, walked into the kitchen and returned quickly carrying the big bundle he'd left in the kitchen beside the stove. "I got me a bizness, my own bizness. I got four mules and two hosses and wagons to hitch to every one of 'em, and I hauls things—people, furniture, garbage, food—whatever needs haulin', I hauls it. I got three other boys workin' for me and we works seven days a week, sunup til sundown. And..." He paused and looked into each of the six pairs of eyes that watched him. "...white folks well as Colored hire me for my work. White folks well as Colored pay me. They pay me what I ask for, and they pay me when I ask for it."
The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the howling of the wind. Then Uncle Will spoke. "Why you tellin' us all this, Freeman?"
"'Cause I think y'all oughta move to Belle City. Sell your farm 'fore they steal it from you, and move 'way from here."
Will was on his feet. "Ain't nobody stealin' nothin' from me. This my land. I got the deed to it. Got my name and my sister's name on it. Cain't nobody steal it."
"They can if they want to, Will, and you know that. Evil and nasty as Zeb Thatcher is, I'm surprised he let you hang on to it this long, 'specially with all the good growin' y'all doin' up here and him goin' broker and broker ev'ry day tryin' to grow a cotton crop."
"Zeb ain't got no idea what we growin' up here," Uncle Will said, sounding more like he was growling than speaking.
"What would we do in Belle City, Freeman?" Big Si asked. "Cain't but so many men haul things, and looks like you got the haulin' bizness all took care of. What the rest of us gon' do if we don't farm?"
"There's all kinds of work to do," Freeman started, but Will stopped him.
"Ain't nobody related to me goin' to work in white folks' houses cookin' and cleanin' and bowin' and scrapin' and I mean that. This fam'ly is through with that kinda thing."
"Don't have to work for white folks, Will. We got Colored hospitals and banks and insurance companies. And the schools! Colleges and universities! These children could go to college, Will. Could be doctors or teachers or preachers...could be whatever they want to be."
The logs shifted in the fireplace, as if the thought of Colored children going to college to become doctors or teachers or preachers was too much. It was one thing Nellie at the kitchen table teaching the alphabet and some few numbers—teaching as much as she had been able to learn. College was something else, something for people who maybe already lived in Belle City, but certainly not something for people who lived in Carrie's Crossing, even if they did own their own farm. The children of Silas and Nellie Thatcher had never given thought to becoming anything other than what they were—children of the farm, of the land, of the forest. That their parents may have dared to hope for more was merely that: A hope kept private, secret even, for what would be the purpose of expressing hope for what could never be? What good would be served by telling children they could be doctors and teachers and preachers when they could not be? After all, Silas and Nellie were the son and daughter of slaves. The best they'd ever hoped for their sons and daughter was that they wouldn't have to be the children of slaves. The children didn't know what to say or think, so they didn't say anything, but their eyes widened in wonder for they certainly would have things to think and talk about in secret from this time forward.
The logs shifted again just as a big gust of cold air blew down the chimney, and sparks flew past the screen into the room. The embers glowed on the polished, wood floor before several hands and feet smacked them out.
"You children go get them big coats off the back porch so we can hang 'em up here round this door and these windows, keep some of that cold air out where it belongs. These rags ain't much help." The three children scurried out as Big Si helped Nellie stuff the pieces of cloth deeper into the crevices around the doors and windows in an almost futile attempt to preserve the room's warmth. Hanging the heavy coats in front of the windows and the door would help, but nothing could stop the wind from howling down the chimney.
Big Si put more logs on the fire and the room became noticeably warmer. "It's time for you children to go on to bed," he said, then looked at his wife.
"Mr. Freeman can sleep up in Eubanks and Beaudry's room, Little Si and Tobias can sleep in Uncle Will's room, Uncle Will can sleep in Ruthie's room, and she can sleep with us," Nellie said, answering the unasked question.
"I don't mean to put nobody out," Freeman said quickly.
Uncle Will waved away the protest. "Ain't nobody gettin' put out. Everybody gon' be inside where it's warm and up off the floor too," and he laughed along with everybody else at the humor.
Then First Freeman took a knife from his pocket and cut the ropes that bound the bundle that seemed so precious to him, and unrolled it, looking all the t
ime at Uncle Will. "I come across all kinds of things drivin' and haulin', things people throw on the junk heap, 'specially white people. I sells most of it 'cause I don't need it. Some of it, though, the good things, I keep. Like these things here. I want y'all to have these things." The bundle itself was a dark, thick carpet, almost big enough to cover the whole parlor floor, and inside it were clothes—men's clothes, women's clothes, children's clothes—and shoes and pots and pans and books. Nobody spoke. Six pairs of eyes moved about the bundle of goods, staring as if the entire contents of a dry goods store had been dropped in the middle of their parlor floor.
"Why you doin' this, Freeman?" Uncle Will asked angrily. "What you want?"
First Freeman was shaking his head back and forth. "Nothin,' Will. I don't want nothin'."
"Ain't you got no family, Mr. Freeman? No people in Belle City? Why you come all the way over here to bring these things?" Big Si asked. There was no anger in his tone, but there was deep puzzlement and no small amount of wariness. The rug and the clothes and the pots and pans, Si would be happy to have Freeman bundle back up and take with him back to Bell City. The mule and wagon, though...
Nellie walked over to stand beside Freeman and touched his shoulder. She could see all the similarities between him and Uncle Will. She also could see a difference, and it was a major one: First Freeman was a lonely man. "We are grateful to you, Mr. Freeman. These things, all of this—" Nellie ran out of words.
"You give things like this to your family. This ain't your family, Freeman, this MY family. You hear me? This MY family!" Uncle Will strode from the room. In the silence that followed, the bundle in the middle of the floor remained the center of attention, but there also now was the freedom to show interest in it.
Belle City Page 3