by Joyce Hansen
For the first time since he’d seen Julius, he looked like the skinny boy he remembered from the plantation. “What’s wrong with you?” Obi asked curtly. “Look like the hag ride you all the way here.”
“Senator Randolph was killed while he was campaigning in Abbeville County. You remember Senator Randolph, the one I bring to our meeting the night of the storm?”
Rose shuddered and told Julius about the message from Barnwell. Obi wondered, though, why Julius had come. This was the first time since Obi arrived in New Canaan that Julius had shown up at Rose’s door.
“Randolph buy property here on Santa Elena. He loved this place. He’ll be buried here. They bringing his body tomorrow. It was them Klan did it.” His hands shook as Grace gave him the cup. “Found the man swinging from a tree in Abbeville.”
“They all dead. They was hanging in the trees. Miss Emma, Mr. George—” Grace’s voice starded everyone.
“Grace, you sick? What’s the matter?” Rose asked.
Obi was shocked. Grace rarely spoke unless spoken to first. “Forget all of that. You safe now,” he said gently.
“Poor thing,” Rose muttered. “You go on to sleep. Rest your troubled mind.”
“She saw her people hanged,” Rose whispered to Julius when Grace had left the room.
Julius sighed. “Almost seem like things be worse since we free.” He glanced at Obi, as though trying to draw him into a conversation. Obi recalled how Julius had slighted him at the meeting, but he reminded himself that a man was dead. Someone had taken his life. So he put pettiness behind him.
“You going to keep campaigning?” Obi asked.
He patted his hip. “Yes, long as I have a firearm. But I staying here in Beaufort County.” He hesitated a moment. “I would have to have a guard if I went anywhere else. But that’s what I was coming here for. We need to start a militia down here. We need men like you, Obi. Men who been soldiers and know about the military.”
Obi stared at Julius for a long time, looking through and beyond him. Julius was trying to get his own personal guard. “If the village need men to protect it, then I help long as I’m here. But I ain’t joining no militia. I done with military life.”
Julius sipped his tea. His hands still trembled slightly. “I understand.” His eyes avoided Obi’s. “You wanted to talk to me about something the other night? I’m sorry I was busy, and then with the storm, I’ve been getting in rations from the bureau for the people here...” His voice trailed off. Then he cleared his throat. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”
“Don’t matter now.”
Rose spoke up. “Julius, Obi wanted to ask you about carpenter’s work. And the next time someone try to speak to you, don’t be so high and mighty. You come sliding in here when you scared and think somebody after your hide. That ain’t no kind of way to treat folks you been knowing all your life.”
Obi had to hold his head down so that Julius didn’t see him smile. For a young woman, she sure can fuss like a old hen, he thought.
“I meant no harm, Miss Rose,” Julius said, almost childlike. “Obi, you and the other men been doing some good work helping people get their cabins built. If I hear of anyone needing a carpenter, I’ll send them to you.”
Rose and Julius talked a while longer, and Julius seemed calmer when he left. The smile was back. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Obi,” he said.
Before Obi went to sleep on the pallet Rose had made for him with an old quilt, he wrote a letter to Easter.
October 26, 1868
Dear Easter,
I received your letter today and I’m happy to know that you are fine. All the things you say are right and make good sense. But Easter, I don’t care if it’s for one day or only one moment. I must lay my eyes on your sweet face. No place is home unless you’re with me. You and Jason. Can’t you understand that? All of these many years we are apart, I have been living and doing what I must, but I am use to doing that. Doing what I have been told to do. I was a slave. All slaves do what they told. That’s why we make good soldiers. Nobody knows what’s inside a slave’s soul.
What does it matter if I build a school cabin or a hut for someone who lost their home. I do it because it needs to be done. I hate to see people suffer because I know how suffering hurts. But then, I get angry. And I begin to hate this mean little ugly mud hole. But my heart, my feelings be a separate thing from a cabin or this place. The only time my heart and my actions was one thing, was when I began to build our home, because as I hammered and sawed, I see you sitting on the porch or looking out of a window.
Well, Easter, I hope that you don’t think I’ve lost my wits. I am only trying to tell you how I feel. But words alone cannot express the deep feelings in my heart, especially for you.
I have carpentry work, but it is for a sad reason. I have to make a coffin for a Senator who was killed. Someone have to die before I get paying carpenter’s work. Do not be surprised if you see me at your doorstep for Christmas.
Love, your Obi
Chapter 13
The strong men keep a-comin’ on
The strong men git stronger.
—STERLING BROWN
“Mister Booker, where did you learn to do work like this?” Jonathan Barnwell stared at the cedar coffin Obi had just completed. “You are truly an artisan.”
Obi leaned against the work table in the large carpenter’s shed. He had never heard the word artisan before, but he supposed that it was a nice compliment. “When I was a slave. I learn from the slave carpenter I was apprentice to.”
“The family will be pleased. I know it. He was a good man. We were friends.”
Obi had been surprised that morning when he’d arrived at Pleasant Point, the 300-acre plantation owned by Jonathan Barnwell. Barnwell, a Yankee, was the same white man he’d seen at their Friday meeting when Senator Randolph spoke.
“Mister Booker, I would love to have you to work for me, but I only need field hands now.” He gazed at the laborers in the gathering dusk. “When I need a carpenter, I will call you.”
This was the most respectful white man Obi had ever met. The ten dollars he’d made replaced the money he’d given Rose—a lot of money for one day’s work. “I do all kind of carpenter’s work, sir. I make furniture as well.”
“Mr. Booker, I promise you will be hearing from me again. I appreciate a man who works the way you do. You even have your own tools. Very businesslike, young man. Very businesslike.”
“Thank you, sir,” Obi said. And thank you, Miss Fortune, for letting me borrow these tools. They shook hands.
As Obi walked back to New Canaan’s “hub”—the church, the store, and the new school—he felt somewhat lifted up, but he knew that a handshake and a promise didn’t mean he was close to getting his own business. And a man had to die for him to get work.
It was completely dark when Obi reached the school. He took the latch off the door and put the tools behind the woodstove. Tomorrow he’d build a small toolshed. Squinting in the dark, Obi tried to see whether Simon and the other boys had made the benches as he’d told them to do. He felt around in the dark and ran his hands over the surface of two bumpy objects. He sucked his teeth in disgust. Little Scipio do better than this.
He left the school cabin and went to Miss Mary’s store.
“Hello, Mr. Booker. Got some mail for you. Just getting ready to close up. Didn’t see you today. You’re done with the school, eh?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Them boys was in the schoolhouse, making the benches. Mr. Booker, they can’t do nothing without you. I walked over there to see how they getting on, and my lord, them benches crooked as a winding road.”
“I know, Miss Mary. I’ll help them tomorrow.”
“Whose house you working on now? Saw Samuel and James, said they patching up Melissa’s cabin. This a time, yes, Mr. Obi?”
She put the basket on the counter. He rummaged through the envelopes and found a letter from Thomas. He couldn’t think
of a better time to hear from his old friend. “Miss Mary, can I read this by the light of your lantern?”
“Of course, Mr. Booker. Must be important, since you can’t wait till you get home to read it.”
September 30, 1868
Hello Cpl. Booker,
I hope this letter finds you well. I hope this letter finds you. As for Peter and I, we are having a grand time. Obi, we are truly sorry that you are not with us. What adventures we’ve had. First, we bought ourselves a new set of clothing and luggage fit for gentlemen like ourselves. However, in order to pose as fine gentlemen I had to tell Peter not to speak. For when he’s done mangling the King’s English then people know that we are frauds. But here in New Orleans, the steamers bring in frauds everyday.
We arrived in New Orleans a few days after we left you in Beaufort, and we have been here ever since. There is a joyfulness here that I have not seen elsewhere—not even in New York. The blacks and whites mingle freely. They ride in the same streetcars and can go to the same places of amusement, as long as they have the money to spend. The most beautiful colored and mulatto women I’ve ever seen are here. They put the New York and Charleston girls to shame.
People speak mostly French, and everyday is a festive occasion. Also, there is no sabbath on Sundays. I mean by that—people are in the streets buying and selling goods. Music and dancing are everywhere. It is hard to imagine when I look around that only a few months ago colored people were hunted and shot down like mad dogs in the street. Maybe politics and power make men wild.
We will be leaving this glorious city tomorrow. I hope that we do not have trouble getting passsage. Some of these steamboat captains refuse to take Black passengers. We will take the steamer to St. Louis and then work our way to Kansas. We hear that there’s plenty of land there. We’ll save some for you.
When we’re settled in we’ll send you our address so that you can write to us. Watch out for stray rebels.
Sincerely,
Your friend Thomas Smith
Obi carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. As he walked down the shelled road, he began to seriously consider the idea of settling in the West with Easter and Jason.
November brought more rain and dampness and the illness that always follows bad weather. Yet New Canaan tried to recover from the storm. November was also the time to vote. Neither rain nor threats from employers kept Obi and the other men of New Canaan from voting on election day. Julius lost his bid for a seat on the state legislature but retained his appointment on the South Carolina Land Commission.
Obi spent all of his time helping the village men throw up shacks as fast as they could and helping Rose clear her land and patch up her cabin. Simon worked with them in the afternoons when he returned from school. During the days of endless labor, Rose and Obi continued to badger one another. “Obi, you need to start working on your house again,” she would say.
And he’d say to her, “Rosie, you need to forget about these cotton fields and rent your land.” Neither one of them had a change of heart.
By the end of November he received a package and a letter from Easter.
November 15, 1868
Dear Obi,
I hope that you, Rose and everyone are fine after all of your troubles. I am so sorry that we will not be able to spend Christmas together. I made inquiries about the possibility of time off for the holidays, but I was told that wouldn’t be possible. We have an extra crowd of children from men and women both who are raising children alone and have no one to care for them while they work. Also the cold weather forces many poor people to leave their children with us. We are full to overflowing, but will try to make as nice a Christmas for them as possible.
Obi, I want very much to see you as well, but it doesn’t make sense to spend that money and we won’t be together as much as we would like to be. It would hurt me terribly knowing that you are here in Philadelphia and I cannot see you. Your letter was so loving, but sad. I’ve read it many times, and I think that you are becoming discouraged. Obi, a hate-filled heart only sees meanness and ugliness. Please do not be. Begin building our new home and our new life. Have patience, Obi. One day soon we will be side by side in New Canaan.
I have sent some things for all of you, including the children. Miss Fortune’s family collected clothing and supplies to send to the freed people, as they say up here in the North. I asked the family whether I could pick out a few things to send to you all from the clothing they collected. I hope that the clothing fit the young ones. I wrote to Miss Fortune asking her to describe the children’s sizes to me. Sorry that none of this clothing is new, but everything is in fine condition. (I was a little extravagant Obi and bought something new for you.)
I am busy as always between work at the orphanage and school. Well, forgive these secondhand gifts, but they come from my heart.
I wish I could be there with you all. Love to everyone. I will write again soon.
Your Easter
P.S. Here is an address for Jason. He goes by the last name Jennings. He says he will be here for a good spell. He’s performing in a theater in Chicago, in the big city!
Write to him in care of: Bliden’s Theatre, 420 Dearborn Street, Chicago, Illinois.
Obi opened his gift—a well-crafted wooden box filled with paper, ink, and pen nibs. He wrote her back immediately.
November 30, 1868
Dear Easter,
I hope that you are well. I was happy to get your letter and to get Jason’s address. I am going to write him tonight also. Thank you for the writing box, papers, etc. I am making immediate use of it. The children will be so excited over the clothing. Next month the transport is coming here, and I will send them on to the Refugee camp. For now, they are happy.
Everything you say makes good sense, Easter, but I am still coming up there for Christmas, or a few days afterward. I cannot wait. I must see you if only for a few moments. In the meantime, I am use to doing what I am told (laugh). You tell me to wait so I will but only after I have laid my eyes on you once more. Then I will come back here and wait for you. But Easter I am still not sure about the kind of future we would have here in New Canaan. I still have not made progress on my own carpentry business. I thought I might get more carpentry work from the Yankee who hired me to make the coffin for the Senator who was killed, but he has not contacted me again.
I have heard from my army friends who are settling in the West. Easter, I think it is something we should consider when you return. My friends tell me there is land in the West, and a much better life than here in the South. In the meantime, I have plenty to do helping the other men. The next important thing is getting Jason back down here. Then when we are all three together we can see whether we can make our plans.
I love you, Easter. Write back soon.
Your Obi
Then Obi wrote to Jason.
Dear Jason,
I cannot believe that I have finally caught up to you and you are settled in one place where you can get a letter. I hope you are well. I guess that you are no longer the skinny boy in shirttails. Easter has told me you have been in a medicine show, and now you are in a theatre. Well, Jason you was always a good singer and dancer and full of fun, but that is no kind of life for a boy, to be knocking about in tent shows and minstrel shows.
Easter and I will become husband and wife, and Jason, though there is no blood between us, you are like our child and you must be with us and we all live together. We three are lucky that we find each other. We should never live separate again. Jason, come to New Canaan soon. Easter will be back down here in the Spring and we will be married. And the three of us can begin our lives as a family. We don’t have to stay here on this island, or even in the South, though Easter wants to. Perhaps we will move to the West. Wherever we move to, we want you with us. You belong with us.
Love, Obi
For the first time in a long time, Obi felt almost complete, having written to Easter and Jason all in one night.
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Chapter 14
We were waked early by the people knocking at our
window and shouting “Merry Christmas.”
—CHARLOTTE FORTEN, THE JOURNALS OF
CHARLOTTE FORTEN GRIMKE
December 1868
The fifty children of the New Canaan School stood proudly before their families and neighbors on a Sunday afternoon a little over a week before Christmas. The day was unusually warm and sunny, as though in their honor. As Obi sat down on the bench, he realized that this was the first time he’d been in church for anything other than the Friday-evening Republican meetings.
Miss Fortune and her students had decorated the pulpit with evergreen wreaths, and the newly whitewashed walls with garlands of moss and sprigs of holly. The children themselves were washed and scrubbed, and everyone had managed to wear a white shirt or blouse, as Miss Fortune had asked them to do. Some had newer clothing than others; many of the clothes were either too big or too small, obviously donations from the missionaries.
Obi, Rose, and Grace sat near the front, and Scipio smiled brightly. He and Simon stood with their schoolmates. Little Ray wanted to stand with them and was only satisfied when Rose took him off her lap and let him and Araba sit on the floor.
Miss Fortune stood before the audience. She too wore a white blouse with ruffles down the front and a dark skirt. “Ladies and gentlemen, the children of New Canaan proudly present their Christmas program to you. They have worked so very hard and learned so much in just a few weeks of school, without books and slates, paper and pens, with only their hearts and wills. They present these songs and poems to you with joy and love.” She gazed around the audience as though searching for someone. Then she said, “Had it not been for Mr. Booker, they would not even have had a building to go into.” She smiled and clapped, and all eyes turned on him. Someone in the audience said, “Amen! A fine job.” Obi wanted to slide under the bench.