“I never did any ob dat,” said Henry. “I figgered bein’ saved wuz somethin’ a mite longer lastin’ den dat. It’s one thing to pray and say Amen, it’s anudder to start walkin’ and livin’ like Jesus. Dat’s a fearsome thing—a lifetime thing. I reckon I’m still workin’ my way tards bein’ who da Lord wants me to be.”
“What you mean, who da Lord wants you to be?” asked Josepha. “You’s a Christian, ain’t you?”
“I reckon I’s a Christian, all right,” said Henry. “’Cause I believe, an’ dat’s a fact. But I ain’t altogether rid er my sin quite yet. The Lord’s got a heap er work lef’ ter do in me. So let’s jes’ say dat me an’ da Lord’s workin’ on it.”
Josepha shook her head. “I don’t know ef I hab any idea what you mean. You make it soun’ like you’s half saved or somethin’. What ef you die—you gotta go ter da one place er da other. So a body’s either gotter be saved or he ain’t saved—don’t seem like dere’s no in between ’bout it.”
“Well, sometimes I wonder effen it might be a mite mo’ complicated den dat,” said Henry. “What about dose folks dat are on dere way tards Him but aren’t quite dere yet? Don’ you eber hab a hard time believin’ dat God’s gwine send ’em ter hell jes’ ’cause dey didn’t git quite enuff time ter come ter believin’ in Him?”
“I don’t know. All I want ter know is when did you believe in da Lord Jesus?”
“That’s a mite easier ter answer,” replied Henry. “I always believed. My mama was a good woman an’ she taught me ’bout God an’ obeyin’ Jesus from afore I kin remember. But den I got older an’ I reckon I got a mite ornery ’bout my belief.”
“What dat supposed ter mean?”
“Jes’ dat I din’t know when ter keep my mouf shut ’bout it. Faith is mostly a private thing, it seems ter me, but sometimes it takes a while ter learn dat. I wuz a mite outspoken. I riled white folks, an’ I don’ know dat dere wuz any cause ter do dat.”
“How you rile ’em?”
“I always tried ter obey da gospels. Dat’s what my mama taught me. So when da Lord said ter call no man Master, I wudn’t call no white man Master dis or Master dat, but only Mister. Dat made ’em mad.”
“Dat don’t soun’ wrong ter me. But I neber saw da point er rilin’ a white man.”
“Maybe you’s right,” nodded Henry. “But a man’s gotter stan’ up fo what he believes come what may. But den maybe I cud er still obeyed wiffout bein’ proud spirited ’bout it.”
“You wuz proud spirited? Why you ain’t got a proud bone in yo body, Henry Patterson.”
“Don’t be too sure er dat, Josepha. My pa was proud er bein’ free, an’ my mama wuz real proud ob bein’ married ter a free man. I figger da kind er pride dey had wuz da good kind. But den maybe it came down ter me an’ I turned it into da bad kind. I know lots ’bout pride cuz it’s been a companion er mine fo many a year, an’ I knows it when I sees it. We all’s got a heap er pride, an’ we all’s gotter learn how ter deal wiff it da only way it kin be dealt wiff.”
“An’ what’s dat.”
“Ter kill it. An’ I ask you, which is worse—ter call anudder man Master, or ter be proud an’ ter look down on somebody else in yo heart? Seems ter me da pride’s da worse ob da two.”
“I neber thought ’bout all dat,” said Josepha. “Seems like dat’s carryin’ religion a mite far ter me. Whoeber said we wuz supposed ter be perfect?”
“You askin’ da question?” said Henry.
“I reckon I is.”
“Den I’ll answer it—da Lord himself said we wuz ter be perfect.”
“But nobody kin do what He says. He’s different.”
“He’s different, all right, but we gots ter try ter do what He says. Dere ain’t nuthin’ else we’s supposed ter be doin’ in dis life but learnin’ how ter do what He says.”
Josepha shook her head. “Still seems ter me dat dat’s carryin’ it a mite far.”
“Ef we don’t carry it all da way, den what good is what we believe? Seems like we gotter carry it all da way, or else it don’t mean much.”
“Most folks don’t do dat.”
“Yer right,” said Henry. “Most folks don’t.”
It was quiet a minute. Henry swallowed the last of the lemonade in his glass, then stood.
“I reckon it’s time I wuz gettin’ back ter work,” he said. “Thanks fo da sandwich an’ lemonade.”
He climbed back up the ladder.
“What ’bout you?” Henry asked as he went back to the board they had hoisted up. “Why did you want to get free?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “Dere jes’ came a day when I heard ’bout dat unnergroun’ railroad, an’ I figgered, why shouldn’t I git on board an’ find some freedom fo myself jes’ like other coloreds wuz doin’? So I did. I didn’t git ter da Norf, but I got dis far.”
Henry pounded a few nails but then paused again, asked another question or two, and then sat back and listened with interest as Josepha told him of the adventure of her travels, and how she had ended up at the McSimmons plantation.
“Dat’s some story, all right,” said Henry when she had finished. “I heard ’bout dat railroad, but I ain’t never met anybody dat actually did it. Muster taken some courage soun’s ter me.”
“I neber thought dat I had no courage,” said Josepha. “I jes’ wanted ter go, so I went.”
“Well, I’s mighty glad you did, ’cause we’s all glad you wound up here.”
CATCHING SUPPER
23
THE ROOF WAS FINISHED IN A COUPLE OF WEEKS, then Henry moved down to begin working on the new walls inside the cabin.
When Josepha next came to the cabin with her basket, Henry had just walked outside and was wiping his face. It was a hot day without a breath of wind.
“How do, Josepha,” he said.
“I brung you somethin’ ter eat.”
“I see dat, but you know what I wuz jes’ thinkin’? I wuz thinkin’ ’bout dat ribber an’ dis hot sun. An’ den I got ter thinkin’ how good some fresh fish would taste tonight, cooked up da way you does. How ’bout you an’ me go catch us some fish!”
“I ain’t no fisherwoman!” laughed Josepha.
“Who says?”
“I says.”
“Well, den you kin jes’ come an’ keep me company. We’ll take dat basket an’ set it down an’ enjoy whatever’s inside it wiff our feet in da ribber an’ a line out catchin’ us tonight’s supper!”
Without waiting for her to say anything further, Henry hurried to his cabin and returned a few minutes later with two poles, a little bag of tackle, and a big grin on his face.
“Come on, Josepha,” he said, “I’ll show you da bes’ fishin’ hole fo miles.”
They reached the river. Henry stopped, set down his things, stooped down and took off his boots and socks, then ran down the slight slope to the river till his feet were wet.
“Ah, dat’s what I wanted ter feel!”
“Dis ain’t da fishin’ hole you meant?” said Josepha.
“No, I jes’ wanted ter git my feet in dis water! Come on—set dat basket down an’ come git a little wet. Come on!”
Josepha hesitated only a moment, then set down the basket, took off her boots, and ambled down the bank. Soon she and Henry were laughing and kicking water at each other like two children, their trousers and dress getting wet.
“Won’t we scare da fish?” said Josepha.
“Nah, we’s plenty downribber from where we’s goin’. Dey won’t git no hint we’s aroun’ till we yank ’em up outta da water. Come on, let’s git our things an’ head upribber. It’s only ’bout a quarter mile is all.”
Josepha was quiet as they walked upriver, carrying their shoes and staying close to the bank. Her mind went back to the last time she had played in a river with a friend. That time it wasn’t fishing but riding a horse. Suddenly she felt tears in her eyes. She still missed Mose and his happy smile. Being with Henry brought out memories t
hat she had tried to keep hidden and tucked away.
By the time they reached the fishing hole ten or twelve minutes later, Josepha was puffing from the walk and both were perspiring freely.
“It’s too hot fo dis!” she sighed. “I need ter git in dat water again.”
“We’ll go down ter da edge ob da ribber dis time,” said Henry, “nice an’ slow so we don’t stir up da water. We’ll git a coupla hooks out in dat deep green pond yonder an’ den see what you got in dis basket er yours.”
They sat down at the water’s edge, feet in the cool water.
Josepha sighed with satisfied relief. Such physical activity and the long walk were not her favorite pastimes. Henry busied himself getting the two poles and bait ready. Several minutes later he tossed their two lines out into the middle where the current was slow and wound around a large rock, where the shade and deep hole he knew from experience usually drew the fish on a hot day like this.
“Now you git us somethin’ ter eat,” he said, “den I’ll hand you dis pole.”
“What I want wiff a pole?” said Josepha.
“You’s gwine catch a fish er two, dat’s what!” laughed Henry.
“I reckon I kin try, but I ain’t neber caught no fish before.”
“Jes’ hold it still an’ watch fer da line.”
“Watch fo what?”
“Ter feel da fish, or maybe seein’ a little jiggle er da line.”
“Den what?”
“Don’t git too anxious at da first little nibbles. But when some ol’ fish takes da bait hard, an’ you feel a tug, dat’s when you yank back an’ snags him wiff da hook.”
When I went out to start taking the laundry off the line in the middle of the afternoon, I realized I hadn’t seen Josepha in two or three hours. Katie was on the porch reading a letter that had come from Rob Paxton that day. Uncle Ward had just returned from town with it a little while before.
“What does Rob have to say?” I asked.
“He’s wondering whether to move or not,” answered Katie. “His boss, Sheriff Heyes, is going to Pennsylvania and has asked Rob to go with him.”
“Is he going to?”
“Probably. I think he needed to write it all down, to talk it over with someone.”
“Not just someone,” I said with a smile. “Someone special.”
Katie smiled back. “I suppose so,” she said softly. Then an odd look came over her face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know, it’s just . . . this is such an interesting letter. I’ve never heard Rob talk this way before. I’m seeing a different side of him . . . no, not different—deeper maybe.”
“In what way?”
“His faith in God, I guess you’d say. He says he’s not trying to decide what he wants to do, but is trying to find out what God wants him to do. I guess it struck me because of what he does—being a deputy. I mean, how many men who wear guns on their belts talk about doing what God wants them to do? Don’t you think it’s unusual?”
“Hmm . . . I see what you mean.”
“I think maybe there is more to Rob Paxton than meets the eye.”
“He still thinks you’re special,” I said, smiling again.
Katie smiled back, then turned again to the letter.
“I haven’t seen Josepha since lunch,” I said. “Do you know where she went?”
“No, I haven’t seen her either,” answered Katie, looking up. “Is she taking a nap?”
“No, she’s not in the house anywhere.”
“She didn’t go into town with one of the men, did she?”
“I’m sure she’d have told us.”
“Didn’t I see her packing up a basket to take down to Henry?” said Katie.
“That’s right, now that you mention it. But that was hours ago.”
“I’ve heard nothing from down there. Usually you can hear Henry banging or singing or sawing away. It is awfully quiet now that I think about it.”
Katie looked at me, then slowly a smile spread across her lips.
“Hmm . . .” she said, “that is interesting—our cook and handyman running off together!”
“Katie!” I laughed. “I can’t imagine it’s anything like that!”
“They’ve been spending a lot of time together. Haven’t you noticed . . . and Josepha humming to herself when she’s busy making up those baskets to take to Henry?”
“Sure, I’ve noticed. I think it’s sweet.”
“I do too. I think it’s wonderful. All I was saying is that . . . well, maybe . . .”
Before we had the chance to speculate further on the mystery, in the distance we heard voices. There was no mistaking whose they were.
And they were singing!
Jimmy crack corn, an’ I don’ care.
Jimmy crack corn, an’ I don’ care.
Jimmy crack corn, an’ I don’ care . . .
da master’s gone away!
Josepha’s loud high soprano was unmistakable, and with Henry’s low bass mingled with it, they made quite a duet.
When they came into sight, neither Katie nor I could believe our eyes. They were both barefoot, carrying their boots and the picnic basket. Josepha had two fishing poles slung over her shoulder. And Henry, trouser legs rolled up halfway to his knees, was carrying eight or ten fish strung together.
They looked like a couple of kids. From the expressions on their faces as they laughed and sang, it was obvious they were having the time of their lives.
Jimmy crack corn, an’ I don’ care.
Jimmy crack corn, an’ I don’ care.
Jimmy crack corn, an’ I don’ care . . .
da master’s gone away!
“Our master ain’t gone away,” laughed Henry. “We’s da ones dat’s gone away an’ he don’t know where ter find us!”
Josepha howled like it was the funniest thing she had ever heard in her life.
“Dat’s ’cause we’s free,” she said, “an’ we don’t call nobody master no more!”
“You got dat right!”
Katie and I watched them coming with our mouths hanging open.
“Where have you two been!” exclaimed Katie as they walked slowly up to the house.
“Fishin’,” said Josepha. “Henry took me fishin’ on da ribber. Look—we caught our supper!”
“Josepha snagged half ob ’em herself, didn’t you, girl!” said Henry with obvious pride.
“I did at dat,” she said. “I didn’t think I cud, but dis ol’ Mississippi boy showed me how . . . and I did.”
So we had fresh fish that evening and were in a happy and festive mood. The fun and singing and laughter of Henry and Josepha coming back from the river seemed to last all day and infected the rest of us too. Josepha was so proud of herself. She couldn’t wait to get back out to the river to try it again.
After supper when most of the things were cleaned up and Uncle Ward was sitting in his favorite chair lighting his pipe and Papa sat down with the newspaper, Henry got up to leave.
“Sit down a spell, Henry,” said Papa. “No sense running off.”
“Dere’s a few things I didn’t git done on da cabin today.”
“Played hooky, eh!” winked Papa. “Come on—the work will keep. We’re in no hurry with that cabin. Besides, you caught us our supper, and mighty good it was.”
By then Katie had wandered in and sat down at the piano and was trying to pick out “Jimmy Crack Corn,” gradually adding chords and bass to the melody.
“Why’d you think er dat!” laughed Henry.
“From hearing you and Josepha singing it today,” said Katie.
“What’s this?” asked Papa.
“They were singing it,” said Katie. “It sounded good too.”
Already Josepha’s voice could be heard from the other room and she came in singing and pretty soon we had all joined in. Katie went on from that to “Old Dan Tucker,” then to “Buffalo Gals,” and then from folk song to folk song as we all
sang and laughed and clapped while she played.
As often happened, after several clapping songs, everyone slowly quieted, and Katie soon went into softer music. She could completely set the tone and atmosphere in the whole house just by the kind of music she played. This time everybody got kind of thoughtful as she played. Before long she was playing the minuet dance that she loved so much. But everyone just sat peacefully listening.
At last to everyone’s surprise, Henry stood up and walked over to Josepha. He reached down his hand. She took it and stood up.
Then daintily—amazing, I thought, because she was pretty big—she began taking the tiniest little steps on her toes, perfectly in time with the music. We sat watching in complete amazement. Henry didn’t know what to do, he just kind of shuffled back and forth. But it was obvious Josepha had done it before. She had a faraway smile on her face and Katie kept playing and playing, not wanting to spoil the moment.
Finally Josepha seemed to realize that every eye on the house was on her, and got embarrassed and stopped.
“You’ve done that before!” I exclaimed.
“Only once,” she said, “an’ only fo a few minutes.”
“Tell us about it.”
“It wuz a stormy night,” Josepha began, sitting back down in her chair, “an’ all the white folks wuz havin’ a dance an’ celebration in da big house an’ da garden. A slave boy an’ me were watchin’ from da dark on da other side ob da garden, an’ dat wuz da music dat wuz playing, an’ we tried it a little.”
All of a sudden a sob escaped her throat. The rest of us were quiet and we waited.
That was the first time we learned about Mose and that, although she didn’t tell us just then, it was also the night he had died in a fire and that she was still haunted by it.
Josepha was quiet after telling us how she and Mose had danced the minuet. It was obvious there was more to the story. But then Henry broke the spell.
“Tell da others,” he said, “what you wuz tellin’ me ’bout yo travels on dat secret colored railroad, an’ how you excaped an’ woun’ up here.”
“Yes, Josepha, do . . . please,” said Katie.
Josepha took a deep breath and glanced briefly at Henry with a look of gratitude for changing the subject.
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