My Name is Henry Bibb

by Afua Cooper

  She held my hand as we walked toward our master’s study.

  We found David White seated at his desk, poring over notes. He looked up and adjusted his glasses.

  “Milly, it concerns Henry. I am going to hire him out. He spends most of his time doing nothing.”

  “He helps me in the house, Massa, and sometimes he helps Shadrach.” My mother’s hand gripped mine tightly, and her breath came fast.

  “I’ve hired him out, Milly. The boy is almost ten. It’s time he engaged in useful work. The contract is already signed.” But David White did not need to explain his actions. He owned us body and soul. Hiring out of slaves was a common practice in Kentucky for two main reasons: if owners believed their slaves had not enough work, or if owners were in need of money.

  I felt my blood grow cold. Hire out? I knew what that meant. Old Trevor had been hired out many times, and each time he came back to the farm emaciated, weak and ill. Now Old Trevor was no use to himself. He just sat at the door of his cabin fanning flies. Hire out meant that I would be away from my mother and brothers. I felt tears spring to my eyes.

  “I don’t want to go, Massa.”

  “It’s all right, Henry.” My mother tried to soothe me.

  “Get the boy ready. He leaves immediately.”

  “Lord have mercy, Massa! Can’t he leave tomorrow?”

  “Get the boy ready, Milly. He leaves now.”

  When we got outside, I saw the tears running down my mother’s face. We walked in silence to our cabin, where she packed my few things in a cloth bag and began preparing some food. I looked around the cabin: the fireplace with the pots and pans and eating bowls stacked to one side, the sleeping mats rolled up against the wall, the pine table and four stools that Justice, the carpenter, had made. I would miss all of it.

  My mother was making a gumbo, corn flour mixed with vegetables and bits of meat. This was a treat, because I was leaving.

  “Go fetch your brothers,” she told me.

  I left the cabin with a heavy heart to go to Hannah’s place. Hannah was an old slave woman who tended the younger children on the plantation. Soon I returned with John and George. John had been sleeping, so I carried him home and sat with him on my lap.

  “Where am I going?” I asked my mother.

  “Don’t know. Will have to ask him.”

  She shared the food in silence. John awakened and began to cry. I soothed him, cooled some gumbo and spooned it into his mouth. He ate greedily. I had no appetite. After I fed him, I felt drowsy and fell asleep.

  I was awakened by the sound of a neighing horse.

  “Wake up, Henry. Massa is here,” my mother called.

  I roused myself and held John close. I kissed him on his forehead. “Don’t worry, I will be back in no time.”

  George stood silent beside the fireplace. “When you coming back, Henry?”

  “Soon, soon. And I will bring back something nice for you.”

  My mother was outside the cabin door, my bag in her hand. She hugged me. “There is some roast meat and corn bread in the bag, and also a bottle of ginger beer. Remember now, Henry, behave yourself.” Then she stooped and said for my ears alone to hear, “And remember the stories about the old Africans.”

  A few yards from the cabin, my master got down from his horse and walked over to Shadrach, who was waiting with a wagon, and gave him a piece of paper. Several boys and girls sat in the wagon. Like me, they were being hired out.

  My master said, “Shadrach, take Henry to Widow Beverly. Milly, I need you in the house now.”

  Shadrach clicked his tongue and the horse moved off. I sat with my back to the farm. I could not bear to see my mother going into my master’s house to provide for his pleasure.

  T

  Boxer, Shadrach’s dog, ran behind the wagon, barking. He had become a pet of mine. I fed him, bathed him in the creek and spent many happy times roaming the woods with him on our plantation. But the horse was too fast. Soon we lost sight of him, and his bark grew faint.

  A slight breeze caressed our faces as the wagon slogged along the county road. The night before there had been a big downpour, and the road was filled with puddles and pools of water that turned it to mud. Sometimes the wheels of the wagon got stuck. The poor horse would complain with loud neighs. Shadrach would have to get down, put his shoulders to the wagon’s back and push with all his might.

  The countryside was still coming to life with the spring, and the trees boasted new leaves. Wildflowers sprang up by the wayside. The sun had started to sink behind the distant trees, and the day took on a dreamy quality. Suddenly, Shadrach began to sing. The song was not in English. I imagined it was in the language of his African ancestors. Shadrach often told of how his grandfather was a true-born African. It was a spirited song, and Shadrach moved his body in big circles as he sang.

  As if summoned, a swarm of butterflies with purple wings dotted with red and white descended on us. It was as if someone had opened up a multi-colored blanket and covered us with it. We all squealed with delight and tried catching the butterflies. The entire road was filled with them, and they let out a low sound like bumblebees.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Shadrach called out to the horse. He pulled on the reins and stopped the wagon. He also stopped his singing and gazed at the butterflies with a big grin on his face. “So beautiful, so beautiful,” he said, over and over.

  “There’s a certain plant that grows here in abundance. It collects water and makes a sweet drink that this type of butterfly likes. That is why there are so many of them here,” Shadrach explained.

  A few moments later, the butterflies left us with the same speed and suddenness with which they had descended. They formed a single line and in perfect order fluttered higher in the air and disappeared. The beauty of what I had just witnessed and lost filled me with such a bitter longing that I burst into a loud lament. The other children turned to look at me, and they too began to wail.

  “Now, now, now,” Shadrach said. He jumped from his seat, dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a fold of cloth. He opened it and took out small yellowish lumps. “Here, each of you, take one. It is sugar. Grown far away, in a place called Grenada.”

  With tears still running down our cheeks and snot oozing from our nostrils, we each took a sugar lump and placed it on our tongue. At the farm, only the White people had sugar. The slave people used honey. So how did Shadrach get sugar? I pushed the thought from my mind and willed the sweetness on my tongue to last.

  “It will be all right. You will see your mammies again soon.”

  Day was speeding toward night when the wagon pulled up at a stately house. Shadrach jumped from his seat and walked briskly to the veranda, calling my name. The butler opened the door. I jumped from the wagon.

  “This here boy is Henry,” Shadrach said. “He is Widow Beverly’s personal servant.”

  “Go around to the kitchen. Maude will look after him,” was all the butler said, and shut the door in our faces.

  After a few attempts we found the kitchen and Maude. A slimmer person I had never seen in my life. Did this woman eat only air? After Shadrach explained me to Maude he had to leave to deliver the other children to their new places of work. But he placed both his hands on my shoulders, stooped to look in my eyes, and said, “Take care, Henry, and remember the stories your mama told you. Keep them always in your heart.” And with that he was gone.

  “It’s late now. Widow does not like to be disturbed,” Maude said. “I will take you to see her tomorrow.” I looked up at her, sleep in my eyes. “You will sleep here tonight.”

  “Where?” I looked around the kitchen.

  Maude opened a door to a small room. On the floor was a pallet. “Here.”

  T

  The Widow Beverly lived in Henry County, some miles from the town of Newcastle. She was called “widow” on
account of the death of her first husband. Although her second husband was a government surveyor and spent long periods away from home, the widow had the company of her five-year-old son, Nathan. Her plantation was smaller than my master’s, but her slaves did the same kind of work. However, she used a slave to supervise his fellow slaves, and to do the general overseeing of the farm. He was known as a slave driver.

  I quickly discovered that when God was giving out lazy the widow was at the head of the line. Rahel, one of the female servants, ran the widow’s bath, bathed her and helped her dress, then brought her breakfast, which she ate in bed with Nathan. Then she sat all day on the porch in her lounge chair. Summer came quickly to our part of Kentucky, and May brought with it summer’s heat. While the widow viewed the activities of the farm, my job was to fan her and bring lemonade. I fanned till my hands hurt and my eyes became heavy. Sometimes I fell asleep while fanning, only to be slapped into consciousness by the widow. “Lazy boy, wake up!” She left the porch only to have her luncheon and dinner.

  I combed and added pomade to her hair, and brushed it until my arm ached. I also tended to her fingernails and toenails. Sometimes my ten-year-old fingers slipped and the tiny scissors poked one of her fingers, drawing blood. She would then fly into a rage and box me all over my face. Once, only the intervention of one of the house servants saved me from certain death.

  I was also the widow’s skin-care doctor. Pimples often appeared on her face, and I was to burst them. Entire mornings were spent bursting Widow Beverly’s pimples. If I squeezed her skin too hard, she would box and kick me.

  Even though Widow Beverly was the laziest woman, she constantly criticized the house servants. Rahel was mainly responsible for tidying the house and serving the meals; but the house was never clean enough for the widow. Sometimes she would leave her chair on the porch, walk to the dining or drawing room and run her fingers across a table or cabinet. “Rahel!” she would scream, and the unfortunate girl would come running. “Is this dust that I see here?”

  “I will wipe it away right now, ma’am,” Rahel would say as she attempted to side-step the widow. But she was never fast enough. The widow would hit her across the head. Once I saw her grab the hem of Rahel’s dress to wipe a side table. “Next time I will use your hair!” she yelled.

  Nor did Elliot, the butler, escape the widow’s wrath. His duties included polishing the silver and cleaning her shoes, and she always found fault. She would go to the side table where the silver was kept. If it was not shined to her liking, and sometimes even if it was, she would order Elliot to polish everything again. He stayed away from her as best as he could.

  Sometimes it was clear that the devil possessed the widow. Oftentimes I would be fanning her and she would suddenly jump from the chair and bolt into the kitchen.

  “Are you stealing my ham again?” she’d shout to Maude. “I get this distinct feeling that you are eating my ham, Maude.”

  Maude would not say a word but would stare down at the widow with her aristocratic gaze. Widow Beverly could not bear Maude’s gaze.

  “You answer me when I am talking to you, girl!”

  Once, Maude did answer. “I do not eat pork, ma’am.”

  For once, Widow Beverly was at a loss for words. She fled to the porch and yelled, “Henry, come rub my feet.”

  The house servants ate in the kitchen, after the widow and Nathan had been served their meals. Maude had to serve us small portions, as it was the custom of our mistress to appear in the kitchen unexpectedly to see what was on our plates. One evening she told Maude she was giving me too much food and that I didn’t deserve it since I was so lazy. After that Maude lessened my portions; but when it was time for bed, she took from the larder bits of roast chicken, corn bread and baked potatoes and gave them to me without saying a word. She just sat and watched me eat, and when I was finished she patted my arm.

  The other slaves in the house said Maude was descended from royalty on both the White and Black sides of her family. One of her grandmothers was an African princess; her grandfather was fathered by the Duke of Cornwall. This duke had come to America, set up a plantation and begun a family with one of his female slaves. Like my father, he never acknowledged any of those children as his own, but kept them in bondage.

  Maude did carry herself like royalty. She spoke only when necessary, did not mix with the other slaves and held herself erect. But beneath that stern exterior was a kind heart — at least for me. She rarely showed her emotions, but she treated me well and warned me when I was in danger from my mistress’s temper. I wondered if Maude had any children, but her stern visage prevented me from asking.

  I noticed that all the slaves who worked in the house were of my complexion. Not one was dark-skinned. Elliot, the butler, was like me, almost white. Maude was a mulatto, like my mother, as was Rahel. Years later I would come to know that some Whites did not want dark-skinned Blacks to work in their homes. Unmixed Blacks were “too foreign.” Perhaps a black, black skin frightened them. It would have been better if it made them feel guilty. Sadly, I would discover that many Black people shared this preference, having learned well the slaveholders’ prejudice that whiter is better. Some house slaves were also related to the slaveholders. Perhaps that was one reason that house slaves were better clothed than those who worked in the fields. House slaves, too, often wore shoes.

  I looked back over my time at the widow’s as a period of almost unending misery. Each day, I was beaten, boxed or kicked. Seeing no end to my intolerable existence, one day after a severe beating I ran away. I did not plan to, but after the beating, the forest that bordered the house looked so inviting I walked toward it. Then, I ran. I ran and ran and ran. There was enough daylight for me to see that the woods was a pleasant place. A small river ran through it, and past the river was a hill that commanded a good view of the surrounding area. I immersed myself in the water and felt the pain and anger drain from me. After my bath, I found some berries for my supper. I remained for three days in the woods until some field slaves sent by the widow found me and brought me back to the house; and she soon went back to her evil ways.

  I became very good at running. Whenever the widow took to punching and kicking me, I would take off. Sometimes I would be gone for a few days. I stayed in the woods and lived off the land. Sometimes I would carry a horse’s harness with me in case someone discovered me. At least twice I was surprised by White men on horses. Each time they looked at me intently and asked, “Boy, you a runaway?”

  “No, Massa,” I answered. “My mistress’s horse took off, and I am looking for it.” Seeing the harness, they believed the story and rode away.

  T

  Fall came and with it cooler weather. It was the time of harvest. Though the widow did not approve of house slaves socializing with those who worked in the field, I would go down to the slave quarters whenever my work allowed, and I quickly got to know the slave folks who lived there. One evening in late October, I went to play with a boy my age named David. The adults were preparing for a corn-shucking. David and I walked out to the cornfields with them. Shucking corn was work but also a time of merrymaking, and the sociability made the work seem lighter. Slaves from neighboring farms would join in the harvest, moving between farms to pick and store the crops.

  Slaveowners gave permission for the shucking, but it was the slave people who organized it. About fifty slaves assembled at the cornfield, and Winston, the Widow Beverly’s slave driver, gave them all whisky to encourage them to work as fast as they could. Then they chose captains and divided themselves into three groups. Each group would try to shuck its row of corn faster than the other two. As the men and women broke down the dried cornstalks, removed the outer leaves of the corn, took the corn from its stalk, removed the silk and then threw the corn in wooden bins at the end of each path, they lifted their voices in song. The captain called and his workers answered.

  Captain: Fare yo
u well, Miss Lucy

  All: John come down to de hollow

  Captain: Fare you well, fare you well

  All: well ooh, well ooh

  Captain: Fare you well, young ladies all

  All: Well ooh, well ooh

  Captain: Fare you well all, I’m going away

  All: Well ooh, well ooh

  Captain: I’m going away to Canada

  All: Well ooh, well ooh!

  The song had a mournful air even though the people sang it with powerful voices. I knew the song well but had never really paid attention to the words. Now, as the people sang, I heard “I’m going away to Canada” as if for the first time. The words went around in my head. But what is Canada? It must be a place, but where? I knew of Tennessee, Ohio, Indiana and such, but I did not know of that place. I asked David, but he did not know either.

  That night as I helped Elliot polish the silver, I asked him.

  “Where did you hear that, boy?” he asked harshly.

  “From the corn-shucking song.”

  “Oh,” he said, and remained quiet for a while. Then he said, “It’s a free place way up north. Another country, not America. They have a king. They speak English like us. Many slave people from Kentucky go there.”

  “Ohio and Indiana are free places,” I ventured.

  “Yes, but a massa can still go there and capture runaways. It’s safer to head straight to Canada.” Elliot stopped polishing and looked off into space. After a while, he added, “Or Mexico.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Way south. They speak Spanish there.”

  “But there is no slavery there?”

  “No.”

  “How do you get there?”

  “Mexico?”

  “No, Canada.”

  “You cross the Ohio River to a free state and keep on very far north.” Elliot took up his polishing rag again but looked directly at me. “Now, Henry, don’t go asking too many questions, you hear? Don’t let the widow ever find you know what I just told you.”