Chapter One
Frederick sets his feet upon the road
The long day was ending. Now that the sun had dropped behind scrawny pine trees, little eddies of dust stirred along the road. A bit of air from the bay lifted the flaccid leaves and lightly rustled the dry twigs. A heap of rags and matted hair that had seemed part of the swampy underbrush stirred. A dark head lifted cautiously. It was bruised and cut, and the deep eyes were wide with terror. For a moment the figure was motionless—ears strained, aching muscles drawn together, ready to dive deeper into the scrub. Then the evening breeze touched the bloated face, tongue licked out over cracked, parched lips. As the head sagged forward, a single drop of blood fell heavily upon the dry pine needles.
Water!The wide nostrils distended gratefully, tasting the moisture in the air—cool like the damp bricks of the well. Cracked fingers twitched as if they wrapped themselves around a rusty cup—the rough red cup with its brimming goodness of cool water. It had stood right at the side of his grandmother’s hut—the old well had—its skyward-pointing beam so aptly placed between the limbs of what had once been a tree, so nicely balanced that even a small boy could move it up and down with one hand and get a drink without calling for help. The bundle of rags in the bushes shivered violently. Benumbed limbs were coming alive. He must be quiet, lie still a little longer, breathe slowly.
But the stupor which had locked his senses during the heat of the August day was lifting. Pain which could not be borne made him writhe. He gritted his teeth. His head seemed to float somewhere in space, swelling and swelling. He pressed against the ground, crushing the pine needles against his lips. Faces and voices were blurred in his memory. Sun, hot sun on the road—bare feet stirring the dust. Theroad winding up the hill—dust in the road. He had watched his grandmother disappear in the dust of the road. His mother had gone too, waving goodbye. The road had swallowed them up. The shadows of the trees were blotting out the road. There were only trees here. He lay still.
Darkness falls swiftly in the pine woods. He raised himself once more and looked about. A squirrel scurried for cover. Then everything was still—no harsh voices, no curses, no baying of hounds. That meant they were not looking for him. With the dogs it would have been easy enough. Covey had not bothered to take time out from work. Covey knew he could not get away.
Masters who sent their slaves to this narrow neck of stubborn land between the bay and the river knew their property was safe. Edward Covey enjoyed the reputation of being a first-rate hand at breaking “bad niggers.” Slaveholders in the vicinity called him in when they had trouble. Since Covey was a poor man his occupation was of immense advantage to him. It enabled him to get his farm worked with very little expense. Like some horse-breakers noted for their skill, who rode the best horses in the country without expense, Covey could have under him the most fiery bloods of the neighborhood. He guaranteed to return any slave to his master well broken.
Captain Auld had turned over to Covey this impudent young buck who had been sent down to the Eastern Shore from Baltimore. Among the items of his wife’s property, Captain Auld had found this slave listed as “Frederick.”
“Sly and dangerous!” The Captain’s voice was hard. “Got to be broken now while he’s young.”
“Frederick!” Covey had mouthed the syllables distastefully, his small green eyes traveling over the stocky, well-formed limbs, broad shoulders and long brown arms. “Too much name—too much head!” The comment was a sort of low growl. But his tones were servile as he addressed the master.
“Know his kind well. Just leave him to me. I’ll take it out of him.”
Then Frederick had lifted his head. His broad, smooth face turned to his master. His eyes were eloquent.Why?But his lips did not move. Captain Auld spoke sternly.
“Watch yourself! Don’t be bringing him back to me crippled. He’ll fetch a fair price in a couple of years. Comes of good stock.”
Thomas Auld (why “Captain” no one knew) had not been born a slaveholder. Slaves had come to him through marriage. The stenchof the whole thing sickened him, but he despised himself for his weakness. He dreaded his wife’s scorn. She had grown up on the Lloyd plantation where there were more slaves than anybody could count and there was always plenty of everything. Colonel Lloyd never had trouble with his slaves, she taunted her husband. Auld would tighten his colorless, thin lips. God knows he tried hard enough—starved himself to feed a parcel of no-good, lazy blacks. He thoroughly hated them all. This one now—this sleek young buck—he’d been ruined in the city by Hugh Auld. By his own brother and by that milk-faced wife of his. Teaching him to read! Ruining a good, strong field hand! Well, he’d try Covey. See what he could do.
“Take him along!”
That had been shortly after “the Christmas.” It was now hot summer. For Frederick a long, long time had passed. He was indeed “broken.”
A shuddering groan escaped the boy. Part of Covey’s irritation could be understood. Hehadbeen clumsy and slow about the fields and barn. But he dared not ask questions, and since nobody took the trouble to tell him anything his furrows were shallow and crooked.
He failed at running the treadmill. He had never even seen horned cattle before. So it was not surprising that his worst experiences had been with them. The strong, vicious beasts dragged him about at will, and day after day Covey flogged him for allowing the oxen to get away. Flogging was Covey’s one method of instruction.
At first Frederick tortured himself with questions. They knew he’d never learned field work. “Old Marse” had sent him to Baltimore when he was just a pickaninny to look after the favorite grandchild, rosy-cheeked Tommy. He remembered that exciting trip to Baltimore and the moment when Mrs. Auld had taken his hand and, leading him to her little son, had said, “Look, Tommy, here’s your Freddy.”
The little slave had shyly regarded his equally small master. The white child had smiled, and instantly two small boys became fast friends. Fred had gone everywhere with Tommy. No watchdog was ever more devoted.
“Freddy’s with Tommy,” the mother would say with assurance.
It was perfectly natural that when Tommy began to read he eagerly shared the new and fascinating game with his companion. Themother was amused at how quickly the black child caught on. She encouraged both children because she considered the exchange good for Tommy. But one day she boasted of Freddy’s accomplishment to her husband. Mr. Auld was horrified.
“It’s against the law,” he stormed. “Learning will spoil the best nigger in the world. If he learns to read he’ll never be any good as a slave. The first thing you know he’ll be writing, and then look out. A writing nigger is dangerous!”
It was difficult for Mrs. Auld to see the curly-headed dark boy as a menace. His devotion to Tommy was complete. But she was an obedient wife. Furthermore she had heard dreadful stories of slaves who “went bad.”
“Oh, well, no harm’s done,” she consoled herself. “Freddy’s just a child; he’ll soon forget all about this.” And she took pains to see that no more books or papers fell into his hands.
But Freddy did not forget. The seed was planted. Now he wanted to know, and he developed a cunning far beyond his years. It was not too difficult to salvage school books as they were thrown away. He invented “games” for Tommy and his friends—games which involved reading and spelling. The white boys slipped chalk from their schoolrooms and drew letters and words on sidewalks and fences. By the time Tommy was twelve years old, Freddy could read anything that came his way. And Tommy had somehow guessed that it was best not to mention such things. Freddy really was a great help.
The time came when they were all learning speeches fromThe Columbian Orator. Freddy quite willingly held the book while they recited Sheridan’s impressive lines on the subject of Catholic emancipation, Lord Chatham’s speech on the American War, speeches by the great William Pitt and by Fox. Some things about those speeches troubled the boys—especially those on the American Revolution.
“Them folks—you mean theyfightto be free?” Freddy asked.
The four boys were comfortably sprawled out on the cellar door, well out of earshot of grownups, but the question made them look over their shoulders in alarm.
“Hush your big mouth!”
“Slaves fight?” Freddy persisted.
“Wasn’t no slaves!”
“Course not, them was Yankees!”
“I hate Yankees.”
“Everybody hates Yankees!”
The crisis had passed. Freddy thoughtfully turned the page and they started on the next speech.
Then suddenly Tommy was growing up. It was decided to send him away to school. And so, after seven years, his dark caretaker, no longer a small, wide-eyed Pickaninny, was sent back to the Eastern Shore plantation.
“Old Marse” had died. In the division of property—live stock, farm implements and slaves—Frederick had fallen to Colonel Lloyd’s ward, Lucille, who had married Captain Thomas Auld. So the half-grown boy went to a new master, whose place was near the oyster beds of St. Michaels. The inhabitants of that hamlet, lean and colorless as their mangy hounds, stared at him as he passed through. They stared at his coat and eyed the shoes on his feet—good shoes they were, with soles. They could not know that inside his bundle was an old copy ofThe Columbian Orator.
The book had brought him into Covey’s hands. At the memory came a sudden stab of pain, blotting out everything in a wave of nausea. The trees assumed diabolical forms—hands stretching out to seize him. Words flaming in the shadows—leaping at him—burning him. What did he have to do with books? He was a slave—aslave for life.
His new master’s shock and horror had been genuine. Nothing had prepared him for such a hideous disclosure. Fred, arriving at the plantation, had been quiet and obedient. Captain Auld appraised this piece of his wife’s inheritance with satisfaction. The boy appeared to be strong and bright—a real value. But before he had a chance to show what he could do, “the Christmas” was upon them and all regular work on the plantation was suspended.
Throughout the South it was customary for everybody to knock off from work in the period between Christmas Day and New Year’s. On the big plantations there were boxing, wrestling, foot-racing, a lot of dancing and drinking of whiskey. Masters considered it a good thing for the slaves to “let go” this one time of the year—an exhausting “safety valve.” All kinds of wild carousing were condoned. Liquor was brought in by the barrel and freely distributed. Not to be drunk during the Christmas was disgraceful and was regarded by the masters with something like suspicion.
Captain Auld’s place was too poor for much feasting; but complete license was given, and into half-starved bodies were poured jugs of rum and corn whiskey. Men and women careened around and sanghoarsely, couples rolled in the ditch, and little boys staggered as they danced, while the overseers shouted with laughter. Everybody had a “good time.”
All this was new to the boy, Frederick. He had never witnessed such loose depravity. He was a stranger. Eagerly he inquired for those he had known as a child. No one could tell him anything. “Old Marse’s” slaves had been divided, exchanged, sold; and a slave leaves no forwarding address. The youth had no feeling of kinship with the plantation folks. He missed Tommy and wondered how he was getting along without him. On the other hand, the field workers and oyster shuckers looked upon the newcomer as a “house nigger.”
For a while he watched the dancing and “jubilee beating,” tasted the burning liquid and then, as the afternoon wore on, slipped away. The day was balmy, with no suggestion of winter as known in the north. Frederick had not expected this leisure. He had kept his book hidden, knowing such things were forbidden. Now, tucking it inside his shirt, he walked out across the freshly plowed fields.
So it happened that Captain Auld came upon him stretched out under a tree, his eyes fastened on the book which lay before him on the ground, his lips moving. The boy was so absorbed that he did not hear his name called. Only when the Captain’s riding whip came down on his shoulders did he jump up. It was too late then.
And so they had called in Covey, the slave-breaker. All that was seven months ago.
The moon over Chesapeake Bay can be very lovely. This night it was full, and the pine trees pointing to a cloudless sky were bathed in silver. Far out on the water a boat moved with languid grace, her sails almost limp, sending a shimmering ripple to the sandy shore.
The dark form painfully crawling between the trees paused at the edge of the cove. The wide beach out there under the bright moonlight was fully exposed. Should he risk it?
“Water.” It was a moan. Then he lifted his eyes and saw the ship sailing away on the water.A free ship going out to sea. Oh, Jesus!
He had heard no sound of footsteps, not the slightest breaking of a twig, but a low voice close beside him said,
“Rest easy, you! I get water.”
The boy shrank back, staring. A thick tree trunk close by split in two, and a very black man bent over him.
“I Sandy,” the deep voice went on. “Lay down now.”
The chilled blood in Frederick’s broken body began to race. Once more he lost consciousness. This time he did not fight against it. A friend was standing by.
The black man moved swiftly. Kneeling beside the still figure he slipped his hand inside the rags. His face, inscrutable polished ebony, did not change; but far down inside his eyes a dull light glowed as he tore away the filthy cloth, sticky and stiff with drying blood. Was he too late? Satisfied, he eased the twisted limbs on the pine needles and then hurried down to the river’s edge where he filled the tin can that hung from a cord over his shoulders.
Frederick opened his eyes when the water touched his lips. He sighed while Sandy gently wiped the clotted blood from his face and touched the gaping wound in the thick, matted hair. His voice sounded strange to his own ears when he asked,“How come you know?”
“This day I work close by Mr. Kemp. Car’line come. Tell me.”
At the name Frederick’s bones seemed to melt and flow in tears. Something which neither curses, nor kicks, nor blows had touched gave way. Caroline—Covey’s own slave woman, who bore upon her body the marks of his sadistic pleasure, who seldom raised her eyes and always spoke in whispers—Caroline had gone for help.
Sandy did nothing to stay the paroxysm of weeping. He knew it was good, that healing would come sooner. Sandy was very wise. Up and down the Eastern Shore it was whispered that Sandy was “voodoo,” that he was versed in black magic. Sandy was a full-blooded African. He remembered coming across the “great waters.” He remembered the darkness, the moans and the awful smells. But he had been fortunate. The chain which fastened his small ankle to the hold of the ship also held his giant mother, and she had talked to him. All through the darkness she had talked to him. The straight, long-limbed woman of the Wambugwe had been a prize catch. The Bantus of eastern Africa were hard to capture. They brought the highest prices in the markets. Sandy remembered the rage of the dealer when his mother was found dead. She had never set foot on this new land, but all during the long journey she had talked—and Sandy had not forgotten. He had not forgotten one word.
This mother’s son now sat quietly by on his haunches, waiting. Long ago he had learned patience. The waters of great rivers move slowly, almost imperceptibly; big trees of the forest stand still, yeteach year grow; seasons come in due time; nothing stays the same. Sandy knew.
After a long shuddering sigh Frederick lay silent. Then Sandy sprang up.
“We go by my woman’s house. Come,” he said.
Frederick made an effort to rise. Sandy lifted the boy in his strong arms and stood him on his feet. For a moment he leaned heavily; then, with Sandy supporting him, he was conscious of being half-dragged through the thicket. His body was empty of pain, of thought, of emotion. Otherwise he might have hesitated. He knew that Sandy was married to a free colored woman who lived in her own hut on the edge of the woods. In her case the penalty for sheltering or aiding a recalcitrant slave might be death. “Free niggers” had no property value at all. Further, they were a menace in any slaveholding community. Their lot was often far more precarious than that of plantation hands. Strangely enough, however, the slaves looked upon such rare and fortunate beings with almost awesome respect.
On the other side of the woods, where good land overlooked the bay, the woman, Noma, sat in the opening of her hut gazing at the fire. It was burning low. The pieces of coke, glowing red in the midst of charred wood, no longer turned the trees around the clearing to flickering shadows. On this warm evening the woman had built her fire outdoors and hung the iron pot over it. The savory odor coming from that pot hung in the air. It was good, for into it had gone choice morsels put by during the week of toil. Noma was part Indian. Here on the shore of the Chesapeake she lived much as her mother’s people had lived for generations back. She made and sold nets for shad and herring, and she fished and hunted as well as any man. She was especially skillful at seine-hauling. Sandy had built the hut, but she planted and tended her garden. Six days and nights she lived here alone, but on the evening of the seventh day Sandy always came. Except in isolated communities and under particularly vicious conditions slaves did little work on Sunday. Sandy’s master allowed him to spend that one day a week with his wife. She sat now, her hands folded, waiting for Sandy. He was later than usual, but he would come.
The fire was almost out when she heard him coming through the brush. This was so unusual that she started up in alarm. She did not cry out when he appeared, supporting a bruised and battered form. She acted instantly to get this helpless being out of sight. They carriedthe boy inside the hut and gently deposited him on the soft pile of reeds in the corner. No time was lost with questions.
Quickly she brought warm water and stripped off the filthy rags. She bathed his wounds and wrapped a smooth green leaf about his head. She poured oil on the back, which all along its broad flatness lay open and raw, an oozing mass. A rib in his side seemed to be broken. They bound his middle with strips which she tore from her skirts.
Then she brought a steaming bowl. Frederick had had nothing to eat all day. For the past six months his food had been “stock” and nothing more. Now he was certain that never had he tasted anything so good as this succulent mixture. Into the pot the woman had dropped bits of pork, crabs and oysters, a handful of crisp seaweed and, from her garden, okra and green peppers and soft, ripe tomatoes. In the hot ashes she had baked corn pone. Frederick ate greedily, smacking his lips. Sandy squatted beside him with his own bowl. A burning pine cone lighted them while they ate, and Sandy smiled at the woman.
But hardly had he finished his bowl when sleep weighted Frederick down. The soothing oil, the sense of security and now this good hot food were too much for him. He fell asleep with the half-eaten pone in his hand.
Then the other two went outside. The woman poked the fire, adding a few sticks. Sandy lay down beside it. He told his wife how that afternoon he had spied Caroline hiding in the bushes near where he worked. She acted like a terrified animal, he explained, so he had gone to her. Bit by bit she told him how Covey had beaten Captain Auld’s boy, striking his head and kicking him in the side, and left him in the yard. She had seen the boy crawl away into the woods. Surely this time he would die.
“I do not think he die now. Man die hard.” Sandy thought a moment. “I help him.”
“How?” Noma’s question took in the encircling woods, the bay. How could this boy escape? Sandy shook his head.
“He no go now. This one time, he go back.”
The woman waited.
“I hear ’bout this boy—how he read and write. He smart with white man’s learning.”
“Ah!” said the woman, beginning to understand.
“Tonight I give him the knowing of black men. I call out the strength in his bones—the bones his mother made for him.”
Sandy lay silent looking up through the tall trees at the stars. He spoke softly.
“I see in him great strength. Now he must know—and each day he will add to it. When time ripe—he go. That time he not go alone.”
And the woman nodded her head.
It was not the dawn flooding the Bay with splendor which woke Frederick, though the sun did come up like a golden ball and the waters turned to iridescent glory. Nor was it the crying of crows high up in the pine trees, nor even the barking of a dog somewhere down on the beach. Rather was it a gradual awareness of flaming words. Had he found a book, a new book more wonderful even than his preciousColumbian Orator? He didn’t see the words; yet they seemed to be all around him—living things that carried him down wide rivers and over mountains and across spreading plains. Then it was people who were with him—black men, very tall and big and strong. They turned up rich earth as black as their broad backs; they hunted in forests; some of them were in cities, whole cities of black folks. For they were free: they went wherever they wished; they worked as they planned. They even flew like birds, high in the sky. He was up there with them, looking down on the earth which seemed so small. He stretched his wings. He was strong. He could fly. He could fly in a flock of people. Who were they? He listened closely. That’s it: he was not reading, he was listening. Somebody was making a speech. But it wasn’t a speech—not like any he had ever heard—not at all like the preacher in Baltimore.
Frederick opened his eyes. The dream persisted—a shaft of brightness surrounding a strange crouching figure swaying there beside him, the flowing sound of words. The light hurt his eyes, but now Frederick realized it was Sandy. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, head erect, eyes two glowing balls of fire, making low musical sounds. If they were words, they conveyed no meaning to Frederick. Bright sunshine poured through an opening in the cabin where a door hung back. Outside a rooster crowed, and memory jerked Frederick to full consciousness. He raised his hand to his eyes. The flow of sound ceased abruptly, and while the boy stared a mask seemed to fall over the man’s shining face, snuffing out the glow and setting the features in stone. For a moment the figure was rigid. Then Sandy was on his feet. He spoke tersely.
“Good. You wake. Time you go.”
The words were hard and compelling, and Frederick sat up. His body felt light. His sense of well-being was very real, as real as the smell of pine which seemed to exude from every board of the bare cabin. He looked around. The woman was nowhere in sight, but his eyes fell on a pail of water near by; and then Sandy was back with food. The bowl was warm in his hands, and Sandy stood silent waiting for him to eat. Frederick drew a long breath.
He was remembering: black men, men like Sandy, going places! He must find out—He looked up at Sandy.
“When—When I sleep—You talking.” Sandy remained silent. Frederick rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. Suddenly he felt a little foolish. He’d had a silly dream. But—Something drove him to the question.
“You talk to me?”
“Yes.” The simple statement made him frown.
“But, I do not understand. What you saying? I was asleep.”
A flicker of expression crossed Sandy’s face. When he spoke his voice was less guttural.
“Body sleep, the hurt body. It sleep and heal. But you,” Sandy leaned over and with his long forefinger touched Frederick lightly on the chest, “you not sleep.”
“But I—How could I—?” Before the steady gaze of those calm eyes Frederick’s protest died. He did not understand, but he was remembering. After a moment he asked simply, “Where am I going?”
This was what it meant. Sandy had a plan for him to run away. Well, he would try it. He was not afraid. Freedom sang in his blood. And so Sandy’s reply caught him like a blow.
“Back. Back to Covey’s.”
“No! No!”
All the horror of the past six months was in his cry; the bowl dropped to the floor; shivering, he covered his face.
The pressure of Sandy’s hand upon his shoulder recalled him. The terror gradually receded and was replaced by something which seemed to surround and buoy him up. He could not have told why. He only knew he was not afraid. But he wanted to live. He must live. He looked up at Sandy.
“Covey will kill me—beat me to death.” There was no terror in his voice now, merely an explanation. Sandy shook his head.
“No.” He was picking up the thick bowl. It had not broken, but its contents had spilled over the scrubbed floor. Sandy scraped up thebits of food and refilled the bowl from an earthen erode on the hearth. Frederick sat watching him. Sandy observed how he made no move—just waited. And his heart was satisfied.This boy will do, he thought.He has patience—patience and endurance. Strength will come.Once more he handed the bowl to Frederick.
“Eat now, boy,” he said.
And Frederick ate, emptying the bowl. The food was good and the water Sandy gave him from the pail was fresh and cool. Frederick wondered where the woman had gone. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to thank her before—he went back. He said, “I’m sorry I dropped the bowl.”
Then Sandy reached inside the coarse shirt he was wearing and drew out a small pouch—something tied up in an old piece of cloth.
“Now, hear me well.”
Frederick set the bowl down.
“No way you can go now. Wise man face what he must. Big tree bend in strong wind and not break. This time no good. Later day you go. You go far.”
Frederick bowed his head. He believed Sandy’s words, but at the thought of Covey’s lash his flesh shivered in spite of the bright promise. Sandy extended the little bag.
“Covey beat you no more. Wear this close to body—all the time. No man ever beat you.”
Frederick’s heart sank. He made no move to take the bag. His voice faltered.
“But—but Sandy, that’s—that’s voodoo. I don’t believe in charms. I’m—I’m a Christian.”
Sandy was very still. He gazed hard into the boy’s gaunt face below the bloodstained bandage wrapped about his head; he saw the shadow in the wide, clear eyes; he thought of the lacerated back and broken rib, and his own eyes grew very warm. He spoke softly.
“You be very young.”
He untied the little bag and carefully shook out its contents into the palm of his hand—dust, fine as powder, a bit of shriveled herb and several smooth, round pebbles. Then he held out the upturned hand to Frederick.
“Look now!” he said. “Soil of Africa—come cross the sea close by my mother’s breast.”
Holding his breath Frederick bent his head. It was as if a great hand lay upon his heart.
“And here”—Sandy’s long fingers touched the withered fragment—“seaweed, flowered on great waters, waters of far-off lands, waters of many lands.”
Holding Frederick’s wrist, Sandy carefully emptied the bits upon the boy’s palm, then gently closed his fingers.
“A thousand years of dust in one hand! Dust of men long gone, men who lived so you live. Your dust.”
He handed Frederick the little bag. And Frederick took it reverently. With the utmost care, lest one grain of dust be lost, he emptied his palm into it. Then, drawing the cord tight, he placed the pouch inside his rags, fastening the cord securely. He stood up, and his head was clear. Again the black man thought,He’ll do!
The boy stood speechless. There were things he wanted to say, things he wanted to promise. This day, this spot, this one bright morning was important. This man had saved his life, and suddenly he knew that his life was important. He laid his hand on the black man’s arm.
“I won’t be forgettin’,” he said.
They walked together out into the morning and stood a moment on the knoll, looking down at the bay. Then Frederick turned his back and walked toward the trees. At the edge of the woods he stopped and waved his hand, then disappeared in the hidden lane.