Chapter Three
An old man drives his mule
When Covey came down sick right after Hughes was fired, his wife was certain things would go to rack and ruin. Strangely enough, they did not. The stock got fed; the men left for the fields every morning; wood was cut and piled, and the never-ending job of picking cotton went on.
Amelia thought she’d never seen anything prettier. Cotton didn’t grow up in the hills, and now the great green stalks with their bulbs of silver fascinated her. With no more floggings going on out back, she began to notice things. She found herself watching the rhythm of a slave’s movements at work, a black arm plunged into the gleaming mass. She even caught the remnants of a song floating back to her. There was peace in the air. And the boy Fred went scampering about like a colt.
Inside the house, Covey groaned and cursed. After a time he sat silent, huddled in a chair, staring at the wall.
He’d sent Hughes packing, all right. But there had been hell to pay first. Hughes had been all set to go in town and bring out the authorities. The nigger had struck him, he blubbered, and should get the death penalty for it. The young mule certainly had given his dear cousin an awful wallop. Had Covey let himself go, he would have grinned. But, after all, it was unthinkable for a black to strike a white man.The bastard!But had it got about that he, Covey, couldn’t handle a loony strippling—not a day over sixteen—he would be ruined. Nobody would ever give him another slave to break. So Hughes’s mouth had to be shut. He was willing to go, but he had forced a full month’s salary out of Covey. The worst thing was Hughes’s taking the gun along in the bargain!
Hughes swore he couldn’t find the gun. But Covey knew he had cleaned that gun just the day before and stood it right behind the hall door. That’s where he always kept it, and he knew it was there. No use telling him one of the boys took it. A black won’t touch a gun with a ten-foot pole. No, it had gone off with Hughes, and he’d just have to get himself another one next time he went to Baltimore.
By now Covey had convinced himself that most of his troubles stemmed from Hughes. Take the matter of Captain Auld’s boy. After Hughes left, he’d handled him without a mite of trouble.
Frederick for his part had tasted freedom—and it was good. “When a slave cannot be flogged,” he wrote many years later, “he is more than half free.”
So it was as a free man that he reasoned with himself. He would prove to Covey—and through him to Captain Auld—that he could do whatever job they assigned. When he did not understand, he asked questions. Frederick was not afraid. He was not afraid of anything. Furthermore, his fellow-workers looked up to him with something like awe. Until now he had been just another link in the shackles that bound them to the mountain of despair. Their hearts had been squeezed of pity, as their bodies had been squeezed of blood and their minds of hope. But they had survived to witness a miracle! They told it over and over, while they bent their backs and swung their arms. They whispered it at night. Old men chewed their toothless gums over it, and babies sucked it in with their mothers’ milk.
The word was passed along, under cover, secret, unsuspected, until all up and down the Eastern Shore, in field and kitchen, they knew what had happened in “ole man Covey’s back yard on ’at mawnin’!” And memories buried beneath avalanches of wretchedness began to stir.
Something heard somewhere, someone who “got through!” A trail—footprints headed “no’th”—toward a star! And as they talked, eyes that had glazed over with dullness cleared, shoulders straightened beneath the load, and weary, aching limbs no longer dragged.
It was a good fall. Even Covey, forcing himself through the days, had to admit that. Crops had done well, and the land he had put in cotton promised much. Undoubtedly cotton was the thing. Next year he would buy a gin and raise nothing else. But now it was a big job to weigh, bale, and haul his cotton into town.
Covey’s strength came back slowly. He had Tom Slater in to help him for a spell, but Tom wasn’t much good at figuring; and figuringwas necessary, if he didn’t want those town slickers to cheat him out of every cent.
One Sunday evening he was sitting out front, waiting for it to get dark so he could go to bed. Around the house came Amelia, trowel in hand. Covey didn’t mind Amelia’s flowers. That little patch of purple was right nice. But Amelia had hardly knelt down when from out back came the boy Fred. He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed.
“You sent for me, Miss Amelia?”
Covey sucked his tongue with approval. They had said this nigger was house-broke. He sure had the manners. Amelia had jumped up and was talking brightly.
“Yes, Fred. I wonder if you can’t fix that old gate. Even with our netting this yard has no protection as long as the gate’s no good.”
She indicated the worm-eaten boards sagging between two rotten posts. Fred turned and studied them a moment before replying.
“Miss Amelia,” he said slowly, “I better make you a new gate.”
Damn!thought Covey.
“Can you do that?” Amelia was delighted.
“Yes, ma’m. I’ll measure it right now.”
Covey watched him hurry across the yard, draw a piece of string from somewhere about him, and with clear-cut, precise movements measure the height and width between the two posts.
“I’ll have to allow for straightenin’ these posts and the swing in and out, but I’m sure I can find the right sort of pieces in the barn,” he explained. “If it’s all right with Mr. Covey.”
“Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind.”
The next thing, Amelia was coming toward him. His wife’s sister certainly wasn’t as droopy as she used to be. Didn’t seem to be moping around any more.
“Mr. Covey, don’t you think it would be very nice if Fred makes us a new gate? He says he can. It’ll help the appearance of the whole yard.”
Yes, she sure had perked up.
“Go ahead,” he grunted.
Fred made one last calculation with his string. “I’ll go see about the wood right away,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Wait till tomorrow,” Covey barked. “It’s still the Sabbath.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fred, and disappeared around the house. Amelia bent over her flowers.
A thought was breaking through the thick layers of Covey’s brain. Damned if that fresh nigger didn’t sound just like one of those city slickers! The way he had measured that opening!I’ll bet he can figure!
It was a staggering thought and struck him unprepared. Full on like that, it was monstrous. But when the first shock had passed—when the ripples sort of spread out—he calmed down and began to cogitate.
He went back over what Captain Auld had said—how the buck had been ruined by the Captain’s city kin, coddled and taught to read until he was too smart for his own or anybody else’s good.
“Take it out of him!” Captain Auld had stormed. “Break him!”
And he had promised he would.Well!
Covey was so still that Lucy, coming to the door and peeping out, thought he was dozing. She went away shaking her head.Poor Mr. Covey! He’s not himself these days.
He was turning it over in his mind, weighing it. Really big plantations all had some smart niggers on them, niggers who could work with tools, niggers who could measure and figure, even buy and sell. Naturally he hated such niggers when he came across them in town, often as not riding sleek, black horses. But having one on your own plantation was different. Like having a darky preacher around, like being a Colonel in a great white plantation house with a rolling green and big trees.
The last faint streaks of color faded from the sky. For a little while the tall pines in the distance loomed blade against soft gray. Then they faded, and overhead the stars came out.
Covey rose, yawned and stretched himself. Tomorrow he would talk to Fred about that figuring. It was still the Sabbath.
There was nothing subtle about Covey the next day. He was clumsy, disagreeable and domineering. Frederick suspected that he was being tricked. But there was no turning back. He said, “Yes, sir, I can chalk up the bales.”
So he marked and counted each load of cotton, noted the weighing of the wheat and oats, set down many figures. And Covey took his “chalk man” to town with him. It got about among the white folks that the “Auld boy” could read and write. The white masters heard other whisperings too—vague, amusing “nigger talk.” But it was disturbing. Couldn’t be too careful these days. There had been that Nat Turner! And a cold breath lifted the hair on the backs of their necks.
Frederick’s term of service with Edward Covey expired on Christmas day, 1834. The slave-breaker took him back to Captain Auld. The boy was in good shape, but Captain Auld regarded both of them sourly. The talk had reached his ears, and he had been warned that he had better get rid of this slave. “One bad sheep will spoil a whole flock,” they said. Captain Auld dared not ignore the advice of his powerful neighbors. His slave holdings were small compared to theirs. Yet he did not want to sell a buck not yet grown to his full value. Therefore he arranged to hire the boy out to easy-going Mr. William Freeland, who lived on a fine old farm about four miles from St. Michaels.
Covey covered the dirt road back to his place at a savage pace. He was in a mean mood. That night he flogged a half-wit slave until the black fainted. Then he stomped into the house and, fully dressed, flung himself across the bed. Lucy didn’t dare touch him and Caroline wouldn’t.
Frederick’s return to the Auld plantation was an event among the slaves. Little boys regarded him with round eyes; the old folks talked of his grandmother. There were those who claimed to have known his mother; others now recalled that they had fed from the same trough, under the watchful eye of “Aunt Katy.” He had returned during “the Christmas” so they could wine and dine him. He saw the looks on their faces, felt the warm glow. For the first time he saw a girl smiling at him. Life was good.
Early on the morning of January 1 he set out from St. Michaels for the Freeland plantation. He had been given a fresh allotment of clothes—a pair of trousers, a thin coarse jacket, and even a pair of heavy shoes. Captain Auld did not intend his slave to show up before “quality” in a state which would reflect shame on his owner. Though not rich, the Freelands were one of the first families of Maryland.
Life would be easier for him now, Frederick knew. But, as he walked along the road that morning, he was not hastening toward the greener grass and spreading shade trees on Mr. Freeland’s place. He was whistling, but not because he would sleep on a cot instead of on the floor, nor because his food would be better and ampler. He might even wear a shirt. But that wasn’t it. Two strong, brown legs were carrying his body to the Freeland plantation, but Frederick was speeding far ahead.
He carried his shoes in his hand. Might need those good, strong shoes! They’d take him over sharp rocks and stubby, thorn-coveredfields and through swamplands.Rub them with pepper and they leave no scent!He kicked the sand up with his bare feet. It felt good. He stamped down hard, leaving his footprints in the damp earth.
He met an old man driving a mule.
“Whar yo’ goin’, boy?” the old man asked.
“I’m on my way!” It was a song.
The old man peered at him closely. He was nearly blind and knew his time was almost over. But he wanted to see the face of this young one who spoke so.
“Whatchu say, boy?” He spoke sharply.
“My master’s sending me over to Mr. Freeland’s place,” Frederick explained.
“Oh!” the old man said, and waited.
Frederick lowered his voice, though there was no one else in sight.
“It is close by the bay.”
The old man’s breath made a whistling sound as it escaped from the dried reeds of his throat.
“God bless yo’, boy!” Then he passed on by, driving his mule.
Several hours later Amelia passed the same old man. She had offered to drive into town and pick up some things for the house. When Covey had snarled that all the boys were busy, she said cheerfully she could drive herself.
“I did all of Tom’s buying,” she reminded him. Covey frowned. He didn’t like opinionated women.
Amelia urged Lucy to go along; the drive would do her good. But poor Lucy only shrank further into herself and shook her head.
The fact was that Amelia was expecting some mail at the post office. Also, she wanted to mail a letter. She was writing again to Tom’s cousin who lived in Washington.
Tom had missed Jack terribly when he went away. They had shot squirrels and rabbits together, but Jack never took to plowing. He was kind of wild. Jack had urged Tom to give up, to leave the hills. Tom had hung on—and now he was dead. They had told Amelia she must be resigned, that it was “God’s will.”
When Amelia began to wonder, she wrote Jack.Why did Tom die?she asked him. From there she had gone on to other questions, many questions. Words had sprawled over the thin sheets. She had never written such a long letter.
Jack had replied immediately. But that letter had been only the first. He had sent her newspapers and books. As she read them her astonishment increased. She read them over and over again.
Now she was thinking about going down to Washington. She was thinking about it. She hardly saw the old man, driving his mule.
The old man did not peer closely at her. His mule turned aside politely.