I Thought My Soul Would Rise and Fly, page 3
The overseer ran behind them, yelling for them to come back and shouting that they cannot break the work contract.
Master rushed out of The House to see what the commotion was about. “Can’t you control the hands?” he shouted at the overseer.
“If I can’t whip them anymore, then I can’t control them,” the overseer answered angrily.
When I watched them walk away, my heart felt heavy. I wanted to limp behind them. Maybe they were going to find their families. Maybe I had a mother and a father, or a sister and a brother somewhere to find as well. But, Friend, where would I even start to look?
Tuesday, May 2, 1865
Dear Friend,
I must make more candles, otherwise I won’t be able to write to you when it is dark. Three more field hands left today. At first I thought that one of them was Douglass. It wasn’t. I did recognize a boy named Richard, who is about Douglass’s age and used to work with the cobbler. The overseer flew into a rage.
Master saw them leave, too, for he ran out of The House. But the men kept walking, ignoring them both. The overseer threatened to arrest them, beat them, and all manner of terrible things. Said he was going to get the Yankees to gag them, hang them by the thumbs, and then shoot them. Master quieted him down as they both watched the men walk down the path that led them away from Davis Hall, just as the men had done the day before.
This evening, as we ate our supper, Ruth said she heard that rich Yankees were buying land and paying good wages and perhaps the hands were going to work on one of those farms. She also talked about James and about the many people who were searching for relatives.
All of this talk made me think about my own history. Cook is the oldest and has always lived on Davis Hall. Maybe she knew my mother or father, or if I had sisters and brothers. I tried to find the courage to ask her, but she talked so much and so fast that I couldn’t get a word in.
If we’re free, my Friend, then we ought to be able to come and go as we please. Suppose everyone leaves because they all have family to search for. Who do I have to find? Will I be left by my own self at Davis Hall? Still living like a slave?
Wednesday, May 3, 1865
Dear Friend,
Each day brings something new. As I was lighting the cooking fire this morning, I saw all of the men and women who work the fields walk up to The House. “What happen now?” Cook mumbled. She told me to start kneading the biscuit dough, then she left.
I wanted to know what was happening also, but had to wait until noon when Miriam came to the kitchen to gossip with Cook. The field hands demanded that Master get rid of the overseer and let them pick their own boss from among themselves, otherwise they’d leave, too. When Master reminded them that they’d signed a contract, one of the women said she’d tear it up and then there would be no contract.
Cook said, “You know that slender handsome fellow, name Douglass? The one who ask the Yankee if we was free? He speak for everyone. He say, ‘Sir, if we leave, you won’t bring in no cotton crop, and you won’t have no corn or potatoes. We still find work, but you can’t find seventy-six experienced, hardworking hands like us this time of year.’”
Douglass is so brave. I am ashamed of myself at times, my Friend, for I cannot even speak up to the people I am with every day.
I did not see the overseer later that afternoon, and the hands worked the fields as always. Master must have fired him like the hands demanded. Who is the boss now? I wonder.
There was no time to make the candles today either. When I wasn’t holding Nellie I had to help Cook. I didn’t even have time to think about my name. My Friend, maybe tomorrow I will tell Master that unless he lets me read for a spell every day, I will leave Davis Hall, too. Are you laughing, Friend? I am. Master would probably give me a kick in my hind parts and say good riddance. Then where would I be?
Thursday, May 4, 1865
Dear Friend,
Nellie is sleeping and Cook is gossiping with Ruth. I snuck away for a moment to tell you this. When I was coming back from the dairy with milk this morning, a man at the gate called me. “Say, little girl, Miriam live here?” I nodded my head.
"I’m her mother’s brother,” the man said. “Is she here right now?”
“Yes,” I stammered out, but he dashed away from the gate and ran down the path toward the woods behind the cabins before I had a chance to say that Miriam was in The House ironing.
Later on, as I was washing the breakfast plates, I saw Miriam hurrying toward the gate, with her laundry basket on her head. I thought she was carrying Doctor Ashley’s wash to him since Miriam does Doctor Ashley’s laundry, too, but Master gets the money that the doctor pays.
Then, just before noon, Mistress came storming down the passageway toward the kitchen shed. “I can’t find Miriam anywhere. Where is she?” Miriam always took her time coming back from Doctor Ashley, but it had been a while since I’d seen her. I knew then that she’s not returning. She is with her mother’s brother. I tried to tell Cook.
“Gal, hush that stammering and tend to your own business.”
I know it’s not a nice thing to say, but it will be our secret, Friend: At times I hate Cook.
Friday, May 5, 1865
Dear Friend,
It rained so hard today, but when it stopped the sun was bright and the air smelled fresh and clean.
When Nancy entered the kitchen this afternoon to take some tea to Mistress and Sarah, she told Cook and Ruth that Master and Mistress are sad because everyone is leaving. Cook sucked her teeth so loud, it echoed from the kitchen to the road. Cook said, “They sad because slavery is over and we all is equal now.” Then she put her hands on her hips and said, “Nancy, I been meaning to tell you. Stop saying Master and Mistress. That’s slavery-time talk. Sir and Ma’am be good enough.”
Ruth agreed and added that she could also say Mister Davis and Missus Davis.
“You ain’t my mistress,” Nancy said, as she always did whenever Cook scolded her. Then Cook threatened to slap the daylights out of her and Nancy picked up the tea tray and left in a huff. It’s a good thing Cook can’t read my mind or my writing, because I still say Master and Mistress, too. It sounds mighty strange to say anything else. But Cook is right and I will try to call them Mister Davis and Missus Davis. Or maybe I will simply call them Ma’am and Sir. Most times I don’t say anything directly to them no how.
I need to think more about what to call my own self.
Saturday, May 6, 1865
Dear Friend,
Mistress, I mean to say Ma’am, informed Cook that if Miriam returned she would be arrested. “She owes us for the food, clothes, and lodging we have given her.” All Cook said was, “Yes, Ma’am.”
I’m wondering how could your slave work if she has no food and no place to sleep? Wasn’t Ma’am and Sir supposed to feed Miriam and the rest of us?
I have to do the laundry now that Miriam is gone. I hope I don’t have to do Doctor Ashley’s wash, too, but if I do shouldn’t I get to keep the money for myself since I’m supposed to be free? I heard James say once that Doctor Ashley pays Sir eight dollars a month for Miriam to do his laundry.
I make so many trips to the well to carry the water to the kitchen shed. Then I throw the water in the washpot and heat it on the coals. Ma’am complains that I am too slow. I heard Ruth say to Cook, “That child is too lame and small for such a big job.” So in between her own cleaning, Ruth helps me carry water from the well to The House, and Luke helps me hang the clothes on the fence behind the kitchen shed.
I’d rather watch Nellie, but her own mother must do that when I have to do laundry. Nancy still watches the Wild One who darts about like a little white streak. Cook says he needs an old-fashioned, slavery-time spanking.
I will be so happy when we finally have a school here, so I can read and write all day long.
Sunday, May 7, 1865
Dear Friend,
It’s a good thing that God made Sundays, otherwise I would hardly have time to talk to you. After Ruth and I served breakfast, the family, even Master, I mean to say Sir, went to church. St. Philip’s isn’t far from here, so me, Nancy, and Miriam always walk. Only the family rides in the carriage. But I didn’t want to go with them today even though I’d put on my other homespun dress, which I washed and ironed, and my blue Sunday kerchief. I stayed in the storeroom until everyone left. Ma’am wouldn’t miss me.
Since I’m free, I ought to be able to do as I wish on Sundays. Ma’am might find some dusting for me to do in God’s house if I go to church with her. I took off my Sunday clothes and put on my old dress and kerchief and got a dust rag out of the rag box.
No one was in The House, and Cook and Ruth had gone to the bush arbor. I took myself and my dust rag to the library to find my favorite book, Little Goody Two-Shoes.
Friend, you will never suppose what happened. I found the book, sat on the floor, and lost my whole self in the story.
“What’re you doing in here?” I looked up and Ma’am and Nancy were standing over me.
“D-d-d, dusting,” I sputtered, making myself look confused while wiping the book furiously.
“Don’t you know it’s Sunday? Patsy, you’re becoming more foolish each day. Leave those books alone. Don’t dust them unless I tell you to.”
I decided to play the dunce and tell Ma’am I thought it was Saturday.
She didn’t let me finish. She just said to help Nancy make tea and then help Cook with supper.
Nancy walked alongside me, giggling. She said I looked like a dimwit, sitting on the floor, making believe I was reading. If I didn’t have so much trouble with saying words, I would have told her that my wits could never be as dim as hers.
While we ate supper this evening, Cook and Ruth talked about Miriam, after Nancy left the table. Cook said that Miriam’s mother had planned all along for Miriam to go with her as soon as the War was over. She lived on Sir’s plantation on Edisto Island. I wonder where Miriam and her mother will live now. You know, Friend, maybe my mother will come for me. That thought makes me feel happy.
Now I have to be careful. I do not want anyone to know that I can read and write. Something inside of me tells me that I should keep it a secret for a while longer. Maybe it is still illegal. Maybe I’m not supposed to know how until I go to school.
Monday, May 8, 1865
Dear Friend,
I cannot remain long for I am so tired. Ma’am tried to show me how to iron, but she doesn’t know how herself. I smudged all of Sir’s shirts with the pieces of coal left on the bottom of the iron, and she called me stupid.
I work with three irons, two on the coals and one to press with. When the one I’m pressing with cools down, then I take one of the irons off the coals and use that. But I was so afraid of burning his shirts I didn’t let the iron get hot enough. I have hidden the half-ironed shirts in the bottom of one of the laundry baskets. Tomorrow I will try to do better.
Tuesday, May 9, 1865
Dear Friend,
Ruth helped me iron today, so I had time to make some candles. Cook gave me some beef fat. I boil the fat and put the candle molds in cold water in a tin tub. Then I put a string down the middle of the mold and pour the hot fat over it. Once the fat is hard and has shrunk from the cold water, it drops away from the mold without breaking up in pieces and you have a perfect candle. Cook said, “You do know how to make a candle.” I think that’s the only thing I know how to do good. If Ruth hadn’t helped me with the ironing, I never would have finished.
Now I can write to you all night. If only I had the Little Goody Two-Shoes book, then I could read all night, too.
Wednesday, May 10, 1865
What excitement this morning! I was in the kitchen cleaning the ashes out of the fireplace when Cook and I heard Nancy screaming and yelling from the front yard. Cook ran out of the kitchen and I limped behind her. Nancy held on to Ma’am so tight, I thought she’d tear Ma’am’s skirt binding loose. A small, brown woman stood in front of them. Something about her looked familiar. She wore a pink gingham dress. Her thick hair was braided in one long plait wound around her head. The woman reached for Nancy, but Nancy backed away, clinging even tighter to Ma’am.
“You cannot take her!” Ma’am shouted at the woman. “She belongs here.”
“I am her mother,” the woman shouted back.
Ma’am turned so red, I thought flames would shoot out of her head. She told the woman that she had raised Nancy and given her a good home.
“You raised her to be your slave. Slavery done. She don’t belong to you no more.” She hurled her words like stones in Ma’am’s face.
Then Nancy cried, “I don’t know you.”
The woman spoke to Nancy. “You was only four years old when she took you from me, and I begged her to let me keep you. I am your mother.” Nancy kept sobbing and holding on to Ma’am.
Before Ma’am could say anything, Sir rushed out of the house and ordered the woman to leave. She refused.
The blood rose up in Sir’s face. He said that legally, they could keep Nancy because she is their apprentice and must stay with them until she is eighteen years of age. Then he ordered her to leave his property or he’d have her arrested for trespassing and vagrancy.
Sir, Ma’am, and Nancy walked up the stairs to The House. Ma’am put her arms around Nancy. The sobbing woman screamed after them, “She is my child and I mean to take her with me.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and, holding herself straight, walked slowly to the gate and stepped outside of it. She faced The House and stood as though her feet had grown roots. I glanced back at her before I limped back to the kitchen, and suddenly I realized why she seemed familiar. Nancy looked just like her. I felt so sorry for the woman and will never forget her face, wet with tears, and her lonely eyes.
Friend, every time I went outside after that, I saw Nancy’s mother standing, staring — it worried me so. I didn’t see Nancy for the rest of the morning — even when I went into The House to help Ruth clean. Ruth made the bed in Ma’am’s chamber and I put fresh water in the pitcher. I peeped out of the window. Nancy’s mother was still there. I called Ruth and pointed. “Oh, Lord, that poor soul’s still standing at the gate. I thought she left.”
Friend, I found the courage to ask whether Nancy’s mother could stay in my room.
Ruth shook her head and said she had another idea. She left the chamber and told me to continue my chores. When I went outside to empty the chamber pots, the woman was gone. What did Ruth do?
I don’t understand Nancy. How happy I would be to have a mother of my own to come and look for me.
Thursday, May 11, 1865
Dear Friend,
I found out where Nancy’s mother is. Ruth asked one of the families in the quarters to take her in. Nancy is a foolish girl. People think I am a dimwit, but Nancy is the dunce. When she came into the kitchen to eat her supper, her mouth was full of twaddle, and her tears were dry. “Mistress say that the woman can’t take me away because I am a minor,” she declared to Ruth and Cook.
I saw the way Cook and Ruth glanced at one another. I don’t think they liked what Nancy said. Then Cook told Nancy, “If she your mother, you must go with her.”
Friend, why did Cook say that? Nancy’s tears rose up like a river flooding its banks. She cried that Mistress say the people who leave their good masters are starving on the roads. The Yankees give them stick-and-mud houses to live in like the poor whites have. And the Yankees are selling black people to a far country called Cuba, where they are slaves. “I’ll starve to death if I go with her. I’ll have no more clean white, starched aprons.”
I kept eating and made believe I didn’t even hear Nancy’s talk. Cook sucked her teeth so loud, it made me and Luke jump. “She filling your empty head with lies, fool,” was all Cook said. Nancy was sorely insulted and left the kitchen and half her stew. Ruth put some of the food in Luke’s plate and the rest in mine. Then she patted me on the shoulder and told Cook that I gave her the idea to help Nancy’s mother. Cook said, “Patsy don’t give no trouble. Just a bit slowful.” I think Cook was trying to give me a compliment, but I don’t like it when people talk about me as if I am not even in the room.
I learned more about Nancy’s mother. Her name is Mary Ella, and when Nancy was taken away from her to live in The House, Mary Ella made such a fuss, Sir sent her to work on his other plantation on Edisto Island.
Cook said that Nancy was a beautiful little girl. Ma’am had recently lost a baby girl in childbirth when she took Nancy to raise in The House. Ma’am has no children of her own.
Their talk made me wonder again about my own history. Did Ma’am take me away from my mother, too? I don’t suppose I was such a beautiful baby though. I tried to ask Cook who my mother is.
“What you worrying yourself for? Nobody going to take you away,” was all she said.
Friend, Cook didn’t say to hush up, but that’s what she meant for me to do. She took my meaning all wrong. After that, I didn’t feel like asking any more questions.
Mary Ella will leave Davis Hall tomorrow, but she plans to go to the magistrate and try to get Nancy back.
Friend, why does an ungrateful girl like Nancy have a mother to come for her and I do not?
Friday, May 12, 1865
Dear Friend,
I wonder when Miss Mary Ella will return for Nancy. If I have a mother and she comes for me, I will not treat her the way Nancy treats her own mother. I will tell her how much I love her and miss her.
My Friend, suddenly I am anxious. What will happen if someone comes for me? I’ve never lived anywhere else but here at Davis Hall. How would it feel to live somewhere else? I wonder. Are people dying on the roads and starving like Ma’am says?
