Good Fortune (9781416998631) (18 page)

Masta Jeffrey turned around and told them, “Get!” Then he turned to me, and I watched a grin slowly light his face as if the world sat idly in his palm. He told me to stay where I was, and it sickened me to think that he could find humor in his cruelty.

The overseer yanked out his bullwhip and raised it high.

What could I possibly do?

One, two, three . . . The lashing continued, and John's eyes rolled back in their sockets, so I could only see their white, but his lips remained firmly set. I felt every lash as if the whip were striking my own skin. I couldn't stand it. My body seemed to take on a mind of its own as I jumped from the ground and ran to Masta Jeffrey. I begged him to stop, apologizing for disobeying his orders. He raised a hand, and the overseer paused, the whip raised high. Masta Jeffrey grabbed my arm. I almost screamed—almost—but John's red eyes now stared at me, and with that I knew I needed to stand as tall as I could for him. My eyes tried to persuade him not to go against orders; he would not be less of a man for just enduring a little more of Masta's brutality.

“This, nigga,” Masta Jeffrey blurted out, “is because you disobeyed your Masta.” Turning back, he motioned for the overseer to continue to beat John's back, and he held me in place so I could see the chaos I had created. I wished
that he would just strike my back instead. Only then would I feel less pain.

Around strike fifty, I couldn't count anymore, let alone look. An eternity seemed to pass before he hit the bleeding mound of flesh that had replaced John's back for the last time and Masta forced me to look. Masta Jeffrey dragged me away as Mary and a few others ran to help John. But Mary's gaze never left mine, even as Masta dragged me far enough away so that no one could hear his words. He then dropped me on the earth. His grip on my arm was very painful, but it was nothing compared with the pain I felt in my heart.

“Did you tell him?” His breath was nauseating, reeking of strong liquor. “Did you tell him?” he asked again.

With every jerk, I bit my lip harder, tasting my own blood.

“No, Masta, I swear . . . I swear it, Masta. I didn't, Masta.” He patted his whip, his lips still close to mine.

“You better be sure, gal, you better be sure . . .” I was sweating now, despite the cold, and fought desperately to hold back the tears.

Our tears were a source of their pleasure.

Yes, I was a slave in his eyes, but I would not let him see me cry.

Then I heard a sound in the distance, a sound I prayed his ears would quickly pick up on before he could start fooling with his pants.

“I told you not to hang round with this here slave dog.”

“Yessah, Masta.” There the sound was again, and yet again, but he ignored it. He shoved me down further and pressed my arms into the ground.

“Gonna show you what—” The noise came again, now louder, closer. Masta Jeffrey staggered backward in his drunkenness and turned his head toward it. The woman's high, shrill voice called out his name once more, and this time it could be heard clearly.

“Jeffrey, son, where are you?” He looked back over at me, his lips curling into a half-conscious smile, and threw up the contents of his stomach onto the ground so close to me, I almost threw up myself.

“Cain't trust you,” he said, staggering backward.

He repeated the accusation twice more, then turned back toward the Big House, stopping several times to vomit.

I stayed there on the ground contemplating what had just occurred. I was alone, and only then did the fit of sobs rush through me like a storm, soft but angry. I was glad I had been spared Masta Jeffrey's body, but I wondered why everything had to happen the way it did.

But I was not alone. Daniel approached silently and helped me up. On seeing him, I started, “John . . .”

“He gonna be all right.”

With a soft cry, I buried my head in his shoulder and cried some more. How was I supposed to get out of this? How were we going to get out of it?

CHAPTER
 
17 

DANIEL HAD TAKEN ME BY THE THE ARM AS WE HEADED BACK
to the cabin the next morning. I was too ashamed to drag my sleep-deprived eyes around to look at his face. I felt as if everything was solely my fault.

“It ain't yo' fault, Sarah,” he said, reading my thoughts as we entered the cabin.

“We shoulda talked it out wit you,” he whispered.

Confusion settled over me. “You shoulda talked it out?” I repeated.

“Ya. Shoulda talked a long time ago 'bout you goin' wit us.”

“You knew I was thinkin' 'bout goin'?” I asked, my heavy heart finding solace in the idea that he knew.

He nodded. “Knew that's wat you'd say to us, at least.”

“How? Was it—was it Mary?” I asked, my face drowning in tears. His face showed no signs of surprise.

“I talked to Mary 'bout it,” he said. “She said you told her 'bout us. She never tole me you were thinkin' 'bout travelin' wit us, though, but I jus' knew.”

“But, Daniel, how'd you know?” I asked.

“How couldn't I, Sarah? You my sister.”

I wanted to respond, but I felt too drained.

John was in a pitiful condition. He could barely walk, and he surely couldn't run. His insistence on running despite this would've torn my heart to pieces if I had been there to hear him plead; but I wasn't. The only two with John that night were Mary and another elder woman. They both let him know that he wasn't going anywhere until he healed. The older woman told him he shouldn't have disobeyed Masta in the first place.

“Wa'n't no way I'd give up the best day in the year I got to spend wit the person who keeps my heart safe an' warm an' protected fo' me. Gotta give up that day jus' to make sho' I don't go too far wit her?” Mary told me those were his words to her when she was putting her healing medicine on his back.

“If you had just saved this day, though, and obeyed Masta, then you would've had all the world with her,” Mary had whispered to him.

When Masta's family left for church and the overseers were slacking off their jobs, I went to see John.

“Looks like things is switched round, huh?” John asked, trying, as he always seemed to do, to find some humor in downright bad situations. Not moved at all, I shook my head, standing with my arms crossed over my chest. He had covered his back with a rag before I came in, trying to hide all the blood, but it showed through anyway.

“What's wrong?” John asked me, a question requiring no response.

“If I . . . if I hadn't danced with you,” I said, “I would not've gotten you in any trouble.”

“Sarah,” he said, “why you sorry? I should be the sorry one! I'm the one brought you out to that dance floor. Anyway, what's done is done an' I can truly say you the best danca I eva met!” he said, with a soft laugh. I wasn't fooled. I saw right through John to the disbelief deep within him. Last night was his night—his time to escape—and that moment had been snatched from under his feet. But, as he tried to make me feel myself again, my tight, worried, and anxious face relaxed a bit. We were alone, so John told me what he wanted us to do. I kneeled down beside him as he sat up to face me, his pain, which he did his best to hide, clawing at him. The fresh cuts covering his bare ankles revealed that the overseer hadn't aimed well for John's back. His nose was roughly bandaged with a bloody cloth.

“Sarah, you still gotta run.”

I turned my head slightly to the side. “Now, you the one tellin' me to run. Guess that mean I ain't got no choice.” John closed his eyes slowly and then dragged them back open, and I saw a determined look in them.

“That's right. Daniel an' Tucker know clearly what to do; we bin meetin' at diff'rent places talkin' 'bout it, gettin' information from free folks Tucker knows. We was careful 'bout it all, more careful than you'd think.

“Your brother gonna tell you what you gotta know, what we's all learned 'bout . . . 'bout stayin' alive. So if fate has it that you left alone, you gonna know 'xactly what to
do. And as fo' me, well, I figure I'ma run jus' as soon as I'm healed up an' things go back to normal after y'all run.”

I nodded. Daniel and I had planned to meet that night near the broken-down cabin where they first planned the escape.

John continued. “But I got some things to tell you anyway, things I want you to know.”

I sat and listened closely to John's quiet words. He shared, mostly, basic facts on how to survive the winter weather and how to stay moving in the right direction.

When he was done, I took out the pillow to give to him.

“I have somethin' fo' you, John, but you cain't have it till you promise me somethin'.”

“An' what's that?” he asked.

“You 'member that sermon you gave yesterday?” He nodded.

“You called me your Missus then. I was listenin'—I heard you. Said I was graced wit the wings of an angel. Well, you got to promise me you'll heal yourself up quick, 'cause you the one wit them angel wings.” I touched his neck softly. “But can't no angel wings grow on an unhealed back. I say God's my masta, but you the beauty that sparks this feelin' in my soul. I'm gonna reach freedom, I tell you. But I need your promise before I go.”

He chuckled, but I raised my eyebrows. “That's a promise, then?”

“Sho' is, now what you gotta show me?” I'd snuck him the pillow I made for him. He took it slowly, surprise showing on his face.

“What you think? You like it?” I asked him after he made no response.

“Don't know if I like the pillow betta or my name sewn on the front. Sarah, you can read!” he said, as if learning that information for the first time. “You know how good that make me feel?” But his whispers of gratitude and affection brought another stream of tears running down my face.

When would I see that face again?

John looked over at me and, wiping my eyes with his thumb, spoke in a soothing tone. “Sarah, listen, you gotta be strong. That's important or you ain't gonna make it.”

“Is holdin' everything inside bein' strong?” I asked him, my voice more critical than I meant for it to be. He bit his lower lip.

“For some people, I guess it is.”

“You ain't gotta hold everything in, John, not with me. I ain't fooled. You runnin' was the freedom that you wanted.”

“No, Sarah, listen to me. Runnin' ain't freedom. Runnin' is puttin' your life in danger's hands. Runnin' takes you to freedom,” he said, lecturing, as he loved to do.

“An' either way,” he continued, “reachin' the freedom land's only half of my freedom.”

“What's the otha half?” I asked, puzzled. He pulled on my earlobe playfully.

“Freedom an' you; freedom wit you,” he said, as if that fact was as apparent as night and day. I sighed. Any other day, my heart would melt and my eyes would glisten. But
not today. Today I felt worse with every word he spoke.

“You smart, smarter than most who let their smarts hide behind fear; but you gotta be strong, real strong.”

“But, John, what if I stayed here an' . . .” The funny look he gave me cut sharply into my words.

“I know it wa'n't long ago I was tellin' you that same thing, but I cain't even think of you not runnin'. You told me yourself that you wouldn't let Masta Jeffrey come near you again.” The firmness of his voice made it clear he wasn't changing his mind this time.

“You told me constantly that the thing you wanted most was freedom. You told me that you would take two wings and fly to freedom. Even if you did stay, I wouldn't let that devil touch you,” he said, lowering his voice. “Like I said befo', I'd kill him first.” His statement buzzed through my ears like a warning.

“But, John, he wouldn't, 'cause we could . . .” His heavy, unyielding gaze silenced me.

“
Education
. How you spell that?” He asked. I crossed my arms.